The Queen and the Courtesan (15 page)

‘Can I trust no one, not even my once most loyal supporter?' Henry mourned to the Queen. ‘Rosny urges me to arrest all the perpetrators of this alleged crime. He tells me that the Sieur de La Fin, the former agent of the Duke of Savoy, has confessed, yet the Marshal continues to prate his innocence. Can I trust his word or no? What is the truth of this?'

Hating to see the King so dejected, particularly now they were again reconciled, Marie made a tentative suggestion. ‘Why do you not ask him?'

Henry looked at her in some surprise. ‘As always, my love, you give good counsel. Why do I not?'

Marie was delighted. Loving Henry as she did, it was a relief to be of genuine assistance to her husband for once, and after being so sorely tried with the goings-on of La Marquise.

Biron was summoned to Fontainebleau. Bowing low he kissed the King's hand, and Henry felt so deeply moved to see his old friend again that he embraced him. ‘You have done well to come,
mon ami
.'

Dismissing his attendants Henry grasped him about the shoulder in that familiar way of his, and begged him to tell all. ‘Confide in me, my friend. If you disguise nothing I give you my royal word that I will, with all my heart, accord you a free pardon.'

With barely suppressed irritation Biron haughtily denied any wrongdoing. ‘In short, Sire, I am not here to justify myself, but to learn from you who are my accusers. That is the sole object of my journey.'

The Marshal continued to profess his innocence in the days and weeks following, quite certain that La Fin had already destroyed all documentary evidence against him. Too late he realized this was not the case, but his attempt to flee only resulted in his arrest and incarceration in the Bastille, of which Rosny was now governor. In July, Marshal Biron was tried and found guilty of high treason. Falling on his knees before his accusers he fiercely denied any part in a plot to have the King assassinated.

‘False!' he cried. ‘Efface that charge.'

His defence was that he had sought only marriage with a daughter of the Duke of Savoy. No one believed him. Henry wept when he heard the news, but could do nothing to save his erstwhile friend and comrade.

Marie courageously attempted to intercede, suggesting His Majesty might at least spare the traitor's life.

‘Madame, I have too great an affection for you and your son to grant your request. I cannot leave in the heart of my realm so sharp a thorn, when I have the power to extract such.'

For all her deep sympathy and longing to ease her husband's pain, Marie understood. Should anything untoward happen to the King, then her own position, and that of the Dauphin, might be put at peril by such an intrigue.

The Marshal was led at last to the scaffold, still proclaiming his innocence, where he resisted to the last the efforts of the executioner to remove his head. All dignity and arrogance gone, he tore off the blindfold time and time again, suffering a pitiful and ignominious end to his ambitions.

The charges against Auvergne were weak, as was the man himself. But Henriette was in a lather of fury that they should have been brought at all. ‘My brother is not a traitor!' she screamed at the King. ‘I cannot bear to see him imprisoned in that grim fortress, the Bastille. Every time I visit him he looks more shrunken, as if he is dying before my eyes.'

‘Dear heart, your brother was spared the ordeal of a trial with Biron. I agreed to exempt him, as an indulgence to you, until proof positive of his guilt has been found. But sooner or later he must face his accusers. If he is innocent he has nothing to fear.'

Throwing herself at his feet Henriette burst into floods of tears, for once genuine. ‘You know that is not true. You must save him. He is my
brother
! If you loved me you would have him released.'

Henry stifled a sigh. ‘I must indeed love you, otherwise I would not tolerate these endless tantrums. And if he is innocent, why did he attempt to flee?'

‘Because he is a fool. If he lent his name to this intrigue it is because he understood little of its aims. He was a milksop in the hands of the clever marshal. Reckless, yes, and light-minded, but not with any evil intent. Rather he is young and weak. Grant him audience, I beg you, Sire. Listen to what he has to say.'

When the Count stood before his sovereign, Henriette beside him as support, his first words did nothing to reassure Henry of the young man's innocence.

‘Sire, as the price for my liberation, if you would allow me to continue my relations with Spain I would willingly divulge the plots and secrets of the cabinet of Madrid to Your Majesty.'

Henry looked at him with disdain. ‘You would wish me to allow you to be a traitor twice over? Or do you choose to spy for both Spain and for France?'

Henriette hastily intervened. ‘My brother is but offering you his loyal services. He would reveal nothing of your own plans to Spain. You can trust him in that.'

‘Is that so? He has proved himself to be trustworthy, has he?'

Henry's glance quelled her and she stepped back, suitably chastened. Henriette was beginning to learn that you could push this king only so far.

‘All I ask,' Auvergne continued with growing confidence, ‘is that Your Majesty demonstrates neither surprise nor anger over my liaison with the Spanish ambassador, nor seize certain packages which may from time to time be transported from Madrid.'

‘I think you ask a great deal,' Henry said, unable to disguise the contempt he felt for the Count. The man's arrogance was offensive, his proposition outrageous. He deserved to lose his head for that alone. Yet Henry kept reminding himself that this foolish half-brother of his mistress was a Valois, the son of Charles IX by Marie Touchet, and the uncle of his own children by Henriette. ‘The machinations of the Spanish cabinet can be dangerous,' he reminded him. ‘They are not to be taken on lightly.'

‘Therefore, would it not serve Your Majesty well to have me accepted there, to give me leave to correspond with Spain?'

Henry pardoned Auvergne. He found he did not have the stomach to see the young idiot lose his head. And if that was partly because he realized he would then lose the heart and favour of his fascinating sister, so be it. He would take the risk.

The following year Henriette was again
enceinte
, and the Queen gave birth to a daughter. Marie was so disappointed that she burst into tears and refused to even look at the child.

‘Take her away,' she told Madame de Montglât, the children's nurse. ‘I was assured by the seers that I would bear three sons. The King will despise me for this failure.'

‘I'm sure His Majesty will be delighted.'

And indeed, when Henry came, he took the newborn princess in his arms and kissed and cuddled her with great affection before carrying her to the Queen. ‘My love, let us thank God for the blessing of this daughter.'

‘A boy would be of greater value,' Marie wept.

‘How so? Did not your own mother give birth to a fine daughter who became Queen of France?' he teased. ‘Daughters are necessary to royal houses in order to form foreign alliances. Now what shall we call this one? Elizabeth, I think, after the great queen of England. And our little princess too will one day be a great queen. Now kiss her, my love.'

Marie obediently took her daughter in her arms to kiss her at the King's bidding, and instantly fell in love with the child. ‘You are so good to me,' she told him, her tears now sparkling with joy.

The King was attentive, even loving, and she had proved herself fecund. Perhaps she would produce a son next time. Marie was content.

But she remained troubled by the constant presence of La Marquise. Every now and then Leonora would bring her titbits of gossip, saying that the she-cat was secretly receiving Bellegarde, or some other
chevalier
. Marie drank it all in, would sometimes suggest to Henry that his
maîtresse-en-titre
was not so faithful to him as she might appear. But without exception he always laughed off such charges, which was immensely frustrating.

Marie knew that her own constant jealousy often resulted in her appearing cold and somewhat haughty. Had not her own mother suffered from a similar trait? It was but hurt pride and wounded feelings, yet she must do her utmost to guard against this tendency, however justified.

Henriette was beginning to feel a little less secure. Her attempts to further the interests of her own treasured son had met with failure, which was a great disappointment to her. It may well amuse the people of Paris to have the King's wife and his mistress pregnant at the same time, but of what benefit was it to her? She even noticed a slight change in Henry's attitude towards her. He visited her less often when she was in this condition, which was deeply worrying. Henriette resolved to improve her situation.

‘Even if we cannot marry, I beg you, Sire, to at least legitimize our son. You could remove the stigma of his birth.'

‘And would you then return my promise of marriage?' Henry had hoped to put an end to this issue years ago, never having expected it to be a problem in the first place, since he'd most carefully put a time limit of six months on his promise to wed her. Unfortunately, he'd not insisted that the child live, and Henriette was growing increasingly stubborn on the matter. If he removed the stigma of birth on her second son, would that not make her even more demanding?

Henriette cast him a teasing glance. ‘One day, when I feel sufficiently secure.'

Two months after the Queen's accouchement on 21 January 1603, she gave birth to a daughter. The child was christened Gabrielle Angelique, the names again chosen by the King. Three days before the birth, Henry instructed Parliament to register letters patent to legitimize her brother, Gaston Henri. He also promised Henriette that this child too would later be granted the same benefit.

But this was not enough for Henriette. She was beginning to think that it was time to look for a husband.

‘Who will you choose?' asked Auvergne.

‘I was thinking of the Prince de Joinville. We once enjoyed a short
affaire
. In fact, he offered for my hand but the King would not hear of it.'

Auvergne was almost salivating with excitement. ‘Joinville is of the House of Lorraine, a Prince of the Blood, which would make you a Princess, sister. Should I speak with him on the matter?'

Henriette gave her catlike smile. ‘I shall write him a letter which you can deliver for me.'

Many letters were exchanged between the pair. Joinville was at first cautious, having been rejected once already, but it did not take long before he was entirely smitten by her charms and again offering for her hand. He begged an audience with the King in order to seek permission.

Henry was not amused. Overwhelmed with a fierce jealousy he glared at the young prince, rejecting his request with the same resolve he'd once used against Bellegarde when the Grand Equerry had pressed his suit to marry Gabrielle d'Estrées. That unfortunate young man had found himself banished from court for the crime of falling in love with a woman the King desired. Was history about to repeat itself ?

‘You get above yourself, sir. Did you not learn your lesson when I stopped your fight with that troublesome knave, Bellegarde? Be warned, I will not tolerate interference in my affairs. Find yourself another wife to espouse.'

The Prince de Joinville had more sense than to challenge the King, and gracefully withdrew his suit. But having been rejected a second time, he took out his disappointment by indulging in an affair with Juliette. She was the sister of the late Gabrielle d'Estrées, and almost as beautiful. He soon forgot all about Henriette.

In truth, Henry cared little about whether or not Henriette was married. A husband could be useful if a mistress was reluctant to succumb to his charms, or he had grown tired of her. The King asked only that the marriage be in name only for as long as he desired the wife in question. But this particular union would bring Henriette uncomfortably close to the crown, perhaps handing her too much power. Worse, it could detrimentally affect Henry's private life. He suspected that were he to agree, Joinville might well insist on becoming a husband in every way, and Henriette would be obliged to withdraw from court. Such a prospect did not bear contemplating.

‘I would never abandon you,' Henriette said, attempting to reassure the King when she found her cleverly laid plans again falling to dust. ‘It is
you
that I love, but I must needs have protection for my children, and for my future when you fall out of love with me.'

‘I shall never do that,' Henry smoothly insisted, as he was wont to do with all his mistresses. ‘You are everything to me.'

Irritating and meddling though she might be, he needed her. And fond as he was of his wife, Marie was turning into a veritable harpy, constantly complaining and nagging him about La Marquise. On more than one occasion he'd been driven to leave her bed in order to avoid yet another lengthy lecture. Why could she not learn to turn a blind eye? No, no, he needed the excitement that Henriette had to offer, her indiscretions still fascinated him, and she still set his pulses racing despite the risks she presented, or perhaps that sense of danger only added to his pleasure. Whatever the reason, he would keep La Marquise exclusively for himself, and well away from the crown.

Henry had hoped to keep this latest concession private, but the Queen's spies were too clever for him, and Marie was again furious, entirely forgetting her resolve to remain calm and controlled, and not allow the she-cat to upset her. ‘You are so weak! Why can you not learn that the harlot is manipulating you? How could you think to legitimize her son when you are not, and never will be, married to her.'

The very lectures and storms that Henry so dreaded started all over again, the royal couple's brief harmony utterly destroyed. How he longed for domestic peace, but his wife's tongue was becoming almost as sharp as that of Henriette's. Was any man more plagued than he? He felt at a loss to know how to pacify and silence his irate and nagging consort.