Having brought Coligny to court, she now began to doubt the wisdom of her decision. He was here so that he could be controlled and used to further her plans, not to impose his will upon the young king.
Filling her son’s head with impossible dreams of conquest in the Netherlands could be viewed as dangerous nonsense, but she was prepared to tolerate the fantasy, for now, as she never would allow it actually to happen. Not for a moment would Catherine risk upsetting her powerful neighbour, although she took great pains not to reveal her reservations by even the smallest degree.
It was worth a little dissembling, a pretence that she approved of the plan, if by this she could win Jeanne d’Albret over to the marriage between young Navarre and Marguerite. Once that was safely accomplished, she could neatly withdraw from any dangerous confrontation with Spain. All she needed was the Queen of Navarre’s signature on the marriage contract.
It was February of the following year before the two queens came face to face at Chenonceaux and discussions could at last begin. Jeanne was clearly unwell, arriving in a coach large enough to accommodate a hot stove in the centre of it to keep her warm. When Catherine remarked upon the length of time it had taken to reach this point, Jeanne was dismissive.
‘I do not suppose, as the saying goes, that you eat little children.’ Even so, she had left her son safely at Béarn.
She knew that this was a brilliant match, that Henry would gain the throne of France, and the opportunity to establish Protestantism. Yet she could not shake off a dreadful foreboding. The House of Valois was a family blighted by perversion, poison, and profligacy. Jeanne trembled for the principles and morals of her son.
There were the usual arguments over dowry and property, and towns currently occupied by the French Catholics which the Queen of Navarre insisted must be returned to her. Religion was the biggest stumbling block, Jeanne adamant that her son should not be required to take Mass, or even enter the Cathedral for the wedding.
In order to amuse her honoured guest, Catherine held masques and balls and entertainments. At one sumptuous banquet the guests were served by beautiful girls dressed as nymphs, their breasts fully exposed for anyone to ogle or fondle.
The Queen of Navarre was privately appalled by the sight of Anjou and his foppish friends with their painted faces and frizzed hair that stood up all around their velvet caps. Grotesquely outlandish in their huge ruffs, pleats and gold embroidery, with long dangling earrings, and rings on every finger, these scented creatures seemed to illustrate all that she despised most about the French Court.
Like peacocks they spent their days strutting and displaying their fine feathers, and at night turned into court monkeys, giving themselves up entirely to debauchery, to dancing, quarrelling, drinking, playing with dice and cards; committing every conceivable sin. These young cockscombs didn’t give a fig for morals, modesty or thrift, being entirely profligate and worshipping nothing so much as excess. It was not uncommon for her to discover a pair of them engaged in a brawl or act of fornication beneath the royal table, or ravishing one of the young serving girls behind a curtain.
The Queen Mother remained supremely oblivious to this bacchanalian frenzy, concentrating entirely on her food, uncaring of whatever debauchery her sons got up to. Even the King, as mischievous as anyone, might don a saddle and gallop about pretending to be a horse, feed his new bride sweetmeats, or creep away to visit with his mistress.
Jeanne was shocked to the core when Anjou came to a banquet dressed as a woman in high heels and magnificent silk gown, his face even more rouged and painted than usual and his hair covered with a glorious blond peruke. Turning to her would-be daughter-in-law she asked in horrified tones if this was a common occurrence.
Struggling not to smile, Margot gravely agreed that it was. Relations with Anjou had not improved and she loved to see him despised and dishonoured. ‘There is nothing my brother likes more than to dress up as a courtesan – except, that is, to behave like one.’
‘And it is to this court that you would have me bring my son?’
Margot looked at the older woman with wide, innocent eyes. ‘Madame, I ask for nothing in this world save for the will of the Queen my mother.’ A lie both of them recognized and accepted as politic.
Jeanne was beginning to feel like a dowd beside the glamour of the Princess Marguerite. The girl was always superbly dressed, the complexion of her lovely face faultless, and her hair dressed with pearls, precious stones and rare diamonds shaped like stars. Jeanne felt ill and tired by comparison, and suspected she was seen as something of a laughing stock and a provincial. She wrote often to her son, sending him tips on how not to wear his hair in the style of Nérac, promising that she would call at Paris to buy him the latest fashions before returning home.
Margot considered her future mother-in-law to be plain in the extreme, a most stern and severe woman with no sense of humour, and when asked outright if she would change to her husband’s religion, defiantly replied that she would not.
‘If it pleased God that our marriage should take place, I would not fail to obey him, and Your Majesty, in all reason. But even if he were King of all the world I would not change my religion in which I have been brought up.’
At this point Jeanne lost patience and called the marriage off. She had grown increasingly paranoiac, convinced that holes had been drilled through the walls of her apartment, and that she was being spied upon. She was exhausted and desperate to return home, refusing to speak further on the match. It was the King who gently brought the discussions to a satisfactory conclusion by conceding to many of her requests, and finally, on 14 April, the Queen of Navarre signed the marriage contract.
She left Chenonceaux to travel to Paris in early May, and in June news reached the palace that despite taking time out to find a cure for her many ailments, she had sadly died. She was forty-four.
Her fellow Huguenot leaders were devastated by their Queen’s sudden death, and deeply suspicious. There was much talk of a poisoned glove, since Jeanne had been seen to visit Catherine’s Florentine parfumier, Monsieur René, before departing. No one could deny that the Queen had already been unwell, and even had they dared to do so, nothing could be proved.
Margot felt only a secret relief that she would not now have to deal with a difficult mother-in-law. And when she heard that the Princes of Lorraine were to return to court her heart skipped a beat at the prospect of seeing Guise again. Married or not, she would have no hesitation in restarting their affair, should he desire it. What would she have to lose? Guise was all that mattered to her, not some Bourbon cousin. Her one consolation in losing her gallant chevalier and marrying this malodorous provincial was that she would at least gain a crown. She would be Queen of the tiny Kingdom of Navarre, rural backwater though it might be, and she was Valois enough to appreciate the value of that. But would it be enough to bring her any happiness? Margot rather doubted it.
‘Do not anyone say that marriages are made in heaven; the gods would not commit so great an injustice.’
***
Part Three
A BLOOD RED WEDDING
1572–1573
August 1572
‘THEY ARE COME. They are come!’ Madame de Curton rushed into Margot’s apartment all in a flurry to inform her mistress of this stupendous news. Pausing only long enough to catch her breath, she continued, ‘The bridegroom comes riding into Paris, attended by the Prince de Condé and eight hundred Huguenot gentlemen. They are all in deep mourning for his late mother, the Queen of Navarre.’
Margot stared at her beloved companion, transfixed with horror, scarcely registering the excited gasps from her ladies-in-waiting. ‘Then it is going to happen?’
‘It would seem so. The Prince – or rather the King of Navarre – is even now being received with great honour by King Charles, and by the Queen your mother.’
Margot put her hands to her face and let out a low groan. ‘Oh, Lottie, do they not believe that I am a sincere Catholic? Ar
e they so determined to punish me for my transgression in loving Guise that they would force me to spend the remainder of my life in the most remote corner of France they can find? I feel as if I am being banished from my home.’
Margot was deeply afraid of the future with this man she cared nothing for, and of never seeing Guise again. She feared that this sacrifice could all be in vain, the much longed-for peace never attained. And if the wars broke out yet again, the people of Béarn would blame her. As might her mother and brother who seemed to take special pleasure in blaming her for every ill. Thus she could be despised by both sides, be unloved by the Court of Navarre and an exile from the French Court which she held so dear. It was a troubling prospect.
‘There, there, do not fret, my lady.’ Madame gathered the girl in her arms, holding her while she wept. ‘We will find a way to make a good life in Béarn, with all the fun and gaiety that you desire.’
‘And you will be with me? You will not allow them to separate us?’
‘Only God can do that,’ said the old governess, aware she was getting on in years.
‘But what of the dispensation? Pope Pius V withheld his consent, but since he died in May, I thought – I hoped – that the newly elected pope might follow his lead and also refuse.’
Madame drew Margot to a window seat, away from the other women. ‘I have heard it whispered abroad that a message has indeed come from Pope Gregory XIII. This missive is said to contain either the dispensation itself or the promise of one. We do not know which, as the nuncio Salviati presented it to the Queen Mother and she passed it on, without opening it, to the Cardinal de Bourbon who is to perform the ceremony. I understand that he too has refrained from opening the sealed package.’
Margot regarded her governess in dismay. ‘Then how will we ever know if it is a yea or nay?’
‘We won’t.’
‘This is the work of my mother. She fears the letter may be a refusal, not only because of our close kinship but the fact that the Holy Father will view Navarre as a heretic. She wants the deed done before the package is opened and the truth revealed.’
Madame de Curton did not presume to comment on this point, for all it was a shrewd assessment of the Queen Mother’s fondness for devious practices. ‘It is but a rumour, my lady, although I confess it is a certain fact that Her Majesty has given strict instructions in the form of a letter to the Governor of Lyon, that no further communication with Rome may take place until after Monday.’
‘You mean until after the wedding has taken place.’
‘It would seem that is the case, yes.’
Margot clasped ice cold fingers tightly together in her lap. ‘So that if a dispatch should arrive saying no such dispensation can be granted, the King my brother will not receive it?’
Madame gazed upon her charge, sympathy softening the lines of her old face. ‘He will not.’
There was a short silence in which Margot digested this distressing news. ‘I hoped to the last for a reprieve, Lottie, but I see no help will come from any quarter. I am to be sacrificed for a hope, a flimsy dream of peace.’
After a long moment she stiffened her spine, and there was a new resolution in her voice when she spoke next. ‘Then if no one is to save me from this offensive alliance, I must needs rely upon myself.’
They came into Paris from far and wide. First the Guises, who returned with a strangely muted triumph to the city from which they’d been banished, clearly unhappy with the turn of events. The Princes of Lorraine headed east to the Rue Saint Antoine and the Hôtel de Guise, accompanied by scores, if not hundreds of their followers; some were Catholic extremists, others a motley band of adventurers and vagabonds looking for trouble. They made sure they lodged round and about their leaders.
A day or two later came the Huguenots, flocking in from La Rochelle and from every corner of the kingdom. But because of the huge numbers, rooms were in short supply, and they found themselves widely scattered, obliged to seek lodgings as best they may. Those who got there first took up residence as close as possible to Faubourg Saint-Germain, or to Coligny at Rue de Béthisy, but the vast majority were disappointed. Many were driven to dossing down in a doorway or some dark corner among the twisting streets and alleys.
The city was an incongruous mix of malodorous, makeshift hovels huddled together in every available square and alleyway, seedy taverns, tall, narrow houses, and magnificent mansions. The glory of the Louvre and the still unfinished Tuileries palace and gardens, the Gothic towers of the Sainte-Chapelle and Notre Dame, even the Palais de Justice, contrasted starkly with the fetid squalor which the citizens were obliged to inhabit. And in the intense August heat hung a miasma of filth and dust and flies over the congested streets; the enticing scents of excellent French cooking clashing with foul odours from the river.
Merchants, lawyers and bankers, shop keepers and pâtissiers, smithies and city burghers alike watched the invasion with uneasy hearts. Much as they wished to rejoice on this special day for a very special Princess, the fear that trouble might at any moment break out between the two factions dampened their spirits considerably.
The worried citizens hastened to board up their shops and businesses while setting out their market stalls to do a roaring trade in salted herrings, fruit, bread, and pastries. Barbers styled lice-infested hair for all those wishing to present themselves well, prostitutes plied their trade, and those with nimble fingers and no scruples made a fortune from easy pickings.
Catholic pulpits rang with dire predictions of doom, wise women told fortunes and spoke of ill omens that warned the wedding would run red with blood. And whenever they heard voices lifted in prayer or psalm singing, the Parisians defiantly sang their own ballads. They hung out their flags of celebration even as they cleaned and repaired their weapons.
The police and the Watch, who supposedly shared the task of keeping guard over this teeming city from their sentry boxes, abandoned all hope of controlling the hordes, giving more attention to protecting themselves and their own families.
The wedding took place on Monday 18 August, as planned. From the moment Madame de Curton woke her at dawn to begin her toilette, Margot felt sick to her stomach. She wanted to turn and run and keep on running, far from the Louvre, a million miles from this oaf of a husband she loathed.
She was nineteen years old and knew she should be thankful she’d not been wed long since to the mad Don Carlos, or someone equally revolting. Yet how she longed for Guise, her chevalier, and for what might have been.
Margot was bathed in milk to keep her skin soft and white, anointed with scented unguents, her hair washed and brushed and polished with silk till it shone. Dressing her took hours, each item of linen, stocking, corset and kirtle passed tenderly along the line by her ladies, then set in place, adjusted, pinned and tweaked until finally she was gowned and ready.
The Princess positively blazed with diamonds. Pendants hung in her ears, rings adorned her fingers, a brilliant necklace circled her throat, and gems were sewn on to her gown. With a crown upon her head, a regal coet, or close gown of spotted ermine, about her shoulders, and her blue robe bearing a train of four ells in length carried by three princesses, she looked like a Queen already.
Yet despite all of this magnificence, and dear Lottie’s best efforts to cheer her, Margot felt filled with dread.
‘I’m not sure I can face this.’
‘You can because you must,’ came her governess’s not very reassuring reply. ‘You are a Princess of the Blood. This is—’
‘My duty, I know, Lottie.’ Margot longed to fall into her nurse’s arms and weep, to feel her loving arms about her, but the time for such weakness was past.
She stepped outside and saw, to her immense relief, that Navarre and his entourage had discarded their mourning and decked themselves in embroidered pale yellow satin, brilliant with jewels. Were he anyone else, she might have thought him handsome. The entire court was likewise richly attired. King Charles’s splendid outfit had
cost upwards of five hundred thousand crowns, and Anjou, not to be outdone, was weighed down with over thirty costly pearls in his hat alone. Margot couldn’t help but smile at her brother’s vanity as he strutted, peacock-like, back and forth. Everyone was waiting to lead her, the sacrificial lamb, to the altar.
She was accompanied by a hundred and twenty ladies all dressed in gleaming gold of rich tissue, velvet, heavy brocade, silk or satin. Yet the Princess’s beauty outshone them all, bringing gasps of admiration from all who gazed upon her.
A platform had been raised for her to walk on, leading from the Bishop’s Palace to the Church of Notre Dame, hung with cloth of gold as was the custom for Daughters of France. Below it thronged the people, the Huguenots only too evident in their simple, plain attire, in sharp contrast to the more flamboyant Catholic nobles.
But followers of either faith seemed, for the moment at least, content to be packed in alongside each other like sardines in a barrel, willing to endure the suffocating August heat as they were all eager to view this magnificent royal parade. Wasn’t this to be a day, a week of celebration? Even a medal had been struck to commemorate the event. What was there to fear on such a joyful occasion?
Yet Margot feared for them, and for herself.
She was led to the altar by her two brothers, the King and the duc d’Anjou, and was received on the steps of the great Western door of Notre Dame by the Cardinal de Bourbon. It had been agreed that the King of Navarre would not cross the threshold and that the bride would later enter the church alone to take the usual nuptial Mass.
Margot walked, stiff-backed, teeth clenched. She could feel the sweat gathering between her breasts, the weight of the heavy train dragging behind her despite the assistance of those who carried it. A pain had started up, throbbing somewhere behind her eyes, and she was deeply aware of the silent crowd pressing in on all sides. It felt more like a brooding resentment than reverence. They had wanted a Catholic husband for their princess. They had wanted Guise, the King of Paris. As, of course, had she.
Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois) Page 12
