The Hostage Queen (8 page)

‘And if Margot should hear of it and grow jealous, would that not ruin my chances with her?’

‘You must judge how much attention needs to be paid to each,’ the old man laughed. ‘A challenge you will no doubt enjoy.’

‘And how far should I go? As far as she will allow? That may be some distance, Uncle. Margot is near a grown woman and hot for love.’

The Cardinal growled. ‘Don’t test my patience, you young pup. Too much dalliance with the lady and you’ll be facing a charge of high treason.’

‘Treason? Surely you jest.’

‘She is a Daughter of France, a Princess of the Blood. Deflower her, and the wrath of the House of Valois will put your head on the block. Remember that when you go a-courting.’

Angered by the biblical allusion which soon reached her ears, Catherine reiterated that her sole aim was to run the Huguenots to earth, defeat and destroy them.

She
blamed everyone for failing to capture the leaders, and her mood for conciliation was long past. Anjou was kicking his heels, impatiently waiting to lead his army to victory while Charles jealously longed to prove himself. Catherine reassured her eldest son of the importance in his remaining quietly at home so that he could properly perform his duties as King. She knew that he did not obey her out of love, but from fear.

Of all her six children, only Anjou was not afraid of her, which was exactly how she liked it. She cared only for him, her favourite. Henri did not fall into a frenzy at the slightest thing. Nor was he overly sensitive. He was brilliant and handsome, audacious and daring. One day he would make a better king than this puny son who was feeble in both mind and body, tainted by the sins of his fathers.

Margot had grown more beautiful as the years passed, and was now quite the shining star of the court. The people of Paris had marvelled at her beauty as she passed by in the Easter procession, her
face pale and serene, revealed for all to admire as she rarely wore a mask. She would adorn her dark hair, which she wore naturally curled down her back, with quantities of pearls and brilliant diamonds in the form of stars. Her figure, tall and elegant despite her youth, clothed in a gown of cloth of gold, the richest and most beautiful ever seen in France. Who could fail to love her?

Catherine saw how all eyes followed her daughter, including those of Henri of Guise. The pair were far too close for comfort, and the sooner the girl was found a husband, the better.

When the time came for Anjou to depart for Étampes, she kissed her most adored son a loving farewell, promising to join him the moment she could. Her daughter’s embraces for her soldier lover were far more affectionate, and Catherine watched with displeasure as Margot had great difficulty in hiding her tears.

Mother and daughter returned to Paris and Catherine at once set about assembling the necessary supplies for the army, raising funds from whatever sources she could. The treasury was running low and she willingly pawned her jewellery, stopping at nothing to finance this most vital enterprise. She also issued a decree ordering all Protestant ministers to leave the kingdom within fifteen days on pain of death.

Despite her undoubted skill at manipulating events to suit herself, Catherine was riddled with uncertainties and superstitions, and would frequently consult wizards or astrologers, very much believing that the dead had more to say of relevance than the living. She was never without her talisman bracelet with its links of devil’s hieroglyphs and engraved human skulls. Now, in accordance with these superstitions, Catherine visited a magician and had him read the star signs of the Huguenot leaders. She ordered him to make replica figures of each, jointed with screws that she could turn and turn.

One way or another, she would have their heads
.

Catherine’s frustration and fury were soon overwhelmed by other emotions as a messenger came clattering into the courtyard one morning, his horse in a lather as he’d ridden long and hard from Spain. Madame de Curton was the one deputed to relay the news to the Queen Mother, which she did with tears streaming down her face.

‘Our precious child, our sweet young queen, has been taken from us. Our beloved Elisabeth has died giving birth to a barely formed girl child, who, I understand, likewise did not survive.’

Catherine’s grief was dreadful to behold. She remembered those precious few days they’d enjoyed together in Bayonne when for the first time she’d begun to get to know this daughter of hers. How cruel fate was to snatch her away so young. She forgot the accusations of suspicion, the frequent quarrels and tears, her annoyance that Elisabeth had become the mouthpiece of her sombre husband, Catherine’s most feared enemy. Since then their new-found intimacy had continued by letter, and strangely it was only in the written word that Catherine had found herself able properly to express her feelings. Now she hid in her privy chamber and wept as any mother would for a lost child.

Yet within hours she’d rallied sufficiently to appear before her council declaring she would offer Margot, now fifteen, as a replacement. Margot herself, when she heard this news, was horrified. To marry her sister’s widowed husband was abhorrent to her.

Fortunately, distraught at losing his lovely young Queen whom he’d adored, Philip promptly declined Catherine’s generous offer, and the ties between Spain and France fell loose once again.

Madame de Curton felt only relief that her precious charge was to be spared from becoming that stern monarch’s fourth wife. The governess wished her little lady nought but happiness, if only a suitable husband could be found for her. So far, fortune had not smiled upon this quest.

A memorial service was held for Elisabeth, in which Charles stood in tears beside his black-veiled mother. He presented a sorrowful, desolate figure in violet satin, somewhat unprepossessing with his slightly crooked neck and a face gaunt from long periods of sickness.

But little time was allowed for mourning as Catherine sought a new marriage proposal for Margot, this time to Philip’s nephew, the young King of Portugal, who largely ignored Catherine’s request. The poor demented Don Carlos had died earlier in the summer, allegedly having caught pneumonia because of a predilection for sleeping on ice in order to avoid the intense summer heat. Catherine next pursued the King of Hungary, but that too came to nothing. If Margot was indeed a political pawn, she seemed to be of little appeal to anyone, her beauty apparently immaterial.

In a rare moment of sympathy, Catherine told her, ‘My child, you were born in an unhappy age.’

But she remained determined to use this last unmarried daughter to bring another crown to the House of Valois, as well as peace to the realm, no matter at what cost to her own happiness.

Until then, it would be Madame de Curton’s responsibility to keep the girl chaste. Considering Margot’s growing fascination for a certain chevalier, it was a task no one in their right mind would envy.

Margot was thrilled when they received an invitation to visit her brother at the front, which meant she would also be able to see a certain chevalier. She guessed that Anjou
was finding army life difficult. No doubt he missed his silken sheets, his warm, scented bedchamber, the court luxuries to which he was accustomed.
He was not a natural soldier. He might enjoy the glory of victory but as lieutenant-general he was only in nominal command; Biron and Tavannes were the ones really responsible for the campaign.

She easily persuaded her mother to accept and the necessary preparations were made, Catherine arranging to meet her favourite son at the Castle of Plessis-les-Tours, because the camp was some long distance from Paris. The court reached Tours in less than three days, where the King met his brother with cool indifference, making caustic remarks about where the true glory lay.

Margot felt saddened to see her two brothers so at odds through foolish jealousy, but her concerns were of a more personal nature. She lived in fear of yet
more marriage proposals as her love for the handsome Henri duc de Guise was stronger than ever. At least they were together again, albeit meeting in secret, and their lovemaking grew ever more dangerous and exciting.

‘Oh, how I have missed you,’ she cried, responding eagerly to his kisses.

‘And I you, my darling. Every day we are apart is a torment. Let me hold you, caress you. You are so very beautiful.’

There was a desperation in their embraces as passion quickly ignited. How far dare she let him go? Margot wanted him badly, knew that he wanted her, but as always she drew back from the ultimate conclusion. His groan when she curbed his advances cut to the heart of her.

‘I cannot, I cannot. The risk is too great. They scour Christendom for a husband for me, and you are not even on the list.’

‘Then you must have Her Majesty rewrite the list, and set me at the top of it.’

‘What makes you imagine I would ever take you as a husband?’ she teased, looking up at him through her lashes. ‘Even if the Queen Mother approved, which you know she does not.’

‘You would have me tomorrow, Margot, and you know it. We are meant for each other, you and I.’

‘Oh, it is true,’ she cried, kissing him with great fervour. ‘I do still hope to win the Queen round to a marriage between us.’

‘Despite her plans to win you a crown?’ His gaze was both concerned and adoring, the trail of his fingers against her skin bewitching. How could she resist him?

‘Every failed proposal is a cause for jubilation, but we must at all times be discreet.’

Keeping up appearances before the court was an endless concern for them both, as well as a source of some amusement. They might politely converse if others were present, or take part in some group sport, such as the crossbow, at which Margot excelled. But they were ever circumspect, anxious not to reveal their love by the smallest hint of a stray glance.

Should their paths accidentally cross, she would feel his eyes upon her as she innocently walked by, pressing her lips together so that she would not laugh out loud and give the game away. Once or twice she risked lifting her eyes boldly to meet his gaze, and her cheeks would flame with the daring of it. Innocent as she still was, some instinct told her she could not hold back for much longer. She wanted him too much.

Oh, how she loved simply to look at him.

His dark eyes would crease softly at the corners whenever he smiled, and he would charmingly arch one brow as he teased her. His fair hair grew to a peak on his brow, and there was nothing she loved more than to run her fingers through those tousled curls. Margot adored his sharp little beard, so masculine and sexy, and, tall as she was, yet he towered over her now that he was grown into a man. The breadth of his shoulders, his very strength and vigour excited her.

Margot couldn’t ever remember feeling quite so deliciously happy. Had the birds ever sung so sweetly, the sunshine radiated so much warmth? She was in love, and she wished she could share her joy with the whole world, but dare not. Their feelings for each other must remain a precious secret, for now.

Yet she refused to give up hope. Who knew what the future might hold for them both? And then one afternoon she spotted Guise on the terrace, saw how he lingered in conversation with the
Princess de Porcien, and now it was Margot’s turn to be jealous. Was he playing some game, some trick to divert attention, or could he truly be fascinated by this woman? If the latter, and she was certainly fawning over him while he smiled and simpered like some love-sick fool, then it was not in Margot’s nature to take such matters lightly. She longed to slap the woman’s face but her pride was too great, her fear of discovery too strong. Even so, she had no intention of sharing her lover with anyone, and she meant to punish him for his apparent betrayal.

Margot had instigated dancing each evening after supper, in order to enliven these few days of escape from camp life for the men, and tonight, as had become the custom, Anjou led her out in the first dance to commence the evening’s entertainment. In view of her dismay over a certain chevalier’s apparent betrayal, she was even more aware of what a stylish couple they made
as they performed the steps with grace and majesty.

Sometimes they might dance the Italian pazzemeno, the grave pavan or, as now, the more lively galliard. Anjou looked remarkably handsome in his scented elegance, and herself radiant.