Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  The moment the doctor granted permission Henry hurried to his mistress’s side. ‘Ventre Saint Gris, what a clever girl you are. But how I feared for you. I kiss your eyes a thousand times, Mon cher coeur.’

  The child was named César, the Duke of Vendôme.

  ‘I shall reward you, my love, by bestowing upon you the title of Marquise de Monceaux.’

  Gabrielle lay back on her pillows with a happy sigh. ‘I am the most fortunate of women to be so loved.’

  Henry flushed with pride and joy as the baby was placed in his arms. He adored children, and hoped to have a nursery full. ‘And I am the most fortunate of kings.’

  Gabrielle felt wonderful, bursting with health and vigour, and so blessed she felt nothing could spoil her happiness. She looked forward to a quiet period of rest with her child, not expecting to find her lying-in at all tedious as she had her aunt and her maids of honour to keep her company, and her precious son to cuddle. She even insisted on suckling him herself, at least for a little while until a suitable wet nurse was found. ‘I want him to have the very best in life,’ she told her aunt, ‘and will not rest until he is given his rightful place.’

  Madame de Sourdis could not agree more, for all she advised patience and caution. But then one morning she came to her niece with a grim look on her face.

  Dismissing the maids, she bent close to Gabrielle. ‘There is a rumour going around court circles that the child is not the King’s’

  ‘What?’ Gabrielle went white with shock. Tears sprang to her eyes and she felt suddenly quite light headed. ‘How dare anyone suggest such a thing? Have I not always been constant, save for that early folly? Oh, my goodness, do they know of that foolishness? Do they say it is Bellegarde?’

  ‘Some may, but there can be no proof as that gallant has gained the King’s permission to marry Anne de Bueil-Fontaine. And since Longueville was killed by a musket shot, there will be no more worries over those letters you once wrote him.’

  ‘Then why would they so accuse me? Surely I have never given cause for anyone to doubt my love for the King?’

  ‘There are always mischief-makers in any court. In this instance I believe the tale originated with Sancy, who, as you know, supervises the King’s finances. The Baron Rosny is unhappy with the way the fellow conducts these affairs and I believe the pair came to verbal blows during which Sancy spouted this malicious nonsense.’

  ‘What are we to do? How am I to refute it?’

  ‘We do nothing,’ her aunt advised. ‘Sometimes the more one denies an accusation, the guiltier one appears, and since you are innocent you have no reason to offer any defence.’

  Gabrielle nodded, her heart still pounding in alarm. But at that moment a maid came bursting into the apartment with worse news.

  ‘Madame, we have just received word that the royal physician who attended you, Monsieur Ailleboust, has been found dead. And they are saying that you poisoned him.’

  Gabrielle and her ladies were stringently questioned as to what the doctor had eaten during the birthing, who had prepared the food for him and if he’d complained of any ill effects.

  ‘No, of course he didn’t,’ Madame de Sourdis snapped. ‘I prepared the food myself, and it was perfectly fresh and good.’

  ‘It is not you who is being charged, Madame,’ the investigator, little more than a lawyer’s clerk sent to perform this unpalatable and dangerous task, pointed out. ‘It is perfectly possible to add poison to food or drink after it has been prepared.’

  Gabrielle gasped. ‘You think I rose from my bed, walked over to the doctor’s plate and dropped poison onto his food before taking up the birthing chair? If it were not so dreadful to be thus charged, I would laugh in your face. And why would I do such a dreadful thing to the good doctor, even if I were capable of such a heinous crime?’

  ‘Perhaps because he knew the child was not the King’s. What better way of silencing Monsieur Ailleboust, than with a lethal dose of poison in his small beer?’

  Gabrielle cried out in her anguish. ‘It is a lie, all of it! I swear on my son’s life that he is indeed the King’s child. You have only to look at him and you will see the likeness.’

  But the hapless clerk knew nothing of babies and could find no conclusive proof in the face of this woman’s brat. He might have continued with his questioning indefinitely but the door flung open and the King himself strode in, his face like thunder.

  ‘Enough of these monstrous lies. Get out! My beloved Gabrielle needs rest, not harassment from a pouter pigeon full of his own importance. Begone! I’ll have no more of this mischief.’

  The clerk almost scraped the floor with his chin in his urgent desire to ingratiate himself. Even so, he recklessly protested. ‘Your Majesty, it is my duty to—’

  ‘It is your duty to obey your King,’ shouted Henry, and the fellow beat a hasty retreat.

  Henry gathered a weeping Gabrielle in his arms. ‘My sweet girl, my angel, we will show these malcontents that I give no credence to such malice.’

  Gabrielle rushed to assure Henry of her enduring love. ‘I have ever been faithful, I swear it. I may have made mistakes when I was a silly young girl but now I am as a wife to you and would never hurt you.’

  ‘You will be my wife in truth one day,’ Henry promised, kissing her. ‘Be sure of it. I have again dispatched Erard to Queen Margot with the news of our son’s arrival and a further request for the divorce to be settled. I have also set in motion the proceedings necessary to obtain the annulment of your own marriage with Liancourt.

  ‘I can ask no more, Henry.’ Gabrielle was overwhelmed with emotion and gratitude.

  ‘Do not fret, my love, I will make your detractors eat their words.’

  On Thursday, 15 September, 1594, Gabrielle made a triumphal entry into Paris by torchlight in the most glorious pageant yet. She rode in a magnificent litter draped with cloth of gold and embroidered with the royal arms. The King was making it abundantly clear to his people that this woman must be respected, even if she was only his mistress. And there was every evidence of a hearty welcome for the new King and his consort.

  Green boughs arched the streets, balconies were draped with flowers and tapestries, and everywhere there were flags and posters.

  Gabrielle felt vindicated by Henry’s belief in her, by his allowing her to take centre stage as he deliberately rode a little way behind her on his white charger.

  She glanced back to demonstrate her gratitude with an entrancing smile, thinking how fine the King looked in his habit of grey velvet, embroidered all over with gold and emeralds. On his head was a matching hat, fastened by a cluster of diamonds and sporting his usual white plume. As the people leaned from their windows to cheer him, Henry took it off and waved it to them, laughing with delight.

  Gabrielle laughed too, for it was all so exciting, so different from the long dreary months of following him from camp to camp in the endless civil wars. As if this were not evidence enough of his sincere feelings for her, when the procession came to a halt, Henry then proceeded to address them.

  ‘We, knowing the infinite and singular graces of mind and person, vouchsafe in such perfection to our very dear and very beloved subject, Madame Gabrielle d’Estrées, have chosen and do declare her worthy of our devoted homage …’

  Gabrielle listened enthralled as the King proceeded to extol her virtue and his great love for her, going on to announce that her own marriage to Liancour would soon be declared null and void.

  Most moving of all, so far as Gabrielle was concerned, was that he then went on to read from the specially prepared letters-patent for the legitimization of their son, César.

  ‘Henry, by the grace of God, King of France and Navarre … it has been our desire, pending the time when He may graciously give us heirs, who may legitimately succeed to this crown, to endeavour to have children elsewhere who will be obliged to serve this State …’

  While those assembled listened to the complex document being read, wondering if
this meant the child might indeed be worthy to wear the crown one day, none could fail to admire the exquisite loveliness of Gabrielle. The glittering jewels on her black satin gown could never outshine the brilliance of her beauty.

  For Gabrielle it was her happiest day, certain that she would soon be Henry’s lawful wife and queen. Didn’t he constantly urge her to believe and to be strong? Even now as he came to her and kissed her, he repeated his favourite mantra: ‘To a valiant heart nothing is impossible.’

  The warnings by his ministers and officer of the guard proved to be entirely correct. Before the year was out more attempts were made upon the King’s life. A student by the name of Jean Chatel attacked Henry in the presence of Gabrielle in her own house in Paris. Henry had just returned from Picardy and he was giving audience to various nobles when Chatel lunged for him with a dagger. Fortunately his aim was bad, managing only to pierce Henry’s lip and not slit his throat.

  Gabrielle rushed to his assistance all in a panic, calling for the doctor and insisting the King be taken to his bedchamber at once. With the help of her sister, Juliette, Gabrielle nursed and comforted him, but he was not a good patient.

  Henry was furious. ‘Ventre Saint Gris! How can I feel happy when I see a people so ungrateful as to plan fresh attempts on me every day, although I have done all that I can for them, and would willingly sacrifice a thousand lives for their welfare, had God given me so many!’

  ‘You must ever be wary of fanatics, my lord, and not allow the people so near you,’ Gabrielle warned, seriously alarmed by this latest attack.

  Rosny hurried in, looking unusually flustered. ‘The fellow has been apprehended, Sire, along with the instigator of the attempted crime, a Jesuit. I trust their execution should act as a deterrent to others foolish enough to try to harm you.’

  ‘I trust you are right,’ Henry dryly remarked. ‘Since my life may depend upon it. It appears that you waited for these said Jesuits to be convicted by my own lips.’ His wit, at least, had not deserted him.

  Te Deums were sung in celebration of the King’s lucky escape, Henry dressed all in black, his moustache shaved off and his lip plastered. As he arrived in his coach a great cheer went up.

  ‘What enthusiasm your presence elicits among the populace, Sire,’ said Bellegarde.

  ‘Ah, if my greatest enemy was to pass before this people, as I am now doing in kingly state, he would be cheered as much, or more. Since I have entered Paris I have endured nothing but murderous attempts on my life!’

  Concerns remained that the dagger tip might have been poisoned, but Gabrielle’s fears for Henry’s health were gradually eased as he made a slow but steady recovery.

  In January, 1595, Gabrielle was delighted to learn that her marriage with Liancour had been formally annulled, being contrary to the statutes of the Church due to the fact they were distant cousins.

  ‘And of course, it was never consummated,’ she reminded her aunt.

  Queen Margot maintained her silence on the question of divorce but objected strongly when Henry granted yet more property to his mistress, some of which should rightly be in her own possession.

  Later in the month Gabrielle arranged a ballet to entertain the young Duke of Guise, son of the late hero. He arrived at court looking pale and anxious, but Henry welcomed him with his usual good cheer and no sign of ill will for their having been on opposing sides.

  ‘In my youth your father and I were great friends, though often rivals in love. I mourn for him still.’ Tactfully making no mention of how Guise had once fought to take the throne of France for himself, and certainly won the love of Queen Margot. His son, a young rebel, had taken up his father’s cause and continued to side with the League, but Henry was now content to pardon him.

  ‘We are all subject to commit follies in our youth. I am ready to forget the past, but for the future I would recommend you avoid similar errors. Submit to my legitimate authority and I will be as a father to you.’

  If the young duke felt any bitterness over the time he’d spent under house arrest and in prison, or the glimpse of a crown for his own head and the possible hand of the Spanish Infanta, he gave no sign.

  Wanting the evening to be merry, Gabrielle chose the prettiest, most lively ladies of the court to take part in the ballet. She herself, as splendidly attired as a queen in cloth of silver and ice blue satin, led the dance and was hailed la belle des belles.

  ‘You are my greatest treasure,’ Henry assured her.

  Gabrielle was considered by all to be the uncrowned Queen of France. She acted as gate keeper to His Majesty and many came to her to seek favours and broach their request before approaching the King. Even the great Mayenne, brother to the late hero Guise, begged for her support to have his debts paid, and an amnesty for his partisans. In return, he offered his allegiance to her being crowned queen.

  Not all the battles were won so easily, and Henry fought on, reminding his enemies that they could either be a Frenchman or go to Spain. But as a consequence of Gabrielle’s intervention on Mayenne’s behalf, a three month truce was agreed in order to allow fresh talks to be held.

  One morning, Gabrielle was walking through the Louvre with Madame de Sourdis, head high and striding confidently as she laughed and gossiped with her ladies. They were planning to take a turn about the gardens, and, as always, Gabrielle was elegantly gowned in burgundy velvet, with a gold lace collar that stood out about her slender neck. Pearls hung at her ears, circled her throat, and looped about the bodice. Her pale blond hair was curled neatly beneath a jewelled cap, her beauty and elegance quite outshining even her prettiest maids of honour who followed in her wake. Doors were opened for her, pages bowed, and ladies-in-waiting dipped a curtsey as she passed by. None dared dispute the high regard the King held for her.

  At the entrance she almost collided with a stranger who came bounding up the steps, evidently rushing to conduct some pressing business. Inclining his head by way of apology the gentleman stepped back to let her pass by unimpeded.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ Gabrielle said, rewarding him with her entrancing smile.

  But as she stepped out into the gentle warmth of an early spring day, she heard him ask of the guard, ‘What a magnificent woman. Who is she?’

  To which the officer replied, ‘No one of any account, my friend, it is only the King’s whore.’

  Gabrielle almost stumbled, heard her aunt’s sharp intake of breath. She had become so accustomed to the respect bestowed upon her, the fact that she attended, indeed often organized and managed, so many important functions, she would sometimes forget she had no proper standing at court. No legal right to anything. Fearing Madame de Sourdis might march back inside and take the miscreant to task, Gabrielle quickly grasped her hand. ‘Leave it be, Aunt.’

  ‘But it is a gross insult. You cannot pass by and say nought.’

  ‘Why not? It is nothing less than the truth. That is exactly what I am, the King’s whore. His mistress, not his queen.’

  ‘You will be a queen of France one day.’

  Gabrielle regarded her aunt with sad eyes. ‘Will I? Who can say. I never asked for this. I wanted only to be respectably married to the man I loved. For now it is enough that the King loves me, even if everyone else does not.’

  Rosny certainly didn’t. As the King’s chief counsellor and advisor, he was most anxious that once a divorce was negotiated, his master should marry a wife worthy of him, not some strumpet who happened to catch his eye. Gabrielle d’Estrées was merely the King’s mistress, entirely unsuitable to be queen.

  He was grateful that she had encouraged his royal master to accept the Mass in order to gain the crown, for he saw no benefit in strife and warfare which would never win the hearts of the people. Rosny accepted that Gabrielle was neither self-seeking nor greedy, as he’d at first thought, although her aunt certainly was. It was true that she possessed none of the wit and literary talent of Queen Marguerite, but was undoubtedly kind, caring and affectionate, with a ple
asing and unaffected nature. She was a good influence upon Henry in many ways, and seemed genuinely fond of him, even if His Majesty’s passion outshone hers a thousand fold.

  Yet he could not like her.

  To be fair, in her early years with the King she’d fiercely resisted his courtship and shown no desire to be elevated beyond her station. But if she had not been overly ambitious before, she certainly was now that she had a son. Unfortunately, little César was no dauphin. Legitimised he may be, but that did not mean he was fit to sit on the throne of France.

  Should Henry ultimately gain a divorce and they did indeed marry, what if they had more children? Could not a son born within wedlock object if the one born before it took precedence? The result of such sibling rivalry could bring yet more strife and civil war to France.

  At the coronation Rosny had watched as people came forward to make obeisance to the King, many whispering in his ear, offering their services, begging forgiveness if they had seemed to be against him in the past. It was difficult to assess how far Henry trusted and believed these assurances. His naturally good heart often led him to make mistakes in his choice of companions, particularly when it came to women.

  Rosny dearly wished his sovereign to be happy, and to marry and produce heirs. But, however pretty and charming she may be, he would do everything in his power to make sure that his queen of choice was not Madame Gabrielle.

  Opposition to the King seemed to have largely been quelled, the people welcoming him, and the peace, with open arms. The citizens of Paris appreciated how Henry constantly showed himself to them, dined in public, played tennis and walked in the Tuileries Gardens. He did not shut himself away as Henri Trois had done. They liked his droll wit, his natural dignity and easy-going nature, and the care he took not to spend money on fripperies as his predecessor had done. He was constantly complaining that he was short of horses, shirts and money, and that there was often nothing in his stewpot. It was said that should a merchant go to the Louvre, Henry would haggle over the price of a pair of riding boots, never mind a pearl necklace for his lady-love. He trusted no one, assuming they raised their prices simply because he was a king. The Parisians loved this miserliness in him, and they admired his valiant attempt to reduce the national debt which stood at 307,000,000 crowns.