The Emperor's Concubine Read online

  The Emperor’s Concubine

  Michèle McGrath

  The Emperor’s Concubine

  “I will not crown the Emperor’s concubine!” The Pope was striding up and down the room, his white robes frothing round his legs.

  “What do you mean, Holiness?” Cardinal Fesch asked faintly and then immediately wished that he hadn’t. Pope Pius VII was an elderly, usually mild mannered, man but now his face was flushed with rage as he rounded on the small round cardinal.

  “Mean?” The Pope roared. “What do I mean? They were never married; that’s what I mean! The woman is his concubine. Napoleon has dragged me all the way from Rome, in the depths of winter, to crown his whore!”

  Fesch blinked. For a moment his mind went blank and he couldn’t think. But it wasn’t true. He had been at their wedding. He blurted out “Holiness, they were married. I saw it myself. I was there.”

  “A civil marriage made in front of a civilian registrar! How can you, a cardinal of the holy Catholic Church, accept it as a lawful marriage in the sight of God?”

  That part was true of course. During the Revolution, there were few churches open and even fewer priests. For safety, he had even renounced his own priesthood to earn a meagre living as a merchant. Many other priests had done the same. When things changed, few couples had bothered to marry again in church. Certainly the imperial couple had not, as far as he knew. For a moment, Fesch wondered just how the Pope had found out this fact on the very eve of their Coronation.

  “Forgive me, Holiness. I never thought about it in that way.”

  “What other way is there to think about it?”

  Fesch did not attempt to answer. The question was rhetorical.

  “The Emperor says he is a true son of the church,” Pius continued, spitting out his words, “but his marriage is not legitimate and therefore his so called Empress cannot be crowned. You will go to him and tell him so.”

  Fesch trembled. No one would want to give this kind of a message to Napoleon. Even though he was a member of the family, he had always taken care to avoid the frequent quarrels which broke out whenever his relations gathered together. But he would not be able to avoid this quarrel. He had just been given a direct order by the only man who could do so. For a moment, his frightened mind pictured the Emperor’s displeasure.

  “Immediately!” Fesch jumped. Lost in his thoughts, he had forgotten he was still in the Pope’s presence.

  “At once, Holiness.” He scurried out of the room, thinking desperately. He could not go to the Emperor without also having some sort of a solution to offer him. Danger had always sharpened his wits. That was how he had managed to survive for so long. He hurried to his rooms and took out his book on Canon Law. He flipped through the pages, reading feverishly. Then he stopped. The answer seemed to leap out of the page at him. He had remembered correctly. This answer would certainly appeal to Napoleon. The fact it would not appeal to either of the others involved was not important; there were ways round that too. He made his way to the Emperor’s chambers.

  “Of course I married Josephine in a civil ceremony!” Napoleon shouted, banging his fist on the untidy desk. They would be able to hear him in the next room if he didn’t keep his voice down, Fesch thought, wincing. Napoleon must have had the same idea, because suddenly his voice became quieter.

  “What does he expect? There wasn’t much choice in those days. Remember? If you were able to find a priest at all, they were usually drunk or afraid of their own shadow. Thousands of people were married that way.”

  “But only one of those thousands will be crowned Emperor tomorrow.” Fesch rarely flattered his nephew and only did so now to divert his anger.

  “True,” Napoleon sighed and sat down again. “How very tiresome. This coronation is becoming almost more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “They have solved one problem at least,” Fesch tried again to break up the tension, “they have found the pure virgins needed for the ceremony.”

  Napoleon reacted as he had hoped. His frown vanished and he laughed.

  “A monumental task in France. Tell whoever made the discovery ‘well done’. Perhaps I will have him transferred to the Police to look for stolen property. It should prove an easier task.”

  He tapped his fingers, looking down at the desk, deep in thought. When he looked up, his gaze was more quizzical than angry.

  “Well, Uncle, you have brought me this news, what do you think I should do about it?”

  Fesch relaxed. The worst was over. He had accepted the unacceptable and he was starting to plan his response. He was always less dangerous when he was considering a course of action. Now Fesch outlined the only two real possibilities that existed.

  “As I see it, you have two choices. You can cancel that part of the ceremony which concerns the Empress, or...” he hesitated. The relationship between the imperial couple had always been volatile, to say the least.

  “Or?” Napoleon prompted.

  “You can marry her in church before the Coronation. Then everything can go forward as planned.”

  Napoleon looked at him thoughtfully. “You are aware that if I cancel Josephine’s crowning at this late date, the whole world will know there is a problem and it will take a very short time for the reason to emerge?”

  Fesch nodded. Gossip was one of the most efficient things in any court. This was true even in the Vatican, among people who should know better.

  “It will make me look like a fool and I cannot afford to look like a fool, especially now.”

  Fesch agreed. France was still a revolutionary society. Barely five years ago, the people had made a practice of cutting off the heads of their rulers. Some of them had been fools. This man was definitely not.

  “You will marry her then?” He could not think of another alternative, although he had tried hard. Persuading the Pope to change his mind was not, he knew, an option likely to succeed.

  “Josephine has not always been faithful to me and I am beginning to think she cannot give me children.”

  “I thought you still hoped?”

  “I do, in a way. It would solve many problems. But she shows no sign and it is becoming less likely as the years go on. She is getting old. I may have to divorce her so I can have a child to succeed me, now I know the fault is not mine. Leon’s birth finally proved that fact.”

  “What about...” Fesch started but Napoleon would not let him finish.

  “He’s illegitimate. The whole point of tomorrow is to legitimise my rule. Even you must see that I cannot be crowned and then suddenly produce a bastard as my heir. Only a child of my wife can succeed me, can become Napoleon II.” There was longing in his voice as he said the name.

  A strained silence fell. Napoleon gazed out of the window, his face blank. Fesch waited, trying to guess the thoughts behind the mask which Napoleon was assuming more and more, even in private. As usual, he did not succeed.

  “I loved her passionately when we first married,” Napoleon said softly, “but her affair with Hippolyte Charles changed everything. You know the family do not want her to be crowned? How they would rejoice if they knew about this situation.”

  Fesch nodded. The bitter feud between Josephine and Napoleon’s sisters was common knowledge and neither side made any serious attempt to hide their feelings.

  “I do not need to please the family, but it is a pity this was not thought of earlier. Humiliating Josephine will make both of us laughing stocks, here in France and among our enemies abroad. But neither do I want to be tied to her by a bond I cannot dissolve. It is a dilemma and, at the moment, I cannot see a way out.”

  Fesch let out the breath he did not know he had been holding. He had been waiting for this. “But I ca
n. It is possible for you to marry her in such a way that the marriage could be annulled at a later date, if you wish to do so.” He had chosen his words carefully.

  For a moment, Napoleon’s blank face lightened with interest. “You surprise me, Uncle. What way? How difficult would it be?”

  He was eager, almost too eager, Fesch thought. The solution was elegant. He wondered how the Emperor would reward him. Napoleon was always very generous if he got what he wanted.

  “To be legally binding, such an important marriage must have several witnesses, specifically more than one clerical witness. If I marry you and you choose your own witness carefully, a witness who can be trusted to testify for you in future...”

  Napoleon smiled. “I know just the man.”

  “The marriage would therefore appear valid in the eyes of the church, but would contain grounds for any future annulment.” he concluded.

  “And that interesting fact need not be known to either the Pope or to Josephine?”

  Fesch nodded.

  “Devious, Uncle.” Napoleon jumped to his feet and gripped Fesch by his arm. He was smiling. “An admirable strategy, almost worthy of me. Very well. Arrange it for tonight and tell that interfering old man he will have no reason not to put the crown on my wife’s head tomorrow.”

  When Fesch left her, the future Empress of the French was also smiling. She felt as if the constant shadow, which had hung over her for so long, had retreated at last. A marriage in church was for life. She felt like dancing round the room, but she did not. Her attendants would question the reason for such a display and this second wedding must be kept secret. The Emperor said so and she agreed with him. It was not in either of their interests for others to know how the Pope had forced Napoleon’s hand at such an important moment in their lives. But she was longing to tell someone. Anyone! Naturally, she thought first of her children. Impulsively, she picked up the bell to ring for an attendant to summon them, and then she stopped. Hortense was too young to have developed the ability to “hide her thoughts in words”, as Tallyrand once so accurately described it. Subtle minds in this court would pounce on a young girl’s first mistake. Josephine had lived too long and far too dangerously ever to choose affection over her own security. Better not. Hortense would be told when she was older and had more understanding of the world around her.

  Eugene? She smiled as she thought of her son. He was a quiet boy, well liked by most of the people who knew him, even here in his stepfather’s spiteful court. In some ways he reminded her of his own father. He had the same charm, but without the recklessness which had led to the guillotine. Eugene was dependable. Yes. He could be told and act as her witness, she decided. Satisfied with her decision, she sent for him to share the good news.

  Later that night, mother and son quietly made their way to the palace chapel. Their footsteps echoed through the halls. Josephine had retired as usual, as if she was going to bed. When her attendants left, she rose and dressed hurriedly but carefully in one of her favourite white gowns.

  “How appropriate for this occasion,” she murmured, as she buttoned her long sleeves. “White is the bridal colour.” Then she shivered as she thought, “It is also the colour of innocence and youth.” She had not been either for a very long time. Napoleon had been the more innocent when they first married and he had been very much in love with her then. He declared he preferred older, more experienced women and she had certainly been that! To protect her from malicious tongues, he had added years to his age on the marriage documents and subtracted several from hers, so the difference between them did not seem so great. Tonight, she thought, he was making another gallant gesture. So she had judged him correctly. She had known he would not throw her to the wolves, even if some of them were members of his immediate family. The gamble had paid off as she had thought it would. He must still love her. Certainly, they belonged together. She was his luck. Since she had married him, his repeated triumphs had been truly amazing. Who ever would have believed it? Certainly she had not, or she would never have had such a foolish affair. She had been paying the price ever since.

  “Forget the past,” she told herself resolutely, “think only of the future.”

  In the dark corridors, she clung to Eugene’s arm, as she remembered a moonless night at home in Martinique, when the old soothsayer had told her she would be a queen one day. She had not believed it, of course, but it was coming true tomorrow and the second part of the prediction could no longer happen. “For a while” the old woman had added. Josephine’s heart began to beat rapidly. That part of the prediction had always scared her. Lately, she had believed it meant disgrace and divorce. Whatever it meant, it could not be that and she would find a way to deal with it, whatever it was, she always had.

  Josephine and Eugene entered the chapel, to find Napoleon waiting with Fesch and Duroc, his long time friend. She smiled at her husband coquettishly, but he barely responded to her presence. When they had last stood together to be married, he had almost devoured her with his eyes. Now he just looked at her briefly and nodded to the priest to begin. Once again, Josephine regretted she had been so stupid. She shivered.

  The chapel echoed Fesch’s words with a cold ringing emptiness. So few people were present. She glanced at her husband. He was fidgeting with impatience as usual, wanting to get this over with and go back to his work, even tonight of all nights. He seemed to be thinking of other things. Josephine was not even sure he was attending to the words of the service. Fesch had to ask him twice before he answered “I do”. But he spoke the words and signed the documents and then it was over. He kissed her perfunctorily before he hurried out, warning her not to be late in the morning. He detested her lateness and she often used it to annoy him. It was a small revenge. But tomorrow she would not be late.

  For a moment, she stood there, aglow with happiness, clutching the papers tightly in her hands. They were her protection against the future. Her lips moved as she whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to the Madonna, a prayer she had learned even before she came to France, before she had met either of the men who became her husbands. Somehow it seemed appropriate. Tomorrow, the crown of France would be placed on her head. Now, after so much fear and heartbreak, she had left nothing to fear, nothing could possibly go wrong.

  This story also appears in the anthology, Baker’s Dozen.

  Photo Credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/renaud-camus/8627802658.

  Alterations made.

  Copyright © 2011 by Michèle McGrath

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the author.

  The characters and some events in this publication are real. Some events and conversations are fictitious.

  My books are fiction set in history.

  Written in English (UK)

  Published by Riverscourt Publishing

  Thank you for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or the site where you bought it from.

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  About Michèle McGrath

  Award winning author, Michele McGrath, was born on the beautiful Isle of Man in the middle of the Irish Sea. She has lived in California, Liverpool, France and Lancashire before returning home. Living in Paris and Grenoble taught her to make a mean ratatouille and she learned the hula in Hawaii.

  Michele is a qualified swimming teacher and manager, writing self help books on these subjects. Although she writes in many genres, her real loves are historical romance and fantasy. She has won numerous writing competitions, had second places and been short-listed many times. She has had tens of thousands of sales and downloads.

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  Books by Michèle McGrath

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