Henri of Guise watched events unfold from a respectful distance, his heart aching as the bride was led to her fate. His beloved Margot. Never had he seen her look more beautiful. Did she feel his eyes upon her, burning into her proud, straight back? Would she turn and meet his hungry gaze? How he wished that he could have been the one to stand beside her. It should have been so. He felt he’d been deprived of his rights, of an opportunity not only to be happy with the woman of his choice, but also to be a good and true king of this realm. Others before him in his family had worn the crown, why not him?
The Cardinal de Bourbon pronounced the benediction and all proceeded exactly as had been rehearsed, until she was called upon to give the usual assent. Margot did not speak. She could not. Something inside of her turned stubborn and the words died in her throat. How many times in the past had she been asked if she agreed to this or that marriage proposal? Always she had answered that she would do as the Queen her mother willed. Now, for one moment of rebellion, she thought she might do as she pleased, and refuse. If she was not willing, how could they make her agree?
The entire assembly seemed to hold its collective breath while they waited for her response. She heard a sound behind her, and half turned, some instinct telling her that it was Guise.
He was on his feet, his gaze searing into hers.
Guise was astounded by her courage. Was she even at this late stage about to refuse? He wanted to run to her and gather her in his arms, to rescue her from this humiliation. As their gaze locked he felt as if he were looking deep into her soul, seeing not the beautiful, magnificent Queen but the vulnerable, uncertain woman within, whom he had loved since she was a girl.
For one mad moment Margot thought he might be about to shove his way through the ordered rows of seating, knock everyone aside and stride over to carry her off. She almost called out to him, but some spark of common sense prevailed and she bit down hard on her lip to prevent herself from such madness.
Her heart was pumping. Should she run? Could she escape?
And then a hand grasped her by the nape of her neck and pushed her head forward. The King, annoyed by her obstinacy, had forced her head to bob in a nod of assent. The Cardinal at once accepted this as agreement, hastily declared the couple united in marriage, and the deed was done.
She could hardly believe it. Without her speaking a word of assent, it was all over. Her mother and brothers had bullied and finally forced her into this marriage, the Cardinal a party to their scheme. How Margot hated them all, hated this husband standing so silent and sullen beside her. No doubt he thought he’d taken a step closer to the crown by marrying a Daughter of France. No good would come of this day, she was sure of it – although even Margot, in the very depths of her misery, could not have predicted the catastrophe that was to follow.
Wishing to avoid the service, Coligny remained within doors, walking with the Constable’s Huguenot son, Damville. The pair spent the time admiring the banners of Jarnac and Moncontour which were hung on the walls of the nave.
‘In a short while these will be torn down and replaced by others, better to see,’ the Admiral said, still dreaming of expelling the Spanish from the Netherlands and taking it for France.
At the conclusion of the service the wedding party walked along the platform before the hushed multitude of watchful citizens, as far as the pulpit where the bride and groom parted and went their separate ways. The bride was led up the choir to the high altar and the duc d’Anjou, as the representative of the bridegroom, stood beside Margot beneath the canopy to receive Mass. Navarre left the church and met with Coligny at the Bishop’s Palace where they paced up and down the court with several of his gentlemen.
At last the moment came when the entire cavalcade must process back to the Louvre. As Margot waved and smiled to the onlookers, the cheers of the suspicious Parisians for this new Huguenot husband of their Princess were lacklustre and grudging. Only when Guise passed by did they let out a loud and hearty cheer: Vive le Guise!
The young lord responded, as always, by sweeping off his plumed hat and saluting them. And if the Huguenots resented this apparent snub to their King, Margot herself laughed with pleasure to see her beloved so adored.
The wedding party dined with typical extravagance. When Catherine first came to France as a young bride, she had brought with her the traditions and foods of her home land, chefs and bakers, and that most prized tool of all, the fork. With this implement she ate her favourite pasta, and the natives of her adopted country followed her lead. The dish was served today at her daughter’s wedding banquet, a feast for a Queen indeed.
For the first course there was a selection of soups sprinkled with aromatic herbs, roast beef, goose, pork and veal, capon, chickens, venison, quails and a variety of pies. Salads came next, followed by the small round cheeses from the Auvergne, and the soft creamy variety which the palace cooks bought from the peasant women of Montreuil and Vincennes who sold them in the Paris markets in small wickerwork baskets. There were sweetmeats and pastries of every description, decorated to a fine art by the pastry cooks, along with candied raisins, figs, prunes, almonds and dates, and the finest wines poured from huge silver flagons.
After the feasting came the dancing, as musicians played for hour upon hour. The guests were royally entertained by the brilliance of the ballet, the merry jests of the masques and dramas, and the young King of Navarre did not fail to appreciate the charms of the court beauties.
The Duke of Guise, having congratulated the bride, studiously avoided her for the rest of the day, willing himself not to glance in Margot’s direction. He noticed, however, as did everyone else, that she danced very little and an air of sadness seemed to hang upon her. When he felt he’d carried out all that duty and courtesy required, he approached the King and begged leave to retire early, which caused much muttering behind hands as he strode from the banqueting hall.
Margot watched him go with a physical ache in her heart. So proud, so handsome, and hurting badly, as was she. This day could have been so different, could have been the epitome of all they had once desired, had her mother found one ounce of compassion in her heart – assuming she even possessed one.
All too soon the moment came for the bride to be escorted to her bed chamber and Margot was deeply thankful to find Madame de Curton waiting for her, as always.
‘What am I to do?’ she wailed. ‘How am I to endure this?’
‘With your usual courage and good spirit,’ the old woman told her. ‘Your husband is a fine looking man; perhaps it will not prove quite so unpleasant as you fear.’
When Lottie had divested her mistress of her wedding garments, scented and dressed her in a silken nightgown, the Queen Mother and Margot’s three brothers, Charles the King, Anjou, and François-Hercule the Duke of Alençon, together with as many of her ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen courtiers who could squash into the bed chamber, saw her safely into bed with her husband.
‘You can safely leave the rest to me,’ Navarre told them with a laugh, and a wicked gleam in his eye.
Thankfully the court agreed, and with many ribald jokes and jests they returned to their drinking and merry making, leaving the young couple at last alone.
‘Would you like me to leave with them?’ Henry quietly asked.
Margot was startled. ‘Why? Do you wish to leave?’
‘I believe I wish to be in this bed as much as you do. Neither of us chose this marriage.’
They regarded each other in silence for a moment, judging a new frankness between them. But then feeling very slightly piqued by his wish to abandon her marriage bed so soon, Margot slanted a sly glance up at him. ‘Yet here we are.’
‘Indeed.’ He settled himself more comfortably upon the big square pillows. ‘So what can I tell you about myself? I believe you are fond of reading, and so am I. My taste for poetry was fostered by the Queen Mother, who taught me to appreciate the verse of Dante, her own countryman. For my own choice I prefer the chivalrous ro
mance of the troubadours.’
‘I can imagine,’ Margot dryly remarked.
‘My disposition is generous and I am known to be magnanimous. Nor will I curb your purse, so I do not see how you can fault me.’
‘I’m sure I’ll think of something.’
‘Then if you see no good in me, what do we do about this most piquant situation? I would have you know that I have never yet taken a woman who wasn’t willing, and do not intend to change that habit with my own wife.’
Wife! The word had a terrifying sound to it, ringing out in her head like the toll of a doleful bell. Margot blotted it out and manufactured a small smile. ‘I am aware of your fondness for the softer sex. I’ve seen you chasing after them often enough, have I not?’
Navarre gave a low rumble of laughter deep in his throat. ‘Do I assume by that judgemental remark you are an innocent still? If so, then Guise is not the man I took him for.’
‘Do you mean to insult me?’ she snapped, which made him laugh all the more.
‘I mean you to see that we are not so unalike, you and I.’
‘Oh!’
‘Perhaps we may come to terms, to some sort of agreeable compromise? Now that we are man and wife, and will, I trust, be left to our own devices.’
His nose was a touch too long perhaps, but then so was hers, and his was narrower. His mouth was full and red and smiled a great deal. For he smelled of soap and once fresh air, of good wine and something else that was not altogether unpleasing. The Queen her mother had once promised to have him scrubbed and combed before sending him to her, but Margot rather thought he’d made the effort on his own account. ‘I was grateful that, despite your being still in mourning, you really looked very fine today.’
He inclined his head in a brief acknowledgement of the compliment, but his eyes, she noticed, were on her breasts. ‘They told me you had grown into a court beauty, and I see that you have.’
‘Thank you.’ Margot was suddenly finding difficulty with her breathing. There was something so innately sensual about this man that she could not help but flush charmingly at his words.
He gave an idle shrug. ‘I did not entirely mean to flatter you. Sadly, the paints and powders of courtly artifice are not to my taste. I prefer the blush of a maiden’s cheek to come from the sun and the wind rather than out of a pot. Or else from too much loving,’ he smirked.
She wanted to slap him for his impudence but his finger and thumb had captured her chin, tilting it slightly so that he could better see her face in the lamplight. His fingers were caressing her cheek in a most beguiling manner, and Margot struggled to resist a soporific need growing in her that really had nothing to do with tiredness at all.
‘You seemed enchanted enough by my mother’s women, the Escadron Volant. I saw you eyeing them at the wedding feast. Perhaps you may come to see things differently and be less interested in your peasant girls, now that you are at court.’
‘Ah, I may say that the peasant girls of Béarn are a particular delight, but there are none here right now, and yet I cannot claim to be too disappointed by what I find.’
Now it was Margot’s turn to laugh. She suddenly saw the ludicrousness of their situation, almost farcical in a way. Here they were in bed together, quite against their wishes. Despite their protests, each had been obliged, for whatever political purpose, to go through with this marriage. They were now man and wife. An undeniable fact.
He had somehow drawn nearer and Margot found herself transfixed by the wicked gleam in his eyes. They were dark and mysterious, almost mesmeric. Perhaps Lottie might be right. He was not entirely unpleasant, and if not as handsome as Guise, really quite a fine looking man. She could never feel anything for him that could remotely be described as love, but there were other delights to savour. She feigned a sigh of resignation. ‘And we are expected to do our duty, I suppose.’
He was untying the ribbons of her nightgown, and she saw no reason to stop him. ‘I dare say we must.’
‘I can only hope it will not be too onerous.’ She sighed again, rather theatrically.
He moved closer, pulling her down in the bed beside him. ‘Let us hope not.’
And to her great surprise, Margot did not find it in the least onerous. Henry proved to be a skilled and accomplished lover, and they each found pleasure in their coupling. Margot discovered that she was not dissatisfied with the night’s business. Perhaps some sort of agreement might be reached in this marriage, after all.
On the evening of Wednesday 20 August, the King held a masque in honour of his sister’s nuptials. Dramas were performed in which Navarre and his cousin Condé dressed as knights entering paradise, only to find themselves driven back into hell by the King and Anjou. In another the Huguenot Princes were cast as Turks, who had recently been beaten at Lepanto, and were conquered again to the great joy of the enthralled courtiers. If there was a darker meaning to these dramas, a hidden message being made, for the sake of good relations Navarre and his friends pretended not to see it.
A sense of nervousness and unease was spreading. Beneath all the merriment there was a growing feeling of hostility, people choosing to move about in groups as if needing to feel safe, muttering quietly together. The kind of rumbling before a storm breaks.
Coligny escaped from the celebrations at the first opportunity and retired to his chamber to write to his beloved wife, promising he would leave within a day or two. His time at home had been far too brief, particularly now that Jacqueline was expecting a child. He’d slept soundly, ate a frugal diet, savoured the daily prêches and the singing of psalms at a twice-weekly family service. Most of all he’d enjoyed supper each evening where family and servants gathered together to share the food and talk of their day. There would be his sons, his daughter Louise, newly married to Téligny, perhaps a minister, old comrade or humble soldier or two. He saw this meal as an act of fellowship, in remembrance of his Saviour, and many had followed his lead and taken up the custom.
Despite his weariness, he’d continued to hold council with church and military leaders each morning, working on plans to help the Prince of Orange chase the Spanish out of the Netherlands. Tragically, when the proposed invasion had taken place in July, the Huguenots had been decimated, with only a few hundred weary survivors returning home. It was a savage blow to his hopes.
Charles had been equally distraught that he was not, after all, to have his moment of glory, terrified that Spain might declare war upon France. The young king’s efforts to creep from under the shadow of his mother had proved to be a miserable failure.
Coligny had viewed that first expedition as merely the opening foray and still strived to convince the King that they must not give up but send more men, and greater armies. Sadly, Charles was no longer pliable and would not agree.
The Admiral had returned to court for the wedding at Catherine’s insistence, but there had been no warm welcome this time, not even any bad jokes. The King had been cool towards him, the Catholic nobles and the Queen Mother actively hostile, and he’d found only opposition to his grand plan to win the Netherlands for France.
The old Admiral was deeply disappointed, which was perhaps why he’d spoken so unwisely to the Queen Mother. ‘Madame, the King refuses to adventure the war. God grant that he be not overtaken by another from which he will have no power to retreat.’
Catherine had glared at him, seeing in this remark a deliberate threat. Perhaps he should have guarded his tongue, as Téligny was constantly urging him to do. The trouble was he still grieved for the loss of his Queen, missing her common sense and wise counsel.
His hopes for an early release from duty proved to be over-optimistic as the banquets, ballets and pageants continued with relentless magnificence throughout the week. Coligny had a strong suspicion that the King was avoiding him.
‘Mon père, I pray you grant me yet four or five days of pleasure, and after that I promise you, on the faith of a king, to give you and those of your religion content!’
Quite certain that he could win Charles round, the Admiral had already issued orders for troops to be quietly mustered, before even setting out for the capital. Now he waited impatiently for the celebrations to be over so that a day could finally be agreed for the next invasion.
When Catherine received a furious message from the Duke of Alva demanding to know why a huge force of Huguenots were gathering in Flanders, she took it at once to the King. She would have liked someone to relieve her of the burden of what to do about Coligny, but that was not to be. Charles was riddled with fears, deeply afraid that because of his tolerance for the Huguenots, and for allowing his sister to marry one, the Pope might excommunicate him, or the Guises turn on him. He’d sought the support of his old mentor as protection, which Coligny had gladly given.
Now when his mother informed him of Coligny’s secret plans, he fell into his customary panic. The prospect of war with Spain was terrifying, even to Charles. There was no hope of support from England, as Elizabeth had no desire to take on her powerful Catholic rival. Without question, war would be a calamity.
‘What is to be done?’
Catherine’s resentment had grown and soured with each passing day as she’d watched them together, the old man and the boy she had once so easily controlled. Now she would be the one to decide.
‘You can safely leave this matter in my hands.’
The plotters gathered: Guise, his mother Anne d’Este, widow of Francis of Guise and now the Duchess of Nemours, and her former brother-in-law the Duke of Aumale. The Cardinal of Lorraine remained in Rome, where he’d been since the banishment. Tavannes, Nevers, Retz and others of Catherine’s trusted circle were also present, and it was a matter of moments to draw up a plan to deal with Coligny.
Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois) Page 13
