The Reluctant Queen (16 page)

‘Pray look natural when you go to him. You are too pale, rub some colour into your cheeks.’

The fellow stood before Guise, trembling in his shoes. ‘Monsieur, the King requests your presence. He is in his
cabinet
.’

Guise did not hurry to obey the summons. He put the last of the plums away, then leisurely picking up the sweet box, and his gloves, he tapped on the King’s door and followed the usher inside.

The door banged shut behind him, someone in the shadows of that narrow space trod on his foot, and Guise knew, in that instant, he was done for. There was nowhere to turn, no hope of escape. He took no more than a step or two, had half turned to see who followed when the first blade struck. They came at him one by one from behind the tapestry, but he had no weapon in his hand other than his sweet box, and he struck out uselessly with that.

‘
Eh, mes amis!
’ he cried.

He did not die easily. He fought and resisted every thrust, and by superhuman effort dragged himself the length of the room, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. At the foot of the King’s bed, he fell. ‘My God, I am dead! Have mercy on me.’

They plundered his rings and his purse, and the contents of his pockets before his last raw breath expired. Then they tossed the grey satin cloak over his head, a piece of old carpet over the rest of his body, and laid a straw cross upon his breast.

‘And so ends the glorious King of Paris,’ they cried, and left him.

When Margot received the news she was distraught. She wept as if her heart would break. It was indeed broken. Guise had been the love of her life, yet they had been driven apart by politics and by the greed for power. If they had been allowed to marry as they’d so longed to do, how different her life would have been, and perhaps even the fate of France. Margot could not imagine a future without him, could not believe that her beloved
chevalier
would not be there for her, albeit too often at a distance, but nonetheless forever her support, her strength, her only true love.

But the messenger who brought the news from Paris had more to tell.

‘The Duke’s brother, the Cardinal de Guise was also assassinated on Christmas Eve, and most of the Guise family have been taken prisoner, including the old Cardinal de Bourbon.’

‘Dear God, and what of my mother in all of this?’ she asked him, pale with shock and wondering if this was another crime that could be laid at Catherine de Medici’s door.

The messenger continued. ‘It is said that when the King informed the Queen Mother he had murdered the Duke of Guise, declaring that he had rid himself of the King of Paris and that he was now King of France, in truth, she was greatly shocked and distraught. Her Majesty asked if he knew what he had done. “Let us hope you do not find yourself King of nothing,” she told him. I fear the events were too much for her, Madame, and she succumbed.’

It seemed that Catherine had outlived Guise by only a matter of days, dying of pneumonia on 5 January 1589.

Margot sadly agreed. ‘My mother was seventy years old and must have left this earth a bitter and disappointed woman. In that moment she saw her life’s work lost, her favourite son throw away all she had achieved with not even an heir to follow him; an end to peace, and to keeping a Catholic on the throne of France, with no alternative but to accept that my husband, a Huguenot, will take the crown. Henri will not survive long without her.’

Nor did he. Henri Trois was himself assassinated a few months later in August 1589, by Jacques Clement, a mad monk in the pay of Guise’s sister, the Duchess de Montpensier. The House of Lorraine had taken its revenge.

Margot did not grieve for her mother or her brother, who together had surely been the plague of her life. But knew she would grieve into eternity for Guise, her one true love. She might never be Queen of France, as her husband, now King Henry IV of France and Navarre, would press all the stronger for a divorce. Margot almost smiled to herself as she considered how she would bargain hard for her rights and the return of her property. But then she had ever been a woman of independence with a mind of her own, and a resolute determination to live life on her own terms.

So here she was, the last of the Valois, safe in her Ark of Refuge, and though she would forever weep for her lost lover, she was at least now in possession of the freedom she had always craved.

Gabrielle d’Estrées

1590

If Henry had imagined that claiming the throne would be easy he was soon disenchanted. Quietly exultant, he met with the nobles at St Cloud, but his triumph was short-lived. Many knelt before him to offer their allegiance, however insincerely meant, while others hung back. Either way, their terms were unaltered.

‘If you would be King of all France you must reject the Huguenot faith and turn Catholic.’

‘I see no reason to doubt that I would make as good a king without so doing.’

‘It is necessary that you take the Mass,’ they insisted, stony-faced and hostile.

Henry was forced to withdraw, still defiant but unable as yet to take Paris and claim the crown so nearly within his grasp. His position was precarious to say the least, and would require all his skill both as a soldier and a diplomat to win through.

In Paris, Guise’s sister the Duchess of Montpensier was conspiring against him, raising armies and determined to put a member of her family, a Catholic, on the throne. ‘I will bring this so-called Henry Quatre defeated into Paris, and have him thrown before you like a whipped dog. We are of the Mother Church and God is on our side,’ she told the people.

Henry donned his armour, set his plumed helmet upon his head and fought as never before. Paris could wait for its whipped dog. When he entered the city, he would do so as its king.

Months passed, the campaign frequently held up by winter snows, but despite several marches upon the city, Paris refused to fall. Too far distant from his home to return often to see Corisande, Henry sought solace elsewhere, including from one or two obliging nuns weary of ecclesiastic seclusion. He’d recently enjoyed the favours of Marie de Beauvilliers, the abbess of Montmartre. She had begged him for protection when he’d begun the assault on the
faubourgs
, and Henry had sent a guard of soldiers. Later, he’d called to visit her, and found her to be young and lovely, witty and intelligent, and more than a little bored with monastic life. They had entertained each other well.

Now he was paying court to the
châtelaine
of Nonancourt; he had called frequently at her chateau on the pretext of seeking refreshment and conversation.

‘You must be lonely, after three years of widowhood,’ the King told her, with little attempt at subtlety. ‘I am in a similar situation with my queen in hiding in Usson. Could we not give much pleasure and happiness, each to the other?’

Antoinette de Pons was no fool. ‘I am sure there are any number of ladies willing to perform that task for you, Sire.’

‘Ah, but none as lovely as you. You are the kind of woman any man would cherish.’

‘I am a virtuous woman, my honour would not allow me to go to a man’s bed unwed.’

‘My marriage is on the brink of a divorce. Would you come to me if I were to promise you all your heart desires?’

 
Antoinette smiled as she tactfully declined the King. ‘Sire, I am content. I have been left well provided for. I have my castle here at Nonancourt and do not seek a replacement husband.’

‘But what if that husband were a king?’

‘I believe you have already given such a promise to the Countess of Gramont and Guiche, your beloved Corisande, as you call her. I would not presume to ask it of you when she has first call upon your favour. Shall we partake of supper now?’

As always, the more the Marchioness resisted, the more Henry ached for her. He ever wanted what he could not have.

Unfortunately, the state of the war meant he was not free to pursue his suit, having to concentrate his attention on beating Guise’s brother, the Duc de Mayenne, and the Leaguers.

Paris still refused to accept a heretic king.

At thirty-seven, Henry was growing concerned about the lack of legitimate heirs. His marriage to Margot had been a failure in that respect, as it had in every other, or so it seemed. Now she was in her fastness refusing to give him a divorce until all her dowry land and properties had been restored to her. Henry could see no way out of the situation. He may not be particularly handsome, or even very rich, but he had a crown, and would soon have a greater one. Surely that stood in his favour when selecting a wife? Acquiring bastards had never been a problem to him, and he acknowledged and adored all his children, but Henry was beginning to have serious doubts about marrying Corisande.

The last time he’d returned to Nérac, he’d been disappointed to discover that she’d grown somewhat stout and matronly, possibly because of the two children she had borne him. Sadly his daughter had been stillborn and his son had died in infancy, which had been a great blow to him. Didn’t he love all his children?
. Her translucent complexion, the bloom of youth he had so adored, was now quite gone. He still wrote to her, although less frequently, and Corisande continued to assure him of her undying devotion.

In recent correspondence she’d pleaded the cause of his sister the Princess Catherine, who wished to marry her cousin Charles de Bourbon, the Comte de Soissons.

Henry had paid little attention at the time, being far too busy writing letters begging for support in his campaign from England, from Scotland, and from the Low Countries. Elizabeth I was at least willing to arrange loans for him, and help rally a fighting force from among the Protestant countries. But it was not going to be easy to win against the League, backed by the mighty power of Catholic Spain.

Following his visit to the chateau of Nonancourt, a message was brought to him from James IV of Scotland in which he offered six thousand men in return for the hand of his sister Catherine in marriage.

‘It is a fair bargain,’ Rosny said.

Henry agreed, delighted at the prospect of swelling his dwindling resources with new fighting stock. But he loved his sister, and would adore to see her happy. They had both suffered as children under the strict Protestant regime kept by their mother, and had grown close. ‘But I would dearly like to see my sister happy.’

‘She is a royal princess and will understand that duty comes before happiness.’

Henry nodded. ‘As it was for myself.’ Neither he nor Margot had been consulted when the arrangements for their alliance had been made. Had they found happiness together? Some, perhaps, until fate and their fickle natures had got the better of them. But had the marriage worked in any way to the benefit of the State? It had failed to bring the peace France craved, although the blame for that surely lay elsewhere. ‘Should I accept this offer?’ he asked his advisor. ‘Or should I let her have Soissons?’

‘The Count is a Bourbon, and a Catholic. It is always within the bounds of possibility that, were he to marry a Princess of the Blood, the Leaguers would see him as a suitable candidate for the throne in your place.’

Henry was aghast at the thought. To have his own sister oust him from his rightful place. To see Soissons take the throne would be anathema to him. ‘That cannot be. We must take no risks.’

‘Indeed not, Sire.’

‘Write to the King of Scotland accepting his most generous offer. I will write to Corisande and ask her to break the news gently to my sister.’

The two women were good friends. He could think of no better person than Corisande to explain the benefits of such a match. To marry a king should be seen as good news. Madame Catherine would be queen not only of Scotland, but perhaps England too one day. Elizabeth I still had no direct heirs. Nor would it do any harm to France to have his sister in such a position of power.

Henry wasted no time in writing to Corisande, buoyed up with hope and optimism. He spoke of his own situation, explaining how essential the King of Scotland’s support was to his cause. But he also spoke of his love for his sister.

‘I believe James will undoubtedly become King of England. Point out to my sister the honour that awaits her, the greatness of that Prince, together with his virtue. I am not writing to her about it myself. I beg you to speak of it to her, explain that it is time for her to marry, and that there is no hope of any other match for her but this one. It will be of benefit to us all.’

Perhaps the tide was turning at last in his favour.

‘I have received a letter from your brother,’ Corisande told Catherine as they strolled together by the River Baïse. It was always best, Corisande thought, to hold private discussions out of doors, away from wagging ears. But as they walked in the Queen’s gardens, she dreaded what she must tell the girl. Just reading the blunt words had filled her with anger on the Princess’s behalf. How dare Henry treat his own sister with such callous disregard? But then did he not treat herself, his adored mistress, in precisely the same way.

Corisande had heard rumours that he was paying court to some widowed marchioness, which rankled greatly, and to an abbess of all people. If only she could be at his side, where she belonged, offering the comfort and solace he needed. But that was impossible while he was fighting the war. Corisande reminded herself how Henry did so like to flirt. This widow, or any other woman upon whom his fancy might fall, would never hold his heart. That belonged entirely to her, his one and only true love. She had to believe that, and because of her great love for him Corisande was willing to patiently wait for the happy day to come when they could be together again.

‘Will you read some of the letter to me? Does my brother have news?’ Catherine was asking. ‘Is he making good progress?’

‘He says he has not yet taken Paris, but he speaks of your future.’

Catherine pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes glittering with hope and excitement. ‘He has given his blessing for Charles and I to wed?’

Corisande’s heart went out to the girl and she put a hand on her young friend’s arm. ‘Sadly not. He begs me to inform you – to break it to you gently – that an offer has been made for your hand by the King of Scotland. It is an excellent match, or so he assures me. Henry is at pains to point out that James IV is himself a Protestant, and therefore you would be well suited.’

Catherine looked at Corisande in stunned horror. ‘King James of Scotland? But I do not love him. I love Charles. We are affianced, promised to each other, practically betrothed. Scotland is a cold land, far from France. I do not know this king. He is a stranger to me. And is he not old?’ Catherine knew she was gabbling in her panic.

Corisande glanced at the letter again. ‘No, only eight years older than yourself. Oh, but I understand your distress, my dear child. I do not wish to see your affections blighted by reasons of State, which, ever since States were founded, have been responsible for so much human misery. Henry speaks constantly of duty, yet never of love.’

Catherine was silently weeping. ‘He could not be so cruel as to banish me to some far distant land to marriage with a stranger. He and I have always been close. Why has he changed so?’

Corisande sighed. ‘Kings have responsibilities and different priorities than brothers. But do not despair, my dear. You can be assured of my unfailing support. We must fight this. I shall write to him and quietly remind your dear brother that it was he who encouraged you in your friendship with Soissons, and of the promises you have already made to each other. Not least how eminently suitable Charles would be as a husband.’

‘Henry may not listen to reason,’ Catherine sobbed.

‘We can but hope that once he has taken Paris and the crown is on his head, the situation will change. In the meantime, we must exercise every delaying tactic we can devise. Do we not believe in his love for us both?’

‘Of course,’ Catherine agreed, drying her eyes.

‘Then let us not despair. Fate may yet be on our side.’

One day in autumn, Henry was riding in the forest with his young friend the Duc de Bellegarde, a charming young man much favoured by the court ladies. Henry enjoyed his lively company and relished some time away from fighting battles to hunt and ride. ‘You are most fortunate, Bellegarde, to be young and free, with no responsibilities weighing upon your shoulders.’

‘Indeed, Sire, I am fortunate in many ways, not least in having the most beautiful woman in the world to love me,’ Bellegarde boasted.

Henry laughed. ‘We all think so when we are in love. I have said as much myself on numerous occasions. Until I find another woman to outshine her.’

‘Ah, but in my case it is true. None could outshine my beloved.’

The King’s eyes narrowed with speculation, the desire to hunt a different prey now seeming far more attractive than chasing boar or stags. ‘You have roused my curiosity, Bellegarde. Tell me more.’

‘Her mother is Françoise Babou de la Bourdaisiére, a woman with few principles who leads a somewhat abandoned life, if we are to believe the gossips. But the girl’s father is Antoine d’Estrées, Marquis de Coeuvres, and deputy grand master of artillery. He is a valiant and honourable officer.’

‘And the girl?’ Henry was not interested in the family, although an over-protective mother could often prove to be a nuisance. It didn’t sound as if that would be a problem in this case. ‘How old is this treasure?’

Bellegarde could not resist bragging about his mistress. ‘She is but nineteen years old. With golden hair and blue eyes there is no woman lovelier than my Gabrielle. She is enchantingly beautiful.’