They lifted their heads as if to the sun, taking in every word as she breathed new spirit into them.
‘It is a sad truth that we have suffered appalling atrocities, many of our best men slaughtered, our fine leader killed before our eyes, but we have others. We still have Coligny, and his brother Andelot. We have Rochefoucauld, Rohan and Montgomery. Condé may be no more. Our enemies may have destroyed the man but they cannot destroy our faith. We who loved him must fight on, as Condé himself would wish. We still have all to play for in this bloody battle, and cannot abandon the fight so easily. In his place, we have his son, Henri de Bourbon, the second Prince de Condé.’
She urged the young man to step forward. ‘And my own beloved son, the future King of Navarre. It is time now for these boys to grasp manhood and realize their destiny. Condé was a fine Prince and our cousin, but his son, and mine, will stand beside you in his stead. I have every faith they are ready for the task.’
The cheer that went up now was rich with hope, a new fire lit within the troops.
Henry was feeling close to panic, at a loss to fully understand what was expected of him, although equally stirred by his mother’s words. He wasn’t sure he could ever match their zeal, or agree that any particular form of religion was better than another, let alone worth dying for. His dear friend and cousin, young Condé, was a fervent Huguenot, and appeared flushed with pride, eager to take on the mantle of his father. Yet Henry felt unequal for the role demanded of him.
He heard a few sniggers from the young soldiers, quiet snorts of derision from the older men, both of whom knew him for what he truly was: a licentious womaniser who loved to quaff beer and tell crude jokes in the barrack room. He might be a Prince of the Blood who would one day be a King, but could he lead this army?
Coligny stepped forward to be the first to swear fealty to the young man hovering on the brink of manhood, and would one day be his king. ‘They ask only for you to have faith in them, Sire, and courage, if you can find it.’
‘I am not without courage,’ Henry quickly responded, thinking of the boar and stag hunts he relished, how he killed wolf and bear in the mountains of the Pyrenees. He loved to climb, and would scramble barefoot over rocks to reach the peaks. ‘I would expect no concessions for . . . for being who I am.’
‘And none will be granted,’ Coligny agreed. ‘What say you? Are you man enough for the task?’
Fired by the light in the older man’s eye, and by his mother’s faith in him, Henry grinned, excited suddenly by the promise of a new adventure. ‘I am!’ Then he turned to the raggle-taggle army of men before him and, addressing them in a strong, clear voice, made them a vow. ‘I give you my solemn oath never to desert the cause. My life is yours till we achieve the freedom you deserve. I will stand by you unto death.’
An almighty roar greeted these words. The men threw up their caps and helmets, slapped each other on the back, laughed, and cheered, as fresh hope and vigour was returned to them. Condé grabbed his friend in a soldierly embrace, while Jeanne wept with quiet pride.
From the day Anjou begged for her support, Margot devoted herself to the Queen’s pleasure. She abandoned her friends, her favourite pursuits of dancing and hunting, and even the crossbow, to give herself up to waiting upon her mother. Every morning she would present herself early at Her Majesty’s lever and be the last to leave at night, exactly as Anjou had instructed. She felt confident she was giving satisfaction as Catherine frequently sang her praises to the beautiful ladies she gathered about her, L’escadron de la Royne mere, more usually known as her Flying Squadron.
Margot was thrilled when her mother allowed her into conferences, or did her the honour of talking to her for an hour or more. She played her part with assiduous care by speaking often of her brother’s affairs, and again nursed Catherine during one of her bouts of ill health. Margot dared to hope that her mother might begin to regard her with some degree of affection after all.
Anxious also to keep in her brother’s good graces, she made it her business to write to him regularly while he was away fighting, keeping him fully informed of her progress in order to prove how very much she had his interests in mind. Notes and letters also flew back and forth between herself and Guise, courtesy of the contacts made available through the trusted Lottie, and their love for each other continued unabated.
Life was suddenly rich and exciting, filled with new promise. Relations continued on these excellent terms for some weeks and Margot often accompanied her mother when she went to the front to review the troops and restore morale. Now they were at St Jean d’Angely with the King.
The Catholics had proved too formidable an army under the command of Tavannes, and had decimated the Huguenots. Charles had greeted this latest victory by Anjou with a cold and terrible silence. He told the Queen that he had no wish to see his brother usurp the power of maire du palais, and he would lead his own armies into the field in future, as did his grandfather, Francis I.
When Catherine blocked this plan, his mood became so terrifying that she thought it wise not to oppose him further. His knowledge of military matters was as feeble as his skill in government, yet he was determined to at least have a say in the battle and take a share of the glory enjoyed by his brother. Against all advice the King decided to besiege each town the Huguenots had fortified before attacking La Rochelle. Tavannes warned against this tactic, as it would split the Royal Armies, but the thirst for blood and glory was too strong, and Charles refused to listen.
Margot found living in the primitive conditions at camp both difficult and unpleasant yet did so gladly, if only because it afforded her the opportunity once more to be with Guise.
One evening as she prepared herself to meet him, Madame de Curton came to her, deeply troubled. ‘You should be wary of a new favourite of your brother’s,’ her governess warned. ‘He is Louis de Beranger, baron du Guast, of noble descent, arrogant, ambitious and highly political. He has so ingratiated himself into the Duke’s confidence that he dictates all his daily affairs, even controls his purse.’
Margot giggled. ‘Considering my brother’s profligacy, some control would be no bad thing.’
Madame pursed her lips. ‘I do not trust the man; his evil little eyes flick everywhere, and I believe him to be spying for his master. You must have care, my lady, when meeting with your own favourites.’
The two women looked at each other, Margot aware Madame was referring to her liaison with Guise, but at seventeen was too much in love to think clearly. Planting a consoling kiss on her governess’s cheek, she laughed off her concern. ‘Lottie, do you trust no one?’
‘Not if I think they may harm you, my precious.’
‘Surely I can trust my own brother?’
‘I have heard du Guast tell the Duke that one should never love nor trust anyone save oneself, nor rely on them, neither sister nor brother. I believe him to be a great student of Machiavelli. Pardon my frankness, but this jealousy that is souring relations between the King and the Duke d’Anjou seems to be growing daily more bitter. You must take care, my lady, not to be caught up in their squabbles.’
‘A foolish nonsense!’ Margot said dismissively, paying little attention to her mentor’s warning as she perfumed her hair with musk, and smoothed her gown in readiness for a secret meeting with Guise.
She was tired of this ongoing rivalry between her brothers, weary of Charles constantly seeking her company so that he could issue a litany of complaints about Anjou’s latest boasts and triumphs. Margot would listen sympathetically, agree with everything he said in a desperate attempt to soothe the King’s fraught nerves, so that he didn’t fall into one of his tantrums. Anjou was equally demanding, asking for endless reassurance that she did indeed love him, and didn’t favour either of her other brothers, or anyone, above him.
Oh, but she was worn out with it all. She wanted some fun, someone to love her for herself, and not for what she could do for them!
‘You worry too much, darling L
ottie. Hasn’t Anjou made it plain how he trusts me to be his mouthpiece with the Queen Mother?’
Charlotte de Curton bit her lip and managed, with some difficulty, to keep to herself any private views she might hold on Anjou’s tendency to be hypocritical.
Margot tweaked a curl into place. ‘Now, will I do?’
‘You look beautiful, as always, my lady. But is this wise, agreeing to see the Duke d’Guise alone? And the King will notice if you again miss supper.’
As a royal princess Margot was rarely alone, and the only truly secure place for them to pursue their friendship in anything like privacy was in the tent which she shared with Madame and her most favoured ladies-in-waiting. This evening, as so often during these weeks at St Jean d’Angely, Lottie would smuggle in the young lord while everyone was at supper, before quietly withdrawing to keep watch outside. The secrecy only added to the piquancy of their meetings.
Now she laughed as she hugged her beloved governess with warm affection. ‘Beg His Majesty’s forgiveness and tell him I have a headache. Do stop fretting, dear Lottie; it is barely dusk, and sadly our meetings must needs be short. How can we be in any danger when I have you to guard me, and not only my brother’s favour, but that of my mother too?’
Guise swept a bow, then taking Margot’s hand, brought it to his lips, the warmth of his breath at once igniting a fire in the pit of her belly. She lifted her chin and addressed him with a calm firmness. ‘Have you just left your mistress, the Princess de Porcien, to come to me?’
‘I have no mistress but you, as you well know. She is but a political foil. You possess my heart.’
Margot tossed her head, biting back a spurt of jealousy. ‘You must still be mad to come to me here.’
‘I am mad for you, that is certain. Admit it, you feel the same.’
‘You flatter yourself.’ Even as she pretended resistance, her chestnut eyes flashed quite a different meaning altogether. ‘You amuse me, that is all.’
‘I think I do more than that, Margot my sweet.’ He laughed, and, flinging himself into a chair, pulled her unceremoniously on to his lap, silencing her mock squeals of protest with a long, hard kiss.
His kisses quickly grew more bold and, far from protesting, Margot returned his embrace with equal passion, a wanton desire burning within. She gave no further thought to her squabbling, jealous brothers, to Lottie keeping guard outside, or even the woman who was an alleged rival for his affections. All that mattered was his mouth hungry upon her own, his hands caressing and fondling her breasts.
It was some long moments before her senses returned to anything like normal, and when she finally broke free of his hold her eyes were glazed and her breathing rapid. ‘What if one of my ladies should march in? We would be undone. The King would beat me.’
Guise grinned. ‘He would never risk bruising a skin so fine as yours. More likely he’d have my head on the block, or so my uncle informs me.’
Margot gave a little cry of distress before running to peep through the tent flap in a panic. ‘You must leave at once. Someone is coming, I’m sure of it. I heard a rustling in the bushes.’ She pressed a hand to her breast. ‘I can feel my heart racing with fear.’
‘You’re too brave to feel fear, my sweet. Your heart races only for love of me,’ he said, laughing, as he pulled her back into his arms and began to kiss her with renewed passion. ‘There is no one coming, my sweet, else your faithful companion would have warned us.’
She almost pushed him away, but then thought of her beloved Lottie guarding the entrance, and burst out laughing too. ‘You are right, it is but the wind. Yet we must take care.’
‘Naturally.’ He kissed each fluttering eyelid, the enticing curve of her lips, the soft mound of each breast above her gown. ‘Would you give yourself to me, if I asked?’
‘You are bold, sir.’ Margot slipped from his grasp to pour them both a goblet of wine. Handing one to him, she smiled, instantly negating her protest even as she urged him to drink and be gone. ‘My mother must never learn of these visits. These are dangerous times, and she is not an easy woman.’
‘Indeed, you speak true. I would not be the first to die at the hands of the Black Queen.’
‘Don’t call her that. Do not say such terrible things.’ Margot tossed her head, offended by this slur upon her mother.
‘I do not exaggerate, I swear.’ Guise set his wine down on a low table, dropping his voice to a throaty whisper. ‘Did you not hear that she put a price on the heads of Coligny, his brother d’Andelot, and La Rochefoucauld, all Protestant nobles? I was almost tempted myself by the 50,000 écus for Coligny, though I might have done it for half the sum to be rid of the man who killed my father.’
Margot turned away in disgust. ‘You talk wild.’
‘Do not fret, my sweet; several attempts have already been made on the old fool’s life, but mine was not among them, so do not scowl at me.’ All levity vanished from his voice now as he tenderly stroked her slender throat, ran the heel of his thumb over her full rosy lips. ‘But I was never more serious. We must tread carefully. You surely heard of d’Andelot’s death at Saintes in May.’
‘I heard.’ Margot struggled to repress a shudder, as if a goose had walked over her grave.
‘Coligny and La Rochefoucauld both fell ill at the same time. A remarkable coincidence, do you not think?’
‘That does not prove my mother was the one responsible.’
‘Who else would dare? In any case, Her Majesty openly rejoiced at the news, claiming that God would mete out to the other leaders the treatment they deserve. She has been denounced by those implicated in the crime, and by members of Coligny’s own family, although no one hangs around long enough to press home the charge. Catherine de Medici is a woman who breeds fear as well as respect. There is much talk of poison, of the Queen Mother’s notorious parfumier René being involved; of a man claiming to be a servant of Coligny’s being found with a sachet of poison in his pocket; a dog which instantly dropped dead when fed a slice of apple.’
Margot laughed. ‘You have read too many fairy stories about wicked queens. Enough of these tales. I refuse to listen to any more of your nonsense.’
‘It is not nonsense, Margot. Watch your back, and have your darling Lottie guard you well.’
By way of reply Margot tugged his head down to hers and captured his mouth with her own in a long, demanding kiss, tasting him, bruising him, taunting him with her passion. ‘I fear no one, certainly not my mother. I am a Princess of the Blood!’ Yet there was a tremor in her voice as she issued these words, and Guise felt it.
Tenderly he asked, ‘Then why do you tremble? From love of me?’
‘Goodness, you have far too high an opinion of yourself, my lord.’
Margot’s anxiety to have him gone from her quarters was increasing by the minute for, despite her brave bluster, she was suddenly afraid, for her lover if not herself. Only a fool would not be. The tales of unexplained death and the possible role played in them by the Queen her mother were too commonplace to dismiss lightly.
Conceding to her anxiety, Guise pulled aside the tent flap to check the way was clear to make his escape, before returning swiftly to her embrace. ‘Would that I had the entire night to prove my love to you. Although now that you have the Queen’s ear, you could perhaps take the opportunity to persuade her to view me with a little more trust and benevolence.’
Margot pressed herself against his hard body as she kissed him farewell. ‘You overstate my influence. My power is not so great as you might imagine.’
‘That you hold over me could not be stronger. I am ever yours to command.’ As if to prove this, he captured her in his arms one last time, making her shiver with fresh desire.
‘You must go now. Quickly!’
It was several more long and dangerous moments before she could bear to let him go and Guise slipped away into the dusk. So absorbed were they in their love that neither noticed a slight movement among the sheltering trees beyond.
Later that evening, du Guast was combing and curling his master’s hair as the duke lounged on the great bed that almost filled his tent. Anjou insisted on looking his best, terrified of falling prey to the lice which were rife among the men. It was during these intimate moments when they were largely alone, save for a trusted few, that his favourite was able to exert most influence.
Du Guast would urge his royal master to be more forceful and less indolent, and frequently alert him to those who might wish to take advantage of his generosity. His arrogance was such that he sought to further his own ambitions as much as the duke’s, and observed the increasing resentment between the monarch and the heir to the throne with studied attention. He knew his master to be jealous of Guise, and fearful of his rival threat to the throne.
Tonight he suggested that the reason for the King’s presence at St Jean d’Angely was all the fault of Guise. ‘He is the one responsible for encouraging Charles to intrude upon your glory, by means of the love letters he writes to the Princess.’
Anjou did not doubt it. He succumbed readily to the charm of his favourites, and found this new friend particularly delightful. He was elegant and beautiful, intelligent and an aristocrat of distinction.
‘Are you suggesting that my sister has betrayed me to that knave? She has told him of my business, my private thoughts, and become his instrument?’
Du Guast feigned regret, knowing he must tread carefully around princely sensitivities. ‘I tremble to risk offence, for I know how you treasure your sister’s good will. And worship her beauty,’ he added, rather winsomely. ‘But I fear that may be so.’
‘Then I have been made a fool of by them both!’
‘Have you not noticed,’ Du Guast slyly remarked, ‘how it is always the duc de Guise who begs leave to protect and escort the Princess whenever she wishes to ride out and escape for a while the pestilential atmosphere of the camp?’
The Hostage Queen Page 8