The Reluctant Queen (30 page)

As luck would have it the Duc de Bellegarde chose to call upon her personally that same afternoon. Gabrielle was appalled. ‘You should not have come. Not without warning me first,’ she scolded him.

Bellegarde was puzzled. ‘Did you not receive my letter?’

‘Of course, but you didn’t say that you would call. It is just that I had an unnerving experience this morning with Beringhen. I thought he may have recognized
 
your handwriting, and you know how jealous the King can be, even now.’

Bellegarde laughed, thinking it all a merry jape, dismissing her fears as folly. But he had hardly begun to explain his designs over Mademoiselle de Guise when they heard a great pandemonium outside. Doors banged, voices shouted and Bellegarde recognized instantly that they were about to be invaded by the guard. ‘I see your fears have substance, after all, dear friend. I’ve been half expecting such a catastrophe to happen one day.’

Gabrielle had gone quite pale. ‘For all our innocence they must not find you here. Quick, this way.’ She led him to a door hidden behind a tapestry. ‘It leads down a back staircase and out by the servant’s entrance.’

Bellegarde grinned and kissed her cheek. ‘Most suitable. What a woman you are. What a pair we would have made. I hope you will ever be my friend, and I swear on my life I will do nothing to hurt you.’

When the archers burst into her room moments later, hammering on the door and demanding admittance in the name of the King, they found Gabrielle quietly working her tapestry in the company of two of her maids of honour. She looked up in mild surprise. ‘Ah, Captain, I wondered what all the noise was about. Is there some mischief afoot?’

The archers seemed somewhat disappointed to find no intruder to slay with their arrows, while the Captain politely enquired, ‘May I beg leave for a private word, Madame?’ Dismissing his men, he drew Gabrielle to one side. ‘There are many voices raised against you, Madame La Marquise, including that of Beringhen who is not in favour of your possible elevation to queen. The fellow has been spying on you.’

Gabrielle nodded. ‘I rather thought that might be the case when he was here earlier.’

‘I came on the King’s orders but I did not hurry, and I made sure you were aware of our arrival, in case – in case a warning should prove necessary.’

She smiled her entrancing smile, blue eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘It is good to have a friend, even if in this instance there was no need for concern. My thanks, Captain.’

Gabrielle was less charitable with the King when he called upon her later, as arranged. ‘Is it not enough that your courtiers whisper against me? Must you turn against me as well, sending your archers stampeding into my home seeking alleged lovers I do not have? I cannot tolerate such violence. I will not be so ill used.’

Henry was filled with shame to see how upset she was. ‘My love, you know how jealous I get.’

‘Have I ever given you cause?’

‘No, but I was informed you were entertaining Bellegarde.’

‘Then you were informed wrong. As you see, my ladies and I fill our time with nothing more exciting then embroidery. You promised me that I would ever be treated with respect, even as a wife to you.’ Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, and, never able to deal with a weeping woman Henry was at a loss to know how to placate her.

‘Would that you were my wife in very truth, my love.’

‘Do not use your soft words on me, Sire, I would much rather end my days in the Bastille than live without your trust.’

Then the King was on his knees before her, promising he would never be so foolish ever again, that he would see to the divorce with all speed, even if he personally had to go to Usson and wring it out of Margot with his own bare hands.

The castle of Usson was perched on the summit of an almost inaccessible precipice situated in the Auvergne, a remote district over which Margot held neither power nor rights. It was reached by a long winding path that led up from the valley below. During the eleven long years of her incarceration, Margot had never ventured to cross the threshold, keeping the drawbridge raised and the portcullis in place for most of her time there. In truth, the very strength of the fortress had saved her life on numerous occasions.

Within these walls Margot and her loyal band of followers had endured famine and pestilence, and she yet felt quite safe here. But despite calling it her Ark of Refuge, Margot longed to be free, to taste again the joys of court life in her beloved Paris. But for that to happen she required money. She needed to take possession of the properties that were rightly in her appanage and had been so long denied her, first by her brother the King, Henri Trois, by the Queen Mother, and now by her own husband.

‘Might I venture to ask if His Majesty sent any money?’

Margot answered her first lady of the bedchamber with a sad smile and a shake of the head. She was sitting in the gardens, well wrapped up in furs against the cold of a damp January day, reading again the latest letter brought to her from the French Court.

‘He begs me yet again to concede to a divorce.’

‘But does not recognize his own obligations?’

‘Henry is skilled at evading unpleasant facts.’

Madame de Noailles took the seat next to Margot with a sigh of resignation. After so many years isolation the two women were comfortable together, far closer than mistress and servant, which was why she dared to speak so boldly. ‘The King has not paid your allowance for a year and a half. He refuses to pay it, or to return your properties to you, until you agree to give him the divorce he demands. Yet you refuse to concede to his request unless he first makes good on what he owes you. How is this matter ever to be resolved?’

‘To a royal princess I would willingly cede my crown, so that legitimate heirs might be born to the King – but to a mistress and her offspring, I will never yield!’

‘My lady, you have scarcely any jewels left which we could pledge for further loans. How are we to manage?’

It was Margot’s turn now to sigh for she could offer no solution. Her greatest supporter and love of her life, Henri de Guise, was gone and she grieved for him still. He would never have stood by and watched her suffer such penury. Even her sister-in-law and dear friend Elisabeth of Austria, widow of her brother Charles IX, was no longer able to help her having died a few years previous. Margot felt quite alone, without friends in any quarter save for those who were brave enough to share her exile.

‘Were Henry to marry this woman, what of the inheritance? If more sons come, who would then wear the crown?’

Madame de Noailles sadly shook her head, and tactfully remarked, ‘That is for the King to decide, Your Majesty.’ It could be viewed as treason to speak of a time when the King would no longer be alive to make such a decision.

‘The Baron de Rosny, and other gentlemen of the court, constantly write urging me not to agree to the divorce on the grounds that such a conflict could lead to further civil war.’ A shaft of winter sunlight rested on a laurel leaf, causing it to shine as if polished by God’s hand. Margot relished such fragile glimpses of beauty in a world which so often seemed ugly and unclean. ‘Were they not both married when the child was conceived? In which case the boy is the product of a double adultery, a child of sin. Is Rosny not right? Does France not deserve better?’

Wisely her companion said nothing to this analysis, and the two ladies sat in silence for some time, companionable in their mutual distress.

‘What should I do?’ Margot asked at length.

Madame de Noailles cleared her throat. ‘I do wonder if perhaps a letter to Madame Gabrielle might serve.’

‘You wish me to write to that baggage? I will not do it.’

‘Whatever our private opinion of the lady, she has the King’s ear. Mayhap she could persuade him to pay you the sum he owes, to return your property and provide you with a more comfortable residence. It is your right, as Queen, I know, but as the
maîtresse en titre
Madame Gabrielle holds the power.’

‘You wish me to beg for my supper, and hand over my crown to that harlot?’

‘I wish you to use your undoubted skills with your pen to improve your situation. You could hint at what you might offer in return …’

Margot was instantly alert. ‘Hint? You mean without actually making any firm promises?’

The two looked at each other in perfect accord. Margot had ever loved intrigue and artifice. Could she use it to effect one more time? She was forty-five and no longer the beauty she had once been. Her figure had grown somewhat plump and her complexion ravaged by time and anxiety. Yet she still had her wit, her bewitching charm and smile, and in every way she still dressed and behaved like the Queen she truly was.

After another long silence, she said, ‘You will have to help me compose it. My skill with words does not extend to fawning flattery.’

‘I will do all I can to assist.’

‘And hold the sick bowl in case I vomit while I write?’

Her companion giggled. ‘Whatever you ask of me, my lady, I will do with pleasure.’

Gabrielle read the letter in a state of wonder. That Queen Margot should write asking for her help was astonishing. It was formally addressed to Madame La Marquise, and signed ‘Your very affectionate and most faithful friend, Marguerite.’

Gabrielle read the letter again, more slowly this time, attempting to read between the lines of flattery which were almost sycophantic in parts. But the nub of her request was clear. She begged Gabrielle to use her influence with the King to fulfil his obligations to his wife.

‘Listen to this,’ Gabrielle said, reading the letter to her aunt who was bursting with curiosity. ‘“I am tormented by my creditors. I prefer to suffer extremity of trouble rather than inflict any on His Majesty. My necessity, however, continues pressing, so that I can no longer remain here where I am suffering all manner of inconvenience and privation. If the King, therefore, would permit me to retire to one of my houses – the farthest off, if so it pleases him, which I possess from the court – he would concede a great relief.” She says she wishes to “promote the King’s design rather than frustrate it”, which can surely only mean she is at last ready to agree to the divorce. Do you not think so?’

Madame de Sourdis agreed, peeping over her niece’s shoulder in order to read the letter for herself. ‘See, here she says “that it will please him to act as my brother …” and seeks his continued protection. What else could she mean?’

‘She also vows “perpetual obligation”. Does she not owe me that already? Does she not appreciate how I resent this wrong forced upon me? I would retire to a monastery and live the rest of my life chaste if I thought there was no hope of redemption and respectability. Do I not deserve marriage, if only for the sake of our son?’

‘Then you must help her,’ Madame de Sourdis said. ‘Her request is fair. You must rescue the Queen from penury and she will then grant the divorce. Speak to the King, and you might drop a word in Rosny’s ear. Now that he holds the purse strings he could perhaps arrange for the Queen’s pension to be reinstated. My dear, I think we may have won.’

‘Oh, Aunt, can it be true? Could this be the breakthrough we have so longed for?’

The pair hugged each other with joyful relief, one thankful that she could at last achieve the propriety she had so long craved, able at last to put her murky past behind her, the other dreaming of the new fortune she might build once there was a crown on her niece’s pretty head.

Gabrielle wasted no time in speaking to her royal lover, and showing him Margot’s letter. ‘How the Queen must have swallowed her pride in order to write such a missive, to me of all people.’

Frowning, Henry quickly scanned the letter before handing it back to Gabrielle with a smile. ‘I will speak with Rosny. He will make the necessary arrangements.’

The subject, it seemed, was closed.

The King had grown weary of war, and Gabrielle did not wonder at it. There was still much to be achieved before France was truly secure. As spring approached and the sun shone, he wished to enjoy life a little more. Henry spent much of his time playing tennis, and Gabrielle and Madame de Sourdis would happily go along each day to sit in a gallery that overlooked the court, where they could watch and applaud him. Many of the public were also admitted as they loved to watch their King at play, although some preferred to more closely watch his
maîtresse en titre
.

In the evening he might take her to the theatre, openly caressing and kissing her in public, not caring who saw how much he loved her. At Henry’s insistence Gabrielle arranged more masques and ballets for their mutual enjoyment and entertainment.

‘They say I keep the King from his duties. That I am a frivolous influence upon him, but it is not my fault, Aunt, I swear it.’

‘I know that, my precious,’ Madame de Sourdis declared. ‘The King has a will of his own, and no one can doubt that he adores you.’

‘The other night when he and his friends frolicked about the streets in masks, the people must have thought that it was Henry Trois on his capers all over again. We ended the night at the
hôtel
of Zamet, eating and drinking till dawn, yet I did not encourage him in this folly. He simply feels the need to relax, to forget death and war and pain. Can the citizens not let him do that, at least, without blaming me?’