Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois)

by Freda Lightfoot

  In the weeks following, gossip at court concerning Anjou and the Princess de Condé was rife, as was that regarding Margot and Guise, for all the new Queen of Navarre declared her innocence. Margot longed for Guise, ached for him with every fibre of her being, yet felt her new husband deserved her loyalty more, and her distrust of Anjou remained obdurate.

  But then the prospect of a Polish crown for Anjou came into view, and the court had a new source of tittle-tattle.

  The people of Paris had never seen anything like it. They watched, open-mouthed with astonishment, as the Polish ambassadors made their entry into the city one hot August day in 1573. A cortege of fifty carriages, each drawn by eight horses, along with several dozen more men on horseback, entered the capital in a long, stately procession to parade through the city streets so that they might be seen by all. The tall, stately Poles were a sight to behold with their shaven heads and long beards, robes of gold cloth trimmed with a deep border of sable, wide boots studded with spikes of iron, and caps sparkling with rare gems. They were both majestic and fierce with their scimitars, swords, and jewelled quivers filled with arrows. Even their horses were richly caparisoned in gold, and decked out with plumes and bells which jingled as they rode by, bear skins flung across their saddles.

  The next day a group of them attended the Louvre to present themselves to Anjou. It had taken months of discussion and legal argument to reach this point, plus a considerable sum of money paid willingly enough by Charles, who was more than anxious to see the back of his brother.

  The Polish envoys approached, and if Anjou found their appearance strange, he could tell by their confused expressions that they didn’t quite know what to make of him either. He stood before a canopied throne in all his magnificence: elegant, scented and pomaded, diamond pendants swinging from each ear, his hair curled and back-combed, topped off with a toque he considered to be suitably Polish in style, and decorated with huge clusters of pearls.

  Anjou guessed they thought him frail and weak by comparison with the tough-looking warriors among their own party. They might well be right. Even now one of his headaches was beginning to pound behind his temple. But he meant to show them that he had strength of will, which they would soon discover was not so easily governed by others.

  The following day, the ambassadors again repaired to the Louvre, this time to pay homage to the King and Queen of Navarre, to the Prince and Princess de Condé, and the Cardinal of Bourbon.

  They were instantly entranced by the beauty of their new King’s sister, and indeed Margot was exquisitely dressed in a velvet gown of Spanish rose, covered with spangles. Her naturally dark hair was hidden beneath a glorious blond peruke, which she’d taken to wearing on grand occasions such as this, and upon which she wore a cap of the same rose velvet, adorned with plumes and jewels. Not a soul in the room could deny that she looked utterly ravishing.

  The Polish nobles were lost in admiration, likening her to Aurora, who comes at dawn with her fair white face surrounded with rosy tints.

  It was not the first time Margot had been the subject of such accolades. The soldiers in her brother’s army had often declared that the conquest of such beauty would be better than that of any kingdom. Even great nobles would gaze upon her in silent awe, and the Polish ambassadors were likewise rendered speechless.

  Lasqui, the head of the Polish embassy, overcome by the sight of her, was heard to remark, ‘Never do I wish to see such beauty again, as nothing could be as fine.’

  Sadly, Margot’s own husband appeared indifferent to her courtly charms, his own attention, as ever, busily assessing the relative beauty of various members of the Escadron Volant.

  When the ambassadors had concluded their carefully prepared speech in fluent Latin, Margot stepped forward and replied on behalf of herself and her husband, the King of Navarre, in the same language, speaking with eloquence and fluency, vivacity and charming grace, and without the assistance of a single note.

  She sent silent thanks to her beloved Madame de Curton, who had been responsible for arranging her education and teaching her so well. She presented her hand to be kissed, and proceeded to chat with each of the envoys in whatever language seemed appropriate; to the Pope’s representative in Italian, Latin or German to the Poles, and in French to her own people.

  ‘What a divine woman,’ they cried, highly impressed by her language skills, as well as by her beauty and charm.

  The ceremonies continued, day after day, the Polish lords revelling in the opulence, as did their wives, who went everywhere with an entourage of pages, dwarfs, and torch-bearers.

  The Queen Mother held a magnificent ball at the newly completed Tuileries Palace to celebrate her favourite son’s new status. It was magnificent, as were all her extravaganzas. The guests dined on whole roasted peacocks richly stuffed, their tails spread wide; guinea fowl and venison; mullet, plaice, and bream; tarts and pastries garnished with sugar and rosewater; custards and candied fruit. And when the tables were cleared, the Escadron Volant, dressed as nymphs, entertained the assembled company with dancing and ballet, songs and poems to commemorate the glories of the life of the new King of Poland, and the realm of his beloved France.

  Anjou hated every moment, dreading the day when he would be forced to leave this court which he loved so much. He viewed the acceptance of the Polish throne as little more than a form of exile, and felt thoroughly piqued by his brother’s determination to banish him from the realm.

  Not only that, but he would be forced to leave his beloved Marie and required to marry some Polish princess. His mother had shown him a portrait of a severe-looking woman of small stature, more than twice his age, dressed entirely in black as she was still in mourning for her brother. She apparently waited for him at Krakow with great excitement.

  How will I endure it? He felt as though his heart was bleeding. His love for the Princess de Condé may still be platonic in the strict sense of the word, but he adored her, wanted no other woman as his wife, and he had nurtured hopes to make her so very soon, once he’d freed her from marriage with his enemy.

  Catherine drew closer, instinctively able to read the gloomy thoughts of this, her most precious child. ‘Do not fret, my son. Your exile will not be for long. Charles is failing; any fool with eyes in his head can see that. You will wear a far more splendid crown sooner than you might imagine.’

  ‘And Alençon will grab it while I am gone,’ he groaned.

  Catherine smiled. ‘No, you can trust me to guard your heritage well, my darling. I will ensure that no one shall take it from you.’

  The entire court was to accompany the new King of Poland on the first stage of his journey as far as Blamont – Margot, Navarre, and Alençon among them. Not that Anjou was paying much attention to the preparations being made on his behalf, being too caught up in his love affair.

  Margot watched with wry amusement as her brother cheated, lied, bribed, and flagrantly flattered the silly Princess de Condé in order to win her, oblivious to her marital status or her finer feelings. He was like a greedy child, always wanting what another had, particularly if the object of his desire belonged to his sworn enemy. There was a ruthlessness beneath his gallant charm, and Margot feared for how things might turn out. The fair lady’s husband must surely be aware that if he declined to consent to a divorce, in order for his wife to marry her new lover, Anjou could dispatch him as easily as he had his father at Jarnac.

  Margot herself made a point of keeping well out of his way.

  And then one evening as they savoured a delicious bouillabaisse at supper, he asked, ‘Are we to be friends again? I would have us reconciled before I depart upon my new life. You know how I shall depend upon your good will in my absence from court.’

  ‘It was not I who marred our friendship,’ was her cautious response. Margot was not so easily flattered these days, nor so inclined to believe her brother’s vows and promises. Having seen the leaders of the Huguenot faction cut down so savagely on Saint Bartholome
w’s Eve, she recognized the lengths the Queen Mother and her favourite son were prepared to go to rid themselves of obstinate opponents. She was now infinitely more wary of them both.

  Anjou passed her a dish of sugared almonds, which she declined. ‘I would not have you work against me. Can we not reseal our pact?’

  ‘So far as I am aware I never did work against you, brother. The malicious rumours that were spread about my behaviour were simply that, with no truth to them. But you must understand that my first loyalty now is to my husband. And I have other siblings, and friends, who all deserve my love.’

  He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, causing a cold shiver to run down her spine. ‘Ah, but far better to ally yourself with a future King of France than a husband who is still Huguenot at heart, and a weakling malcontent. I’d advise you to think carefully before bestowing your favour, sister dear.’

  Margot’s heartbeat quickened. Was that a threat? Did Henri believe that she should be exclusively his creature? Was she allowed to love no one but him?

  She felt no guilt for no longer loving this brother with his twisted, scheming mind and his selfish demands. Love had been banished by caution, and by fear.

  She realized that Anjou’s behaviour was greatly influenced by their mother. The Queen’s passion for this favourite son of hers, her longing to see him on the throne of France, was a major factor in the formation of his character, almost compelling him to practise deceit, to conspire and to plot. Catherine had instilled into his young mind that it was perfectly reasonable to use whatever means necessary to achieve his heart’s desire. He was now not only self-obsessed and hypocritical, but entirely unscrupulous.

  Margot had no wish to be his friend, but feared making him her enemy.

  As a consequence of her distrust of Anjou, Margot found herself turning more and more to her younger brother. Alençon seemed to be making every effort to win her affections, using whatever means at his disposal to make himself agreeable to her. He too had been deeply affected by the events of that terrible night, but somehow had not been corrupted by them. Left out of the entire business he expressed increasing sympathy for the persecuted. He was not a fanatic, had no strong feelings for either religion, nor had any immediate hope of ascending to the throne of France, although he certainly coveted it.

  ‘They see me as being of no consequence,’ he mourned to Margot as they strolled in the gardens one lovely autumn day.

  ‘I’m sure you exaggerate,’ she consoled him, her heart filling with affectionate sympathy for this, the least prepossessing of Catherine’s sons.

  They had never had the opportunity to get to know each other well as their mother had largely ignored him and the poor boy had spent much of his childhood and adolescence alone in various country palaces, having little contact with his other siblings. Now she saw that he was every bit as ambitious as them.

  ‘I mean to prove myself. I dream of a future every bit as brilliant as my brothers’. I too want a crown.’

  Margot laughed. ‘The Valois obsession. Take care what you wish for, dear François. Crowns sometimes come with more problems attached than you bargain for.’

  Alençon pouted. ‘I still have hopes it might be achieved through marriage with Elizabeth of England, but that isn’t certain, despite our mother’s efforts. Therefore, I must look elsewhere to make my mark and gain influence.’

  Margot suggested they rest for a moment on a garden bench, realizing he needed to talk, that something was preying on his mind. ‘And do you have any particular solution in mind?’

  Seeing him nervously glance over his shoulder, she smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s all right, we are quite alone. Anjou, or the King of Poland as we must now learn to address him, is talking with the Queen Mother in her privy chamber. You can speak freely.’

  Alençon continued, although carefully keeping his voice low. ‘I am as delighted as Charles by the imminent departure of Henri to Poland, and have already put in a request to take over the post of Lieutenant-General when he leaves.’

  ‘I’m not sure that will be granted,’ Margot tactfully warned, all too aware of Anjou’s duplicity in assuring the boy of his support in this request, whilst urging Charles to the contrary.

  An excitement now crept into Alençon’s voice. ‘There’s talk of a new party being formed, a league which goes by the name of Les Politiques, who believe in toleration and religious freedom rather than following the strict tenets of the reformed church. They are not yet very strong, but when they are, I hope they will accept me as their leader, which would improve my standing in this ongoing conflict that afflicts our family, as well as on the wider political stage.’

  Margot frowned as she considered this startling news. ‘I have no problem with tolerance and moderation, but what is your plan?’

  ‘I am already engaged in secret talks with the Huguenots, who are desperately in need of more leaders. They believe, with the help of the German Reiters, they can conquer the Netherlands.’

  ‘Coligny tried and failed.’

  ‘We may be more successful next time. This would be my first step towards independence, which would ultimately lead to my being declared King of Flanders.’

  Margot was momentarily lost for words. It sounded a highly dangerous undertaking, yet never able to resist an adventure herself she did not blame him for dreaming of a crown. This neglected young man deserved something of his own. Even his name, François-Hercule, was an echo of his elder brother, François II. He was eighteen years old and surely had a right to some independence, and a future that was not despoiled by a manic King or the perverted tastes of Anjou.

  ‘You think it a hopeless task,’ he said, reading her silence as a condemnation.

  ‘No, no, I would not presume to comment on the possible success of your mission, and I do most certainly wish you well in it.’ Whereupon, she put her arms about this young brother of hers with his pock-marked face, so often referred to as the runt of the litter, and hugged him close. ‘Be assured that so long as you bring no harm to our brother the King, whom I also love, you have my full support.’

  ‘I knew you would understand, Margot. I need to prove myself, to get out from under our mother’s thumb and escape the claustrophobic confines of the Louvre. Together with the rest of the court we will shortly be escorting the new King of Poland on the start of his journey, and I may never find a better opportunity to make my escape. The Huguenots have troops waiting at Champagne and I wish to join them.’

  ‘As does Enric.’ Their gazes locked, Margot’s eyes bright at the prospect of fresh intrigue. Seconds later she was on her feet. ‘Come, let us talk to Navarre. He may have a plan.’

  Catherine could hardly bear to consider the prospect of parting with her adored son. Delighted as she was for him to be elected as King of Poland and gain a crown, she would have welcomed any delay in the hope that a better one might soon present itself.

  Having accepted the burden of responsibility for the massacre, as Sovereign of the realm, Charles seemed to be dying, piece by piece, before her very eyes. His depression and state of health gave Catherine grave cause for concern. She might not love him as she did Anjou, but she had stood by his side as regent since first he became King at the age of ten, and cared for him in her way.

  The events of that terrible week had affected him badly. Many involved in the massacre had gone mad, fallen into a deep melancholy, or taken their own lives. The people of Paris blamed her, naturally. They said the Italian woman had sought revenge for her continued unpopularity. Not that their hatred troubled Catherine in the slightest. She was used to it.

  ‘All the evils of the Kingdom are imputed upon me,’ she would say to her ladies, as if it were a merry jape.

  A book had been published claiming to tell the story of her life, listing all the murders and vile deeds for which she was deemed responsible. The author was a Huguenot, and Catherine had one of her women read it to her each evening, enjoying it hugely.<
br />
  ‘If they’d given me notice I could have told them so much more,’ she chortled with her easy humour, rattling the stone devils on her bracelet.

  ‘Even the Catholics are reading it and believing it,’ warned her ladies.

  ‘Let them, I care nought for public opinion.’

  Another of her lies. The great Catherine de Medici cared very much what the world thought of her.

  She knew Charles was still frantically writing letters, almost as a means of seeking absolution for the crimes, although the response he received was not encouraging. The views of foreign monarchs on what had taken place on St Bartholomew’s Eve were mixed. Philip of Spain, still fighting a religious war in the Low Countries, applauded the vile deeds perpetrated, as did the Vatican, which had no quarrel with exterminating those who refused obedience to the authority of the Holy See.

  Maximilian II, father of Charles’s young Queen, took a rather different stance. Officially he maintained a marked silence on the matter, although Elisabeth had admitted that in private he described the act as the most abominable that could have been committed.

  England had been appalled by the news, so much so that Queen Elizabeth had apparently refused to receive the ambassador sent by the French Court to explain and apologize for the massacre. When at length the man was finally admitted to her presence, Elizabeth had received him dressed in full mourning.

  The woman was a consummate actress, Catherine thought, with venom in her heart.

  Charles seemed to grow weaker by the day. There had been moments when she’d feared that the end was nigh, but the imminent departure of his brother appeared to have quite lifted his flagging spirit. The bad feeling that still existed between her sons had grown ever more poisonous, the jealous rivalry now turning to bitter hatred.

  Catherine was at least thankful that the King did not possess an heir, his infant son having died and the new child Elisabeth had recently borne him was a girl, to be named after herself. The way was clear for her beloved Anjou to return and claim his rightful inheritance, when the moment came, as it surely would.