Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘My friends, that is enough! I beg you now to shout “Vive le roi!”’

  The very sound of his voice quieted them, and some knelt in the mud in adoration at his feet. In that moment Guise held Paris in the palm of his hands. He believed too that he controlled the King. Should he choose to do so he could invade the Louvre and kill Henri, then declare himself King of France. But Guise was neither a fanatic nor a cold blooded murderer, and had no wish to lose prestige by engaging in such a blatant act of regicide. It would be certain to alienate the people against him. So he did nothing.

  It was his first mistake.

  Determined to prove that the King presented no threat to the people, Catherine recklessly persuaded Henri to dismiss the extra troops from the palace. But the result was that the students from the Jesuit colleges, urged on by Guise’s sister, Madame de Montpensier, the Fury of the League, barricaded the doors of the Louvre.

  Henri was now a virtual prisoner in his own palace.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he screamed at his mother, as if it had been she who had first created this crisis, and not himself.

  Every door was blocked, save one at the rear, perhaps deliberately so, and it was through this that he made his escape. He left in a panic, without boots or spurs, and still wearing his heavy court clothes. The King of France mounted his horse and fled from his capital.

  When the news reached him, Guise told Catherine, ‘Madame, I am dead! Whilst Your Majesty keeps me occupied here the King leaves, to my perdition.’

  Even the Queen Mother recognized that her son had kept his crown, but lost all authority.

  Guise considered his options, one of which was to continue with the battle and take all of France, but for that he would need more resources, money and men provided by Philip of Spain, who was currently stretched to the limit as he struggled to hold on to the Low Countries as well as prepare a great Armada with which to invade England. Guise decided to wait for that mission to be successfully accomplished before risking anything further. It was his second, and fatal mistake.

  Margot rose from her bed that morning woken as usual by Madame de Noailles, her first lady of the bedchamber, completely oblivious of what was taking place in Paris. The sun slanted its rays over the mountains of the Auvergne, struggling to penetrate the impregnable fortress that now represented the extent of her kingdom.

  ‘I shall ride out later,’ she told Madame de Noailles, ‘once I have broken my fast.’

  But first, as she did every morning, she spoke with her Captain of the Guard. In February of the previous year her former sister-in-law, the beautiful Mary, Queen of Scots, had been beheaded on the orders of the English Queen. This abomination against a royal personage had taught Margot never to relax her own vigilance.

  ‘The provisioning has been completed, Madame, sufficient to sustain us for two years if necessary,’ the captain informed her, and Margot smiled, nodding with satisfaction.

  ‘It is better to err on the side of caution.’

  ‘Indeed. Though the castle boasts twenty watchtowers, your brother the King could launch an attack at any time.’

  ‘If he does, then we will be ready for him, eh?’

  ‘We will indeed Madam.’

  As luck would have it, her captor Canillac had turned out to be a relative of her much loved governess, Madame de Curton. With no hope of making an escape, Margot had instantly marshalled all her considerable charm.

  She’d begun by presenting the Marchioness with compliments and gifts, flattering the woman into believing she too could be a fine court lady. She had then turned her attention upon the Marquis himself, who, like all middle aged men, was like wax in the hands of a beautiful woman. Margot would cast him languishing glances from beneath her eyelashes, making him tremble with desire. Not even she would take this fat old man to her bed, but her allure did not fail to work its magic.

  The fact that he was a diplomat rather than a soldier, and that Henri had failed to reward him as promised, meant that Canillac was more than willing to switch his allegiance to Guise.

  Margot’s erstwhile lover had responded, as always, to her request for assistance, by supplying her with troops loyal to Margot heart and soul. They had quickly replaced the garrison of Swiss Guard, and Canillac had joined the forces of the League under the command of Guise’s brother, the Duke of Mayenne. In but a few short months Margot was no longer a prisoner. She was the one in command of Usson.

  But she was still short of money. Her brother had confiscated much of her property and possessions, paying off only those debts he considered reasonable. So it gave her great pleasure to demand the return of those gifts of jewels and gowns she had presented to the Marchioness and dismiss her, much to that lady’s chagrin.

  Now, a year later, she was more than content in her fastness, finding a freedom in this stronghold she had never known before, and had no intention of surrendering.

  ‘We must be ever vigilant,’ she told her captain. ‘I shall be in the library later, about my studies. Pray do not hesitate to call upon me, if there is news.’

  ‘Madame.’ Sketching a bow, the Captain took his leave while Margot strode away to enjoy her morning ride.

  She was not expecting any news, rather hoped not to have any, as it rarely proved to be good. Never would the adventure loving Margot have imagined herself actually welcoming the lack of conflict and intrigue, and treasuring the peace she’d found here. She thought of Usson as her Ark of Refuge, a place in which she felt reasonably safe from the machinations of politics, and any threat to her life. She was as secure as her loyal Captain of the Guard could possibly make her, and could only pray that this happy state of affairs would continue.

  Corisande lay alone in her bed reading letters from the King, her lover, as she so liked to do. She missed him dreadfully when he was away at war, but he was so generous to her, so kind and loving, forever sending her gifts that she never complained. Reaching for a sweetmeat, which she ate to console herself during these long, lonely nights, she picked up another letter, smiling fondly as she read the loving words.

  ‘I am on the point of acquiring for you a horse, the handsomest and best you ever saw, with large aigrette plumes.’ The horse had duly arrived, and a very fine animal he had proved to be, followed by fawns, a dog and various other gifts that Henry thought might amuse her. He was ever thoughtful and constantly expressing his love.

  ‘Your slave adores you to distraction. I kiss thy hands a million times. I read your letter every evening. If I love it, how much more must I love her from whom it comes.’

  And he frequently declared his undying faithfulness. ‘Be always sure of my fidelity, which will be inviolable. I love none but you.’

  Corisande couldn’t help but wonder if that were true. The King was not naturally faithful, quite the opposite. It was a part of his nature to be promiscuous. He could not help himself. Yet Corisande hoped and prayed that he would at least be true to her until after the divorce from Margot and she had been made his queen. Sadly, there were rumours of a certain Dame Martine and an Esther Imbert, to whom he had been paying court. Corisande told herself that even if he had visited these ladies, they would not hold his heart as did she.

  And yet … She wondered if perhaps her royal lover did not protest his fidelity rather too fervently, which gave her even more cause to doubt it. And he did not always give her what she wanted. She’d written asking for a title for her son, but he had refused.

  ‘I beg thee to think it right if I do not give your son the position which you ask for.’

  Didn’t her own child, although admittedly he wasn’t Henry’s son, deserve some acknowledgement?

  Even more irritating, Henry had agreed to pay some of Queen Margot’s bills. Only recently he’d paid for five hundred tuns of wine for her consumption.

  ‘Five hundred tuns?’ Corisande had asked, quite unable to imagine such an amount. ‘Why should you pay for such a quantity of wine?’

  Henry had laughed
out loud. ‘Aye, it is as if she has declared herself to be a drunkard. This is guzzling beyond all measure.’

  He had known full well that Margot did not require such a quantity of wine for herself, but for the soldiers who guarded her. Henry had sworn that even if she must needs keep them happy, it would not be at his expense. Yet Corisande suspected that he probably had paid in the end, for the woman was constantly crying poverty and trying to worm money out of him one way or another.

  But then just as she despaired of ever winning him, or a crown, he would kiss her and laugh and declare his undying love for her all over again.

  ‘Domestic misfortune is the worst of all,’ he would moan, adding that he could not wait to be rid of Margot. ‘I swear I would be a good King of France for I’ve quite decided that I love the country, and wish to make the people proud. Soon I will be free to take a wife of my own choice. You, my love, will stand beside me when the hour comes for me to meet that destiny.’

  Would that this happy event could happen soon.

  Stifling a sigh, Corisande set aside the sweetmeats. She had ever been a voluptuous woman, but perhaps she was growing a little plump, and she really must take care to preserve her beauty for when Henry came home. Tucking the letters under her pillow she turned over and resolutely closed her eyes for sleep.

  Guise was lying in bed with his mistress, deeply aware of the bristling intrigue all around him. It was Thursday, 22 December, and he was to meet with the King the following morning, prompt at seven. His situation was in limbo as no further help would come from Spain. The Armada had been crushed, lost in a gale off Ireland, and Philip II was no longer invincible. He was now a man as broken as his ships.

  Following the Journée des Barricades, Guise had succeeded in subjugating Parlement. He still secretly aimed for the throne, but had at least hoped to be Lieutenant-General in the meantime. The League asked for more but they’d had Epernon, the King’s favourite, to contend with, whom they hated almost as much as they did Henri.

  There was one occasion when a string of mules had been stopped, the baggage searched, and found to be loaded with Epernon’s furniture and personal treasures. Clear evidence that he was attempting to escape Paris. These were confiscated but the mignon himself, fearing for his life, did later manage to escape, which had thrown the King into a greater panic.

  Guise could only smile that even Henri’s favourites were deserting him.

  Relations between Guise and the King had grown increasingly difficult of late, even to sparking a common brawl between their servants, resulting in loss of life. And the Queen Mother seemed to be losing her power over him, unable to persuade her son to return to Paris. The League, and Guise himself, had endured several prickly meetings with His Majesty at Chartes, attempting a reconciliation, all to no avail.

  ‘Do you think that if I had wished to do you a bad turn, I could not have done it?’ the King had told Guise. ‘No, no, I love the people of Paris, in spite of themselves.’

  Even as he had ignored Henri’s feeble bluster, still Guise had hesitated to act against him. Unconvinced he could count upon the support of Spain, he’d considered the size of Navarre’s army, and knew his resources to be lacking. He must needs rely upon other skills to win that much coveted crown. Besides, Henri Trois was a spent force, no real threat to him now.

  Yet tension had continued to mount, the threat of danger growing more palpable by the day. Over the last week Guise had been given several warnings, his followers constantly urging him to leave Blois. All of which he’d ignored.

  ‘What was the note you tossed aside at supper?’ de Sauves now asked. ‘I noticed that you found it screwed up in your napkin.’

  ‘The same old legend. Urging me to run to save my skin.’

  Charlotte sat up, her brilliant eyes wide with fear. ‘You should pay heed. Even the Almanacs are against you, I had them checked. They all urge you to go, to leave before the King’s vengeance erupts.’

  Guise only laughed, his daredevil nature refusing to be cowed. ‘I am not afraid of that mincing fool. I know him too well. His soldiering was never anything but posturing, and even those days are long gone. He is now too fond of his comforts, and far too effeminate to want blood on his hands.’

  ‘The King is no fool,’ Charlotte demurred. ‘He is clever and cunning. You shouldn’t trust him.’

  ‘Even a Valois would not stoop so low as to murder his most feared rival, let alone one loved by the people. Certainly his father, Henri II, would not have done so.’

  Charlotte shook her head in despair, fearful for her lover’s safety. ‘But Henri is not his father’s son. He is more Medici than Valois, and takes a different perspective. You should never underestimate him.’

  Guise was growing weary of the discussion. ‘I am aware of the dangers, my love. But you know that I have the devil’s own luck,’ and he kissed her, wanting only to enjoy her charms and not talk of war, or death, or religion.

  Perhaps his mistress was partly the reason he lingered here, for despite his earlier reservations about her, and finding he had forever lost Margot, Charlotte de Sauves had wormed her way back into his bed. He was really quite fond of her, in his way, for she was easy company and put no demands upon him. Now he tried to reassure her with a show of bravado. ‘When I see death come in at the window, I shall not run out at the door.’

  ‘I know of your courage, my darling, and applaud you for it. But where is the harm in being prudent?’

  Guise laughed. ‘The word is not in my vocabulary.’

  He slept later than he meant to, warm and sated with loving, easily seduced by her charms. It was nearer eight the next morning when, dressed in a doublet of grey satin, he made his way to the King’s apartment. It was raining, the cobbles slick with wet, heavy drops soon marking his new satin suit which proved to be entirely unsuitable for the weather. The stone passages through which he walked struck chill into his bones, but his men were with him giving their support and comradeship. Even Guise, courageous as he might be, was not fool enough to go alone.

  As the doors of the Council Chamber clanged shut behind him, he half turned to speak to them. Only then did he realize he’d been tricked. His men had been held back and remained in the courtyard beyond. Guise heard the locks turn and knew he was very much alone.

  Only the pallor of his face gave any indication of the fear he felt in that moment. The eye close to his scar began to itch and water, as it often did in bad weather, and Guise asked for a handkerchief. A page was found and the message delivered to the Duke’s secretary waiting outside. The handkerchief was brought to him, but the note his servant had enclosed: ‘Sauvez-vous, ou vous êtes mort,’ had already been removed from its folds.

  All his senses were alert as Guise seated himself at the council table. Glancing around he found little reassurance in the faces of those about him. None of them were his friends.

  ‘It is cold, should we light the fire,’ he suggested, attempting to make his voice sound carelessly bright and unconcerned. ‘I should have taken breakfast, is there some conserve of roses, or Damascus grapes in the King’s cupboard to revive me?’

  There was not. They gave him instead a few Brignoles plums. Guise chewed on one, and, keeping a few in his hand, put the rest in the little gilt box in the shape of a shell that he always carried with him. The business of the Council began.

  Henri, filled with an abiding hatred for Guise, and for the League, stood waiting in his closet. He craved vengeance and power, believing the only way to achieve both was with the spilling of his rival’s blood.

  Catherine too was at Blois, but she was suffering from a severe chill and confined to her apartments below those of her son. Sick as she was, she had heard no sounds to disturb her. Henri had urged his men to tread lightly as they made their preparations, so as not to waken her. Now he sent one of his men for Guise.

  ‘Pray look natural when you go to him. You are too pale, rub some colour into your cheeks.’

  The fello
w stood before Guise, trembling in his shoes. ‘Monsieur, the King requests your presence. He is in his cabinet.’

  Guise did not hurry to obey the summons. He put the last of the plums away, then leisurely picking up the sweet box, and his gloves, he tapped on the King’s door and followed the usher inside.

  The door banged shut behind him, someone in the shadows of that narrow space trod on his foot, and Guise knew, in that instant, he was done for. There was nowhere to turn, no hope of escape. He took no more than a step or two, had half turned to see who followed when the first blade struck. They came at him one by one from behind the tapestry, but he had no weapon in his hand other than his sweet box, and he struck out uselessly with that.

  ‘Eh, mes amis!’ he cried.

  He did not die easily. He fought and resisted every thrust, and by superhuman effort dragged himself the length of the room, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. At the foot of the King’s bed, he fell. ‘My God, I am dead! Have mercy on me.’

  They plundered his rings and his purse, and the contents of his pockets before his last raw breath expired. Then they tossed the grey satin cloak over his head, a piece of old carpet over the rest of his body, and laid a straw cross upon his breast.

  ‘And so ends the glorious King of Paris,’ they cried, and left him.

  When Margot received the news she was distraught. She wept as if her heart would break. It was indeed broken. Guise had been the love of her life, yet they had been driven apart by politics and by the greed for power. If they had been allowed to marry as they’d so longed to do, how different her life would have been, and perhaps even the fate of France. Margot could not imagine a future without him, could not believe that her beloved chevalier would not be there for her, albeit too often at a distance, but nonetheless forever her support, her strength, her only true love.