The Queen and the Courtesan, page 17
‘But did you know that on hearing how you betrayed him, our brother delivered up to Rosny all the letters which you addressed to him during this last year?’
Henriette’s knees suddenly gave way and she sank on to the garden bench beside her frightened sister. ‘Oh no, what did I say in them? Can you remember? Did I compromise myself ? Was I discreet?’
‘You are ever discreet, in letters anyway,’ Marie-Charlotte assured her with a wry smile. ‘Auvergne has also accused you of indulging in an affair with Bellegarde.’
‘What? But that is a lie! At least, it wasn’t what I would call an affaire exactly. Are we falling out among ourselves now? Surely the King won’t believe a word of such nonsense?’
‘I do not know what His Majesty believes. But how can you defend yourself, sister, if you refuse to see him, even though the King has begged for an interview here at Verneuil, or Malesherbes, whichever is convenient.’
Henriette put her hands to her cheeks and found them to be ice cold. Had she played the game wrongly? Should she have gone to Henry and wept in his arms? Instead she had stuck to her old trick of playing hard to get in order to make him want her all the more.
‘The King forgets that I am the one who has been wronged. I must stand up for my rights. Oh, but I’m so glad that you followed me here. I need you beside me. We mustn’t quarrel as you are the only one I can trust.’
Marie-Charlotte warmly hugged her elder sister, but was able to offer little by way of comfort. ‘The King’s guards still search for the promise of marriage.’
‘They won’t find it,’ Henriette hissed through gritted teeth.
‘But if Father does not relinquish it, the King could have him arrested and sent to the block. Particularly if he ever discovers it was Father behind this latest attempt on his life. We should return to Paris immediately, sister, and beg for his life. Our mother will not do so. It is up to you to speak to the King.’
Now it was Henry’s turn to absolutely refuse to see Henriette. She sent numerous requests for an interview, but no such permission was granted. After only a few days he ordered her to return to Verneuil.
Henriette was filled with terror. If the King no longer needed her, then she had nothing left.
Worse, the moment she arrived back, Henriette saw that in her absence a search had been made at her château, which had resulted in the discovery of some letters from her father. Would they implicate him further in the intrigue, or even herself ? In her panic, she couldn’t quite decide.
‘I do not believe they will compromise me, or Father, in any way, although there may be letters among them which mention my fondness for Bellegarde. But that does not prove I was intimate with him, does it? Oh, what are we to do? It is all unravelling. We are undone! I dread to think what might happen next.’
‘Write to the King.’
‘I shall do so at once.’
‘Your brother is in hiding. The King has requested his presence but although he keeps promising he will set out for court, he never does so. He fears he will be arrested the moment he sets foot in the Louvre.’ The Countess d’Auvergne had arrived and was explaining the situation as best she could to her sister-in-law. ‘He is in a fever of anxiety, his guilty conscience troubling him most dreadfully. He spends his days pacing the rooms of his ancient château, starting at every sound, constantly gazing out over the mountains as if expecting to see the King’s archers arrive at any moment. His men report any strangers in the vicinity, although he rarely goes abroad. Should he ever step outside, even for a moment, he keeps two fierce hounds by his side at all times. He lives in peril of his life.’
Henriette listened in dawning horror, the true folly of the risks she had run by connecting herself with this conspiracy only just beginning to penetrate. ‘Does he know then of Morgan’s arrest?’
‘I wrote myself to inform him before taking refuge with my father at Chantilly. You too must take care, Henriette; the privy council is seeking to arrest all members of the Balzac family.’
‘They will not come for me, the King would not allow it,’ she confidently predicted, hoping that was true. ‘Besides, I did nothing.’
‘Nor did you do anything to stop it either. To some that will be enough. Rosny is watching the entire family with his customary vigilance.’
‘And I am left to stew alone, without protection, while my coward brother hides?’ Henriette snapped.
The Countess stiffened. ‘You forget how he has already tasted the tribulations of the Bastille, the first time he was arrested with Biron. He has no wish to repeat the experience.’
‘I have little appetite for it myself.’
‘But Morgan is singing like a canary, naming other nobles involved. It will not be long before they have the evidence they seek, or else contrive it. I pray you write to your brother and beg him to confess. He will not listen to me, his own wife. If he falls upon the King’s mercy he may yet keep his head. Henry has offered a pardon if he will agree to three years’ exile for his crime.’
‘Dear God, is it as bad as that?’ Henriette felt her throat constrict with dreadful apprehension. ‘This was not how it was meant to be. I refuse to believe that any treacherous evidence will be found against us. Yet in protecting my brother, do I run the risk of damning myself?’
The Queen had taken herself into seclusion, deciding she preferred to keep well away from these political troubles. She had with her Prince Louis, who was almost three years old now; a quiet, rather serious child, whom she adored. Princess Elizabeth was more delicate, both in her features and in health, but a darling all the same. The three children of Gabrielle also lived in the royal nurseries, although Marie largely ignored them, save for César who was still her favourite. They were all cared for and properly disciplined by Madame de Montglât.
But Marie longed for the opportunity to make this into a brilliant court of art and culture. She was tired of the restrictions, the quarrels and moods of her rival, the neglect she was forced to endure. She ached for the company of her husband, to have him in her bed again, yet whenever Henry asked to speak with her in private, she insisted that Donna Leonora or Concini be present. The King would often be obliged to stand at the door of her cabinet pleading for admittance.
‘What must I do to regain your favour?’
‘You know what needs to be done, husband. I am weary of La Marquise ruling our lives for want of a piece of paper.’
At times Donna Leonora was obliged to call on Rosny to act as mediator between the royal pair as she could not cope with their endless squabbles, or their conflicting orders. But it was she who brought the news that not only had the trial of Morgan commenced, her rival’s father had also been arrested.
‘The King’s archers found Balzac in his bed, and, despite his attempt to buy his freedom with the bribe of a casket containing fifty thousand livres’ worth of jewels, they wasted no time in bearing him off to the Conciergerie in Paris. The entire court is humming with the tale, Madame.’
Marie was scarcely able to disguise her delight. Could she hope that the she-cat herself would be implicated in this intrigue? She was quite certain in her own mind that must be the case.
‘And have they found the promise of marriage?’
Her dame d’atours shook her head. ‘More arrests are even now taking place, the plotters being rounded up like recalcitrant sheep. The King instructed his archers to keep searching for the document until it was found. As a consequence, letters from Auvergne were discovered, and one signed by the King of Spain himself. This stated that on the death of Henry, France would be invaded by Spanish troops, and the Duke of Lennox would take Province. Not only that, Philip III would recognize the son of the La Marquise, and not our own beloved dauphin, as heir to the French throne.’
Marie went pale. ‘Thanks be to the God that this iniquitous plot was discovered in time. But will the King ever discover that pestilential promise?’
‘I am doing all I can in the matter,’ Henry testily informed her when she asked him this question directly. Marie wasn’t satisfied, the need for it to be in her own hand burned like a brand in her brain.
‘How? In what way are you doing all you can?’
Henry grunted his displeasure. The Grand Duke had been right to ask how it was that a hero who had conquered France inch by inch could not manage two unruly women. ‘The High Court has examined the documents submitted by Morgan but have declared the one claiming to be the promise of marriage as invalid.’
‘Invalid? What does that mean?’
‘That it is but a copy, a fraudulent document. I have ordered my archers to return to Malesherbes and search for the genuine article. Balzac is claiming that I have no servant more faithful than he. I believe the fellow lies. But if he is so keen to save his own skin then I have offered to suspend investigations into his part in the plot. I will even pardon his son, whom I believe to be the one truly culpable, if Balzac will only surrender the document to me.’
Marie thought about this for a moment. Did she want Balzac’s head? Or Auvergne’s? No. She simply wanted an end to this illegal challenge to her son’s right to the crown. She wanted to feel secure in her marriage at last. ‘That seems fair,’ she agreed at last. ‘Will he accept, think you?’
‘He’d be a fool not to,’ was Henry’s tart response.
‘And what of La Marquise? Is your strumpet also involved?’ Marie regretted the question the moment she noted the instant puckering of the King’s brow. Had she pushed him too far?
Henry paused as he considered recent correspondence he’d received from Queen Margot. Despite being many miles away, secure in her fastness at Usson, she was nevertheless a remarkably accurate source of news with regard to events in his own court. No doubt because she had so many gossipy friends here who relayed it to her. His former queen had warned him many weeks ago of a possible intrigue by the Balzac family, and he had ignored it. More, perhaps, because he had no wish to hear the truth, rather than any lack of trust in Margot. She had frequently been a source of intelligence on state matters for him, as well as having saved his neck more than once in the past. But did he even now wish to believe in his mistress’s guilt?
‘Henriette has been avoiding me of late, so at this juncture I cannot say further than that she declares her innocence in the matter.’
‘Perhaps some independent person should speak to La Marquise on the subject, in order to confirm her lack of guilt,’ Marie drily remarked.
Marie-Charlotte slipped her arm about Henriette’s slender shoulders so that she could whisper in her ear, terrified of being overheard. They were again in the gardens, where they were obliged to take their private conversations. Even so, they were fearful someone might be lurking behind a nearby bush, ears wagging. ‘There is more news, I’m afraid.’
Henriette’s face was pale and pinched as she regarded her sister. ‘Not good, by the look of it.’ And when she hesitated, Henriette snapped impatiently, ‘Well, what is it?’
Marie-Charlotte took a breath before answering. ‘A messenger arrived this morning from Marcoussis to say that being in fear for his life, Father has finally handed over the promesse de matrimonio without further protest. It is the genuine article this time.’
Something inside of her died in that moment. ‘Then it is over.’
‘I’m afraid so. Did you know that he kept it rolled up in a bottle, stoppered with a cotton rag and secreted in one of the castle walls?’
Henriette made no response to this question, merely stared, unseeing, at a wilted rose. ‘Henry finally has what he always wanted.’
‘Indeed! And our father has perhaps saved his life by relinquishing it,’ came the gentle reminder.
‘So where does that leave me?’
With great trepidation Marie-Charlotte handed her a letter. ‘This is from the King.’
Henriette unrolled the parchment, the colour rising in her cheeks as she quickly scanned its contents. ‘How dare he! How dare he! He threatens to take my son. My son!’ Ripping the paper to shreds she began to pace back and forth in a lather of fury. She stormed for hours, alternately raging and sobbing, till her head throbbed and she felt sick. Marie-Charlotte strove to calm her.
‘Pray compose yourself or you’ll be ill. I know that as a mother you would miss little Henri, were he to return to St Germain. But the King loves him and would take good care of him.’
Henriette looked at her sister askance. ‘What are you talking about? I do not worry about missing Henri. He is only a child, I barely see him. His daily care is in his nurse’s hands, not mine, you stupid girl. But my son is to be the next King of France, not a mere plaything in a royal nursery. I need him here with me because he is the only card I hold to protect myself.’
Marie-Charlotte was accustomed to her sister’s audacity, yet she was shocked and appalled by this evidence of her selfishness. That she should care more for herself than her own child was quite outrageous. ‘You speak of your son as if he were a weapon, or a political pawn in some game or other.’
‘What else would he be? What other purpose could he have? He is a king’s son, and should be dauphin of this realm. I will not have him seen as a mere bastard.’
Later, Marie-Charlotte persuaded her sister to take some soothing poppy syrup, and put her to bed, then quietly went to her own, pondering on this complicated woman who was her own sister.
Henriette was woken at dawn by the sound of a horn, and within minutes, or so it seemed, her bedchamber was invaded by a party of men.
‘Get out, you have no authority here!’
‘We have the King’s authority, Madame. His Majesty recommends you depart at once for the château at Caen, since you seek a safe haven from the Queen’s wrath. Your son, however, is to be conveyed to Saint Germain.’
‘Do not dare to touch him!’
But neither her tears nor her disdain had the slightest effect. The King’s guards picked up Henri out of his cot, and bore him away. In a torrent of rage his mother screamed abuse at them as they rode off, but made no attempt to give chase. Before they were even out of sight she was calling for her sister.
‘Start packing, Marie-Charlotte, we at last have the safe haven I have striven so hard to achieve. But I must first speak to the King.’ Henriette stormed through the hall and up the stairs, picking up vases and figurines to fling them in temper against whatever wall she happened to be passing. ‘He will not get away with this. I will not be pacified. I shall demand he return my son, and grant me sovereign rights over the city of Caen.’
Marie-Charlotte scurried behind, desperately trying to curb the damage, picking up the gowns and petticoats Henriette ripped from their coffers. Thinking of her own beloved and fatherless child, she wondered whether this was truly the action of a broken-hearted mother, or a scorned woman who had failed in her ambitions?
There was joy in the court, the Queen emerging with a smile from her self-inflicted confinement. Marie felt a surge of new hope, a promise of a better future at last. She ordered magnificent feasts to be held, entertainment to delight the King whose good humour was also restored. Even the children raced about laughing with glee. Husband and wife were reunited, friends again as if there had never been any friction between them.
The she-cat still had to be dealt with, of course, and would be if Marie had her way. But in his mistress’s absence Henry had not taken long to find a replacement to warm his bed. She was the young and pretty Jacqueline de Beuil, who happened to be Bellegarde’s niece. The King was wooing her furiously, showering her with gifts and compliments, and Marie did all she could to encourage this latest vanity on the part of her elderly husband. There was almost a desperation in him, which she found rather sad, but the Queen was hopeful the girl would help Henry to forget his former mistress. And at least she was respectful towards herself, unlike the waspish wickedness of her predecessor. La Marquise was still at Verneuil, her mother in attendance, having failed to persuade the King to return her son, which might serve to hold her rapacious ambitions in check.
Quite by chance, Marie was with Henry when the Countess d’Auvergne arrived to fling herself at the King’s feet. ‘Your Majesty, they have arrested my husband and taken him to the Bastille.’
‘Indeed, I am sorry to hear it, Madame,’ Henry mildly replied. ‘What is it you would have me do?’
‘I beg you, Sire, to spare him. He has done nothing wrong. He is no traitor.’
‘Mayhap you think too highly of him, as did I. I pardoned his folly once before, even trusting in him sufficiently to allow him to continue his communication with Spain. And all because I swore to his father, Charles IX, on that blighted king’s deathbed, that I would show indulgence to the Count.’
Queen Marie brought the weeping Countess gently to her feet. ‘The King can do nothing, you must let the courts decide, Madame. Remember, that promise of marriage has hung over my husband’s head like a sword of Damocles for years. It was long past time for him to secure possession of it.’
Henry acknowledged this truth with a slight inclination of his head. ‘I felt tolerably certain it might be found at your husband’s château, Madame, or else that of your father-in-law. A search was implemented, and it has indeed been discovered at Marcoussis.’
‘I know not if my husband has unwisely become involved in some intrigue. It may have been out of ignorance of the implications, or else for the safety of his sister, with whom he is close.’
Henry thought of a recent letter he’d received from Margot in which she had offered more serious warnings, giving several names, which, added to the information that Rosny had unearthed, he now took more seriously. ‘These are grave charges, Madame.’
‘I humbly beg Your Majesty to pardon him, as you did out of love for him once before.’
Marie marvelled at the woman’s humility, in stark contrast to the unswerving arrogance of her sister-in-law, La Marquise. She could see that the Countess’s earnest efforts to save her husband had touched the King’s soft heart. Marie too wept along with the woman cradled in her arms. Her own heart swelled with pity for her, thinking how she too would beg for a beloved husband.
