‘My sister,’ said Catherine softly, ‘it is with great regret that I hear of your troubles. I remember how fond of each other you and the King of Navarre were in the early days of your marriage, and what an example you set to others. It grieves me, therefore, to see you at variance. Is there no hope that you will be reconciled?’
‘There seems none, Madame.’
‘Of course, I know that you must stop this ridiculous exchange of territories. You can do so, because nothing can be arranged on that matter without your consent; but do you not think that you might try to appease your husband? Appear to conform to his direction. Be calm. Wait for some more propitious time to mould him to your will.’
‘On matters of religion and politics we differ, Madame.’
‘You know that the Papal Legate is here, and for what purpose? You know that de Chantonnay notes everything you say and do and reports it to my son-in-law, the King of Spain? Be wise. Turn to the Catholic Faith. If you do that they cannot harm you. You take away their reasons for doing what they plan. That is the only way to keep your kingdom, that your son may inherit it.’
‘Madame,’ cried Jeanne vehemently, ‘if I at this moment held my son and the kingdoms of the world in my grasp, I would hurl them to the bottom of the sea rather than imperil the salvation of my soul.’
Catherine shrugged her shoulders. Very well. Let her go to the Inquisition. Let her save her immortal soul in the flames of the martyr’s death. Others had done it before her. And what was this concern for an immortal soul? Eternal power? So they thought. And Catherine’s goal was earthly power. Was one any more selfish than the other? Jeanne was ready to throw away her son’s inheritance for the sake of her immortal soul. Her own immortal soul. That was where they were weak, all of them. They were as concerned about themselves just as she was about herself, but whereas she wished nothing to stand in the way of her earthly power, they were determined to save their souls at all costs.
Fools … all of them! And Jeanne was a nuisance too, for she was obviously not going to help Catherine in the least.
‘Well,’ said Catherine gently, ‘you have my best wishes that you may recover from this unpleasant situation and regain your happiness. You know, my dear cousin, that you are close to me and that I regard my little Margot as pledged to your son Henry, and my son Henry to your little Catherine. That should make us close indeed.’
When Jeanne had gone, Catherine sat down and wrote to the King of Spain. She was very anxious to arrange two matches – one for her daughter Margot and the other for her son Henry. She must look to the future, and little Henry of Navarre’s hopes of inheriting the kingdom of Navarre were a little dim at the moment. Catherine wanted Philip’s son, Don Carlos, for Margot, and Philip’s elderly sister Juana, the widowed Queen of Portugal, for Henry.
She wrote ingratiatingly with the object of trying to assure that grimmest of men, her most Catholic son-in-law, that she was a good Catholic and that the interests of Spain were in truth those of France.
‘I wish God would take the Queen of Navarre,’ she wrote, ‘so that her husband might marry without delay.’
The King and Queen of Navarre were the talk of the court. There were open quarrels between them, and Jeanne did not now hesitate to hide her feelings. The King had tried to force the Queen to go to mass. He was by turns cold and quarrelsome, indifferent and abusive.
Louise de la Limaudière, who knew that if the King of Navarre were divorced he would remarry, and saw herself in the exalted position of his wife, gave herself airs.
She was every bit as important, she considered, as the Queen of Navarre. She herself might one day be Queen of Navarre – or Sardinia. The Queen Mother had promised her this reward for having – an unmarried woman of rank – borne the King’s bastard.
She grew haughty, and even impertinent, in the presence of the Queen of Navarre herself.
‘Why, Madame,’ she ventured when there were others present, ‘do you not follow the fashions of the court? A gown such as this would make you look less angular. And that colour does not become you. It makes you look drab, Madame, like a serving-girl rather than a Queen.’
Jeanne turned away; she would not lower her dignity by bandying words with such a woman. But Louise followed her, while all present looked on.
‘Believe me, Madame, I know what the King, who is at present your husband, likes in a woman. He has told me often that I possess those attributes.’
‘I am not interested in what my husband looks for in a woman,’ said Jeanne, ‘because, Mademoiselle, I am not interested in my husband, and certainly not in you.’
‘Oh, but, Madame, Antoine is such a wonderful lover. I am sure you do not bring out the best in him.’
‘He must have seemed so to you,’ retorted Jeanne, ‘since you besmirched still further for his sake your already foul reputation. Now you may leave me. I have more important matters with which to concern myself.’
‘Madame, I have the King’s son.’
‘You have his bastard, I believe. Mademoiselle, bastards are as common in this land as the harlots who produce them, so that one more or less makes little difference, I do assure you.’
Jeanne swept away, but she was furiously angry.
Antoine was waiting for her in her apartment.
He said coldly: ‘It is my wish that you should accompany me to mass.’
‘Your wishes, my lord, are no concern of mine,’ retorted Jeanne.
She was disturbed to see her son Henry sitting on the window-seat; the boy laid aside his book to watch this scene between his parents.
Antoine ignored the presence of the boy. He took Jeanne by the wrist. ‘You are coming to mass with me. You forget that I am your master.’
She wrenched herself free and laughed at him. ‘You … my master! Save such talk for Mademoiselle de la Limaudière. Pray remember who I am.’
‘You are my wife.’
‘It is indeed gracious of you to remember that. I meant, remember that you speak to the Queen of Navarre.’
‘Enough of this folly. You will come with me to mass … at once.’
‘I will not. I will never be present at the mass or any papist ceremony.’
Little Henry got slowly down from the window-seat and approached them. He said haughtily: ‘Sir, I beg you, leave my mother alone.’
Antoine turned on his son, and something in the boy’s dignity angered him because it made him feel small and despicable.
‘How dare you?’ he cried.
‘I dare,’ said Henry, looking, Jeanne thought, like his grandfather, that other Henry of Navarre, ‘because I will not have my mother roughly handled.’
Antoine seized the boy and flung him to the other side of the room. Henry saved himself by clutching at the hangings. He recovered himself with dignity. Then he shouted: ‘Nothing will induce me to go to mass either!’
Antoine strode over to him and took him by the ear. ‘You, my lord, will go whither you are commanded.’
‘Whither my mother commands,’ flashed Henry.
‘No, sir. Whither your father commands.’
‘I will not go to mass,’ reiterated Henry. ‘I am a Huguenot like my mother.’
Antoine gave the boy a violent slap across the face. Jeanne watched proudly, exulting at the way in which the boy stood there, legs apart, glowering at his father. ‘A true Béarnais!’ his grandfather would have said.
Antoine was by no means a violent man, and he was disliking this scene even as his son exulted in it; he therefore wished to end it as speedily as possible. He was fond of the boy; he was proud of him, for all that he was an unkempt little creature without a trace of elegance; his wits were admirably sharp and there was no doubt of his courage.