The Queen and the Courtesan (28 page)

‘Well, there you are then, no harm done.'

‘Exceeding harm has been done. The King may not trust Bassompierre so well in future. And the Queen was less easily fooled. After the interview, Her Majesty spoke to Bassompierre, astutely placing the blame where it was properly due. You do yourself no favours by this sort of foolishness, Henriette. The King will lose patience with your tricks in the end.'

‘You can mind your own affairs and keep your advice to yourself, madam!' And giving her sister a stinging slap, Henriette stormed from the room.

On the thirtieth of May the law courts declared the ex-Queen Marguerite to be the lawful heir to the counties of Auvergne and Clermont, the barony of La Tour, and other estates which had appertained to the late Queen Catherine de Medici. These estates had hitherto been in the possession of Charles de Valois, who had wrongfully taken the title of Comte d'Auvergne. Parliament directed that the said territories should forthwith be transferred to Queen Marguerite, to whom they rightfully belonged.

When she heard of this decision, Margot celebrated a special mass in the church of St Saviour, causing a Te Deum to be chanted in gratitude. She then donated the recovered estates to the Dauphin, keeping only the income for life, so that Louis should inherit all on her death.

Margot loved the little boy as if he were her own son, and would often visit him and the other children in the royal nurseries where he was being taught to ride and tilt, even to dance, as he was doing today. He too had grown fond of her and would always run to her in delight, calling her
maman-fille
, which thrilled her.

‘The King seems to be a good father, is that not so?' she asked of Madame de Montglât.

‘Oh, indeed he is,' the governess vehemently agreed. ‘Our little dauphin is somewhat headstrong and if he stubbornly refuses to do as he is told, I am instructed to whip him. Queen Marie, who is much softer with the boy, disapproves strongly, but the King insists that he must not be mollycoddled. He says that at his age he was often soundly whipped, therefore he commands me to take the same firm line.'

‘I am sure His Majesty knows best.'

‘He also showers all the children with great love and affection, personally regulates their routine, their welfare and education, demanding daily bulletins of every childish ailment. He is a devoted father, and visits them daily whenever he is resident at Saint Germain.'

As if on cue, Henry arrived at that very moment. ‘Ah, are you too a slave to the charms of my children?' he teased.

‘I am. I adore your sons, little Louis and César, and Henri of course. The princesses too are delightful, such pretty little girls, and clearly very attached to you.' She laughed as, squealing with delight, they ran to their father to be swung up into a loving embrace.

Henry planted exorbitant kisses on cheeks and curly hair, on snub noses and tiny fingers, then set his daughters down on the floor where they instantly demanded a pony ride. ‘They have me entirely in their thrall,' the King groaned, obediently going down on all fours to allow them to climb all over him and whip him on, as if he were a real pony. ‘This is my sweet Elizabeth who will one day be affianced to a grand king or prince. And here we have the naughty and lovely Gabrielle, the daughter of Madame de Verneuil, and as much a coquette as her mother,' he teased, gathering up the giggling child to tickle her.

‘I trust you will grant them some say when it comes to choosing husbands,' Margot mildly remarked, and Henry raised dark eyebrows in surprise as he cast her an amused glance.

‘Are you saying that had you been given a choice in the matter you would have declined to marry me?'

‘You know full well that I would. You and I were sworn enemies from the start.'

‘I seem to recall you not battling with me greatly on our wedding night.'

Margot flushed bright crimson, a rare occurrence for her, but it was true. She had feared and dreaded that night, wanting only to lie with her beloved Guise, but Henry had surprised her, skilfully fulfilling his role of husband and lover. ‘Have a care. Do not speak of such things before the children,' she sternly chided him. ‘I accept our marriage did not turn out as badly as I had feared, and might have fared better in different circumstances.'

‘Aye, there is some truth in that. At least my girls do not have Catherine de Medici for a mother.'

‘Indeed, that is an advantage,' Margot drily remarked. ‘I ask only that you choose wisely for them.'

His eyes were soft as he watched his two pretty daughters gallop away on their pretend horses. ‘You can be sure that I will take the utmost care.' Then directing the warmth of his gaze back to her, he continued, ‘I thank you for bequeathing your personal fortune to the Dauphin. It was most generous of you. And your gifts to the clergy and the poor of Paris are becoming almost legendary. I hear you have donated money for a new monastery for monks of the reformed Augustine order.'

‘That is something I promised to do while still a captive at Usson. Do I not need to recompense for all my sins?' she said, chuckling with good humour. ‘Every morning I do penance in bare feet.'

‘And by evening you are clothed in carnation silk, reposing upon velvet cushions while a musician strums you a love song.'

Margot laughed out loud, for there was much truth in the jest. ‘But I never fail to give a tithe of all that I possess to the monks, even though I confess my favourites cost me far more.'

And if she took some of them as lovers she was ever discreet. More than enough men had died for her.

Marie was quickly falling into a melancholy. She had at first rejoiced to discover that Henry had taken not simply one, but two other mistresses. There is safety in numbers, Donna Leonora had assured her, and surely it would put the she-cat's nose out of joint. But Marie was beginning to have doubts. It meant only that she must suffer the pangs of jealousy three times over. She had rather hoped, nay, expected the affair with La Marquise to be over long before now, but it was evident that her husband's visits to the château on Rue de Tournon were as regular as ever.

Yet the entire court knew that La Marquise was no more constant to the King than he was to her. It was rumoured that the young Duke of Guise was also paying her excessive attention. And as if that were not enough, the Duke of Longueville, ever reckless in affairs of the heart, was now paying court to Jacqueline. What a blind fool Henry could be in these matters.

All of these unseemly capers added to Marie's own humiliation, and forced her to withdraw more into herself, hiding in her apartments with her Italian companions for hours at a time. She was deeply angry, couldn't help but feel bitter at the circumstances of her marriage, and again refusing to speak to Henry. Marie felt she had been as unfortunate as her mother, her life blighted by an unfaithful and neglectful husband.

Henry too was in despair. ‘How am I to deal with her?' he asked his favourite advisor.

‘You could always renounce your mistress, Sire, and offer complete loyalty to your Queen,' came the predictable reply.

Henry scowled. ‘Or my wife could moderate her temper. Speak to her, I beg you. I am weary of these other women, of Mesdames de Moret and des Essarts, who have no wit and simple minds. I almost prefer a stormy interview with the Queen since she at least has some fire in her, which I greatly admire.'

‘You wish me to tell Her Majesty this?'

‘I do. And tell her that I am not responsible for Madame de Verneuil's wicked tongue.'

As always Rosny, or Sully, as he should rightfully now be called, tactfully intervened and yet again a shaky peace was forged between husband and wife. Which was just as well, as the official baptism of the royal children was about to take place and arrangements needed to be made. Each child had been given a private one at birth but now a grand, state occasion was planned. Once these arrangements had been set in motion the royal couple were sufficiently reconciled to go together to Saint Germain to spend some time with the children, which was always a joy to Marie. They stayed until the first week in June when they set out to return to the capital.

They were being driven in a coach drawn by eight horses, the day wet and miserable, the roads muddy due to a steady downpour of rain. With them were the Princess de Condé and the Dukes of Vendôme and Montpensier, attended by several gentlemen on horseback. It was still pouring with rain when the cumbersome vehicle reached the river at Neuilly, which they found to be running at such a flood that the horses struggled to draw the coach on to the ferry. One suddenly took fright and lunged forwards. The others followed and minutes later Marie was screaming.

‘It is going over! We are sinking.'

Henry managed to quickly extricate himself, and seeing that his son was in danger of drowning, managed to grab him by the cloak and drag him to the shore.

Madame de Condé had fortunately landed in shallow water and was able to save herself with a little assistance from the Duke of Montpensier, although she fainted on reaching the bank.

But the Queen was still trapped inside the coach, which was sinking fast.

Seeing this tragedy unfolding before his very eyes, Henry plunged back into the swirling waters to save her. He was beaten to it by La Châteneraye, who, catching the Queen by the hair, ignominiously dragged her to the surface and helped her to the shore.

Marie lay pale as death in the mud, her rescuer and the King doing their utmost to revive her. At length she opened her eyes, and her first thought was for her husband. ‘Where is the King, is he safe?'

‘I am here, my love, and by the grace of God, so are you. I think the immersion has done me good,' he joked. ‘Before that I was suffering from a furious toothache, which now seems to be cured. And if any of us dined too heartily on salted meats, we have the satisfaction of having been able to drink freely.'

‘How can you jest about such matters? We almost drowned. Where is César?' Marie looked about her in a panic.

‘The little fellow is safe too, my love. We did not drown, and will hold a service of thanksgiving to celebrate our survival.'

Châteneraye was granted a private audience and presented with a jewelled star worth 4,000
livres
, plus an ample pension and post as captain of Her Majesty's bodyguard, the Queen forever trusting him to keep her safe.

Paris was agog with the tale, giving their own prayers of thanksgiving for the rescue of their Queen consort. But within hours of returning to the capital Henry called upon La Marquise. She listened to the tale with glee, eyes round with amusement.

‘Goodness, had I been there, once I had seen that
you
were safe, I should have exclaimed
la Reine boit
!'

Perhaps caught unawares by her wit, as so often in the past, Henry laughed. He was ashamed of this later but, unfortunately, the exchange was overheard by Concini, and when the King's reaction was relayed to the Queen, Marie was livid.

‘Am I ever to be humiliated and vilified by that woman? And now by the King too who shares in her wicked wit? Am I to be nothing more than a source of ridicule to them both?' She felt deeply hurt and offended, her dignity as queen compromised to such a degree that she refused to receive her husband. The truce was over. ‘I am done with him,' she cried. And although her anger gradually faded, and this, like all their other spats, eventually passed after an estrangement of three or four weeks, a part of her love for him did die as a result. Stung to the heart, it was one humiliation too many for the sensitive Marie.

Part Eight

T
HE
E
ND OF AN
A
FFAIR

1606–1610

T
he baptism had to be postponed as plague stalked the streets of Paris during August, and it was therefore decided that the ceremony should be transferred to Fontainebleau instead of the Church of Notre Dame. Queen Margot's household suffered the loss of three of her servants, and she hastily removed herself to a picturesque house at Issy, returning in early September for this grand state occasion. Marie, in a high state of nervous tension, and anxious not to be outshone by the former queen, chose to wear a lavish gown of cloth of gold set with thousands of precious stones. Now she stood before her Venetian glass in tears, knowing it was a complete failure.

‘I cannot possibly wear this. It is far too heavy.' The weight of the gems were such that she could hardly move. It was not a good omen for the day.

‘Your Majesty will be equally beautiful in something less oppressive,' Donna Leonora assured her, sending the maids of honour scurrying for a replacement gown.

‘And Fontainebleau is far too small,' the Queen sobbed. ‘Have you seen the numbers of guests arriving, and what of the spectators who will come to view the pageant later? How shall we manage?'

‘All will be well, Madame, I promise you, and if it is not then Sully will be the one held responsible, not Your Majesty. Now breathe slowly, let us prepare you, then you can visit the children before the ceremony commences.'

‘Oh, Leonora, what would I do without you?' Marie cried, allowing her
dame d'atours
to dry her tears.

Little Louis was five, old enough to understand, or so the King believed, the meaning of the rites to be administered. Princess Elizabeth was a pretty child of four. And then there was baby Christine. There had been some initial difficulty over who was to be godfather, since James I of England thought he should have been asked before the Pope, and the latter refused to share the role with a heretic, that is Anne of Denmark, the Protestant queen of James, who had been invited to stand for Madame Christine. Eventually matters had been resolved as diplomatically as possible, and Donna Leonora was proved right – all did go remarkably smoothly despite this fracas and disappointment over the venue.

‘All praise to Sully for the extensive planning involved,' the Queen said as, at the end of a long and tiring day, Donna Leonora helped her to remove the substitute gown. And if it had not possessed quite the splendour of the first, or that of Queen Margot's extravagant creation in silver tissue draped with pearls, it had certainly been more comfortable to wear. ‘It has been a remarkable and wonderful occasion. How splendid the crimson draperies, the canopy of silver over the font, the glorious processions, and how good the children were. Did you see how little Elizabeth looked about her in wonder? She missed nothing. What an intelligent child she is. Everything was perfect.'