The Queen and the Courtesan (26 page)

Marie was inwardly alarmed but outwardly contrite. ‘Of course, Your Majesty. I wasn't thinking.'

But as Margot approached in stately fashion, she felt overwhelmed, as if she were a humble subject being presented to a monarch who was regal in every line of her beautiful body. For this was no sad old crone. This woman may have grown older, and plumper, but was every inch a queen, and still a beauty. She sparkled with gems, ablaze with diamonds, from those in the shape of stars that she wore in her ears, to the precious stones studded all over her satin gown, which was in her favourite orange. The style brought forth a few whispered comments as it was hooped in the fashion of those worn in the time of Queen Catherine de Medici. Queen Marie favoured a more draped, flowing style, but, judging from the ladies' reaction, she accurately surmised that in a frighteningly short space of time hoops would again become
de rigueur
.

As Margot walked towards the royal dais with perfect grace, none could deny her loveliness. She glanced to her right and left, smiling and nodding to the nobles and their ladies who crowded the salon, eager to see this woman who was a living legend; treating them with the kind of ease that Marie, a foreigner in this land still, could only envy.

Henry presented his former queen to his new one with delicate precision. Marie graciously dipped a curtsey, as instructed, and rather clumsily embraced her predecessor.

‘You should have stepped forward to meet her,' Henry grumbled in her ear. ‘It was churlish of you to make her walk those few extra steps. Did I not remind you that she is more royal than either of us?'

Marie blushed to the roots of her carefully coiffed hair, feeling suitably chastened and woefully inadequate; a frump with her limp gown and over-powdered hair. Queen Margot wore her own hair lightly powdered, as did La Marquise. It was vexing to always be slightly out of step with fashion.

A few desultory words were exchanged between the two queens, Marie making polite enquiries about her journey and her health. Queen Margot then asked after the children.

‘They are in the nursery, with their governess,' Marie coolly responded.

‘I would love to see them. I cannot wait to meet the little dauphin. I have heard he is a fine, healthy boy who excels at his studies.'

The mother in Marie melted at this compliment to her son. ‘He is strong, yes, and his tutors are pleased with him.'

Margot was insistent that she must be taken to see him forthwith, proclaiming herself enchanted when he came towards her and politely bowed. ‘Ah, but they did not lie. How beautiful he is. What a handsome boy!'

Marie's maternal pride swelled, and her attitude towards her husband's former wife softened just a little. But in her heart she knew that she had not conducted herself well. In this first exchange, Queen Margot had won the day.

Throughout August, as the guest of the royal family at Saint Germain, Margot revelled in her stay at court. She couldn't remember when she'd enjoyed herself more. She joked and teased Henry as they had used to do in their youth, Margot reminding him of how she had been the one to instruct him in the courtly steps of dancing, and how she could always outride him, so long as he didn't cheat. ‘Although I never persuaded you to stop eating garlic.'

‘Or from drinking good Gascon red wine,' Henry agreed.

‘I may be an optimist but never expect the impossible. And do you still hunt boar with reckless abandon, and climb in bare feet?'

Laughing, he shook his head. ‘The former on occasions, but not the latter. I have grown a little older, if no wiser.'

‘Oh, I think we both know you were never quite the fool you pretended to be, although my mother was frequently taken in by your innocent-seeming charm, I do recall. Save for where your particular weaknesses are concerned, of which we will make no mention.'

Marie always felt rather left out during these witty exchanges, as they referred to a time in which she played no part. They spoke of a shared youth, of many failed attempts to escape the Louvre and Catherine de Medici's menace, of adventures she could only guess at.

Margot enjoyed renewing other old acquaintances too, particularly with regard to her favourites: Bellegarde and Roquelaure, even Jacques de Harlay, Marquis of Champvallon, which she thought rather generous of Henry to allow him to attend. He had been her Narcissus, and she perhaps a touch indiscreet about their passionate relationship. All water under the bridge now, of course, but it was good to see him again and discover they could remain friends.

‘Are you still writing poetry to your lovers?'

Champvallon smiled. ‘None ever stirred my heart as did Your Majesty, so the skill has rusted, I fear.'

Margot chuckled with delight. ‘As quick-witted as ever, I see.'

But as well as enjoying the court festivities she visited monasteries and convents, happily chatting with the nuns, and sitting with them to help with their embroidery or repairing the lace adornments for the altars, at which she was an expert.

‘There was little else to do in the long days of winter at Usson,' she told them with her usual frank candour, and not a trace of self-pity.

Marie watched all of this with increasing unease and envy. You could not fault Margot in any way. She always gave precedence to herself, the queen, and treated her with the utmost respect and even warmth. Yet how was it that this woman, who had been accused of such scandals that she'd been banished to live far from civilization for years, could so easily slip back into the court routine? The court ladies who remained cool and condescending towards Marie, were almost grovelling to be a part of Marguerite's circle. It was galling in the extreme that she, the true queen, who had tried so hard to fit in, was still looked upon as a stranger.

And in addition to a divorced wife, she still had her husband's mistresses to contend with.

It was not until September 1605 that letters of remission were granted to Balzac and he was at last allowed to return to Malesherbes. At first he was under surveillance, although his guards were soon dismissed and his wife allowed to join him in their home. Henry claimed the reason was because he wished to show regard for the ambassador of his good brother and ally, the King of England, as the Duke of Lennox was his envoy and a close relative of the Balzac family. Marie knew it was for love of La Marquise.

Auvergne was left to moulder in the Bastille.

Letters of abolition were also issued which pronounced Henriette innocent, and forbade further investigations into her case. As expected, she had been pardoned.

The people of Paris were furious that the decree of a respected tribunal was so easily overturned. It proved to them how very much the King still desired her. Henriette shared that view and wrote a passionate letter to Henry expressing her sincere gratitude. She received a reply written in his usual loving style, one that caused her dampened spirit to soar with fresh hope.

She wrote again, and Henry responded within days. Their correspondence continued, every word simmering with repressed passion, and of course kept a secret from the Queen. Henriette realized with a sense of joyful triumph that her affair with the King was by no means over.

‘Have you seen how they flock to her salon?' Henriette asked of her sister. ‘Margot has settled in the Hôtel de Sens, holding court as if
she
were queen, and not the fat banker. She counts the Duchess of Retz, the Princess Dowager de Condé and the Duchess of Guise among her guests. All leaders of fashion. Not to mention several of the finest poets and artists in the land.'

‘And you wish to be included?' teased Marie-Charlotte.

‘I wish to meet with the King again, and I am told Henry is a regular visitor.'

‘You were ever audacious, sister, but I think you expect too much, too soon.'

Henriette flounced over to her desk, a wry smile on her face. ‘Perhaps I have reason to believe I would be welcomed. I shall write and request an audience.'

The reply came swiftly and was not quite as she'd hoped. Queen Margot thanked Madame de Verneuil for her kind words of welcome, noted her request for an audience, but stated that regretfully she must ascertain the King's pleasure before offering an invitation.

‘Which will take no time at all,' Henriette haughtily assured Marie-Charlotte. ‘The King has forgiven me, and still writes to me of his love. He wants
me
. Only
I
can make him truly happy.'

But weeks went by and no such invitation arrived.

‘They are saying that the King is still enamoured of his little Jacqueline, now risen to the title of Madame de Moret,' Marie-Charlotte quietly informed her sister.

Henriette ground her teeth with fury. ‘But
she
cannot entertain him as
I
can. The chit has no wit, no sparkle, and has a pale insipid beauty. What is it about her that he likes?'

‘She is young and biddable.'

‘And available, whereas I still do not have permission to return to court; neither Queen Marie's, nor Queen Margot's. It is most frustrating. Letters from Henry are all very well, but I want more. I need to see him, and how can I find out where he is, or what is going on if I cannot gain entry?'

‘I think I may know of a way. I will ask Bassompierre if he will help, and in return, once you are back with the King, you can ask His Majesty to grant us permission to marry.'

Unexpectedly, Henriette kissed her sister. ‘I knew you would find a way to help me.'

The chamberlain's assistance was not needed in the end as the King himself came calling upon Henriette a few days later. She could barely contain her excitement and was thankful that she'd always made a point of wearing one of her finest gowns every day, just in case. Today she was in sky blue and turquoise, which set off her green eyes to perfection, the décolletage suitably revealing. She swiftly ordered Henry's favourite repast of sausage and cold meats, slapped a goggle-eyed maid who fell into some kind of trance at sight of the King, and with rapidly beating heart sank into a deep curtsey before him.

Henry raised her up and gave her the usual three kisses by way of greeting, but on her cheeks, not the lips. She cast him a smouldering glance from beneath her lashes, suggesting he could take more if he wished. He made no move to do so.

‘I'm glad you came, Sire. I have so longed for this day.'

‘I too, dear heart, although my visit must be short. I'm preparing to leave on campaign as there is trouble in Sedan, but I wished to see you before I departed, to assure you of my very deep affection.'

Henriette poured him a goblet of wine, leaning close so that her gown fell forward slightly, revealing a silky shoulder and the soft curve of her breasts. ‘I have ordered your favourite dinner. The best of everything. Whatever hunger you have, I can quench it.'

Henry snatched up the goblet and took a long swallow of wine, taking time to collect himself. He had not meant to tangle with her today, had vowed to resist, yet the mere sight of her set his senses swimming. Setting down the cup with a sigh, he gave her a stern look. ‘You should not have avoided me. Had you been more open with me from the beginning, we might not have had all of this trouble.'

Henriette pouted provocatively and, sinking into the seat beside him, slid a hand fondly over his knee which she then began to knead with her long, slender fingers. ‘I was afraid. I thought I had lost you. Oh, but I missed you so.' Her hands instinctively slipped about his neck, stroking his beard, taking off his plumed cap and tossing it aside so that she could run her fingers through his hair. ‘Did you miss me?'

‘Of course, my love.' His breathing was growing more rapid as his pulses raced, his resolve melting at her touch.

But Henriette wanted more. She needed to be sure of him, to enslave him again. She began to unlace the bodice of her gown, slipping it slowly from her shoulders, baring herself to him. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten what it is exactly that you are missing?' Freed of their restriction her breasts tumbled full and warm into her own hands. She laughed, a low, gurgling sound deep in her throat as she rubbed a thumb over nipples taut and dark, teasing him, knowing he wanted to take their place with his own.

‘I–I have . . .' He stopped, cleared his throat, started again. ‘The Queen is not happy, and I have no wish to upset her further.' The fever in his eyes was sheer delight, a balm to her wounded pride. Henriette pulled away slightly, took a slow sip from the King's own goblet, arching her throat as she drank, aware of his burning eyes upon her nakedness. She set the cup down, brushing a hand lightly over wine-darkened lips. ‘We must take great care not to upset Her Majesty.'

She kissed him then, full on the mouth, nipping, touching, her tongue darting and sparring against his. She was opening his shirt, slipping her hands inside to slake her claws down his back. He could not resist her, no more now than ever. In no time at all his mouth was where her own hands had teased, then he was seeking his pleasure beneath her petticoats, slaking his lust fast and hard as he'd done many times in the past.

Afterwards he lay back on the couch, replete. Yet for Henriette there was a slight sense of disappointment. The coupling had not been quite as it should be, taking less time than she would have liked. She'd never troubled much with foreplay, but somehow after their lovemaking today she felt dissatisfied, as if Henry had held something of himself back. And he seemed more tense than usual. Then he told her.