Hostage Queen (Marguerite de Valois)

by Freda Lightfoot

  Yet despite everything, she had failed to quash the Huguenots, who seemed to be growing bolder, continuing to make outrageous demands. They had defeated Anjou by holding La Rochelle, his military desire for glory apparently a thing of the past. Even the women had fought alongside the men, pouring boiling pitch from the battlements down upon the royal troops, and bombarding them with stones. A form of peace had finally come early this summer, and liberty of worship was allowed in La Rochelle, Nîmes and Montauban, plus a few other small concessions. More than enough, in Catherine’s opinion.

  As for Navarre, who knew what went on in that young man’s head? Although he loved pleasure and dalliance as much as did her own darling Anjou, Catherine could not help but admire the fact that he never brought shame upon his status, nor took part in the more frivolous and depraved revelries which so appealed to her favourite son. Navarre loved to play the fool but no one could be entirely sure what private thoughts went on behind the mischievous glint of those Gascon eyes. Could she trust him? Only time would tell.

  Henry, King of Navarre, was in torment. He felt entirely responsible for the deaths of his friends and comrades. He should never have come to Paris, never have agreed to this marriage in the first place. He had given them his word that no harm would come to them, believing the assurances he had received from Catherine and from the King. How could he have been so naïve, so stupid?

  It was hard to guess how much of the massacre had been pre-planned, but he suspected that, even if the Queen Mother had never intended for it to spread quite so rapidly and terribly as it had, she’d planned the death of Coligny in advance, and possibly those of the other leaders as well. Navarre was devastated by the atrocities, by the losses inflicted upon the Protestants that night. His cousin Condé was likewise in a sorry state, sunk deep in a fit of melancholy, not even certain he could hold on to the wife he so worshipped and adored.

  Yet not for a moment did Henry allow his panic, his abiding fear for his own safety to reveal itself either in his manner or his expression. He remained resolutely cheerful, full of vitality and good humour, kept up the façade of affable fool, the merry, good-natured chap, which indeed he was at heart. A card he now played for all it was worth, for his very life depended upon it.

  Let them imagine that he was too stupid to recognize the danger. Let them think he was like the Queen Mother with no heart, caring for no one but himself. Yet, unlike her, he had no real desire for power, only his freedom. He remained alert to every nuance, for any possibility of a way out of this disaster. He obligingly accepted the Mass, made an official apology to the Pope and, most difficult of all, conceded that his home kingdom of Béarn must return to Catholicism. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

  So when Margot came to him with Alençon to discuss their future, he was more than ready to listen, and join in their plans.

  A day or two later Margot was shocked to discover from one of her ladies that word of their plan had leaked out. She went straight to Charles, and the Queen Mother. Falling on her knees, she begged them not to punish the persons she was about to name; otherwise she could not reveal what she knew. ‘No harm must come to them. You can easily put a stop to this folly without revealing how you came by the knowledge of it.’

  Catherine exchanged a speaking glance with her son, who seemed confused and indecisive, as always. ‘We agree. Speak, child. What is it you have learned?’

  Margot told all, again begging her mother to excuse their folly. ‘My brother is desperate for an adventure, and my husband is simply anxious to return to his homeland. They cannot be blamed, and they meant no harm to the King.’

  For once Catherine kept her word, and without ever informing either her son-in-law or her troublesome younger son how she had come to hear of their plot, she simply informed them that they would not, after all, be accompanying the royal party to Blamont. They would remain in the Louvre, where they would be ‘safe’. And since the Queen Mother’s word could not be disputed, they were obliged to accept that their plan had failed.

  Margot was relieved that they never did hear her part in the failure of their scheme, and at least she’d been successful in ensuring that no harm came to them. What she didn’t foresee, and perhaps should have allowed for, considering her own personal experience, was the devious nature of her mother’s mind.

  Catherine was furious, not only by the sheer audacity of the plot, but the fact that no word of it had reached her ears. Had Margot not panicked and revealed all to her, she might never have heard of the plan, which could well have succeeded. Such an occurrence must never be allowed to happen again. Consequently, she sent for one of her Escadron Volant, whom she received alone in her privy chamber.

  The Queen Mother was seated in her most comfortable chair, veiled and gowned in her usual regal black as the young woman stood quivering before her. She did not invite her to sit.

  Charlotte de Sauves was not only young but very beautiful and, some might say, a rather silly member of that delightful bevy of ladies of the robes and maids of honour whom Catherine employed to further her schemes. Now just twenty-three years old, at the age of seventeen she had become the wife of Simon de Fizes, Baron de Sauves, who had been secretary at different times both to the King and later to Catherine herself. Soon after their marriage in 1567 he had been appointed Secretary of State and if the Baron disliked the tasks his wife was sometimes called upon to fulfil for the Queen Mother, he had more sense than to express his displeasure. He at least had the consolation that she performed these duties out of patriotism towards France, although no one could deny that Charlotte enjoyed her work, and was vain enough to like being so admired.

  ‘My daughter,’ Catherine explained now, ‘seems determined to remain loyal to this new husband of hers. Navarre is likewise behaving in an exemplary fashion towards her. Most extraordinary.’

  ‘Perhaps they are in love,’ murmured the romantic Charlotte.

  Catherine gave the girl a quelling look. ‘The chit is also growing exceeding close to her brother Alençon. The three are remarkably cosy, which was not at all in the plan. Yet I believe she still hankers after Guise.’

  Charlotte experienced a thrill of anticipation. There wasn’t a lady-in-waiting not fascinated by the handsome young duke, and she would be more than willing to enjoy an affaire with Guise herself. Misunderstanding completely the direction of the Queen Mother’s thoughts, she burst out excitedly, ‘You wish me to steal Guise from her, so that she remains true to her new husband?’

  ‘No, you silly minx, I mean quite the opposite,’ Catherine snapped. ‘It is of vital importance that I keep a close eye on that young man’s activities, for all he has agreed to take the Mass, and those of my youngest son.’

  Charlotte frowned, cleverness not being one of her skills, which were largely of a more erotic nature. ‘Then what is it, exactly, Madame, that you want from me?’

  Catherine spelled out her demands with barely constrained patience. ‘I wish to know what they do with their time, and who they consort with. What their plans and schemes are. While Margot has told me much of her husband’s activities, I need to be sure that she is not relating only what she wishes me to hear. It is essential that I am kept fully informed of all that goes on in those apartments. And I need their friendship squashed.’

  ‘Between Queen Margot and her husband, you mean?’

  ‘I mean between them all! You can most effectively sever any budding friendship between Navarre and my younger son by using the skills at which you are most adept.’ Catherine actually managed to smile at the blank look of horror in the young woman’s eyes. ‘My son is surely not so ugly that you couldn’t take him to your bed?’

  Charlotte swallowed, disguising her dismay with some difficulty as she thought of Alençon’s dwarf-like appearance and pock-marked face. ‘Of c–course not, Your Majesty, if that is your command.’

  ‘It is my command. I wish you to seduce them both. There is nothing like jealousy over a woman to spoil a friendship.
Love affairs cause more squabbles in this court than anything else. Once you’ve captured both their hearts, or at least their lust, and my daughter has discovered her husband’s defection, she will cease to feel quite the same affection for him. A simple mission, Charlotte, quite within the bounds of your ability.’

  The girl thought wistfully of Guise, stifled a regretful sigh, and remembering who it was who issued these instructions, smiled. ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’

  ‘They say my son-in-law was quite the young stud before his marriage. I’m sure it won’t be difficult to turn his head with a few of your tantalizing smiles.’

  Charlotte almost shuddered at the prospect. If there were women who lusted after this provincial country bumpkin who ate raw garlic, loved to walk about barefoot and rarely washed his feet, she wasn’t among them. She had rather sympathized with the Princess Margot for being obliged to marry the man and share his bed. Now she was expected to steal him from her so that she could enjoy this pleasure for herself. It was hard to believe.

  The Queen Mother was glaring at her, awaiting an obedient response. Charlotte sank into a deep curtsey. ‘Your wish is my command, Madame. I will do as you ask.’

  ‘You most certainly will, and report to me daily. Daily, do you understand, girl?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ And Charlotte withdrew to her room to stamp and rail, and contemplate with horror the prospect of sleeping with both an ugly dwarf, and an oaf with bad breath.

  Once she had calmed down somewhat, it occurred to her that she might reward herself by seducing Guise as well. The Queen Mother hadn’t exactly said that she couldn’t. And she would most certainly deserve such a reward. What cared she if the Queen of Navarre’s nose was thereby put very slightly out of joint? Smiling, she called for her maid to fetch her prettiest gown. ‘We have work to do.’

  The entire court, save for Margot and the two Huguenot princes, who remained confined to the Louvre, escorted the new King of Poland as far as Vitry-sur-Marne, where they halted when the King became unwell. Charles was left behind with Elisabeth and his nurse, while Catherine continued on the journey with the new King of Poland as far as Blamont. Here she made a reluctant farewell, imposing many tearful embraces upon her son, which he valiantly endured.

  ‘Go, but you will not stay long,’ she recklessly told him. And since they both knew that Charles was already hovering at death’s door, it made the parting easier.

  Henri, accompanied by the Polish ambassadors, was obliged to continue along roads lined with French Huguenot refugees who booed and hissed, hurling insults and stones with equal measure. Catherine returned to court, to check on the progress Charlotte might have made.

  Navarre was not slow to respond to the delightful charms and seductive technique of Madame de Sauves, and they quickly became lovers. He would visit her most afternoons, and sometimes evenings as well in her little apartment in a quiet corner of the Louvre, where he could savour her beauty in private. She was an imaginative, ardent mistress, making no fuss about his toilette, never insisting that he scrub his teeth or bathe before he came to her bed.

  But then one afternoon when he arrived a little earlier than expected, Henry was in time to see his brother-in-law, Alençon, about to scratch on the door of the lady’s room to announce his own furtive arrival.

  Navarre set his fists on his narrow hips and laughed out loud. ‘Well, well, so she has been entertaining us both, has she? What a clever minx she is.’

  Startled and scarlet-cheeked, Alençon was suddenly terrified that this fine, brave soldier might call him out. A duel with such a hero would surely lead to almost certain death. ‘This is my m–mother’s doing, not m–mine,’ he stammered, ever the coward. ‘I beg your pardon, Sire, I was completely unaware of your own attachment to the lady.’

  Grinning broadly, Navarre slapped the young man on the back, and began to walk him a little way along the passage. Only a year or two younger than himself, yet he was so lacking in experience. ‘You’ll learn much from her, Alençon, so pay heed to your lessons.’

  ‘Does this mean we can no longer be friends?’ the younger man enquired, still trembling, nervous that the King of Navarre might be walking him out to the courtyard where he would then draw a sword on him. He couldn’t quite believe this show of bonhomie to be genuine, although many claimed that Navarre was the embodiment of l’esprit Gaulois.

  Henry laughed all the louder. ‘We’re men of the world, you and I, why should we not remain friends? Let us only ensure that we do not double-book the lady again, eh?’ And they both laughed at the joke, if rather awkwardly on Alençon’s part. ‘Shall we throw a coin or roll a dice for this afternoon’s slot?’

  ‘No, no, you take it, by all means,’ Alençon quickly agreed, relieved he had escaped punishment so lightly.

  When Charlotte next reported to the Queen Mother of her progress, she was obliged to confess that she had easily succeeded in seducing both men, but that setting one against the other was proving more difficult.

  ‘They remain firm friends, Madame, and seem content to share me.’

  This did not please Catherine one bit. Never fully able to understand the workings of human nature, she was always puzzled when people didn’t behave according to her plans for them. ‘And is my daughter aware of this mênage a trois?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty.’

  Catherine’s full lips curved into a smile, although it did not reach her dark, shrewd eyes. ‘Then see she is made aware of it.’ Surely Margot could be relied upon to react with passion to the seeming betrayal of her new husband, which might very nicely upset the apple cart.

  The moment Margot discovered that Navarre was involved in a liaison with Charlotte de Sauves, she reacted with characteristic fury. The information was brought to her by her good friend Henriette, the Duchess of Nevers, who thought she would rather know that her new husband was playing her false, than be left in ignorance.

  ‘Rumour has it that the lady is also entertaining your brother.’

  Margot gasped. ‘Charles?’

  ‘Heavens, no. The King is devoted to Marie Touchet, and his lovely young Queen, of course. No, no, I mean the Duke of Alençon.’

  Margot was astonished. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It is true. They only discovered it themselves when they both arrived at the same moment to service the lady.’ Henriette burst into a fit of giggles. ‘How I would have loved to see that encounter.’ But then, seeing her friend’s scowl, she quickly changed her tone. ‘I’m not suggesting that the circumstances aren’t irritating, highly galling in fact. Nevertheless, you may prefer to hold on to your pride and not reveal that you are aware of his philandering,’ the Duchess urged. ‘At least the knowledge of it will help you decide how you wish to respond.’

  ‘Respond?’

  The Duchess of Nevers smiled conspiratorially. ‘Most women would treat the matter with the utmost discretion while embarking upon an affaire of their own.’

  Margot had never in her life practised discretion, and she certainly had no intention of starting now. She left her friend, and her women, to their gossip and went at once to confront her straying husband.

  One glance at her face told Navarre the reason for her visit, and he instantly cleared the chamber of his gentleman. Margot barely waited for the doors to close before giving vent to her anger.

  ‘How dare you behave thus? We have scarcely been married twelve months! What can this woman give you that I cannot? I have long been aware of your fancy for peasant girls, but de Sauves is a court beauty, as fond of the powder and rouge that you claim to so dislike in me.’

  Navarre shrugged, good-naturedly smiling at his own folly, yet wisely remaining silent, hoping she might blow off steam then calm down. But Margot was a long way from calming down yet.

  ‘She is no more beautiful than I; many would say less so. Am I so lacking in charm that you can put aside our marriage vows and be tempted by one of my mother’s harlots?’

  ‘Strong wo
rds, Margot, not comely on a lady’s lips.’

  ‘But you clearly dislike my lips, since you seek another’s. What is so special about de Sauves that you would rather taste hers? Have I not performed my conjugal duties with sufficient diligence and attention?’

  He dared to laugh at this. ‘My dear, there is nothing amiss with either your lips, or your diligence in the business of the bedchamber. I am sure any number of gentlemen would give their souls to savour your delights, and I will continue to enjoy them myself, should you so permit. But, Margot, my dear, you and I both know that we neither of us sought this marriage. It was a political necessity. I believed we understood each other on that score. Need our marriage vows be taken quite so seriously, in the circumstances?’

  Margot’s pride was too bruised to see any logic in this way of thinking, not in the heat of her rage. She thought of how her mother had offered to procure her a divorce, only a few days after the ceremony had taken place. Yet out of foolish loyalty to Navarre, and perhaps as a consequence of her own pride, she had declined. Had she agreed, she might now be married to Guise, and free of all this misery.

  ‘Have I not done all that could be expected of a loyal wife?’ she railed at him. ‘Did I not save your life, and that of your cousin?’

  He looked suitably humbled. ‘Indeed you did, and I am most grateful.’

  Margot stamped her foot. ‘I don’t ask for your gratitude, but your loyalty.’

  ‘Not my love then?’ he teased.

  ‘Will you please try to take this matter more seriously? My mother the Queen cleverly set up this whole little charade. Do you imagine that de Sauves would ever have looked your way had she not been ordered to do so, let alone favour my poor dear Alençon? That is what my mother does: dabbles, schemes, and interferes in other people’s lives in order to pry into their affairs. Are you such a fool that you cannot see this?’