Margot pouted. ‘I may choose the orange gold, since that is my favourite colour.’
‘I believe Her Majesty would prefer you to wear the silver tissue, far more appropriate for a young princess on such an important occasion.’
Margot gave a shrug of careless agreement, bowing to her mentor’s superior knowledge in such matters. These extravaganzas were commonplace in court life, yet her keen mind warned her she’d been neatly sidetracked, and she resolutely returned to her unanswered question.
‘Then if it is not the war which concerns my mother, what is the purpose of this so-important meeting?’
Madame picked at a thread on her gown, avoiding the girl’s probing gaze. ‘They are to discuss a marriage proposal.’
‘For me?’
‘It is time. Your sister Elisabeth was betrothed at thirteen, only a year older than you are now.’
Margot fought to keep her voice steady as she asked the most vital question of all. ‘And who is the proposed groom?’
The governess manufactured a bright smile. ‘Why, none other than King Philip’s own son, Don Carlos.’
Physical discomfort paled into insignificance by comparison with this shocking discovery. For several long moments Margot could not speak. It was as if every breath had been knocked from her body. She felt dizzy, close to fainting in the suffocating heat of the litter. Margot regarded her governess with frightened eyes, her voice barely audible.
‘Don Carlos, Philip’s mad son? Are you saying that the husband whom the Queen my mother has proposed for me is insane, a hunchback who likes to roast rabbits alive?’
Charlotte de Curton quailed beneath the intelligent, furious gaze. It was indeed typical of the Queen’s manipulative nature to leave the difficult task of telling her youngest daughter the decision about her future to a third party. The woman known as Madame Serpent did not soil her own hands with unpleasantness when others could do it for her. Yet none of her own children, certainly not Margot, would dare to stand against her. The governess’s eyes softened as she sought to offer some comfort, however small. ‘I am sure rumour exaggerates his condition. He suffered a terrible accident as a boy by falling down a stone staircase, which almost killed him. You should feel nought but compassion.’
‘I feel more for myself.’ A sick fear lay like a lead weight in the pit of Margot’s stomach. ‘Were not the doctors obliged to drill a hole into his skull to relieve the pressure on his brain, which left him sorely damaged? I have heard the tales, Lottie, that he tortures dogs and cats, even horses, simply for the pleasure of it. I was also told that, fearing he might progress to humans, his father keeps him close at home. Has my mother taken none of this into account?’
Madame de Curton fixed her gaze on a fly crawling up the warm curtain, unwilling to answer this question either. ‘You are Marguerite de Valois, the third daughter of Catherine de Medici and King Henri II, a Princess of the Blood and a Daughter of France. Of course you must marry where the Queen your mother deems appropriate.’ As if this excused such an abomination.
Margot’s response was barely audible. ‘I marvel at this fresh proof of her devotion.’
‘Do not take it to heart so, child. There is more to consider than your wishes.’
‘My mother never considers my wishes. She may claim to love all of her six surviving children equally, yet everyone at court knows she cares nought for me. The Queen hates me because I possess the good health and strong constitution she covets for my brothers, whom she much prefers, in particular Henri, duc d’Anjou. He has ever been her favourite.’
The governess could not deny that Anjou was the apple of his mother’s eye. Nothing was too much trouble for this favourite son. He must have the finest clothes, the choicest meats, sleep only in a warmed room, be pampered and cosseted by all of the Queen Mother’s women, her dames galantes, the bevy of beauties, or flying squadron, as they were mockingly called. But then Anjou always did love to be the centre of attention, even as a small boy when he would pose in his silks and satins before them all. It was no surprise to her that he played on his mother’s love while he patiently, or perhaps it would be more correct to say impatiently, waited to succeed his brother to the throne, should that poor boy’s uncertain health overtake him.
‘Anjou is the heir,’ she reminded Margot now, wishing to be fair. ‘Therefore he is bound to be the favourite. And you are a foolish young girl who thinks of nothing but amusements: of dancing, hunting, and the like.’
Margot straightened her spine. ‘I enjoy parties and dancing, I cannot deny it, but I have little inclination for setting myself off to advantage by dress, or exciting admiration of my person and figure. Certainly not in order to marry with a madman.’
‘You will be expected to do your duty.’
Margot responded with passion. ‘I will do my duty, so far as I am able, but I tell you, Lottie, even if my mother drags me to the altar, I will refuse to marry unless I like the husband she chooses for me.’
Words which were to come back and haunt her.
Sneak Preview of The Queen and the Courtesan
The third part of Margot and Henry’s story
Part One
Henriette
1599
Henriette stamped her small foot, face scarlet with temper. ‘How dare they dismiss me from court! Did you not see how the King gazed into my eyes, entranced; how he complimented me on my dancing? The courtiers are calling me “une femme toute charmante”. He danced with me twice, so how dare anyone send me packing as if I were of no account. It’s the fault of that strumpet, Gabrielle. She was furious because of the attention Henry was paying me.’
‘Hush, my sweet. Take care what you say. Palace walls have ears.’ Her mother glanced anxiously around, as if the Swiss guards might appear at any moment to physically evict them. ‘The Duchess de Beaufort is the King’s favourite, carrying his child and about to become his queen at last. You must make allowances for her condition. This pregnancy is proving more difficult than the others so she is naturally tense.’
‘Bah, more likely she fears she can no longer hold the King’s love. They say she’s calling me “une baggage”!’ Henriette stormed, ripping the silver combs from her coiffure and flinging them across the room. She’d been excited to receive the invitation to attend the wedding celebrations of the King’s sister, had revelled in the admiration she’d attracted; now it was all spoiled, and she was beside herself with fury.
Pushing Henriette gently down on to a dressing stool Madame d’Entragues began to brush the bright auburn hair, soothing her tempestuous daughter with soft words as well as with strokes of the brush. The former Marie Touchet, one time mistress of Charles IX, had never been one to make a fuss, her gentle manner often providing a calming influence on the excitable young king.
Her daughter was another creature altogether. Quite unlike her younger sister, dear little Marie-Charlotte, who was a fragile, beguiling child, always eager to please. She was even now patiently sorting the ribbons and jewels that her more volatile sister had scattered in her temper. Far too much like me, her mother ruefully admitted.
Sadly, Henriette had inherited her father’s scheming, crafty nature. François de Balzac, Baron de Marcoussis and Lord of Entragues and Malesherbes, was utterly tenacious when it came to getting his own way. As governor of the city of Orleans he’d once offered to sell the town to Henry of Navarre, the plan only thwarted when the citizens fiercely objected.
This daughter was equally ruthless.
And if Henriette did not quite possess the beauty of Henry’s long-established favourite Gabrielle d’Estrées, the Duchess de Beaufort, at twenty years of age she had about her that indefinable quality that sent men wild with desire. She was dark and slim with a comely figure and handspan waist. The heavy-lidded, glittering green eyes were shrewd and sensuous, if somewhat provoking; the small, Cupid’s bow mouth inclined to curl upwards at each corner in a knowing little smile. Straight nose, finely arched brows and a heart-sh
aped face with a softly rounded chin, the girl possessed a feline grace. And, like a cat, she could purr with pleasure or just as easily put out her claws and scratch. One moment she would be all sunshine and smiles, the next spitting with fury if something should displease her. While she lacked neither wit nor charm, even her own mother took care not to cross her.
Henriette was expressing that displeasure now. Shrugging off her mother’s ministrations, she began to storm about the room, the maids running about in a desperate bid to catch the vases and marble figurines she picked up at random to hurl in the wake of the silver combs. And as she raged, Henriette complained bitterly about the imperfections of the quarters allotted to them and how glad she would be to leave it, while at the same time describing Gabrielle as a bloated fishwife, saying how much more attentive she would be to the King were she allowed to stay.
‘Take care what you wish for,’ Marie softly warned, gathering up shards of broken china. ‘Loving a king can be fraught with danger, child. I was fortunate in that Charles’s queen, Elizabeth of Austria, was an undemanding girl who made no protest about his keeping a mistress. She and I became firm friends, each loving the King in our own way, and supporting each other.’
Henriette looked at her mother with scathing contempt, not at all understanding such generosity of spirit. ‘That is because you are happy to have people walk all over you, like silly Marie-Charlotte here. I am not so stupid.’
If Marie Touchet felt any urge to defend herself against her daughter’s rebellious condemnation of her mild manners, she gave no sign of it, simply returned to folding gowns and laying them in the coffer until Henriette snapped at her again.
‘Stop that at once, Maman. We keep maids to perform such a task. Do not demean yourself.’ Then arching her back and stretching her arms above her head to show off the perfect lines of her lithe body, exactly as a cat might, she softly purred, ‘This isn’t the end, believe me. Next time I shall capture his heart. The stakes may be high, Mother dear, but I know how to play them. I’m perfectly sure another opportunity will present itself.’
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About Freda Lightfoot
Born in Lancashire, Freda Lightfoot has been a teacher and bookseller. She lived for a number of years in the Lake District and in a mad moment tried her hand at the ‘good life’, kept sheep and hens, various orphaned cats and dogs, built drystone walls, planted a small wood and even learned how to make jam. She has now given up her thermals to build a house in an olive grove in Spain, where she produces her own olive oil and sits in the sun on the rare occasions when she isn’t writing. Although she does still enjoy spending the rainy summers in the UK. She’s published 40 novels including many bestselling family sagas and historical novels. To find out more about, visit her website and sign up for her new title alert, or join her on Facebook and Twitter where she loves to chat with readers.
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