The Queen and the Courtesan, page 6
Feeling rather sorry for her, Marie did not examine the document too closely, but accepted it as true. ‘Then from now on you shall be Donna Leonora Galigai, and my dame d’atours, albeit in an unofficial capacity until we have the King’s blessing.’
Leonora was delighted. The role of the dame d’atours, or mistress of the robes, was the most senior rank in the Queen’s household at the French Court. As well as taking care of the royal garments she would attend the sovereign at her levée to hand her a petticoat or gown. The dame d’honneur assisted, as did the première femme de chambre and perhaps as many as twelve femmes and lavandières. But her position would be the most important and much coveted.
Donna Leonora was well satisfied, and particularly pleased with herself today. Among the cavaliers who were to be a part of the Queen’s entourage was one Concino Concini, a handsome young man who had quite caught her eye. He was to be included because he was the son of Giovanni, once a loyal and wise minister to Cosimo I. Admittedly, the younger Concini had not inherited his father’s eminence or good fortune, Duke Ferdinand accusing him of leading a somewhat dissolute life. But then he was young and hot-headed. He was tactful and courteous, and had certainly managed to charm the Queen. Leonora had caught him casting interested looks in her direction, which thrilled and excited her. It seemed that her dull, quiet life had suddenly taken a turn for the better, and with everything to play for to make it even brighter in the future.
On the thirteenth of the month Marie de Medici set forth upon her long journey, accompanied by her new dame d’atours, her aunt the Grand-Duchess, her sister the Duchess of Mantua, half-brother Don Antonio, and her handsome cousin the Duke of Bracciano, whom she’d once hoped to marry. There were numerous other ladies and gentlemen of the Italian Court, as well as the French Ambassador, and she felt excited at the prospect of leaving Italy to at last meet her husband.
Part Three
FOR THE LOVE OF A KING
1600–1601
They were quarrelling again. In December Henry and his men, having effectively starved the armies of the Duke of Savoy by trapping them in the mountains, withdrew into Piedmont where word reached him of the arrival of his young bride at Marseilles. Now the Marchioness de Verneuil was refusing to attend Her Majesty’s reception.
‘It would be an insult to myself,’ Henriette stormed, tossing her fiery locks. She was sitting beside him in bed, completely naked and all too sensually aware of the effect she was having upon her royal lover.
Henry fingered an auburn curl that fell on her bare shoulder. ‘How so? You know that I love you. Have I not given you sufficient proof of my affection this night?’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘Every night, in fact.’
‘If you insist on attending your wife, I shall make haste to Paris.’
‘Whether in Paris or Marseilles you must be presented, dear heart. She is the Queen.’
‘I shall do as I please.’ Henriette turned the full fury of those glittering green eyes upon him. ‘Did you not deliberately set out to humiliate me by selecting the Duc de Bellegarde to carry the marriage papers to Florence? Of all the high nobles you could have chosen, Your Majesty saw fit to select the one you had previously accused of paying court to me. A cheap revenge, was it not, used as a deliberate affront against myself.’
Henry looked faintly surprised by this outburst and then laughed out loud. ‘Is that what is troubling you? Then I swear the thought never entered my head. I forgave Bellegarde for that petty fight he picked with Joinville a long time ago, as I have forgiven him many times in the past for his indiscretions. We have had our differences, he and I, but he is my most loyal friend. As are you, my love, I trust,’ he murmured, teasing a pert nipple with the heel of his thumb. ‘So have done with your sulks, put on your most glamorous gown and be presented to your new queen.’
‘Never!’ In one swift movement Henriette leaped from the bed, reaching for her robe de chambre. But Henry was too quick for her, and catching her by the wrist pulled her back into his arms. The heat between them instantly ignited and he was astride her in a second, pinning her down and taking her with all the force of his passion. Henriette yielded willingly, giving of herself with generous abandon, the harsh words between them forgotten.
Nevertheless, she departed for Paris the very next morning.
Marie was weary of travelling. Being November, the normally calm blue waters of the Mediterranean had been choppy, the rough crossing demanding they frequently put ashore to shelter. Her uncle the Grand Duke had again counselled her before she’d embarked, warning Marie that it might have been unwise of her to make such promises to Leonora. ‘Make no demands upon your new husband the King until you have spent some time in his company.’
‘It was a very small promise,’ Marie excused herself, beginning to grow weary of her uncle’s constant admonishments. ‘Merely an appointment in my own household.’
‘No promise is ever small, not to a king. There are always . . . implications.’
To Donna Leonora herself, Ferdinand advised that she not interfere between their Majesties. ‘Nor usurp the prerogatives and offices of the great ladies of the court.’
‘You have my word, Sire. I wish only for a quiet life, and covet no honours for myself. Only the permission to devote myself to my royal mistress.’ Keeping her eyes suitably downcast, Donna Leonora offered this assurance as she kissed the Grand Duke’s fingers, even as she inwardly calculated how she could not only hang on to her new role, but better it.
The grand-ducal fleet had set sail on the eighteenth of the month, comprising seven galleys, one French ship, five papal frigates and five galleys of Malta; persons on board numbering upwards of a thousand. The royal standard of France flew above the main galley, a most magnificent vessel belonging to the Grand Duke. Seventy feet in length, it was richly gilded from stem to stern, inlaid with a profusion of lapis-lazuli, mother-of-pearl, ivory and ebony. The ship needed fifty-four oarsmen to propel her. Marie’s own cabin had been decorated in regal splendour, hung with cloth of gold; the fleur-de-lis of France, profusely decorated with sapphires and pearls, and the shield of the house of Medici, suspended side by side opposite the state chair. But it was with great relief that the young Queen finally arrived at Marseilles.
When she stepped ashore, gasps of admiration came from the watching crowds. Marie was magnificently gowned in dove brocade threaded with gold, fashioned in the Italian manner, a carcanet of pearls about her throat and her light-brown hair left loose and without powder. She was welcomed by the Chancellor, the consuls and citizens going down on their knees, the former carrying out the traditional ceremony of presenting her with the golden keys of the city.
Marie felt oddly nervous, and disappointed that Henry was not here to welcome her. When would she ever meet her husband? And there were still many more miles to go before she reached Lyons. But bells were ringing, flags were fluttering in the breeze, and salvoes of artillery from the guard of honour on the quay told of a rousing welcome from the people. Marie de Medici, royal princess that she was, drew breath and smiled upon them all.
And all the while the French eyed her carefully and gossiped among themselves. ‘The figure of Her Majesty is magnificent,’ the Duchesse de Nemours whispered to Mademoiselle de Guise. ‘See how her eyes sparkle with health and vigour.’
‘And her complexion is superb, with neither rouge, paint nor powder needed to enhance it.’
The Duchesse advanced to make obeisance, and to introduce the ladies of the French retinue. ‘The King sends his apologies as he is in Savoy fighting a campaign, and asked me to welcome Your Majesty to France in his place.’
‘I thank you, Duchess,’ Marie warmly responded.
Then the cardinals and prelates, preceded by the Constable, conducted the new queen to the palace beneath a rich canopy. The ladies of the court followed on behind, led by the wife of the Chancellor. There was some slight altercation over precedence between the French and Italian courtiers, but Marie was too fatigued to pay them any heed.
It delighted her hosts when she thanked them for the courtesy of her reception in fluent French. They were deeply flattered that she should take the trouble to learn their language so well. Her dignity and demeanour, the magnificence of her apparel, and the flush of health and happiness which glowed about her, filled the people with joy and hope. Here was a fine young queen indeed, one to be proud of.
Festivities and celebrations went on for some days, and Marie ached for it all to end. She felt weary of travel, and of civic celebrations. She had endured several as she’d progressed through Italy, now she must suffer them all over again in France.
The King had sent a royal coach to transport her to Lyons, and ultimately to Paris. Outwardly adorned in brown velvet trimmed with silver tinsel, inside it was lined with carnation velvet embroidered with gold and silver. Henry had certainly done her proud. Yet despite being drawn by four fine greys, the vehicle was cumbersome and uncomfortable to ride in, being crudely sprung. More decorative than fast.
But as she was driven around, Marie would draw back the heavy curtains to show herself to the crowds who threw flowers and fronds of evergreen upon her path. Every street was richly decorated, hangings suspended from windows, and draped over balconies. There were triumphal arches splendidly decorated with emblems and devices, and everywhere people waving, or running alongside the coach to shout and cheer.
‘How excited they are,’ she said to Leonora, feeling a flush of exhilaration herself. ‘I do hope I can be a good queen for them.’
‘You will make them proud,’ her companion assured her. ‘But you should decline the services of these French ladies until after you have been joined by the King. They create only dissension.’ Donna Leonora did not care to have her nose pushed out of joint by what she viewed as the foreign contingent.
‘How can I refuse? Henry has made it clear that they must attend me the moment I have disembarked. I cannot go against the word of a king.’
Though outwardly serene and gracious, deep down Marie felt a little uneasy, a stranger in this new land, and largely ignored by her new husband thus far. She was uncertain of when Henry intended to join her, and what she was supposed to do with herself in the meantime. Could he, she wondered, be with Madame de Verneuil and not in Savoy at all? If only she knew for certain then her situation might be less embarrassing. She’d had word that La Marquise was at Lyons. If that were the case then she determined to protect herself as best she could. She made one demand of Bellegarde.
‘I would be escorted to Lyons by my brother Don Antonio de Medici, and by the Duke of Bracciano, my cousin.’
‘That will not be necessary, Your Majesty. The King expects these gentlemen to return to Italy with your ladies.’
Marie panicked at the thought of being left alone. ‘No, no, I insist upon their presence as representatives of my uncle, the Grand Duke. Otherwise I will remain here in Marseilles until the King has concluded his campaign.’
Faced with such an alternative, and seeing the fear in her eyes, Bellegarde took pity on her and conceded to her request.
Marie’s lowest moment came on a day late in November when the Grand Duchess her aunt, and her sister the Duchess of Mantua, took their leave to return to Florence in the galleys, which stood ready to embark at the quay.
‘How will I survive without you?’ she mourned, keenly feeling the pain of their parting, an ache of loneliness already starting up in her breast.
‘You will survive because you are a queen,’ her aunt assured her, kissing her on each pale, cold cheek. ‘You have only to give the King a Dauphin, and you will have fulfilled your destiny.’
‘I will pray to God to grant me that grace!’
‘You are not alone, Majesty, you still have me,’ Donna Leonora reminded her mistress as the Italian retainers started to board the ships.
Marie hugged her companion warmly. ‘So I do, dear friend.’
But she waved farewell to her relatives and friends with a heavy heart, even as she strove to be brave and strong.
Marie set forth the very next day to Avignon, escorted by her brother and cousin, the French contingent, and 2,000 horse. As she continued on her journey, a letter reached her from Henry announcing the success of his campaign, and assuring her he would be with her soon.
I am delighted at the account of your reception in Marseilles. It is only a foretaste, however, of the enthusiasm which will everywhere greet you . . .
Her heart leapt at the thought of finally meeting him, feeling a surge of hope at this good news. How thankful she would be when she was finally settled in Paris with her husband. Marie still did not feel entirely comfortable with the French ladies, although she favoured Mademoiselle de Guise above any other. Now that her sister and aunt had left, she relied more and more upon the friendship of Donna Leonora, who had become such a favourite that Marie insisted she sleep at the foot of her bed. The woman was faithful and unassuming, they could speak in Italian together, of people they knew and now missed, and share memories of the country they both loved. What would she do without her?
So when her dame d’atours came to her in a fervour of excitement one day, asking if she may beg a favour, Marie was surprised, as the woman was usually so self-effacing and unruffled. But she was prepared to listen most sympathetically to her favourite’s request. ‘You know that you can say anything to me, Leonora.’
‘Concino Concini has asked for my hand in marriage. May I have Your Majesty’s permission to accept?’
Marie was not simply surprised, she was shocked. No one could call her loyal attendant beautiful, in fact many would dismiss the poor creature as downright ugly. Nor was she a flirt. She shrank away whenever the French chevaliers approached, and not for a moment had Marie thought to lose her to marriage. Yet this man was an Italian. She managed a smile. ‘Are you in love with him, Leonora?’
The woman blushed, betraying her emotion. ‘I am, Your Majesty.’
‘And what of his feelings towards you?’
Donna Leonora paused before answering. She had no illusions about herself, and if Concini recognized that allying himself to the Queen’s favourite might possibly assist his advancement, Leonora had no quarrel with that either. She thought they might well help each other in that respect. For a woman such as herself with no claim to beauty, the attention of a handsome cavalier was deeply flattering. She had never thought to have a lover let alone a husband, and had already succumbed to his charms and embarked upon a love affair with him. ‘I am satisfied that his suit is honourable.’
‘Then I give my consent, and will do what I can to gain the King’s permission, and see that you both receive offices of distinction in my household.’
‘Your Majesty, I am most grateful.’ It was no more than she had hoped for, and Leonora reported back to her lover, well pleased.
It was early December by the time Marie reached the city of Lyons, where she found preparations for the royal marriage were well in hand. She was informed that the King was already on his way; letters awaited her from Henry, who had also sent her a magnificent pearl necklace.
The bearer of this will recount to you my disappointment at not being able to surprise you on your road to Lyons . . . Certes, my trial is hard to bear for it will be eight days before I shall be able to see you . . . I embrace you a million times. This 29th day of November, from Chambéry.
‘I shall be glad to rest a while,’ Marie admitted to Donna Leonora. ‘And I trust the feuds between the Italian and French will now cease and give me peace.’
It was not to be, as the dissension between the rival retinues continued unabated. Marie did her utmost to ignore the silly squabbles over rank and status, but they were nonetheless distressing. She was further upset when she heard how Madame de Verneuil had departed from Lyons only the day before her own arrival, and publicly boasted that the King’s visit to his new bride would be brief.
Each day she waited, hoping for him to come. But the hours would drag by, dusk would fall, the curfew sound, and still there would be no sign of her husband.
One evening following a day of inclement weather, the rain continuing well into the evening, Marie announced that she would take supper and retire early. ‘I am told the King may well be with us on the morrow, and I wish to be fresh for when we meet.’
Nerves had again beset her at the prospect of his imminent arrival, yet her heart was racing with anticipation. Marie felt she had already come to secretly love Henry – a love born in her from his endearing letters, his portrait which she kept by her side always, and the mere image of him in her mind. What if he had enjoyed a dalliance or two in the past, and a previous queen? Marguerite de Valois’ failure to produce an heir had proved to be her own good fortune. Marie was hopeful that she would succeed. This was a new beginning for herself, and for the King. One to be rejoiced.
Hot water was brought for her to bathe, fragrant with bergamot, then she took a short rest before proceeding to the dining room. As they descended the great staircase Marie paid little attention to a group of gentlemen gathering in the hall. But then some slight movement of the Chancellor alerted her, and casting a swift glance in his direction she guessed beyond doubt that one of the assembled group was the King himself. Giving no indication that she was conscious of her monarch’s presence she walked serenely into supper.
Throughout the meal Marie was only too aware that her new husband, Henry of Navarre and France, must indeed be in the room, even now watching her as she ate. Yet she gave no sign. She smiled and chatted to her ladies, and helped herself to the meat that was offered.
