Rosny sighed with relief. Yet again his royal master had demonstrated how very much he valued and trusted him, even by comparison to those closest to the King. It was a heady thought that he should be so well regarded, and a state of affairs which might well prove useful when certain other marriages were under discussion.
Plague came to Paris and many hundreds, including Madame Montpensier, died of it. Gabrielle gave the King this news as they lay in bed together one afternoon, enjoying a siesta as Henry so loved to do. ‘It is said that she shrieked with fury to the last about the blasphemies done by the Huguenots, and storms raged for hours following her death.’
Henry gave a rueful chuckle. ‘Such a ferocious spirit could not leave this earth quietly. Meanwhile her brother, Mayenne, eats humble pie and promises in future to serve his king faithfully in gratitude for concessions made. How he sings your praises. He is deeply grateful for your intervention on his behalf.’ He cast Gabrielle an amused sideways glance. ‘What a little politician you are turning out to be, my angel.’
Gabrielle flushed most charmingly, and kissed him. ‘I do only what I believe will please you. I thought you wished him to be brought to heel.’
Henry laughed out loud. ‘And we have succeeded, between us. The poor man suffers enough from sciatica and various other maladies as a consequence of his corpulence, so I took pity on him and allowed his partisans to be released into exile. At least I have no need to be jealous of him, have I, my love?’
Gabrielle giggled as she stroked Henry’s beard. ‘You have no reason to be jealous of anyone.’
He was smiling as he rolled her on to her back and proceeded to make love to her, taking special care as she was again enceinte. ‘My courtiers whisper that you are a woman to be reckoned with, one who, far from fomenting quarrels, proves restful to your lover.’
‘Do you find me restful, my lord?’ Gabrielle murmured as she wriggled enticingly beneath him, inciting his passion further.
‘You minx, more likely near bursting with excitement.’
Gabrielle slid her small pink tongue into his eager mouth and let him plunder her till they were both gasping and quite out of breath. Later, as they lay together, limbs entwined, warm and sated, Henry returned to their earlier conversation.
‘In truth, I cannot rightly afford to squander funds paying off other folk’s debts, let alone those of an enemy.’
‘Do the courtiers blame me for the current problems with finance? Do they say I am greedy, that you shower me with gifts?’
‘How can they when you refuse most of them, my angel. Yet I love to see you in pretty gowns and jewels.’
Gabrielle, who was woman enough to also love pretty gowns and jewels, would not dream of setting a price on every kiss she gave. She could not answer for her aunt, however, who was another sort of creature altogether. Gabrielle had quite early on made a rule never to ask for gifts, although like all men Henry liked to demonstrate his love with a pretty trinket or gewgaw. In the beginning the King had awarded her an allowance of 400 crowns a month, made to her from out of the privy purse. On the birth of little César this was raised to 500, but then carrying out the role of queen was expensive, particularly when the title and accompanying allowance did not go with it.
Careful as she was with the royal purse, Gabrielle was ever aware of the whisperings among certain court officials and malcontents. Having battled against civil war, siege, starvation and plague, many Parisians regarded the King’s mistress as a parasite upon the kingdom, a harlot who by a shameless love of luxury represented an insult to honest citizens and their wives.
‘It is so easy to cause offence. Perhaps you are too generous, Sire, in bestowing quite so many properties upon me, and a title, particularly if money is tight.’
Reaching for her chemise and petticoats Gabrielle began to dress, allowing Henry to help her with ribbons and laces rather than call in a maid, but hoping that he wouldn’t change his mind and unfasten them all again. This second pregnancy was making her feel more weary than the first. He helped her smooth a stocking over the silky skin of her leg.
‘That is not your concern, my love. The treasury is bound to be in desperate straits after so many years of war. It must be replenished in order to build a strong and prosperous kingdom, but that is for me to worry about, not you. Have you heard that my courtiers call me a miser? How can that be? I do three things which are far from being the acts of a miser: I build for France, I make war and I make love.’
‘You can certainly do the latter,’ Gabrielle teased. ‘But your descriers would do better to remember the extravagance of Henri Trois.’ Gabrielle recalled how that king had lavished money on his mignons, on magnificent gowns if he took a fancy to dressing like a woman, even on his monkeys and dogs, spending thousands of crowns on minders for them.
Henry chuckled as he reached for her other stocking. ‘Spending money they did not have was ever a Valois flaw. Look at his sister, my dear Margot, constantly crying penury. Her mother, Catherine de Medici, was famous for spending a fortune on one of her extravaganzas, even when the treasury was empty. If it pleased the people, at least until they later had to pay for it through increased taxes, she considered it good for France. But just because I am not a spendthrift does not necessarily make me mean, does it? Have I not always said it is necessary to love me for my own sake?’
‘And I do, my love.’ Smiling, Gabrielle took the stocking from him and slid it skilfully into place, allowing him ample opportunity to admire her long legs while she did so.
‘Nevertheless, I must continue to support my wife in her fastness, and my sister too since Catherine will not wed. Even my nobles take the liberty of dipping into the pot to replenish their loans and losses during the war. I am beset on all sides and it is costing the nation a small fortune.’
Gabrielle frowned, sensing that the King was more concerned than he might appear. Recognizing an opportunity she had long sought, she casually enquired, ‘Have you spoken to Rosny on the subject of finance? You know there have been rumours circulating about Sancy.’
Henry was instantly alert. ‘What kind of rumours?’
‘Rosny suspects Sancy of furnishing his own needs before that of the treasury.’
‘The devil he does. In what way?’
Gabrielle had never particularly liked Sancy, finding his humour somewhat coarse and his manner condescending. Since the birth of César, her attitude towards him had reached the point of loathing. She held him entirely responsible for the rumours circulating that her son was not the King’s child but that of the Duc de Bellegarde. Some time later, and wishing to clarify her position, Gabrielle had asked Sancy for his opinion on the matter.
‘In the event of my marriage, would my son César then become the legitimate heir to the throne?’
Sancy’s tone had been supercilious. ‘Madame, in France the bastards of our kings are always the sons of harlots!’
Gabrielle had been shocked and deeply hurt by this brutal attack upon her reputation, and had never forgiven him. Now she felt no compunction at bringing him down.
‘It is my understanding that if a regiment needs to be paid, Sancy signs warrants for twice the sum required, keeping half for himself. If questions are asked he claims the extra money is to pay off their old debts. His fraudulent tricks are rife. I urge you to find a more trustworthy person, one of irreproachable probity such as Rosny himself, to take on the responsibility.’
‘Your advice is sound, my angel, as ever. Rosny may be unsociable and over-cautious, taciturn and moody, but he is no gambler, and is more than worthy to keep the key of the royal treasury. He will deliver us all.’
Gabrielle was delighted when Sancy was obliged to leave court for his estates, and Rosny had the grace to thank her for her intervention on his behalf. She also secretly hoped the favour might raise her status in his eyes.
In October, 1596, while she was staying at the Benedictine Abbey at Rouen, Gabrielle gave birth to a daughter, Catherine Henriette,
to be known by her second name. Henry was so delighted he rewarded her with yet more land and properties, making it abundantly clear how he held his mistress in high esteem, and wishing to show his gratitude for providing him with two healthy children. He eagerly planned a state baptism, one in keeping for a child of France at which both he and his sister were to act as godparents.
The finest cooks in Paris were engaged, the Louvre filled with fruit and flowers. Ballets, masques and all manner of entertainments were provided. Rosny grumbled a little at the expense, now that he was in charge of the royal treasury, but dutifully paid all the bills.
Despite some initial misgivings when the new Superintendent of Finances began his new task by dismissing Sancy, Schomberg and others he considered could no longer be trusted, Henry conceded that the decision had proved to be a wise one. The troops not only received their pay on time, but arrears too had been made good, and there was fresh ammunition and stores. The future seemed bright and the economic management of the country far less of a concern.
It made Henry value his maîtresse en titre all the more for her excellent advice. He loved and admired Gabrielle dearly for she had wit as well as beauty, and sound common sense. Only recently she had advised him on a speech he made before the Assembly of Notables in which he had offered to ‘place myself under your control’.
Rosny had applauded but when asked her opinion later, Gabrielle had said, ‘Sire, no one could have spoken better, but I am surprised that a hero like Your Majesty should have used the words, “me metre en tutelle!” You are surely not in need of tutoring.’
‘Ventre Saint Gris! Madame you are right.’
Was it any wonder that he was faithful to her? At least, Henry conceded, more faithful than he had been with any of his other mistresses. He still visited the Abbess of Montmartre from time to time, and there were one or two: Charlotte des Essards and Esther Imbert for instance, who had presented him with more children, which he always welcomed. He did so enjoy the company of his offspring whenever he called upon their mothers. If she knew of their existence, Gabrielle made no mention of it, realizing that as his official mistress it was to be expected that he might stray occasionally, but would always return to her. She was the woman he intended to make his wife, once he gained his divorce.
Henry went to see her every day during her lying-in period, and on one occasion found her in great distress.
‘Have you heard of the prophecy going the rounds of court?’ she asked, blue eyes wide with fear.
The King laughed. ‘Not more rumours, have we not had our fill of them?’
‘A great magician of the Low Countries has said that you will be killed in your bed towards the end of this year. What say you to that?’
‘I say I’d best not go to bed.’
‘This is no jest, Henry.’
‘It is hysterical nonsense and you must not worry your pretty head over it, my angel. All you must do is rest so that you will make a good recovery. Do I not need you by my side? You are everything to me.’
Gabrielle could only hope that she was indeed everything to the King. She was not entirely unaware of the other mistresses upon whom he paid regular calls. She wasn’t certain of all their names, nor would her dignity allow her to enquire after them. Far better, she thought, to ignore them completely. She felt no resentment over this need in her lover for other women. He was a man of large appetites which one woman alone could never hope to fulfil.
Neither did she seek to punish Henry by playing him at his own game. When she’d finally relinquished Bellegarde all those years ago Gabrielle had not allowed herself to look back. The past was done with so far as she was concerned, and although she remained on good terms with Bellegarde, and was aware that her erstwhile lover did not enjoy a happy marriage, Gabrielle was not the cause of its failure.
Nevertheless, despite her impeccable behaviour, the King was still not immune to jealousy over the slightest sign of any lingering friendship between herself and her one-time lover, and Gabrielle took care never to speak of him to Henry.
One morning the King’s man, Beringhen, called at her hôtel with a message enquiring after her health and asking if Henry might see her later that day. Gabrielle went to fetch her diary, increasingly filled with events that kept her busy, although she always gave preference to the King.
On her return she spotted Beringhen peeping at an open letter she’d left lying on a side table, noting how he moved quickly away, and her heart skipped a beat. It was from Bellegarde, recounting details of his liaison with Mademoiselle de Guise, and begging her to speak on his behalf to the young lady’s brother.
Without so much as a glance at the offending letter, Gabrielle offered her most demure smile to Beringhen. ‘Please inform the King I shall be delighted to receive him, at his convenience, later in the day.’
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?’
Reluctant Queen Page 23