The Hostage Queen (35 page)

The following day was his wedding day, and Henri welcomed this with much greater enthusiasm. He insisted upon dressing Princess Louise’s hair himself, prinking her gown and making up her face, spending so many hours on the task that the service had to be postponed until late evening.

Later the people would chant, ‘Henri de Valois, King of Poland and France by the grace of God and his mother, concierge of the Louvre, hairdresser-in-ordinary to his wife!’

The decision to marry had been made so quickly that there had been no time to collect the usual gifts of money from the populous, although he meant to make up for this lack later. The state of the treasury was parlous but his mother had spared nothing in providing a magnificent state occasion. Neither had Henri exercised any thrift when designing the gown and jewels for his young bride, or for himself and his favourites. He’d handed over vast sums of money to du Guast for this very purpose.

He meant to squeeze yet more taxes out of the people in order to pay for it all, and for the pageants, balls and masques he would hold.

Madame de Curton, Margot’s faithful old governess and lady of her bedchamber, came to her one morning and asked if she had any livres in her purse, so that she might purchase some new silks. ‘We are quite out of several colours and the ladies are working on new hassocks for the Priory. I wouldn’t trouble you, my lady, only the merchant from whom I attempted to order them has politely pointed out that a long standing account for fabrics, garments, hats, ribbons and gewgaws has still not been settled since the wedding and coronation, which was many months ago.’

Margot shook her head in despair. ‘I learned the other day, Lottie, that the treasury is so low the King cannot afford to journey home to the capital. The people are saying he cannot even afford the price of a dinner.’

‘It is certainly true that the court pages have been obliged to pawn their cloaks in order to fund their own travel expenses.’

Margot let out a growl of fury. ‘Yet Henri hands out gold to his favourite, du Guast, along with fat bishoprics which the odious man sells on at a profit. How have we come to this? I have asked my mother time and again for money to pay my ladies-in-waiting but she fobs me off with endless excuses.’

‘I understand Her Majesty is seeking a loan, and you needn’t fret about my own wages, my lady. My needs are small. A few silks are all we require.’

‘Oh, Lottie, but you shouldn’t have to come begging for them like this,’ Margot railed, riffling through her purse and pockets in the hope of finding a few coins. ‘But what can you expect when a knave such as my brother occupies the throne? He is taxing the people so much they can barely afford to eat. Yet he frizzes his hair, plays with his lap dogs, parrots and monkeys, enjoying his frivolities so much he can barely find the time to attend council meetings.’

Sufficient funds were finally collected to enable the court to return to Paris, but even as they arrived they learned that Margot’s sister, Claude, the Duchess of Lorraine, had died. Catherine could hardly bear it and took to her bed. Claude had never been her favourite, but visiting this happy family, her daughter and grandchildren, had been one of the few joys in her life. Now she was gone, yet another lost child.

Margot, too, was distraught, for she had ever been fond of her sister, remembering how Claude had wept and tried to warn her of the St Bartholemew’s Eve massacre. She would be sorely missed.

As if being plunged once more into mourning was not enough hardship, yet another malicious rumour began circulating that one of Margot’s ladies, a Madame de Thorigny, was said to be exercising an evil influence over her. The King issued an order that she must be dismissed.

‘What sort of influence? What is it he accuses her of?’ Margot wearily asked Madame de Curton when her companion broke this unpleasant news to her.

‘I do not know how to explain it, or what words to use,’ the poor woman said, her cheeks flushed bright crimson with embarrassment.

Margot sighed. ‘Say it quickly, Lottie. However unpleasant, be assured no blame will be attached to you. I know the root of this mischief.’

‘Well, they are saying that you and she are engaged in . . . are excessive fond of . . . that you hold a particular affection for her and . . .’

‘Stop!’ Margot was aghast. ‘Are you saying that I am now being accused of having a love affair with one of my ladies-in-waiting?’ She did not need to wait for Lottie’s nod of agreement; she saw the answer in the flame of scarlet in the old woman’s usually pale, faded cheeks.

Margot burst out laughing. It seemed essential to see the funny side, or she might well go mad with fury. But really it was no laughing matter, as she could not bear to lose such a good friend. She went at once to her husband, but sadly, on this occasion, he was unable to help her.

‘I agree it is all a nonsense, Margot, but Henri is the King. If he says that I must dismiss Madame de Thorigny, then I have no choice but to obey. Let us be glad that is all he demands. Be thankful it is no worse. If du Guast ever convinces him we are plotting against him, then he’ll be calling for our heads.’

It was not a comforting prospect.

Henri watched with sullen disapproval the strong friendship that was evident between the King and Queen of Navarre and the Duke of Alençon. He saw it as an attempt to undermine his power, was deeply afraid of where it might lead, and therefore sought any opportunity to divide the parties.

‘Your mother suggests we use Madame de Sauves,’ du Guast quietly remarked one day, as he massaged his master’s elegant hands with perfumed oil.

‘My sister is the cement that holds it together,’ Henri railed. ‘I hoped to create a coolness between Margot and Navarre; then we might start to get somewhere. Unfortunately, they remain good friends, not in the least jealous of each other.’

Du Guast’s lips curled upward in the parody of a smile. ‘I could urge Madame de Sauves to strive harder at creating jealousy and dispute between this triumvirate, to convince Navarre that his wife is not only jealous, but plotting against him. Neither Navarre nor Alençon have been faithful to the lady. We need her to inflame their passions afresh so that they can think of nought but her, desire her to such an extent that they become violently jealous of each other. Trust me, Sire, I will speak to de Sauves, and ensure she uses every artifice at her disposal to bring this about.’

‘Oh, I do trust you, Louis, with my life. Pray stroke my head, I swear it aches from all of this worry.’ And Henri lay prostrate on the bed while his favourite tended to his needs.

Henry of Navarre lay contentedly in his bed, his mistress, Charlotte de Sauves, curled seductively by his side. H
e met her each morning at the Queen Mother’s lever, due to her role as a lady of the robes, and spent as much of the rest of the day with her as he possibly could, only returning to the matrimonial bed very late at night.

The courtesan was draped across the bed in a silk robe de chambre that was very nearly transparent, and in Henry’s view she looked absolutely delicious. He kissed her full generous mouth and told her so.

‘How would I tolerate being penned up in this royal prison were it not for you? For years I have barely been allowed to go out, hunt, joust, or take part in any of the pursuits which keep a gentleman amused without a guard by my side. And even now that the King has granted me liberty, or so he claims, I am still closely watched.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘But here, with you, I am not under scrutiny. With you I can be myself.’ He fondled her breasts, the peak of each nipple excitingly erect beneath her filmy gown.

Charlotte arched her back, moaning softly as he pushed the thin fabric aside and began to caress the soft mound of her belly and the delightful triangle beneath. She nipped at his shoulder with her pretty teeth, raked her fingernails across his back as he mounted her, and gasped with joy as he penetrated her yet again.

His energy always astonished her, even if his foreplay might leave something to be desired. Guise was a more imaginative lover, but his visits were rare. He too had a wife, and still yearned after Queen Margot, much to Charlotte’s irritation.

Now, as she bucked and churned beneath Margot’s husband, attempting to ignite him to greater passion, as du Guast had instructed, she gazed up at the ceiling, idly tracing the swirling patterns painted in Italian fashion on the wooden beams. Even as she gave a sterling performance in the art of love, Charlotte was secretly bored, mentally assessing how soon she could escape and if she could lure Guise into her bed later.

Yet she smiled to herself, knowing that so skilled was she in artifice that Navarre believed she preferred him above all her other lovers, and never felt neglected. Men were so easy to please, so long as you had the sophistication and the experience.

His hands were cupping her buttocks, smoothing up and down the silky planes of her back, lifting her against him. She offered him her mouth and he claimed it with almost brutal force, as if all the demons of hell were clamouring for his soul. The poor man was highly charged with frustration, having been penned up, as he called it, so long between these four walls.

She sighed with a mix of relief and pleasure when finally he reached his climax, shifted his weight from her and lay sweating by her side.

‘Does your darling wife give you half so much pleasure?’ Charlotte teased, and Navarre gave a throaty chuckle.

‘I never compare my women. They all have their own individual charms.’

Charlotte rolled over on to her side, pretending to pout as she trailed a finger down his naked chest. ‘Are you saying that you have other mistresses, besides me? How ungallant! Tell me, I want to know.’

‘If I have, they would never match your fire, my sweet. There, does that satisfy you? And do not you also have other lovers? Who do you lie with, my brother-in-law?’

Charlotte languorously rose from the bed and went over to admire her reflection in the Venetian looking glass, her gown slipping from her silken shoulders. She tweaked a curl into place, smoothed a caressing hand over the firmness of her breasts, the trim line of her slender body. ‘Perhaps I prefer him to you? What do you say to that?’ She pivoted on her heel, swirling about to cast him a teasing glance and, with a rumble of barely restrained fury, Navarre reached out, grabbed the hem of her gown and dragged her squealing back into bed.

‘You vixen, I hate to be bested, but then the Duke is a friend, so I will forgive him.’

Charlotte almost ground her teeth in fury, even as she smiled. Why was he not even the slightest bit jealous of the time she spent with Alençon? The King of Navarre was far too casual in his approach to love, and she had been instructed that it was her task to change that in him.

‘It does not surprise me if you feel the need to have other women in your bed, as your wife neglects you shamefully. Not only that, but she cuckolds you with her many lovers.’

Navarre laughed, stretching his limbs, feeling relaxed and sated. ‘Not so many as her enemies claim, and I have no objection to Margot finding pleasure and affection where she will. As do I.’

De Sauves gazed at him out of wide innocent eyes. ‘And you do not even mind that she betrays your confidences, that she tells all your business to her brother the King?’

Navarre became very still. ‘What are you saying?’

Charlotte put a delicate hand to her mouth in feigned dismay. ‘Oh, dear, perhaps I have spoken out of turn.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘I’m sorry, but the ladies of the robe do so love to chatter. Word gets about.’

‘The entire court is a hothouse of gossip,’ Navarre growled. ‘What is it they are saying?’

‘That Queen Margot is duplicitous and has betrayed all your private business, your amourettes, your plans for the future and hopes of returning to your homeland. She is very much in her brother’s pocket.’

Navarre’s eyes narrowed, trying to follow this, which didn’t sound at all like his wife. ‘Nonsense, Margot has no fondness for the King.’

‘But he holds sway over her. Are you quite certain you can trust her?’

Seeing the doubt in his face Charlotte at once burst into tears. ‘Oh, dear, it is all because she is jealous of me, isn’t it? She told me that you no longer love me, that she means to poison your mind against me. I believe she wants to oust me from your life, and I swear I could not bear it if she succeeded.’