The Reluctant Queen (3 page)

Navarre realized that Catherine de Medici was coming to talk peace, and although he did not have the money to conduct a war, not for a second would he let her know that. He meant to wring from her every possible concession he could, and not be bullied by her, expert though she undoubtedly was in the art.

He did at least possess subtlety, which the Queen Mother lacked, and believed he was as skilled at delaying tactics as she was herself. Not that she appreciated these skills, seeing him still as an empty-headed fool.

Yet this dolt-head, this country bumpkin, might one day be King of France when her two remaining sickly sons died. Henry of Navarre smiled. He must keep that fact to the forefront of his mind throughout his dealings with his two-faced, serpentine mother-in-law.

The King of Navarre met with the Queen Mother at La Réolle, and was instantly disappointed to find that Margot was not with her. He at once enquired where she was.

‘My daughter was feeling indisposed and has remained at Sarlat to rest a little.’

‘You look well, Your Majesty, although I fear the journey may have taxed your strength somewhat.’

‘Do you accuse me of growing old, son-in-law?’ Catherine snapped, and with a merry twinkle in his eye Navarre swiftly refuted the accusation.

‘How could that be possible in such a queen as yourself, Madame?’

‘Indeed, son-in-law. I am immortal as well as all-powerful, did the gods not tell you?’

‘I am not privileged to converse with the gods, as are you, Madame. I must depend upon my own wit, which I do not often find lacking.’ And they smiled at each other, a silent acknowledgement that while they trod the path of diplomacy, and enjoyed a gentle jest or two, he trusted her no more than she trusted him.

‘I hope you will enjoy your stay in our little kingdom, humble though it may be by comparison with your own.’

‘The countryside is certainly very pretty,’ Catherine acknowledged.

‘And no doubt as we walk in it, that will give us ample time to talk,’ he challenged, giving her a sideways glance while itching to be on his horse and away, rid of the need for this diplomatic cross-talk.

‘I came with no specific purpose in mind, my son.’

‘Did you not?’ Disbelief was ripe in the teasing tone of his voice, while his eyes smiled at her in all innocence.

‘I came merely to chaperone my daughter and to admire your beautiful scenery,’ Catherine lied.

‘Forgive me then if I leave you to admire it alone for a while. If you will excuse me, I must ride to see my wife the Queen.’ Without waiting for, or expecting, the Queen Mother’s permission, the King of Navarre unceremoniously left her, mounted his horse and rode away. He had waited long enough to see his queen, and though it would take several hours of hard riding to reach her, he could wait no more.

‘I did not think to find you playing the feeble woman, Margot. Do you hide from your own husband?’

Margot was having serious second thoughts, wondering what on earth had possessed her to imagine that a reunion with the oaf she’d been married to against her will would be a good thing. After the weeks of travelling she was already wishing herself back in the relative comfort of the French Court, despite its dangers, and she was missing Guise badly. She’d feigned sickness to allow herself a little more time to prepare, to choose what to wear and how to present herself.

Now here he was, standing before her in all his robust reality, smelling strongly of the horse he’d just ridden to reach her.

If Margot expected her husband to politely bow in the time-honoured fashion of the French Court, or to kiss her hand in greeting, then she was to be disappointed. Instead, he caught her up in a great bear hug, lifting her off her feet and swinging her about before kissing her soundly full on the mouth.

Gasping for breath she pushed him away, her hands at once flying to tidy her hair, straighten her bodice, smooth down her skirts. ‘I see you have lost all sense of the etiquette and propriety I took such pains to teach you.’

‘Can a husband not demonstrate his pleasure in seeing his wife again? It has been two years.’

Margot looked at him askance. ‘Do not pretend you have spent them alone, nor treat me as a fool, Henry.’

‘Oh, my love,’ he said, pulling a sad face. ‘Henry indeed. Why so formal? See, I am still your beloved
Enric
.’ He held out his arms as if to demonstrate, then patted his chest. ‘Your own nose should tell you. Can you not smell the horse sweat on me, the leather, and the scent of fresh mown hay. I am as I am, still the country bumpkin.’

She looked up into his dark Gascon eyes and suddenly burst out laughing. ‘You are incorrigible.’

Henry beamed at her. ‘That’s better. I cannot abide sulks, almost as distressing as tears.’ He grasped her hand and began to pull her towards him again. ‘Come wife, let us to bed.’

‘What?’ Snatching her hand away she stared at him, outraged. ‘You have barely been in my company five minutes.’

‘But I have waited
two long years
! We may not be the world’s most devoted pair, you and I, but you are my wife, my queen, and we’ve never been lax in the business of the bedchamber, not that I recall.’ So saying, he once more swept her up into his arms but this time carried her to the bed, scattering maids and ladies-in-waiting out of the room and kicking shut the door.

It took Henry very little time at all to reclaim his bride. He did not trouble to disrobe, or even take off his boots. He rode her with the same energy and gusto he might use on his finest horse, and she made surprisingly little protest, save to dryly remark that his love making was as equally lacking in finesse as his manners.

‘You can spend the next several months, years if necessary, addressing these failings in me, dearest wife.’

Once she was allowed to catch her breath, Margot adjusted her clothing and ordered refreshments for him. Henry sat happily propped against the big square pillows gnawing on a chicken leg and drinking good Jurançon wine, telling her all that had gone on since last they’d been together. Strangely, they had ever been able to talk.

‘I am not finding it easy to win the trust of my people, thanks to the measures I was obliged to take to keep my head attached to my neck.’

‘I am sure they will come to love you, given time.’

He grinned at her. ‘Will you? No, don’t answer that. It is not a requirement as my wife and queen, but we can remain on good terms, can we not?’

Smiling, Margot settled back on the pillows, and agreed that they could.

‘I remember well how your brother the King did his utmost to come between us. I could hardly believe the tricks he played to foment mischief, keeping us hostage, spying on us, spreading scandalous lies.’

‘It was my mother’s idea, not Henri’s, to set de Sauves to seduce both you and Alençon.’

‘Ah, dear Charlotte, what a woman. Yet, still we hung together, he and I, at least at first. But the lies Henri told, the malice and the mischief, were beyond reason. He accused you of licentious behaviour as if he were a saint, and not the most profligate, debauched king that has ever sat on the French throne.’

Margot sighed. ‘He has not changed in that respect, if anything his hypocrisy has worsened with the able assistance of his two new favourites, Epernon and Joyeuse. And in gratitude for their loyal service, he showers them with titles, money, and gifts France cannot afford. I could take no more of it.’

‘And so you came to me. Very wise.’

She looked at him sadly, and said in all seriousness, ‘I have been trying to come to you
Enric
for all of these last two years, but neither the King nor the Queen my mother would allow it. Now, it seems, I am of no further use to them at court and they have at last relented.’

Henry frowned as he picked at his teeth, chasing an errant piece of chicken. ‘No doubt the Queen Mother has some reason other than your personal happiness?’

‘I am sure of it,’ Margot dryly commented.

She looked away in despair as he sucked on his fingers, then almost spilled her wine as his hand suddenly slipped beneath her bodice and fastened itself on to her breast. He began most earnestly to knead it, and she gasped, surprised by the sharp ache that suddenly manifested itself lower down. How very different a lover he was from her beloved Guise. Far more – what was the word – lusty?

Henry took the goblet of wine from her hand and set it aside, then he was fumbling with the ribbons of her gown, seeking the hooks of her bodice. So eager had he been to bed her, he’d made no effort thus far to remove her clothes. Now he proceeded to do so, slowly and languorously, stroking and kissing each portion of bare flesh as it became exposed, which Margot found really quite erotic. She pretended not to notice, even as her breathing quickened and that familiar, delightful lethargy crept over her.

‘I know the Queen Mother is anxious to reconcile you with Biron,’ she murmured. Her eyelids were feeling so heavy she was having trouble keeping them open. ‘He is the King’s general in Guyenne,’ Margot explained, as if Henry did not know that already. ‘My mother wishes me to beg you to meet with him, and . . .
Enric
, what are you doing?’

Henry had slipped off the last of her petticoats and, parting her legs, slid his hands between them, making her squeal. ‘No more talk of politics, dearest wife, we have more important business needing attention.’

The new Queen of Navarre made a triumphal entry into Agen, a city restored to her by her brother Henri Trois as part of her dowry. Meanwhile, the Queen Mother continued in talks with her son-in-law as she made the final preparations for her coming tour, in which Catherine hoped to implement the Treaty of Bergerac. Navarre lost his temper with her when she attempted to persuade him to meet Biron, but he was finally persuaded by Margot, and the pair met on 8 October, although nothing was achieved. They may well have come to blows had not Margot intervened, using her considerable charm to placate them.

‘See how useful you are to me already? We will make a good team, you and I. You are my soul mate.’

Margot laughed out loud at such a notion. Navarre and his men were in no hurry for the Queen Mother to leave as they were happily enjoying the delightful presence of all the pretty ladies in her flying squadron. These
dames galantes
were also working hard, in their own way, to maintain the peace. Love affairs were rife.

Charlotte de Sauves was one of the party, as Guise had suggested she would be, and Margot noticed how she watched Navarre, a small smile of anticipation playing about her lips. But Henry showed surprisingly little interest in her, much to that lady’s disappointment, and Margot’s relief.

When Charlotte approached him one day he looked right past her to smile at the delectable Dayelle, with whom he’d quickly become enamoured. Since
la petite
Tignonville was proving so stubborn, Henry felt obliged to seek comfort elsewhere. Now he was entranced by the little Cypriot.

The Queen Mother looked on with delight, and called the girl to her presence. ‘I see that you have caught the eye of the King.’

Like everyone else, Dayelle was terrified of the great Catherine de Medici and she trembled as she answered. ‘It would seem so, Your Majesty.’ She was almost as afraid of Henry himself. At twenty-five, he was much older than herself, and though a fine looking man she found the prospect of being bedded by a King somewhat overwhelming.

‘He spends time with you?’

‘He does.’

‘And you let him kiss and fondle you?’

The young girl blushed. ‘He is a hard man to refuse.’

Catherine gave her throaty chortle. ‘I dare say he is. Your task, child, is to make yourself indispensable to him. You must persuade the King of Navarre to return to Paris with us.’

Dayelle was appalled by this demand, which seemed well nigh impossible. ‘But how am I to do that, Your Majesty?’

Catherine pinched the girl’s cheek, making her wince with pain. ‘By doing what comes naturally. You have considerable charms, use them. He must become utterly besotted, so that when you tell him that you will be returning to Paris with me, he cannot bear to be parted from you.’

Dayelle found this hard to imagine but was certainly not going to argue with the Queen Mother, and naturally agreed she would do all she could to ensnare the King of Navarre.

Henry’s passion for the beautiful young Cypriot did not detract him in any way from the attention he continued to give to his wife. Margot had no reason to complain of his neglect, or the friendship and honour he paid to her, but, as always, her pride was piqued by his blatant infidelity. Why could she not be enough for him?

She noticed too that since escaping from the Louvre he had again fallen into his old, coarse, Bèarnese ways. His determination not to bathe was a great irritation to her.

‘Why would I?’ he protested, when she challenged him on the subject one evening when he came to her room. ‘I’m not some mincing fop like your brother, who smells of violet powder, or one of his curled and perfumed
mignons
. I am a man, and men sweat from doing men’s business.’ Lounging in a chair, he poured himself a goblet of wine.

‘But if you sleep in my bed, Sire, on my sheets, I would prefer at least your feet to be clean,’ she haughtily informed him. ‘See, I have had my maid bring a bowl of warm water and soap. Allow her to bathe them for you.’