Marguerite, gentle, living in a world of her own populated by the savants of her day – Ronsard, Marot, all the writers, painters and architects of the Renaissance era – was loth to tear herself away from the life of the mind to deal with the mundane business of a disobedient daughter. It never occurred to Marguerite to do anything but support her brother; she would do that, whatever he suggested, for his will immediately became hers.

There were long conversations during which Jeanne, sad and bewildered, yet retained her power to put her case clearly and pungently to her mother.

‘The King must be obeyed,’ explained Marguerite. ‘Every command he gives it must be our joy to obey.’

‘He can make mistakes,’ countered Jeanne.

‘Not our King, my child.’

‘But he did. He made terrible mistakes. Have you forgotten what a mistake he made at Pavia?’

Queen Marguerite’s beautiful eyes grew large with horror. ‘Pavia! That was his misfortune. It was no fault of his. There never lived a braver soldier, a greater general.’

‘But great generals are not defeated in war by lesser ones.’

‘There are things of which you know nothing, and one of these is that a maiden should have no will of her own.’

‘Then how is she to decide the difference between right and wrong?’

‘Her parents and her King will guide her.’

‘But suppose both her parents and her King do not agree?’

‘You are being foolish. We are discussing your marriage with the Duke of Clèves. It is a good marriage.’

‘How can that be? I, a Princess, who might have married my cousin Henry, who is a King’s son, to marry with a Duke! The son of the King of Spain might have married me …’

‘It is a good marriage because the King wishes it,’ interrupted Marguerite curtly. ‘And you, my daughter, must love and obey your uncle as I do.’

‘But,’ persisted Jeanne, ‘this is not what I have been taught to accept as logic.’

Marguerite said sorrowfully: ‘Jeanne, my dear child, do not rebel in this way. The King wishes your marriage; therefore it must be. If you do not agree, I shall have no alternative but to have you beaten every day until you do. Listen to me, my child. These beatings will be the severest you have ever received in your life. Your life itself might be endangered.’

‘Is that so?’ said Jeanne scornfully. ‘I thought it was my marriage your brother wanted – not my funeral!’

Marguerite looked sadly at her daughter. She was proud of her wit and quick mind, but sorely distressed by her obstinacy.


* * *

She would not consent. She would not agree to this marriage. She would defy them all. She thought continually of the Duke of Clèves, and when she thought of him she remembered the smile of Catherine, the Dauphine. She knew she had spoken impetuously to the Italian, but Jeanne did not care for that. Catherine was quite insincere; she must be, to pretend that she did not care that her husband humiliated her, being so gracious to Madame de Poitiers that it was almost as though she were thanking her for being her husband’s mistress. Jeanne had no patience with such insincerity; she called it slyness. She herself, in such circumstances, would have slapped Madame de Poitiers’s face. And yet … she could not shut out of her mind the quiet sneer on Catherine’s face which seemed to goad her, to make her more determined than ever to evade this marriage.

She decided to put on record her hatred of it, so that the world should know that, if she were forced to it, it would be against her will.

In her room she sat long composing the document, and when she had finished this is what she had written:

‘I, Jeanne of Navarre, persisting in the protestations I have already made, do hereby again affirm and protest, by these present, that the marriage which it is desired to contract between the Duke of Clèves and myself is against my will; that I have never consented to it, nor will consent; and that all I may say and do hereafter, by which it may be attempted to prove that I have given my consent, will be forcibly extorted against my wish and desire, from my dread of the King, of the King my father, and of the Queen my mother, who has threatened to have me whipped by the Baillive of Caen, my governess. By command of the Queen, my mother, my said governess has several times declared that if I do not all in regard to this marriage which the King wishes, and if I do not give my consent, I shall be punished so severely as to occasion my death; and that by refusing I may be the cause of the ruin and destruction of my father, my mother and of their house; the which threat has inspired me with such fear and dread, even to be the cause of the ruin of my said father and mother, that I know not to whom to have recourse, excepting to God, seeing that my father and mother abandon me, who both well know what I have said to them – that never can I love the Duke of Clèves, and that I will not have him. Therefore, I protest beforehand, if it happens that I am affianced, or married to the said Duke of Clèves in any manner, it will be against my heart and in defiance of my will; and that he shall never become my husband, nor will I ever regard or hold him as such, and that my marriage shall be reputed null and void; in testimony of which I appeal to God and yourselves as witnesses of this my declaration that you are about to sign with me; admonishing each of you to remember the compulsion, violence, and constraint employed against me, upon the matter of this said marriage.’

When Jeanne had finished this document, she called to her room four of her attendants, and such was her eloquence and such was their pity for the little girl whose body was bruised with the violence of the whippings she had received, and such their admiration for her courage, that these four were bold enough to incur whatever punishment might go with the signing of such a document.

And then, having their signatures, Jeanne, fresh from the day’s beating, seized an opportunity to take the document to the Cathedral, and there she demanded that the prelates read it; and she told them that she relied upon them to do what was right in the matter.

But alas, right for them was the will of their King, and so preparations went on for the marriage of Jeanne d’Albret with the Duke of Clèves.


* * *

The King was annoyed by what he was pleased to call this ridiculously childish behaviour. For once Francis had failed to see the joke. His niece was a foolish, arrogant and obstinate little girl.

They had not beaten her recently because they did not wish to carry out their threat of killing her. Her gown was ready. It was made of cloth of gold and was so heavily embroidered with jewels that she could not lift it. She hated its jewels and its long ermine train.

How she envied everyone on her wedding morning! There were no exceptions. The women weeding in the gardens were happier than this sad little Princess; she envied the scullions, the meanest serving-maids; she envied neglected Catherine; she even envied Dauphin Francis lying in his grave.

Weighed down with the heaviness of her dress, pale-faced, sullen-eyed and broken-hearted, she walked in her wedding procession. She saw the great Constable, Anne de Montmorency, and she felt drawn towards him because she had heard whisperings that he was in disgrace; so her tragedy was, in a measure, his. He was blamed for the mismanagement of affairs with Spain, and after all it was due to that mismanagement that she herself was here, the bride-to-be of the Duke of Clèves. But Montmorency did not look her way; he was morosely occupied with his own disgrace.

King Francis, magnificent in white satin decorated with rubies and emeralds which made a perfect foil to his dark, sardonic face, was ready now to lead her to the altar. There was no kindness in his face to-day as he looked down on the little bride. He had been greatly annoyed by the document she had taken to the Cathedral. Had he not been concerned in it, he might have been amused by her originality, impressed by the courage which had enabled her to do such a bold action. But he was weary of her protests.

She felt his fingers on her arm; they pinched a little. But something within herself would not let her give up hope. There were still a few minutes left to her. She must look for a way out of this marriage. She would not yet accept defeat. She looked desperately about her, then she said faintly: ‘I am unwell. I am going to faint. I cannot walk. The dress is too heavy.’

The King watched her through narrowed eyes. Then he gave Montmorency a curt sign.

‘Carry the Princess to the altar,’ he said.

For a moment Jeanne could put aside her own troubles for those of Montmorency, for at such a surprising order the Constable of France turned pale, and it seemed that he was about to answer to the King’s curt command with an equally curt refusal. She knew that the biggest insult the King could have offered to France’s greatest soldier was a command to carry a little girl to the altar. She wished fervently that she need not be the cause of his humiliation. But it was too late to do anything about it now, and after that brief hesitation, Montmorency lifted her in his mighty arms and marched forward with her. He would have been instantly despatched to prison had he not obeyed the King. He had had to accept disgrace as she must accept this marriage with a man she did not know, with a man she was determined to hate.


* * *

Jeanne was married … married to a strange man with an unpleasant guttural accent. He sat beside her during the feasting; he danced with her in the great hall. He tried to be kind, but Jeanne could not bring herself to smile for him. Her face was pale, her eyes like pits of glittering jet, her mouth set in a line of endurance. The King spoke kindly to her, and when she answered him coldly he did not reprove her; she even fancied that she now saw a gleam of compassion in his eyes.

The musicians were playing the gayest of tunes; there was a banquet, a ball and another banquet; but what Jeanne feared more than anything else was the night which would bring with it the solemn ritual of putting her to bed with her husband.

The King knew of her fears, and when he led her in the dance he tried to soothe her. As she had now obeyed him, all his anger against her was forgotten; she was his dear little niece once more.

He pressed her hand warmly in the dance. ‘Smile, darling. It is befitting that the bride should smile. Monsieur de Clèves is not without his points. He can’t be a worse husband than the Dauphin, and you might have had him. Smile, my little Jeanne. You have done your duty. Now is the time for pleasure.’

But she would not smile; and she was very ungracious to her uncle; yet he did not reprove her.

She did not know how she lived through the blatant horror of the ceremony of being put to bed. Her women tried to comfort her as they undressed her; her governess kissed her and Jeanne wondered whether she would be whipped if she refused to be put to bed with her husband, and who would do it. Would he?

Even now she was looking round for escape, and a hundred mad ideas came into her head. Could she get out of the palace? Could she cut off her hair and disguise herself as a wandering minstrel or a beggar girl? How she envied all wandering minstrels and beggar girls; they might be hungry, but none was the wife of the Duke of Clèves.

How foolish to think that escape was possible! There was no escape. She could hear the musicians playing softly. One of her women whispered that the King was waiting in the nuptial chamber to see her bedded.

They led her into the room, and when she saw her husband with his gentlemen she refused to look his way. And then, in sudden desperation she stared at King Francis, her lips trembling, her eyes pleading, and he with charming compassion and understanding came to her and, lifting her in his arms, kissed her tenderly.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘your bridegroom is a lucky man, Jeanne. Faith of a gentleman! I would to God I stood in his place.’

And as he lowered her she fancied she saw a conspiratorial gleam in the darkness of his eyes. It was King Francis who led her to the bed. She lay in it beside her husband while her ladies and the Duke’s gentlemen drew the costly coverlet over them.

Then the King spoke.

‘Nobles and ladies, that is enough. The marriage has been sufficiently consummated, for we consider that the bride is too young for consummation to be carried further. She and her husband have been put to bed. Let that be remembered. This is a marriage as binding as any, but there need be nothing more until the bride is of an age suited to a more complete consummation. Ladies, conduct the Princess back to her apartments. And you, my lord Duke, go back to yours. Long live the Duke and Duchess of Clèves!’