The Hostage Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  Anxious over the proposed marriage, Margot’s own mood continued to sour, and the prickle of sweat beneath her armpits, which must surely be marking her pretty gown, wasn’t helping. She’d quarrelled again with her governess this morning, Madame insisting that a union between the House of Valois and Hapsburg could only add to the strength of France in the Catholic world.

  ‘The Queen favours this marriage simply in order to restrain the power of the Guises,’ Margot had cried, desperation making her tone bitter, and her whole body tremble with fear. If only she dared to discuss the matter with her mother, but however confident she might be with everyone else, Margot always felt clumsy and dumbstruck in the presence of the great Catherine de Medici. She could only vent her spleen upon poor Lottie. ‘I see no reason to pick a quarrel with so noble a family. Indeed, Henri has been my particular friend for years, as you well know, Lottie.’

  Charlotte de Curton had clicked her tongue by way of reprimand. ‘Do not presume to question your betters when you know nothing of politics, child. No more do I. You must put that young man from your mind.’

  Now, as she watched the fishing boats come and go in the harbour, Margot knew this to be quite impossible. How could she, when she loved him so? When every part of her ached to be done with childhood and have Henri pay proper court to her. She had loved him since she was but four or five years old, and he a few years older. She’d been sitting on her father’s knee watching the Prince de Joinville, as he then was, playfully jousting with the Marquis de Beaupreau. The King had asked which of the two she would choose as her chevalier.

  ‘The Marquis,’ had been her pert response.

  ‘Why so? He is not the handsomest.’

  It was true. The Prince de Joinville was tall and blond, and his friend dark and not nearly so striking. But, young as she was, Margot had known better than to add to Guise’s arrogance. ‘Because the Marquis is better behaved, while the Prince is always making mischief and thinks himself master over everyone,’ she’d retorted, making her father laugh.

  Yet were she allowed the opportunity, she would favour him still. And why should she not? He was courtly, eloquent and charismatic. Descended from the great Charlemagne himself, with the royal blood of the Capet line running through his veins. Surely a worthy champion for a Princess, as well as being handsome enough to quicken any young girl’s heart.

  Margot knew that they were meant for each other, and longed to be free to marry her chevalier. Yet how could they ever hope to come together if her mother so feared the power of his family that she would rather sell her youngest daughter to a madman?

  She was a Valois, a Daughter of France, as her darling Lottie kept reminding her, with no control whatsoever over her own life.

  Margot was but twelve years old and she shivered with foreboding.

  Catherine had no intention of selecting a husband for her daughter from any other motive than diplomacy. Until the tragic death of her eldest son, François II, who had inherited the crown from his father Henry II, the Guises had been in a high position at court because the young King’s charming and spoiled wife, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, was one of their girls. The House of Guise had held the power then, not herself, the King’s own mother. Catherine had become regent only when Charles, merely a boy of ten at the time, had ascended the throne.

  François and Mary had loved each other dearly, but while the young widow was still in mourning it had come to her knowledge that the Guises were approaching the Spanish King for a new marriage for the girl. Catherine had been outraged, for any such match would have resulted in too strong a union between the House of Guise and Philip of Spain. The Guises coveted the throne of France, wishing to supplant her power with their own. Consequently, Mary had been dispatched back to Scotland, and the Queen Mother was now offering her own daughter in her place, determined to forge whatever links she could with the mighty Spain.

  After two hours of waiting the royal barge at last approached, and with joy in her heart, Catherine stepped forward to welcome her daughter. She was surprised and delighted by what she saw. This dark-eyed beauty bore little resemblance to the shy child she remembered from the royal nursery, her girlish figure now that of a woman, beguiling and curvaceous. Catherine was relieved to note that her complexion remained unmarked by the small-pox she’d suffered shortly after reaching Spain, and that she had the tall graceful bearing of all the Valois. In a black velvet gown trimmed with jewels, slashed to reveal embroidered scarlet satin sleeves, she seemed aloof and somewhat remote. The timid young girl had indeed turned into a magnificent Queen.

  Elisabeth wept softly as they embraced, before turning to greet her siblings. While soft kisses and salutations were exchanged, the troops released a cannonade in salute.

  Catherine felt a surge of pride in her daughter even as her gaze flicked over the assembled lords and Spanish nobles, seeking a face which was clearly absent, as she had feared it might be.

  There had been doubts for some weeks that Philip may not keep his promise to attend the meeting. Rumours at court had been rife, and although such gossip ceased whenever Catherine drew near, the reason for His Majesty’s absence was plain. Philip II disapproved of her too tolerant attitude towards religion: the fact that she was willing to pacify alleged heretics rather than see France torn apart by yet more civil war.

  Addressing her daughter, Catherine coolly enquired, ‘He did not come then? Do you not see that your husband’s suspicions will lead us straight to war?’

  Elisabeth’s response was not only impassioned but regal. ‘What cause have you to believe that the King mistrusts Your Majesty? Only evil-minded people could give you such ideas.’

  ‘My dear daughter, you have become very Spanish.’

  ‘I am indeed Spanish, as it is my duty to be so. But I am ever your daughter, the same that you sent to Spain.’

  Catherine’s smile barely touched her round, slightly protruding eyes. ‘I trust you will always recognize your duty to your mother.’

  Elisabeth looked discomfited, the innate fear of her mother still present despite her new regal status. ‘My husband the King sends his apologies, and his emissary, the Duke of Alva, a soldier and statesman of renown, in his stead.’

  Right on cue, the gentleman himself, stern-faced with a long nose and a beard, stepped forward to bow over the Queen’s hand in courtly fashion.

  Catherine barely managed an icy smile, striving not to reveal her fury and disappointment. She had hoped not only for a marriage for Margot, but also a union between her darling Anjou and the Dowager Queen Joanna, Philip’s own sister. Despite the difference in their ages, a match would help to unite the two nations. Instead of Philip, she would now be obliged to deal with this odious little man with an even greater reputation for harshness and cruelty than his cold-hearted master.

  The day of the water picnic dawned hot and humid, and Margot felt sticky with the summer heat, even in her silver tissue, and excited at the prospect of the celebrations ahead. It was to take place on the Isle of Aiguemeau on the Adour River.

  The Queen Mother had spent many tiring weeks preparing for this most important day, ordering alcoves to be built, each one containing a round table to seat a dozen revellers, with the royal dais raised on four banks of grass at one end.

  Pretty shepherdesses dressed in cloth of gold and satin, after the fashion of the different provinces of France, tripped and danced across the meadows. Mermaids draped themselves in artistic decadence upon the rocks, while imitation dolphins playfully disported themselves around magnificently decorated barges. Margot was enchanted. It was a fabulous display, no doubt intended to demonstrate that France was a rich and powerful nation.

  The Duke of Alva looked on unimpressed.

  The royal party, including this unwelcome interloper, had been carried upriver on the royal barge, accompanied by satyrs and nymphs playing their pipes and flutes and singing their songs of welcome.

  He was old, Margot decided, older even than her mother
, and thin and erect like a soldier. His face was long and hollow-cheeked, the skin like yellow parchment, the brown eyes shrewd and piercing, and his long beard much speckled with grey. Most striking of all, she recognized a sardonic cruelty in the way his lip curled. Margot thought that her mother might need all her diplomatic skills to deal with such a man.

  She watched almost with sympathy as Catherine leaned over to show the Duke an artificial whale leaking red wine from a supposed wound, pointing out how grand King Neptune looked as he rode his chariot pulled by sea horses. Alva glanced disdainfully at the scenes being enacted on the river. Nor did he appear to be listening to a word the Queen said, behaviour the great Catherine de Medici was certainly not accustomed to.

  Yet Margot felt more sympathy for herself. She was in an agony of emotion, anxiously awaiting her fate. Would she be wed to a madman, or could she continue to hope and dream of Guise? Her heart skipped a beat at the prospect.

  An army of servants brought cold meats to the tables: the jambon de Bayonne, duck and pigeon, foie gras, fine cheeses and custard tarts. As she nibbled on a sweet pastry Margot could barely drag her gaze away from the two Queens, her mother and sister, as they sat huddled together in close conversation. One moment they were squabbling with icy coolness, the next smiling, kissing and embracing each other. Like everyone at court, the young princess was skilled in the art of eavesdropping, an accepted part of court life and often the only way to survive.

  ‘Do you think,’ she whispered to the ever-present Madame de Curton, ‘that these talks yet touch upon me?’

  ‘They are discussing the Huguenots, which is far more important.’

  Margot stifled a sigh.

  She must try to be optimistic. She was young, after all, with an immense appetite for life. Her natural exuberance would always come to the fore and allow her to hope. Besides, the stern dissatisfaction in her mother’s face seemed to indicate that the discussions were not going well.

  Catherine’s voice rang out momentarily above the hubbub. ‘Philip should never doubt the strength of my faith. I am the niece of a pope, after all, and when orphaned as a young child, spent some of my most formative years being educated by nuns.’

  ‘His Grace the King wishes me to remind Your Majesty that he has no desire to be the ruler of heretics.’

  So Madame was right, they did still talk of religion. Was that good or bad? Margot was a great admirer of her mother’s skills in pacifying the religious fanatics of either persuasion, but the fierce Duke of Alva looked very much a persecutor rather than a peacemaker. He seemed eager to prove that his master, surely the most powerful monarch in the world, was ready to stand against the Queen Mother, if needs be.

  A frightening consideration, even to Margot, a mere girl.

  The royal children had grown up through the first turbulent wars of religion. When Margot had been but seven or eight even her brother Anjou had flirted with Calvinism for a while, simply out of a desire to follow the fashion, ever a weakness of his. He would constantly tease and plague her, ordering her to replace her rosaries and Book of Hours with the Huguenot prayer book, and on one occasion had even thrown it into the fire.

  Despite her tender age she’d stood up to his bullying, remaining firm in her devotions. ‘I would suffer whipping, and even death, rather than be damned,’ she’d told him, tossing her dark curls, eyes blazing.

  Fortunately, neither fate had been called for. Madame de Curton had taken her to the Cardinal of Tournon who recommended she hold fast to her faith and provided her with a new Book of Hours, to replace the one that was burned. Anjou had continued to mock her childish piousness, yet she’d steadfastly ignored him. And once their mother had learned of her favourite son’s misguided fancy, he’d been sternly brought back to his true calling.

  Surely no one would dare to view the Queen Mother’s tolerance as a sign of weakness. She was without doubt a strong woman, a clever and wily diplomat, prepared to bend events to her will. A Medici no less. She was, after all, a woman who did not balk at selling off her own child in marriage to a madman.

  The music had started and in a fury of frustration, Margot flounced out of her seat and succumbed at last to join the dancing. Much to her displeasure she found herself partnered with Henry of Navarre. They were dancing the pavan, surely one of the simplest dances in all the world, yet this oaf could not seem to train his great clumsy feet to keep time with the music. She took a step to the right in the fashion of the dance, soft round arms lifted gracefully, their two hands clasped. Henry took two forward, realized his mistake and attempted to rectify it by leaping back into line but misjudged the move and collided with his partner, tripping over her train and almost knocking her over. Margot was furious.

  ‘This is intended to be a dignified dance, meant to herald the entrance of the gods and goddesses in their triumphal chariots,’ she remonstrated with him, as she brushed the dust from his shoes off the hem of her gown. ‘You are a graceless clod who should never have been allowed out of the farmyard.’

  Henry laughed, as if it were all a great joke. ‘I do my best to learn the ways of your fine French Court,’ he grandly informed her, black Gascon eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘But I fancy you may be right. Hunting boar in the forests of Navarre suits me better than these mincing steps.’

  Grabbing his hand, Margot gave him a shove back into line. ‘Now we take the double step forward. Do please pay attention. It’s perfectly simple if you follow those in front of you.’

  ‘What a pair we make,’ he chortled, as they successfully accomplished the next few steps without incident.

  Margot inwardly groaned. In just a few months they would be back in Paris where she hoped Henri of Guise would be waiting for her with the same eager impatience she felt to see him. If only he were by her side today, instead of this gawky cousin of hers, yet another Henry, although he liked to spell his name with a y in the English manner. But then he was little better than a peasant, for all he called himself the Prince of Béarn.

  She glanced at her companion with disdain, thinking that he certainly couldn’t match Guise for looks. He had a dark tangle of unruly hair, styled in the fashion of the provincial Nérac, long nose, and large deep-set eyes, which admittedly sparkled with his customary good humour. He was infuriatingly good natured, an affable fellow with a droll wit and not without some intelligence, but his manners and Béarnaise dialect were really quite uncouth. She and her brothers often teased him, calling him the boor, mountain goat, or canaille of Béarn. A disreputable rogue forever with his eye on the girls. Even now, while he danced with her, his attention was on the trim waist of that pretty shepherdess, rather than watching his own feet.

  Henry had been living at the French Court for some years, ever since his mother had taken up the cause of Protestantism. Since Jeanne was now the accepted leader of the Huguenots following the death of her husband, and her son was in line for the throne of France after Margot’s brothers, all of whom were known to be sickly and had not yet married and produced heirs, there was little trust between the two queens. The Queen Mother operated on the principle that while she kept the future King of Navarre under her personal care, there would be less risk of any nasty surprises from his mother.

  ‘You’re far too young to be lusting after maids,’ Margot scolded as Henry again missed a step when his gaze followed a pretty nymph tripping across the meadow.

  ‘I am but seven months younger than you, and since you are considered old enough to be betrothed, why cannot I at least look?’

  ‘My betrothal is none of your business.’

  ‘Is it not? I confess I am agog to hear the outcome.’ He leaned close to whisper in her ear. ‘Has it been decided? Are you to be sacrificed?’

  Now it was Margot who missed her step, and she could very easily have slapped him as she mumbled that it was far too early in the negotiations to know anything.

  ‘My late father, the King of Navarre, seemed to think it might be a good idea if you and I m
ade a match of it. What say you to that? Better an oaf than a madman.’

  Margot glared at her country cousin as they stepped delicately to the left, almost in tune with the other dancers. ‘I dare say he did, considering he was ever ambitious for his only son. Sadly you are destined to be disappointed. You can be certain that you will never gain the throne of France through me.’

  Henry gave her a measuring look. ‘Would I not make a better king than mad Charles, or that scented fop, Anjou? And as for your precious Alençon, the deceitful dwarf with his pockmarked face, no one could accuse him of having regal presence let alone the wit to rule a country. I, at least, am in the best of health, which cannot be said for any of your brothers.’

  Margot’s cheeks, along with her temper, blazed dangerously. ‘How dare you speak of my royal brothers in that uncouth manner! They at least are not so low born as to scramble over rocks barefoot. Nor do they smell of horses.’

  Henry grinned. ‘Good honest sweat from a day out hunting is surely a better scent for a man to wear than violet powder. Besides, my grandfather made sure that I was raised to be hardy. My cradle was the carapace of a turtle, and it is said that when I was but a newborn babe he wet my lips with garlic and good Jurançon wine to make sure I was a true Béarnais.’

  ‘Oh, you are certainly that,’ Margot snapped, sighing with relief as the music stopped and the dance came to an end. ‘For my part, you may return to your precious Navarre and never set foot in the French Court again. Fortunately, our paths are not destined to cross once I have been found a husband, and none will be more pleased about that than I.’

  But as she stormed off, chin high, the sound of his laughter following her, some presentiment made her wonder if that were indeed true.

  Increasingly anxious, Margot slipped into the seat beside her sister. Elisabeth had seemed very grand and grown up now that she was Queen of Spain, but Margot felt in her heart that she was still her beloved sister and was grateful for her concern and love, since she saw little of either sentiment in their mother.