The Queen and the Courtesan (29 page)

But after the smallest of pauses, the Queen continued more quietly, ‘Save for the King making unwelcome advances upon Madame de Nevers. In her innocence the dear lady at first accepted his compliments as being simply admiring of the calm serenity of her person. But once she realized that Henry was proposing to replace La Marquise with herself, she has fled to her estate at Nevers. Why will he not behave?' Marie sighed heavily, in near despair.

‘Did Your Majesty note the number of great ladies now wearing enormous hoops in the style of Queen Margot?' Donna Leonora gently enquired in an attempt to change the subject.

‘I did indeed.' The thought brought no greater satisfaction. It seemed at times that every one of Henry's women were able to influence him, and the court, save for herself.

There was one other woman who had caught the King's eye at the baptism, or rather a girl. Her eyes were huge, a soft brown set in the sweetest face that had no need of powder or paint. Her figure was slender but shapely for one so young. Her hair, which hung in shimmering waves down her back, was the fairest and silkiest the King had ever seen. Henry knew, the moment he set eyes on her, that he wanted her.

‘Who is that girl?' he asked Sully.

‘She is Charlotte Marguerite de Montmorency, the youngest daughter of the constable.' The minister glanced anxiously at his master, noting how the dark eyes glittered with interest, a look he knew well. ‘And barely thirteen years old, Sire.'

‘Is this her first time at court?'

‘Mademoiselle de Montmorency has led a quiet, sheltered life at Vincennes, educated by her aunt who loves her dearly, her mother being dead. I believe she is somewhat neglected by her father, who only shows interest in the girl when he receives yet another offer for her hand. It is said that she had a half-dozen before she was twelve years old.'

‘She is a rare beauty,' agreed Henry, almost salivating as he watched her gracefully walk in the procession beside his infant daughter. ‘There is a beguiling innocence about her.'

But in the weeks and months ahead Henry had little time to think of this luscious young beauty as fresh domestic turmoil broke out between his queen and his mistress. Henriette was growing increasingly demanding, and Marie was again refusing to admit her to court. Henriette could be difficult, he conceded, and even cold towards himself if she was in one of her moods, of which Henry was growing somewhat weary. On one recent visit she had actually ordered him to leave.

‘You have never brought me anything but misfortune,' she screamed at him.

Henry had felt deeply offended. ‘Reflect a little, Madame; I do not deserve this treatment.'

Yet she continued to engage in these outbursts, and he continued to endure them, although perhaps with less grace. At other times she could, of course, be most loving, as exciting and daring as ever. But that would be when she wanted something, such as the time she wished to secure the bishopric of Metz for little Henri. She was also growing increasingly possessive. Henriette, like the Queen, seemed to demand exclusive rights over him, something Henry was quite unable to give.

Why were they both so quarrelsome? Did neither of them care to simply give him the love and peace he craved?

Henriette was in despair. Her power seemed to be slipping from her grasp with frightening speed, and her hope of igniting the King's love through jealousy, by dallying with the Duke of Guise, did not seem to be working. Weary of seclusion and yet another banishment from court she wrote to Henry repeating her request to retire to London, or Madrid. ‘I wish to devote myself to religion, and preserve my honour and dignity at least.'

This time it was not entirely a ploy. She was desperate to get away, anywhere there was some life and fun to be had. She was dying from frustration and boredom cooped up in the country with no companions but her servants and her sister. Henriette had never loved the King, only the role she'd played as a royal mistress. If that was lost to her, or no longer what it should be, then far better to gain her freedom and look elsewhere. But she still needed protection in the form of favours for her children, and a pension for herself. The Queen could not have things all her own way.

Henriette sent her son a Spanish missal, suggesting it might help him to learn the language, but received a furious letter back from the King when he discovered it one morning at prayers.

‘How dare Henry interfere with what a mother chooses to give her son,' she railed at her sister, ever the butt of her fury.

Marie-Charlotte sighed. ‘Because he is the King, and the boy's father.'

‘Read this letter, read what he says. No, I shall read it to you. “This morning at matins I took a book of prayer in Spanish from your son. He told me the book was your gift. It is my will that my said son shall not even know that there exists a Spain.” What think you of that?'

‘I think you should take care, sister, or your rivals will warm his bed more often than you would care for.'

Never one to give up easily, and remembering how the Queen's
dame d'atours
, Donna Leonora, had helped her once before, Henriette decided to make use of the woman again, and quickly dashed off a letter to her. Perhaps the Italian could gain her admittance to court circles again, where the King had failed.

A reply came within days, although it did not please her. ‘Damnation, the woman refuses to help. This letter comes from her husband, Concini, in which he expresses regret that duty to the Queen prevents both himself and his wife from espousing the interests of a woman whose tongue daily inflicts outrage on her royal mistress. How dare he speak to me in such tones!'

‘Barring the insult to your good self, sister, I am sure there is some truth in what he says. Donna Leonora is an insipid, humble creature, entirely devoted to the Queen and in thrall to her ambitious husband. Concini's one weakness is that he hates to be ill-thought of by the nobles of the court. He wishes to be considered their equal.'

‘He will never be accepted, not when even the King dislikes him.' Her eyes brightened on a new thought. ‘In fact, I would be doing Henry a favour were I to rid the court of the Italian's obnoxious presence. Bring paper and pen. Hurry, I have other letters to write this day. I shall teach the arrogant rogue a lesson for trying to best me.'

‘Matters are getting entirely out of hand,' Marie complained to the King in some agitation, having great difficulty in controlling her fury. ‘My uncle the Grand Duke informs me that he has discovered a plot to have Concini killed. And the source of this latest intrigue is none other than your harlot!'

Henry frowned. ‘Guard your language, wife.'

‘Why? That is exactly what she is. It seems La Marquise begged for my equerry's help, and that of Donna Leonora. They were apparently expected to persuade me to have her received back at court, and when they refused, she decided upon revenge. It is an outrage! The woman is a threat to the safety of my household, if not the entire nation.'

‘I think you greatly exaggerate her influence.'

‘I do not!' Marie snapped. ‘And why would she imagine that such a plot could ever succeed unless she were sure of
your
blessing in ridding the court of my favourite.'

Henry almost spluttered with anger. ‘If there were any truth in this—'

‘Oh, there is indeed proof. La Marquise hired assassins and may well have succeeded with her nasty little scheme had not one of her brigands found himself arrested for some trifling theft in Florence. Papers were found on him outlining the plot. Praise God, the Grand Duke informed me in good time, and although my other uncle, Don Giovanni, is treating the matter as unimportant, it is very far from that. I will not have the lives of people I most trust and rely upon, put into danger by Your Majesty's strumpet.'

Henry's face now turned purple, his rage matching hers. ‘
If
there is indeed proof,' he repeated, ‘the fellow has only himself to blame. He is far too arrogant and full of himself. He had the insolence to enter the lists at a grand tilting at the ring the other day at the Rue St Antoine. He did this in
my
presence and without asking my permission.'

‘You are only annoyed because he won the prize you coveted for yourself,' Marie scoffed.

‘The scoundrel is presumptuous.'

‘He is skilled. Accept defeat gracefully, Sire. Even a King must lose sometimes.'

Henry growled his disapproval. Since he could not control his wife, either of his women in fact, winning at his favourite activities was even more important to him. He devoted much of his days to hunting and field sports, and his nights to gaming. It served as some sort of solace against the waning passion he felt for La Marquise, and his boredom with her so-called replacements. But Marie wasn't done with him yet.

‘I hear you are now lusting after a mere child.'

‘Then you hear wrong, Madame. It is but gossip. I have not touched the girl.' Too late he realized he'd fallen into her trap, for she hadn't even mentioned a name. And indeed he would touch her, if he had the chance. Sadly, the delectable Charlotte had withdrawn to the country again, with her aunt, and he could find no way to lure her back to court, as yet.

‘Forgive me if I find that hard to believe,' Marie scornfully remarked, her lip curling with disgust. ‘Am I to be forever humiliated by your women, and used by you so that you can procure them? You'll no doubt grant her a title and order me to accept her too within my circle so that she is conveniently available. Then you'll take her to your bed, despite the forty year difference in your ages. While I will be expected to bear the shame of it, even if you do not.' Never had she spoken to the King so brutally before, nor with such deep loathing in her tone. Marie could feel the anger churning in her stomach, scalding her like hot acid.

Henry, hating emotional scenes with a cowardice he had never shown on the battlefield, turned his back on her and strode from the room.

‘Do not walk away from me!' Marie screamed, stamping her foot in rage.

The only answer was the slamming of the door.

Harsh letters were exchanged between them, even the Queen's competence as regent brought into question. Neither would back down, the King determined to exercise his right as monarch, and the Queen feeling her anger to be highly justified. Sully again attempted to intercede, but the royal estrangement lasted even longer this time; an aloofness between the royal pair as painful and absolute as a divorce. Marie might alternately weep and rage, and Henry suffer from an almost equal confusion of kisses and reproaches from Henriette, but this time there was no sign of a rapprochement.

The dispute ended, ironically, when Concini himself informed the King of another plot, this time against His Majesty. ‘The only way to frustrate it is to restore marital harmony between yourself, Sire, and the Queen. The plotters will then have no reason to proceed with the plan.'

‘And where is the source of this alleged plot?' Henry wanted to know, hoping against hope it could not be traced back to Henriette.

But he had underestimated the Italian's cleverness. ‘I believe much of it springs from Don Giovanni, the Queen's uncle.' A man Concini had long hated.

The King and Queen were duly reconciled and Don Giovanni ordered to return to Florence, much to the delight of both Marie and her favourites.

‘Let him be sacrificed,' the Queen agreed. ‘We are well rid of him.'

So it was that by 25 April 1608, when Marie gave birth to a son, Gaston, the royal couple were on reasonably affable terms. The King was so pleased with his wife that he granted her the sum of twelve thousand
livres
towards decorating her château at Monceaux. And to Marie's particular delight, this time there was no corresponding
accouchement
from the she-cat.

Henriette was placated somewhat when, by the end of the year, she was at last permitted to return to Paris. Even the Queen made an attempt to be civil to her, and once asked after the health of her son when Monsieur de Metz was suffering from some childish complaint. Henriette begged to have her children come and stay with her, as strict rules were set upon her access to them. They remained firmly under the care of Madame de Montglât, who had orders from the King not to allow Madame de Verneuil anywhere near the children without his written permission. He did, however, agree for them to take a short holiday at the country home of Roquelaure, where Henriette might enjoy their company for a few days.

The same restrictions were placed upon her visits to see her father at Malesherbes. Her brother Auvergne remained a prisoner in the Bastille, only his wife being permitted to visit him once a week.

‘My brother is ill,' she sobbed to the King. ‘You must free him from that dank, dreadful place. He is innocent of this charge of treason. He should not even be there.' Henriette flung herself into his arms, kissing him with all the skill that had once excited passion in him. Now he set her from him with a sad shake of the head.

‘I will grant no indulgences to Monsieur d'Auvergne.'

Henry's soft heart did allow the Count to be transferred from his dark and dank prison chamber to one in the tower of the Arsenal, which boasted a barred window through which he could look out on to the fortress garden and watch Sully tending his beloved vegetables. A mixed blessing so far as Auvergne was concerned.

Convinced she was losing her hold over the King, Henriette sought solace in affairs. She readily took the dashing young Duke of Guise to her bed. Not only was he a passionate and exciting lover, but a rich husband of prominence was exactly what she needed. There was no greater house than that of the Princes of Lorraine. Henriette used all her wiles and skilful tricks to make him happy, and smiled to herself when the
chevalier
soon began to profess his love for her.

‘But we must keep this from the King,' he warned her, thinking of his own safety as much as hers.