Part Two
LOVE AND WAR
1567–1572
September 1567
THE ROYAL FAMILY were enjoying a sunny autumn holiday at the château de Montceaux-en-Brie. Margot was delighted, for she loved to ride, and would each morning join the hunt with her mother and brothers. It felt good to have the sun on her face, the wind streaming through her dark hair; to remind herself that she was fourteen years old, and still free.
The question of her marriage had not been discussed for a year or more, but then everyone was too concerned with the fact that the religious wars had broken out again. Last year Alva had been responsible for slaughtering thousands of innocents in the Netherlands. Since then, monks and Catholics had been killed by Protestants in retaliation; religious statues destroyed or desecrated, churches burned, with much barbarity on both sides. Neighbour once more distrusted neighbour, brother turned against brother.
Perhaps sickened by the scourge of killings, things had quietened down in recent months and the Queen Mother had decided that an autumn holiday would be the very thing for the King’s increasingly fragile health.
‘Country food and fresh air will do us all good,’ she had declared. There was nothing Catherine loved more than a display of family unity.
It was as they were returning from a morning’s hunt that a rider appeared at full gallop. Skittering to a halt in a cloud of dust, he proved to be one of Catherine’s grooms and blurted out a warning of a plot by the Huguenots to kidnap the royal party.
Catherine reined in her horse with a cry of vexation, her eyes cold as they settled on the poor beleaguered messenger. ‘They wouldn’t dare! Tis all bluster and hot air.’
‘But Madame, there are reports of soldiers massing at Rosay-en-Brie. I beg you move to Meaux, which is better fortified.’
The Queen Mother took some persuading, irritated at having her holiday interrupted, and convinced that peace was at last secure. Finally, she agreed to the change of quarters, although with strict orders that the family holiday should proceed as before. Fortified or not, she had no intention of confining herself to the house, and continued to ride out every morning. Margot felt nought but admiration for her mother’s courage.
But then who would dare beard the she-wolf in her den, let alone when she was holidaying with her cubs?
It was barely three o’clock in the morning, with dawn not yet broken, when Margot was shaken awake by Madame de Curton. ‘Hurry, my lady. You must dress quickly. The castle is under attack.’
Margot was out of bed in a second, reaching for her linen even as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. ‘What is happening?’
The governess let out a frantic moan. ‘We are in danger of being murdered in our beds.’
The pair embraced, close to tears, finding some comfort in being together, as always, but there was no time to linger. Mayhem had broken out. Maids of honour were screaming, dogs barking, servants, dukes and princes running about in equal panic, the entire royal household out on the road, fleeing for their lives.
Margot and Madame de Curton travelled in the Queen Mother’s chariot with the King and other family members, protected by Swiss guards within a square of pikes. Senior courtiers followed close behind in the fastest, lightest carriages. The rest were obliged to walk, or run if they could. The procession was hotly pursued, and never had Margot known such fear. Her heart was pounding, expecting at any moment to be apprehended by the enemy and her throat slit. It took twice as long as normal to journey to Paris so that they arrived close to collapse and weeping with shock and horror.
Charles at once fell into one of his tantrums. He wept and raged, vowing he never wished to be frightened like that ever again. ‘I swear I will pursue the culprits to their deaths.’
It was left to Margot to calm him, a skill at which she had become adept. The young king, feeling lonely and sick, trusted no one, and his sister had become his solace and dearest friend, although Margot grew ever wary of upsetting him.
‘Do not let this incident distress you, dear brother,’ she soothed. ‘See how well protected we are here in the Louvre. They can do us no further harm.’
‘I am no coward to hide away, Margot. I will not be treated so rudely!’ Charles cried, chewing on his finger nails as he moved about his privy chamber in great agitation.
‘Of course you are not; no one has accused you of such.’
‘I shall gather my men and fight. I must kill whoever has the effrontery to rise against us.’
‘Sire, you must leave that task to others. You are too important to the realm.’
Madame de Curton added her own pleas for calm, and called for his nurse. The old woman came quickly and warmed a decoction of camomile tea, then held the young king warm and safe against her breast till he fell sleep. Margot watched with sorrow in her heart. Charles did so need to be a child again sometimes.
The danger remained strong, despite the relative safety of the Louvre, as the Huguenot rebels prepared to besiege the city. All entry into Paris was blocked, even the Seine, and the people soon grew hungry for lack of supplies. It was exactly as Catherine had feared: the Huguenots suspected her of being in league with Philip, and yet the Catholics didn’t trust her either.
‘This attack is the greatest wickedness in the world. I will pacify and conciliate no longer.’
She went to her desk, took up a sharpened quill and penned a furious letter to Philip of Spain. ‘You may imagine with what distress I see the kingdom returning to the troubles and afflictions from which I laboured to deliver it.’
It was almost two months before the siege finally ended with the death of the Lord High Constable at the Battle of Saint-Denis. Whereupon, blinded by her passion for Anjou, Catherine appointed her favourite son Lieutenant-General and put him in full command of the army. He was sixteen years old.
Anjou strutted with arrogance at the honour, confident he could make a good leader. Charles was less happy by the appointment, wishing that he could be the one to lead his men to war, and made no attempt to disguise his displeasure.
‘I only agree to this because my brother will have great soldiers to advise him: the Duke of Nemours, Montpensier, and the Marechal de Tavannes.’
Catherine soothed the King’s hurt pride, disguising her own reservations with a manufactured smile. The state of the treasury gave little prospect of a swift conclusion to their difficulties. And led by an effeminate fop who had been cosseted and petted throughout his life, was unused to the hardships of soldiering, there seemed little prospect of an easy victory. Yet Anjou was the love of her life and she must give him this chance to prove himself.
A bitter winter followed, and Coligny at Châtillon grew increasingly uneasy, particularly when a stranger, an Italian, came to live close to his chateau. He was being quietly surrounded by his enemies. Word had filtered through that Catherine had ordered the Admiral and Condé to be seized. She wanted the latter’s ‘tête si chère’. His head, however, was far more valuable to the Huguenots still attached to his neck, not least to Condé himself.
Coligny swiftly moved his family to Noyers in Burgundy, together with the Prince de Condé, and they began to gather supporters. Still grieving over the recent death of his wife, yet he rallied sufficiently to write to Catherine in protest, accusing the Queen Mother of plotting to kill them. ‘God will not leave unpunished the shedding of so much innocent blood.’
It was the end of August, and without waiting for a reply the Huguenot leaders, along with their followers, slipped quietly away from Noyers that same night, and set out for La Rochelle, finding strength in being together. There was little time for mourning as Coligny led the way, his four young children by his side. Condé carried a babe in his arms, his wife the Marquise ill and fretting, the couple’s children straggling along beside her. The rest of the company marched in almost biblical procession behind.
The numbers grew as many more joined them en route till they were likened to the flight from Egypt of God’s c
hosen people: like children of Israel hopeful of a new land and redemption.
As they approached the Loire they saw that the river ran high. Panic rippled through them as they felt certain their pursuers must be closing in, but just as with the children of Israel, the floods subsided at an opportune moment and they crossed in safety. Yet they knew that their enemies would be waiting for them on the opposite bank, and with one accord fell to their knees and sang a psalm.
‘Lord save us and be with us in the hour of our need,’ Coligny prayed, and all who were with him found comfort in his calm.
Refreshed and invigorated from their prayers they travelled on with renewed hope, despite the perils that lay ahead, the crying children, and the hunger that cramped their bellies. In the first days of September, Condé and Coligny entered La Rochelle at the head of their followers.
Henry of Navarre lay in the summer meadows at Nérac savouring the charms of Fleurette, the gardener’s daughter, the wars of religion the last thing on his mind. Following his visit with his mother towards the end of the royal progress in 1565, he’d returned to the French Court. But in recent months Jeanne had again secured his release for a visit, once more appealing directly to the King to bypass the Queen Mother’s objections.
He was busy with the fastenings of Fleurette’s bodice, her plump breasts spilling out of the low neck of her print gown, when the pretty young maid excitedly informed him that he was to be a father. Arrested by this startling news, all passion instantly deserted him. Throughout this long, delightful dalliance, any possible consequences of the pleasures they enjoyed together had never troubled him.
‘Are you pleased?’ the girl asked, giggling, and he had to smile because she was so very delightful. The dimples in her cheeks, her soulful eyes and the comeliness of her figure were really quite exquisite. Was it any wonder if he could hardly keep his hands off her, or that she had fallen? ‘I shall give you a son,’ she proudly announced, as if she could easily arrange such matters. ‘And he shall be a fine Prince of Navarre, like his father.’
Henry removed her clinging arms from about his neck. Young as he was, she was by no means his first amourette and marriage was the last thing on his mind, certainly not to a gardener’s daughter. But it was no fault of hers if she was generous and loving. He kissed her full red lips and regretfully tugged her bodice back into place. ‘I trust he will be the image of his pretty mother. But how could we wed, my sweet? I love you dearly,’ he lied, ‘but my mother would never agree to the match.’
Fleurette pouted. ‘My father would expect you to do the honourable thing. He would not have me ruined. He was very angry when I told him.’
Henry paled slightly, hiding his alarm as always with that merry laugh of his while his mind rapidly sought some excuse to escape. His mother might well hear of this scandal before he had time to break the news gently to her himself. She would not be pleased. Jeanne d’Albret put great store by high moral behaviour, and making the gardener’s daughter enceintée certainly did not come into that category. Yet it was done now, so he must accept it. He would not be the first Prince of the Blood to produce a by-blow, and he accurately surmised that this child would not be the last of his born on the wrong side of the blanket.
He was on his feet now, still kissing Fleurette’s hands and swearing his undying love. ‘Do not fret, my sweet, I will not abandon you, and shall always recognize the boy, or girl, as my own. You will be well taken care of.’
‘Of course I shall, as your wife,’ the girl insisted, pressing her eager young body against his.
‘Ah, there now, I believe my mother is calling me. We will talk of this later.’ And with a last, lingering kiss, Henry left her.
One glance at his mother’s face was sufficient to assure him that she had already heard the news. Henry gave a resigned shrug, smiling sheepishly. ‘What can I say? These things happen. She can be properly taken care of, I trust? I would not see her in distress.’
Jeanne’s expression was unforgiving. ‘You distress me, your mother, by this unseemly behaviour. But I will speak to the maid’s father and see that all due consideration is given to her when it comes to her lying-in. You must try to set a better example, Enric, and curb these rapacious appetites of yours.’
Should he remind her that they were but natural, certainly so far as he was concerned? Perhaps not. He had long since learned that dallying with servants and peasant girls was a sensitive subject to his mother. He was undoubtedly following in his father’s, and his grandfather’s footsteps. Perhaps that was why she wasted no further time in chastising him now, knowing it to be useless.
‘We have other, far more important matters to concern ourselves with today than dallying in the rose arbour with servant girls. If you are old enough to take a mistress, then it is time you began to practise the skills of soldiering. Condé and Coligny will be your mentors.’
Henry’s expression was rueful, but he could see that something was afoot. The whole castle was abuzz, preparations clearly being made for their departure, and before the end of September, Jeanne d’Albret, the leader of the Huguenots, and her son, the fifteen-year-old Bourbon Prince, Henry of Navarre, rode into La Rochelle to join their followers.
The Queen Mother was at Saint-Maur, recovering from one of her periodic gastric attacks. Margot dutifully tended to her, and to the King who grew increasingly frail and thin, and was presently recovering from an abscess. She never raised any objection to helping to ease their ills, although she always felt rather nervous of Charles. His beautiful, golden brown eyes and sympathetic expression hid a fatal flaw of insanity. If she carried out a task less efficiently than he pettishly demanded, or failed to answer his every beck and call, then he would lash out at her, pinch her arm, or fall into a fit, as if she were the naughty child and not he. Apart from his old nurse, no one but herself and his mistress Marie Touchet could keep him calm. Certainly not his mother, who had quite the opposite effect. He was remarkably obedient and dutiful to the Queen Mother’s wishes, which was her intention of course, but if Catherine pressed him too far he would fall into a rage. Even Margot, who was fond of him, could not deny that he was an odd boy.
He often struck up inappropriate friendships with lute players or servants, would sit with these unlikely companions listening to music or poetry readings by candlelight till well past midnight. To be fair, their mother never objected as the sessions seemed to bring Charles some sort of contentment.
At other times he would sink into worrying moods of deep melancholy, stay in bed all day, or worse, be gripped by a mad frenzy when he would don a mask, waken some of his wilder friends, and, taking lighted torches, would go on a rampage around the darkened streets of Paris. They’d call on some poor unfortunate, drag him from his bed and beat him senseless, purely for the pleasure of it. Or he might turn on his dogs or horses and thrash them instead. When the lust for violence came upon him, there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. The mere sight of blood seemed to both terrify and excite him.
There were certainly times when he frightened her, and Margot was careful always to do as she was bid, and thereby avoid a beating.
One afternoon, despite the risk of upsetting the King, Margot couldn’t resist creeping away to see Guise, simply for the bliss of falling into his arms, and to savour the thrill of his demanding kisses. Soon he would be off to war with her brother Anjou, and Margot dreaded his going. She would not know a moment’s peace while he was away, fearful he might be wounded, or worse.
‘You will write to me every day,’ she begged, as they sat together in a secret arbour.
‘Of course, my love.’
He only had to look at her, or smile, and a quiver of longing would ripple through her. She gasped as he traced his lips over the curve of her throat, slid his fingers beneath the bodice of her gown to tease the dark bud of her nipple. She needed him so much. They belonged together. Why could her mother not see this and understand?
‘I must go; the King will be wanting m
e.’
But he pulled her closer into his arms. ‘Just one more kiss. Stay a little longer.’ His mouth was hot on hers, the urgent trembling in his young body irresistible, his hand on her silky thigh beneath her skirts tempting her to taste unknown dangers.
Margot stayed with him till her hair was tumbled and her cheeks were hectic with passion, and when she finally raced through the rooms in answer to the King’s call, she found him in a fine temper.
Catching Marie Touchet’s warning glance, Margot sank into a deep curtsey then quickly reached to kiss his hand. Charles snatched it away and smacked her hard across the face.
‘There, now you will be sorry for defying me. I have been calling for you this hour past.’
‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty.’ Margot was trembling, her face stinging, but she offered no excuses, no lies. Charles would not have believed them, and any dispute would only inflame his temper still further. She was grateful for Marie’s presence, otherwise he may well have set about her with his whip. Fortunately, his mistress deftly distracted the King with a glass of warm cinnamon milk, and the moment passed. Until the next time.
Henri, duc de Guise had grown even more handsome at eighteen than Margot’s fond memories of him in that playful joust as a boy. His blond hair had darkened somewhat, but, like his father before him, he possessed genuine charisma and an engaging personality. The Parisians loved him, he was their hero. They would call to him as he rode by, or touch his cloak if he walked amongst them. They would call out ‘Vive Guise’ and he would sweep off his great plumed hat and bow to them, grinning broadly.
He was a young man with a passion to emulate his father, the old warlord and military hero. Henri had been but thirteen years old when his father, Francis, the second duke, had been murdered, dispatched because of his opposition to appeasement with the Huguenots. Known as Le Balafré from a scar he’d received in battle, he’d been head of the House of Lorraine and an ardent Catholic. The blood feud born out of tragedy on that fateful day existed still, the Guise family convinced that the killing had been instigated by the admiral, Gaspard de Coligny. And the young duke was ardent in his desire for revenge.
Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois) Page 5