The Reluctant Queen (26 page)

Henry was conducted to the Cathedral at Chartres at first light on the morning of 27 February, 1594. He had spent a quiet evening in preparation for this great day, now he was eager to receive the diadem he had fought for so long. Attired in the traditional vest of crimson satin and a robe of cloth of silver, he processed down the aisle following a long line of important personages. First the bishops and clergy, then the Swiss Guards, the trumpets and heralds, knights, chamberlains and ministers including his favourite, Rosny, Chancellor Cheverney, Longueville as Grand Chamberlain, and the Duke of Bellegarde, his Master of Horse.

Henry prostrated himself before the altar, offering a small shrine of silver before being conducted to his Chair of State.

The ceremony was lengthy and tiring, coming to a climax when the crown of Charlemagne was set upon his brow. ‘
Vive le roi
!
Vive le roi
!’ The cheers burst forth from the people crowded outside and in the nave of the cathedral,
largesse
was distributed to the poor, the doors were flung open so that the citizens could gaze in awe upon their new king seated in state upon his throne.

Henry could hardly believe it himself. He was here, at last, the senseless wars of religion largely behind him, although he would remain ever watchful. The Duke de Mayenne had submitted, but no peace had yet been secured with the Spaniards who continued to threaten northern France. Nevertheless, he was, without doubt, a victorious monarch, anointed and crowned. King of France and Navarre. None could deny it. He hoped for the end of strife, the end of the League, the banishing of the Spanish from the nation, for a new and better future for France.

And a legitimate dauphin.

At the conclusion of the coronation ceremony, following the Holy Eucharist, Henry was relieved of the weight of the crown by the Prince de Conti, and, gowned in his royal robes of purple velvet lined with ermine, bearing the sceptre and orb, he joined the procession as it made its slow progress back up the aisle. Guns fired in salute, the people cheered and applauded, the noisy celebrations continuing long after the King had retired to his chamber for a rest.

The Princess Catherine sat under the royal canopy beside Henry and Gabrielle. The nobles, princes and their ladies were gathered below; ambassadors and other officers of state seated on tables in the great hall. Even the galleries above were crowded with those not fortunate enough to win a place at the banquet but content to watch and marvel. Each dish was presented with a flourish of trumpets: capons, roast chicken, venison, a chine of beef, and Henry’s favourite pigeon pie. Catherine found she had little appetite, quietly longing for the feast to be over. She was falling into the trap of becoming a recluse. Prayers were her only comfort, yet her brother objected even to these. Were she a Catholic she would retire to a monastery and become a most chaste and devoted nun. Instead, she gathered her supporters about her and held fast to her faith.

Some instinct caused her to look up, and there before her stood the Comte. He was smiling at her, as only he could, and Catherine’s heart melted with love for him.

‘Madame,’ he murmured, and on bended knee handed her a silver basin and ewer, and a towel, richly fringed and tasselled. ‘For the King His Majesty.’

It was Soissons duty, as Grand Master, to bring her these but as Catherine took the implements from him she allowed her fingers to lightly touch his. A frisson of longing shot through her and their gazes locked. It had been so long since she’d last seen him that Catherine almost lost control. The urge to say his name, to sob it out loud, momentarily overwhelmed her. But something in his expression, in the half smile, and the warning narrowing of his eyes saved her. Then he bowed and stepped back. Only she knew what it cost him to appear so cool and indifferent.

Gathering her pride about her, Catherine carried the basin to the King. As the highest lady in the land, since Henry had no queen at his side, it was her prerogative to pour water over His Majesty’s hands. She caught the envious look in his mistress’s eyes and hid a quiet smile.

‘I thank you, dearest Catarina, for this gesture of homage,’ Henry said.

Rising, he embraced his sister before leading her back to their apartments, Catherine on one hand and Gabrielle on the other. It irritated Catherine that her brother’s
maîtresse en titre
should be so honoured, almost as if they were equal, and she carefully avoided further eye contact with the woman. Although, even she knew better than to remark upon the fact.

At the door of her apartment Henry paused and embraced Catherine again. ‘We are all greatly fatigued after the ceremonies of this long exhausting day. Rest easy, Madame. You were most noble and dignified just now before Monsieur le Comte. I am glad to see that you are coming round to accepting the duty required of you.’

Catherine made no reply, but, once alone in her bedchamber, she succumbed to bitter tears.

At seven o’clock on the morning of 22 March, Henry at last entered Paris, which had so long defied him, and was dutifully presented with the keys of the city. The enthusiasm of the people was heart-warming to behold. They rushed out into the streets crying, ‘
Vive le roi
!’, delirious with happiness and excited to welcome their newly crowned king. Henry felt himself choke with tears, humbled by their faith in him, by the hope and joy in their faces. He ordered his soldiers to stand back so that there were no barriers between himself and his citizens.

One old man came to embrace his knees as Henry sat astride his horse.

Alarmed, the officer of the guard warned him, ‘Sire, do not allow the mob to get too close. If another such as Barriére were in the crowd, they might avail themselves of this opportunity to do harm.’

But Henry refused to be diverted. ‘Let them look at me, and cheer me. I would accept the risk rather than disappoint my people. It is long since they have seen a true king.’

There were those less pleased to see Henry crowned, as the officer now reminded him. ‘Your enemies the Duke de Feria, Mendoza and others have taken refuge in a house close by the Bastille. Would you have us move them into that more secure place?’

Henry shook his head. ‘Let them see that I intend to be a wise and moderate king, even in my hour of triumph. I will not reduce an enemy fallen to desperation.’

‘They still hold some of your supporters prisoner.’

‘Then demand their release in return for their own safe conduct to the frontier. Any who wish to live by Spanish rule may do so – in Spain.’

‘They are all afraid, Sire. Madame de Nemours, mother of the dead hero Guise, was found in her oratory on her knees before a crucifix, and her daughter, Madame de Montpensier, the Fury of the League, sprang shrieking from her bed in paroxysms of rage and panic.’

Henry gave a great belly laugh. ‘That lady need fear nothing from me, no more than I fear her. Now let us be done with politics and leave me to enjoy this day.’

The temperature in the bedchamber was stifling, every window closed and a fire burned in the grate despite the June heat. It was considered essential that a delicate equilibrium of the humours be maintained, and a cold draught from a window was considered dangerous. A birthing chair stood ready although it was generally agreed that the woman on the bed, for all her writhing and screaming in agony, was some hours from actual delivery.

‘I would say four, maybe five hours or more,’ pronounced the midwife.

Gabrielle felt certain she would be dead by then. Never had she known such pain. The royal physician, Monsieur Ailleboust, was naturally present with his bag of instruments, which Gabrielle hoped and prayed would not be necessary. He concurred with the midwife’s prediction.

‘Giving birth is a tiring business, Madame. I suggest you take a little light refreshment and rest.’

With pains coming every five minutes Gabrielle saw little hope of achieving either. But having made this pronouncement, the doctor retired to the window seat to enjoy his own lunch, comprising a plate of cold meats, good white bread and a glass of small beer.

‘First babies are always slow to come,’ Madame de Sourdis told her, by way of comfort. ‘And boys are often harder to birth than girls, being bigger.’

Gabrielle took a welcome sip of cool water from the cup her aunt offered and met her shrewd gaze. They both knew that whatever the sex of the child, not a person in the crowded room was unaware that it would be born a bastard. The much longed for divorce had still not materialized. ‘Henry has promised to legitimize him.’ Gabrielle sighed. ‘But we still wait on the Queen before we can marry.’

Madame de Sourdis wiped the beads of sweat from her niece’s brow. ‘Let us not trouble ourselves about such matters today, my dear. You have work to do, and must rest as the doctor says.’

Oil was rubbed on her belly to ease the straining, and, propped on pillows, Gabrielle lay on her side while her aunt rubbed her back, which helped her to relax a little.

When the time came she was lifted into the birthing chair, with the doctor and midwife at her side, and her other ladies hovering close by in a fever of concern and curiosity. Gabrielle felt strangely calm and happy, and if there was pain she no longer registered it. She pushed when she was instructed to do so, eased into shallow breaths when she was urged not to, and suddenly there the baby lay in the hands of the good doctor, with the minimum of fuss and trouble.

The cry went up. ‘It is a boy!’

When word was taken to the King, waiting impatiently in the corridors outside, Henry was overjoyed. How long he had dreamed of this moment. His two children with Corisande having both died, this was his first child.

Would that he were a dauphin.

The moment the doctor granted permission Henry hurried to his mistress’s side. ‘
Ventre Saint Gris
, what a clever girl you are. But how I feared for you. I kiss your eyes a thousand times,
Mon cher coeur
.’

The child was named César, the Duke of Vendôme.

‘I shall reward you, my love, by bestowing upon you the title of Marquise de Monceaux.’

Gabrielle lay back on her pillows with a happy sigh. ‘I am the most fortunate of women to be so loved.’

Henry flushed with pride and joy as the baby was placed in his arms. He adored children, and hoped to have a nursery full. ‘And I am the most fortunate of kings.’

Gabrielle felt wonderful, bursting with health and vigour, and so blessed she felt nothing could spoil her happiness. She looked forward to a quiet period of rest with her child, not expecting to find her lying-in at all tedious as she had her aunt and her maids of honour to keep her company, and her precious son to cuddle. She even insisted on suckling him herself, at least for a little while until a suitable wet nurse was found. ‘I want him to have the very best in life,’ she told her aunt, ‘and will not rest until he is given his rightful place.’

Madame de Sourdis could not agree more, for all she advised patience and caution. But then one morning she came to her niece with a grim look on her face.

Dismissing the maids, she bent close to Gabrielle. ‘There is a rumour going around court circles that the child is not the King’s’

‘What?’ Gabrielle went white with shock. Tears sprang to her eyes and she felt suddenly quite light headed. ‘How dare anyone suggest such a thing? Have I not always been constant, save for that early folly? Oh, my goodness, do they know of that foolishness? Do they say it is Bellegarde?’

‘Some may, but there can be no proof as that gallant has gained the King’s permission to marry
Anne de Bueil-Fontaine
. And since Longueville was killed by a musket shot, there will be no more worries over those letters you once wrote him.’

‘Then why would they so accuse me? Surely I have never given cause for anyone to doubt my love for the King?’

‘There are always mischief-makers in any court. In this instance I believe the tale originated with Sancy, who, as you know, supervises the King’s finances. The Baron Rosny is unhappy with the way the fellow conducts these affairs and I believe the pair came to verbal blows during which Sancy spouted this malicious nonsense.’

‘What are we to do? How am I to refute it?’

‘We do nothing,’ her aunt advised. ‘Sometimes the more one denies an accusation, the guiltier one appears, and since you are innocent you have no reason to offer any defence.’

Gabrielle nodded, her heart still pounding in alarm. But at that moment a maid came bursting into the apartment with worse news.

‘Madame, we have just received word that the royal physician who attended you, Monsieur Ailleboust, has been found dead. And they are saying that you poisoned him.’

Gabrielle and her ladies were stringently questioned as to what the doctor had eaten during the birthing, who had prepared the food for him and if he’d complained of any ill effects.

‘No, of course he didn’t,’ Madame de Sourdis snapped. ‘I prepared the food myself, and it was perfectly fresh and good.’

‘It is not you who is being charged, Madame,’ the investigator, little more than a lawyer’s clerk sent to perform this unpalatable and dangerous task, pointed out. ‘It is perfectly possible to add poison to food or drink after it has been prepared.’