The Hostage Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  Margot fell silent. What was he saying? There was so much more to this infuriating man than she had bargained for.

  He came and gathered her hands between his own to give them a comforting squeeze. ‘Come, Margot, let us not squabble over trifles. We need all our wits about us for far more important matters. I shall certainly keep mine about me while I enjoy Madame de Sauves’ charms. And I would have no quarrel with you taking similar license.’

  She stared at him in stunned surprise. ‘Would you not?’

  He shrugged and grinned, again at his most engaging. ‘What’s sauce for the gander . . . ?’

  Margot considered him with haughty disdain, but there was a thread of hope starting up somewhere deep inside. ‘Well,’ she huffed, ‘all I can say is that at least your new mistress will spare me the necessity of suffering your presence any further in my bed. Good day to you, Sire.’ And, storming out of his privy chamber, she slammed the door behind her and went straight to Guise.

  She found him throwing dice with a rabble of friends in the courtyard. There was much noisy laughter and manly repartee as they placed their bets. Margot paused, framed in the doorway, a light breeze lifting tendrils of her dark hair which tumbled to her shoulders, as she wore no wig today. Some instinct warned Guise of her presence and he glanced up, eyes narrowing with speculation as he considered her lovely face.

  Margot knew that she looked eminently desirable in her amber gown with its saffron kirtle, and lifting her chin slightly she met his gaze with a challenge in her own: one filled with promise.

  She strolled over to the men, her movements slow and languorous, ostensibly watching the game as she circled the group. But she could tell by the way he edgily moved his body that Guise was intensely aware of her closeness. She could smell the tantalizing warmth of his skin as she brushed past him; could see the way his thick curls grew in a whorl at the nape of his neck. How she longed to reach out and run her fingers through it.

  ‘Tonight,’ she whispered, and then, swivelling on her polished red heels, sauntered casually away without a backward glance.

  Guise came to her privy chamber at midnight, as she had known that he would. Madame de Curton let him in, casting one last anxious glance at Margot before slipping out and softly closing the door behind her. Margot locked it, then turned to face him. She meant there to be no interruptions this night.

  He grinned. ‘I see that the gossip has reached you.’

  Margot did not trouble to deny it, since the answer was perfectly plain. Understanding her as he did, he would appreciate that she no longer felt obliged to remain loyal to a husband who had betrayed her, even had Navarre not effectively given her permission to ignore their wedding vows. Much as Margot was a dutiful Daughter of France, she was still a woman, needing to be loved.

  This time there was no hesitation, no verbal banter or playful teasing. Pulling her into his arms, he began to kiss her with demanding, searching, evocative kisses. Margot responded with equal passion as he impatiently stripped off her gown and silk petticoats, peeled off each stocking, his fingers clumsy in his haste, although she helped him with stubborn laces and to shrug off his own attire.

  They made love as if hungry to abate the raging need inside, as if they had longed for this moment for years, as indeed they had. They cared nothing for the consequences: for the disapproving presence of Madame de Curton in the room beyond, for how the Queen Mother might react if news of their encounter leaked out. They closed their minds to the memory of that other time when the King’s men had discovered them, Guise barely escaping with his life, and Margot beaten to within an inch of hers. Margot thought this night might be worth dying for.

  ‘You love me still?’ she asked.

  ‘How could I not?’

  A shaft of moonlight illuminated their naked bodies on the silken sheets, but they did not notice. They gloried in the pleasure each gave to the other, the triumph of finally coming together with the familiarity of long-term lovers, and yet with a new edge to their passion; one acknowledging a love reunited.

  Afterwards, she lay in the crook of his arm and smiled as she slept.

  The second time was more leisurely. Margot thought he might still be asleep, but she had only to tickle the inside of his thigh with her toes for him to waken, pull her beneath him and begin loving her all over again, more slowly this time. There was much touching and tasting, nibbling and nuzzling. Margot arched her back as she pressed herself against his lean hard body, making little mewing sounds as he caressed her, then crying out in ecstasy at the climax, oblivious to who might hear her. Seconds later he let out a groan and sank against her.

  They lay for some hours entwined together in complete contentment, sleeping a little, loving a little more. Guise did not stir until the first shades of an apricot dawn crept over the horizon.

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘You will come again?’

  He leaned over to kiss her softly on the lips. ‘You have only to beckon me with your little finger, with your entrancing smile, and I will come.’

  They met frequently after that, and it felt so good to have him as her lover again. Margot felt safe in his arms, as if she belonged there. Secure, cherished, and loved, as she so longed to be. She would almost purr with happiness whenever he held her, returning his kisses with eager abandonment. And this time there was surely no danger. They were both married, so what possible harm could come of their liaison now?

  Charles was ill, Anjou far away in Poland, and even the Queen Mother no longer seemed interested in calling her to account for her indiscretions.

  Margot was no fool, quite certain that Catherine would soon be made aware of their new relationship, if only through the antics of de Sauves in her husband’s bed. Fortunately, Margot managed to avoid being in it herself, sending Navarre on his way whenever he came calling. Not that her rejection seemed to concern him in the slightest, as he would only chuckle, assuring her that he could find a welcome elsewhere.

  ‘Then do so, and see if I care!’ she cried, flinging her slipper after him as he backed away, laughing.

  ‘Ah, but we must repeat the exercise at some point, my love, else how are you to provide me with an heir?’

  A charge to which she could find no answer.

  The fact that after more than a year of marriage she still hadn’t fallen pregnant troubled Margot at times, but then she would shrug the worry aside, too busy enjoying life. Why would she want all that messy business of having babies anyway, when there were so many more interesting ways to spend her time? Like deciding what she should wear to delight Guise tonight. How could she surprise and fascinate him even more? Her love for him was all consuming. She had no thought for the future.

  And then Madame de Curton came to her one evening in her privy chamber and Margot saw instantly, by the older woman’s expression, that she brought bad news.

  ‘What is it? Is my brother the King ill again?’

  ‘His Majesty continues sickly, my lady, but no worse than yesterday, or the day before. No, it is other news I bring you. Would that it were not I who must break it to you.’

  Margot felt a stab of fear. ‘What is it? Tell me quickly.’

  The governess sighed, suddenly feeling her age in this hot bed of gossip and intrigue. ‘Madame de Sauves has a new conquest.’

  ‘You mean she has tired of noste Enric already?’ Margot let out a peal of mocking laughter. ‘Why am I not surprised? It’s probably those smelly feet of his.’

  ‘No, no, she still sees your husband, and your brother.’ A slight pause for a steadying breath before Madame continued. ‘But she now entertains Guise as well.’

  The silence following this disclosure was deep and profound. Margot felt the pain slowly spread from her heart across her chest, expanding ever outwards as if it might consume her entirely. Was it not bad enough that she was forced to tolerate the fact he still slept with his wife, who seemed to have a knack for producing children as easily as shelling peas from a pod. But
this – this was too much. For the first time in her life she turned her back on her faithful companion.

  ‘Leave me.’

  ‘My lady, I beg you . . .’

  ‘Leave me, Lottie. Please. I need to be alone.’

  Madame de Curton quietly withdrew, her heart bleeding for love of her mistress. Margot sat on the edge of her bed, hands clenched tightly in her lap, paralysed by despair. She felt desolate, utterly bereft. What had she done to deserve such treatment? And from the one man she had trusted, the one man she could truly love for life, and whom she had believed loved her. But he had lied, and betrayed her like all the rest.

  ‘Why?’ She was standing before him, tall, proud, defiant. They were in a quiet bower, shielded from prying eyes by a bay hedge; the kind of place lovers might meet, where just yesterday she had sat on his lap and let him caress her.

  Guise gave his easy laugh. ‘It is of no consequence. There is nothing in our coupling, I do assure you.’

  ‘Nothing but lust? You mean you do not love her as you do me, yet you still want to put your cock in her, simply for the hell of it?’

  Guise winced, not liking her tone, or her coarse language. ‘Don’t make too much of this, Margot. She offered herself to me and . . .’

  ‘. . . she was too tempting to resist.’

  ‘There really is no need for you to be jealous. I was amused by her, that is all.’ He held out his arms in a helpless gesture towards her but she stepped back, out of his reach.

  ‘I forgave you when you married so quickly and stayed away so long.’

  ‘My love, you ordered me to wed, in order to save both our skins.’

  ‘I know,’ Margot conceded, a tremor in her voice. ‘There seemed no alternative at the time. I believed you when you said you took no active part in the murder of the Admiral, or the other leaders.’

  ‘And that is so; I never touched the man, though I was glad enough of his demise.’

  ‘But this, this is a betrayal I cannot forgive. A marriage may be political, at least for such as ourselves, but a love affair is a choice, a pledge of love and honour between two people.’

  His expression was growing troubled, a doubt creeping into it. ‘She is a silly chit, good for nothing but a tumble in the hay. Whereas you and I do indeed have something special. You are my one true love.’ He pulled her into his arms, grinning his mischievous grin, but Margot slapped at him, shoving him roughly away.

  ‘We are done here, Monsieur Guise. You may leave.’

  ‘Margot,’ he groaned, a wry pleading in his voice. ‘I thought a liaison with her might prove useful.’

  ‘You thought nothing of the sort. Pray leave me.’ The hurt he had inflicted cut too deep, was so painful that she could not find it in herself to weaken or respond to his wheedling. She felt not the slightest urge to relent and forgive. Margot drew herself up to her full height, and in that moment she had never looked more like a Queen. ‘Good day, my lord.’

  Realizing he had no alternative but to obey, Guise stifled a furious sigh, sketched a bow, and strode purposefully away. But he called back to her over his shoulder. ‘Remember that I will still be here, waiting, when you are in a better temper.’

  ‘You can wait till hell freezes over,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll have no more of you.’

  Navarre was puzzled by all the fuss. ‘Margot has hardly spoken to me in weeks, and will not let me near her,’ he confided to Condé as they rode back from the hunt one morning, having bagged several brace of pheasant. It was early in 1574 and the King and Queen of Navarre were still virtual prisoners in the Louvre. They were obliged to tolerate the guards regularly searching their apartments, even looking under their beds to check that no intriguer was lurking there. Today, they had been permitted to accompany Charles and his court to Saint-Germain, although as always they were never without an escort.

  Navarre watched Margot riding ahead, studiously ignoring him. ‘Does she seriously imagine that I could be a faithful and true husband to her, even unto death?’ He almost laughed out loud at the thought. Impossible! It simply wasn’t in his nature, not when there were so many beautiful women to enjoy. De Sauves fascinated him, and was considerably more tolerant of his foibles than his dear wife, so why should he not savour the delights she had to offer? ‘I’m quite certain Margot still holds a candle for Guise, she cannot deny it.’

  ‘Wives seem to imagine there is one law for them, and another for their husbands,’ Condé grumbled, the bitterness he felt at his own wife’s defection all too evident in his tone.

  Navarre cast his cousin a sidelong glance, noting how he slumped dispiritedly in the saddle. ‘How is the lovely Marie?’

  ‘Not too well at present. She is enceinte.’

  Navarre reined in his horse. ‘Dear God, you do not think she carries Anjou’s child?’

  ‘Indeed I do not! Is the man even capable of siring a child?’

  ‘There’s no evidence to the contrary. Even if he does prefer pretty boys, he’s not averse to dallying with a woman now and then, so how can you be sure?’

  It was clear by his cousin’s grim expression that he couldn’t. Nevertheless, Condé seemed determined to remain loyal to his beloved Marie. ‘She tells me their love affair was purely platonic.’

  Navarre kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse to spur it on. If that was what Condé chose to believe, then who was he to dispute it?

  His cousin was proving to be a source of great irritation to the Queen Mother by ostentatiously parading his new religion. He would make the sign of the cross even if he was about to do nothing more taxing than peel an orange, or cross the Palace courtyard, as if to say, ‘see what a good Catholic I am?’ The performance was as insincere as it was flippant and insulting.

  On one occasion Catherine had said as much, rebuking him for his sacrilege.

  Condé had sarcastically retorted, ‘Ah, Madame, the Princess my wife initiates me well in the use of that sign! Have you received any letters from your son this week? If not, I can tell you that he is well. Every other day brings couriers from Krakow bearing letters of a most passionate nature addressed to her. They are filled with protestations of fidelity, signed with his own blood. Can anyone doubt his sincerity? And my darling Marie weeps constantly over his absence.’

  Now he told Navarre, ‘I am driven near demented by jealousy.’

  ‘Then let us hope we are allowed out on another hunt soon. The day has been kind to us, perfect for hunting,’ Navarre airily remarked, considering it wise to change the subject. ‘No wind, no rain, and the birds falling as they should. Although they are a somewhat tame prey for my tastes. Do you remember that time in Pau when we invited the ladies to join us on a hunt? Just as well they didn’t as their nerves would have been in shreds. Two of the horses killed by bears, and a bowman hugged to death by another. Then one ferocious beast charged that group of men stationed on the top of a precipice, and the whole lot of them, bear and all, fell and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below.’

  Condé smiled ruefully at the memory. ‘We’ve enjoyed some good hunts together, but perhaps that one was a touch too adventurous, Enric, even by your standards.’

  Navarre sighed. ‘You speak true.’

  They dismounted, leaving the stable lads to tend to the horses, and walked together across the courtyard, heads still bent in quiet conversation.

  ‘You’ll need to take excessive care with de Sauves,’ Condé warned, returning to their earlier topic.

  ‘I do assure you coz that I exercise extreme caution in any post-coital conversations with the lady. It would be reckless in the extreme to indulge in indiscreet pillow talk with a spy of the Queen Mother’s, and I am under no illusions that that is what she is.’

  ‘Catherine would snatch at any excuse or opportunity to persecute you,’ Condé agreed.

  ‘I will not give her the chance.’

  ‘So you’ll take care?’

  ‘I’ll take every care.’

  Margot was feeling
ill used and neglected. She had endured many betrayals in her short life: by her brother Anjou, and by her own mother. Now, it seemed, she must accept treachery from the two men who should be the most loyal to her: her husband and her lover. Guise’s infidelity was the worst to stomach. If she couldn’t trust her beloved chevalier, the one man she truly loved and who claimed to love her, then who could she trust?

  She sat impatiently tapping her toe, paying scant attention to the skipping and leaping of the dancers taking part in the evening’s entertainment. It irritated her slightly that everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, while she felt dispirited and low.

  Navarre was stepping out with his accustomed clumsiness, while Guise was lounging in a corner talking to his friends. Margot steadfastly averted her gaze and idly watched a rather handsome fellow expertly lead his partner through the lively steps of the tourdion.

  How the ladies of Catherine’s court did love to dance. They made the excuse that the exercise was good for their health, as well as for their amusement. Although the real motive was to seek any opportunity to get close to whichever young man had currently taken their fancy. Often, at the end of a dance, the gentlemen would be permitted to kiss their partner, which always elicited much giggling and delight. Margot rather thought there was no country in the world that danced with more grace and elegance, more devotion, than they did here in France. They had even danced at the Château of the Tuileries the day after St Bartholomew’s Eve.

  Later would come the ballets, for which the Queen Mother had her Escadron Volant specially trained by a dancing master. Margot would often join in, as there was nothing she loved more than taking part in a performance of dance or drama. But tonight she meant to retire early to her bed, in which she would be sleeping alone.

  The Duchess of Nevers, who was seated beside her, whispered in her ear. ‘Are you watching le Comte?’