Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  Navarre himself had introduced Henri de La Tour, Viscount de Turenne to Margot, and it was obvious from their first meeting that there was an instant attraction between the two. His eyes sparkled with a familiar challenge and Margot was instantly fascinated.

  ‘Have I not seen you about court when you were in France, Monsieur?’ she asked, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, noting how his gaze swept over her with very evident admiration.

  ‘Indeed, I am flattered you should remember.’

  ‘You were a comrade of my younger brother, Alençon, were you not?’

  ‘We were with the Politiques together for a time, that is true. I remember you at the evening balls, Your Majesty. You always showed great skill on the dance floor.’

  Margot laughed. ‘As you do with your compliments.’

  She noticed that he seemed almost to be blushing, yet he was a true gentleman: chivalrous, charming and handsome. ‘I feel sure, monsieur, that you and I will be great friends.’

  They became very much more than that. Soon it was the handsome Turenne occupying her bed, and he showed far more grace in it than did her own husband. The Court of Nérac was awash with gossip concerning the respective love affairs of both the King and Queen. The tittle-tattle did not trouble Margot in the slightest, only served to amuse her, and she paid no attention to the narrow minded bigots.

  What amazed everyone the most was the complete lack of jealousy or discord between the couple, as they each enjoyed their respective dalliances without let or hinder. Navarre with Fosseuse, who, because of her lack of experience in court etiquette was assisted by Margot’s maid Xaintes, herself a former mistress of the King; and Margot with Turenne, all of them great friends together. A right royal tangle!

  Only la petite Tignonville showed any sign of jealousy, poor child, stuck with a fat old husband and now out of favour with the King.

  To Margot, the situation was perfectly straightforward. If her husband felt free to take lovers, why should not the same rules apply to her? She would enjoy her liaison with Turenne for a time, as his charm, good looks, and devotion to her were really most diverting. She would be completely faithful to him, as she was to all her lovers, for as long as the affair lasted. Not that she could ever love him truly, of course. Her heart would ever belong to Guise.

  In Paris, at the salon of the Duchesse de Montpensier, Guise’s sister, the most eloquent, wealthy and powerful men of the day were made welcome. These included Nevers, Cheverny, Mayenne, and others involved in attempting to overthrow the dynasty of the Valois. She would recline upon her couch, due to a slight lameness, and applaud their daring, her contempt for the King all too evident. Madame de Montpensier’s husband had been one of Admiral Coligny’s sworn enemies. She too was a zealot, fiercely Catholic, known as the Fury of the League, and had no good word to say for Henri Trois as she denounced the debauchery and dissipation of his court.

  Her brother, standing close by, could only agree. ‘We cannot allow this situation to go on indefinitely, or the nation will be bankrupt, if not by his profligacy, then by war.’

  An impressive figure with his fair, curled hair, his beard neatly trimmed, and eyes bright with passion and ambition, those present never failed to listen with respect to every word Guise spoke. Even the scar he now carried, like his father before him, seemed to mark him as a man to follow and revere, and he now bore the same name, Le Balafré.

  ‘Vive Guise!’ were words called out to him whenever he went about in the city.

  ‘The people would rise up and follow you, brother. They are weary of being exploited, their hard earned money used merely to feather the fancy nests of Henri’s mignons. He is giving away bishoprics now to Epernon and Joyeuse, and they are selling them for a fortune. He’s even talking of procuring a rich bride for each of these favourites. I dread to think what the cost of such a wedding would be.’

  Guise winced, giving a growl of anger deep in his throat. ‘Yet the King gives no thought to the needs of the realm, to the steady progress being made by the Huguenots. He may parade through the streets as a penitent, but it’s all smoke and mirrors with no substance to his beliefs. For all he claims to be a good Catholic, he thinks only of his own dissolute fops, his lap dogs and his extravagant gowns. Dear God, what an affliction the Valois have been upon France. There hasn’t been one good male in the entire bunch that Catherine de Medici produced.’

  ‘Have you heard anything lately from her daughter, the Queen of Navarre?’ the Duchess asked, remembering her brother’s fondness for Margot.

  Guise relaxed as he pressed his hand against the reassuring crackle of her latest letter, several pages long, and in Margot’s own inimitable style, safely tucked within his doublet. ‘She is well, and enjoying spending her brother the King’s money, as well as her husband’s, as she creates a new court in Nérac to rival that of France.’

  Madame de Montpensier chuckled. ‘A woman of great independence and spirit, frustrated by the power of men, yet I swear she’ll beat them all in the end.’

  He laughed with her as he refilled his sister’s wine glass and brought her wafers. ‘You may well speak true.’

  Glancing about her, to check they were not overheard, the Duchess continued more quietly, ‘I have heard a disturbing tale today. I am reliably informed that Henri Trois is ranting over a letter he has received from Queen Marguerite’s court. It comes from one of the Huguenots, Agrippa somebody-or-other. Do you know of it?’

  Guise shook his head. ‘Do you wish me to look into the matter and see what I can discover?’

  ‘No need, it seems the writer is accusing Margot of blatantly embarking upon an affair with a certain Turenne. He begs the King to step in and control his sister’s licentious behaviour. The letter goes on to assert that she is driven by hatred of her brother and jealousy of her husband, who is not faithful to her, and wishes to take revenge by inciting a new war between the two kingdoms. Do you think this can be true?’

  Guise sighed. ‘Anything is possible with my dear, reckless Margot. Say what you will about her exemplary courage and delightful beauty, discretion is not one of her strengths. Yet I cannot think that even Margot would deliberately engineer a war for the sake of a little jealousy. I know that the King is certainly jealous of her tranquillity and evident happiness in Nérac. He is incensed that his sister should prefer life in a rural backwater to that in the Louvre with him.’

  The Duchess clicked her tongue with impatience. ‘Do you wonder at it?’ She gently tapped the pouch in his doublet wherein reposed Margot’s letter. ‘I believe Henri also has this house watched. If so, then he will know of the couriers that pass to and fro. Take care, my brother.’

  Guise laughed. ‘I always take the utmost care, but let us not get too paranoid.’

  ‘And the letter of which I speak, that the King received? It apparently claims that Margot hopes to destroy the peace which the Queen Mother so carefully procured. Would that be to our benefit, think you, in view of that other matter of which we were speaking earlier?’ prompted the Duchess.

  Guise rubbed his chin and the crisp sharpness of his beard. ‘I will communicate with Philip of Spain - secretly, of course,’ he quickly added, smiling at his sister. ‘We will see if he is willing to offer practical support to further our cause. It is as much in his interest as ours that France steers her course with the Mother Church, and what better way to achieve that than with the House of Guise at the helm.’

  When a letter came from the King of France informing Navarre that his wife was making a cuckold of him, he laughed out loud, and took it straight to Margot’s apartment. She was propped up in bed enjoying breakfast, a plate of fresh fruit on her lap, fortunately alone for once as Turenne was not present.

  She was surprised to see him, quickly dabbed at a trickle of peach juice on her chin. ‘My lord, this is an early call.’

  Navarre considered his lovely wife with an amused smile. The famous black satin sheets and pillows she used for visiting lovers se
rving only to enhance her pale, translucent beauty, as no doubt intended. ‘I see that your sainted brother is reaching out his grubby fingers to stir up yet more trouble,’ he said, tossing the letter to her.

  ‘What? How dare he spy on me!’ Margot cried, as she quickly scanned the letter, hardly able to believe the words before her own eyes. ‘Why is he so determined to interfere in my life, to still try to control me, even from this distance? I do not deny the charge of infidelity, but . . .’

  Giving a bark of laughter Navarre took a cherry from her plate, chewed upon it then flicked the stone on to the floor. ‘How could you, my love, when all the court knows of it, including myself.’

  ‘But this charge of my wishing to start another war is entirely false,’ she concluded, ignoring his interruption. ‘Why would I do such a thing? This is scandalous, nothing but pernicious lies. Neither Turenne nor I have any wish to bring about a new conflict.’

  Henry reached for another cherry, sucked upon it with a thoughtful frown. He was untroubled by his wife’s so-called licentious behaviour, but, like her, extremely concerned about the possibility of another war.

  ‘Make haste and dress, my love, we must speak to the elders.’

  In an effort to prevent the seemingly inevitable conflict, Navarre allowed Margot to regularly attend council meetings in the weeks following, and to address the religious leaders. She received letters from her mother the Queen, urging her to do everything in her power to help retain the peace, yet Margot failed utterly to convince them that they had little to gain from another war. Led by Aubigné, they scarcely listened to her arguments. Why would they? She was not only a woman, but a Catholic.

  In November, without any warning or discussions with Navarre, his one-time comrade at arms, Condé captured La Fère in Picardy. The two were now very much at odds. The Prince de Condé had grown increasingly pious, and was critical of his cousin’s fickleness with regard to both his love life and his religion.

  The King of Navarre felt obliged to apologize to the King of France, but the hostilities continued to gather momentum and soon he was again writing to Henri, this time castigating Marachel Biron for threatening to destroy the Huguenots.

  And despite all Margot’s efforts, the Huguenots declared war in April 1580.

  It became known as La Guerre des Amoureux, the Lovers’ War, caustically dubbed as such by Aubigné. More likely it was a result of the inadequacy of the agreement Catherine had devised. The Peace of Nérac had conceded a period of only six months for the Huguenots to enjoy the strongholds to which they laid claim. When that time had elapsed, unsurprisingly, they decided to hold on to them, rather than meekly hand them back.

  Margot’s newfound happiness was suddenly under threat. She felt as if she was between the devil and the deep blue sea. If she aligned herself with Navarre she would be betraying her own faith, which was of great importance to her. She also risked offending her brother the King and the Queen Mother, which would be reckless in the extreme. Margot still largely depended upon them financially, despite their many promises to return her the properties and monies that were due to her on marriage.

  Yet if the Catholics won, Navarre and her new life here in Nérac, which until now had been happy, would be in real danger. Besides all of this, she very much wished to remain on good terms with her husband. How else would she get to wear a crown of France?

  Margot’s own liaison with Turenne ended soon after war was declared. She’d grown bored with him, and one night asked him to leave.

  ‘Are you tired, my love? Shall I return on the morrow?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I think not. It has been most delightful but all good things must come to an end.’ Turenne had never meant much to her emotionally, Margot viewing him only as an amusement. Her lover, however, claimed to be far more deeply attached and was devastated at losing her.

  ‘You cannot mean it. I shall hang myself if you abandon me. How can I live without you?’

  ‘I’m sure you will find consolation elsewhere,’ she said, smiling up at him.

  ‘How could that be possible when you are the queen of my heart?’

  ‘Leave. Now. I can certainly live without you.’

  Turenne did not take his dismissal well and requested the command of troops in Upper Languedoc, by way of compensation. Fortunately, he did not carry out his threat, which rather amused Henry who thereafter called him ‘the great unhanged’.

  Navarre himself went to war, something he now relished almost as much as making love. The first Margot knew of it was when she received a letter from her husband in which he addressed her with great affection, apologizing for the decision he’d been obliged to make, and in leaving without even telling her.

  ‘Do not grieve,’ he urged her. ‘It is enough that one of us should be unhappy. I kiss your hands a million times.’

  Navarre captured Cahors on 31 May 1580, proving himself yet again to be an able and resilient soldier. Henri Trois was predictably furious, both with his brother-in-law, and his recalcitrant sister whom he blamed entirely for this situation. Cahors, like Agen, was part of Margot’s marriage portion, therefore the King felt that she had betrayed him by allowing it to be taken by a Huguenot, even if he was her own husband. Henri called his procurator-general and cancelled all her rights to the town.

  By early summer, Biron was drawing dangerously near to Gascony, and, in alarm, Margot wrote to her brother the King and the Queen Mother, begging them to declare Nérac neutral.

  ‘I pray you do not make war within three miles of it, and I will persuade my husband to agree to the same on behalf of the party of the new religion.’

  Henri Trois agreed to this so long as Navarre did not use the town as a hiding place.

  Yet how could Henry resist coming often to his home town, not only to see his wife and sister, but also because he remained deeply enamoured of Fosseuse and could hardly bear to be parted from her for long. He was utterly besotted and must see his petite fille as often as possible. Relations with Margot remained good, if more like brother and sister than man and wife, but he still ached to possess Fosseuse.

  Having disposed of Turenne, Margot was considering other possibilities, although the court was filled with only ladies since all the handsome men had gone off to war, but she always welcomed her husband’s visits to Nérac.

  When he heard of these, Biron believed that Navarre had broken the pact, and prepared his arquebusiers to attack. Henry stoutly defended his stronghold by leading his army out to face the troops, holding his ground well. Annoyed, and in a show of bravado, the Marshal fired seven or eight shots upon the town, one of which struck the Palace.

  Unfortunately, Margot and her ladies had gone out upon the ramparts to watch the battle, and were almost hit.

  ‘Dear God, he means to kill us,’ the Queen cried, as all her ladies ran screaming back into the Palace.

  Having made his point, the Marshal dispatched a messenger to the Queen of Navarre with his humble apologies, explaining that he would never have fired upon the town, under the terms of neutrality, were he not duty bound to attack the King her husband wherever he should find him.

  ‘Have no more to do with the fellow,’ Navarre warned her.

  ‘I have had no quarrel with him in the past, and we are of the same religion. Biron has always showed me the greatest respect, and appeared to be very much my friend. During the war my letters have frequently fallen into his hands, which he always forwards to me unopened. And whenever my people have been taken prisoners by his army, they were well treated as soon as they mentioned to whom they belonged.’

  Margot nevertheless wrote a scalding response, complaining of the attack upon her frightened ladies, and for spoiling three precious days with her husband.

  Much to Margot’s delight, her brother Alençon returned from England later that summer, where he’d again failed to win the hand of Queen Elizabeth, who liked to call him her little frog. To cover his disappointment, he threw himself
into supporting the efforts of his sister and brother-in-law for peace. After many months of negotiations, the Treaty of Fleix was finally signed, so named because that was where the principal parties were staying at the time. Biron was deprived of his command, and six months of unnecessary war was brought to an end in September.

  Henri III was not happy, and continued to blame Margot for having started the war in the first place, now accusing her of deliberately provoking the conflict so that his younger brother could share in the glory of ending it and bringing peace.

  ‘It is always the same old story,’ Margot complained. ‘Jealousy and envy forever sour him and twist his mind.’

  Not that Margot cared what Henri thought, for in these last weeks while in the Dordogne helping to negotiate the peace, she had enjoyed having her younger brother with her. What was even more exciting, she had fallen in love.

  Jacques de Harlay, Marquis of Champvallon did not possess Guise’s confident swagger, nor was he the fine swordsman that Bussy had been, or have quite the je ne sais quoi of Turenne. Yet he possessed stunning good looks. It was generally accepted that not only was he the most romantic man at court, but also the most beautiful: a Greek god in very truth.

  Margot had always admired perfect beauty and, two or three years younger than herself, he became her coup de foudre. She was utterly smitten, calling him her Narcissus. No one but Guise had ever captured her heart, but here was the grand passion she had so longed for. If she was indiscreet before, now Margot abandoned all self-restraint and gave herself to him utterly.

  His family was not rich but neither was it humble, his father being the squire of Césy, and his mother related to the Scottish royal family of Stuarts. He was brave and had distinguished himself by serving the King before joining Alençon’s entourage as his master of horse.

  Champvallon was also intelligent, and the two lovers would sit in an arbour or stroll through the gardens conversing ardently together, discussing their shared passion for poetry or literature. Something of a poet himself, he would write verses to stir her heart.