The Reluctant Queen (7 page)

‘Are you tired, my love? Shall I return on the morrow?’

‘No,’ she replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I think not. It has been most delightful but all good things must come to an end.’ Turenne had never meant much to her emotionally, Margot viewing him only as an amusement. Her lover, however, claimed to be far more deeply attached and was devastated at losing her.

‘You cannot mean it. I shall hang myself if you abandon me. How can I live without you?’

‘I’m sure you will find consolation elsewhere,’ she said, smiling up at him.

‘How could that be possible when you are the queen of my heart?’

‘Leave. Now. I can certainly live without you.’

Turenne did not take his dismissal well and requested the command of troops in Upper Languedoc, by way of compensation. Fortunately, he did not carry out his threat, which rather amused Henry who thereafter called him ‘the great unhanged’.

Navarre himself went to war, something he now relished almost as much as making love. The first Margot knew of it was when she received a letter from her husband in which he addressed her with great affection, apologizing for the decision he’d been obliged to make, and in leaving without even telling her.

‘Do not grieve,’ he urged her. ‘It is enough that one of us should be unhappy. I kiss your hands a million times.’

Navarre captured Cahors on 31 May 1580, proving himself yet again to be an able and resilient soldier. Henri Trois was predictably furious, both with his brother-in-law, and his recalcitrant sister whom he blamed entirely for this situation. Cahors, like Agen, was part of Margot’s marriage portion, therefore the King felt that she had betrayed him by allowing it to be taken by a Huguenot, even if he was her own husband. Henri called his procurator-general and cancelled all her rights to the town.

By early summer, Biron was drawing dangerously near to Gascony, and, in alarm, Margot wrote to her brother the King and the Queen Mother, begging them to declare Nérac neutral.

‘I pray you do not make war within three miles of it, and I will persuade my husband to agree to the same on behalf of the party of the new religion.’

Henri Trois agreed to this so long as Navarre did not use the town as a hiding place.

Yet how could Henry resist coming often to his home town, not only to see his wife and sister, but also because he remained deeply enamoured of Fosseuse and could hardly bear to be parted from her for long. He was utterly besotted and must see his
petite fille
as often as possible. Relations with Margot remained good, if more like brother and sister than man and wife, but he still ached to possess Fosseuse.

Having disposed of Turenne, Margot was considering other possibilities, although the court was filled with only ladies since all the handsome men had gone off to war, but she always welcomed her husband’s visits to Nérac.

When he heard of these, Biron believed that Navarre had broken the pact, and
prepared his arquebusiers to attack. Henry stoutly defended his stronghold by leading his army out to face the troops, holding his ground well. Annoyed, and in a show of bravado, the Marshal
fired seven or eight shots upon the town, one of which struck the Palace.

Unfortunately, Margot and her ladies h
ad gone out upon the ramparts to watch the battle, and were almost hit
.

‘Dear God, he means to kill us,’ the Queen cried, as all her ladies ran screaming back into the Palace.

Having made his point, the Marshal dispatched a messenger to the Queen of Navarre with his humble apologies, explaining that he would never have fired upon the town, under the terms of neutrality, were he not duty bound to attack the King her husband wherever he should find him.

‘Have no more to do with the fellow,’ Navarre warned her.

‘I have had no quarrel with him in the past, and we are of the same religion. Biron has always showed me the greatest respect, and appeared to be very much my friend. During the war my letters have frequently fallen into his hands, which he always forwards to me unopened. And whenever my people have been taken prisoners by his army, they were well treated as soon as they mentioned to whom they belonged.’

Margot nevertheless wrote a scalding response, complaining of the attack upon her frightened ladies, and for spoiling three precious days with her husband.

Much to Margot’s delight, her brother Alençon returned from England later that summer, where he’d again failed to win the hand of Queen Elizabeth, who liked to call him her little frog. To cover his disappointment, he threw himself into supporting the efforts of his sister and brother-in-law for peace. After many months of negotiations, the Treaty of Fleix was finally signed, so named because that was where the principal parties were staying at the time. Biron was deprived of his command, and six months of unnecessary war was brought to an end in September.

Henri III was not happy, and continued to blame Margot for having started the war in the first place, now accusing her of deliberately provoking the conflict so that his younger brother could share in the glory of ending it and bringing peace.

‘It is always the same old story,’ Margot complained. ‘Jealousy and envy forever sour him and twist his mind.’

Not that Margot cared what Henri thought, for in these last weeks while in the Dordogne helping to negotiate the peace, she had enjoyed having her younger brother with her. What was even more exciting, she had fallen in love.

Jacques de Harlay, Marquis of Champvallon did not possess Guise’s confident swagger, nor was he the fine swordsman that Bussy had been, or have quite the je ne sais quoi of Turenne. Yet he possessed stunning good looks. It was generally accepted that not only was he the most romantic man at court, but also the most beautiful: a Greek god in very truth.

Margot had always admired perfect beauty and, two or three years younger than herself, he became her
coup de foudre
. She was utterly smitten, calling him her Narcissus. No one but Guise had ever captured her heart, but here was the grand passion she had so longed for. If she was indiscreet before, now Margot abandoned all self-restraint and gave herself to him utterly.

His family was not rich but neither was it humble, his father being the squire of Césy, and his mother related to the Scottish royal family of Stuarts. He was brave and had distinguished himself by serving the King before joining Alençon’s entourage as his master of horse.

Champvallon was also intelligent, and the two lovers would sit in an arbour or stroll through the gardens conversing ardently together, discussing their shared passion for poetry or literature. Something of a poet himself, he would write verses to stir her heart.

After leaving Fleix, the royal party spent some months in the Gironde. As spring approached, Navarre returned to Béarn but Alençon and Margot moved on to Bordeaux for a couple of months, where she devoted much of her time riding and walking with Champvallon, enjoying secret trysts, making love in dappled glades. Romance was very much in the air.

Eventually a message came from her husband suggesting that it was time she return to Nérac, which Margot agreed to quite willingly, seeing no reason why this blissful happiness should not continue.

Margot happily returned to Nérac, accompanied by Alençon and Champvallon. The elders, courtiers and ladies at her husband’s court did not immediately warm to the brother of their Queen. He was shorter and less handsome than they’d expected. They did not care for his pockmarked face, or his small, hard eyes that constantly cast darting glances about him, as if anticipating mischief, or perhaps seeking an opportunity to create it.

Wanting to make her young brother feel welcome, Margot threw a fine ball in his honour, making herself look especially magnificent in blue velvet with her favourite diamonds at her throat and in her ears.

Navarre too welcomed him, clapping him on the shoulders in brotherly fashion. There had been little time to speak of personal matters while at Fleix, now they did so, laughing together as they remembered past times and old rivalries; how they had almost came to blows over them both paying court to Madame de Sauves at the same time.

‘And how is dear Charlotte?’ Alençon teasingly enquired.

Navarre laughed. ‘She returned with Queen Catherine to Paris, since she did not care to have her nose pushed out of joint by newer rivals.’

‘Then you do not pine for her?’

‘Why would I, when I have my beautiful Fosseuse?’ Henry drew the young girl to his side to introduce her to Alençon, and saw at once his mistake. The Duke’s eyes lit up as they beheld the young beauty, and it soon became clear that he had fallen head over heels in love with Fosseuse at first sight.

Much to Navarre’s fury, his brother-in-law spent the rest of the evening complimenting her with all the skills and impeccable manners he had acquired at the French Court. Alençon kept on asking Fosseuse to dance and she kept accepting, clearly flattered by his attention, and so it continued in the days following. Henry began to worry that his
petite fille
was being easily seduced by his brother-in-law’s charm because she was feeling homesick for the sophisticated life she had left behind in Paris.

The girl was still young, and Henry had been careful not to be too impatient or seem to rush her. She had not yet succumbed, always drawing back whenever their love making became too intimate. It was little Tignonville all over again, only the prize was surely greater. Now he grew fearful that, pockmarked dwarf though he may be, Alençon might win her first.

‘You must speak to your brother,’ he barked at Margot when he visited her bedchamber a day or two later.

Margot paused in brushing her long dark hair to look at him with that haughty expression on her lovely face which so infuriated him. ‘On any particular matter?’

‘You know of what I speak. Alençon is monopolising Fosseuse. He’s paying court, panting for her.’

Margot set down the brush and applied a little rouge to her cheeks and lips. ‘It is your own fault for sharing the same taste in women. He was ever your rival.’

‘Fosseuse is different from de Sauves. She is young and vulnerable. I will not have her spoiled,’ Henry declared, pacing back and forth in an agitated manner.

Margot raised mildly questioning brows. ‘Not until you have spoiled her yourself first, eh?’

Navarre ignored the jibe. ‘You will speak to him? He always did listen to you. I swear he is doing this only to vex me, but I am not amused. Tell Alençon he may have any woman in the court, but not mine.’

‘I will consider the matter.’ She cast him a teasing look. ‘Now, do please go. I am expecting a visitor of my own this evening, and I’m sure you have no wish to perform your marital duties if your thoughts are so caught up with your petite fille.’ And dropping her
robe de chambre
to the floor, Margot walked naked to the bed, aware of his eyes upon her.

Navarre could feel himself hardening just watching her. This wife of his was the very devil of a woman. He marched out, slamming the door behind him. Margot lay back on her black satin sheets, laughing. Oh, how she was enjoying her freedom.

The last few years in Nérac had been such happy ones that Margot saw no danger in admitting to her infatuation for Champvallon, nor consider for a moment that her husband would ever object, let alone send her back to her hated brother. How could he criticise her for infidelity when he was guilty of the very same offence? A moment later her lover arrived, and Margot instantly forgot about the problem of Alençon and Fosseuse; too caught up in her own love affair to care.

The court was highly entertained by this new rival for Fosseuse’s affections and while the ladies gossiped in corners, the gentlemen laid surreptitious bets on who might win the prize of the girl’s virginity, the King or the Duke, even though gambling was strictly forbidden in this Puritan court.

Mademoiselle Rebours was also paying particular attention to this tangle of royal love affairs. She deeply resented the fact that Margot had deliberately brought Fosseuse to the King’s attention in order to foil her own ambitions in that direction. The girl was young and healthy, could no doubt easily bear him children, while her own health had never entirely recovered from that illness in Pau. She blamed the Queen for this too, Margot having most casually abandoned her there.

Now she saw her opportunity for revenge.

Rebours put on her most modest attire and went to see Aubigné. With artful cunning she was careful not to attack the King, but instead pleaded for the chamberlain’s advice.

‘I know not how best to proceed. The King is clearly desirous of an heir, and yet Her Majesty spends most nights with her new lover, Champvallon. Not only that, but she seems to be encouraging her brother to steal the affections of the King’s beloved Fosseuse from him. I really do not see how I can stop her from behaving so recklessly. I feel I should do something to help His Majesty, but cannot think what.’ At which point she burst into floods of dramatic tears.

Aubigné was unmoved by her weeping, made no attempt to comfort her, yet white hot rage flooded through him. How dare that Jezebel, that Whore of Babylon so betray his sovereign lord? No wonder the King was obliged to seek comfort elsewhere when his own wife refused to do her duty by him.