Reluctant Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  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.’

  ‘What?’ Navarre stared at the bowl as it was set b
efore him, and at the maid who cowered beside it. ‘Do you expect me to take off my boots?’

  ‘You cannot sleep in your boots, and yes, I would prefer you to take them off when we make love, not leave them on as you did on our first encounter.’

  The young maid stifled a giggle and Margot silenced her with a glare. ‘Let me help you, Sire. I will unlace them for you.’

  Navarre stood up and kicked the bowl away, sending water cascading all over the tiled floor. ‘I think not, Madame. Get out of here,’ he ordered the maid, who hastily scampered away as fast as her feet could carry her.

  ‘How dare you!’ Margot stood before him in a fury, hands on hips. ‘That is no way to treat a servant. The girl has done no harm to you. Nor is this any way to treat a wife, one you say you have waited two long years to see again. All I ask is that you wash your feet.’

  ‘Do you imagine you can make me?’

  ‘I swear you will not get into my bed, lest you do!’

  ‘There are other beds, more welcoming.’

  ‘I dare say there are,’ she snapped. ‘But if you want an heir you must needs visit mine occasionally, and I will only allow that if your feet are clean.’

  Navarre folded his arms across his chest, and they stood facing each other in a fine temper, both too stubborn to back down.

  After a long moment, Margot whirled about, picked up the bowl and refilled it from a flagon of water that stood on the commode table.

  ‘Well, are you willing to allow me to wash your feet for you?’

  For a moment it looked as if he might fling the bowl over her this time, but then he looked into her defiant, lovely face and suddenly put back his head and roared with laughter.

  ‘What a woman you are, my Marguerite. Wash my damned feet then, if you must.’ And dropping back into the chair he allowed her to kneel before him, unlace his boots, and with her nose wrinkling against the smell, wash his dusty, sweaty feet. Only then did she allow him into her bed.

  But when he had left her in the early hours, she called her maid and had the sheets changed, and the room sprayed with perfume. She would be his wife and queen, but dear God there was a limit to even her tolerance.

  It had finally been decided that the peace talks should take place in Nérac, being a Huguenot stronghold, which were finally achieved in February 1579. And taking almost a month to persuade the Puritan pastors to come to any sort of agreement. They bitterly contested every offer Catherine made, always demanding more. She likened them to birds of prey in their sober black garb, calling them les oiseaux nuisantes, the nighthawks.

  She aped their speech, practising it with her ladies at her coucher to gales of laughter, trying out these newly learnt biblical phrases on the Protestants, although with little appreciation.

  They in turn marvelled at her energy as she was always the first to reach the council table, following an early Mass, and spent every spare moment writing letters to her son, Henri Trois, and to her dear friend Madame d’Uzès, who by now had returned to the French Court. Catherine was frequently heard to complain of missing her son who rarely responded to her letters. She would beg the Duchess to give her all the gossip from court, and tell her what her beloved Henri was doing.

  Spring had come and the air was filled with the scent of almond and cherry blossom, and the Queen Mother was anxious to be on her way. Having done all she could in Nérac and the South, and, despite all the problems and difficulties of her constant journeying back and forth, Catherine believed she had managed to establish some sort of peace in Languedoc, Guyenne, Provence and the Dauphiné. Now she wished only to say her farewells and return to Paris.

  The King and Queen of Navarre offered to accompany her to Castelnaudary, and once again she called little Dayelle to her.

  ‘What progress have you made, child, is the King besotted?

  ‘I – I know not, Your Majesty. He seems very fond.’

  Catherine grabbed the terrified girl by the arm and gave her a little shake. ‘But is he fond enough? Have you told him that the time draws near for you to depart? That he will lose you if he does not accompany us to Paris?’

  The young Cypriot was utterly tongue-tied. She dare not explain to this great queen how the King her lover had laughed when she’d suggested such a thing.

  ‘I almost left my head behind the last time I was foolish enough to visit the capital. Much as I love you, my dear Dayelle, I love my head more.’

  ‘I will speak to him again,’ she promised the Queen Mother, and sent up a silent prayer that when yet again she failed, Catherine would not seek retribution against her.

  The farewells were duly made, the Queen Mother’s entourage departed, and Dayelle went with it. Henry of Navarre and his queen, who was no more anxious to return to Paris than he, stayed safely behind in Béarn, and much as he missed the charming Cypriot, Henry soon sought consolation elsewhere.

  After parting from Catherine at Castelnaudary, Navarre and Margot travelled on to Pau. At first she was enchanted, thinking the Palace there quite beautiful and with breathtaking views of the Pyrenees. Henry showed her the bedchamber of his mother, Jeanne d’Albret, where he had been born; the tortue de mer, the turtle shell which had apparently served him as a cradle, and all around the room were the portraits and artefacts of his ancestors the Kings of Navarre. There were beautiful gardens too, and Margot thought she might be happy here.

  But she had reckoned without the bigotry of the Calvinists.

  Navarre’s tolerance in religious matters meant that he was perfectly willing to allow his wife, and a few of her closest friends, to hear Mass in the Palace chapel. It was quite small, only able to accommodate little more than a dozen people.

  The Palace drawbridge was always pulled up beforehand, but somehow the people of the town came to realize what was happening and on Whit Sunday a group of them managed to get inside. They crowded into the tiny chapel as best they may, begging the Queen to allow them to hear Mass as they had been deprived of it for so long.

  Margot took pity on them and without hesitation agreed they could stay, although it was a dreadful squash.

  One of her ladies, a Mademoiselle de Rebours, was fiercely ambitious and nursed a fancy to replace the recently departed Dayelle. To capture the attentions of a king, even if his heart was not engaged, would be immensely exciting and surely lead to an increase in her own power and standing at court. In order to achieve this, Rebours felt it important to distance Henry a little from his queen, upon whom he was showering great affection.

  When she heard what was happening in the chapel, Mademoiselle de Rebours saw her opportunity and ran to tell him of this scandalous behaviour. But halfway to the King’s apartment it occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t be the one seen to meddle. She decided this news might be better coming from another source, and went instead to his secretary, Jacques Lallier, Sieur du Pin. The man was a bigoted Huguenot and had no time at all for this Catholic Queen.

  ‘There are Catholics in the Palace chapel,’ Rebours burst out in shocked tones the moment she was admitted to his private cabinet. ‘Brought there by the Queen.’

  Pin was outraged, and, calling his men, marched them down to the courtyard. He did not stand on ceremony, did not even pause to knock but barged right into the tiny chapel, dragged the peasants out, and had them flogged right there in the courtyard.

  Horrified, Margot cried out in protest. ‘Stop that at once!’

  ‘Madame, step back. This is none of your concern.’

  ‘Indeed it is! I demand that you let these people be.’

  Pin brushed her aside and had the Catholics arrested and thrown into a cell.

  Margot caught up her skirts and ran. Bursting into her husband’s apartment she breathlessly told him what had just occurred. ‘I insist that they be released immediately.’

  Navarre was startled, deeply disturbed by this unfortunate incident, which at first glance seemed of no consequence, and yet had clearly made his wife angry. ‘I cannot do that. Yo
u ask too much, Margot. Be grateful that I at least permit you and your people to hear the Mass. I cannot allow half the populace of Pau to partake of it too. This is Huguenot territory. You are being unreasonable.’

  ‘I am being unreasonable? What of that bully of a secretary of yours? He has no right to imprison innocent people simply for their beliefs. I would have thought that you, of all people, would see that. The insolence I suffered at the hands of that little man was unspeakable. The fellow should be dismissed at once.’

  Henri would dearly like to have released the Catholics, but dare not, knowing this would only enrage the more bigoted Puritans, and stir up hatred even more. He also had not the least wish to part with his secretary, and said as much. ‘I will speak to the councillors of the Pau parliament and see what can be done for these people. Pin was doing only what he thought to be right. He’s an excellent man, and good at his job.’

  Margot was having none of it, and, stiffening her spine, stood tall before him in all her royal dignity. ‘Pin is well known for being high-handed. Even your own people accuse him of such. The man is insolent. You must choose, Henry, between your secretary or your wife. I swear if you choose that odious little man, then I will return at once to Paris and tell my brother the King what you have done.’

  It was a bluff, of course. Margot had no wish to do anything of the sort, but she was in tears for the poor souls who had been beaten and thrown in to prison, simply for wanting to take part in the Mass. She was also furious with this allegedly excellent secretary for having breached her orders to let them alone.

  Pin had to go, and the prisoners were released. Navarre could see no way of avoiding it, for he certainly had no wish to annoy the King of France, and Margot, in her present temper, was capable of cutting off her own nose to spite her face and carrying out the threat.

  Perhaps he would be able to forgive the man later and quietly return him to his former status. But the incident put Henry in a bad mood and he did not visit the Queen for some days after that. How he longed, at this moment, for his dear little Dayelle.