Now that Navarre was ruled by a woman, Henry, the King of France, decided that he did not care to have a petty kingdom so far from Paris and so near to the Spanish frontier, so he planned an exchange of territory. For this reason he summoned Antoine to Paris, and when he was there, Antoine all but agreed to the exchange; and it was only when it was discovered that such must be sanctioned by Jeanne, in accordance with her father’s will, that Antoine thought of consulting his wife.

When Antoine hurried back to Jeanne to tell her of King Henry’s proposal, she was horrified; and this was the cause of their first real quarrel, for Jeanne could not restrain her tongue, and she called him a fool to have been so nearly tricked.

It made a coolness between them which was particularly painful to Jeanne; Antoine could quickly recover from such upsets. It was now that Jeanne discovered in herself those powers which were to make of her a clever diplomat. She travelled to Saint-Germain, where she met the King, although Antoine had warned her that this was a daring thing to do; for what was simpler than for Henry to keep her a prisoner while the exchange was made? But Jeanne, knowing her subjects would never submit to the King of France, by her subtle diplomacy made Henry believe that she herself would agree to the exchange if her subjects would agree to it; but she did not fail to point out that if they did not, he would find it impossible to subdue her territory. Henry saw the wisdom of this and sent her back to test the loyalty of her people. She had been right; she knew she could rely on that loyalty. How proud she was as she rode into Pau and witnessed the demonstrations of her people, who vowed they would accept none other than Jeanne as their ruler.

That was comforting, but she was sad, for she could not help feeling that Antoine, by his light regard for the kingdom which she loved, had betrayed her in some way.

Later there came a summons from Paris to attend the wedding which was being arranged between the Dauphin and Mary Queen of Scots; and it was during this visit that Jeanne had yet another glimpse of the impetuous folly of the man she had married.

When they reached Paris and before they had paid their respects to the King, they were approached by an old friend of Antoine’s whose servant had been imprisoned. This friend asked Antoine to help him in effecting the release of this servant, and Antoine, flattered to be asked and eager to show his authority, promised to do what was requested of him. As his brother, the Cardinal of Bourbon, was Governor of Paris at this time, Antoine had very little difficulty in pleasing his friend.

When King Henry heard what had happened, he was furious at what he considered to be officious interference; and when Jeanne and Antoine came to pay their respects, he greeted them coldly.

He turned to Antoine and said: ‘How, Monseigneur! Have I not told you before that there is and shall be only one King of France?’

Antoine bowed low. ‘Sire, before your Gracious Majesty my sun is in eclipse, and in this kingdom I am but your subject and your servant.’

‘Why then do you presume to open my prisons without my authority?’

Antoine burst into floods of explanations, while the King’s face darkened with fury. But at that moment, most unceremoniously, but as it turned out most propitiously, there ran into the chamber a small boy – little Henry of Navarre, the son of Jeanne and Antoine. He stared about him, his eyes bright, his cheeks rosy; and then without hesitation he ran straight to the King and embraced his knees. He did not know whose knees he was embracing; he only knew that this man had made an instant appeal to him.

King Henry could never resist children, just as they could never resist him. He hesitated for a moment – but only for a moment – and then he looked down into the bright little upturned face which was raised to his in genuine admiration and complete confidence.

‘Who are you?’ asked the King.

‘Henry of Navarre,’ answered the boy promptly. ‘Who are you?

‘Henry of France.’ The King lifted the boy in his arms and smiled, while the arms of Henry of Navarre were clasped about the neck of Henry of France.

‘Why,’ said the King, ‘I think you would like to be my son.’

‘That I would!’ replied the boy. ‘But I have a father, and that is he.’

The King was amused. He kissed the rosy cheek. He said: ‘Methinks then that there will be no alternative but to make you my son-in-law.’

‘That will be good,’ said little Henry.

And after such a scene with the boy the King found it difficult to be angry with the father. The matter was dismissed. ‘But,’ said the King warningly to Antoine, ‘you will do well to remember in future the rank you hold in France.’

Watching this scene, Jeanne’s pride in her son was spoiled by her apprehension on her husband’s account. It was a strange revelation to know that she must go on loving a man even when her respect for him had so sadly diminished.

How alien little Henry looked among the children of the royal household! He certainly looked more healthy than they, with his glowing cheeks and cottage manners. He himself was quite unconscious of any inferiority; and when Margot, who was a year older than he was, laughed at him, she soon found herself sprawling on the floor.

‘He is but a child,’ Jeanne explained, for Margot made the most of her injuries and carried the tale to her governess. ‘And he has, as yet, learned little of court manners.’

Catherine heard of the incident and laughed somewhat coarsely. ‘An old Béarnais custom perhaps, to knock down the ladies?’ she asked; and Jeanne found herself gripped by that fury which Catherine seemed to be able to arouse in her more than any other could and which was out of all proportion to the incident.

But Henry learned quickly; he was soon imitating the manners of Catherine’s sons and daughters and those of the little Guise Princes, who spent much time with the children of the royal household.

Jeanne felt that she could never be sure of these people who inhabited the court of France; they were not straightforward; they bowed and smiled and paid charming compliments while they hated. The royal children filled her with apprehension.

Poor Francis, the bridegroom-to-be, was so sickly and so passionately in love. He was continually telling young Mary how much he loved her, taking her into corners that he might whisper to her of his devotion. His love was his life, and he taxed his strength by trying to excel in all manly pastimes; he would ride until he was exhausted just to show the little Queen of Scots that he was every bit a man. His mother watched him, but showed no concern for his failing health; it seemed to Jeanne that Catherine regarded it with complacency. Surely a strange maternal attitude!

Then there was Mary herself, all charm and coquetry, the loveliest girl Jeanne had ever seen; though, thought Jeanne a little primly, she would have been more attractive if less aware of her own fascinating ways. Calmly this girl accepted the homage offered her; she seemed to think of little but her own charm and beauty. She even tried to fascinate Jeanne’s little Henry, and he – the bold little fellow – was quite willing to be fascinated. Would he, wondered Jeanne, be another such as his grandfather and his great-uncle, King Francis the First?

Then look at Charles. Little Charles was only eight years old, yet there was something about him which was quite alarming. Was it that wildness in his eyes, those sudden fits of laughter and depression? It was disturbing to see the longing glances he cast at Mary Queen of Scots, his envy of his brother. At times, however, he was a pleasant enough little boy, but Jeanne did not like the gleam in his eyes. There was a look almost of madness in them.

Henry, Catherine’s favourite son, was a year younger than Charles. He was yet another strange little boy. He was clever – there was no doubt of that. Beside him, Jeanne’s Henry seemed more coarse and crude than ever; but Jeanne would not have wished to possess such a son. He minced; he preened himself like a girl; he decked himself out in fine clothes, wept when he could not have an ornament he fancied, talked continually of the cut of his coat; he ran to his mother for her comfort if anything disturbed him; he begged her to give him ornaments to deck his conceited little person. And Catherine’s attitude to him was extraordinary. She was quite a different person when she was with this son. She petted him and fussed him; although he had been christened Edouard Alexandre, she had always called him Henry after his father, whom there was no doubt she loved. Jeanne would never understand Catherine. This child, alone of all her children, did not fear her; and yet she had seen even the brazen Margot cringe before her mother; she had seen fear in that little girl’s face merely at a lift of her mother’s eyebrow.

And Margot herself? If Margot were my daughter, thought Jeanne, I would not spare the rod. For there was something about Margot, Jeanne was sure, which should be very closely watched. Margot was five years old now, and she would have been a lovely child but for the heavy Valois nose which she had inherited from her grandfather. Margot was clever, vivacious and precocious – far too precocious. It was rare for a child so young to betray such sensuality. Margot at five was, in some ways, like an experienced woman, with those sly glances at the boys, those gestures. Jeanne was thankful that Margot and her Henry had fought one another. She would not have liked to have seen her son attracted by this wicked little Margot as he was by lovely coquettish Mary Queen of Scots. It seemed, watching these children, that Margot at five years old was already deeply involved in a love affair with the Duke of Guise’s little boy – another Henry. They were continually creeping away together and returning flushed and excited.

Little Hercule was a pretty boy, though spoilt and utterly selfish. He was four years old – a few months younger than her own Henry.

Yes, there was something unpleasant about this family of children, for none of them seemed quite normal; and when Jeanne saw them with their mother she felt that the strangeness had its origin in her. She seemed to inspire them with awe and fascination, so that they wanted the approval of their mother more than anything, although they so greatly feared her displeasure. Jeanne realised that Queen Catherine was able to inspire strange feelings in those about her – feelings which were quite remote from affection.

Yet, when the children were with their father they seemed normal enough. The madness faded from Charles’s eyes; Henry seemed less foppish; Margot would climb on to her father’s knee and pull his beard as any little girl might. They were just happy children in the presence of their father.

The Dauphin’s wedding was heralded by ceremonies and feasting. Antoine declared his pleasure in being with his wife after their long separations; this, he said, when they watched tournaments, when they danced and feasted, was like a second honeymoon. And Jeanne, looking about her at the discord which existed between most other married people, told herself that she was foolish to criticise the little faults of her husband; she went on to her knees and thanked God for granting her the dearest possession she would ever have – her husband’s love.

She was sorry for Catherine, who must see her husband’s mistress take everything that should be hers. Indeed, everywhere one looked one saw the entwined initials D and H – Diane and Henry – not C and H, as custom and tradition demanded. What humiliation! And how patiently it was borne!

‘If you were to treat me like that,’ said Jeanne to Antoine, ‘I would have that woman banished from the kingdom. I would not endure such miserable slights.’

‘Ah, my sweet love,’ said the faithful Antoine, ‘but you are not Catherine de’ Medici and I am not Henry of France. You are your sweet self, and for that I am thankful. Why, were I married to the Italian woman, I doubt not that I should cease to be a faithful husband.’

There were occasions when Jeanne fancied she saw Catherine’s eyes upon her and that Catherine guessed how she was pitied; and when the prominent eyes met her own Jeanne could not, for some incomprehensible reason, suppress a shiver. There were times when she thought Catherine de’ Medici possessed strange powers which enabled her to read the thoughts of others.

The day before that of the wedding a long gallery was erected between the Palace of the Bishop of Paris, where the company had spent the night, to the west door of the Cathedral of Notre Dame; and the porch of the Cathedral was hung with scarlet tapestries embroidered with the fleurs-de-lis. Antoine walked in the procession in a place of honour among the Princes of the blood royal whose task it was to escort the Dauphin to the Cathedral. The King himself followed with Mary Queen of Scots; and Jeanne came after with Catherine and the other attendant Princesses.