The Queen and the Courtesan by Freda Lightfoot

dowry.’
    â€˜I suspect it was Madame de Verneuil who has instituted an evil influence upon His Majesty in the matter. The last thing she would want would be for you to receive the kind of welcome you have received thus far in every town you have passed through. Not here in Paris, the city in which she imagined herself being queen.’
    â€˜You may well be right. I must give Henry the benefit of the doubt.’ If only because of the stirring nights she spent in his arms.
    Marie shivered, her feet frozen on a foot-warmer that had long since lost its heat, consoling herself that she would be the one to wear the crown, after all. Little César was with her and the poor child was falling asleep in her arms. She drew him close to keep him warm, telling herself to stop fretting about one mistress. Did not every monarch consider it his right? She must learn to accept that, and what did it matter, so long as Henry was discreet?
    â€˜I doubt he is even faithful to her,’ Leonora inexorably continued, as the older woman did so love to gossip. ‘I have heard rumours that he constantly entertains other ladies of the court at supper.’
    Marie was startled by this news, not sure whether to be relieved by this lack of constancy on her husband’s part towards his mistress, or further insulted by it. She let out a heavy sigh. ‘No doubt things will not look half so bleak when we can actually step down from this tiresome coach for the last time.’
    But there was little consolation to be found when they did. The Louvre appeared dingy, the furnishings outdated, certainly to Marie, an Italian princess accustomed to Florentine elegance. She was shocked by the evident lack of preparation for her arrival. There were no fires lit, no clean sheets on the beds. ‘We cannot possibly stay here. I doubt it has even been cleaned. Please find us a more comfortable abode while something is done to improve this place.’
    Marie installed herself and her entourage in the finest private mansion in Paris, the home of Cardinal de Condé. Here she waited for the nobles, the Princes of the Blood and other high personages, to call and pay their respects, as was only right and proper to a new queen.
    The squabbles between the Italian and French retinues had left a sour taste in everyone’s mouth, and Marie was doing her utmost to keep her spirits high, despite the poor reception in the capital. But she was also suffering from that dreaded sense of neglect by an easy-going, but careless, husband. Holding fast to her dignity she smiled as she entered the ballroom the following evening, having spent a long afternoon receiving the principal ladies of the court, and derived some small pleasure from hearing murmurs of admiration as she passed by.
    Her gown was of gold cloth trimmed with ermine, her fine bosom framed by a ruff of rich lace stiffened by wire that rose high behind the neck. The fashion was instantly christened by the admiring courtiers as a ‘Medici’. And wishing to be in keeping with the French Court the Queen’s hair was arranged in stiff rows of thickly-powdered curls. As always she looked magnificent, but her confidence, already at a low ebb, dipped lower within moments of reaching the dais.
    Henriette stood framed in the open doorway, her pretty head held high as she glanced disdainfully about her with a dignity befitting a queen and not a mere courtesan.
    Some instinct told Marie who the woman was, confirmed by the rush of whispers that flew about the room, followed by a stunned silence. Marie de Medici, that most royal of princesses, watched in open disbelief as her husband’s mistress moved gracefully towards her. She could hardly believe her own eyes. Or her ears either when, curtseying low, the Duchesse de Nemours – the famous Anne d’Este, mother of the Duke of Mayenne, Cardinal de Lorraine, and Henri de Guise who had inherited his father’s sobriquet le Balafré