The Queen and the Courtesan

A Selection of Recent Titles by Freda Lightfoot

 

The French Historical Series

HOSTAGE QUEEN *

RELUCTANT QUEEN *

THE QUEEN AND THE COURTESAN *

 

The Lakeland Sagas

THE GIRL FROM POOR HOUSE LANE

THE WOMAN FROM HEARTBREAK HOUSE

 

 

The Manchester Sagas

DANCING ON DEANSGATE

WATCH FOR THE TALLEYMAN

 

 

The Champion Street Market Sagas

WHO'S SORRY NOW?

LONELY TEARDROPS

 

 

Novels

TRAPPED

HOUSE OF ANGELS

* available from Severn House

Freda Lightfoot

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2011 by Freda Lightfoot.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Lightfoot, Freda, 1942–

The Queen and the courtesan.

1. Henry IV, King of France, 1553–1610 – Relations with

Women – Fiction. 2. Mistresses – France – Fiction.

3. France – Kings and rulers – Paramours – Fiction.

4. France – History – Henry IV, 1589–1610 – Fiction.

5. Historical fiction.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-164-4 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8092-5 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-397-7 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

‘It is a disgrace that a hero who has conquered France inch by inch yet cannot manage two unruly women.'

Ferdinand, Grand Duke of Tuscany

Part One

H
ENRIETTE

1599

H
enriette stamped her small foot, face scarlet with temper. ‘How dare they dismiss me from court! Did you not see how the King gazed into my eyes, entranced; how he complimented me on my dancing? The courtiers are calling me “
une femme toute charmante
”. He danced with me twice, so how dare anyone send me packing as if I were of no account. It's the fault of that strumpet Gabrielle. She was furious because of the attention Henry was paying me.'

‘Hush, my sweet. Take care what you say. Palace walls have ears.' Her mother glanced anxiously around, as if the Swiss guards might appear at any moment to physically evict them. ‘The Duchesse de Beaufort is the King's favourite, carrying his child and about to become his queen at last. You must make allowances for her condition. This pregnancy is proving more difficult than the others so she is naturally tense.'

‘Bah, more likely she fears she can no longer hold the King's love. They say she's calling me “
une baggage
”!' Henriette stormed, ripping the silver combs from her coiffure and flinging them across the room. She'd been excited to receive the invitation to attend the wedding celebrations of the King's sister, had revelled in the admiration she'd attracted; now it was all spoiled, and she was beside herself with fury.

Pushing Henriette gently down on to a dressing stool Madame d'Entragues began to brush the bright auburn hair, soothing her tempestuous daughter with soft words as well as with strokes of the brush. The former Marie Touchet, one time mistress of Charles IX, had never been one to make a fuss, her gentle manner often providing a calming influence on the excitable young king.

Her daughter was another creature altogether. Quite unlike her younger sister, dear little Marie-Charlotte, who was a fragile, beguiling child, always eager to please. She was even now patiently sorting the ribbons and jewels that her more volatile sister had scattered in her temper. Far too much like me, her mother ruefully admitted.

Sadly, Henriette had inherited her father's scheming, crafty nature. François de Balzac, Baron de Marcoussis and Lord of Entragues and Malesherbes, was utterly tenacious when it came to getting his own way. As governor of the city of Orleans he'd once offered to sell the town to Henry of Navarre, the plan only thwarted when the citizens fiercely objected.

This daughter was equally ruthless.

And if Henriette did not quite possess the beauty of Henry's long-established favourite Gabrielle d'Estrées, the Duchesse de Beaufort, at twenty years of age she had about her that indefinable quality that sent men wild with desire. She was dark and slim with a comely figure and handspan waist. The heavy-lidded, glittering green eyes were shrewd and sensuous, if somewhat provoking; the small, Cupid's bow mouth inclined to curl upwards at each corner in a knowing little smile. Straight nose, finely arched brows and a heart-shaped face with a softly rounded chin, the girl possessed a feline grace. And, like a cat, she could purr with pleasure or just as easily put out her claws and scratch. One moment she would be all sunshine and smiles, the next spitting with fury if something should displease her. While she lacked neither wit nor charm, even her own mother took care not to cross her.

Henriette was expressing that displeasure now. Shrugging off her mother's ministrations, she began to storm about the room, the maids running about in a desperate bid to catch the vases and marble figurines she picked up at random to hurl in the wake of the silver combs. And as she raged, Henriette complained bitterly about the imperfections of the quarters allotted to them and how glad she would be to leave it, while at the same time describing Gabrielle as a bloated fishwife, saying how much more attentive she would be to the King were she allowed to stay.

‘Take care what you wish for,' Marie softly warned, gathering up shards of broken china. ‘Loving a king can be fraught with danger, child. I was fortunate in that Charles's queen, Elizabeth of Austria, was an undemanding girl who made no protest about his keeping a mistress. She and I became firm friends, each loving the King in our own way, and supporting each other.'

Henriette looked at her mother with scathing contempt, not at all understanding such generosity of spirit. ‘That is because you are happy to have people walk all over you, like silly Marie-Charlotte here. I am not so stupid.'

If Marie Touchet felt any urge to defend herself against her daughter's rebellious condemnation of her mild manners, she gave no sign of it, simply returned to folding gowns and laying them in the coffer until Henriette snapped at her again.

‘Stop that at once,
Maman
. We keep maids to perform such a task. Do not demean yourself.' Then arching her back and stretching her arms above her head to show off the perfect lines of her lithe body, exactly as a cat might, she softly purred, ‘This isn't the end, believe me. Next time I shall capture his heart. The stakes may be high, Mother dear, but I know how to play them. I'm perfectly sure another opportunity will present itself.'

The opportunity came sooner than even Henriette might have expected. Gabrielle d'Estrées died during the early hours of Saturday, 11 April, although whether from complications of a difficult pregnancy or something more malicious, no one dared say. Gossip was rife, suspicions privately held against ministers close to the King as the Duchess had made many enemies. Men with connections in Rome who sought to have an Italian princess on the throne. These included Sancy, who had constantly resisted her rise in favour, and even Rosny, Henry IV's closest advisor, but none dared point the finger. Whatever the cause of Gabrielle's death, the fortune-tellers had been proved right. She had indeed died young, very possibly betrayed by friends as she'd sickened following a supper at Zamet's house. The Italian had personally brought her a glass of lemon juice and Gabrielle had drunk deep.

Henry showed not the slightest suspicion in anyone, possibly because he was too grief-stricken to hear the whispers. But then he was not a man who cared to dwell on unpleasant thoughts and events. His affable, easy-going nature ensured that he personally made few enemies, which had been his salvation on numerous occasions in the past. It was a skill he'd learned as a young man, following his marriage to Marguerite de Valois, when the pair of them had been held hostage in the Louvre for some years by Catherine de Medici following the Massacre of St Bartholomew.

Queen Margot was now languishing in the fortress of Usson, first as a prisoner and then taking control of it in her own inimical way. She refused to leave as she claimed to fear for her life. All a nonsense – she was simply holding out for more money – although Henry believed that he'd finally won her agreement to a divorce. Too late. His beloved Gabrielle, his hoped-for bride, was gone, as was their child. There would be no wedding, no crown for his angel.

He'd been so devastated when he'd heard the news that he'd fainted in his carriage, then had closeted himself in the palace of Fontainebleau for days, refusing to see anyone.

Gabrielle lay in state and more than twenty thousand 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.

Henry swore that he would never love again. ‘The root of my love is withered,' he cried.

Rosny gently pointed out that her death was by Divine will. ‘One day you might thank God for this blow. Think of the impossible position in which you were placed, drawn to her as you were and yet bound by honour and duty to marry a royal princess. Now you can rest easy in the joy and blessing of your people.'

Too overwhelmed by despair, Henry did not trouble to respond. He ordered the entire court to wear black, and Gabrielle's memory was honoured to the extent that Parliament itself offered the King its condolences, normally only given for persons of royal blood. His sister, Catherine, newly married to the Duke of Bar quite against her wishes, sent him her love and deepest sympathies, as did Queen Margot herself. All expressed tender condolences while privately rejoicing in the removal of this inconvenient obstacle.

Like the good father that he was, Henry visited his children to offer them his love, and gave instructions concerning their mother's effects: her furniture and personal jewels, while retrieving those which belonged to the crown.

By the end of the month he'd discarded the black apparel in favour of violet, and was once again writing letters of state. Studiously avoiding any mention of his loss, he remained swamped in melancholy. He would sit oblivious to the roistering and wit going on all around him from his courtiers, even the charms of the lovely ladies who would readily have offered him comfort. Bellegarde, his closest friend and one-time rival for Gabrielle's affections, did his utmost to cheer him, while the Comte d'Auvergne lost no opportunity of mentioning the charms of his sister, Henriette de Balzac, reminding Henry how he had enjoyed dancing with her.

‘She is a woman of great reserve and virtue,' he told the King, raising a collective disbelieving brow among the courtiers at this unlikely description of his sister's charms, a saucy coquette if ever there was one. It was also well known that her father, François d'Entragues, had been one of the most profligate courtiers of the licentious court of Henri III. Auvergne himself, often referred to as the Bastard de Valois as he was the son of Marie Touchet by Charles IX, and therefore the girl's half-brother, was known to be restless and overambitious, and not averse to a little wily conspiracy.