Rosny was struck speechless, deeply offended by this insult. How dare this trollop look down her nose at him? She had got above herself, and needed bringing down. Spinning on his heel, he stormed away and hurried straight back to the King.
The moment Henry saw Rosny’s expression, he groaned. The last thing he wanted was to alienate his most talented minister. The King was all too aware of the rumour and intrigue that rumbled about him, often bound up in self-interest. He dare not risk Rosny’s high-standing in court being destroyed by some silly quarrel over the cost of a baptism. He depended upon him too much. Somehow, he must reconcile these two people who were each so vitally important to him.
‘I fear the lady may have misled me,’ Henry said, playing the coward.
‘Something must be done,’ Rosny insisted, not willing to let the matter drop.
‘Of course, of course,’ blustered Henry. ‘You shall see that a woman shall never control me, although I suspect the fault lies with her friends and her greedy aunt, rather than Madame la Duchesse.’
‘Then let us settle the matter now, once and for all.’
Stifling a sigh, Henry strode off in the direction of the Deanery, Rosny hot on his tail. For once he did not greet Gabrielle with the usual three kisses, but insisted she make peace with the minister whom she had so deeply offended. ‘You must learn to practice patience and moderation in future,’ he warned, attempting to look stern.
Gabrielle was aghast. ‘But Your Majesty, you sanctioned the ceremony. Surely those who took part deserve their fees?’
Henry felt as if he was being held on a very large fish hook with two lines, one held by his keeper of finance, the other by his mistress. Whoever reeled him in, he would be the loser. Like the fish, he wriggled to be free. ‘I trusted you to maintain a sensible hold on the expenses,’ Henry scolded, desperately striving to hold on to the high ground. ‘I have always loved the sweetness and amiability of your disposition. Have I been deceived?’
Tears sprang into Gabrielle’s blue eyes and she sank to her couch, weeping. ‘I cannot abide it when you are angry with me. What have I done? What are you suggesting, Sire? I see that it is your intention to abandon me. Remember it was against my wishes to occupy this position which you forced upon me. Have I not done my best to please you?’
Rosny watched as his royal master’s expression melted with love for his mistress when he saw her distress. He plainly ached to gather her in his arms and offer her the whole world if she would but stop crying and say that she loved him. The two lovers were entirely bound together by an emotion and intimacy that was hard to witness without feeling an intruder upon the scene. Yet Rosny dare not leave, as he feared that Henry might actually offer her son the title of Prince of the Blood the instant he did so.
Gabrielle went on, ‘Have I not sacrificed myself to you, and given you all my affection? Now I see that I must sacrifice myself to please your valet!’
She had used that dreadful, insulting word yet again. ‘Sire, this is intolerable!’ Rosny cried.
‘You must dismiss the fellow,’ Gabrielle sobbed. ‘He is the one at fault, not I.’
Henry’s patience ran out. ‘Madame, it were better that I dispense with ten mistresses than with one servant such as Rosny.’
Only then did Gabrielle realize the extent of her blunder, and desperately attempted to make good. She fervently apologized and voluntarily conceded that any title for Alexandre should be postponed. For his part, Rosny agreed to look again at the costs and see that all due bills were met. To all outward appearances, a reconciliation had been achieved, but beneath the surface the ill feeling continued to fester.
The religious factions were each starting to grumble over the Edict of Nantes, the treaty meant to bring peace to the realm. The radical priests continued to preach from the pulpit against the Huguenots, saying they ought to be dragged to the slaughterhouse. They not only attacked the Huguenots, but Gabrielle herself. One declared that ‘a lewd woman in the court of a king was a dangerous monster and caused much evil, particularly when she was encouraged to raise her head’.
It was clear they were referring to herself, which greatly distressed Gabrielle.
The rebels also vociferously objected to allowing the Protestants equal rights and the opportunity to enter public office. Some had the effrontery to call upon Gabrielle to intercede on their behalf with the King to put a stop to this menace.
Gabrielle’s response was a picture of innocence. ‘I do not understand the nature of your objection. What possible problem could there be in admitting the Huguenots to Chambers or any public office, as they are loyal, true-hearted subjects. Has not the King allowed those who have actually borne arms against him to sit in his Chambers, which is surely far more dangerous? Besides, my efforts would be to no avail. Nothing will change the King’s mind on this matter.’
If her answer did not please the Catholics, it delighted the Huguenots, and Aubigné wrote to thank her. Despite her having urged the King to accept the Mass, she had never interfered with them, or criticized their faith, and they greatly preferred Gabrielle to any Spanish queen. Now her popularity with the Huguenots increased tenfold.
Gabrielle went further. Aubigné had openly chastised the King for having abandoned the Huguenot faith. The stern old Puritan had been so outspoken and critical at the time that he’d feared Henry might never speak to him again, had even lived in dread of being taken into custody by the guard for a while. Now Gabrielle effected a reconciliation between the erstwhile chamberlain of Nérac and his royal master, with whom he had once been so close. She wrote to Aubigné and suggested he express his thanks to the King personally.
One morning, as she and Henry returned from their ride, she spotted him in the crowd of gentlemen gathered in the courtyard, and pointed him out to Henry.
‘Ah, here is Aubigné back in court again, ever loyal, and no doubt wishing to express his gratitude for your work on behalf of the Huguenots.’
Henry dismounted and strode across to his one-time minister, clapping him on the shoulders and placing his cheek against his. ‘Well met, old friend. I’m delighted to welcome you back to court. I trust this means you have thought better of your criticisms towards us.’
‘Sire, so far you have only renounced God with your lips, and it pleased Him to pierce them. But when you renounce Him with your heart, it is your heart that He will pierce.’
Henry frowned, the allusion to that attack upon his life might be apt, but he didn’t much care for the implication that he had abandoned his God rather than his religion. It was Gabrielle who spoke up for him.
‘Fine words, sir,’ she exclaimed, ‘but you use them ill.’
‘Aye, madam,’ Aubigné agreed. ‘But then they are to no avail. His Majesty will do as he pleases.’
‘I will do what pleases France.’
Aubigné inclined his head in obeisance. ‘I am happy to be here, Sire, and welcome the opportunity to offer my thanks for all you have done for my people.’
Henry laughed, ready to brush off their disagreements, as was his way. ‘You should have trusted me more. See that you do not stay away so long next time.’
But the fear of a repeat of the St Bartholomew massacre did not go away.
The dissatisfaction of the rebel Leaguers intensified and they went to see the Duke de Mayenne, begging him to rise again and resume his old role of battle chief, claiming they would take up arms again at a moment’s notice. Mayenne prudently declined to get involved, and called the guards so that the malcontents were marched to the Bastille and suitably dealt with.
But unlike his predecessor, Henri Trois, who never had any intention of upholding a peace treaty, Henry Quatre was determined that this one would stand. He wasted no time in turning the edict into law.
‘It is my unalterable will that this, my edict, shall be accepted, registered and punctually executed.’
The council accepted this decision in silence, and the matter was closed. The Edict of Nantes wo
uld hold, at least for the foreseeable future.
Princess Catherine was in despair. The Pope had refused the dispensation unless she agreed to abjure the Protestant faith, which she had no intention of doing. Nonetheless, the Duke de Bar had arrived in Paris, bringing with him a retinue of three hundred gentlemen, determined to marry her and take her back with him to Lorraine.
‘Once married, Madame, I am certain you will conform. I appreciate it is difficult for you, but will you not at least talk with the chaplains?’
Catherine held fast to her dignity. ‘I appreciate the courtesy and respect you offer me, and will do as you ask. But I should not be expected to ask questions or listen to their arguments while sitting in state. Such talks must be held in private.’
‘Very well, it shall be arranged.’
Two doctors of divinity discussed with the Princess at some length what would be involved in her conversion. Catherine remained unmoved. ‘My conscience would not permit me to accept your doctrines.’
‘Your brother the King has found no difficulty,’ protested de Bar, fearing he may lose his bride even yet.
‘In every circumstance I follow my brother’s guide, excepting in matters concerning the law of God.’
The Duke of Lorraine, father of the intended groom, was growing increasingly irritated with the delays. ‘I will not tolerate heresy in a future daughter-in-law.’
But Catherine remained adamant and refused to submit.
The Lorraine family was for returning home forthwith, but all protests abruptly ceased when Henry increased the dowry to 300,000 crowns. ‘In appreciation of your patience, and because such a sum is commensurate with my sister’s standing as a Daughter of France.’ He also gave 40,000 crowns to Catherine herself.
‘What is this for?’
‘To defray the cost of the royal mantle you must wear for the ceremony.’
‘There will be no ceremony. I refuse to convert.’
Henry smiled patiently at his rebellious sister. ‘Ah, but there will. I am no longer prepared to wait for a dispensation. We shall go ahead without the benefit of the Pope’s blessing.’
Catherine was devastated. She could no longer see a way out. The only thing which stood in the way of the marriage was finding a priest to conduct the ceremony. Catherine felt numb inside as she watched the arrangements being made. It was as if they were happening to someone else, and not herself at all. Yet a part of her went on fighting.
‘I would prefer to be married by one of my pastors.’
The Duke de Bar was outraged by this request. ‘I will not accept a Protestant minister, my children would be declared bastards.’
‘That is only your interpretation, not mine,’ Catherine pronounced.
Her remarks caused great consternation in the Lorraine household, and de Bar, being highly strung, almost wept with frustration over the obstinacy of his bride. But Henry was weary of the argument and had reached the end of his tether.
‘The marriage rites will be solemnized by the Catholic Church, as is only right and proper. I want no one to question its authenticity.’
The King sent at once for Cardinal Gondy to officiate but he firmly declined. ‘The veto of Rome prevents any orthodox clergy from performing such a ceremony. It cannot be done.’
Henry was furious and sent for another priest. He too refused to become involved, and no other clergyman would risk alienating the Pope by disobeying the Holy Father’s wishes in this delicate matter.
Catherine stood quietly by and smiled as de Bar was now the one to fall into despair. ‘With no dispensation from Rome, how can we proceed?’ he cried. ‘All is lost.’
‘I am safe,’ Catherine laughed, hugging Gabrielle in delight. ‘I am to be spared. What think you of that?’
Gabrielle said nothing, merely offering what comfort she could to the Princess, knowing that even now Henry’s fertile mind was working on a solution.
One was found in the person of the Archbishop of Rouen, the King’s illegitimate brother. His morals were questionable as he’d been involved in a long liaison with an abbess, and his licentious behaviour had precluded him from high office. The Archbishop had only gained his exalted position by the personal intervention of the King. Now Henry called upon him to return the favour. Rouen did his best to wriggle out of it, but the threat of losing his beautiful mansion, his crozier and mitre, and the revenue that accompanied both, was too dreadful to contemplate. He finally agreed.
He was ordered to attend the King’s levée on the last Sunday in January, 1599, at St Germain en Laye, where the court had gone for a few days.
Catherine was sitting in her apartment quietly weeping when the King and Gabrielle came to see her after early Mass. She was still in her robe de chambre, although resigned now to her fate.
‘Why are you not yet dressed?’ Henry asked, a false brightness in his tone. ‘Come, I will wait while you prepare yourself. Hurry, hurry, there is no time to be lost.’
Her maids-of-honour scurried about, gathering up linen and silks. Gabrielle too rushed to assist and the ladies withdrew to the dressing room. But even at the last the Princess refused to meekly comply.
‘I will not wear finery for a ceremony of which I do not approve.’
‘My dear Catherine,’ Gabrielle pleaded. ‘I pray you do not offend your new husband at the outset. It is an honour that he wishes to make you his wife.’
‘Marriage may be something you long for, but not I, at least not with the Duke de Bar.’
When she emerged, dressed in her plainest blue gown, Henry smiled and kissed his sister. ‘You look splendid, my dear, if pale and very Puritan. Pinch your cheeks and smile a little.’
Catherine had never felt less like smiling in her life.
Then taking his sister’s hand Henry led her to his closet where the Duke de Bar, together with his brothers and father, the Duke of Lorraine, patiently waited along with several gentlemen supporters.
‘You may begin,’ Henry ordered the Archbishop of Rouen, fabulously garbed in his mitre and rochet.
The Archbishop protested. ‘I pray you excuse me from conducting this nuptial service since we do not yet have the pontifical dispensation. Nor is this an appropriate place to conduct such a ceremony, since it has not been sanctified.’
Henry’s expression was grim. ‘Proceed Monsieur de Rouen, as agreed. My royal presence alone is a sufficient and solemn guarantee, and the King’s closet as sacred as any church.’
Seeing no help for it, and surrounded as he was by the Princes of Lorraine who had long since run out of patience over the delays, the Archbishop opened his missal and began to pray. Henry placed the trembling hand of his sister into that of her fiancé and with all due ceremony the Princess Catherine was at last married to the Duke de Bar.
The Comte de Soissons did not attend but quietly retired to his Château of Maileé. Witnessing the marriage of his beloved was too much for him to bear.
The celebrations continued for an entire week following the nuptials. There were banquets and dances every evening, games, jousts and hunting parties during the day. Catherine sat through them all in a state of numbness, paralysed by the sudden turn of events. She had thought herself safe so long as she refused to convert, not expecting Henry to go against the wishes of Rome. As always, when in distress, she retreated into herself, spending every spare moment she could at her prêches, reading her bible, or talking with the pastors, much to her new husband’s despair.
‘I doubt she will ever agree to convert,’ he complained to his father.
‘Wait till you get her home, son. Wives learn to obey their husbands, given time.’
Gabrielle, on the other hand, took as full a part as she could in the jollifications. Though she was filled with sympathy for Catherine, she had long known what the outcome would be. Besides, she always loved any opportunity to wear her prettiest gowns and jewels. Unfortunately, she didn’t possess her usual degree of energy, feeling somewhat below par as her latest pregnancy was
not proceeding quite as easily as the previous ones. Secure in the King’s love, however, she was content to sit and watch, so long as Henry sat beside her, holding her hand and caressing her as he so loved to do.
‘Are you enjoying the ballet?’ she asked the King one evening as a particularly fine display of dancing was underway.
‘It is magnificent, as always. But who is the young maid who dances with such grace?’
Henry was riveted by the girl’s beauty. Her vivacity shone almost as brightly as her auburn hair, which, despite the demands of fashion, was only lightly sprinkled with powder. She seemed so lively, exchanging witty comments and laughing merrily with her partner as they danced.
Gabrielle frowned. ‘I believe that is Mademoiselle d’Entragues, dancing with her brother the count. Her mother was the once famous Marie Touchet, the mistress of Charles IX.’
‘Ah, was she indeed?’ Henry laughed. ‘She does not appear as mild and biddable as that gentle lady. But she has most certainly inherited her mother’s stunning beauty.’
Gabrielle looked sharply at him, and, sensing her troubled glance, Henry caressed her cheek and kissed her. ‘Do not fret, my angel, no beauty can match your own. You are enchanting, and my one true love.’
Gabrielle smiled and relaxed, letting him slip his hand inside the neck of her gown to fondle her breasts, even if some of the courtiers did scowl disapprovingly at her.
‘Do you wish to dance, my love?’ he asked.
‘I fear it best if I do not, in view of my condition.’
‘You do not object if I do?’
‘Of course not, Your Majesty.’
But when Henry invited the pretty young dancer up on to the floor, Gabrielle minded very much indeed. She had once flirted and teased in that fashion with her two lovers, Longueville and Bellegarde, delaying accepting either one of them, and too late had discovered which one she truly loved. She’d been most reluctant to abandon her lover and accept the role of mistress to a king, even with the promise of a possible crown one day. She had laughed when the King had been jealous of her love for Bellegarde. Now the opposite was the case and Gabrielle very much feared losing Henry.
Reluctant Queen Page 27
