‘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.

Antoine called for an attendant, and when a man appeared he cried: ‘Send my son’s tutor to me.’ And when the tutor came he ordered that young Henry should be severely whipped for his impertinence.

Henry left the room chanting: ‘I will not go to mass. I will not go to mass.’ His black eyes were alight with excitement, fervour and love for his mother.

The door shut behind the boy and his tutor.

‘A pretty scene,’ said Jeanne, ‘and you, my lord, played the pretty part in it that I would expect of you. My son put you to shame, and I can see that you had enough grace to feel it. What a pity Mademoiselle de la Limaudière could not have been here as witness! I doubt whether her bastard will have the spirit of that boy.’

‘Be silent!’ commanded Antoine.

‘I will speak when I wish to.’

‘You are a fool, Jeanne.’

‘And you are a knave.’

‘If you do not become a Catholic immediately, I will divorce you.’

‘How can you do that, my lord?’

‘The Pope has promised it. He would not have me tied to a heretic.’

‘Divorce me and forgo my crown? That would not suit you, Monsieur.’

‘The crown would be mine if I were to divorce you.’

‘How could that be? My father left it to me.’

‘Part of Navarre was lost to Spain, and the whole of Navarre might be restored to me. Spain does not like heretics, even though they be queens. Spain would like to see me with a wife of my own faith.’

‘Mademoiselle de la Limaudière?’ she asked, but she had begun to tremble, thinking of that bold high-spirited boy who might grow up to find that, through his father’s knavery, he had no kingdom.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Antoine.

‘It is you who are the fool. Do you not see that these people plot against you as well as against me? They plan your degradation as well as mine. Sardinia! That barren island. And they made you believe it was a paradise.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Antoine,’ she said, ‘I think of our children. What will become of them? Your repudiation of me, I can see, will destroy me, but it will also be the ruin of our children.’

And then she did what he had rarely seen her do; she broke down and wept; and once the tears had started she could not stop them. Her tears moved him. He remembered all that she had been to him. Poor Jeanne! That this should have happened to them seemed incredible. It had come about so gradually that he had not noticed its creeping upon them. He thought of all the happiness they had shared, the days when she had been in camp with him, his return to her after the wars. He wavered, as he always wavered. He was not sure, even at this late hour, whether he should give up Jeanne or La Belle Rouet, not sure whether he would go on with his conversion or turn back to the Reformed Faith. He was beset by doubts, as he always was. He could never be sure which was the right road for him.

‘Jeanne,’ he said, ‘you had best make this step unnecessary by obeying me and making your peace with Rome and Spain. As for myself, I am undecided which religion is the true one. It is simply this, Jeanne – that while my uncertainty lasts, I am minded to follow the faith of my fathers.’