Jeanne heard no more of that ceremony; she saw no more. The walk back to the palace along the torch-lighted route passed like a dream; and as soon as the procession had reached the salle du bal, where a magnificent banquet had been prepared, she was looking for Antoine de Bourbon.
She knew of his importance at court, and that he was the elder of the Bourbon princes – as royal as the Valois family and next to them in the line of succession. Antoine and the younger of his two brothers, the Prince of Condé, were regarded as the two most handsome men at court; they were extremely popular with women, and it was said that they made the most of their popularity. But Jeanne did not believe the tales she had heard about Antoine; they were the sort of tales which would be attached to any man as beautiful as that Prince.
It was sad that, during the banquet, she could not be near Antoine; it was sad that she could not do justice to the delicacies which were on the table; but later, when the banquet was over and the ball had begun, she found Antoine de Bourbon at her side.
‘I noticed you in the church,’ said Jeanne, subterfuge being completely alien to her. Jeanne said what was in her mind and expected others to do the same.
Antoine, handsome, profligate, ever on the look-out for fresh conquests, could not help but be impressed by the fresh charm of the young girl and by the amusing directness of her manner, which was in such vivid contrast to the coquetry to which he was accustomed.
‘I am flattered. I am honoured. Tell me, did you find me of more interest than the most honoured and exalted baby?’
‘Yes,’ said Jeanne. ‘Though I like babies.’
‘I hope that you will learn to like me better.’ He kissed her hand, and his bold eyes told her that he appreciated her neat little body in its elaborate gown.
They danced together. His conversation was racy and, although from others Jeanne might have disapproved of such talk, she was finding that everything about Antoine was above criticism.
In her downright way she said to him: ‘The birth of this child will make a good deal of difference to you.’
He agreed that this was so. ‘And it will make a great difference to Madame la Dauphine,’ he added. He laughed slyly, for he enjoyed the gossip of the court, and he was going to enjoy still more startling this young girl, for, Princess though she was, the niece of the King himself, she was a country girl, brought up far from Paris, and there was about her the wide-eyed innocence and sincerity of manner which was rarely found at court. He thought her unusual and quite enchanting.
She was waiting eagerly for him to go on and, although Antoine was accustomed to the flattery of women, he had rarely found any so sweet as that which came from this child.
‘How would you like to be in Madame Catherine’s place, little Princess? Her husband has no feeling for her. His mistress has to force him to his wife’s bed. How would you like to be in Catherine’s place? Tell me that!’
Jeanne’s eyes flashed. ‘I would not endure it.’
‘You have spirit. But, bless you, were you Catherine, you would have no alternative but to endure it.’
‘I should beg to be released from such a marriage.’
‘What! Leave the court of France, the company of kings and princes, for the misery of Florence and the company of merchants?’
‘I doubt that Catherine suffered misery in Florence. Her family is rich – richer, some say, than the royal house of France. And I for one would rather forgo this splendour than suffer the humiliation which goes with it.’
‘Don’t waste pity on the Italian. Look at her. Does she need it, do you think?’
Jeanne studied the Dauphine. She seemed completely happy, but if Antoine was not aware of the cold glitter of her eyes, Jeanne was. Nobody at court understood what was going on behind the eyes of the Italian woman, and because they did not understand they were inclined to think there was nothing there to be understood.
‘She has had good fortune,’ Antoine continued. ‘She has saved herself in time. There was talk of a divorce, you know. The King saved her from that.’
‘The King is kind,’ said Jeanne. ‘He was kind to me when I needed kindness.’
Antoine came nearer. ‘Any man would be kind to you, dear Princess. I would I had the opportunities of the King.’
It was court flattery; it was coquetry and flirtation. Jeanne was only fifteen, but she was fully aware of that. Yet, how sweet it was, and how magic were the words which came from the lips of Antoine de Bourbon, though she would be the first to admit that had they come from another she would have considered them insincere. To touch his hand in the dance was a sheer delight; to meet his eyes over a goblet of wine was enchantment; and later how hurtful it was to see him dancing with others, throwing his soft glances at them, and doubtless paying the compliments which a short while ago had enchanted Jeanne of Navarre.
This was the first event of importance which occurred during that year. Jeanne had fallen in love with Antoine de Bourbon even though she was married to the Duke of Clèves, whom her good fortune and a bad French policy kept at the wars.
As, during the eventful year, Jeanne followed the course of the war, never had this enforced marriage of hers seemed so distasteful to her. Thoughts of Guillaume de la Marck filled her with horror; she had magnified his shortcomings, and in her mind he was a monster, a menace to any happiness that she might have had.
When she was back at the court of her father, it was easy to dream. She would wander in the surrounding country, would lie in the castle grounds and dream of Antoine de Bourbon. Being of a practical nature, she did not so much dream of Antoine the lover, caressing her, paying compliments which might be false, as of a happy marriage, a fruitful marriage, with Antoine and herself ruling Navarre together. She dreaded that summons which might come at any time and which she must obey – the summons which would order her to receive her husband and go with him to a strange land. It would be no use protesting; she had tried that before her marriage without success. Again and again she lived through the ceremony of being put to bed; she shuddered, trying to imagine what would have happened to her but for the intervention of her uncle. What great good luck that had been! But she must remember that Francis was only kind when he remembered to be or when being kind would bring no harm to him or his policies.
So during those months which followed the christening of little Francis Jeanne listened eagerly for any scrap of news of the wars which were being fought in Italy and the Netherlands. There was rejoicing when her husband defeated the Imperialists at Sittard, while the King and the Dauphin marched victoriously along the Sambre. Victory was on the way, and Jeanne was torn between loyalty to her uncle and her fears for herself, for she could not help knowing that as soon as the wars came to a victorious conclusion, her husband would demand her company. The Emperor Charles, furious at the turn of events, left Spain in the charge of his son Philip and went in full force to land at Genoa. His fury was directed chiefly against Jeanne’s husband, the rebellious Duke of Clèves, for he looked on the Duke as his vassal, and a rebellious vassal must be immediately subdued and humiliated by a mighty Emperor. Jeanne heard of the appeals for help which her husband had sent to her uncle; but Francis, notorious for hesitating when he should go forward and for over-boldness when discretion was needed, had now disbanded the greater part of his army and had no intention of making any military moves in a hurry.
Thus was sealed the fate of the Duke of Clèves, but his defeat meant the deliverance of Jeanne of Navarre from all she feared most. There was nothing for Guillaume of Clèves to do, when deserted by the King of France, but to throw himself at the feet of the Emperor and beg for mercy.