Margot looked at her trusted governess wide-eyed with dismay, all her natural frivolity dissolving in a second. ‘Oh, I had quite forgotten du Guast. Then perhaps we should urge Henri to stay away forever.’
The reunion between mother and son took place at Bourgoin near Lyon on 5 September. It was a most moving scene, with both parties weeping and playing up to the high drama of the occasion, even if the courtiers watched with a more jaundiced eye. Henri threw himself into his mother’s arms in an extravagant display of affection, before kneeling to kiss her hand.
‘I owe my life to you, Madame and most dear mother, and now, moreover, liberty and my crown.’
Catherine had dispatched dozens of letters and money to her son in the months he had taken meandering home from Poland via Habsburg and Italy, a route she had recommended for safety’s sake. Henri must have found several missives waiting for him when he’d arrived at the home of the Emperor, and again in Venice, but not troubled to reply to any of them, no doubt being far too busy enjoying himself. Yet so pleased was she to have him in her arms at last, she could not bring herself to chastise him.
‘I have so long waited for your homecoming, my son. I know how well you loved Venice with its mystical, artistic ambience, which does not surprise me. You have always been more Italian than French, taking after your mother rather than your father. But now you are home at last.’
‘There is no country in the world to equal this Kingdom.’
‘My one consolation is to see you here in good health. You are my life, my all. If I were to lose you I would wish to be buried alive.’
Henri took a step back, his patience for effusive displays of maternal affection being strictly limited. Catherine smiled affectionately at her darling boy and summoned the Duke of Alençon and the King of Navarre to present them formally to the new King of France.
‘Sire,’ she said, addressing her son in low, soft tones, ‘pray deign to receive these two prisoners, whom I now resign to Your Majesty’s pleasure. I have informed you of their caprices and misdemeanours. It is for Your Majesty to decree their fate.’
They had been made to ride in the Queen Mother’s coach like naughty school boys – although even that had made a welcome change from being cooped up and constantly under guard, either in Vincennes or in the Louvre where their rooms were searched every day.
Catherine had done a great deal more than that. Following the princes’ pardon, grudgingly given, the security surrounding them had been strengthened. The windows of the Louvre, all strongly barred, looked out over the river, taunting them with the reality of their confinement. It had been made clear to the King of Navarre and Alençon that they would not be permitted to leave without a pass signed by the Queen Mother, which she had no intention of ever granting. Swiss guards were posted at every entrance, and any visitor who passed over the drawbridge must sign their name upon a list, which was delivered to Catherine each morning by the officer in command. She even insisted that both ends of the Place du Louvre be walled up, leaving only one exit across the Rue des Poulies.
They had been constantly on the alert listening for the approach of her heavy footsteps, the sound of her master key turning in the lock. At any hour of the day or night she would march through Margot’s apartments, then on to those of Navarre and her youngest son, simply to reassure herself that they were not engaged in secret plotting.
‘By the help of God I know how to keep this kingdom safe and tranquil, and to rule all so well, that on the arrival of my son the King he will find everyone obedient and peaceable.’
They had had no choice but to be peaceable, Navarre thought, locked up as they all were with nothing to distract them. Now Alençon eagerly grasped his brother’s proffered hand, and burst forth with a litany of excuses to justify the enterprise – how they had been shamefully treated by Charles, forced, to their very great regret, to plot an escape for their own protection.
‘But since his death, we have no other desire than to live and die your faithful subjects.’
‘Preferably live,’ added Navarre with dry good humour.
Henri pretended to laugh at the jest, and with carefully contrived graciousness embraced both princes. ‘Be it so, mes frères; the past is forgotten. I restore you both to liberty, and ask only in return that you will give me your love and fealty. If you cannot love me, love yourselves sufficiently to abstain from plots and intrigues which cannot but harm you, and which are unworthy of the dignity of your birth.’
Catherine stood fanning herself in the heat, watching this display of filial affection with pleasure. She did so like to see family unity.
It was Margot’s turn next to step forward and greet the King her brother, a chill of foreboding in her heart, remembering how, as the Duke of Anjou, Henri had made her life a complete misery by allowing his favourites to manufacture malicious lies against her. She thought he looked thinner than ever, deathly pale, and the fistula on his eye seemed worse. There was something in the way he stared so fixedly at her which caused all the fear she had so carefully suppressed to surge up again, block her throat and threaten to choke her. For once Margot was rendered speechless, quite unable to utter a single word of her practised welcome.
The occasion was made worse by the fact that not far behind him stood his favourites: Villequier, Cheverny, and the notorious du Guast. Margot guessed they had kept him fully informed of her own part in the La Molle scandal, of her alleged plotting against her beloved brother Charles, even though that was untrue. She had wanted only for her husband’s safe return to his homeland, and some independence for Alençon. She had made it plain from the start that she would do nothing to hurt Charles.
Henri embraced her warmly, murmuring extravagant compliments over her appearance and beauty, and, despite the stifling heat, a shiver of fear trickled down her spine at his touch, which she had great difficulty in suppressing. She could tell by the shocked expression that crossed her governess’s face that she had momentarily allowed these emotions to show. She could only pray that Henri, in his self-absorbed arrogance, had not noticed.
Fortunately, he’d half turned away to greet his erstwhile mistress, Mademoiselle de Chateauneuf, who remained stubbornly single, and seemed still to be making sheep’s eyes at him, constantly giving him longing looks. Henri offered the lady his hand with a curl of distaste to his lips, paying her scant attention as he glanced over her head, seeking another, more beloved face.
‘Where is Marie, my Princess and future Queen?’
Catherine hastily stepped forward to explain that the Princess de Condé, whom Henri most longed to see, was too far advanced in her pregnancy to risk the journey.
‘She eagerly awaits your arrival in Paris,’ his mother assured him.
It did not seem to trouble him in the slightest that his intended bride was still married, and carrying her husband’s child.
Margot, not knowing whether she’d been granted leave to depart, and longing to do so, cast an anguished glance towards her own husband. Navarre answered her with a broad wink, almost causing her to disgrace herself yet again, this time by giggling. It was strange how they had come to be on such good terms, yet friends were rare and much needed in this court.
Margot’s marriage with the King of Navarre may not have been a love match, yet he had proved remarkably easy to live with. Accustomed as she was to the mad melodramas and machinations of her siblings, this even-tempered, pragmatic man seemed benign by comparison. He abhorred cruelty and intolerance, possessed a quick wit, liked to play the fool and yet possessed more intelligence than he was given credit for. Margot remained loyal to him.
Nor did he ask anything more of her than this. He certainly did not demand fidelity, but then he wasn’t capable of that himself. He was as fickle now as he had been as a young boy chasing his first love. Nevertheless, Margot had allowed him back into her bed. An heir was still needed, and she didn’t have a lover at present, a fact she noted with some regret.
She had lost Guise
, her one and only true love, and now La Molle, who had at least amused and entertained her. Yet she was a woman who needed affection, not an empty bed and a lonely heart. She glanced about her at the handsome young courtiers, wondering if there were any likely candidate amongst them. She might ask Henriette for a recommendation.
The following day Henri entered Lyon to rousing cheers from an enthusiastic crowd. His entourage was meant to impress. He rode in a magnificent chariot draped with black velvet, the Queen Mother at his right hand, Alençon opposite. The King and Queen of Navarre rode on horseback beside the carriage, followed by the three Cardinals of Bourbon, Guise, and Lorraine, and the usual train of courtiers. The entire royal party were dressed in robes of violet satin and velvet, being in semi-mourning, a display of such splendour the local people would never forget.
Henri endured the procession and celebrations, the seemingly endless prayers and speeches with a modicum of good grace, but it was the first and last public function he deigned to carry out while in Lyon. He ate sparingly at the banquets as his digestion was not good, and like Charles before him drank nothing but water.
The abscess under his arm was troubling him greatly and he’d developed another sore on his foot, but he told no one of these nuisances, nor how a nightly cough plagued him. He had the intelligence to realize that a king, particularly one not yet crowned, must show no sign of weakness, nor any of the health problems that had so beset all of the Valois brothers.
For that reason he avoided excessive exercise such as tennis, riding or hunting, tournaments or jousts, and his earlier passion for military glory was now quite dead.
Instead, he spent his mornings in bed and his afternoons reclining in a golden barge on the Rhone with his favourites. Henri intended to enjoy some lazy days in the sun, as he so liked to be warm. He had done no work of kingship in Poland, and although he intended this to change once he reached Paris and took on the crown of his beloved France, he felt he deserved a little respite for the exile he’d been forced to endure in what he had considered to be a cold, bleak land.
Catherine looked on with fond affection. She was more than content to allow his indulgences while she maintained a firm hold on the reins of power, as she had done throughout her years as regent for Charles. She was filled with pride in her certainty that Henri would make a fine king, and happy to spend her days engaged in state business and planning his coronation while he rested. Nevertheless, she carefully outlined what would be expected of him, and how he should conduct himself: dealing with matters of state in the morning, eating at set hours, taking regular exercise and spending time with his family every afternoon. She warned him always to make himself available to the people, to hear their petitions personally and allow them access to his person.
Henri had no intention of doing any such thing. He disliked having the common people leering at him, or the noble gentlemen of court drawing their chairs too close when he dined, much preferring they keep their distance and leave him in peace. If he felt moved to perform any paper work at all while he rested in Lyon, it was to rearrange the regulations and ceremonial for how court life must be lived in future. Henri would never allow himself to be under her thumb as Charles had been.
‘You can do everything,’ she told him. ‘But you must have the will.’
She paid little heed to the young ambitious men who gathered about him, thinking them vain and foolish, fops and dandies all, failing to credit them with the intelligence to direct or influence the King. She did not take them seriously, or anticipate their ever having any actual control over affairs of state. Nor did she appreciate that a day might come when this vain, capricious son of hers might ever consider her a hindrance. How could he possibly not need her, after all she had done in his name?
Margot dazzled the court, as always, when she opened the dancing at the first ball, partnered by her brother Alençon. She was almost twenty-two years old and still at the height of her beauty. Lord North, an emissary sent by Elizabeth of England to greet the new King Henri Trois, was enchanted by her, as was a certain gallant among the courtiers.
Louis de Clermont, Seigneur de Bussy d’Amboise, known simply as Bussy, fell head over heels in love with the Queen of Navarre at first sight. Before the evening was over, he had danced several pavans and galliards with her, and Margot was equally enraptured by him. To have a man’s adoring gaze upon her made her feel gloriously happy, and did she not deserve a little happiness after all the recent trauma?
‘Is he not the most handsome man you ever saw?’ she whispered to her dear friend, Henriette. ‘Who is he?’
‘He comes from a noble family. I believe his great-uncle is a cardinal. But take care,’ warned the Duchess. ‘An elegant dandy he may be, but he is also an insolent rascal with a reputation for daring duels and amorous conquests. A scandal is already circulating concerning a quarrel over a lady, and how he insisted on calling his rival out. The King forbade the duel but Bussy defied His Majesty and arrived with two score of gentlemen as support. Fortunately, he suffered nothing more serious than a wounded finger, but that behaviour is typical of him. He is highly audacious and impudent.’
Margot laughed. ‘I do so like a man with the power of his own convictions, one not afraid to take a risk.’
Henriette smiled at her friend, even as she gently scolded her. ‘He is hugely ambitious, holds the keys of your brother’s coffers, and helps himself to funds if he has an account to settle, or so I am told. Take care, my lady. Remember what happened the last time you were tempted into a little light dalliance.’
‘Am I expected to live like a nun, or a chaste obedient housewife, while my husband spreads his favours as he chooses? I think not. I deserve a little fun too, and to find love where I can. Or at least enjoy a mild flirtation.’
‘Flirt as much as you wish in public, Margot, but do not allow yourself ever to be alone with him. Promise?’
‘I promise I will never be alone with him,’ Margot parroted, then quietly added, ‘at least until I am more sure of him.’
A frown puckered the Duchess’s brow. ‘Tread warily. I want no harm to come to you, dear friend.’
‘What possible harm can come of a little mild flirtation?’
One Sunday afternoon in early September, Margot decided on a visit to the convent of St Pierre of Lyon. It was said to be beautiful, and as one Mademoiselle de Montigny had an aunt there, the necessary admission could easily be gained. The genteel nuns, some incarcerated there by heartless families, were always appreciative of company from the nobility.
There would be seven in the party: Margot herself, attended by the said Mademoiselle de Montigny; the Duchess of Nevers; Madame de Rais, and two maids of honour, plus her lady of the bedchamber, Madame de Curton. The coach was somewhat crowded but as the vehicle left the courtyard, two of Henri’s favourites, de Liancourt and Camille, sprang on to the step. Clinging on as best they could, they merrily asked if they too could come along to see the handsome nuns, and the ladies laughingly agreed.
On their arrival, Margot ordered the driver to wait with the coach in the square where various gentlemen of the court had lodgings, while they went to view the convent.
They had no sooner gone than Henri’s coach drew up. The King was ostensibly visiting a sick friend, but it was no coincidence that he arrived in the same square only moments after Margot and her ladies. He had with him several gentlemen, including the King of Navarre.
‘Is that not your wife’s coach?’ Henri asked.
There was no denying it, as the Queen’s gilt carriage was easily recognizable with its yellow velvet lining edged with silver. Navarre said nothing.
‘And is that not the house where her lover lodges? I swear she has gone to see him.’ To prove his point, Henri sent one of his men to check if she was indeed there.
Sadly he was disappointed, as his emissary found no sign of either Margot or her alleged lover. Turning again to Navarre, he said, ‘The birds have flown.’
When Margo
t arrived back at court, having enjoyed a most pleasant afternoon with the ladies of the convent and entirely ignorant of what had taken place, she called upon her husband, as was her custom.
Navarre met her with a rueful smile. ‘I am ordered to tell you that you must go and see the Queen your mother. But I promise you will not be very well pleased.’
‘Why will I not? What have I done now?’
‘It is better if I say nothing, but be assured, Margot, I do not give the least credit to the story, which I believe was fabricated in order to stir up a difference between us, and spoil the friendship between your brother and me.’
Annoyed that he would not tell her what was happening, Margot flounced off. As she reached the door of her mother’s apartment, she found Guise waiting for her. Taking her firmly by the arm, he drew her to one side.
‘The Queen Mother is in a terrible rage, I would strongly advise you not see her today.’
‘But why? What has happened? What is it I’m supposed to have done?’
Guise quickly explained how the King had followed her to the square at the suggestion of du Guast, and accused her of visiting a lover. ‘He means to damage you, as he did before.’
Margot was appalled. ‘But that is not true. I am innocent. I was visiting the convent with my ladies. I must see the Queen Mother and explain.’
‘It would not be wise. I urge you not to do so.’
‘But I must!’
Guise put his hands gently upon her waist and kissed her brow. ‘May God go with you then, my love.’
Once more Margot was obliged to face the full power of her mother’s wrath. She recalled all the times in the past when the Queen Mother had railed at her, had pinched her or slapped her about the head, and on that awful occasion assaulting her with both feet and fists, ripping her nightgown to shreds for having discovered her with Guise. Her brother Charles too had frequently attacked her when in a fit of rage, and had near killed her on that occasion. Margot shivered now at the memory. Could that happen again, even though she was a married woman, and the punishment, were she to deserve such, should rightly come from her own husband?
Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois) Page 24
