Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Henry is skilled at evading unpleasant facts.’

  Madame de Noailles took the seat next to Margot with a sigh of resignation. After so many years isolation the two women were comfortable together, far closer than mistress and servant, which was why she dared to speak so boldly. ‘The King has not paid your allowance for a year and a half. He refuses to pay it, or to return your properties to you, until you agree to give him the divorce he demands. Yet you refuse to concede to his request unless he first makes good on what he owes you. How is this matter ever to be resolved?’

  ‘To a royal princess I would willingly cede my crown, so that legitimate heirs might be born to the King – but to a mistress and her offspring, I will never yield!’

  ‘My lady, you have scarcely any jewels left which we could pledge for further loans. How are we to manage?’

  It was Margot’s turn now to sigh for she could offer no solution. Her greatest supporter and love of her life, Henri de Guise, was gone and she grieved for him still. He would never have stood by and watched her suffer such penury. Even her sister-in-law and dear friend Elisabeth of Austria, widow of her brother Charles IX, was no longer able to help her having died a few years previous. Margot felt quite alone, without friends in any quarter save for those who were brave enough to share her exile.

  ‘Were Henry to marry this woman, what of the inheritance? If more sons come, who would then wear the crown?’

  Madame de Noailles sadly shook her head, and tactfully remarked, ‘That is for the King to decide, Your Majesty.’ It could be viewed as treason to speak of a time when the King would no longer be alive to make such a decision.

  ‘The Baron de Rosny, and other gentlemen of the court, constantly write urging me not to agree to the divorce on the grounds that such a conflict could lead to further civil war.’ A shaft of winter sunlight rested on a laurel leaf, causing it to shine as if polished by God’s hand. Margot relished such fragile glimpses of beauty in a world which so often seemed ugly and unclean. ‘Were they not both married when the child was conceived? In which case the boy is the product of a double adultery, a child of sin. Is Rosny not right? Does France not deserve better?’

  Wisely her companion said nothing to this analysis, and the two ladies sat in silence for some time, companionable in their mutual distress.

  ‘What should I do?’ Margot asked at length.

  Madame de Noailles cleared her throat. ‘I do wonder if perhaps a letter to Madame Gabrielle might serve.’

  ‘You wish me to write to that baggage? I will not do it.’

  ‘Whatever our private opinion of the lady, she has the King’s ear. Mayhap she could persuade him to pay you the sum he owes, to return your property and provide you with a more comfortable residence. It is your right, as Queen, I know, but as the maîtresse en titre Madame Gabrielle holds the power.’

  ‘You wish me to beg for my supper, and hand over my crown to that harlot?’

  ‘I wish you to use your undoubted skills with your pen to improve your situation. You could hint at what you might offer in return …’

  Margot was instantly alert. ‘Hint? You mean without actually making any firm promises?’

  The two looked at each other in perfect accord. Margot had ever loved intrigue and artifice. Could she use it to effect one more time? She was forty-five and no longer the beauty she had once been. Her figure had grown somewhat plump and her complexion ravaged by time and anxiety. Yet she still had her wit, her bewitching charm and smile, and in every way she still dressed and behaved like the Queen she truly was.

  After another long silence, she said, ‘You will have to help me compose it. My skill with words does not extend to fawning flattery.’

  ‘I will do all I can to assist.’

  ‘And hold the sick bowl in case I vomit while I write?’

  Her companion giggled. ‘Whatever you ask of me, my lady, I will do with pleasure.’

  Gabrielle read the letter in a state of wonder. That Queen Margot should write asking for her help was astonishing. It was formally addressed to Madame La Marquise, and signed ‘Your very affectionate and most faithful friend, Marguerite.’

  Gabrielle read the letter again, more slowly this time, attempting to read between the lines of flattery which were almost sycophantic in parts. But the nub of her request was clear. She begged Gabrielle to use her influence with the King to fulfil his obligations to his wife.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Gabrielle said, reading the letter to her aunt who was bursting with curiosity. ‘“I am tormented by my creditors. I prefer to suffer extremity of trouble rather than inflict any on His Majesty. My necessity, however, continues pressing, so that I can no longer remain here where I am suffering all manner of inconvenience and privation. If the King, therefore, would permit me to retire to one of my houses – the farthest off, if so it pleases him, which I possess from the court – he would concede a great relief.” She says she wishes to “promote the King’s design rather than frustrate it”, which can surely only mean she is at last ready to agree to the divorce. Do you not think so?’

  Madame de Sourdis agreed, peeping over her niece’s shoulder in order to read the letter for herself. ‘See, here she says “that it will please him to act as my brother …” and seeks his continued protection. What else could she mean?’

  ‘She also vows “perpetual obligation”. Does she not owe me that already? Does she not appreciate how I resent this wrong forced upon me? I would retire to a monastery and live the rest of my life chaste if I thought there was no hope of redemption and respectability. Do I not deserve marriage, if only for the sake of our son?’

  ‘Then you must help her,’ Madame de Sourdis said. ‘Her request is fair. You must rescue the Queen from penury and she will then grant the divorce. Speak to the King, and you might drop a word in Rosny’s ear. Now that he holds the purse strings he could perhaps arrange for the Queen’s pension to be reinstated. My dear, I think we may have won.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt, can it be true? Could this be the breakthrough we have so longed for?’

  The pair hugged each other with joyful relief, one thankful that she could at last achieve the propriety she had so long craved, able at last to put her murky past behind her, the other dreaming of the new fortune she might build once there was a crown on her niece’s pretty head.

  Gabrielle wasted no time in speaking to her royal lover, and showing him Margot’s letter. ‘How the Queen must have swallowed her pride in order to write such a missive, to me of all people.’

  Frowning, Henry quickly scanned the letter before handing it back to Gabrielle with a smile. ‘I will speak with Rosny. He will make the necessary arrangements.’

  The subject, it seemed, was closed.

  The King had grown weary of war, and Gabrielle did not wonder at it. There was still much to be achieved before France was truly secure. As spring approached and the sun shone, he wished to enjoy life a little more. Henry spent much of his time playing tennis, and Gabrielle and Madame de Sourdis would happily go along each day to sit in a gallery that overlooked the court, where they could watch and applaud him. Many of the public were also admitted as they loved to watch their King at play, although some preferred to more closely watch his maîtresse en titre.

  In the evening he might take her to the theatre, openly caressing and kissing her in public, not caring who saw how much he loved her. At Henry’s insistence Gabrielle arranged more masques and ballets for their mutual enjoyment and entertainment.

  ‘They say I keep the King from his duties. That I am a frivolous influence upon him, but it is not my fault, Aunt, I swear it.’

  ‘I know that, my precious,’ Madame de Sourdis declared. ‘The King has a will of his own, and no one can doubt that he adores you.’

  ‘The other night when he and his friends frolicked about the streets in masks, the people must have thought that it was Henry Trois on his capers all over again. We ended the night at the hôtel of Zamet, eating and drinking till dawn
, yet I did not encourage him in this folly. He simply feels the need to relax, to forget death and war and pain. Can the citizens not let him do that, at least, without blaming me?’

  ‘Their low opinion of you is deeply unfair, particularly considering the good influence you have brought to bear on the King of late,’ Madame de Sourdis protested.

  ‘I wonder sometimes if I have any true friends. I thought Zamet was, but he is shrewd and wily, and very ambitious coming from humble stock as the son of a shoemaker from Lucca. He has done well for himself as valet to Henri III, then was he not treasurer for the League for a time? I do wonder if perhaps he courts my friendship only for the benefit it will bring to him rather than out of genuine affection.’

  ‘I am sure that is not the case. Does he not lend you money, and assist you with your property dealings? You have many friends, my dear, and His Majesty at least appreciates you.’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘Then what more do I need?’

  At yet another banquet the following evening Henry seemed in a quarrelsome mood and again began upbraiding his sister for her obstinacy.

  ‘We see little of Monsieur le Comte at court these days, since he withdrew to his Château de Maillé. I suspect he is wallowing in sullenness and resentment.’ Which made Henry all the more determined to delay his sister’s betrothal no further.

  Catherine protested. ‘He does nothing of the sort. Perhaps he feels undervalued, as do I.’ She felt irritable and impatient, pining for her count whose character Henry continued to malign.

  ‘You should appreciate, Catarina, that Monsieur le Comte is cunning and clever. I fear he might one day become a deadly opponent to César, which is a further reason for withholding my consent to your marriage.’

  ‘I think you see shadows where there is only light. Charles has threatened no such thing.’

  Henry frowned. ‘He has certainly clouded your judgement, Madame.’

  ‘And you are inconsiderate and unfeeling, brother.’

  ‘While you put every obstacle you can in the way of a betrothal,’ Henry snapped. ‘You have refused Montpensier, a decision I suspect you will live to regret, therefore I have sent a message to the Duc de Bar that he should present himself to you at his earliest convenience. What say you to that, sister?’

  The Princess Catherine got to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me, I am feeling somewhat indisposed. There is no place for me here. I cannot yield to Madame la Marquise, so I have no doubt you will find my absence a joyful release.’

  Dipping a curtsey she left the room, and, irritated by her apparent disobedience, Henry turned his annoyance upon Gabrielle. ‘Have I not seen that green brocade gown a number of times?’

  Gabrielle flushed. ‘It is my favourite, Sire. You know how fond I am of green.’

  ‘And you know that I do not like to see your hair powdered. Nor are there enough diamonds in your coiffure. There ought to be fifteen at least, not a mere dozen.’

  ‘I beg Your Majesty’s pardon for being inadequately dressed,’ Gabrielle said, in something of a fluster. She was suddenly acutely aware of a silence falling upon the room, of the Duchesse de Montmorency, Madame de Villars and others delighting in her discomfiture. She could sense them examining her attire and finding it at fault. Never before had the King openly criticized her in public, more often brazenly caressing her, and there were some courtiers, Zamet and La Varenne amongst them, who were all too evidently amused by the incident.

  It was almost dawn by the time they arrived back at the Louvre, and within moments of their arrival, before even Gabrielle had chance to retire to her room and remove the offending gown, she heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard.

  Henry went quickly to the window. ‘It is Bellegarde, and he seems in a great hurry.’

  Moments later the Duke was ushered into the King’s presence. He was sweating and out of breath, clearly having ridden hard. ‘Sire, the town of Amiens has fallen to the Spaniards.’

  ‘Ventre Saint Gris, are you sure? We did not expect this.’

  Bellegarde said, ‘It came quite out of the blue. It is incredible that the Spanish could take so large a town so easily. We now have no stronghold to impede the march of our enemies.’

  Henry strode to the door, then back again, concerned and agitated. ‘Where is Rosny? Beringhen, fetch him to me. I need to speak to my keeper of finance.’

  His favourite adviser came hurrying into the salon moments later to find his royal master pacing the floor half dressed, shoulders drooped, and the blackest of expressions on his face. Various nobles stood about, pale with uncertainty and Rosny saw at once that something was badly wrong.

  ‘What is it, my lord? What disaster has befallen us?’

  ‘It would seem the poor folk of Amiens have undone themselves through refusing the garrison which I wished to send them.’ The situation was quickly explained, money promised, however difficult it would be to find it, and the King’s men alerted so that an army could immediately be mustered.

  ‘By the grace of God we will prevail. We have played too long the King of France. It is now time to enact again the role of the King of Navarre.’ By which Henry seemed to imply he must set aside royal amusements and return to battle.

  Gabrielle flung herself into his arms. ‘Oh, my love, I beg you to take care.’

  Henry gently hushed her. ‘Take heart, ma maîtresse. We must set aside the contests of love and wage a different war.’

  The nobles were angry at this turn of events, feeling more vulnerable than ever as Paris lay open to attack, its treasury all but empty and with yet another battle to wage. They were filled with fear and even as the King retired to his own room to prepare before leading his men out in battle, they turned their venom on Gabrielle.

  ‘This is your doing,’ Sancy hissed. ‘Had His Majesty paid more attention to protecting his people rather than toying with his mistress we might not be in this position.’

  ‘He speaks true,’ muttered another voice.

  ‘Aye. Amiens might not have fallen had he remained in camp.’

  ‘The King is being turned into a shallow creature.’

  Epernon said, ‘You think more of the crown you wish to wear on your pretty head, rather than the needs of the people.’

  Alarmed by these dangerous murmurings from her enemy, Gabrielle fled in terror to the King’s apartment. ‘I cannot stay here,’ she wept as Henry snatched a hasty breakfast, issuing orders to his men and talking with Rosny all at the same time. ‘The nobles mutter and whisper against me. They say I distracted you from your duty. I don’t feel safe in Paris without you, my lord.’

  The contempt of his courtiers had not passed him by. Henry was no fool and knew how some sought any opportunity to bring her down. ‘My dear, you must take refuge in Monceaux.’

  ‘Are the roads out of the capital still passable?’

  ‘If we make haste. I will have your litter prepared at once.’ Henry caught her in his arms and held her close. ‘My dearest angel, I insist that you are protected.’

  ‘But what of you? Will you be safe?’

  ‘You must not fret, my love. We will prevail.’

  ‘Oh, Sire, much as I long to leave for my own sake, and for yours, how can I? The people would accuse me of deserting them.’

  ‘You must obey the King, Gabrielle, not the citizens of Paris,’ scolded her aunt, all of a dither and most anxious to depart to safer territory. She did not trust the people of Paris, nor certain court nobles when their king was absent.

  Henry took Gabrielle’s lovely face between his hands and gently kissed her. ‘You must do as I ask, my love, I beg you.’ As good hearted and caring as ever, it was as if their quarrel had never occurred.

  Before it was properly light, Gabrielle departed in a closed litter. An hour later, Henry set out at the head of his company. The citizens of Paris rushed out into the streets to watch him pass by, cheering him on his way. No one could deny that their King possessed courage.

  Days later pamph
lets appeared stuck up in shop windows and on street corners bearing satires and verses which blamed his maîtresse en titre for keeping the King from his duties, and bringing disgrace and menace upon them all.

  Within weeks the health of the King once again began to fail as Henry complained of exhaustion and battle fatigue. He wrote to Gabrielle of the heavy burden he carried, worse than when he was King of Navarre. She hurried to nurse him in the camp, anxious to do everything she could to help.

  ‘I have pledged many of my jewels to Zamet and he has promised more loans.’

  ‘My angel, what would I do without you?’

  Gabrielle flushed. ‘And I am enceinte again.’

  Henry managed a weak laugh. ‘You bring me nothing but joy.’

  But, alarmed by his increasing indisposition from whatever malady he suffered, Gabrielle insisted Henry return at once to Paris. She summoned his man-servants. ‘The King requires the services of a doctor so we will take him back to the city, with all speed.’

  La Rivière, his first physician, was called and at once took charge of the King’s treatment, embarking upon a regime of cupping and bleeding in order to restore him to health. To Gabrielle’s great joy and relief, despite lengthy discussions with Rosny about the state of the exchequer when really he should have been resting, Henry made good progress and was soon moved to Monceaux to convalesce.

  In May, while the conquest of Amiens and the recovery of the King slowly took their course, radical priests grasped the opportunity to again inflame the people of Paris against the Huguenots, who were gathering in the city under the patronage of Princess Catherine. They held secret meetings and plotted treason, spread rumours that King Philip of Spain would march from Amiens upon Paris, till finally the leaders were rounded up and hanged.

  ‘My God, I am beset with problems on all sides,’ Henry groaned.

  Cooling the heat of his head with a cold compress, Gabrielle smiled. ‘Then I shall do my best to cheer you, for I have good news, my lord. The Duc de Bar has arrived, hoping for a betrothal with the Princess Catherine.’