Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

‘Everyone is saying that I have borne you a child and something terrible has happened to it. You must stop them from gossiping, Henry. I cannot bear it.’

  Never able to deal with a woman in tears, Navarre was distraught and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘My love, do not upset yourself. It will be a nine day wonder, and we can try for another baby.’

  But Fosseuse was beside herself with agony, almost in hysterics. ‘You must demand that the Queen pay me a visit, as she does when any of her maids of honour are ill. Beg her to come to see me, Henry, or my reputation will be in ruins.’

  Having been up since before dawn dealing with the night’s traumas, Margot was fast asleep in her bed when the King came to her. He was not pleased to see her there. Navarre grieved for the loss of the child, and for the pain Fosseuse had suffered, and took out his disappointment on his wife. He shook her awake with a rough hand.

  ‘What is this? Why are you lying about sleeping when my sweet Fosseuse, one of your own maids of honour if you haven’t quite forgotten, is in dire need of your support and favour. I beg you to go to her at once.’

  Margot blinked up at him in surprise. ‘Go to her? Why? What more can I do for the poor girl? I have done all that you asked.’

  ‘You could spare her from the scandal that is rampaging within the walls of this palace.’

  Margot made a little scoffing sound. ‘I do not believe you can blame me for the cause of this scandal. That is entirely your own doing. In any case Henry, to visit her now would only make matters worse. They would point the finger at me, and I too would become the subject of their gossip, as the wronged wife who has failed in her duty to provide an heir for her King. Why would I put myself through such a torture? You ask too much.’ There were tears in her eyes but Henry was too angry to notice.

  ‘I asked you to guard her well, instead you stood by while she lost our child.’

  ‘That is a wicked lie. I did all that could be done, provided the girl with the best possible care.’

  ‘It would seem that it was inadequate. My petite fille does not deserve to be treated thus.’

  ‘Nor do I. I am your wife, your Queen. Have I not suffered enough embarrassment from your mistress, at least for one night?’

  ‘Damn you, Margot, you are the most vexing of women. I will never forgive you for this slight.’

  From that moment relations between the King and Queen of Navarre reached a new low. They became so cool and distant they were barely speaking to each other.

  Night after night Margot lay back on her pillows and quietly wept. She had never objected to her husband taking a mistress, so long as they created no problems for her and she was allowed a similar freedom. Now she felt deeply wounded by his anger. He had showed not the slightest gratitude for her efforts on his behalf, and for that silly creature he so adored. Margot was also missing Champvallon, her own lover, feeling sorely aggrieved and very bored.

  In her despair Margot took to re-reading some of her mother’s letters. They seemed uncharacteristically affectionate, but then Catherine de Medici had always been better at expressing herself on paper. They were filled with the assurance of a welcome, should her daughter ever choose to pay the French Court a visit. Margot had always resisted, being far too experienced in Catherine’s wiles to be taken in by these soft words. And it was, of course, Navarre whom the Queen Mother really wished to lure to the capital so that she could again persuade him to change his religion. She would be forever disappointed in that ambition.

  Now it occurred to Margot that there was no reason why she herself should not go for a few months. Her heart stirred at the prospect of seeing Champvallon again. He was with Alençon in Flanders, but would surely return when the battle was won. She reached for her lover’s latest letter, read the familiar words for the hundredth time, and came to a swift decision. She would indeed return to the French Court for a short visit. The break would do her good, allow her to see her friends and enjoy the sophistication which was so sadly lacking here in Béarn.

  The next day she put her request to her husband, and at first Navarre saw no reason to object. ‘So long as you don’t expect me to accompany you.’

  ‘I would not ask it. My mother the Queen has often said that she would meet me part way, perhaps at Xaintonge, if you would escort me there. She has even sent me fifteen thousand écus for the journey.’

  ‘I dare say that could be arranged.’ Henry thought he would secretly welcome some time apart from his over-critical wife.

  Margot hid a small smile. ‘You realize, of course, that I would take Fosseuse with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She is one of my ladies, after all.’

  Navarre was incensed. ‘This is all a ploy to take her from me. Go to Paris if you must, but Fosseuse stays here. I insist upon it.’

  Margot was gentle now in her triumph, putting a comforting hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be foolish, Henry. You are not thinking clearly. How could I rightly leave her here with you, creating yet more scandal?’

  In the days following, Henry used every possible persuasion to make his wife change her mind. He did all he could to prevent her from leaving, treating her with more kindness than of late in an effort to win her round, reminding her how they used to be such good friends. But Margot resisted all his ploys.

  ‘It is too late to change my plans, Enric.’ She always used his pet name when she felt sorry for him, and he seemed a pitiful creature now. Yet she knew that within a few weeks of their departure, the memory of his petite fille would quickly fade and he’d be attempting to lure some other woman into his bed. Margot had every intention of making it her business to marry the silly chit off to some suitable gentleman, one who considered it an honour to take a king’s former mistress. ‘I have written to the Queen my mother, who has no doubt already set out on the journey with her customary energy.’

  Navarre was obliged to admit defeat. All arrangements were in place, Margot’s litter and baggage carts were even now being prepared.

  And if Margot should hesitate for even a second over the decision to return to her brother’s court, that hotbed of intrigue and malice, one glance at the sullen face of Fosseuse who had taken a fancy to wearing a crown, quickly strengthened her resolve. She was almost thirty years old, and refused to be ousted from her rightful place by some spoiled child.

  So it was that in February 1582, the King of Navarre set out to escort his queen to meet her mother, Catherine de Medici, for a visit to Paris, and prepared to bid farewell to his beloved mistress.

  Paris 1582

  Margot arrived in Paris in March 1582 and by April she had banished Fosseuse from court. Navarre wrote to her, furiously objecting, but it was the Queen Mother who answered his letter, scolding her son-in-law for treating his wife so ill for the sake of a ‘public prostitute’. Margot simply ignored him, too full of excitement and anticipation, as always, when embarking upon a new adventure.

  Her heart turned over at first sight of Guise. He seemed thinner, grown a little older since last they met. Had she? She would defy anyone to say so. Yet he was as handsome as ever despite the scar he now bore, his hair as crisp and curled, his shoulders as broad and the power of the man as impressive as ever. He welcomed her with the usual three kisses, light and courteous. The familiar touch of his lips upon her cheeks brought a rush of sweet memories. What fun they’d enjoyed together. What passion! And how he had used to tease her. He smiled into her eyes now in that wonderful way he had, still able to make her feel special.

  ‘So you could not bear to be away from me any longer?’

  ‘Not another minute,’ she laughed.

  ‘I do not wonder at it since I am so irresistible.’

  For an instant Margot wondered if she should attempt to reignite their affair? Perhaps not, until she was certain of his other interests. Guise may well still be enamoured of de Sauves. Besides, Margot was longing to see Champvallon who, much to her disappointment, was still in Flanders with Alençon. She
’d written him scores of heartrending letters begging him to take care, terrified he might be killed.

  She bought a house in Rue Culture Sainte Catherine but stayed at the Louvre while work was being done on it. To her relief the welcome she received from her brother Henri was friendly, at least superficially, although Margot was aware there was a reason behind his kindness. He and the Queen Mother were disappointed that Navarre had not come with her, and wished Margot to write to her husband and persuade him to join her. She elected not to do so, knowing he would not come.

  Margot understood Navarre’s fears but thought they may well be groundless. The Queen Mother was showing her age and seemed less interested in stirring intrigue than previously, almost mellow by comparison with her younger self. Margot remembered feeling flattered as a young girl when her mother had first allowed her to take part in the Queen’s lever. She’d been terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing, of displeasing this all-powerful, all-seeing woman who was in equal parts feared and respected throughout the land.

  This morning they talked easily together as Catherine drank her coffee and Margot fastened the ribbons of her mother’s petticoat about her waist, scenting again that nauseous mix of stale sweat and perfume. The Queen Mother’s rheumatism had grown worse and she sighed with relief as she sank onto a stool for a maid to tie on her stockings.

  Margot solicitously enquired after her health, but since Catherine de Medici had no patience with ailments, even her own, she was instead regaled with political and family concerns.

  ‘You know that Alençon is not at all well. My hopes for a secure future for France, for seeing the work of a lifetime fulfilled seems to be rapidly fading before my eyes. One son ailing, a daughter apparently barren. There is no sign of a child yet, is there?’

  ‘Dearest Alençon should spend less time on campaigns and more resting at court,’ Margot said, preferring not to respond to the more personal part of the question. But her mother was not done yet.

  ‘Even my beloved Henri has turned against me.’

  ‘How so?’ Henri was Catherine’s favourite, although he had not always responded well to his mother’s adoration.

  ‘Come, let us take the air,’ the Queen Mother said, leading her daughter out of the royal chambers, where they could talk more freely away from wagging ears. ‘Henri relies too much upon his mignons, and he too is still without an heir, and likely to remain so. The people mock him and hate him, saying he has bled them dry and left them near to starvation. He has ruined his own health and that of the kingdom by debauchery. Can they not see that he suffers the flaws that beset all my sons?’

  All the Valois brothers had suffered from consumption, and some from other afflictions passed down from the sins of their fathers, but Henri had developed many more of his own. Margot gravely nodded, not wishing to remind her mother of the painful losses she had borne, even as she admired her valiant strength.

  ‘If Alençon does not survive,’ Catherine was saying as they stepped out into the spring sunshine, flunkies opening doors for them as they passed by. ‘I see no alternative but for the succession to pass to Navarre. That would be a political disaster, unless he agrees to take the Mass. I take it my son-in-law is still firm in his beliefs and remains a Huguenot?’

  ‘Let us not speak of such things today,’ Margot said, anxious to avoid conflict. Although it was true enough. Navarre would indeed inherit following the demise of her two remaining brothers. And after him came his cousin, Prince de Condé, a widower with one daughter: a man of fierce Huguenot zeal, unpredictable temper, soured by his grievances against the Valois, and the loss of his beloved wife.

  ‘At least with Navarre, assuming I can persuade him to change his religion, it would mean that you, daughter, would be Queen of France. That is something, I dare say.’ Queen Catherine almost smiled. ‘You would probably make a better job of it than all your brothers.’

  ‘I doubt it will ever happen,’ Margot said, thinking of Fosseuse and how the girl would almost certainly have gained herself a crown, had she shown herself capable of producing a son.

  ‘Can we not trust Navarre? I confess I have never entirely understood how his agile brain works.’

  Margot burst out laughing. ‘Neither do I. He is an enigma, a law unto himself. Full of affable wit and yet …’

  ‘As wily as a fox, playing the fool while he decides which way to wear his coat,’ Catherine finished for her. ‘Did he not very cleverly escape by first persuading us to think him too stupid to even contemplate it?’ Catherine cackled with laughter, always ready to see the funny side. ‘Guise is far less complicated. Mayhap I should have let you have him after all.’

  ‘Don’t, it is too late now.’ There had been a time when Catherine had offered Margot the opportunity for divorce, but to accept would have put her husband’s life at risk. Margot did not dislike Henry enough to do that to him. Though Navarre had his faults, she trusted her mother less.

  ‘You do know, do you not, Margot, that your old amour plots against us with Philip of Spain?’

  ‘I cannot think Guise would do such a thing.’ Margot diplomatically responded.

  ‘And against you.’

  Margot considered this surprising remark but made no reply, not wishing to believe it. They were by now walking in the Tuileries Gardens, a favourite place of the Queen Mother’s for private conversation. She led her daughter along a green alley, seeing no irony in the fact it was the very same one where she had plotted the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre.

  ‘Henri of Guise is still bristling with resentment over the House of Lorraine being held responsible for the events of that terrible night.’ Even Catherine balked at using the word that best described it. ‘Consequently, he feels no compunction in stirring rebellion against us.’

  She went on to briefly explain how her spies had discovered correspondence between Guise and Philip of Spain, and even the King of Navarre. ‘Philip was so impressed with your husband’s gallant capture of Cahors, that he has proposed Navarre join the Catholic League. In return he will provide him with an army to overthrow the House of Valois, otherwise the King of Spain would see to it that Navarre was excluded from the succession on account of his faith.’

  Margot listened until she could keep quiet no longer. ‘My husband would not be so foolish as to attempt such a reckless venture. He will see that if the Guises are not loyal to their anointed King, nor would they be to him, whether or not he changes his faith, which I very much doubt he would do.’

  Unperturbed, Catherine quietly continued, ‘Philip has also offered your husband one of his own daughters, were he to divorce you.’

  Margot sucked in her breath, attempting to stifle a startled gasp.

  ‘Nor would Guise choose you to share his crown, were he to win the succession in place of Navarre, as the offer would then revert to him.’

  Stunned by this news, and afraid suddenly for her own vulnerability if this plot were ever to reach fruition, Margot held her silence. Later, she took her mother’s advice and wrote to her husband, warning him that she was aware of his duplicity, and urging him to come to Paris and prove his good faith. Navarre politely declined.

  Once it became clear that Navarre wasn’t going to obey the royal summons, Henri’s peevish jealousy came once more to the fore, fostered by his mignons.

  He had collected yet more pretty boys to join his nefarious crew, and in place of those killed in a notorious brawl were two new favourites. These became known as Epernon and Joyeuse, once Henri had bestowed titles upon them. They were less effeminate than the rest, and even more ruthless, jealous and petty than their predecessors. As always, Henri showered them with gifts and benefices. He married Joyeuse off to Queen Louise’s sister, and Epernon was granted several bishoprics and made Governor of Guyenne. Even the Queen Mother feared to offend him.

  The duc d’Epernon was reckless and bold, with a fondness for practical jokes, and much the favoured courtier. Joyeuse never quite achieved the same power
over the King, for all he was more aristocratic, which resulted in a bitter jealousy between the two. They were jealous too of Margot, knowing how Henri had always adored his sister and wished to control her. They saw her as a new rival.

  When, in his bid for a crown, Alençon made an attempt to capture the city of Antwerp, the two favourites convinced Henri that Margot was responsible by supporting her younger brother in this latest bid for power. She denied involvement, but was not believed. Alençon’s men became trapped and were mercilessly butchered, resulting in yet another disastrous campaign in what became known as the Folly of Antwerp. Guise offered to go to his assistance but the King refused to give his consent. His bitter jealousy over her preference for their younger brother still grated.

  Early in 1583, Margot moved into Rue Culture Sainte Catherine and began to keep open house for poets and artists. She held parties, soirees, dancing and feasting, very much as she did at Nérac. Most exciting of all, so far as Margot was concerned, she was again thoroughly involved in a scandalous affair with Champvallon. She was determined to live life in her own way and if she was aware of the risks she took, she gave no sign of it.

  She had few friends around her: no Bussy who had once supported her in her ventures, no husband or brother at her side. Alençon was still in Flanders, and failing. Not even Madame de Curton, her dear Lottie, to guide her. Even Guise could no longer be entirely trusted since he pursued his own ambitions for the crown, something she’d always been aware of but was now too dangerous to ignore.

  And her anger with Navarre urged Margot to be reckless. She could not forgive him for the Fosseuse incident where he had blamed her for the death of the infant. And now he seemed willing to plot with Philip of Spain in a bid to divorce her. What would happen to her then she dare not even consider. Margot had never been one for discretion but the growing dangers gathering around her, made her, if anything, even more rash. She laughed them all off. Life was for living, after all.

  Rumours flew about court, instigated and spread by the mignons, that she had smuggled her lover into her room in a trunk. True or not, she did permit her beloved Champvallon to visit her regularly, and to lodge at the house with her from time to time. She had been heartbroken a few months earlier when he’d declared his intention of marrying a high born widow, even if it were only in order to pay his debts. But she forgave him in the end. A marriage was for financial or political reasons, an affaire was personal. Theirs continued as normal, in spite of his new wife.