‘It grieves me, Jeanne,’ he said, ‘that I should be the cause of unhappiness to you. As you know, your mother is dearer to me than any living person; and because you are her daughter, I love you also. But, my child, it is not for us of royal blood to question the alliances which are made for us. As you are a sensible girl, you must know that. You are right to have your decided views and to show no fear in expressing them. I would not have it otherwise. But you know also that it is your duty to obey your King. You have nothing to fear. The Duke will be enchanted with you, and he is not without good looks.’

‘Sire, am I not too young for marriage?’

‘Nay. You are twelve years of age … old enough for a princess to marry.’

‘But could I not have some choice in the matter?’

‘Dear child, that is a privilege which is denied us, and you must console yourself that one husband is very like another. If you start with passion, you lose it quickly. And, dear Jeanne, marriage need not be an obstacle to the pursuit of passion. Moreover, happiness is sometimes found outside marriage, if it is not granted within. You are wise beyond your years, and I can see that I may talk to you as I do to your mother.’

‘But … the Duke of Clèves! You promised me your son Henry.’

‘Ah yes; but Henry has a little Italian for his wife … and you would not have liked Henry.’

‘I liked him well enough.’

‘As a cousin. Not as a husband. He is gauche and scarcely speaks. He is unfaithful to his wife. Poor Catherine! She is pleasant enough, but he spends all his time with Diane de Poitiers. You would not like Henry as a husband, my dear.’

‘It might be that if he had had a French princess for a wife instead of that Italian woman, he would have spent more time with her.’

‘You have been listening to gossip. So it reaches Plessis, then? Nay! Henry pledged himself to Madame Diane years ago; and he is faithful – dull and faithful. Do not regret Henry. And now, because I respect your courage, I am going to tell you why this marriage must be. There is trouble all about us, my little Jeanne. My Constable has been pursuing a policy which is not to my taste. I am sad to think that he works for Henry the Dauphin more than for Francis the King. You see, like you, I have my sorrows. The Emperor Charles has given the Milanese to his son Philip, and I am angry because the Milanese should be mine. You are too young for these politics, but you must try to understand. It is necessary for me to show my displeasure to Spain, and I want you to help me to do this through your marriage with this man of Clèves, who, in his rebellion against the Emperor, has become my friend. You see, we must keep a balance of power about us, and it is with the marriages of the young members of our family that we can do this. So you will be reasonable; you will agree to this marriage, and you will know that, in doing so, you are serving your King.’

‘Sire, I beg of you, do not use me in this way. You are mighty. You are all-powerful. You can subdue your enemies without my help’

‘Not all-powerful, alas! And my enemies are legion. The greatest of these is the Emperor, with whom I must be continually on the alert. Then there is the sly old hypocrite of England. I am unsafe, child. That is why you, my loyal subject, must do all in your power to help me. Come, little Jeanne, a marriage is not all that important. Why, I have had two of them, and have managed to find much in life to please me. Both of my marriages were marriages of state – as yours must be. Did I complain? Not I. I respected my duty, and my destiny. First I married poor little Claude, who enabled me to do my duty to my country by bearing me many children. Then she died and, for reasons of state, I took a second wife. She is a very good woman and she troubles me not. Believe me, it is possible to live pleasantly and be married at the same time.’

‘But I would not care for that sort of life, Sire. I wish my marriage, if I have one, to be a good marriage. I wish to love and serve my husband and I wish him to be faithful to me.’

The King lifted her in his arms and laid his cheek against hers. ‘And you are right to have such thoughts. Rest assured that I will do all in my power to help you. Now you must prepare to leave Plessis at once. I want you to travel to Alençon, where you will be with your mother. That will delight you, will it not?’

‘Yes, Sire, but … I do not wish for this marriage.’

He smiled with charming regret.


* * *

There would be a halt at Paris on the way to Alençon. Usually Jeanne looked forward with zest to her visits to Paris. She would enjoy the long journey which some found so tedious, riding with the procession of attendants with the baggage stacked on the backs of the mules. The magnificence of her uncle’s court never ceased to amaze her; she enjoyed seeing her cousins; she was enchanted by the balls and masques; and the ceremonies of court were such a contrast with the dull life of Plessis-les-Tours.

But this journey was different, since behind it was a sinister motive.

Even the excitement of arriving at Fontainebleau could not make her forget her fears. Fontainebleau, she had always thought, was one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Its gardens, with that delightful mixture of the wild and cultivated, were such as she had never seen elsewhere; here were great rooms and galleries filled with the treasures of Europe which her uncle had taken such delight in collecting. Not that Jeanne was greatly attracted by art; it was the extravagance of the court which she admired. Then it was pleasant to renew old acquaintances.

She was disturbed, though, by her cousin Charles, who played unpleasant tricks. She had to be careful each night when she got into her bed to see that some hideous creature like a dead bat or toad had not been put there to keep her company. She was scornful of Charles, which was foolish of her, for Charles would not tolerate a lack of appreciation of his practical jokes, and those he played on her grew more boisterous and more unkind. But she refused to laugh when she did not wish to laugh; she would rather take the consequences than pretend to be amused when she was not.

Her cousin Henry was kinder, though he had very little to say to her; he had very little to say to anyone but his mistress. He had become of greater importance since Jeanne had last seen him, for then he had been simply the Duke of Orléans and now he was the Dauphin of France. She wished it had been possible to discuss marriage with him, for he had been married when he was very little older than she was; but of course, that was impossible.

There was Catherine, of course – Catherine the Dauphiness. Jeanne could never discuss marriage with Catherine, for there was something about the Italian which repelled her, although she did not understand what it was. Yet Catherine was a wife, and a neglected wife. There was a good deal of whispering about her because she had already been married six years and had no children. It was said that the fault was Catherine’s because the Dauphin had, during the campaign of Piedmont, given a daughter to a girl whom he had temporarily loved during his enforced absence from his mistress. Poor Catherine! Jeanne would have liked to be friends. It was true that she was only twelve years old and that Catherine was twenty; yet they must both be, at this time, rather bewildered and unhappy people. But, it was not possible to be friendly with Catherine. Jeanne watched her receive Diane, smile and chat with her; there was no sign on those cold, pale features that she suffered the slightest humiliation. I shall never be like that! thought Jeanne fiercely. I shall never be meek. If this Guillaume dares to treat me as Henry treats Catherine, I shall leave him, no matter if all Spain and all France and all England go to war on account of it.

But when she heard the gossip which went on about Catherine she thought she understood why her cousin Henry was not in love with his wife and preferred the company of his mistress.

One of her ladies talked to her of this matter as she helped her disrobe at night: ‘I like not these Italians, my lady Princess. They are well versed in the arts of poison, and their poisons are so subtle that none can be sure whether the victim has died of them or a natural death. It is said that Madame la Dauphine wished to be Queen of France, and for that reason she arranged that her Italian follower should first become the cupbearer of the Dauphin Francis and then administer the fatal dose.’

‘You must not say such things!’ cried Jeanne. ‘If you were heard saying them and it were brought to the King’s ears, you would be in trouble.’

‘It is others that say them, my lady. Not I. I merely tell you what I hear. The Dauphin’s cupbearer was an Italian; that is all I say.’

Jeanne shivered. She would never like her cousin Catherine. How ridiculous she had been to imagine that she could ever confide in her!

Once in the gardens at Fontainebleau she met Catherine walking alone.

‘Good day to you, cousin,’ said Catherine.

‘Good day to you, cousin,’ answered Jeanne.

‘So you are soon to be a wife.’

Jeanne could not help it if her lips tightened and the colour flooded her face; she was never able to hide her feelings. This was particularly irritating when she found herself face to face with one such as Catherine, who would never betray by a lift of the eyebrows or a movement of her lips what was going on in her head.

‘You do not seem to be happy about this marriage, cousin.’

‘I do not wish for it,’ replied the little girl.

‘Why not?’

‘I do not want to go to a strange land. I do not want to marry.’ Jeanne, as Madame de Silly often told her, never stopped to think what she was saying, and she went on impetuously: ‘You will understand. Marriage is sometimes distasteful. Wives are neglected for other women.’

There was silence all about them. Catherine’s face was quite expressionless, but the prominent eyes were fixed on Jeanne, and although Jeanne did not want to meet them, she found herself unable to avoid doing so.

She went on quickly: ‘Oh, Catherine, I could not bear to be treated as Henry treats you. Everyone talks of him and Madame de Poitiers. Henry’s eyes follow her wherever she goes! You must be unhappy.’

‘I, unhappy? You forget I am the Dauphine.’

‘Yes, I know. But to be so humiliated! Madame d’Étampes rules the King, but the Queen is still the Queen. It is hard to believe that Henry could be so cruel. I am glad I did not marry him. They were going to marry me to Henry at one time. I thought it was certain to come about, and I used to think that I should not mind marrying Henry, because he is my cousin and we have always known each other. But I would not, were I his wife, permit him to treat me as he treats you. I would insist. I would …’

Catherine began to laugh.

‘You are good indeed to be so concerned with my affairs. How strange! I was pitying you. I am married to the heir of France, and you – a Princess – are to be married to a poor little Duke. It is you, dear Princess, who are insulted. I shall be Queen of France, so why should I care if the King has a hundred mistresses while I am Queen? And you will be a Duchess … a Duchess of Clèves …’

Jeanne grew scarlet. She had never before realised how deeply humiliating – as well as distasteful – was this marriage.

Catherine turned and left her standing there more bewildered and unhappy than she had been since the King told her she was to have a husband.


* * *

Jeanne was in disgrace, and the King was furious with her. She had met her future husband, who was twenty-four years old – about double her age – and whom some might call handsome; but Jeanne had hated him as soon as she had heard his name, and she was unable to dispel that hatred. The King had implied that he was ashamed of her lack of graciousness; she in her turn was determined that she was not going to feign a delight she did not feel in such a marriage. As for the Duke of Clèves, he was bewildered by the behaviour of his ungracious little bride-to-be. The King’s anger was largely due to the fact that he believed Jeanne’s father to be secretly supporting her in her decision to do all she could to prevent the marriage; and this was something more than a little girl’s repugnance for a suitor; it was deliberate rebellion of a subject against a King.

Francis wrote to his sister, and when Jeanne arrived in Alençon she was greeted by a stern mother; and this was yet another tragedy for Jeanne. She adored her mother; she had heard so many stories of her wit and beauty; it had been so long since they had met; and now, when at last she was allowed to see her, it was to find herself in disgrace.