The Reluctant Queen (10 page)

‘She is in labour at this very moment. Will you oblige me so far as to rise and go to her? She is very ill. You know how dearly I do love her, and I beg you to comply with my request.’

Humiliating and exasperating though the situation undoubtedly was, Margot did not hesitate. Nor did she rail or upbraid her husband for his foolishness. He was but a man, and therefore always shrank from emotion. Reaching for her
robe de chambre
, she slipped out of bed.

‘Out of respect for you,
mon Enric
, I will go to her at once. I will care for her as if she were my own daughter, for your sake. But if you would avoid any further tittle-tattle, get you gone on a hunt, and take all your people with you.’

‘Bless you, my love,’ he said, kissing his wife on the cheek. And this time he did listen to her wisdom and quickly left the court.

Margot dismissed the chattering maids of honour who were in a flurry of panic and indecision, and moved Fosseuse to a chamber in a quiet part of the palace. She saw that the girl was provided for, with everything necessary for her comfort and the child’s safe delivery, including a doctor, the assistance of a good nurse and two ladies-in-waiting to tend her.

The birth seemed to take hours, and all the while Margot paced back and forth, hovering anxiously close by. The screams and cries of Fosseuse were an agony to her, as if she suffered each one herself. She wished the girl no ill. Yet if it were to be a boy … What then? Would she find herself set aside so that her husband could marry this silly chit? The King of Navarre needed a son, an heir to follow him, something which she had failed to provide. Margot strained her ears for any sound of a baby’s cry, knowing that this night would seal her fate.

The doctor came to her at last with the news. ‘It pleased God that the child should be stillborn. She brought forth a daughter, but she was dead.’

Margot murmured some appropriate remark, which she could never afterwards recall, while relief flooded through her. She was safe. There would be no divorce. She would not be cast off or sent to a nunnery. They could go on exactly as before.

Margot found Fosseuse in great distress, her lovely face haggard with grief. The girl clung to her, crying, and begging for her help. It was all terribly tragic, and yet the irony of the situation, that she, the spurned wife, should be the one to whom Henry’s mistress turned for support, rather appealed to Margot’s wicked sense of humour. But this wasn’t a moment for triumph, there was still much to be done if scandal and further humiliation was to be averted.

Once her ladies had washed and dressed Fosseuse in a fresh nightgown, Margot saw to it that she was taken back to her own chamber. It was imperative that it appear as if nothing untoward had taken place. Sadly, this proved impossible. News of the night’s business was soon circulating around the palace. When the King returned later that afternoon from his hunting expedition, he went at once to his
petite fille
, as always, and found her in floods of tears.

‘They are all talking about me. Everyone knows,’ she wailed.

Poor Fosseuse had seen her dreams crumble. With no live son to offer him, her hopes of catching a king were as dust. She also realized that her entire reputation and hopes for marriage of any sort could be equally destroyed if the tittle-tattle were not stopped before it spread too far.

‘Everyone is saying that I have borne you a child and something terrible has happened to it. You must stop them from gossiping, Henry. I cannot bear it.’

Never able to deal with a woman in tears, Navarre was distraught and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘My love, do not upset yourself. It will be a nine day wonder, and we can try for another baby.’

But Fosseuse was beside herself with agony, almost in hysterics. ‘You must demand that the Queen pay me a visit, as she does when any of her maids of honour are ill. Beg her to come to see me, Henry, or my reputation will be in ruins.’

Having been up since before dawn dealing with the night’s traumas, Margot was fast asleep in her bed when the King came to her. He was not pleased to see her there. Navarre grieved for the loss of the child, and for the pain Fosseuse had suffered, and took out his disappointment on his wife. He shook her awake with a rough hand.

‘What is this? Why are you lying about sleeping when my sweet Fosseuse, one of your own maids of honour if you haven’t quite forgotten, is in dire need of your support and favour. I beg you to go to her at once.’

Margot blinked up at him in surprise. ‘Go to her? Why? What more can I do for the poor girl? I have done all that you asked.’

‘You could spare her from the scandal that is rampaging within the walls of this palace.’

Margot made a little scoffing sound. ‘I do not believe you can blame me for the cause of this scandal. That is entirely your own doing. In any case Henry, to visit her now would only make matters worse. They would point the finger at me, and I too would become the subject of their gossip, as the wronged wife who has failed in her duty to provide an heir for her King. Why would I put myself through such a torture? You ask too much.’ There were tears in her eyes but Henry was too angry to notice.

‘I asked you to guard her well, instead you stood by while she lost our child.’

‘That is a wicked lie. I did all that could be done, provided the girl with the best possible care.’

‘It would seem that it was inadequate. My
petite fille
does not deserve to be treated thus.’

‘Nor do I. I am your
wife
, your
Queen
. Have I not suffered enough embarrassment from your mistress, at least for one night?’

 
‘Damn you, Margot, you are the most vexing of women. I will never forgive you for this slight.’

From that moment relations between the King and Queen of Navarre reached a new low. They became so cool and distant they were barely speaking to each other.

Night after night Margot lay back on her pillows and quietly wept. She had never objected to her husband taking a mistress, so long as they created no problems for her and she was allowed a similar freedom. Now she felt deeply wounded by his anger. He had showed not the slightest gratitude for her efforts on his behalf, and for that silly creature he so adored. Margot was also missing Champvallon, her own lover, feeling sorely aggrieved and very bored.

In her despair Margot took to re-reading some of her mother’s letters. They seemed uncharacteristically affectionate, but then Catherine de Medici had always been better at expressing herself on paper. They were filled with the assurance of a welcome, should her daughter ever choose to pay the French Court a visit. Margot had always resisted, being far too experienced in Catherine’s wiles to be taken in by these soft words. And it was, of course, Navarre whom the Queen Mother really wished to lure to the capital so that she could again persuade him to change his religion. She would be forever disappointed in that ambition.

Now it occurred to Margot that there was no reason why she herself should not go for a few months. Her heart stirred at the prospect of seeing Champvallon again. He was with Alençon in Flanders, but would surely return when the battle was won. She reached for her lover’s latest letter, read the familiar words for the hundredth time, and came to a swift decision. She would indeed return to the French Court for a short visit. The break would do her good, allow her to see her friends and enjoy the sophistication which was so sadly lacking here in Béarn.

The next day she put her request to her husband, and at first Navarre saw no reason to object. ‘So long as you don’t expect me to accompany you.’

‘I would not ask it. My mother the Queen has often said that she would meet me part way, perhaps at Xaintonge, if you would escort me there. She has even sent me fifteen thousand
écus
for the journey.’

‘I dare say that could be arranged.’ Henry thought he would secretly welcome some time apart from his over-critical wife.

Margot hid a small smile. ‘You realize, of course, that I would take Fosseuse with me.’

‘What?’

‘She is one of my ladies, after all.’

Navarre was incensed. ‘This is all a ploy to take her from me. Go to Paris if you must, but Fosseuse stays here. I insist upon it.’

Margot was gentle now in her triumph, putting a comforting hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be foolish, Henry. You are not thinking clearly. How could I rightly leave her here with you, creating yet more scandal?’

In the days following, Henry used every possible persuasion to make his wife change her mind. He did all he could to prevent her from leaving, treating her with more kindness than of late in an effort to win her round, reminding her how they used to be such good friends. But Margot resisted all his ploys.

‘It is too late to change my plans,
Enric
.’ She always used his pet name when she felt sorry for him, and he seemed a pitiful creature now. Yet she knew that within a few weeks of their departure, the memory of his
petite fille
would quickly fade and he’d be attempting to lure some other woman into his bed. Margot had every intention of making it her business to marry the silly chit off to some suitable gentleman, one who considered it an honour to take a king’s former mistress. ‘I have written to the Queen my mother, who has no doubt already set out on the journey with her customary energy.’

Navarre was obliged to admit defeat. All arrangements were in place, Margot’s litter and baggage carts were even now being prepared.

And if Margot should hesitate for even a second over the decision to return to her brother’s court, that hotbed of intrigue and malice, one glance at the sullen face of Fosseuse who had taken a fancy to wearing a crown, quickly strengthened her resolve. She was almost thirty years old, and refused to be ousted from her rightful place by some spoiled child.

So it was that in February 1582, the King of Navarre set out to escort his queen to meet her mother, Catherine de Medici, for a visit to Paris, and prepared to bid farewell to his beloved mistress.

Paris 1582

Margot arrived in Paris in March 1582 and by April she had banished Fosseuse from court. Navarre wrote to her, furiously objecting, but it was the Queen Mother who answered his letter, scolding her son-in-law for treating his wife so ill for the sake of a ‘public prostitute’. Margot simply ignored him, too full of excitement and anticipation, as always, when embarking upon a new adventure.

Her heart turned over at first sight of Guise. He seemed thinner, grown a little older since last they met. Had she? She would defy anyone to say so. Yet he was as handsome as ever despite the scar he now bore, his hair as crisp and curled, his shoulders as broad and the power of the man as impressive as ever. He welcomed her with the usual three kisses, light and courteous. The familiar touch of his lips upon her cheeks brought a rush of sweet memories. What fun they’d enjoyed together. What passion! And how he had used to tease her. He smiled into her eyes now in that wonderful way he had, still able to make her feel special.

‘So you could not bear to be away from me any longer?’

‘Not another minute,’ she laughed.

‘I do not wonder at it since I am so irresistible.’

For an instant Margot wondered if she should attempt to reignite their affair? Perhaps not, until she was certain of his other interests. Guise may well still be enamoured of de Sauves. Besides, Margot was longing to see Champvallon who, much to her disappointment, was still in Flanders with Alençon. She’d written him scores of heartrending letters begging him to take care, terrified he might be killed.

She bought a house in Rue Culture Sainte Catherine but stayed at the Louvre while work was being done on it. To her relief the welcome she received from her brother Henri was friendly, at least superficially, although Margot was aware there was a reason behind his kindness. He and the Queen Mother were disappointed that Navarre had not come with her, and wished Margot to write to her husband and persuade him to join her. She elected not to do so, knowing he would not come.

Margot understood Navarre’s fears but thought they may well be groundless. The Queen Mother was showing her age and seemed less interested in stirring intrigue than previously, almost mellow by comparison with her younger self. Margot remembered feeling flattered as a young girl when her mother had first allowed her to take part in the Queen’s
lever
. She’d been terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing, of displeasing this all-powerful, all-seeing woman who was in equal parts feared and respected throughout the land.

This morning they talked easily together as Catherine drank her coffee and Margot fastened the ribbons of her mother’s petticoat about her waist, scenting again that nauseous mix of stale sweat and perfume. The Queen Mother’s rheumatism had grown worse and she sighed with relief as she sank onto a stool for a maid to tie on her stockings.

Margot solicitously enquired after her health, but since Catherine de Medici had no patience with ailments, even her own, she was instead regaled with political and family concerns.

‘You know that Alençon is not at all well. My hopes for a secure future for France, for seeing the work of a lifetime fulfilled seems to be rapidly fading before my eyes. One son ailing, a daughter apparently barren. There is no sign of a child yet, is there?’