The Hostage Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I know well enough how the man covets the throne.’

  ‘Ah, that may be so, Sire, and . . . no . . . I cannot say it. I may be entirely wrong.’

  ‘Speak your mind; you know that I trust you. You are my eyes and ears.’

  Du Guast hid a satisfied smile. One of the pages he employed as a spy had spotted a visitor to the Princess’s royal quarters this very evening, though it was too dark by the time he left to see his face clearly. Du Guast suspected it would have been Guise.

  ‘The gossips say that they may have ventured beyond pretty letters, that they are not only lovers but plan to wed.’ He put up a hand to affect reluctance. ‘I can say no more at this juncture without proof, but is it not also true that Guise has an uncle with the funds and power to assist with such an ambition?’

  Anjou met the adoring gaze of his favourite in shocked surprise as he pondered these words. Guise was already his rival on the battlefield; now it seemed that he competed for his sister’s affections as well. Anjou hated his commanding presence, his athletic skills, and the way the people of Paris held him in such high esteem. If Margot was in love with the fellow, then the pair of them could make a formidable alliance that could threaten his own ambitions. Curbing his impatience for the King to die was bad enough, but he would tolerate no challenge to his own rightful succession.

  ‘Then it has gone much further than I feared. We must find proof. It is time we put an end to his mischief.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the King adores his sister. His Majesty spends an hour every afternoon in her company and won’t hear a word said against her. As for the Queen Mother, she is well known for her broad mind in these matters. They both believe the Princess’s reputation to be impeccable.’

  ‘Then we must give them reason to question it.’

  Margot came to the Queen Mother’s lever as usual the next morning, and at once sensed a change in her attitude. Catherine ordered her to return to her own quarters, repeating this command several times when Margot stood paralysed, numb with surprise. The other maids of honour avoided her questioning gaze, clacking quietly to each other like a gaggle of gossiping geese. Puzzled and hurt at being thus banished, Margot quietly withdrew, but not to her own quarters. She waited close by until all was quiet, then, gathering her courage, she again presented herself to the Queen.

  ‘May I know in what way I have offended you, Madame?’ she asked, sinking into a deep curtsey.

  At first it seemed that her mother might decline to answer, but then all the snarling bitterness she still harboured against the House of Guise came pouring out. Catherine deeply resented them for the power they had held over her during the reign of François II. How many times she had regretted the folly of her husband, Henri II, in allowing their daughter Claude to marry the Prince of Lorraine, thereby linking them with that despised family. Were they not determined to overthrow the royal dynasty of the Valois?

  ‘I hear you have been intimate with the Duke of Guise.’

  ‘Madame,’ Margot replied, shocked by these accusations, ‘that is untrue. Who told you this?’

  ‘You have betrayed and offended your brother whose confidence you have held in low regard.’

  So it was Anjou, or no doubt this new favourite of his. ‘My brother praised me. Does he now wish to deprive me of those privileges, for some imagined fault?’

  The Queen Mother’s face darkened with fury. ‘Do not treat me as a fool. Did I not see you walking with Guise in the green alleys at Plessis with my own eyes? Do I not see how he lusts after you? Now that I know how far this fancy has gone, you will put an end to it, at once. You are a Princess of the Blood and he is not for you.’

  Margot was near to tears, desperate to prove her innocence. ‘I swear on my mortal soul it is not true. We have not been intimate! I am still pure.’

  Catherine considered her daughter with careful scrutiny. ‘I am minded to think that if you speak so earnestly then I must believe you. There, there, do not weep. We’ll have done with this discussion, for now.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty, I am most obliged.’ Another deep curtsey, one of humble gratitude this time, even as she trembled. ‘But as long as I live I will remember this evil thing that my brother has done.’

  ‘You will do no such thing! You will treat the duke with all respect due to his station.’ Then she banished her wayward daughter from the royal presence, and this time Margot did run to her tent, where she fell on her bed in a storm of tears.

  In the ensuing days Margot kept a careful distance from the duc d’Anjou, who made no attempt at a reconciliation. Far from obeying the Queen Mother’s orders, she rebelliously continued to favour her alleged lover, allowing Guise access to her private quarters and openly conversing with him in public.

  ‘Do you appreciate the risks you run?’ her frightened governess warned.

  ‘I am not afraid of my brother, for all the lies he might tell about me. I mean to remain true to my chevalier.’

  She was young and in love, with fire and spirit in her heart, developing an independent mind of her own, and stubbornly refused to be bullied by a jealous elder brother, or the contemptible du Guast, who was busily spreading libellous mischief against her. Besides claiming that the Princess Marguerite had so far forgotten her royal status that she had become Guise’s paramour, he accused her of being without shame, demonstrated by the flightiness of her manner. She was, he said, one of the new breed of French women who, while claiming to be devout, were actually far too independent and free thinking for their own good. They were nought but a trouble to their husbands, were they fortunate enough to find one.

  The slurs upon her name grew worse as dark whispers began to circulate of notorious conduct with two officers of the King’s bodyguard while she was at Bayonne as a young girl.

  Anjou, while affecting to maintain his belief in her, yet claimed the slander was true to any who cared to listen.

  Guise was incensed by this defamation of his lady. ‘We must refute this slander. I’ll not allow such calumny to be spoken against you.’

  ‘Say nothing. The more we protest, the more they will believe in my guilt.’

  He considered the surprising wisdom of her words. ‘Yet what of your reputation? It could be damaged beyond redemption.’

  The gossip partly infuriated and partly amused her, yet she smiled. ‘It may well be to our advantage. If I am viewed as soiled goods, what foreign King would have me then? My mother the Queen might have fewer scruples in bestowing my hand on one previously considered unworthy.’

  And if Guise found himself thinking of his own ambitions as he joined in her ready laughter, a part of him still feared for his beloved’s safety. Following her lead, he treated the slander with silent contempt, taking out his fury by displaying even greater prowess on the battlefield, his accomplishments as a chevalier enraging his rival still further.

  St Jean d’Angely finally surrendered to the siege ordered by the King after two months, but by the following spring morale was at an all-time low. Catherine was facing difficulties paying her army, the Catholics had lost ten thousand troops and one of their best generals, and her only recourse was to reopen the peace talks. They did not go well, as Jeanne remained distrustful of her old enemy.

  ‘A peace made of snow this winter will not last the summer’s heat.’ She was certainly not prepared to deny her religion, which she believed was what Catherine demanded. ‘My God,’ she said, ‘is as meat and drink to me.’

  Distrust filled the air and difficulties continued to hinder any meaningful negotiations. It seemed likely they would lumber on all summer, so it was that the Queen Mother decided to play her most important card.

  A marriage between her daughter and the Bourbon Prince of Navarre might achieve the solution they all craved. The girl was growing too wilful to be left free for much longer, and what better way to win peace for the country, and quash the power of the Guises once and for all?

  While Jeanne hesitated and the peace talk
s stalled, the match with Portugal suddenly took on a new impetus. One afternoon Catherine summoned Margot to her cabinet to inform her that ambassadors from the Portuguese Court had arrived to see for themselves whether or not she was worthy of their King.

  ‘Wear your most magnificent attire for a banquet which is to be held this evening by way of welcome. You will be expected to entertain them and make yourself agreeable, do you understand?’

  Margot took in the import of her mother’s words in silent horror, struck dumb by the suddenness of it. ‘Your will is mine,’ was all she managed by way of response, attempting to disguise the tremor in her voice.

  ‘Can I believe you to be sincere, when I know how you favour that young scoundrel Guise? I am reliably informed that he still has designs on you.’

  Margot rightly guessed that the Queen Mother’s informant would be Anjou, slyly undermining her yet again. She swallowed, judging her answer carefully. ‘We are but childhood friends. I would do nought to offend Your Majesty.’ She dare not admit that she had sworn to love Guise and no other, that she would forever be faithful to him, whilst there remained any hope they could be wed.

  ‘I am aware that old lecher the Cardinal of Lorraine is anxious for you to accept his nephew, even though I have made it abundantly clear a marriage between you shall never take place!’

  Margot stiffened her spine, and recklessly responded, ‘Pray bring the Portuguese negotiations forward then, so that you can have proof of my obedience.’

  With that she begged leave to withdraw, and fled to her apartments and the security of her governess’s love.

  Madame de Curton was quietly working on her embroidery when her young charge burst into the room, hair awry, and eyes dark with panic.

  ‘Oh, Lottie, my mother has ordered me to wear my richest gown and my finest jewels this evening for the Portuguese ambassadors. I am to charm them so that they see me as a fit bride for their king.’ Moaning with despair, she fell to her knees. ‘What am I to do? I cannot bear it. I had dared to hope – dream – that Guise or his uncle would save me, despite, or even because of the scandal about me. When I spoke with the Cardinal some months ago, he was optimistic, filled with certainty that he could help. Now his protestations of support seem like sand in the wind beside the tenacity of my mother.’

  Madame de Curton looked with sadness upon her charge. The girl was highly intelligent, shrewd and clever, capable of making a far better monarch than any of her brothers. Yet she was betrayed always by her soft heart. ‘The King of Portugal is young, my lady, of an age to yourself, and not at all like Don Carlos. He is, I believe, quite good looking, being tall and slim and blond, and would bring you a crown.’

  ‘But I do not love him. I have never even met him.’

  ‘You cannot hope for love in a marriage, my precious. It is your duty to marry where the Queen your mother decrees, as I have told you many times before. You cannot escape your destiny.’

  ‘I know it, I know it!’ Margot said, still raging. She was on her feet, striding about the room, railing against her fate. Swinging about, she stamped her foot in fury. ‘I shall wear my plainest gown, my dullest jewels. I will not smile at the envoys that King Sebastian has sent, but scowl and sulk. I will not laugh at their jokes, or listen to their boring chatter, and I will fawn over every word Guise utters. We’ll see what they think of that!’

  Madame de Curton couldn’t help but laugh. ‘If you behave badly you will put yourself in a poor light, it is true, but whatever you wear, my dear one, your beauty will shine through. Nothing could prevent that, even were you to attend the banquet dressed in sack-cloth and ashes.’

  Margot ran to her governess to bury her head in her lap and weep, partly from despair and fear, and partly from fury at her own impotence. ‘Don’t you understand? If they decide I am suitable, I could be married and in his bed within a few short weeks, days perhaps. How could I bear that when it is Henri of Guise that I love?’

  ‘Because you must. Because you are a Princess of France.’

  Margot was silent for a long time while Madame tenderly stroked her hair, her mind spinning. Taking a breath, she continued more calmly. ‘If my opinion counts for nothing, and my mother and brother can marry me off to whoever brings them the greatest political reward, then my body is no longer my own.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, my sweet.’

  Margot’s eyes lit with a sparkle of mischief. ‘But I can at least choose who shall have my maidenhead, can I not?’

  ‘Oh, my lady!’ Madame gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. ‘Do not speak so.’

  But Margot was already at her desk penning a hasty note. In it she poured out her love for Guise, telling him of the banquet that very evening, and the fate that awaited her. Then she begged him to meet her afterwards in a certain apartment on the stroke of midnight. She signed it with a flourish, knowing he would understand. They had enjoyed many secret meetings, but none so late, or in such a private setting. Sanding and folding it carefully, she gave the letter to her governess. ‘See that you hand it to him personally, and do not attempt to dissuade me. I must see him one more time in complete privacy before they sell me off to the highest bidder.’

  Pride and fear of the Queen Mother ensured that Margot look her best for the ambassadors. She bathed in warm scented rose oil, and Madame de Curton patted her dry before smoothing more fragrant unguents over her soft skin. The law strictly forbade any artisan or common bourgeoise to wear silk, which was permitted only for those of noble birth as it signified social prominence and power. Margot’s own chemise and petticoats were of the finest, costing more than some people earned in an entire year, as was her boned corset that cinched in her tiny waist, and the high lace-edged collar that framed her beautiful face and her lovely bosom, so firm and white it billowed delightfully above the neck of her gown. The mere sight of it was meant to entice Guise to kiss it.

  It was for him that she dressed this evening, her would-be lover whom she wished to impress, not the Portuguese ambassadors.

  Margot had a natural talent for style and was already becoming a leader of fashion at her brother’s court. She knew how to adapt a gown, a dainty cap or ornament into something charming and desirable. The ladies and maids of honour would emulate the design, hoping to borrow some of the wearer’s beauty.

  Her gown was of cloth of crinkled gold tissue, the richest and most costly in her wardrobe. Diamond pendants in the shape of stars hung at her ears and adorned her throat. Her hair, which was dark and not considered to be a fashionable colour, suited her perfectly, enhancing her chestnut eyes. She had Madame de Curton twist and curl and arrange it high upon her head in the style favoured by her beloved late sister, the Queen of Spain. A touch of colour to her cheeks and lips and lashes, and she was ready.

  Now Madame de Curton stood back to admire the results of her labours, love and pride all too evident in her old face, for tonight her charge had excelled herself, some inner radiance causing her to look even more beautiful than usual.

  ‘Your grace and charm will win the heart of any king, and his courtiers.’

  ‘What need I of kings when I have the love of my chevalier?’

  Margot was very nearly eclipsed by the dazzling magnificence of her own brother. Anjou was resplendent in a doublet and hose in a delicate leaf green, threaded with gold and silver, a white lace ruff of immense proportions about his slender neck. His dark hair was brushed up into curls behind his cap, and he smelled divinely of violet water. The Portuguese ambassadors marvelled at the sight of such a fop, seeming more Italian than French with his olive skin and long eyes, and so very effeminate. He had clearly taken as much trouble over his toilette as many of the ladies.

  And indeed, the French ladies were a delight, particularly les dames galantes. Most of all they were bowled over by Margot’s beauty, and saw at once that their young king would be a fool not to be enchanted by so delightful a princess. She would be an undoubted sensation at the Court of Lisbon.

 
Unfortunately, they had not been granted the power to conclude the union. Their task was to report back to His Majesty, King Sebastian, to confirm that she lived up to the extraordinary beauty that rumour described. They observed Margot’s mannerisms, her eloquence and facility with language, and felt quite able to recommend her for the esteemed honour of being crowned Queen of their realm.

  But then they began to notice a more disturbing trait. She sat beside them at table, as was expected of her, but her attention frequently wavered. She forgot all her usual good manners as hostess to her guests and failed to pass them the roast duck, pheasant, carp, lobster, custards, syllabubs, raspberries, and myriad other dishes with which the table was loaded. She did not refill their empty Venetian wine glasses, or ask if they wished to taste the spectacular towering confection of sugared pastry the cooks had prepared, leaving it all to the servants.

  ‘I believe you love reading and often stay up half the night finishing a book?’ one envoy politely enquired. ‘Which will please my master the King, as he is a great reader himself. He is particularly fond of the great philosopher Thomas Aquinas.’

  ‘I do love all manner of literature, although I read only to please myself, and not at the will of others,’ Margot airily informed him, licking the sugar from her fingers.

  The ambassador conceded this cutting remark with a polite head bow. ‘And you ride, and are skilled with the crossbow, I hear?’

  Margot put back her head and laughed, a deep throaty sound that brought heads swivelling in her direction, not least that of Guise. ‘Ask my dear friend here how many times I have beaten him at the sport.’

  She did, in fact, perversely allow her ‘dear friend’ to monopolize her attention throughout the evening. The Portuguese ambassadors noticed that the princess barely gave them more than a passing glance, or the courtesy of a single enquiry as to the health of Don Sebastion, their beloved monarch, let alone request any details of his person. At one point Charles was heard quietly to reproach his sister for her ill manners, but she was oblivious to all entreaties to behave.