Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois)

by Freda Lightfoot

  Sometimes they might dance the Italian pazzemeno, the grave pavan or, as now, the more lively galliard. Anjou looked remarkably handsome in his scented elegance, and herself radiant.

  Margot’s opinion of her elder brother had warmed over the years as the petty differences of childhood had slipped from them. Now that she was sixteen she had come to admire him greatly for he had proved himself to be a brave soldier and a fine orator. She was also flattered by his sudden attention to her, for all he rarely spoke two words throughout the dance.

  Tonight she was wearing a gown the colour of a Spanish carnation, one of her favourites, and a white gauze veil which would surely bewitch Guise, since it became her so well. She’d grown conscious of late of her own dazzling beauty for she saw it reflected in his eyes as he hungrily watched her every move. This evening she wished to see him burn, as she had done earlier when she’d spied him drooling over that woman. Even now he was dancing with her, and Margot yearned to scratch the harlot’s eyes out. Was she not a married woman? Why could she not be content with her own husband? Or was she widowed now? She couldn’t quite recall. Why did Guise feel the need for any other woman but herself?

  Did he not ache for her, as she ached for him?

  Later, with feigned indifference, she allowed him to lead her out in a dance, Guise’s hand upon hers sending shivers of excitement down her spine, despite all her efforts to be unaffected by his touch. Margot was painfully conscious of every movement of his body, the scent of his warm skin making her inwardly moan with ecstasy. She’d worn her lowest cut gown to entice him, and fought to calm her breathlessness as his gaze lingered upon the rise and fall of her breasts.

  Pointing her toe and taking the required leaps and steps in the dance, she occasionally cast him sly glances from beneath her lashes. But she offered none of her secret little smiles, no adoring gaze, only a chilly coolness, which Guise did not fail to notice.

  ‘You seem distant tonight.’

  ‘Indeed? No one could accuse you of being so with a certain lady I saw you with earlier.’

  ‘Ah, I can explain . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you can.’

  ‘Margot, pray do not be angry with me; there is a reason.’

  ‘I see the reason. You no longer love me. Do not trouble to make excuses; I care not what lights of love take your fancy.’ They both knew she lied.

  He lowered his voice to a whisper as the dance drew to a close. ‘May I speak with you later, or tomorrow when we meet?’

  ‘You presume too much sir,’ she replied and, holding her head high, she walked away, leaving him in his misery.

  The following day, having taken Mass at the Church of the Minimes, Margot was dawdling in the park at Plessis. She was reading a note Guise had slipped to her under cover of the dancing, and was anxious not to catch up with the Queen Mother who was walking ahead with the Princes. She needed to be alone so that she could read the letter again, although she almost knew the words by heart.

  Guise claimed to be distraught at their estrangement and wished to meet with her, in secret, of course. She was to tell no one, not even Madame de Curton, as there was something particular he wished to say. Was it an apology? Did he beg her forgiveness? Her heart skipped a beat with longing. She dared hardly hope that he loved her still. But then how could he not? They were meant for each other.

  Pressing her lips to the letter she recalled their latest kiss, the one he had stolen when he’d waylaid her in the passage on her way to her bedchamber last evening when the dancing was done, dearest Lottie keeping careful watch while they embraced. She’d allowed it only against her better judgement, quite unable to resist, and the fire and thrill of his lips had scorched her, the memory keeping her from her sleep for quite some time afterwards. Now Margot attempted to recapture the very essence of her would-be lover, simply from the scratches he’d made on the parchment with his quill pen.

  How strong he was, how powerful, how handsome! Did he really love another? She thought her heart might break if that were true.

  Margot read the letter through yet again, carefully noting every word, planning her reply, which would be suitably encouraging without appearing too wanton. Lottie would somehow manage to deliver the message in the same way she had brought this letter to her.

  A voice from behind made her start, and Margot quickly tucked the precious missive up her sleeve as she turned with a smile to her brother Anjou, hoping and praying he had not noticed.

  ‘Dear sister, you grow prettier every day, your beauty outshining the flowers in the entire garden,’ Anjou said, stroking her cheek with long slender fingers.

  Margot found herself flushing with pleasure at this rare compliment, for he rarely praised her, treating her largely with indifference or, as in the dancing, as a prop to show off his own elegance.

  ‘I marvel that such a court treasure can be my own little sister.’ He took her hand and placed it upon his arm. ‘I would have you walk with me. We will take a different avenue from that of our mother, as there are issues I wish to discuss with you.’

  She was touched and deeply flattered, enchanted by this unexpected attention. It was barely a year since she’d been allowed to leave Amboise and come permanently to court, but every day there was some new discovery, some fresh excitement, which suited her nature entirely. Margot disliked idleness and dull routine, and whether they were visiting one of the chateaux along the Loire, entertaining the leaders of the royal army as they were now, or remained in Paris, she loved every second of court life.

  She thought her elegant brother cut an impressive figure in his fashionable clothes edged with gold embroidery, precious stones and pearls. His linen was always of the finest quality, and his hair elaborately styled. His noble, graceful bearing often earned him praise, as did his refined manners, and he seemed somehow to give off an air of distinction quite at odds with his youth. Their mother called him a flower among princes, but then no one could love him as did Catherine.

  They strolled along a leafy avenue beneath the poplar, lime, maple and white mulberry. ‘Did you enjoy my speech the other day, telling of my great victory?’ he asked.

  Anjou had described with no small degree of satisfaction how the Prince de Condé had been shot in the back at Jarnac, his body dragged around the Catholic camp in an orgy of murderous delight. It was not a tale Margot could savour, unused as she was to the ways of warfare, though she took care to give no indication of such sensitivity as she smilingly responded, ‘I am proud to call myself your sister.’

  He squeezed her hand and drew her closer. Although he liked to think of himself as a man of courage, and relished parading the glory, he was content to leave the detail to his generals. Anjou far preferred to dally with a pretty woman, or better still, a pretty boy. His sister, he’d discovered, was a delight, and he meant to make full use of her obvious admiration for him. There was nothing he loved more than to be adored.

  ‘I doubt our brother the King would share that sentiment. I should think he greatly resents my success.’

  Margot could not deny it. When Charles had received the news of Condé’s death, he’d fallen to his knees in a state of high nervous excitement. The thought of blood being spilled always sent him demented, and it had taken all of Marie Touchet’s skill to calm him. Now, jealous of how this victory gloried Anjou and not himself, the young king had refused his brother the usual trophies of war, presenting the laurels of the campaign to Biron and Tavannes. Charles rightly suspected Anjou of coveting his throne, and would do anything in his power to curb those ambitions, the distrust between the two siblings growing daily.

  Having no wish to exacerbate the ill feelings between them, Margot made no reply. Besides, she felt some sympathy for Charles since as king he was not permitted to take any risks to his person.

  Anjou lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, a gleam in his eyes. ‘Dear sister, it is because of this great destiny to which God has called me that I wish to beg your assistance in a most impor
tant matter.’

  ‘My assistance?’ Margot was astonished. Never, in all her life, had her elder brother asked for her help before.

  ‘You already know how much I love you, and I perceive the same attachment in you for me. But we are no longer children and you have it in your power to do me a service. I am fearful that whilst I am away fighting in the wars, the King my brother will seek to insinuate himself into my mother’s good graces and turn her against me. I need a faithful friend to support my cause and I know no one better suited for that task than yourself. You have wit, discretion, and loyalty. If you would be so kind as to undertake such an office, I would beg you to attend each day her lever and coucher. Be the first at her side every morning and the last to leave each evening.’

  Margot was startled by this request, nervous of what it might entail. ‘But you know how much I am in awe of the Queen Mother. She has but to look my way and I tremble with fear that I may have done something to displease her. Besides, I doubt she would accept me.’

  ‘I shall commend your good sense and understanding. Do not be afraid to speak to her with the same confidence as you do to me, and she will approve. You may also be assured of my supreme gratitude.’

  Margot felt overwhelmed by his faith in her. Young, impressionable, and new to court life, she was innocent of the world of political intrigue. Her handsome brother carried an aura of victory about him and, delighted to have his trust, she readily agreed to his request.

  ‘You may rely on me. There is no one that honours or regards you more than I, and you may be assured that I shall act for you with the Queen our mother as zealously as you would for yourself.’

  ‘Dear sister, I knew that I would always come first in your eyes.’

  Later that same afternoon Margot met with Guise, as arranged, in one of the green bowers in a far corner of the park. Unable to help herself, she flew into his arms, eager for his kisses, and only when some of their passion was sated did she find the breath to scold him.

  ‘You have betrayed me,’ she cried, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

  He kissed them away, dried them with the heel of his thumb. ‘Never, my darling.’ He told her then of his uncle’s clever plan. Margot listened without interrupting and, when he was done, burst out laughing.

  ‘So this is all a ploy, a clever deception? Oh, how I do love intrigue. You kiss this other woman because you wish to have me as your wife?’ There was a teasing note in her voice, but Guise answered with caution.

  ‘In order to throw the scandal-mongers off the scent. I do it because I love you, not the Princess de Porcien. ‘My uncle believes he can win the Queen Mother round to the idea of a union between us.’

  ‘Then he is either a fool or an optimist,’ she sulked, before flinging herself into Guise’s arms once more. ‘I do hope that he is right. I shall forgive you, but only if you promise that for every kiss you give her, you must give me two, three, a hundred.’

  And laughing, he attempted to comply.

  Later, as they sat in the bower with their arms about each other, she told him of the interview with Anjou. ‘Why would he choose me for this task? I am no favourite of our mother

  Henri of Guise frowned. ‘He is up to some mischief, I’ll warrant. I’m sorry to say it, but the duke your brother is two-faced. Even on the battlefield he is one moment claiming my valour inspires courage in him, the next he is jealous of my military achievements.’

  ‘He is jealous of everyone, even of his own brother the King.’

  ‘I do not wonder at it,’ Guise laughed, ‘since Anjou covets the throne.’ He was no stranger to ambition himself, yet chose not to remind Margot of that fact just now, not when she had so generously forgiven him for his apparent betrayal. ‘Every moment his enchanting sister spends with anyone but himself he must feel deprived, but then your person is so very beguiling,’ Guise teased, pulling her once more into his arms.

  She slapped his eager hands away, even as she showered his handsome face with kisses. ‘But what must I do? Advise me. I am ignorant of court politics. How do I go about this task?’

  ‘Exactly as he says. Be attentive to the Queen Mother. It can do no harm, and may well help our cause, which is another reason that I needed to speak with you . . .’ He kissed her noble Valois nose. ‘My uncle, the Cardinal, begs an audience with you, my love. He wishes to offer his advice and support, and I feel it would be in our best interests were you to grant it, at your convenience.’

  Margot giggled. ‘My mother calls him the old lecher. Is that why he is so sympathetic of lovers?’

  ‘What matters his motive?’ Guise carefully replied. ‘He is a great man in possession of immense power and influence, and has come up with a plan to help us.’

  ‘I would not hesitate to listen to such a man, if he could indeed bring us together.’

  ‘Then I believe we may hope for a good outcome.’

  And as Guise pushed her down into the sweet-smelling grasses to explore the secret delights of her pliant body beneath the heavy skirts, all thought of politics vanished from her mind.

  When the army returned to battle and the royal party to court, the Queen summoned Margot to her cabinet. She hurried to obey, anxious to fulfil her promise to her brother, and sank into a deep curtsey, heart racing.

  ‘Did I not see you walking in the avenues at Plessis with Guise?’

  ‘Only briefly, Madame, merely passing the time of day.’

  Catherine gave her raucous laugh. ‘You exchanged more than a few pleasantries with that chevalier, I think. Enjoy him while you may, but take care, child. Pretty flirtations and nothing more. Have I not warned you that he is not for you?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  Margot stood before the formidable woman who was the Queen of this great realm, with a reputation that made great men tremble, let alone young girls like herself. This was, after all, no ordinary woman, and no ordinary Queen. Margot believed there were unexplained mysteries about her mother. She had an uncanny facility for seeing all and knowing all, even when matters were meant to be a secret. She could almost read Margot’s very thoughts, and seemed to possess a discomfiting foresight or prescience of momentous events before they actually happened.

  On the night before her husband, King Henri, Margot’s beloved father, had fought in the tournament which had proved fatal to him, Catherine had dreamed that she saw him wounded in the eye and begged him not to fight. He had apparently laughed off her fears, but that was exactly what had happened. During her most recent illness, only days before Anjou was to fight at the battle of Jarnac, Catherine had lain sick unto death at Metz where she had gone to visit the convents, Margot herself nursing her mother, when she was again visited by a premonition.

  She was heard to cry out, ‘Look, see how they flee! Ah, my son falls. Oh, my God, save him!’

  The episode had sent chills down her spine, and Margot believed that her mother possessed the power to use her black arts in order to predict, or even manipulate the future. Today she was all sweetness, speaking to her with kindness, and for the first time in her life Margot felt at ease in her presence.

  ‘Anjou your brother tells me that he no longer considers you a child. In future, neither shall I. It will be a great comfort to me to converse with you as I would with him. Render yourself, therefore, assiduous in your attendance upon me, and fear not to speak freely, for such is my desire.’

  The Queen’s words filled Margot with joy. It felt like a turning point in her life, a new beginning. It had ever been her wish to please her brother and her mother; now she could serve both.

  Condé’s death was a bitter blow to the Huguenots. Louis de Bourbon, the hunchback Prince of Condé, had carried the charisma of having royal blood in his veins, and was a great loss to them. Coligny now stood alone beside his Queen; his wisdom and courage, his integrity and moral strength, and his skill at military strategy should make him appear well nigh invincible. But morale was low. The men were dispirited and battle wea
ry, wanting an end to the strife, anxious to return home to their loved ones. Fighting an enemy so huge, so powerful as the Catholics had been daunting enough, but without Condé it seemed impossible.

  Jeanne was an excellent statesman, but knew that she now faced her biggest challenge. The rabble-rousers, and those who relished a fight simply for the joy of it, had fled, yet the true believers remained. In the Queen of Navarre’s opinion, these stalwarts needed something extra, someone special to inspire them. They needed a Prince.

  She looked at her son with his glossy black Gascon hair and bright, youthful good looks, and tried not to recall the glitter of speculation which always came into those fine eyes whenever they rested upon a woman. Any woman. He was already a philanderer like his father. Little Fleurette, whom he’d so casually abandoned to bear her child alone, had been found drowned in the river, her heart broken by his rejection. Poor girl, it was indeed a tragedy to love a Prince.

  Without doubt the boy was frivolous and light-minded, and in her heart Jeanne had little faith he could rise to the challenge which now faced him. Yet he looked good, sat upon his horse well, and there was pride in his bearing, courage in that young face. The question was, could he inspire loyalty and worship in the troops?

  She ordered Henry to dismount and then, grasping him by the hand, she held it high, punching the air with their joined fists as they stepped forward to face the assembled troops.

  ‘Friends and comrades, I give you my son!’

  A ragged cheer went up and she smiled upon them all, glad to see they had some spirit in them still. Then she brought forward her nephew, son of the fallen Condé. A hand on each of them, there was great sadness in her voice as she addressed the men with a moving eloquence, and the battle-hardened soldiers who stood before her in their bloodstained weariness fell into a respectful silence to listen to her words.

  ‘Children of God and of France, Condé is dead; but is all therefore lost? No, the God who gave him courage and strength to fight for this cause has raised up others worthy to succeed him. To those brave warriors I add my son. Make proof of his valour. Soldiers, I offer you everything I have to give: my dominions, my treasures, my life, and what is dearer to me than all: my children. I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause that now unites us!’