Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  Paris was highly entertained by the goings on of their royal family.

  Such gossip didn’t trouble Margot in the slightest, for she was enjoying herself far too much. Perhaps life was too good in the French Court, or she held a few too many parties and sumptuous dinners, for she began to put on a little weight, which led to the inevitable rumour that she was pregnant by her lover.

  Margot’s old feud with her brother the King now took a far more serious turn. Henri chose an evening when the entire court was present, so that everyone might witness the scene, to accuse her of this transgression.

  ‘I see that you have brought your immoral ways with you,’ as if the French Court were a picture of chastity and rectitude.

  ‘I think you must be judging me by your own standards, brother,’ Margot sharply rejoined. ‘Or else listening to mischief promulgated by my enemies.’ She glared at Epernon and Joyeuse, but then wondered if Aubigné was still in correspondence with Henri. It would not be beyond that gentleman to stir up fresh intrigue against her.

  ‘I am reliably informed that you have borne Champvallon a child. You lead a shameful, adulterous life, sister, and the result apparently is an illegitimate son.’

  Margot’s cheeks burned, fired by a fury she found difficult to contain. ‘That is a gross lie!’

  ‘Did you rid yourself of the encumbrance then?’

  Turning to her ladies, Madames de Duras and Béthune, Henri accused them of being procuresses and abortionists. ‘If the tale of my sister’s pregnancy is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, then you must have helped her to get rid of the child.’

  The ladies gasped in shock at such a charge. Margot was appalled and terrified by this sudden twist in her fortunes, almost thankful that dear Lottie was no longer with her. Would not her governess have fiercely scolded her for bringing this new calamity upon herself?

  Henri was in one of his self-righteous moods, heavily involved in street processions, floggings and penitential practises, manically religious, even to the extent of banning all balls and concerts. No doubt he’d objected to the ones she’d regularly held at her own house. Yet his debauchery with his mignons continued unabated. And just as he had once insisted she dismiss Thorigny for alleged licentious behaviour, he now ordered Margot to dismiss these two attendants.

  Margot had no intention of doing so, nor of admitting that the ladies in question had indeed conspired in her affaire with Champvallon, if not to the extent of which they were accused. There had been no baby, no abortion, nothing of that sort at all. They were also high born and cultured, and Margot stubbornly refused to be parted from them.

  ‘Why are they any less moral than de Sauves?’ she demanded of the Queen Mother.

  ‘Impudent minx! You must dismiss them. I cannot always protect you from the King. He will not take kindly to this obduracy on your part.’ The Queen Mother herself had clearly lost patience with her daughter. Margot suspected the friendship she’d been at pains to offer in recent months had all been a sham. Why had she ever trusted her?

  Henri had been away during July but when he returned to find his sister still defied him, he was furious. To make matters worse, he received word of an attack on a royal courier, pertaining to the theft of some letters which he’d dispatched to Joyeuse, who was presently in Rome. They contained information concerning the difficulties Henri was experiencing with the Huguenots, and with Navarre. He easily convinced himself of Margot’s guilt, always willing to believe the worst of his sister, and who else would have the nerve to steal them? No doubt she thought it her wifely duty to procure them in order to win back a betraying husband. For Henri it was the last straw.

  The first Margot learned of this was when a courtier came to her house and presented her with an order banishing her from Paris, the words of the King her brother castigating her for licentious behaviour.

  ‘Am I expected to simply pack up and leave?’

  ‘That would be wise,’ she was coolly informed.

  ‘This quarrel is not about my so-called immorality, but my continued support for Alençon.’

  The courtier offered no argument to this assessment, merely told her she was at least more fortunate than her lover. ‘The Watch has been sent to arrest Champvallon at his lodgings.’

  Margot quickly sent him warning but he must have already heard for he’d fled to Germany. He was safe, but gone from her life. It seemed she had no alternative but to return home to Gascony.

  Margot travelled with her ladies in her litter, including the two alleged co-accused, Madame Duras and Béthune, all of them deeply distressed at having been so ignominiously dismissed from court. They stopped to dine at Bourg-la-Reine before continuing onwards to the village of Palaiseau, where they were to spend the night. The ladies were about halfway there when they heard the clink of harness and thud of many hooves. Madame Duras turned pale.

  ‘Oh no, the King has sent a party to capture us.’

  ‘Hold fast to your nerves, ladies. They can prove nought against us.’

  Seconds later they found themselves surrounded by a large number of archers of the royal guard, under the command of their captain. The curtains of the litter were ripped back, and Margot was presented with an order of arrest signed by Henri.

  ‘Pray alight, Madame. We would search this vehicle.’

  Margot was incensed. ‘How dare you apprehend us in this callous manner? What is it I’m supposed to have done now?’

  ‘We are but doing our duty, Madame. Pray remove your masks.’

  The ladies gasped at such an outrage. All ladies of nobility wore a mask when travelling to spare themselves from being leered at by the more vulgar populace. Even Margot, vain as she was of her beauty, was wearing one today and vehemently protested.

  ‘We will do no such thing.’

  The masks were torn from their faces.

  ‘Give up your papers. We know you carry them about your person. You must hand them over in the King’s name.’

  ‘We have no papers. Dear God, I know of no princess on earth so miserable and persecuted as myself, excepting perhaps the Queen of Scots.’

  ‘We believe you to be in possession of important dispatches from the King to Rome, which you have stolen. Do not think to hide them from us.’

  ‘I have already told you, we do not possess any such papers, and I would never steal from the King my brother.’

  When the coach was found not to contain the letters, the ladies themselves were then subjected to a most scandalous search. Members of the guard went so far as to knock off the ladies’ hats, lift their skirts, and even probe beneath their bodices. They squealed and screamed and hotly protested, but the men responded by striking them. Margot furiously objected.

  ‘How dare you abuse my ladies! Begone with you.’

  But no one was listening to her. Mesdames Duras and Béthune were arrested, along with Margot’s doctor and secretary, and other members of her household. They were escorted to the prison at Montargis. Margot was held under house arrest in a lodging at Palaiseau. Even then her room was invaded during the night by the Captain.

  ‘Am I to be allowed no privacy?’ she bitterly complained.

  ‘Hand over the letters and you will be permitted to proceed in peace.’

  ‘Pray then search, for I know of no such documents.’

  Margot was obliged to endure the shame and indignity of having her bed stripped and searched, her coffers tipped out and her personal belongings sifted through, but no trace of the stolen dispatches was found.

  She calmly addressed the Captain. ‘I wish to write letters of my own, to my husband who needs to be told of this outrage, and to the King my brother to complain of this rough handling of a royal princess.’

  Suffering from a severe lack of funds she also wrote to the Queen Mother, begging for her help and money.

  Within days Margot learned that the ladies and gentlemen of her household had been sent to the Bastille where they were being severely questioned regarding her
morals and honour, her daily routine, and the alleged child. Had it indeed been aborted, or given away for adoption following a secret birth?

  ‘Was ever a princess more beset by rumour than I?’ she sobbed in her fury.

  The poor demented mother of Duras desperately sought to secure her daughter’s freedom, but to no avail. It was the Queen Mother, on her return from a visit to her youngest son, whom she’d found to be even more gravely ill of the same lung disease that had carried off his siblings, who finally got the ladies released. Margot remained under house arrest.

  Navarre was hunting at Sainte Foix when he received a letter from his brother-in-law, Henri Trois, by a valet of the King’s wardrobe, telling him of the plight of his wife and queen. It was dated the fifth of August, dispatched before ever Margot and her ladies had been apprehended in their litter. It gave Henri’s version of the tale, plainly stating that having discovered ‘the evil and scandalous life led by Madame de Duras and Mademoiselle de Béthune, he had resolved to drive them away from the presence of the Queen of Navarre, as being most pernicious vermin and not to be supported near a princess of such position’.

  A second letter was waiting for him when he returned to Nèrac, strongly hinting at Margot’s guilt. Navarre’s first instinct was to refute these charges and defend his wife. He knew how Henri loved to spread malicious gossip about his sister, fired by his own obsessive jealousy. Such emotions had never featured strongly in their marriage, although Margot’s pride had sometimes been hurt by his gallivanting. Nevertheless, they’d quickly reached an agreement that neither would be seriously troubled by infidelity, and there was little evidence to prove that Margot was even capable of producing a child.

  Yet he hesitated. Members of Henry’s own court here in Bèarn would be only too eager to see the whore of Babylon, as they called her, disgraced. The pastors wished their king to seek a divorce and find a more fecund wife, one who was not a Catholic.

  And a part of him was not against the idea.

  Henry had again fallen in love, this time with a young widow, the Countess of Gramont and Guiche. Her name was Diane but she was more familiarly known as La Belle Corisande. In her late twenties with one son, Antoine, Henry thought her the most beautiful woman he’d met in a long time.

  She had fair hair and blue eyes, round pink cheeks, and always with a smile for him on her lovely face. Admittedly, she was more mature than his sweet Dayelle, la petite Tignonville, and the entrancing Fosseuse, yet all the more exciting for being experienced. Better still she was calm and undemanding, comfortable to be with, and good company. Henry was utterly besotted, and did everything in his power to please her as she so inspired him and, he thought, brought out the best in his nature. He was already making her promises of marriage, this time sanctioned by his ministers. Save perhaps for Aubigné who always disapproved of anything or anyone who brought him pleasure.

  But if the chamberlain privately thought this new mistress led his monarch by the nose, he never remonstrated with him to that effect, for which restraint Henry was duly grateful. He knew that Aubigné considered it his mission in life to discreetly steer him on to the straight and narrow path of moral rectitude. Whether he would succeed was another matter, but it would not be for want of trying.

  Margot’s own letter arrived in due course, and the King of Navarre politely replied saying that if what Henri Trois claimed were true, that she was indeed an adulterous and a whore who had aborted her child, he could not, in all honour, agree to take her back.

  On receiving this cool response, Margot instantly flew into a fine temper. What was going on now? Why had her husband suddenly turned against her, choosing to believe Henri Trois, despite knowing how he loved to bring calumnies against her? She railed at her maids and anyone else who cared to listen. Then news of Henry’s latest affair was relayed to her not only from Aubigné but other members of the court of Nèrac, who seemed to take pleasure in enlightening her. The general opinion was that La Bella Corisande was a much more likely candidate for Queen of Navarre than his petite fille.

  ‘Then what am I supposed to do? Go to a nunnery?’ The prospect horrified her.

  Navarre had at least offered to write to Henri and express his displeasure at the way the matter was dealt with. And while Margot was left kicking her heels with frustration, negotiations dragged on throughout the autumn and winter. Margot felt as if she were between the devil and the deep blue sea, caught between her brother the King, and her husband, with no control over her own fate. In addition, Alençon was now gravely ill and of no help to her, nor indeed was Guise, her beloved chevalier. She was more alone than ever before.

  Early in December Henri allowed Margot to travel a little further south, and she again wrote to her husband in desperation. Navarre and Corisande were at Mont-de-Marsan early in the new year when correspondence arrived, both from his wife and from Henri Trois, suggesting that Navarre take her back.

  ‘Perhaps that would be wise,’ Corisande quietly suggested as they lay in bed together, taking their afternoon siesta as they so liked to do. ‘She is, after all, your queen.’

  ‘My love, I could not ask such a thing of you. Why would you welcome a rival for my affection?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that she would be?’

  Navarre took her in his arms, smoothing his hands over the curve of her hips, touched and amazed by this generous offer. ‘Some may see her as such, but you know that I have pledged my love to you, my darling. I would marry you tomorrow, were I free.’

  Corisande smiled, rewarding this declaration with a long, slow kiss, thinking it might well be in her interest to have Margot return home so that the not so small matter of a divorce might be brought to a head. ‘I certainly would have no objection, if it pleases you.’

  ‘My love, I am humbled by your devotion and loyalty. Ah, but Margot is ever a troublemaker, a great stirrer of mischief.’

  ‘I am sure I can deal with whatever mischief she chooses to stir. Perhaps she is a reformed woman, following this latest trauma.’

  Navarre laughed out loud. ‘That I would like to see.’

  Excited as she was by the prospect of a crown, Corisande was mindful of not seeming to tell the King what he should do. ‘If his sister has become an embarrassment to the King of France, perhaps you might take advantage of the situation, for the sake of Bèarn,’ she delicately pointed out. ‘You could request something in return, the towns he stole from you, for instance.’

  Navarre frowned, astute enough to appreciate a bargaining tool when he saw one. ‘Perhaps I could.’

  He wrote to his brother-in-law, the King of France, saying that if he were to agree to take back his wife, the price would be the return of Protestant strongholds in Gascony, stolen from him in the last war; in particular Agen, Condom and Bazus.

  It was not until late February that Henri finally complied with Navarre’s demands and withdrew the garrisons from these towns. Only then were the King and Queen of Navarre at last reunited when Navarre came to meet her in Pau to escort her home to Bèarn for the final part of the journey.

  The reception Margot found in Nérac was decidedly cool. The pastors were not happy to have her back, particularly the chamberlain, Aubigné. Her husband was no more welcoming. Tolerant as Henry may be of her desire to match his own infidelity with adventures of her own, yet she knew that he hated any breath of public scandal. He had never been in love with her. Now that he had Corisande, whom he clearly adored, and who was widely perceived to be his queen in waiting, Margot found that he ignored her completely.

  On her first evening back no one spoke to her throughout a lengthy supper. While her husband, his mistress, and the courtiers around them, chatted and laughed together, cracking jokes and enjoying themselves hugely, Margot sat quietly weeping and picking at her food. She had never felt such despair. She was grateful for the dim light in the Long Gallery, despite the many candles burning, and turned her face into the shadows so that no one would see her red eyes.

&
nbsp; Her husband cared nothing for her, only for the political advantage he’d gained by accepting her back. And she had few friends left in her entourage, most of her ladies having returned to Paris.

  The following weeks and months were a difficult time for Margot, made worse in June when she received word that her beloved younger brother, Alençon, had died. He was thirty years old, and had suffered a haemorrhage. Henry too was sad at the loss, for he’d been fond of the little fellow. The two of them had enjoyed good times together in the past, not least sharing a mistress, de Sauves, even if he had needed to prevent him from stealing Fosseuse as well. Over-ambitious and politically inept, Alençon had never quite achieved the success he craved. Too much the coward, and too easily influenced by those around him. Now he was gone and Henry suddenly realized that the way to the throne of France was suddenly open to him.

  The crown was within sight.

  Even Henri Trois and the Queen Mother were forced to accept that the King of Navarre was indeed heir apparent to the throne of France.

  But would Margot ever be Queen?

  For the first time in her life Margot was fervently praying and wishing she could get pregnant. But in order to achieve this seemingly impossible task, she first had to persuade her husband to sleep with her.

  ‘We must needs provide an heir,’ she told him, smiling up at Navarre from beneath her lashes, hoping to win him round. ‘Might I hope for a visit soon?’

  ‘Of course, dear wife. I never believed those calumnies against you, and we were ever amiable bedfellows.’