Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois)

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Has my future yet been decided? Could you not speak on my behalf and insist this match is a bad one?’

  But Margot saw at once, by the sorrowful expression on her sister’s face, before even Elisabeth shook her head in sad regret, that she had no more power than herself. Margot burned with silent outrage. What control did any of them possess over their own lives, their own destiny? None. Both she and her sister were mere pawns in a royal game of chess.

  Elisabeth squeezed Margot’s hand, softly urging her young sister not to be anxious or cast down. ‘Do not fret; I too was originally betrothed to Don Carlos but married Philip instead, and see how well it has turned out for me.’

  Unconvinced, Margot ached to dispute this argument, but Catherine suddenly stood up, casting her a quelling glance as she drew the Duke of Alva away from her youngest daughter’s flapping ears. As always when confronted with the terrifying ire of her mother, Margot’s small rebellion withered and died.

  Watching them stroll away, Elisabeth dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘My dear little sister, you will grow into a great beauty. It is no wonder that our mother is already seeking a husband for you, but much can go wrong with such delicate negotiations in these early stages. I am certain there will be any number of other likely suitors lining up for the honour of winning your hand, all eager to marvel at your flawless skin, your prettily rounded cheeks and those sparkling chestnut eyes.’

  Margot’s spirits instantly lifted, and her heart glowed with renewed hope. Her sister’s words filled her with a sudden burst of optimism, a reassurance, albeit false, that she might truly have the world at her feet and she would not, after all, be obliged to marry a sadistic maniac. She may even be allowed some small say in her choice of husband.

  Besides, she was excited and fascinated by the festival, entranced by the beauty of the ballet, the excitement of the jousting. The sun glinting off the lances reminded her of another joust, and a happier time. Why couldn’t she choose her own chevalier, one with whom she was so perfectly suited?

  Margot fleetingly wondered if Guise would be at court on their return, and if he had missed her while she’d been away.

  Tables were now being cleared, and, with the feasting over, a troop of musicians, habited as satyrs, appeared out of an opening in a rock magically illuminated by hundreds of candles, whilst richly attired nymphs descended from above to form a final dance. Both girls were enchanted, but before either could join in the merry-making, the heavens opened, drenching them in seconds and half drowning the poor mermaids. There was utter pandemonium and confusion as everyone made a dash for the boats.

  Elisabeth and Margot picked up their skirts and ran with the rest, slipping and sliding in the mud in their satin slippers, squealing with giddy laughter, their sudden uplift of spirits unquenched by the sorry turn in the weather. Margot secretly viewed the rain as a prophecy, one which might dampen the Queen Mother’s hopes for her, as surely as it had this magnificent pageant.

  The moment Mass was over the following morning, the negotiations began in earnest. First Alva approached the King, but soon realized that he must talk to the horse master and not the donkey, and arranged for Elisabeth to present him once more to her mother.

  Catherine welcomed Alva to her apartments in the royal chateau close to the harbour at Bayonne, ensuring that all doors were firmly shut before they began their talk. Elisabeth and Charles were also present.

  Throughout the water pageant she had attempted to present her case for a union between their two houses. Alva had been deliberately obtuse, refusing to discuss anything but the perceived threat from heretics.

  Catherine knew him to be a fanatic. Like his master, Philip of Spain, the duke was obsessively determined to destroy Protestantism. Catherine’s aim was simple. She needed peace for France, and the Huguenots were the only rival to her power. The question was: should she follow the example of the extreme Catholics and pursue them with the sword, or offer an olive branch? As ever, she dithered over making a decision. For all her following of the black arts, she was a Catholic. How could she change the habits of a lifetime?

  But the Huguenots were a powerful party, their faith spreading throughout France, their armies led by men of great standing. Moreover, they had powerful friends in Protestant England and in the Low Countries, who were not likely to remain idle were she to attempt to crush them. Neither could she risk war with Spain. Catherine was prepared to go to any lengths, make any promises, however insincere, in order to avoid such a calamity.

  With her diplomatic skills newly sharpened after a good night’s rest, Catherine approached the knotty problem of marriage contracts with fresh vigour. But every attempt was blocked by Alva. At last she sighed and gave up.

  ‘I see that you want us to arrive at religion.’

  ‘I own it,’ he agreed. ‘It is the whole point of our discussion.’

  She kept her hands quite still in her lap, as the nuns had taught her. It was vital that she appear relaxed and serene, that she not reveal by the smallest flicker of irritation that she was reaching the limit of her patience.

  ‘Philip does not seem to appreciate how I have managed to maintain peace by accepting that Protestantism is not a crime. While acting as regent to my son Charles the King, I have agreed to allow Huguenots certain rights of worship, albeit restricted to open fields outside of certain towns, and to private estates of the Huguenot nobles, but—’

  Alva brusquely interrupted. ‘To permit liberty of conscience by allowing as many varieties of religion as there are fancies in the minds of men can only stir up grievous treacheries and rebellions. Such pacifications have caused grave disquiet to the Catholics.’

  Not least the Guises, Catherine thought with some satisfaction.

  In truth, being prone more to superstition than religious zeal, she was interested in her own power rather than those of either faith. Her one objective was to keep her sons secure on the throne, and in order to achieve this happy state she would sup with the devil if needs be.

  Catherine fervently believed that her first duty was to her children. Hadn’t the great prophet Nostradamus himself assured her that each of them would one day wear a crown? The prophecy had become her guiding star in her quest for power ever since.

  Claude, her eldest daughter, had proved to be something of a disappointment – far too docile and gentle for her own good, yet claiming to be happy and content as wife of the Duke of Lorraine. But Elisabeth was Queen of Spain, mother of the Infanta Isabella, and hoping for a son next time.

  Charles had the dark good looks of all the Valois, and Catherine knew she must get him married soon, perhaps to Elizabeth of England. The boy had once fondly hoped for a match with Mary of Scotland, but his fancy for the girl was fading and she expected little resistance from him to take the older Queen. England was a prize worth having.

  While the boy King was physically strong, loved hunting and all field-sports, his health remained uncertain. Catherine suspected he had the same lung disease that had claimed his late brother, François II. He had a nervous disposition and was worryingly weak and unstable. Clever he may be, but if his wishes were thwarted by the smallest degree, his golden brown eyes would grow fierce, his manner turn brusque and uncivil, which could quickly deteriorate into a temper tantrum. He showed no sign of growing out of these childish fits; rather they seemed to be getting worse, often caused by jealousy of his brother Anjou.

  It was becomingly worryingly obvious that he too was tainted by the sins of his forefathers.

  Catherine accepted these flaws with resignation as she did not expect the boy to live long. When Charles ultimately succumbed to the disease that had claimed his late brother, Anjou, her favourite, whom she loved more than life itself – almost as much as she had loved his father– would be ready and waiting to take his place on the throne and claim his due rights.

  Anjou, in Catherine’s opinion, was beautiful. At fifteen he was tall and slender, looking more Italian than French with his olive
skin, long dark eyes and gracious mouth. His hands were as white and shapely as a girl’s, which, young as he was, he showed off to best advantage with sparkling rings and bracelets. Effeminate he might be, and some would say already showing signs of perversion, yet he was the cleverest of all her sons, brave and eloquent. Catherine believed that with her guidance, this most adored child would one day make a fine king.

  Far better than Francois-Hercule, the Duke of Alençon, the fourth and youngest of her sons, who lacked the regal presence, height, and handsome good looks of his older brothers. As a child the poor boy had suffered from a bout of smallpox which had left him sadly pockmarked. He had a tendency to be cowardly and deceitful, although Margot frequently defended him, saying it was only as a means of defence against the dreadful teasing he suffered at the hands of his siblings. Catherine supposed that in his favour it must be argued he was far less fanatical than his older brothers; more moderate in every way. He took after herself in that respect at least.

  And, of course, he adored his sister, as did they all.

  Each of her sons was jealous of the amount of attention she gave to the other. The gossip-mongers claimed that the attachment was unhealthily close, which caused Catherine much amusement. Even if it were true, it wouldn’t trouble her in the slightest. A woman who had watched her husband make love to his mistress through a spy hole in the floor of her own bedchamber could never be accused of being a moralist.

  As for Marguerite, given the pet name of Margot by the King her brother, she was indeed a Queen of Hearts with her dancing eyes, pale silken skin, dark shining curls and neat little figure. A wanton little madam. Pretty enough to turn any man’s head, even her own brothers.

  Through her children Catherine had found power, and she intended to make full use of it, including taking advantage of her daughter’s famed beauty to win yet another crown for the House of Valois, as well as bring peace to the realm. No matter what the cost.

  The discussions continued, concluding the following morning in the palace’s long gallery. Out by the harbour courtiers lazily dined on crab, moules and sardines, enjoying the hot summer sun. Servants hurried to and fro, sweating in the heat as royal barges were prepared and restocked in readiness for departure. But within doors the four delegates slowly paced the length of the cool, pillared corridor.

  The young Queen of Spain kept her eyes on the ground, saying little; nor did Charles dare to utter a word as he trailed in the steps of his mother. Catherine was at her most magnificent, her customary black robes appearing strangely ominous amongst the shadows, like some creature from the netherworld. Alva was equally sombre in his Spanish garb.

  Catherine broached the subject of the royal marriages, countering every argument the Duke brought against them. Little progress was made as he again held up her attitude towards the new religion as a difficulty, speaking with bitter hostility.

  ‘King Philip wants to know whether or no you are going to remedy this religious business. Shall he count upon your son the King, or shall he act by himself? To ascertain this is the only reason why your daughter has come to Bayonne.’

  Cold fury sharpened her tone as Catherine reminded the Duke that neither country could afford war. ‘Spain certainly cannot from what I hear of the state of King Philip’s treasury. I offer no promises to deal differently with the Huguenots. It would be an impossible task without inflicting great risk to the state.’

  ‘Then I do not see how we can make progress on this matter.’

  ‘I fear His Majesty fails fully to understand my position.’

  ‘He understands it perfectly.’

  Catherine’s hands instinctively clenched with fury, and she quickly hid them in the folds of her gown. ‘Have you brought any Protestant Lords with you today? I thought not,’ she said as the Duke snorted at the very idea. ‘It is perhaps a pity that neither of us thought to do so. Were I to do anything rash following this meeting, they would be bound to assume that we plotted against them, that our discussions today were concerned with their elimination and not a marriage union between the House of Valois and Hapsburg.’

  The Duke’s ambition and cruelty was all too evident in the sourness of his expression and the harsh nature of his reply. ‘My mission is to ensure Your Majesty adopts a far more active anti-Huguenot policy. King Philip will offer every assistance, and I am confident will show all due appreciation, once that is achieved.’

  ‘Ah, so now we come to it. What is it, exactly, that His Majesty requires?’

  ‘No matter whether by fire or sword, the roots of evil must be cut away. His Majesty demands the immediate expulsion of the Huguenot ministers on pain of death, a ban on Huguenots in public office and . . .’ A slight pause before he issued his final demand. ‘. . . the heads of their leaders: Condé, Rochefoucald, Andelot. And Coligny.’

  Catherine’s round eyes widened. Disposing of lesser men was never a problem to her, but she had no wish to dip her hands in the blood of princes, or the great lords of the kingdom. Such lengths would be considered only as a last resort. ‘Coligny? How am I to take such a man?’

  ‘The Admiral has been like a father to me,’ protested the young King, unable to keep silent any longer.

  Alva barely glanced at the boy. ‘He is a Huguenot. No matter what the cost, these heretics must be dealt with. You are surely not a woman lacking in imagination, nor one to balk at their disposal. The destruction of Huguenots in France and Spain is essential. Death of their leaders is the only sure way to achieve that, by whatever means seem expedient. Otherwise . . .’ Here his eyes narrowed and hardened as he paused for effect. ‘. . . my royal master must needs consider more drastic measures to bring France back into the fold.’

  Catherine’s expression was glacial as she prudently made no reply to this implied threat.

  ‘The head of one salmon is worth the heads of a thousand frogs.’

  It seemed that the talks were over, a conclusion reached and a course of action set in motion which would surely have far-reaching consequences. The party of four left the gallery, anxiously turning over their separate thoughts, unaware that hiding in an alcove the entire time had been the young Henry of Navarre, who had heard every word.

  ‘The head of one salmon is worth the heads of a thousand frogs. That is what Alva said, Mother. I heard him with my own ears.’

  Following the talks, the huge, unwieldy cavalcade had gone back on the road to proceed north through thick pine forests to Nérac. This was the home of Jeanne d’Albret, Queen of Navarre, and the stronghold of Protestantism. The town stood astride the river Baïse, north of Toulouse in the gently undulating country of Aquitaine.

  Whenever they’d stopped to rest in towns along the way, the young King and the entire French Court had been deeply shocked by the sorry state of the desecrated churches and ruined monasteries, evidence of Huguenot zeal. The instant Catherine came face to face with the Queen of Navarre, she’d ordered Jeanne reinstate the old religion and make recompense for the vandalism.

  His mother’s response had been dry. ‘You cannot plant by force what will not take root in the ground.’

  Now the colour drained from her angular face as she learned the full extent of Catherine’s betrayal, although Henry could see how she attempted to disguise her fear from him, her only son. ‘You have learned to spy in the French Court then, my Enric?’

  He gave his easy laugh, wanting to reassure her. ‘It is a requirement. I managed to hide without them seeing me. Knowing we would be calling at Nérac, I wanted to tell you what it was they discussed so secretly.’

  His heart had beat loud in his ears as he’d crouched in the alcove, unable to think what excuse he could offer were he to be discovered. Fortunately the group had been too absorbed in their conversation to notice him. Henry was afraid of the Queen Mother, dreaded to think what she might have done had she caught him spying on her. Yet she could equally well be amused by his antics. Like any plump, jovial lady, she would laugh out loud at the way he chased the g
irls, at his oaths and coarse jokes, and the manner in which he swaggered about court, aping his royal cousins. Now he puffed out his chest with youthful pride.

  ‘Am I not a diplomat, Mother?’

  She kissed his brow. ‘You are a true prince.’

  Even though he had spent many years away from his beloved mother, he remained very protective of her. Jeanne d’Albret was a formidable woman, stern and righteous, single-minded in her cause and a born rebel. At twelve years of age she’d had to be carried to the altar in order to be married to the German Duke of Cleves in spite of her defiance. The marriage was never consummated and was eventually annulled. Her second husband, Antoine of Bourbon, she had loved with all her heart. Unfortunately the sentiment had not been returned, and he had never been faithful to her.

  He’d died an ignominious death, being hit by a musket shot whilst relieving himself at the Siege of Rouen, done as a gesture of contempt to his enemies, and had forfeited his life as a result. It was almost a fitting memorial for a King with a ripe sense of humour. One Henry felt certain he’d inherited.

  Finally freed from the bitterness of a loveless marriage, Jeanne had thrown herself heart and soul into the new faith, becoming a fanatical Puritan, surrounding herself with black-gowned ministers who conducted endless prayer-meetings. His mother had come to despise luxury and revel in austerity and privation; callously driving out priests and nuns from her land, forbidding Papist ritual and did not hesitate to have churches pillaged and destroyed. The Catholics might see her as a ruthless, despotic heretic; Jeanne saw herself as simply observing the tenets of her faith.

  Since then Catherine had insisted Henry live at the French Court. He knew that his mother missed him and longed to have him home with her in Nérac, and to return him to the Huguenot religion. He wanted that too. He went through the motions of taking Mass with his royal cousins, but was indifferent to it.