Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘He is a Catholic, and I will not betray our mother, Henry, even if you have.’

  Henry paused in his carving to gaze at her with sad eyes. ‘Catarina,’ he said, using her pet name, the one their mother had used when she was but a girl in Nérac. ‘That was unworthy of you.’

  Tears sprang into her dark eyes. ‘What am I supposed to think? You no longer care for my happiness, only your own. You’ve changed your coat yet again, and I am supposed to follow.’

  ‘You must do as your own conscience bids you, I shall make no demands upon you in the respect of religion, save to ask you to desist from holding your very public prêches. It upsets my counsellors, and it will further annoy and incite the people, should you persist in the practise. As for seeing de Bar’s religion as a hindrance to your acceptance of his offer, it makes no sense. Soissons is likewise a Catholic and you were willing enough to accept him. I believe you once wrote to the Pope offering to abjure the protestant faith yourself, if he would only speak for you.’

  Catherine was embarrassed and enraged that he should have discovered her ploy. ‘Do you read my letters? Did you set spies on me?’

  Henry avoided answering this charge, since naturally he kept as close an eye as possible on his sister’s affairs. ‘I am simply saying that your argument is illogical.’

  ‘You would still require a dispensation, as de Bar is yet another cousin.’

  Henry chewed happily on his ham. ‘That can be arranged.’

  Pushing aside her untouched meal Catherine leaped to her feet. ‘I will never agree to this, Henry. Never!’ And with that she stormed from the dining salon.

  Gabrielle was pregnant, and the need for a divorce suddenly urgent. Excited by the prospect of a dauphin for France, Henry went at once to Rosny. He wisely kept this snippet of information to himself, at least for the present, until he had achieved his object. Henry wanted no scandal, as there had once been over the Fosseuse incident. This time he meant matters to go more smoothly.

  ‘I have decided it is time to seek a divorce. I cannot see that Margot would object. Our marriage was arranged without her agreement, without even a written dispensation from the Pope, despite our being cousins which is prohibited by the Church. Her mother and brother forced her to accept our alliance in a supposed bid for peace. Even when she remained resolutely silent at the altar, Henri put a hand to her head and forcibly inclined it in agreement, which the bishop accepted. No more was I given any choice in the matter.’

  ‘Royal princes and princesses rarely are allowed any choice,’ Rosny dryly commented, thinking of Madame Catherine.

  ‘Nevertheless, it was a pointless exercise, turning into yet more bloodshed, and although Margot and I rubbed along well enough for a while, there is no reason why she would not now seek a divorce as eagerly as I.’

  ‘Let us hope that is the case. Sadly, the Queen’s life has been beset with scandal. Even in her mountain retreat, where she was taken as prisoner, she has won round her jailors with her charm, or greater favours if we are to believe the rumour-mongers, and taken control of the castle. She calls it her Ark of Refuge.’

  ‘Then let her remain there if that is her wish, but she must needs renounce the throne.’

  ‘Would Your Majesty then seek a new bride?’

  Henry’s dark Gascon eyes twinkled merrily. He had no wish at this delicate stage of the proceedings to reveal his true intentions. Rosny was such an old fusspot he would be sure to issue a lecture on the dire consequences of a king marrying his mistress. ‘I would indeed, dear fellow, I would indeed, one I shall choose with great care and discernment. Then we may have a legitimate heir for France.’

  ‘That is what we all wish for, Sire.’ Rosny considered saying more, but changed his mind. Surely, even romantic Henry would not be so foolish as to attempt to make Madame Gabrielle his queen?

  Monsieur Erard, Master of Requests to Queen Margot, was duly dispatched to Usson, carrying letters from the King, and from Rosny, with the instruction to bring back an authorization that they may proceed with the matter with all speed.

  Margot’s response, which arrived a few weeks later, delighted the King. She thanked him for his offer of 250,000 crowns to repay her debts, and looked forward to receiving the money, saying she saw no reason why they couldn’t come to agreeable terms, so long as all her needs were met.

  ‘And what are the extent of those needs, precisely?’ Henry asked, as ever trusting his favourite minister to deal with such tricky matters for him. ‘Did you discover?’

  ‘I did.’ Rosny consulted his notes. ‘The gift of Usson as a residence, and the return of any other property to which she may be entitled. The Queen also wishes you to continue to pay her the fifty thousand francs a year pension which she enjoyed under the late king, her brother.’

  ‘Can we arrange that for her, Rosny?’

  Rosny sighed. ‘You will need to speak to Sancy, since he is in charge of the treasury, but I see no reason why we should not accommodate Her Majesty. We may have to.’

  Beaming with pleasure, Henry went straight to Gabrielle. ‘All is going well, mon cher coeur. I have already written a warm response to the Queen, assuring her of our continued friendship, and that I will all my life care for her welfare.’

  ‘You did not say that you loved her?’ Gabrielle asked, feeling strangely vulnerable in her delicate condition, and a little jealous of this queen said to be the most beautiful woman in France.

  ‘Certainly not, my angel. It is you that I love, but Margot and I have generally managed to remain on cordial terms, save for the odd spat. It is essential that we remain so now, at least until the papers are signed.’

  Gabrielle leaned into his arms, letting him stroke and pet her. ‘You are so good to me, Henry, and I do love you dearly.’

  ‘Of course you do, my sweet, and I you.’

  ‘It is just that I find this all so … so degrading. If only the Queen had granted you a divorce when first we met we would have been man and wife by now.’

  ‘Ah, my love, let us not fret about the past. These matters take time but all is going smoothly, I assure you. Now you must rest and think of the babe.’

  A second letter came from Margot early in the new year, less agreeable than the first. It seemed that some busybody from the court had taken it upon themselves to mention Gabrielle d’Estrées as the real reason for the King’s sudden desire for a divorce. The prospect of Henry’s mistress as her successor to the throne, stealing the crown she might have worn, was too much for Margot.

  ‘I will never yield my rights à cette décriée baggasse. I would better wear the crown of the fleurs de lis myself.’

  Gabrielle wept when she heard the news. ‘But you promised all would be well. I am about to present you with a son, do I not deserve better?’

  ‘All is not lost, my love, merely delayed. Now we must apply for the sanction of the Holy See. I hoped to avoid involving the Pope, if Margot had been willing to make a declaration before an ecclesiastical judge, but as she refuses to cooperate we have no choice. Once we have the dispensation, I will again speak with her on the matter.’

  As pragmatic as ever, Henry philosophically accepted the situation and managed to calm Gabrielle, but his determination to marry his adored mistress was as firm as ever. He also made her status abundantly clear to those around him.

  ‘My ministers would be wise not to take me for a fool,’ he warned Rosny. ‘I am aware they murmur against her, and their wives turn a cold shoulder. I will have her treated with proper respect.’

  Rosny took great care to hide his alarm at this defence of his mistress on the part of the King. It might well be customary to turn a blind eye to a commonly accepted practice, but respect, for a King’s whore, was not normally a requirement. He feared this might presage more serious steps toward elevating her position further, which would be entirely inappropriate. But even Rosny did not risk saying as much out loud. ‘I do not doubt her constancy, Sire.’

  ‘As if readin
g his counsellor’s mind, Henry continued, ‘She is a person in whom I have complete confidence, to whom I can confide my deepest secrets and concerns. I receive from her in all such matters a familiar and sweet consolation. She is my queen in all but name.’

  Rosny obediently inclined his head. ‘There are as many who revere Madame Gabrielle for her kindness and gentleness as decry her. I will see to it that your wishes in this matter are made known.’

  Henry was conducted to the Cathedral at Chartres at first light on the morning of 27 February, 1594. He had spent a quiet evening in preparation for this great day, now he was eager to receive the diadem he had fought for so long. Attired in the traditional vest of crimson satin and a robe of cloth of silver, he processed down the aisle following a long line of important personages. First the bishops and clergy, then the Swiss Guards, the trumpets and heralds, knights, chamberlains and ministers including his favourite, Rosny, Chancellor Cheverney, Longueville as Grand Chamberlain, and the Duke of Bellegarde, his Master of Horse.

  Henry prostrated himself before the altar, offering a small shrine of silver before being conducted to his Chair of State.

  The ceremony was lengthy and tiring, coming to a climax when the crown of Charlemagne was set upon his brow. ‘Vive le roi! Vive le roi!’ The cheers burst forth from the people crowded outside and in the nave of the cathedral, largesse was distributed to the poor, the doors were flung open so that the citizens could gaze in awe upon their new king seated in state upon his throne.

  Henry could hardly believe it himself. He was here, at last, the senseless wars of religion largely behind him, although he would remain ever watchful. The Duke de Mayenne had submitted, but no peace had yet been secured with the Spaniards who continued to threaten northern France. Nevertheless, he was, without doubt, a victorious monarch, anointed and crowned. King of France and Navarre. None could deny it. He hoped for the end of strife, the end of the League, the banishing of the Spanish from the nation, for a new and better future for France.

  And a legitimate dauphin.

  At the conclusion of the coronation ceremony, following the Holy Eucharist, Henry was relieved of the weight of the crown by the Prince de Conti, and, gowned in his royal robes of purple velvet lined with ermine, bearing the sceptre and orb, he joined the procession as it made its slow progress back up the aisle. Guns fired in salute, the people cheered and applauded, the noisy celebrations continuing long after the King had retired to his chamber for a rest.

  The Princess Catherine sat under the royal canopy beside Henry and Gabrielle. The nobles, princes and their ladies were gathered below; ambassadors and other officers of state seated on tables in the great hall. Even the galleries above were crowded with those not fortunate enough to win a place at the banquet but content to watch and marvel. Each dish was presented with a flourish of trumpets: capons, roast chicken, venison, a chine of beef, and Henry’s favourite pigeon pie. Catherine found she had little appetite, quietly longing for the feast to be over. She was falling into the trap of becoming a recluse. Prayers were her only comfort, yet her brother objected even to these. Were she a Catholic she would retire to a monastery and become a most chaste and devoted nun. Instead, she gathered her supporters about her and held fast to her faith.

  Some instinct caused her to look up, and there before her stood the Comte. He was smiling at her, as only he could, and Catherine’s heart melted with love for him.

  ‘Madame,’ he murmured, and on bended knee handed her a silver basin and ewer, and a towel, richly fringed and tasselled. ‘For the King His Majesty.’

  It was Soissons duty, as Grand Master, to bring her these but as Catherine took the implements from him she allowed her fingers to lightly touch his. A frisson of longing shot through her and their gazes locked. It had been so long since she’d last seen him that Catherine almost lost control. The urge to say his name, to sob it out loud, momentarily overwhelmed her. But something in his expression, in the half smile, and the warning narrowing of his eyes saved her. Then he bowed and stepped back. Only she knew what it cost him to appear so cool and indifferent.

  Gathering her pride about her, Catherine carried the basin to the King. As the highest lady in the land, since Henry had no queen at his side, it was her prerogative to pour water over His Majesty’s hands. She caught the envious look in his mistress’s eyes and hid a quiet smile.

  ‘I thank you, dearest Catarina, for this gesture of homage,’ Henry said.

  Rising, he embraced his sister before leading her back to their apartments, Catherine on one hand and Gabrielle on the other. It irritated Catherine that her brother’s maîtresse en titre should be so honoured, almost as if they were equal, and she carefully avoided further eye contact with the woman. Although, even she knew better than to remark upon the fact.

  At the door of her apartment Henry paused and embraced Catherine again. ‘We are all greatly fatigued after the ceremonies of this long exhausting day. Rest easy, Madame. You were most noble and dignified just now before Monsieur le Comte. I am glad to see that you are coming round to accepting the duty required of you.’

  Catherine made no reply, but, once alone in her bedchamber, she succumbed to bitter tears.

  At seven o’clock on the morning of 22 March, Henry at last entered Paris, which had so long defied him, and was dutifully presented with the keys of the city. The enthusiasm of the people was heart-warming to behold. They rushed out into the streets crying, ‘Vive le roi!’, delirious with happiness and excited to welcome their newly crowned king. Henry felt himself choke with tears, humbled by their faith in him, by the hope and joy in their faces. He ordered his soldiers to stand back so that there were no barriers between himself and his citizens.

  One old man came to embrace his knees as Henry sat astride his horse.

  Alarmed, the officer of the guard warned him, ‘Sire, do not allow the mob to get too close. If another such as Barriére were in the crowd, they might avail themselves of this opportunity to do harm.’

  But Henry refused to be diverted. ‘Let them look at me, and cheer me. I would accept the risk rather than disappoint my people. It is long since they have seen a true king.’

  There were those less pleased to see Henry crowned, as the officer now reminded him. ‘Your enemies the Duke de Feria, Mendoza and others have taken refuge in a house close by the Bastille. Would you have us move them into that more secure place?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘Let them see that I intend to be a wise and moderate king, even in my hour of triumph. I will not reduce an enemy fallen to desperation.’

  ‘They still hold some of your supporters prisoner.’

  ‘Then demand their release in return for their own safe conduct to the frontier. Any who wish to live by Spanish rule may do so – in Spain.’

  ‘They are all afraid, Sire. Madame de Nemours, mother of the dead hero Guise, was found in her oratory on her knees before a crucifix, and her daughter, Madame de Montpensier, the Fury of the League, sprang shrieking from her bed in paroxysms of rage and panic.’

  Henry gave a great belly laugh. ‘That lady need fear nothing from me, no more than I fear her. Now let us be done with politics and leave me to enjoy this day.’

  The temperature in the bedchamber was stifling, every window closed and a fire burned in the grate despite the June heat. It was considered essential that a delicate equilibrium of the humours be maintained, and a cold draught from a window was considered dangerous. A birthing chair stood ready although it was generally agreed that the woman on the bed, for all her writhing and screaming in agony, was some hours from actual delivery.

  ‘I would say four, maybe five hours or more,’ pronounced the midwife.

  Gabrielle felt certain she would be dead by then. Never had she known such pain. The royal physician, Monsieur Ailleboust, was naturally present with his bag of instruments, which Gabrielle hoped and prayed would not be necessary. He concurred with the midwife’s prediction.

  ‘Giving birth is a tiring
business, Madame. I suggest you take a little light refreshment and rest.’

  With pains coming every five minutes Gabrielle saw little hope of achieving either. But having made this pronouncement, the doctor retired to the window seat to enjoy his own lunch, comprising a plate of cold meats, good white bread and a glass of small beer.

  ‘First babies are always slow to come,’ Madame de Sourdis told her, by way of comfort. ‘And boys are often harder to birth than girls, being bigger.’

  Gabrielle took a welcome sip of cool water from the cup her aunt offered and met her shrewd gaze. They both knew that whatever the sex of the child, not a person in the crowded room was unaware that it would be born a bastard. The much longed for divorce had still not materialized. ‘Henry has promised to legitimize him.’ Gabrielle sighed. ‘But we still wait on the Queen before we can marry.’

  Madame de Sourdis wiped the beads of sweat from her niece’s brow. ‘Let us not trouble ourselves about such matters today, my dear. You have work to do, and must rest as the doctor says.’

  Oil was rubbed on her belly to ease the straining, and, propped on pillows, Gabrielle lay on her side while her aunt rubbed her back, which helped her to relax a little.

  When the time came she was lifted into the birthing chair, with the doctor and midwife at her side, and her other ladies hovering close by in a fever of concern and curiosity. Gabrielle felt strangely calm and happy, and if there was pain she no longer registered it. She pushed when she was instructed to do so, eased into shallow breaths when she was urged not to, and suddenly there the baby lay in the hands of the good doctor, with the minimum of fuss and trouble.

  The cry went up. ‘It is a boy!’

  When word was taken to the King, waiting impatiently in the corridors outside, Henry was overjoyed. How long he had dreamed of this moment. His two children with Corisande having both died, this was his first child.

  Would that he were a dauphin.