The Reluctant Queen (37 page)

The financier had made his fortune by loaning money to the Paris bourgeoisie at high interest, had invested wisely, and would readily accept diamonds, fans, perfumes or furs in settlement of debts, which he then sold on at a profit.

Gabrielle knew that Henry had often availed himself of Zamet’s residence, enjoying the convivial social life there, the parties and gambling, which were far more lively than the more formal gatherings held at the Louvre. She suspected he’d met women there too, the sort he was unlikely to come across at the palace, but Gabrielle never asked for details.

Now she smiled and offered her hand.

‘You are looking deliciously fecund, Madame la Duchesse. I trust you are well.’ Zamet kissed the proffered hand, privately thinking she seemed rather tired, and somewhat overblown. Had she been over-indulging at the table, or was this pregnancy taking its toll? He had heard it wasn’t progressing as well as it should, with fainting fits and the like, which was surely all the better for their cause. ‘I am glad to see that your beauty shines forth undimmed.’

Gabrielle laughed. ‘Perhaps that is because I was able to reclaim the jewels I pledged to you at the time of the Siege of Amiens.’

‘Your beauty needs no gems or artifice to enhance it.’

‘Flatterer. I think you enjoy your notoriety, and your intimacy with the royal house.’ She was nonetheless charmed by his words.

Zamet inclined his head with a wry smile, his shrewd little eyes taking in every detail of her pale complexion, the clumsy way she moved and thankfully sank into the chair he offered. ‘You know that I am happy to lend the King money whenever it should be necessary. Now, Madame, can I fetch you a little refreshment?’

‘My appetite is not good,’ she warned him, as he brought her dish after dish.

‘Then eat only what you wish, perhaps a little sea food?’

Gabrielle smilingly declined.

‘You must eat. It is necessary for the baby.’ Zamet clapped his hands. ‘Come, let us have music so that our future queen may relax and enjoy herself. How we have longed for the day of your wedding, Madame, almost as much as you have yourself. I swear your beauty will set tongues wagging the length and breadth of the realm.’

She had ever been a pretty little thing, with a heart too soft for her own good. Zamet knew how she ached for respectability, longed to shuffle off the tawdry memory of a youth tarnished by the control of a licentious mother. He would dearly like to see Gabrielle achieve her dream, and yet … He was Italian and favoured the Medici match, which would surely be more fitting, and in the national interest. Far safer for France than to have their king marry his mistress, put a bastard on the throne and risk civil war, however pretty and sweet she may be. In addition, Marie de Medici would bring much needed wealth to the treasury.

And to his own pocket.

Determined to enjoy herself, Gabrielle did her best to do as he asked, and was soon having a merry time, laughing and joking and remembering old times. She always enjoyed Zamet’s company, his gossip and wit, and did eventually pick a little at the feast he had prepared for her welcome. The Italian was happy to keep her entertained and listen to her tale of Madame de Rosny’s visit. But he made no mention of how he had entertained her husband the Baron at the same time.

The church had been hot and Gabrielle was more thirsty than hungry and asked for a drink.

‘Would you care for some cordial?’

‘No, no, something sharp and quenching, a squeezed orange perhaps.’

Zamet personally brought her a glass of lemon juice and Gabrielle drank deep.

Moments later, she put a hand to her throat. ‘Goodness, I feel hotter than ever. Please call my ladies. I am weary suddenly and my head has started to ache. I must go to my bed. I thank you for your kindness, dear friend. If you would summon my litter?’ Gabrielle felt desperate suddenly to get out into the fresh air, but even as she struggled to her feet a wave of nausea and dizziness hit her, and she was gripped by a spasm of pain in her abdomen.

‘Dear God, do not say the babe is coming now. It is too soon!’

Her ladies came running, but instead of returning to her own house, Madame de Guise insisted on taking her to the home of her aunt. The Deanery was quite close by and in no time she was helping Gabrielle to undress. ‘It is warmer here, and more cosy. Now you must rest.’

‘My head aches so, and my stomach.’ Hardly had she got the words out than she fell on to the bed in a faint. Water was brought, burning feathers held to her nose, till at last she recovered her senses.

Propped in bed against her pillows, Gabrielle called for paper and pen and started to write to the King. She told him nothing of her illness, only spoke of the joy of the service, the music and pleasant company.

‘Madame la Duchesse, your face. It appears puffy and swollen, and quite flushed. Does your head still ache?’

Gabrielle looked at the speaker out of dazed eyes, struggling to register who she was addressing. ‘I have this pain …’

She got no further as suddenly her eyes rolled back and she fell into a seizure. The ladies cried out, running about in great distress, calling for help, dispatching a messenger to Madame de Sourdis, begging her to come as her niece was unwell. And some uttered that fateful word: poison.

Gabrielle suffered a night of the most agonizing pain, of vomiting and convulsions, giving her no rest until almost dawn. Later that morning, the doctors having been summoned, they stared in shock at the woman before them. This once beautiful woman lay like a bloated whale, not only her body swollen with pregnancy, but her face puffed up to such an extent she was no longer recognizable. It was red and blotched, the mouth twisted, and she could no longer speak.

Gabrielle was delirious and largely unaware of their presence, let alone their sense of inadequacy. One by one, after trying various cures which did little to improve the patient’s condition, they all left, declaring there was nothing more they could do for her.

Many of the ladies had also gone, perhaps fearing they would be blamed for the favourite’s illness, for its onset was dangerously sudden and highly mysterious. Gabrielle was left with her midwife, Madame Dupuy, who struggled to cope alone. After a while, Madame de Matigues, the grandmother of the little Françoise Mercoeur, who had been betrothed to César, arrived and offered to assist. Insensible to what was going on around her, Gabrielle occasionally cried out for the King, calling Henry’s name in a piteous wail.

‘The poor maid, dying all alone here with no one to care for her.’

‘I am caring for her, and she will not die if I can help it,’ protested the midwife. ‘Though I fear the signs are not good.’

‘What of this child? How will she find the strength to expel it?’

Madame Dupuy did not care to think how this might be achieved.

‘What a night you must have had with her. You look exhausted. I’ll watch her for a moment, while you take some refreshment.’

Madame Dupuy gladly accepted the offer, but she hadn’t been out of the room five minutes when she heard a terrible rumpus. Rushing back in she found the officer on watch wrestling with the woman.

‘The old baggage was helping herself to the Duchess’s rings. Stripping them from the dying woman’s fingers.’

‘I was but making sure they were safe,’ protested a red faced Madame de Matigues.

The midwife held out her hand. ‘Then you may give them to me. We have an inventory of the Duchess’s jewels, and make no mistake I will personally check it and report my findings to the King. Would you vultures strip her flesh before she is dead?’

The rings were handed over, and, shamefaced, the old woman scuttled off.

As night approached it was agreed that Varenne should take word to the King.

‘I will do my utmost to save her,’ Madame Dupuy assured him, ‘but she is sinking fast and the King should be informed with all speed.’

Varenne said that he had already dispatched a message. ‘But I will now go myself and fetch the King.’

Despite having agreed that he would set out at once, he lingered until much later in the afternoon. Varenne had his suspicions of what mischief had befallen the poor lady, and it would surely be best for the King not to see her in this condition, nor start to ask too many questions. He wrote first to Rosny, informing him of the Duchess’s pitiful condition, and the cold collation she had taken at the house of Zamet.

‘You will please to note this fact with your accustomed prudence. My wisdom suffices not, nor is it subtle enough to draw deductions from inferences of things not subsequently fully apparent.’

As he rode out, the bells were tolling, the streets thronged with curious onlookers already dressed in mourning. Some even shoved their way into Gabrielle’s house to watch events, and had to be removed by the archers. Not even her death bed was sacred.

By the following day, Good Friday, it was all too evident that the birth was imminent as one minute Gabrielle bucked and screamed, the next she lay senseless and exhausted. The midwife again sent for assistance. The royal doctors came, but as the patient had barely any strength left, and the straining and pain was too much for her, there was little to be done. The child was removed, piece by piece.

Perhaps it was the momentary release from pain that allowed Gabrielle to rally a little and she asked for writing implements.

‘The King. I must write …’

Before these could be brought to her she had again fallen into a coma, one from which this time she did not recover.

The entrancingly beautiful Gabrielle d’Estrées had lost all powers of speech, sight and hearing. She died during the early hours of Saturday, 11 April. The fortune-tellers had been right. She had indeed died young, betrayed by friends, but whether her hopes had been destroyed by a child or her enemies, was impossible to know. What was certain was that she never would wear a crown, nor achieve the respectability of marriage for which she had craved.

Henry was utterly grief-stricken. His beloved Gabrielle was gone, as was their child. There would be no wedding, no crown for his angel.

‘She struggled throughout this pregnancy,’ he told Rosny. ‘It must have been too much for her.’

‘It must indeed,’ Rosny agreed. ‘Most tragic.’

‘I insist she be honoured with a state funeral.’

‘It shall be done.’ The wily minister thought it a small price to pay.

Gabrielle lay in state and more than 20,000 people sprinkled holy water on her bier. She was buried at the Church of St Germain l’Auxerrois under a superb catafalque. Requiems were chanted, prayers read, and all the court was present. No grander funeral could have been provided had she indeed worn a crown.

Within weeks, the divorce now having been attained, Rosny was suggesting a royal alliance with Marie de Medici, and a still grieving Henry could find no reason to object. France still desperately needed a dauphin, and for that to happen he must marry.

‘I will do my duty, but I shall never recover from the loss of my darling Gabrielle. The root of my love is withered.’

At about the end of May, Henry visited the Bois de Malesherbes on a hunting trip, and it was here that he noticed an entrancing, auburn haired beauty.

‘Haven’t I seen her before? Who is she?’ he asked.

Rosny sighed. ‘Henriette d’Entragues, Your Majesty.’

‘Of course,’ said Henry, his heart lifting. ‘I remember. She has great vivacity and wit, and dances superbly. Order the musicians to play.’

The wily old minister could only smile. A king must have his mistress, but, judging by the brashness and flippancy of this one, she was interested only in pleasure. Mademoiselle d’Entragues would not stand in the way of the royal marriage to Marie de Medici. His plans were quite safe. This one would be no trouble at all.

For readers who wish to explore the subject further I can recommend the list below as being the most useful to me. I would like to acknowledge the Project Gutenberg collection for many of the out-of-print titles

The Favourites of Henry of Navarre
by Le Petit Homme Rouge. 1910

Memoirs of Marguerite, Queen of Navarre
.

History of the Reign of Henry IV
by Martha Walker Freer. 1860

Illustrious Dames of the Court of the Valois Kings: Marguerite, Queen of Navarre
by Pierre de Bourdeille and C. A Sainte-Beuve. Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 1912

The French Renaissance Court
by Robert J. Knecht. 2008

In case you missed it read:

Summer 1565

THE HOT SUMMER SUN seared through the drawn curtains of the litter as the cumbersome vehicle trundled with bone-aching slowness through the French countryside, every jolt jangling Margot’s already shredded nerves. A fly buzzed annoyingly around her flushed cheeks and she flapped it impatiently away. The clink of harness, the clomp and thud of hundreds of tired feet from those walking alongside, pounded ever louder in her ears, making her head ache. She felt hot and sticky and cross, for once uncaring of her appearance, of her rumpled gown and the fact that her dark curls hung in damp tangles instead of shining with their usual luscious richness.

Margot was bored. She longed to be out in the fresh air, galloping across the open countryside, not forced to sit demurely beside her governess breathing in the sweaty stink of horses and baggage mules from the confines of her mother’s litter.

However luxurious, however pretty a shade of green were the plush velvet cushions, it felt very like a prison.

Occasionally some incident would occur to enliven the journey: a brawl or a duel, which Margot always found entertaining. So when she heard the screams and sobs and heart-rending wails coming from some distance behind them, she couldn’t resist poking her head out between the curtains to see who was making such a din.

‘Sit still, child, and stop fidgeting,’ Madame de Curton chided.

Ignoring her governess, Margot asked a young groom riding alongside what was amiss.

‘Some court lady has been discovered in an indiscreet
affaire
,’ the boy confided. ‘She has been abandoned at a roadside convent to reflect upon her folly.’

Margot felt a surge of pity for the poor woman, and turning to her governess, chestnut eyes blazing in outrage, cried, ‘Is that not the cruellest way to treat a wife?’

‘It is not for us to judge, child.’

‘But why should a husband be allowed to spread his favours as he wishes, but not his wife?’

Madame de Curton stifled a sigh of exasperation. She was not above indulging in a little gossip and scandal herself, and after more than a year of travelling any diversion to break the tedium was welcome. Stalwart that she was, even she had grown weary of the jolting to her aging bones. But while she might sympathize, or even agree with her young charge’s passionate defence of the poor lady, it would be wrong to say as much.

‘Because that is the way of the world, dearest. A lady must at all times conduct herself with propriety and modesty, and of course obey her lord.’

‘But that is so unfair!’

Numbering almost a thousand souls, the Royal Progress comprised some of the noblest Catholic lords in the land
, Princes of the Blood and great officers of state. Loyal as she was to the crown, Madame was the first to accept that their brilliance was displayed more by the splendour of their robes and the length of their
private retinue, rather than the virtue of their morals.

She smiled fondly upon her charge. ‘You might do well to learn the art of obedience yourself, my child. Now close those curtains and sit still.’

The entire court was on the move: maids and cooks, guards and grooms, doctors and priests, the usual hangers-on seeking
favours
, merchants and charlatans
who would join this
seemingly endless royal progress
for a part of the journey, staying in local inns if they could find rooms available, before returning home exhausted and often much the poorer for their efforts. Rogues and pickpockets lurked amongst the crowd, local peasants came to gawp, children and feral dogs ran alongside, excited by this long caravan of people that stretched for miles. It was as if a whole town had suddenly got up one morning and decided to take a walk together.

This great procession had been planned by Margot’s mother, Catherine de Medici, who loved nothing more than to devise magnificent tours in order to display the wealth of the realm and impress the people.

The baggage for such a large number of persons was considerable, for they must needs be accompanied by huge wagons
and mules loaded with trunks of magnificent clothes, and all the paraphernalia needed for the many masques and pageants held en route. Then there were the oak beds and silken sheets, washbasins, trenchers, linen, trestle tables and gold plate for banquets that were required by the royal family on their travels.

Today, Catherine had ridden south to Bayonne on one of her finest horses to get everything ready for the reunion with her eldest daughter, Elisabeth, Queen of Spain. Margot was filled with excitement at the prospect of seeing her sister again, and said as much to her companion.

‘Why could I not ride with the Queen, my mother? You know I ride well, Lottie, and it would be such a relief to escape the litter for a while.’

‘Her Majesty does not have time to linger over admiring the scenery or picking pretty flowers. She has important business to attend to.’

‘What sort of business? Not the war again?’

The nation had been torn apart by civil war for years, and Margot knew that the Queen believed it essential that France should be seen to triumph. Her aim was to bring the two opposing factions, Catholic and Protestant, to a greater tolerance of each other at a local level.
She had driven the cavalcade through province after province, town after town, bestowing smiles and false promises, or stern admonitions, as the fancy took her.

It mattered not that the court often shivered under winter snows, forded turbulent rivers, ploughed through fields thick with mud, or, now that summer was here, fever and disease stalked them daily. Margot was only too aware that any inconvenience must be suffered in silence, as it was of vital importance for the people to see her brother, King Charles IX, now that he had reached his majority at fourteen.

‘I trust not, sweeting,’ Madame said. ‘Her Grace must prepare for the meeting with King Philip of Spain, and there is to be a marvellous water picnic by way of celebration. You will enjoy that, will you not? You know how you do love to dance. Now, what shall you wear?’

Instantly suspicious of this diversion, which was a favourite tactic of her governess when faced with an awkward question, Margot’s eyes flashed with rebellion. ‘I’m too hot to care.’

‘You must care,’ Madame de Curton gently scolded. ‘The Queen Mother likes you to dress well, as she herself is always supremely elegant and magnificently attired.’

Margot thought her mother looked like a fat old crow in her habitual widow’s black, however bejewelled, but then she was in the mood to be as difficult as possible. She might even refuse to attend yet another masque and go hunting instead, except that she loved her darling Curton dearly. Her beloved governess was an intelligent, remarkable woman who had taught her well: not simply the more traditional female skills but literature, philosophy, Latin and Greek, in addition to her religious devotions. At least the Queen had ensured a proper education for her children, even though she’d shown them little affection in the process.

It was to Madame de Curton that Margot had turned for love, which she’d received in abundance. The governess was fiercely protective, keeping her fully informed of all that was going on, essential in this mischievous court of plots and double dealing. Margot was never quite certain whom she could trust since her own brothers continually squabbled, t
heir childhood bickering and petty jealousies turning bitter and dangerous as each vied to wear a crown.

Now she heaved a dramatic sigh, for her resistance was mostly sham, in keeping with her ill humour. There was nothing she liked better than to dress up and look pretty, but she had no wish to give in too easily. ‘The Queen my mother constantly accuses me of being difficult, light-minded and frivolous, which is not true at all.’

Madame de Curton smiled as she stroked Margot’s damp curls from her hot brow. ‘It is most certainly true that you have an inquisitive mind, sweeting, and display far more spirit and intelligence than is perhaps quite appropriate for an obedient daughter. Now tell me, which gown do you favour?’

Margot pouted. ‘I may choose the orange gold, since that is my favourite colour.’

‘I believe Her Majesty would prefer you to wear the silver tissue, far more appropriate for a young princess on such an important occasion.’

Margot gave a shrug of careless agreement, bowing to her mentor’s superior knowledge in such matters. These extravaganzas were commonplace in court life, yet her keen mind warned her she’d been neatly sidetracked, and she resolutely returned to her unanswered question.

‘Then if it is not the war which concerns my mother, what is the purpose of this so-important meeting?’

Madame picked at a thread on her gown, avoiding the girl’s probing gaze. ‘They are to discuss a marriage proposal.’

‘For me?’

‘It is time. Your sister Elisabeth was betrothed at thirteen, only a year older than you are now.’

Margot fought to keep her voice steady as she asked the most vital question of all. ‘And who is the proposed groom?’

The governess manufactured a bright smile. ‘Why, none other than King Philip’s own son, Don Carlos.’

Physical discomfort paled into insignificance by comparison with this shocking discovery. For several long moments Margot could not speak. It was as if every breath had been knocked from her body. She felt dizzy, close to fainting in the suffocating heat of the litter. Margot regarded her governess with frightened eyes, her voice barely audible.

‘Don Carlos, Philip’s mad son? Are you saying that the husband whom the Queen my mother has proposed for me is insane, a hunchback who likes to roast rabbits alive?’

Charlotte de Curton quailed beneath the intelligent, furious gaze. It was indeed typical of the Queen’s manipulative nature to leave the difficult task of telling her youngest daughter the decision about her future to a third party. The woman known as Madame Serpent did not soil her own hands with unpleasantness when others could do it for her. Yet none of her own children, certainly not Margot, would dare to stand against her. The governess’s eyes softened as she sought to offer some comfort, however small. ‘I am sure rumour exaggerates his condition. He suffered a terrible accident as a boy by falling down a stone staircase, which almost killed him. You should feel nought but compassion.’

‘I feel more for myself.’ A sick fear lay like a lead weight in the pit of Margot’s stomach. ‘Were not the doctors obliged to drill a hole into his skull to relieve the pressure on his brain, which left him sorely damaged? I have heard the tales, Lottie, that he tortures dogs and cats, even horses, simply for the pleasure of it. I was also told that, fearing he might progress to humans, his father keeps him close at home. Has my mother taken none of this into account?’

Madame de Curton fixed her gaze on a fly crawling up the warm curtain, unwilling to answer this question either. ‘You are Marguerite de Valois, the third daughter of Catherine de Medici and King Henri II, a Princess of the Blood and a Daughter of France. Of course you must marry where the Queen your mother deems appropriate.’ As if this excused such an abomination.

Margot’s response was barely audible. ‘I marvel at this fresh proof of her devotion.’

‘Do not take it to heart so, child. There is more to consider than your wishes.’

‘My mother never considers my wishes. She may claim to love all of her six surviving children equally, yet everyone at court knows she cares nought for me. The Queen hates me because I possess the good health and strong constitution she covets for my brothers, whom she much prefers, in particular Henri, duc d’Anjou. He has ever been her favourite.’

The governess could not deny that
Anjou was the apple of his mother’s eye. Nothing was too much trouble for this favourite son. He must have the finest clothes, the choicest meats, sleep only in a warmed room, be pampered and cosseted by all of the Queen Mother’s women, her
dames galantes
, the bevy of beauties, or flying squadron, as they were mockingly called. But then Anjou always did love to be the centre of attention, even as a small boy when he would pose in his silks and satins before them all. It was no surprise to her that he played on his mother’s love while he patiently, or perhaps it would be more correct to say impatiently, waited to succeed his brother to the throne, should that poor boy’s uncertain health overtake him.

‘Anjou is the heir,’ she reminded Margot now, wishing to be fair. ‘Therefore he is bound to be the favourite. And you are a foolish young girl who thinks
of nothing but amusements: of dancing, hunting, and the like.’

Margot straightened her spine. ‘I enjoy parties and dancing, I cannot deny it, but I have little inclination for setting myself off to advantage by dress, or exciting admiration of my person and figure. Certainly not in order to marry with a madman.’

‘You will be expected to do your duty.’

Margot responded with passion. ‘I will do my duty, so far as I am able, but I tell you, Lottie, even if my mother drags me to the altar, I will refuse to marry unless I like the husband she chooses for me.’

Words which were to come back and haunt her.