Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  Margot was elated. Surely she was capable of seducing her own husband. If she could only bring him to her bed and quicken with child, all her problems would be solved. Corisande would remain yet another mistress in a long line of such.

  Navarre came to her bedchamber readily enough, as promised, and made love with his customary zeal and energy. Margot did all in her power to enchant and please him, and in the morning when he left her, she kissed him and begged him to come again. Perhaps everything would turn out right for her, after all. She had been happy here in Nèrac for many years, perhaps she could be again.

  Corisande was not at all happy. The King’s maitresse en titre had readily agreed to her rival’s return because she was aware that the King still nurtured a certain fondness for his errant wife. She was more than willing to tolerate Margot’s presence at court, particularly if the Queen of Navarre caused problems which ultimately led to that much-longed for divorce. But she was deeply concerned by this marital reunion. Corisande had no wish to see her lover enamoured by his own wife, and such intimacy could have long reaching repercussions. There was a great deal to play for, not only here in Bèarn, but now the crown of France was tantalizingly close.

  ‘How would you know, were she to become enceinte, that the child would be yours?’ she artfully pointed out. ‘The Queen could easily foist her lover’s child upon you.’

  ‘The thought had likewise occurred to me too, my dear. Fear not, I am no fool.’

  Henry did not visit his wife again. Nevertheless, just to be sure, Corisande set spies to watch her rival, unable to help feeling suspicious and jealous of the Queen of Navarre.

  Margot realized that her last hope of becoming pregnant was gone. Despite all the lovers she’d enjoyed, and the false rumours of a pregnancy, it seemed she was never to bear a child of her own. She was indeed barren and would probably remain so. Though it had never troubled her before, in her present circumstances it was a bleak thought, for it left her own future more uncertain than ever.

  This was her darkest hour and Margot knew she could not go on in this manner. She had to get away, if not to Paris, which only mired her in further troubles, then she must seek some other safe haven. She needed to be free to control her own life. But where? And how? As always she sought advice from her dearest friend and love of her life. Taking up pen and paper she wrote to Guise.

  Turenne, her former lover and a fierce Protestant, returned to Nérac soon after, and, possibly out of resentment because Margot had once spurned him, he reported to Henry the fact that his wife was corresponding with her erstwhile lover, which must surely be an act of betrayal. The King ordered the arrest of Ferrand, one of Margot’s secretaries, and charged him with carrying compromising messages to his rival claimant to the throne.

  Not merely a betrayal, but possibly treason, thought Corisande, although she dare not voice the thought out loud.

  The first Margot heard of this was when one of her ladies came running to her apartment with the news that her servant had been taken to Pau and put to the question. She went cold with terror.

  ‘Dear God, what nonsense will the poor man confess to if they use the thumb screws on him, or put him to the rack?’ Dark forces seemed to be gathering about her, and she did not know which way to turn for help.

  Then one night, as Henry lay in bed with his mistress, he began to vomit. Corisande ran at once to fetch him a basin, holding his head while he retched.

  ‘Oh, my lord, what ails you? Lie still a moment while I send for your physician.’

  ‘I’m sure there is no need. I’ve been a little off colour all day. No doubt the mussels we ate at dinner were not as fresh as they might be.’

  ‘Or something far more sinister,’ Corisande said, once she had sent the maids scurrying for help.

  Henry paled. ‘You cannot mean …’

  ‘You forget that your wife is a daughter of Catherine de Medici. Queen Margot must know a good deal about the morceau italianizé. She writes to her lover, your rival for the throne and leader of the League. Guise is the darling of Paris, would she not snatch at any opportunity to clear the way to the throne for him? This is no time to be generous, my love.’

  Navarre was easily persuaded that Margot had ordered Ferrand to poison him.

  But not for one moment did Margot believe that this tale, a complete fabrication, had been wrung as a confession out of her loyal servant, despite the torture he’d endured. Those in a position to know these things had assured her that the fellow had said not one word against her. Nevertheless, she began to shiver with dread. Her husband’s court was no longer a safe place to be. She was of no further use to him, either as a wife and queen, or as a political pawn. Not unnaturally he believed that as Guise’s former mistress, and a Catholic herself, she would take her lover’s side in any battle for the crown.

  She was right. They came for her at dawn to arrest her and take her to a cell.

  Fear cascaded through her. ‘What way is this to treat a queen?’ She couldn’t help but think of the beautiful Mary, Queen of Scots, held prisoner for years in England, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, as if sensing the danger that gathered about her too.

  Margot demanded an audience with the King, relieved to see that he looked somewhat shamefaced. ‘This is a trumped up charge, and you know it full well. This is all about my letters to Guise, which are perfectly innocent. Had I realized you were so interested in my affairs, I would have shown them to you before I sent them.’

  For once, her brother Henri and the Queen Mother supported her, if not out of affection then out of indignation that her royal personage should be so accused. Aubigné also believed the rumour was likely to be false, although the Queen may well be acting against the King by writing to Guise. The matter was indeed delicate.

  Navarre said, ‘I concede that I too believe my wife incapable of such calumny as treason. Why take my life now when she has saved my head more than once in the past? Mayhap I acted in haste.’ More importantly, Navarre had no wish to offend the King of France.

  The charges were dropped, Ferrand set free and Margot was released.

  ‘I am weary of our squabbles, Enric,’ Margot told him some days later, her tone soft and pleading. ‘I feel we need a break from each other and I beg your leave to go on a pilgrimage to Agen for Lent.’

  Henry, pleased by the notion of forty days and forty nights without conflict and confrontations with his troublesome wife; days and nights in which he would be free to enjoy La Belle Corisande in peace, readily agreed.

  So it was that on 19 March, 1585, Margot left Nérac for the last time.

  Margot was thankful to escape Nèrac, despite her happy years there. She took with her only a few of her ladies and gentlemen-in-waiting, not wishing to arouse her husband’s suspicions. Once clear of the town she quickly declared herself for the League, raised her banners, and called on all Catholics to join her.

  Finding herself arrested simply for writing letters to Guise had unnerved her, and she was deeply troubled. Her marriage had been beset with difficulties from the start. In addition to their religious differences, she’d considered Navarre a country bumpkin, and he’d never been impressed by her painted court beauty. But they’d always remained good friends, even lovers. Now that comradeship, the trust that had once existed between them, was at an end and they were estranged. Margot feared her husband may at any moment pack her off to a nunnery, and procure a divorce to allow him to marry La Belle Corisande.

  But if he thought she would meekly step back and allow that to happen, then he was sorely mistaken. She would fight to her last breath.

  By the time Margot took up quarters in Agen she had a sizeable following. She was given a fine house that had previously belonged to a prosperous widow, for her own personal use. The loyal citizens gladly agreed to hand over the keys of the city as Agen was Catholic, in her appanage, and she was their countess. They were also willing to bar the King of Navarre, as he had attempted to occupy the ci
ty in 1577. They were proud to have a Daughter of France as their sovereign lord, and as Margot had previously donated large sums to the upkeep of their religious buildings, hoped for more of the same.

  But funds were dangerously low and Margot again found herself financially embarrassed.

  She had no wish to return to Paris, having suffered sufficient ignominy at her brother’s hand. Nor did she believe that he would help her, although she had at last left her husband and Henri would surely welcome the return of Agen into French hands. Margot wrote to her mother but expected little by way of support. Catherine had ever favoured Henri, her beloved favourite. She also blamed Margot entirely for the scandal over rumours of the child she had supposedly borne Champvallon, whether or not it were true, accusing her of being a wanton. The Queen Mother had banished her alleged co-conspirators, Madame Duras and Mademoiselle Bèthune, from royal service, and in their place had sent her daughter, the unimpeachable and dull Madame Noailles.

  Margot had even less hope that Navarre would continue to pay her an allowance, not once he learned that she had no intention of granting him a divorce.

  In a spirit of defiance she wrote again to Guise, seeking his protection as she had no money of her own, and offering him her full support in his battle for the crown.

  ‘Send me men to fight and I will give you Agen and as much of the surrounding area I can lay my hands on.’

  But the messenger she dispatched was waylaid and copies of her letters were intercepted and shown to Henri Trois. When he discovered that his sister had again allied herself with Guise and the League against the Valois throne, his simmering hostility towards her reached danger point.

  War had again broken out in France with Guise, the hero of Paris, in complete control of the Catholic League. They demanded the repeal of concessions made to the Huguenots but Henri refused, fearing his crown might be snatched from him at any moment. The Queen Mother had been in the process of attempting a reconciliation between her son and the League, now, yet again, her efforts had been spoiled by a wayward daughter. She was furious.

  ‘God has left me this creature as a punishment for my sins and a scourge.’

  Navarre was ready enough to go to war but highly amused when he heard that Joyeuse, one of Henri’s pretty boys, was leading the army that headed south against him.

  ‘Does he imagine that I will run from the scent of his perfume, or shake in my boots when confronted by a fop in a high collar and painted face?’ Henry joked, roaring with laughter.

  Corisande viewed the matter far more seriously, so seriously in fact that she sold many of her jewels in order to help finance the Huguenot army.

  ‘See how she supports me,’ Navarre said to Aubigné. ‘Would that she could be my wife in truth, instead of simply in spirit and in my heart.’

  Aubigné was alarmed. Much as he disliked Queen Margot, at least she was royal, the daughter of one king and sister of another; a Princess of the Blood. But La Belle Corisande was nothing but a commoner, a courtesan. There were rumours that the woman had enjoyed affairs during her marriage to the Count of Gramont, that her son could not be certain of his parentage. Aubigné wisely did not express any of these concerns to his sovereign, even as he privately prayed that Margot would return home to Nèrac and perform her role of queen with more dignity. Instead he tried a more diplomatic approach

  ‘If, in two years you feel the same way about the lady, and her loyalty remains without question, then I shall do all in my power to support you in that mission.’

  ‘Two years?’ Henry was appalled by the prospect of waiting so long. ‘A great deal can happen in two years.’

  ‘Indeed, Sire. But in the meantime we must apply all our energies to fighting this war. Your responsibility to your people must be paramount. And there is at stake far more than our own small kingdom.’

  Henry, being the good natured, reasonable fellow that he was saw the sense in this argument, slapped his chamberlain on the back and agreed. ‘So be it, good fellow. I will wait two years before seeking to marry my Corisande.’

  Aubigné sighed with relief. As his monarch had said, a great deal could happen in two years.

  As always, Margot attracted fierce loyalty among her followers, and many were more than a little in love with her. One was Lignerac, a tough, wily soldier in charge of the defence of the city, and the other a young captain called Aubiac. Margot disliked Lignerac intensely, whom she suspected of spying on her, but the young and handsome Aubiac with his red hair and freckles and cheerful countenance she readily took to her bed, if not her heart.

  She had always been most particular about her lovers, but here in Agen there were few courtiers or gentlemen, only military men with little in the way of airs and graces, and certainly no poetry in their soul. But then she had no wish to fall in love again. Guise remained the love of her life, and since she could not have him, she had sought love and passion elsewhere. Champvallon had been her coup de foudre. Now that relationship too was over Margot had no intention of seeking another to replace him. Yet she was woman enough to need love of some sort in her life, a man to adore her, to satisfy her sexual desires. Margot saw no reason to deny herself, or suppress these needs which she considered entirely normal.

  But with both husband and brother conspiring against her, she felt vulnerable and close to panic. How could she, a woman alone, defend herself? She made a desperate attempt to improve the fortifications of the town, overseen by Lignerac, and paid for by Guise.

  By 1585 Margot was so desperate for funds, and fearful of invasion from either husband or brother, that she conscripted peasants and beggars to assist with the building works, even though there was no money to pay their wages, or even bread to feed them. She was rapidly losing the good will of the people who were beginning to resent the taxes she imposed upon them. The unpaid soldiers, many of them mercenaries rather than genuine believers in the Catholic cause, began looting and committing atrocities against the few Huguenots in the city. To make matters worse, the city was struck by plague.

  Navarre had come to enjoy soldiering, although not quite as much as making love. Just seeing the love and pride in his mistress’s blue eyes when he’d ridden off to battle had stirred his loins as well as warmed his heart. He wanted to justify her belief in him, to prove himself worthy of her love.

  With him rode Condè, his cousin, who had been at his side in battle ever since his mother Jeanne d’Albret had stood the pair of them before the Huguenot army and had pledged their lives to the cause. The pair of them had suffered much together, not least being held captive at the Louvre and almost losing their heads, until Navarre had persuaded his sternly Protestant cousin to take the Mass.

  ‘So here we are again, Cos, riding side by side into battle. No mincing mignon will win any victory over us,’ he cried. ‘We are invincible.’

  And as they rode, the men’s voices singing their psalms, ringing out in the autumn air, fired everyone with new courage. The Bèarnais were fierce opponents and, as expected, Joyeuse was killed in battle and Navarre was the victor, with scarcely any loss of men. This was the moment to advance and capitalize on that victory while the French army was in ribbons. Instead, Henry gathered the enemy standards and banners he had captured and rode back to Nèrac to present them to his darling Corisande. He needed to see her again, and to show her what a fine soldier he was.

  ‘This is no time for dallying with a woman,’ Condè protested.

  ‘Where is the harm in it. My men will fight all the better for a few days rest.’

  Condè’s own marriage was even less happy than his cousin’s. Nor did he have the consolation of a mistress waiting for him back in Nèrac. While Navarre made love, Condè relaxed by playing tennis and backgammon with his men.

  But the following morning one of his servants came running to the King’s apartment with terrible news.

  ‘My master is ill, Sire. He is in great pain and calls for you.’

  By the time Henry reached his cousin’s
bedchamber, Condè was dead. Stunned, shocked by his sudden death, Henry grieved for his cousin. Condè had been a man of great integrity who would willingly have surrendered his life for his beliefs. Taciturn and rigid in his morals, yet he had ever been a loyal and dear friend and was but a year older than himself. Far too young to die. Yesterday he’d been healthy enough to play a vigorous game of tennis, now he was gone. How short life suddenly seemed.

  But Navarre feared Condè’s death was no accident, that there were Catholic spies in his household. When his physician agreed, by expressing the opinion that the King’s cousin may well have been poisoned, Henry took his revenge by sending Condè’s Catholic wife, Charlotte de Trémoille, to prison, charged with her husband’s murder.

  The death of his cousin changed Navarre. He became markedly more sober, and fervent in the cause. He believed he may well be the next target and wrote to Corisande from the battlefield saying, ‘I am now the only target of the perfidy of the masses. They poisoned him, the traitors! But may God remain the master, and I, by His grace, the executor of His will.’

  In another he said, ‘The devil is let loose, I am to be pitied, and it is a marvel that I do not succumb under the burden . . . Love me, my All. Your good grace is my mind’s stay under the shock of affliction. Refuse me not that support.’

  Corisande sat weeping over these letters, kissing each one as she reread them time and time again.

  ‘Never, my love. I will ever love you and be yours forever,’ she wrote in reply, even as she wondered if her beloved could ever be as faithful.

  Almost two thousand died in the plague in Agen, and those who survived the scourge were dying of starvation, the soldiers undisciplined, plundering and looting in lieu of pay.

  One evening, Lignerac came to her in a panic. Madame, you must leave. The citizens have run out of patience and are marching upon the house, bearing torches. The mob will be here at any moment, you must flee for your life.’