The Queen and the Courtesan (34 page)

‘Paris is even more crowded than usual, Your Majesty. Packed with strangers come to see the coronation and the entry of the Queen on Sunday.'

Vitry, Henry's captain of the guard, stepped quickly forward to offer more information on the situation. ‘Some of the streets are blocked by platforms and scaffolding erected for the decorations to be put up.'

‘Ah yes,' said Henry. ‘There is much being done, and still so much to be arranged. Why do you not go to the Palais and inspect and report on the progress of the banquet, ballet and masque, which are being prepared to entertain the good Parisians.'

‘Nay, Sire. My services would be better used to escort Your Majesty, in view of the great confusion in the city.'

Henry laughed. ‘Go, you only want to stay because you like talking to the women. Do what I say. For fifty years I've managed very well getting about the city without the daily protection of my captain of the guard. I believe I can still manage to find my way today without it.'

Then stepping out on to the balcony overlooking the fountain court, Henry called out to his men. ‘Is my coach ready? Good, then I must take my leave. My presence is needed at Tuileries and I wish to visit the Arsenal to speak to Sully.' So saying, he embraced the Queen, giving her the customary three kisses of farewell, and hurried from the apartment, his mind already on the next task in hand.

The streets were indeed crowded; already narrow they were well nigh impassable in places. In addition to the throng, which was even greater than reported, there were a number of booths and stalls selling wares, breads and pastries, sweetmeats and other treats on this special occasion. Heavily laden carts trundled by, frequently blocking the roads, and because of the difficulties in making any headway Henry dismissed most of his attendants, save for a small detachment of guards and two running footmen whose task was to herald the approach of the royal equipage and disperse any blockage. In the coach with Henry was Epernon, Liancour, Roquelaure and one or two others. The royal carriage entered the Rue St Honoré, then turned into Rue de la Ferronière, heading for the Arsenal.

Unfortunately Sully was indisposed, so one of the footmen hurried forward to clear the way for the coach to press on, while the other paused to tie a garter, which had come loose. A figure slipped unseen through the jostling crowd. Enveloped in a cloak, head down, he carried his hat as if to shield whatever was in his hand. The footman didn't notice. He was too busy shouting and gesticulating at the driver of a cart that was blocking the royal progress. Henry was showing the details of a paper to Epernon, his hand on the Duke's shoulder as they read it together, his back turned away from the coach windows, the leather curtains of which had been drawn up to allow him to inspect the preparations for Sunday as the coach had rumbled through the streets.

The blow came out of nowhere, striking the King between the second and third ribs. He cried out, ‘I am wounded! No, do not fear, it is nothing.'

Scarcely were these words out of Henry's mouth than his assailant struck again. Ravaillac had sprung up on to the wheel of the carriage and stabbed the King. Now he followed this first with several more blows in quick succession, even ripping the sleeve of the Duke of Montbazon's habit as the courtier bravely thrust out an arm to protect his sovereign.

Mayhem broke out within the coach, the horror of the nobles at what was happening indescribable. Henry made one last effort to speak, then blood gushed from his mouth and he collapsed.

‘Dear God, the King is dead!'

The cry went up and there were shrieks of terror and dismay from the demented crowd. One of the King's guards threw himself on to Ravaillac, sword drawn, but the assailant made no attempt to escape, merely stood leaning against a wall. The knife he'd used to slaughter his monarch was still in his hand, the King's blood dripping from it, to add to the pool already running from the carriage.

Epernon leaped quickly down beside his colleague. ‘Let no one touch the assassin. The King is not dead, he has but fainted.' It was a lie that few believed, but he knew that within seconds the brigand would have been torn limb from limb, and Epernon had every intention of ensuring that he would not suffer so easy a death.

The curtains of the coach were respectfully closed, the noblemen walking behind as the finest king France had ever known was driven slowly back to the Louvre.

The Queen was still in her
cabinet
engaged in making arrangements for Sunday's procession when she heard the rumpus outside. It was a quarter after four and something about the noise, the murmurs and cries of the people, almost like a wailing, alarmed her. She sensed at once that something was wrong, and ran to the window to look out. Seeing nothing untoward, she hurried down the palace corridors towards the grand staircase where by chance she came upon de Souvré, tutor to the young princes.

‘What is it? What is the matter?' she asked, her mother's heart turning over with dread. Had something happened to one of her sons?

Souvré fell to his knees before her, kissing the Queen's hand. ‘The King has been wounded, stabbed through the heart. He is being brought to the palace.'

Marie cried out, almost collapsed, and had to be half carried back to her apartment where she waited in agony for more news. The minutes ticked slowly by, only ten or fifteen perhaps though it felt more like an hour. At last the door opened and Sillery, the chancellor, entered. She rushed to grasp his hand. ‘Monsieur, the King! This tumult. Is it true? Is the King dead?'

In a small, halting voice, the chancellor answered. ‘Madame, be calm, I entreat you. The King can never die.' And stepping towards the young dauphin, he said, ‘Behold the King!'

Louis fell sobbing into his mother's arms. In that moment Marie was too stunned for tears. They would come later. Now she shook with shock, her cries as much from anger as grief. How could anyone kill so fine and noble a king, such a great and gentle man? She had hated much of Henry's foolishness, his flaws, his weaknesses. Oh, but she had loved him with all her heart and soul, despite everything. She bowed her head and let the tears flow, mingling with those of her son who would forever miss this much-loved, affectionate father.

Sillery allowed them only a few moments of private grief before clearing his throat and urging the Queen to gather her courage. ‘You have lost a great and glorious husband and king this day. Weep and bewail for him from the bottom of your heart, but never forget that you are also the mother and guardian of an infant king, whose realm must be governed by you.'

Marie met the chancellor's steady gaze and knew that he spoke true. The burden of regency now weighed heavy upon her shoulders, and this holy responsibility would require all her strength and fortitude in the difficult months and years ahead.

January 1611

Henriette was in a state of near terror. How could it have come to this? She, a court beauty who had flown so high, to now fall so low. Charges had been brought against her regarding the death of the King. Having been arrested in her own house earlier today, together with three of her ladies, she was now being interrogated.

Interrogated!
Even the word chilled Henriette to the bone.

‘When did you meet Madame d'Escoman? Was she introduced to you by your ladies? Or by Guise, or Epernon?'

‘You waste your time asking the same questions over and over,' she told her interrogators for the thousandth time that afternoon. ‘I never met this Madame d'Escoman. I do not know the woman.'

‘She claims she was once in your service.'

Henriette paled, fear escalating through her. How was it they knew so much about her? She was in the Bastille, the place where her brother still resided, lying forgotten in some dank cell. Few people who entered this place walked out alive. Henriette's frightened gaze darted about the stone walls of the chamber in which she was being held, empty but for a wooden table and two chairs, fastening with terror upon anything which looked remotely like a possible implement of torture. What did a thumbscrew actually look like? Was that metal tool hanging on the wall the pincers that were brought to red-hot heat and used to extract toenails, or tongues? She quaked with fear at the thought, struggling to keep the panic from her voice as she answered her accusers. ‘I cannot remember every maid who has ever worked in my service.'

‘She is lame and hunchbacked. Surely you would remember her. She says you also met Ravaillac at Malesherbes. Do you remember him?'

‘No, I do not.' Had not the King's assailant been safely disposed of ? Dead men did not talk. But they might try to make
her
talk. Would they put her on the rack? Should she lie to protect herself ? ‘If this woman accuses me of arranging the murder of our beloved king, then tell her to bring forth proof.'

‘She claims that a letter, signed by yourself, was presented to Queen Marie in an attempt to warn Her Majesty.'

Henriette began to shake. ‘And what did this supposed letter say?'

‘Her Majesty burned it unread.'

Relief flooded through her. ‘There you are then. Her Majesty clearly was unimpressed by her. She is a wicked woman who accuses everybody in order to evade her own guilt.'

There had been many questions since the assassination. The main one being was it a public or a private vengeance? Was Spain at the root of it? Or some person closer to the King? Suspicion had fallen upon them all, not least the Queen whom Henry had betrayed yet again and was threatening to divorce so that he could marry the pretty Charlotte. Her Majesty had weathered that small storm easily, but then she was mother of the new King. Suspicion had also fallen upon herself, his discarded mistress. Henriette's young son had even been put under guard in his room on the day of the murder, in case anyone should decide to abduct the boy and declare him the rightful king.

‘Madame d'Escoman spoke to Queen Marguerite at the church of Saint Victoire, alleging that because of your despair at falling out of favour, and the peril inflicted upon your family and friends, you allied with Guise and others, to avenge yourself upon the King. What say you to this?'

‘I say it is a lie. I am innocent of these charges. You will need to look elsewhere for someone to blame.'

Many believed the crime had been inspired by Condé, a way to put an end to Henry's designs upon his wife. While some even fantasized that Ravaillac, the assassin, might have had a sister whom the King had ravished at some time. No evidence of a sister, or private grievance of any sort, had been found. It was clear that Ravaillac, a man of some thirty to forty years of age, was a religious fanatic, prey to hallucinations and misconceptions. His view was that the King was no true Catholic, that Henry had betrayed the Holy Mother Church, therefore he had resolved to strike him down.

But did he act alone, or was someone else behind the plot? Spain perhaps.

Later in that same month of May he had been duly tortured, burned and dismembered, his death drawn out as long as possible so that he might have time to express remorse for his heinous crime. Yet despite the agonies he'd endured, he gave no other name. No one else had been implicated. But that didn't stop Parliament from seeking one.

‘Your accuser claims that you intended your son Henri to be raised to the throne, that you were to marry the Duke of Guise who was to be proclaimed Regent during the new King's minority, and Monsieur d'Epernon was to be appointed Constable of France. That you were acting in connivance with the Spanish King.'

‘The woman is a fantasist.'

‘She also says that she tried to warn the King's advisers many months ago, but none would listen.'

‘I'm not surprised. Sully can recognize a mad woman when he sees one, even if you cannot.'

Her interrogator smiled, as if she had made some jest. ‘Take care, Madame, Sully is not as powerful as he once was. We have a new regime now. You know that your friend Epernon has also been arrested, since he too was implicated.'

Henriette thought that at any moment she might actually vomit, her terror was so great. ‘Why do you not torture the truth out of Madame d'Escoman, rather than harass me?'

‘The Queen regent will not allow it.'

‘Why, because she fears she might implicate even more important personages than myself? Neighbouring countries, for instance, which could lead to war?'

‘Your tongue may be the death of you one day, Madame.'

How many times Henry had said very much the same thing. Would they whip her, or put her in the pillory, place one of her pretty feet into the boot and crush the bones to pulp? Henriette trembled. But as the clock chimed five they decided to release her. No evidence had been found against her. As yet.

‘You will be kept under surveillance, Madame, so do not consider leaving Paris.'

It was not until 10 August 1611, that the Dukes of Guise and Epernon, and Madame de Verneuil, were finally absolved of all charges. Their accuser, Madame d'Escoman, was brought to trial and convicted of false denunciation, sorcery and coining. After some disagreement over her sentence the woman was dispatched to the Convent des Filles Repenties, where she was incarcerated in a small stone cell, specially constructed for the purpose in a corner of the courtyard – ‘walled up' was the term used – where she died three years later, still protesting her innocence.

Henri Quatre was deeply mourned throughout Europe, not least by the two queens who had been his wives. They sat together now in the royal nursery, the children gathered about them. King Louis, at ten, and the nine-year-old Princess Elizabeth were busy at their lessons, together with other children of the palace courtiers, and Henriette's two children, born at the same time as their royal half-siblings. Three-year-old Gaston was playing with his soldiers, Princess Christine, at five, being taught her letters, while little Henrietta Maria, the newest addition to the family at just two, was sitting on Margot's knee playing with her pearls and trying on her feathered plume. Henri, the Duke of Orleans, was being cuddled by his mother, even though he was now four. But then he was a sickly child and a great worry to her.