The Hostage Queen (3 page)

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 t
he 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 made 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.

‘Has my future yet been decided? Could you not speak on my behalf and insist this match is a bad one?’

But Margot saw at once, by the sorrowful expression on her sister’s face, before even Elisabeth shook her head in sad regret, that she had no more power than herself. Margot burned with silent outrage. What control did any of them possess over their own lives, their own destiny? None. Both she and her sister were mere pawns in a royal game of chess.

Elisabeth squeezed Margot’s hand, softly urging her young sister not to be anxious or cast down. ‘Do not fret; I too was originally betrothed to Don Carlos but married Philip instead, and see how well it has turned out for me.’

Unconvinced, Margot ached to dispute this argument, but Catherine suddenly stood up, casting her a quelling glance as she drew the Duke of Alva away from her youngest daughter’s flapping ears. As always when confronted with the terrifying ire of her mother, Margot’s small rebellion withered and died.

Watching them stroll away, Elisabeth dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘My dear little sister, you will grow into a great beauty. It is no wonder that our mother is already seeking a husband for you, but much can go wrong with such delicate negotiations in these early stages. I am certain there will be any number of other likely suitors lining up for the honour of winning your hand, all eager to marvel at your flawless skin, your prettily rounded cheeks and those sparkling chestnut eyes.’

Margot’s spirits instantly lifted, and her heart glowed with renewed hope. Her sister’s words filled her with a sudden burst of optimism, a reassurance, albeit false, that she might truly have the world at her feet and she would not, after all, be obliged to marry a sadistic maniac. She may even be allowed some small say in her choice of husband.

Besides, she was excited and fascinated by the festival,
entranced by the beauty of the ballet, the excitement of the jousting. The sun glinting off the lances reminded her of another joust, and a happier time. Why couldn’t she choose her own chevalier, one with whom she was so perfectly suited?

Margot fleetingly wondered if Guise would be at court on their return, and if he had missed her while she’d been away.

Tables were now being cleared, and, with the feasting over, a troop of musicians, habited as satyrs, appeared out of an opening in a rock magically illuminated by hundreds of candles, whilst richly attired nymphs descended from above to form a final dance. Both girls were enchanted, b
ut before either could join in the merry-making,
the heavens opened, drenching them in seconds and half drowning the poor mermaids. There was utter pandemonium and confusion as everyone made a dash for the boats.

Elisabeth and Margot picked up their skirts and ran with the rest, slipping and sliding in the mud in their satin slippers, squealing with giddy laughter, their sudden uplift of spirits unquenched by the sorry turn in the weather. Margot secretly viewed the rain as a prophecy, one which might dampen the Queen Mother’s hopes for her, as surely as it had this magnificent pageant.

The moment Mass was over the following morning, the negotiations began in earnest. First Alva approached the King, but soon realized that he must talk to the horse master and not the donkey, and arranged for Elisabeth to present him once more to her mother.

Catherine welcomed Alva to her apartments in the royal chateau close to the harbour at Bayonne, ensuring that all doors were firmly shut before they began their talk. Elisabeth and Charles were also present.

Throughout the water pageant she had attempted to present her case for a union between their two houses. Alva had been deliberately obtuse, refusing to discuss anything but the perceived threat from heretics.

Catherine knew him to be a fanatic. Like his master, Philip of Spain, the duke was obsessively determined to destroy
Protestantism.
Catherine’s aim was simple. She needed peace for France
, and the Huguenots were the only rival to her power. The question was: should she follow the example of the extreme Catholics and pursue them with the sword, or offer an olive branch? As ever, she dithered over making a decision. For all her following of the black arts, she was a Catholic. How could she change the habits of a lifetime?

But the Huguenots were a powerful party, their faith spreading throughout France, their armies led by men of great standing. Moreover, they had powerful friends in Protestant England and in the Low Countries, who were not likely to remain idle were she to attempt to crush them. Neither could she risk war with Spain.
Catherine was prepared to go to any lengths, make any promises, however insincere, in order to avoid such a calamity.