The Reluctant Queen (14 page)

But with both husband and brother conspiring against her, she felt vulnerable and close to panic. How could she, a woman alone, defend herself? She made a desperate attempt to improve the fortifications of the town, overseen by Lignerac, and paid for by Guise.

By 1585 Margot was so desperate for funds, and fearful of invasion from either husband or brother, that she conscripted peasants and beggars to assist with the building works, even though there was no money to pay their wages, or even bread to feed them. She was rapidly losing the good will of the people who were beginning to resent the taxes she imposed upon them. The unpaid soldiers, many of them mercenaries rather than genuine believers in the Catholic cause, began looting and committing atrocities against the few Huguenots in the city. To make matters worse, the city was struck by plague.

Navarre had come to enjoy soldiering, although not quite as much as making love. Just seeing the love and pride in his mistress’s blue eyes when he’d ridden off to battle had stirred his loins as well as warmed his heart. He wanted to justify her belief in him, to prove himself worthy of her love.

With him rode Condè, his cousin, who had been at his side in battle ever since his mother Jeanne d’Albret had stood the pair of them before the Huguenot army and had pledged their lives to the cause. The pair of them had suffered much together, not least being held captive at the Louvre and almost losing their heads, until Navarre had persuaded his sternly Protestant cousin to take the Mass.

      
‘So here we are again, Cos, riding side by side into battle. No mincing mignon will win any victory over us,’ he cried. ‘We are invincible.’

And as they rode, the men’s voices singing their psalms, ringing out in the autumn air, fired everyone with new courage. The Bèarnais were fierce opponents and, as expected, Joyeuse was killed in battle and Navarre was the victor, with scarcely any loss of men. This was the moment to advance and capitalize on that victory while the French army was in ribbons. Instead, Henry gathered the enemy standards and banners he had captured and rode back to Nèrac to present them to his darling Corisande. He needed to see her again, and to show her what a fine soldier he was.

‘This is no time for dallying with a woman,’ Condè protested.

‘Where is the harm in it. My men will fight all the better for a few days rest.’

Condè’s own marriage was even less happy than his cousin’s. Nor did he have the consolation of a mistress waiting for him back in Nèrac. While Navarre made love, Condè relaxed by playing tennis and backgammon with his men.

But the following morning one of his servants came running to the King’s apartment with terrible news.

‘My master is ill, Sire. He is in great pain and calls for you.’

By the time Henry reached his cousin’s bedchamber, Condè was dead. Stunned, shocked by his sudden death, Henry grieved for his cousin. Condè had been a man of great integrity who would willingly have surrendered his life for his beliefs. Taciturn and rigid in his morals, yet he had ever been a loyal and dear friend and was but a year older than himself. Far too young to die. Yesterday he’d been healthy enough to play a vigorous game of tennis, now he was gone. How short life suddenly seemed.

But Navarre feared Condè’s death was no accident, that there were Catholic spies in his household. When his physician agreed, by expressing the opinion that the King’s cousin may well have been poisoned, Henry took his revenge by sending Condè’s Catholic wife, Charlotte de Trémoille, to prison, charged with her husband’s murder.

The death of his cousin changed Navarre. He became markedly more sober, and fervent in the cause. He believed he may well be the next target and wrote to Corisande from the battlefield saying, ‘I am now the only target of the perfidy of the masses. They poisoned him, the traitors! But may God remain the master, and I, by His grace, the executor of His will.’

In another he said,
‘
The devil is let loose, I am to be pitied, and it is a marvel that I do not succumb under the burden . . . Love me, my All. Your good grace is my mind’s stay under the shock of affliction. Refuse me not that support.
’

Corisande sat weeping over these letters, kissing each one as she reread them time and time again.

‘Never, my love. I will ever love you and be yours forever,’ she wrote in reply, even as she wondered if her beloved could ever be as faithful.

Almost two thousand died in the plague in Agen, and those who survived the scourge were dying of starvation, the soldiers undisciplined, plundering and looting in lieu of pay.

One evening, Lignerac came to her in a panic. Madame, you must leave. The citizens have run out of patience and are marching upon the house, bearing torches. The mob will be here at any moment, you must flee for your life.’

Margot leapt to her feet, wide-eyed with terror. ‘Why? What have I done to deserve this?’

‘They are starving, and near bankrupt.’

Too late Margot realized that she’d driven them too hard. She had time enough only to grab her cloak and a few of her treasures before Lignerac let her out through the city gates. ‘I will stay behind to cover your retreat. Know that I love you, and will join you as soon as I am able.’

Margot did not love him, but gratefully accepted his homage and help. With Aubiac beside her, they mounted their horses and fled into the night, a small party of her closest friends and supporters riding with them.

For days they rode rough-shod across country, and Margot soon abandoned the side-saddle in order to make faster progress, although she suffered sore thighs as a result. They were pursued by a rapscallion band of brigands and peasants from the city, and by men sent by her brother, the King of France, as well as a detachment of Navarre’s Huguenots.

‘Does everyone want a piece of me?’ she sobbed as she attempted to find rest in Carlat, an ancient fortified stronghold. It was cold, damp and, with the approach of winter, not a comfortable place to be, although at least the bad weather meant that her enemies withdrew.

She sent for her furniture, her trunks of linen and personal possessions, which were brought to her in December, along with her gilded coach. But the months of hardship since leaving Nérac had taken their toll and she fell ill with pneumonia. For days Margot was in a high fever, and for weeks after that lay sick in her bed, nursed by the local apothecary’s son. He devotedly cared for her day and night, scarcely leaving her bedside. Only when spring came with its better weather did her health improve, and she warmly thanked the boy for saving her life.

Letters came from her mother saying Margot would be welcome to go to Chenonceaux to assist her recovery, and that the King her brother was willing to offer some financial assistance. It seemed he had forgiven her, as was his way. Life was suddenly starting to look much brighter.

And then Lignerac arrived and walked unbidden into her chamber. On seeing the apothecary’s son close by her bed, without uttering a single word he ran the boy through with his sword in a frenzy of jealousy.

Margot screamed as blood spattered over her nightgown, just as it had done on the eve of the St Bartholomew massacre, at what became known as the blood red wedding. ‘What have you
done
?’

‘I saw him as a threat to your safety.’

‘He was my
saviour
!’

Margot railed at him in sorrow and grief until she fell back on her bed exhausted. Why was it that men so often lost their senses for love of her?

When word of this latest scandal reached the Queen Mother’s ears, all invitations and moves towards forgiveness were withdrawn. Her daughter, Catherine decided, was quite beyond the pale.

Lignerac realized that he had slain the wrong person. It was not the apothecary’s son Margot was sleeping with, but Aubiac, and threatened to throw his rival over the cliff.

Margot knew then that she was lost, that she had fallen completely into Lignerac’s power. She was not in love with Aubiac, but cared for the red haired, freckle-faced young man who had been so generous with his affections, and so loyal.

‘I pray you let him alone. Do not allow your jealousy to drive you to such a terrible act. He means nothing to me, but he is a good man. Let him live, I beg you.’

‘You lie. He must mean a good deal to you, if you plead so passionately for his life.’

‘He is my friend.’

‘He is your lover. Why would you choose him and not me?’

Margot dare give no answer to this, and in desperation offered rings and jewels in return for his life, and in the end a price was agreed, a high one, but she cared nothing for the cost. She would pay whatever was necessary to save him.

Lignerac took her jewels and agreed they may leave Carlat. He even escorted them for the first few miles of their journey, content to exchange the dream of loving a queen for a fortune in gold and gems.

Margot and her small loyal band crossed precipitous mountains, forded raging rivers, and frequently got lost riding through thick forests. When she grew too weary she would ride pillion behind Aubiac. They’d taken only horses and a few pack mules as she dare not risk travelling in her gilded litter. Margot felt obliged to avoid all roads and major tracks in case she was still being pursued by her enemies.

Sometimes she would seek refuge in one or other of Catherine’s castles, or a friendly chateau where she would be allowed a few days respite, or even a few weeks. But she dare not pause for too long. Margot had no idea where she was going or what she was seeking, save a desire for peace and safety. And all the time she kept constantly looking back over her shoulder, fearing capture, knowing she was being chased across country with her very life in peril.

She’d written letters of defiance to the French Court but the response had been a troop of Swiss Guards. Not only her brother’s men but her husband’s too pursued her. The two kings did not join the chase themselves, too caught up in a war which had become known as the War of the Three Henries: Henri Trois, Henry of Navarre, and Henri de Guise. Another chapter in the endless wars over religion and power. A never-ending game in which Margot, as ever, was the pawn.

To his credit, Navarre never issued any physical threats against her, and she knew he would not sanction any such action on the part of the King of France. But Margot was also aware that he had as much control over Henri as did she.

It was not a comforting thought.

The journey was long and perilous through increasingly wild country, with much jolting and bumping and slithering down steep slopes, and teetering along narrow high ridges. If sometimes she wept, no one could blame her. She was a queen, but one fleeing like a refugee from scandal and murder, surrounded by spies set to watch and control her.

Margot’s luck ran out at Ibois where she was captured in November 1586 by the Marquis of Canillac who had served with Joyeuse. Margot was at her wits’ end and tried to effect Aubiac’s escape by dressing him as a woman. When that didn’t work she hid him, but Canillac swore to take the place apart stone by stone and kill everyone in it, if she did not hand her lover over. In tears, Margot had no choice but to obey.

Canillac took his prisoners to the Castle of Usson, and Margot’s heart sank at sight of this dark, dour stronghold where even the sun struggled to gain admittance.

Guarded by fifty Swiss Guards she was held prisoner; miserable, afraid and alone, save for Aubiac. Once, the young man with the cheerful, freckled face and red hair had cried, ‘Let me be hanged if I might only once sleep with that woman.’

A wish that now came back to haunt him.

Instructions came from the King of France that her lover was to meet just such an end in the courtyard of the castle, with his sister forced to watch. Margot was distraught. Fleeing from such a fortress as Usson was impossible. They were trapped, with no hope of escape.

Henri, however, thought better of the plan. To publicly hang his sister’s lover would be an acknowledgement of her adultery, thereby providing Navarre with the grounds he needed for divorce. Once free he would quickly find himself a new bride, perhaps even the Infanta of Spain. The charge was quickly changed to one of alleged poisoning of de Marzè, the King’s commander at Carlat who had recently died.

Aubiac was taken to Aigueperse, the main town of the Dauphinè de Auvergne, and was indeed hanged, but by his heels, which prolonged his death considerably. They had him in his grave before even he’d stopped breathing, clutching the little muff that Margot had given him. Like those before him, he’d paid dear for giving his heart to a Daughter of France.

Henri de Guise

May 1588

Guise walked through the streets of Paris with his usual arrogant swagger, the scar that marked his handsome face covered by a swathe of dark cloak, the tight cap of curls, greying at the temples in this his thirty-eighth year, hidden beneath his usual plumed hat. Only the eyes were visible, gleaming still with youthful vigour. Yet try as he might to lose himself in the crowds, none were unaware of his identity.

The cries went up as he strode amongst them. ‘
Vive Guise!
’

Pretty ladies took off their masks to smile at him. People tried to touch the hem of his cloak, kiss his shadow as he passed by, throw flowers upon him or press their rosaries into his hand as a blessing. One dared to pull aside his cloak and cry, ‘Monseigneur, show yourself to us!’

Their attentions didn’t trouble Guise, nor did he hesitate to shake the hand held out to him by a beggar, although it was coated in filth. He knew he owed his status to the people, and accepted their love with gratitude. Today, however, he did not linger to bask in their approbation for he had but one object on his mind, and that was to see the Queen Mother. He had come to Paris without the King’s consent and if he valued his skin, he must hasten to make his plea before Henri learned of his presence in the city.

Ever since the death of Alençon, the balance of power had shifted. Would the heir to the throne be a Protestant or a Catholic? That was the question. Navarre had been excommunicated and disinherited, his wife, the beautiful Margot, now held prisoner in uneasy exile. Queen Catherine had a fancy to put the late Princess Claude’s child, her grandson, on the throne. Guise himself, with his rag-taggle of followers, his shopkeepers and adventurers, might pretend to support his old uncle, Cardinal de Bourbon, while secretly hoping that the moment he had long waited had almost come. Even the Queen Mother herself had warmed a little towards him, become almost fascinated by him as Guise had attempted to make himself agreeable to her.

Yet as head of the Catholic League he remained at odds with the King. The League was made up largely of nobles and Jesuits wishing to uphold the pure tenets of the Catholic faith. But under the pretence of religion, it fought chiefly for power. The noblesse had turned against a weak and profligate king, even criticized the Pope, but there was little unity amongst themselves, and they were dependant upon Spain for resources and extra manpower.

Guise, who made no claims to be either a radical or a reformer, was a man who preferred to work for himself.

He hurried to the
Hôtel
de Soissons where he knew the Queen Mother was staying, his gaze piercing every shadowed corner as he strode along, constantly on the alert despite his studied confidence. She was not expecting him, didn’t even know he was in Paris as the King had banned him from entering the city.

He recognized her dwarf first, watching him from a window, and waved to the little fellow in a jocular, friendly fashion. No harm in giving every sign of assurance, despite a vague sense of unease souring his gut.

When he was shown into the Queen Mother’s presence he saw at once that his unexpected arrival had startled and unsettled her. Did she imagine he would present a danger to her? Even the poor dwarf cowered in a corner, as if Catherine had already lashed out her fury on him. But then tensions were high, nerves strung out.

‘Your Majesty.’ Guise bowed low, kissed her hand, and in those few moments of greeting she had time to collect herself and some colour bled back into her pale cheeks. He apologized for not warning her of his intended visit, but explained how he needed her influence with the King. ‘The League asks for His Majesty to listen to their counsels, Madame.’

‘I cannot speak for the King.’

‘I hoped you might support us in this.’

‘You must ask him yourself.’

Catherine took him to the Louvre, carried in her chair while the Duke of Guise walked alongside. They made an incongruous pair, but, despite their differences, the Queen Mother was not immune to his charm. She had ever held Guise in respect and bore some affection for him, as she had known him since he was a boy. Nevertheless, she took the precaution of sending word ahead to her son.

Henri was in his privy closet when his mother’s message was delivered, and was instantly beset with fury and fear in equal measure. At least twice in recent years Guise had sought to rob him of his crown, thankfully without success. But the League continued to create dispute and intrigue at every turn, which was the reason he had instructed Guise not to come to Paris.

‘If you were in my place and had given such an order, which he has ignored,’ he asked of the courtier by his side, ‘what would you do?’

‘Sire, I would ask if you hold Monsieur de Guise to be your friend or your enemy?’

When Henri did not at once reply, the man smirked. ‘If you will honour me by giving me this charge, I will, without causing you any further trouble, this day lay his head at your feet. I pledge my life and honour upon it.’

Henri was still considering whether to accept the offer when Guise entered.

‘Why have you come?’ he barked, as his rival made a low bow.

‘Sire, I—’

Henri did not allow him to finish before snapping at him again. ‘If you think to repeat your request for the Inquisition in France, as your sponsor Philip of Spain demands, be assured you waste your time and mine.’

Guise was no great advocate of the Inquisition, but was willing to tolerate a modified form of it while he still needed the money and assistance of Philip of Spain. ‘You did half promise such in the past, Your Majesty,’ he quietly reminded Henri, knowing that even at the time he’d been aware the King had lied. He’d gathered his armies about him while pretending to concede to the League’s demands.

Now he said, ‘The League is too extreme in its views.’ And this from a man who had joined
the brotherhood of the
battus
who indulged in ascetic extravagances. They wore sackcloth and masks, walked barefoot in torchlight processions, and thrashed themselves with a whip or switch.

‘I believe that the Huguenots have been granted too many concessions. I would hope that at least you would agree that none should hold office. The League also demands the gift of ecclesiastical and certain other appointments.’

‘To add to their own power.’

This, at least, was true, although on his life Guise would never admit as much. ‘Sire, you misjudge us. We think only of the good of the kingdom.’

With an impatient flick of his hand Henri silenced his protest and pointedly turned his back, making his royal displeasure very plain. In that moment Guise recognized his own vulnerability and felt his knees almost buckle. He’d somewhat rashly come alone, bringing none of his men with him, and the silence gathering about him now was ominous.

Had he walked into a death trap?

It was the Queen Mother who saved him. Leading her son to the window, she had him look down into the courtyard below where the people of Paris were gathering, dogging their hero’s footsteps as they so liked to do. Henri saw that much as he might wish for the death of his rival, were he to lay a finger on this man they worshiped like a god, they would rise against him. It was a risk he dare not take. Not until he’d made sure of his own safety first.

Days later, Guise accompanied His Majesty to Mass, this time taking the precaution of bringing four hundred of his men to attend him, all of them with daggers hidden beneath their cloaks. But this show of force instantly alarmed the King and recklessly he called out the Swiss Guards as protection.

Catherine was appalled. ‘No, my son. I counsel you against such action. The people will think you have turned hostile to them.’

Her fears were proved justified as word flew about the city that another massacre was about to take place, that the Swiss meant to kill the chief Catholics and pillage the city. It was a political blunder of massive proportions, for memories were long and no one had forgotten that other bloody massacre.

As one, the people of Paris turned against their king.

The revolution began with the students as they set up barricades at the end of each street. Heavy wooden beams, barrels filled with earth and sand, logs and flag stones torn from the cloisters and courts of adjacent colleges and churches were stacked high. By nine o’clock every barricade was defended by men armed with muskets, swords or clubs, ready to take on the ‘foreigners’ who dared to threaten them. Chains were stretched across street openings, and all the while the great bell of the parish church of St Martin tolled a doleful prediction of what might follow.

Guise quietly watched events unfold from the safety of his home, the
Hôtel
de Guise, feigning ignorance of what was going on, smiling to himself as he saw how the King’s troops became hemmed in and trapped in the narrow streets between the barricades erected by the angry populace.

There was panic in the Louvre. The King was sending out conflicting and confusing orders, refusing all advice to order a retreat.

‘I
will
be obeyed. I will show that I, the King, am master and lord over these rebel Parisians!’

But his courage quickly evaporated and Henri was soon cowering in his bedchamber, dreadfully afraid, calling for Guise ‘to spare the blood of the Catholics and rescue the soldiers from a bloody end’.

‘Show yourself to the people, ride through the city to prove you are with them.’

He sent Biron with his troops instead. Pelted with stones and other missiles they quickly retreated, but many remained trapped. Biron managed to return to the Louvre to warn the Queen Mother how his men had been quickly disarmed and were being forced to kneel ignominiously before their captors.

Catherine wept. ‘How can Catholic turn upon Catholic? It is unthinkable.’

Queen Louise fainted and had to be carried to her chamber, and Catherine made up her mind to act. She certainly could not stand by and do nothing while her son quivered, and Paris was lost.

She visited Guise and begged him to call the people off. ‘Pray, put out the fire you have lighted.’

At first he demurred. ‘How can I restrain the people? It is not my doing. They are infuriated by misgovernment and the follies of their sovereign.’

‘What will be gained by yet more slaughter?’

Believing he could win this battle without bloodshed, Guise eventually agreed to do what he could. He walked into the city unarmed, accompanied by only two pages, and called an end to the siege in what would forever be known as the
Journée des Barricades
. He took off his great plumed hat and waved it at the people.

‘My friends, that is enough! I beg you now to shout “
Vive le roi!
”’

The very sound of his voice quieted them, and some knelt in the mud in adoration at his feet. In that moment Guise held Paris in the palm of his hands. He believed too that he controlled the King. Should he choose to do so he could invade the Louvre and kill Henri, then declare himself King of France. But Guise was neither a fanatic nor a cold blooded murderer, and had no wish to lose prestige by engaging in such a blatant act of regicide. It would be certain to alienate the people against him. So he did nothing.

It was his first mistake.

Determined to prove that the King presented no threat to the people, Catherine recklessly persuaded Henri to dismiss the extra troops from the palace. But the result was that the students from the Jesuit colleges, urged on by Guise’s sister, Madame de Montpensier, the Fury of the League, barricaded the doors of the Louvre.

Henri was now a virtual prisoner in his own palace.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he screamed at his mother, as if it had been she who had first created this crisis, and not himself.

Every door was blocked, save one at the rear, perhaps deliberately so, and it was through this that he made his escape. He left in a panic, without boots or spurs, and still wearing his heavy court clothes. The King of France mounted his horse and fled from his capital.

When the news reached him, Guise told Catherine, ‘Madame, I am dead! Whilst Your Majesty keeps me occupied here the King leaves, to my perdition.’

Even the Queen Mother recognized that her son had kept his crown, but lost all authority.

Guise considered his options, one of which was to continue with the battle and take all of France, but for that he would need more resources, money and men provided by Philip of Spain, who was currently stretched to the limit as he struggled to hold on to the Low Countries as well as prepare a great Armada with which to invade England. Guise decided to wait for that mission to be successfully accomplished before risking anything further. It was his second, and fatal mistake.

Margot rose from her bed that morning woken as usual by Madame de Noailles, her first lady of the bedchamber, completely oblivious of what was taking place in Paris. The sun slanted its rays over the mountains of the Auvergne, struggling to penetrate the impregnable fortress that now represented the extent of her kingdom.

‘I shall ride out later,’ she told Madame de Noailles, ‘once I have broken my fast.’