The Hostage Queen (41 page)

‘It must be a spy. Oh, dear God, he has been betrayed. Quick, we must dispose of the rope. Throw it on the fire in case they come to search us, then to your beds, ladies. We must pretend to be asleep.’

Margot lay on her bed, heart pounding, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps, of the clink of arms from the guards. The room beyond her bed curtains was dark save for the bright fire, the rope taking an unconscionable time to burn as it was so very thick, making her cough a little from the smoke.

Then of a sudden, a loud hammering came on the door. ‘Madame, your chimney is on fire. We can see flames coming from the top of it.’

Margot and her ladies looked at each other in horror. There was nothing they could do, for the rope was still only half burned.

‘One of you must go quietly to the door, apologize for having made too big a fire and explain that I am asleep and you dare not disturb me. Do not, on any account, let them in.’

The youngest, prettiest lady volunteered, and opening the door by the smallest crack, peeped out at the guards and whispered her tale of woe.

‘I beg you please not to wake my mistress or she might be angry with me for making up such a big fire. We are quite safe. I’m sorry for worrying you all,’ she said, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

They took pity on her, not a little influenced by her pretty face, and agreeing to say nothing, went away. Margot and her three ladies breathed again, and, giggling a little hysterically, went back to their beds.

But their relief was short lived.

The next morning Margot was again called to stand before the Queen Mother, recalling all the times she had suffered from intimidation and threats in the past. The King was sitting at the foot of his mother’s bed, and Margot trembled at the ice-cold fury emanating from them both. Would she never be free of their malice? Henri might not fall into the mad tantrums that Charles had been prone to, yet his displeasure could still be keenly felt and exercised in more peevish, underhand ways.

Catherine was the first to speak. ‘You assured me that your brother would not leave court, and pledged yourself for his stay.’

Margot began to weep, although they were very much crocodile tears on this occasion.

‘He has deceived me, as he has you, Madame. He gave no indication, told me not a word of what he planned. But I am ready still to pledge my life that his departure would not prejudice the King’s service.’

Henri appeared somewhat mollified by her distress, which seemed genuine. ‘Do not weep, sister. Tell us where you think he might have gone?’

‘I’m sure it is only to his own principality to hunt and rest awhile.’

By a miracle, they believed in her tears and her innocence, and within the hour, letters came from Alençon containing assurances of his continued loyalty, and his hopes for making yet another expedition to the Low Countries on the King’s behalf, once all due preparations had been made.

Henri made a show of affording assistance to this proposed expedition, while secretly resolving to use every means in his power to frustrate and defeat it. Nothing had changed. The King remained distrustful of his brother, and fearful of offending Spain.

He need not have worried, for in July when Alençon marched into Flanders to a fanfare of trumpets, he gained only two towns and his campaign ended in miserable failure. His sister would have made a much better job of it.

It was in late summer that Margot was at last to be permitted to set out on her journey to Béarn to join her husband. Henri now considered her of no further political use at court, at least for the present, and showered her with affection and good wishes in the days before her departure, fearful of parting on bad terms which might work against him with the King of Navarre. He restored to her the lands and benefices that formed part of her dowry, and gave her money from the privy purse, to which as a Daughter of France she was rightly entitled.

‘How useful our friendship could be, sister, while your brother’s will lead only to your ruin.’

Margot refused to be drawn. If Henri thought she would act as spy for him, after all the ill service he had done her over the years, then he was doomed to disappointment. ‘You can be sure that when I rejoin my husband, I will not in any way fail to obey his commands.’

Catherine was to accompany her daughter on the journey before continuing on a progress of peace in the Southern Provinces. Margot began making preparations with joy in her heart. She was to be free, at long last.

Leaving Guise was the hardest thing she had ever done. They met for one last time in their favourite place, making love with a desperate passion, and many promises of devotion.

‘Why do you go? Do you not love me?’ he asked, his handsome face unusually sorrowful as they lay entwined on the black satin sheets.

Margot gently kissed his mouth, tracing the familiar feel of it beneath her own, fixing it in her memory. ‘I love you more than life itself.’

He lifted the heavy curtain of her dark hair to kiss her slender neck. ‘Then why leave me for some Huguenot Prince?’

‘Because he is my husband, and I would be a true wife to him.’

‘Ha, an impossibility! The fellow drives you to distraction with his many amours. Am I not a better man than he?’ His eyes gleamed in the light from the lamp as he grinned wickedly at her. ‘I am miserable when you are not at court.’

Margot gave her trilling laugh, tugged lightly at his short pointed beard and kissed him again. ‘Liar! You will hardly notice I am gone. Within days you will be in de Sauves’ bed.’

‘Madame de Sauves is travelling with your mother in her Escadron Volant.’

‘Is she indeed?’ Margot’s eyes widened, wondering how Navarre would react to seeing his erstwhile mistress again. ‘I hadn’t heard. Well, you will have your wife to console you instead,’ she said, glancing archly at him through her lashes. It had always been an unspoken agreement between them that his wife was never mentioned, and Margot instantly regretted having done so now, even before she saw his brow pucker, darkening those mesmeric eyes of his.

She hurried on, ‘But you will also have the creation and strengthening of the League to sustain you. You bring to it such power and fire, fortified by the great love that the people have for you. How could you fail to uphold the Catholic Church as you so wish to do? The people of Paris are with you. You are their champion.’

‘Am I yours?’ He pulled her beneath him, spreading her arms out on the pillows and capturing her hands in his, not so that he could kiss her again, but simply to look at her, as if memorizing every detail of her delectable face and body.

‘You are my very parfit knight,’ Margot whispered.

He laughed and sat up away from her, elbows on his knees. ‘The people of Paris do love me, you speak true. Would that I had the support of the rest of the realm.’

Sensing a new tension in him she began to massage his shoulders, smoothing her soft hands over his naked back and belly. ‘Why, would you oppose the King? No, do not answer that. It is a question that should never be asked, and certainly never answered.’

‘I will do only what is right for God and for France,’ Guise enigmatically replied, then half turned to smile at her, knowing this was no answer at all, and she
smiled back, her own eyes a mirror to the passion sparkling in his.

They both knew that his power was growing, and represented as great a danger to the Queen Mother and the King as did the Protestants. Henri III was unlikely to leave an heir, nor was Alençon. Neither of her brothers were healthy, as they each suffered from the same lung complaint which had carried off her other brothers. Which left Henry of Navarre, a Huguenot, as most likely to succeed, and unless Margot fulfilled her duty he too would lack the necessary heir. After him, or if some accident should befall her husband, the next most likely candidate for the crown was Guise, a Bourbon Prince well loved by the people. All of these thoughts lay silent between them, acknowledged with nothing more than a wry smile.

He was lying beside her again, his hands caressing her trim waist, her firm breasts. She reached out a hand and stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers, a caress which expressed all her love. How would she feel when this space in her bed was occupied by another, even if that man were her husband? Would he not seem like a stranger, an intruder?

‘I must go to him, my love. I can stay no longer in this hot house of intrigue and danger. I need to be free to live and breathe and not be constantly checking my own shadow.’

Guise captured her face between his two powerful hands. ‘I too would feel happier if you were safe, my love. But not a day will go by when I will not yearn for you.’

He kissed her then, a long, gentle kiss that despite its softness was filled with passion and love. When it was done, he gazed deep into her eyes. ‘Go in peace then, my Queen of Hearts, and remember my promise to you. Should you ever be in need of my help, remember that I am forever yours.’

***

I have used many sources in the writing of this book. For readers who wish to explore the subject further I can recommend the list below as being the most useful to me. I would like to acknowledge the Project Gutenberg collection for many of the out-of-print titles.

Memoirs of Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Navarre, Written by Herself.

Henry III, King of France and Poland by Martha Walker Freer. 1888.

The Later Years of Catherine De Medici by Edith Helen Sichel. 1908.

Illustrious Dames of the Court of the Valois Kings: Marguerite, Queen of Navarre by Pierre de Bourdeille and C. A. Sainte-Beuve. Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 1912.

Queen of Hearts by Charlotte Haldane. 1968.

History of the Reign of Henry IV by Martha Walker Freer. 1860.

The Favourites of Henry of Navarre by Le Petit Homme Rouge. 1910.

The History of Protestantism by J. A. Wylie. 1878.

Nostradamus, the Man Who Saw Through Time by Lee McCann
. 1941.

The French Renaissance Court by Robert J. Knecht. 2008.

Catherine de Medici by Leonie Frieda. 2003.

Renaissance Woman by Gaia Servadio. 2005.

Delightes for Ladies by Hugh Plat. 1609.

Now read a sneak preview of the sequel:

Part One

MARGOT

1578

‘MY SWEET ONE, I love you more than I can say. I do understand your concern, but no other woman is prettier or more charming than you. I cherish the day Madame de Tignonville, your dear mother, was chosen as companion and governess for my sister when she returned recently from Paris. Otherwise I might never have met you.’

Jeanne cast a sideways glance up at him from beneath her lashes, carefully studying his expression for evidence of his sincerity. This was the King of Navarre she was refusing, after all, not some young courtier with no manners or money to his name. Was that wise? Her caution lay not simply with regard to her virtue, virgin though she undoubtedly was, but with the sad fact that the King was not free as he possessed a wife already. But then Queen Margot remained in Paris, held captive by her brother Henri III and her mother Catherine de Medici. Even as Jeanne heeded her own mother’s wise advice not to yield too easily, she felt giddy with the possibilities of what heights she might reach by capturing the King’s heart. ‘Sire, I must guard my reputation. I am an innocent.’

‘Your innocence enchants me. I adore you.’

‘But how can you say that when you hardly know me?’

‘Your modesty does you great credit, but you are not so innocent as to fail to see how the very sight of you sets my pulses racing. I must have you. I need you by my side, day and night.’

Jeanne was instantly alarmed, a flush of pink flooding her soft cheeks. ‘Sire, you speak wild. I am a maiden. My mother would never consent.’

‘I am not asking your mother. Besides, how could she deny a King?’ he teased. ‘Ah, but I see I am rushing you, my little one. Will you grant me a kiss at least?’

Henry gazed into her blue eyes, entranced. He was all too aware that falling in love was as natural to him as eating the pigeon pie he loved so much, or drinking his favourite Gascon wine. He was quite unable to resist a beautiful woman, particularly one as young and delightful as this one. Her dark hair was so soft that he ached to stroke it, her childlike form so delicate his fingers itched to caress her budding young breasts. He had been pursuing the girl for some weeks now, ever since his sister Catherine had come home, yet she resisted him still.

Capturing her in his arms he attempted to steal a kiss, but at the last moment Jeanne averted her face. ‘What is it my lovely, do I repulse you?’

‘Of course not, Your Grace.’ She looked appalled by the very idea, which soothed his bruised ego somewhat. Nevertheless, Henry very reluctantly let her go.

‘Why then do you deny me? I am not an unkind man, a most generous one in fact, known for my good humour and equable temper. Nor would I ever force myself upon a woman. Ah, could it be that you have never been kissed before?’

The flush deepened and Henry laughed out loud. ‘That is the way of it, eh? An innocent indeed.’ The prospect of teaching this delightful child all about love making excited him more than he could express. What a diligent teacher he would be! ‘Perhaps, as our friendship develops, and if I am very good, you will permit me a little license?’

Soft lips pouted as she considered the matter, blue eyes bright with wounded pride. Jeanne felt confused and untutored in these matters, uncertain how to protect herself and yet not lose his interest completely. ‘I do not see how a maid of honour could dare to refuse a king anything, so I beg of you, Sire, not to presume upon me by asking.’ So saying, she sank into a curtsey and begged leave to depart. Chuckling with delight Henry granted her wish. Oh, but he would enjoy wooing this little one, and one way or another, he would win her.

Catherine had hated the years she’d spent at the French Court, as had Henry. She had accompanied him there in 1572 for his wedding to Princess Marguerite, an event swiftly followed by the horrors of the St Bartholomew massacre. Henry had been fortunate, or sufficiently daring, to make a dash for freedom after three years largely held under house arrest at the Louvre simply for being the wrong religion. Catherine wished she could have escaped with him for she had never fitted in to the glittering, hedonistic life style of the court. She’d spent her time largely on the fringes, knowing she was considered dull and far too Puritan, although, like her brother, she too had been forced to abandon her religion and agree to take the Mass.

Now she was immensely relieved to finally be allowed to join her brother and be back home in Nérac with the people she loved. At the banquet held to celebrate her homecoming, Henry, his face uncharacteristically solemn, had asked if she had forgotten what it was to be a Huguenot.

‘Indeed not,’ Catherine had hastened to reassure him. ‘I have ever remained a Huguenot in my heart.’

He’d kissed her fondly on the cheek. ‘I am glad to hear it. Aubigné too will be mightily relieved. You know how very seriously my chamberlain views these matters.’

‘He need have no fear. I remain true to our mother’s faith.’

Now, as she walked through the gardens that her mother Jeanne d’Albret had created by the River Baïse, Catherine mused on how they had ever been close and were great friends. She had no quarrel with her brother, not on religion, nor any other matter.

But she was no longer an obedient young girl striving to please. She was twenty years old and it might well be a different matter when it came to affairs of the heart. Catherine had yet to confess to Henry that she was in love with her cousin Charles, the Comte de Soissons, and he with her. She had no reason to suppose he would disapprove, yet for some reason she hesitated to broach the subject.

This morning Catherine hurried to meet her beloved in the gardens, just as they met in secret most days. The pair dreamed of marriage and she could not begin to imagine how she would feel if Henry set his mind against the match. Such a prospect was unthinkable. Charles was a fine soldier, if a touch hot-headed, brother to Prince de Condé, and a Bourbon like herself.

She caught a glimpse of his beloved figure emerging from behind a tree, a broad smile on his handsome face. Feeling her heart lift with anticipation, Catherine quickened her pace and ran to meet her lover.

‘I do not understand what it is you ask of me.’

‘It is perfectly simple, I wish you to persuade Mademoiselle Jeanne de Tignonville to change her mind and accept me as her lover.’

An angry flush appeared on the old man’s sallow cheeks. ‘It is not my task to procure your mistresses for you, Sire. I shudder to think you should even make such a request.’

‘Ah, but I do make it. It is your role in life is it not, Aubigné, to perform whatever task is necessary to please me? The girl is devout, too much so. Convince her that her soul is not at risk for loving a king.’

‘Sire, I beg you to have a care for your own soul. The constant seeking of pleasure, even for a king, is a dangerous pursuit.’

Henry frowned. Were his nature less affable he might take exception to a servant, even a pastor, daring to issue such a lecture. But he knew Aubigné for a narrow minded Calvinist, dedicated to his God and his religion, and that he was equally devoted to his king. ‘I will let that comment pass, since I think your tongue runs away with you. Nevertheless, it was your idea to award the post of governess to her mother. Therefore you are responsible for bringing the girl to my notice. Now I am dying for love of her. I must have her.’

‘I did not allow her mother to bring the child to court in order for her to be deflowered.’

Henry was growing bored with the argument, irritated by his chamberlain’s stubbornness. He believed he loved the girl as he had loved no other, and, tolerant though he may be, he refused to be spurned by her. Such a thing was unheard of. He really didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

‘I do not see a problem. She will be well rewarded. Make the girl appreciate that it is perfectly seemly to surrender her virginity to a king. See to it Aubigné. I will not be bested in this matter.’ Whereupon he strode from the room, leaving his chamberlain wringing his hands in silent despair.

Other titles by Freda Lightfoot available as ebooks

Reluctant Queen

The Poor House Lane Series

The Girl From Poor House Lane

The Child From Nowhere

The Woman From Heartbreak House

House of Angels

Angels at War

Kitty Little

Lakeland Lily

The Bobbin Girls

The Favourite Child

Madeiran Legacy

Whispering Shadows

Rhapsody Creek

Proud Alliance

Outrageous Fortune

The Luckpenny Series
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Luckpenny Land

Storm Clouds Over Broombank

Wishing Water

Larkrigg Fell