The Hostage Queen (9 page)

Margot’s opinion of her elder brother had warmed over the years as the petty differences of childhood had slipped from them. Now that she was sixteen she had come to admire him greatly for he had proved himself to be a brave soldier and a fine orator. She was also flattered by his sudden attention to her, for all he rarely spoke two words throughout the dance.

Tonight she was wearing a gown the colour of a Spanish carnation, one of her favourites, and a white gauze veil which would surely bewitch Guise, since it became her so well. She’d grown conscious of late of her own dazzling beauty for she saw it reflected in his eyes as he hungrily watched her every move. This evening she wished to see him burn, as she had done earlier when she’d spied him drooling over that woman. Even now he was dancing with her, and Margot yearned to scratch the harlot’s eyes out. Was she not a married woman? Why could she not be content with her own husband? Or was she widowed now? She couldn’t quite recall. Why did Guise feel the need for any other woman but herself?

Did he not ache for her, as she ached for him?

Later, with feigned indifference, she allowed him to lead her out in a dance, Guise’s hand upon hers sending shivers of excitement down her spine, despite all her efforts to be unaffected by his touch. Margot was painfully conscious of every movement of his body, the scent of his warm skin making her inwardly moan with ecstasy. She’d worn her lowest cut gown to entice him, and fought to calm her breathlessness as his gaze lingered upon the rise and fall of her breasts.

Pointing her toe and taking the required leaps and steps in the dance, she occasionally cast him sly glances from beneath her lashes. But she offered none of her secret little smiles, no adoring gaze, only a chilly coolness, which Guise did not fail to notice.

‘You seem distant tonight.’

‘Indeed? No one could accuse you of being so with a certain lady I saw you with earlier.’

‘Ah, I can explain . . .’

‘I’m sure you can.’

‘Margot, pray do not be angry with me; there is a reason.’

‘I see the reason. You no longer love me. Do not trouble to make excuses; I care not what lights of love take your fancy.’ They both knew she lied.

He lowered his voice to a whisper as the dance drew to a close. ‘May I speak with you later, or tomorrow when we meet?’

‘You presume too much sir,’ she replied and, holding her head high, she walked away, leaving him in his misery.

The following day, having taken Mass at the Church of the Minimes, Margot was dawdling in the park at Plessis. She was reading a note Guise had slipped to her under cover of the dancing, and was anxious not to catch up with the Queen Mother who was walking ahead with the Princes. She needed to be alone so that she could read the letter again, although she almost knew the words by heart.

Guise claimed to be distraught at their estrangement and wished to meet with her, in secret, of course. She was to tell no one, not even Madame de Curton, as there was something particular he wished to say. Was it an apology? Did he beg her forgiveness? Her heart skipped a beat with longing. She dared hardly hope that he loved her still. But then how could he not? They were meant for each other.

Pressing her lips to the letter she recalled their latest kiss, the one he had stolen when he’d waylaid her in the passage on her way to her bedchamber last evening when the dancing was done, dearest Lottie keeping careful watch while they embraced. She’d allowed it only against her better judgement, quite unable to resist, and the fire and thrill of his lips had scorched her, the memory keeping her from her sleep for quite some time afterwards. Now Margot attempted to recapture the very essence of her would-be lover, simply from the scratches he’d made on the parchment with his quill pen.

How strong he was, how powerful, how handsome! Did he really love another? She thought her heart might break if that were true.

Margot read the letter through yet again, carefully noting every word, planning her reply, which would be suitably encouraging without appearing too wanton. Lottie would somehow manage to deliver the message in the same way she had brought this letter to her.

A voice from behind made her start, and Margot quickly tucked the precious missive up her sleeve as she turned with a smile to her brother Anjou, hoping and praying he had not noticed.

‘Dear sister, you grow prettier every day, your beauty outshining the flowers in the entire garden,’ Anjou said, stroking her cheek with long slender fingers.

Margot found herself flushing with pleasure at this rare compliment, for he rarely praised her, treating her largely with indifference or, as in the dancing, as a prop to show off his own elegance.

‘I marvel that such a court treasure can be my own little sister.’ He took her hand and placed it upon his arm. ‘I would have you walk with me. We will take a different avenue from that of our mother, as there are issues I wish to discuss with you.’

She was touched and deeply flattered,
enchanted by this unexpected attention. It was barely a year since she’d been allowed to leave Amboise and come permanently to court, but every day there was some new discovery, some fresh excitement, which suited her nature entirely. Margot disliked idleness and dull routine, and whether they were visiting one of the chateaux along the Loire, entertaining the leaders of the royal army as they were now, or remained in Paris, she loved every second of court life.

She thought her elegant brother
cut an impressive figure in his fashionable clothes edged with gold embroidery, precious stones and pearls. His linen was always of the finest quality, and his hair elaborately styled. His noble, graceful bearing often earned him praise, as did his refined manners, and he seemed somehow to give off an air of distinction quite at odds with his youth. Their mother called him
a flower among princes, but then no one could love him as did Catherine.

They strolled along a leafy avenue beneath the poplar, lime, maple and white mulberry. ‘Did you enjoy my speech the other day, telling of my great victory?’ he asked.

Anjou had described with no small degree of satisfaction how the Prince de Condé had been shot in the back at Jarnac, his body dragged around the Catholic camp in an orgy of murderous delight. It was not a tale Margot could savour, unused as she was to the ways of warfare, though she took care to give no indication of such sensitivity as she smilingly responded,
‘I am proud to call myself your sister.’

He squeezed her hand and drew her closer. Although he liked to think of himself as a man of courage, and relished parading the glory, he was content to leave the detail to his generals. Anjou far preferred to dally with a pretty woman, or better still, a pretty boy. His sister, he’d discovered, was a delight, and he meant to make full use of her obvious admiration for him. There was nothing he loved more than to be adored.

‘I doubt our brother the King would share that sentiment. I should think he greatly resents my success.’

Margot could not deny it. When Charles had received the news of Condé’s death, he’d fallen to his knees in a state of high nervous excitement. The thought of blood being spilled always sent him demented, and it had taken all of Marie Touchet’s skill to calm him. Now, jealous of how this victory gloried Anjou and not himself, the young king had refused his brother the usual trophies of war, presenting the laurels of the campaign to Biron and Tavannes.
Charles rightly suspected Anjou of coveting his throne, and would do anything in his power to curb those ambitions, t
he distrust between the two siblings growing daily.

Having no wish to exacerbate the ill feelings between them, Margot made no reply. Besides, she felt some sympathy for Charles since as king he was not permitted to take any risks to his person.

Anjou lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, a gleam in his eyes. ‘Dear sister, it is because of this great destiny to which God has called me that I wish to beg your assistance in a most important matter.’

‘My assistance?’ Margot was astonished. Never, in all her life, had her elder brother asked for her help before.

‘You already know how much I love you, and I perceive the same attachment in you for me. But we are no longer children and you have it in your power to do me a service. I am fearful that whilst I am away fighting in the wars, the King my brother will seek to insinuate himself into my mother’s good graces and turn her against me. I need a faithful friend to support my cause and I know no one better suited for that task than yourself. You have wit, discretion, and loyalty. If you would be so kind as to undertake such an office, I would beg you to attend each day her lever and coucher. Be the first at her side every morning and the last to leave each evening.’

Margot was startled by this request, nervous of what it might entail. ‘But you know how much I am in awe of the Queen Mother. She has but to look my way and I tremble with fear that I may have done something to displease her. Besides, I doubt she would accept me.’

‘I shall commend your good sense and understanding. Do not be afraid to speak to her with the same confidence as you do to me, and she will approve. You may also be assured of my supreme gratitude.’

Margot
felt
overwhelmed by his faith in her. Young
, impressionable, and new to court life, she was innocent of the world of political intrigue. Her handsome brother carried an aura of victory about him and, delighted
to have his trust, she readily agreed to his request.

      
‘You may rely on me. There is no one that honours or regards you more than I, and you may be assured that I shall act for you with the Queen our mother as zealously as you would for yourself.’

‘Dear sister, I knew that I would always come first in your eyes.’

Later that same afternoon Margot met with Guise, as arranged, in one of the green bowers in a far corner of the park. Unable to help herself, she flew into his arms, eager for his kisses, and only when some of their passion was sated did she find the breath to scold him.

‘You have betrayed me,’ she cried, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

He kissed them away, dried them with the heel of his thumb. ‘Never, my darling.’ He told her then of his uncle’s clever plan. Margot listened without interrupting and, when he was done, burst out laughing.

‘So this is all a ploy, a clever deception? Oh, how I do love intrigue. You kiss this other woman because you wish to have me as your wife?’ There was a teasing note in her voice, but Guise answered with caution.

‘In order to throw the scandal-mongers off the scent. I do it because I love you, not the Princess de Porcien. ‘My uncle believes he can win the Queen Mother round to the idea of a union between us.’

‘Then he is either a fool or an optimist,’ she sulked, before flinging herself into Guise’s arms once more. ‘I do hope that he is right. I shall forgive you, but only if you promise that for every kiss you give her, you must give me two, three, a hundred.’

And laughing, he attempted to comply.

Later, as they sat in the bower with their arms about each other, she told him of the interview with Anjou. ‘Why would he choose me for this task? I am no favourite of our mother

Henri of Guise frowned. ‘He is up to some mischief, I’ll warrant. I’m sorry to say it, but the duke your brother is two-faced. Even on the battlefield he is one moment claiming my valour inspires courage in him, the next he is jealous of my military achievements.’

‘He is jealous of everyone, even of his own brother the King.’

‘I do not wonder at it,’ Guise laughed, ‘since Anjou covets the throne.’ He was no stranger to ambition himself, yet chose not to remind Margot of that fact just now, not when she had so generously forgiven him for his apparent betrayal. ‘Every moment his enchanting sister spends with anyone but himself he must feel deprived, but then your person is so very beguiling,’ Guise teased, pulling her once more into his arms.

She slapped his eager hands away, even as she showered his handsome face with kisses. ‘But what must I do? Advise me. I am ignorant of court politics. How do I go about this task?’

‘Exactly as he says. Be attentive to the Queen Mother. It can do no harm, and may well help our cause, which is another reason that I needed to speak with you . . .’ He kissed her noble Valois nose. ‘My uncle, the Cardinal, begs an audience with you, my love. He wishes to offer his advice and support, and I feel it would be in our best interests were you to grant it, at your convenience.’