And the enmity that clearly existed between herself and her brother the duc d’Anjou was equally worrying. The envoys were concerned. Could this most beautiful of princesses be flawed? Was she selfish and spoiled, or could it be that she was entirely disinterested in their suit?
So far as the ambassadors could ascertain, following a few judicious enquiries and careful observation, it became evident that the duc de Guise was the sole object of her devotion, and could yet win the hand of this royal beauty. Negotiations consequently faltered, a circumstance which was seized upon by Anjou to further slur his sister’s reputation, and greatly incurred the wrath of the Queen Mother and the King.
Not that Margot paid any heed to either, as she had other delights to look forward to this evening. She certainly had no wish to enchant the Portuguese envoys, so felt perfectly free to behave as she wished. She enjoyed dance after dance with Guise, flirted most recklessly with him, laughed at the silliest joke or the simplest turn of phrase made by her lover. It was soon the opinion of the Portuguese ambassadors, who watched this performance with growing dismay, that the princess was deeply enamoured of the young lord.
Catherine pinched her daughter’s arm, reprimanding her in furious undertones. ‘You naughty minx, do you deliberately mean to undermine our plans? Can you not behave with more decorum?’
‘I have already agreed to marry the King of Portugal, or King Nebuchadnezzar if it is your will. Whoever you choose for me. Until then, I believe I am free to dance and make merry with whomsoever I please.’
‘Go to your room at once!’ ordered the Queen. ‘And present yourself on the morrow for a ride in the forest with the Portuguese envoys, only this time come with your manners intact.’
Margot scampered away, giggling with delight at the little storm she had created. What did she care, when she had a most delightful and secret appointment to keep.
Margot was in his arms the moment Guise came through the door. It was in the early hours of the morning that she’d crept unseen through the silent, shadowed passages of the Palace, her heart trembling with excitement and fear. There was nothing she loved more than an adventure. Now they were at last together in this deserted apartment in some far-flung corner of the Louvre where no one would ever think to look for them. The Princess hadn’t even risked bringing Madame de Curton with her, in case the presence of the governess lurking in some alcove might attract attention.
But the loyal Lottie had done her work. The room was lit by a dozen candles set in golden sconces about the walls, sufficient to cast a roseate glow over the bed, ready made up with silken sheets. A flagon of wine stood waiting on a side table, and two silver goblets. It was a scene set for lovers, and Margot smiled at Guise through their kisses, laughing as he struggled to rid himself of coat and shirt without letting go of her for a second.
‘I have waited so long for this moment,’ he murmured.
‘And I. See how I come to you with nothing but my love.’
She had already divested herself of the heavy gold gown and her jewels, of silk chemise, corset and hair ornaments. Her face bare of paint and artifice, she stood before him in her simplest nightgown, her feet bare.
Margot took his hand and kissed each of his fingertips, then gently placed it over her breast. He gave a low groan at the ripe softness of her body beneath the thin fabric.
‘You need no ornament for such beauty to shine, and I believe you would look even more lovely naked.’ Pushing the nightgown from her shoulders, he took a step back so that he could look at her as he smoothed trembling hands over her bare breasts, the curve of her ribcage, her flat belly. Margot shivered with delight.
His expression was one of quiet reverence as he studied every inch of her pale beauty: the fire in her eyes, the length of her long legs, the curve of her hips; a veritable Venus. And she too studied him, loving the breadth of his chest and shoulders, so strong, so powerful, the narrow hips and muscles bulging most gratifyingly beneath his hose. She touched a half-healed battle scar on his shoulder with her lips, and he gave a soft moan.
‘Would that I could have you as my wife. I would spend my life loving you.’
She stepped into his arms, pulling his head down to hers to brush her lips lightly over his, teasing him, making him want her all the more. ‘I still hold sway over my own body. For tonight at least.’
‘My precious darling, do you know what you are saying, what you risk by this madness?’
‘If it is madness, then it is the kind that I welcome with all my heart.’ Tears glimmered in her eyes as she clung to him. ‘Tomorrow they may command me to marry the King of Portugal, or Hungary, or some foreign mad man. Who can say which king’s bed I shall be in by next week, as duty demands? It matters only that tonight I can be in yours, that I can give my most precious gift, myself, to you first, my dearest love, and not some stranger.’
He kissed her then with a greater passion, lighting a fever within them both, and, as the kiss deepened, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, gently setting her down and arranging her now flaccid limbs so that he could lie beside her.
‘Do I, oh soon-to-be-queen, have permission to kiss you here?’ He kissed the hollow between her breasts, then brushed his mouth over each erect nipple, suckling each dark bud, and Margot groaned in agony. ‘Or here?’ He moved further down, to the smooth silk of her belly. ‘And what about here?’ He parted her legs and kissed her inner thigh.
His touch was honey sweet yet brought a pain of yearning she’d never before experienced, deep in her secret places.
And it was these parts his questing fingers had found now. Margot gasped with shock, but was soon purring with delight, stretching her arms above her head as sensation overwhelmed her. Never, in all her dreams and longing for Guise, had she imagined it would be like this. She was almost sobbing with need but still he made her wait.
‘Not yet, not yet, my love. I want you to take the same pleasure from our first coupling as do I. Let me teach you the skills.’ His voice was languorous, his breath warm against the pearly translucence of her skin, every movement he made transmitting a mesmeric power over her that could not be denied.
He parted her legs with his knee and was lying above her now, and oh, how she loved the weight of him. At some point he must have removed the rest of his clothes for his bare flesh felt wonderful against her own. She kissed his beloved face, traced his winged brows with a growing breathless wonder, stroked the strength of those high cheekbones, loving the crispness of that short, sharp beard, for she knew herself lost to all sensation but her need of him.
Margot discovered that taking pleasure with this man was a delight she had no difficulty in learning. Making love was instinctive to her, fulfilling that need which had burned for so long; relief at last from self-sacrifice and denial. There also emerged in her the flowering of a delicious rebellion, a selfishness that could never again be denied. Their coming together was the realization of a promise, the reaching and touching, however briefly, of a dream.
She was in a haze of desire, needing to touch the velvet hardness of him, taste him, prove to him her love.
His hands slipped beneath her, curving about her delightful rump as she instinctively lifted her hips. Nothing seemed more natural in that moment than that she should open herself to him and he slide inside her, just as if he were meant to be there. But nothing could have prepared her for the cataclysmic effect of this seemingly simple act. It was as if she had fallen into a world made only of sensation, where politics and intrigue, pain and rejection did not exist. She took him into the heart of her, into her soul, enveloping him with her own heat and desire.
And as he moved within her, she cried out against the half pain, half pleasure of it, before giving herself up to the blissful joy of him, instinctively adjusting her own movements to the rhythm of his as he thrust harder, again and again, deep inside her. He did not spare her now but rode her hard, fiercely, feverishly, arching above her, at last able to express his l
ong-held passion, completely demanding as he made her entirely his, so that they both cried out with the joy of release.
‘You will marry me, not some foreign king, is that understood?’
‘Oh yes, yes, yes!’
It was at this moment that the door flew open and Madame de Curton burst in. ‘My lady, my lady, we are discovered!’
There was no time to speak, or even think, as Madame was babbling about uproar in the King’s apartment. Margot had never seen her loyal servant in such a state.
‘His Majesty has been shown a letter by Anjou, no doubt intercepted by du Guast, as a page has divulged your presence here tonight. Make haste, my lady, make haste! They are coming for you; they’ll be here at any moment. Get you gone, my lord, if you value your head.’ Whereupon she snatched up Margot’s nightgown to hastily dress her.
Madame de Curton had time only to add a little rouge to her charge’s deathly pale cheeks before two guards entered to escort Margot to the Queen Mother’s apartment. Guise had escaped through the window, with only seconds to spare.
Margot stood before her mother in a ferment of fear. The Queen had been waiting for her, stiff-backed with regal splendour despite being clothed only in her nightgown and velvet robe de chambre, her fury and impatience all too evident. The King was pacing back and forth in a temper, a fleck of foam at the corners of his mouth. As Margot had entered, Catherine quickly dismissed her ladies and Madame de Curton.
Margot thought she might expire of terror when Charles suddenly lashed out and struck her across the head. He began to beat and punch her in the stomach and knocked her to the ground where he set about furiously kicking her. For once Catherine made no effort to stop him, but rather joined in. She dragged Margot to her feet and ripped her nightgown from her, slapping her face this way and that, tearing at her hair, oblivious to her daughter’s screams and cries for mercy.
‘Whore! Harlot!’
What other names the Queen used as she set about her, Margot couldn’t hear, or afterwards remember, but they were not pleasant.
No one came to her rescue – nobody would dare – as Margot was subjected to the most brutal attack. She was completely defenceless, unable to protect herself against their cruel spite and violent assault. No matter that she begged and sobbed and pleaded; they did not stop kicking and punching her until, fearing for her daughter’s life, Catherine at last dragged the King off her. Margot lay curled on the floor covered in cuts and bruises, her gown in shreds about her naked body, shaking with terror.
Dawn was breaking and Catherine’s lever would take place very soon as the new day began. The Queen Mother steadied her breathing, wiped her brow, and quietly urged the King to return to his own room and rest.
‘Go, I will see to this.’
‘I want Guise next. I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!’
‘Rest first, my son, while we think on how best to proceed. We must keep this night’s business to ourselves or we’ll lose all hope of the Portuguese match, or any other for this trollop.’
When Charles had retired in a highly wrought state, still muttering furiously to himself, still wringing his hands and biting his fingernails to shreds, Catherine set about restoring some sort of order.
She personally bathed Margot’s wounds and bruises, found one of her own gowns in place of her daughter’s ruined one, dragged the knotted tangles from her hair. When finally the morning’s lever took place, the sense of calm about the Queen and her daughter might have felt surreal to each of them, but it gave no hint of what had gone before. If the ladies of the robe had overheard the commotion, or knew of what had taken place, none acknowledged it. Appearances were kept, and the King’s discipline administered.
The Queen had made it very clear that wayward, recalcitrant daughters would not be tolerated.
Margot’s nerves were in tatters, her courage quite gone. By late morning, under strict orders from the Queen Mother, she was seated upon her best horse, pale-faced and drawn, sick to her stomach and still trembling with emotion, yet beautiful as ever in her burgundy riding costume. The cuts and bruises, the scratches from her mother’s sharp nails were hidden beneath her gown and her dignity. To all outward appearances, nothing untoward had occurred.
The chase through the royal forests was to go ahead as planned, even though the Portuguese envoys would not now be present. The Queen had spent hours closeted with the King in his privy chamber, the duc d’Anjou also present, along with the ambassadors, but now they had left court to return home to their own country, the question of the proposed marriage undecided.
The courtiers gathered for the ride without them. The King, who loved hunting and always rode with great gusto; Anjou, du Guast and his other favourites, various councillors and gentlemen; Margot’s ladies, and her brother Alençon close by her side.
Guise was there too, doing his utmost to feign insouciance.
Acutely aware of the close proximity of her lover, of how others covertly watched them, and of the risk he ran simply by attending the hunt, Margot did not dare to look his way. Nevertheless, as the party set off into the forest where shafts of sunlight pierced the green gloom, perhaps out of rebellion, or loyalty, he stubbornly rode by her side. He placed his hand over the reins of her grey mare, leaning over to speak with her.
‘Are you all right? You look woefully pale.’
Margot still dare not meet his gaze but gave her head a little shake, her lips trembling. ‘I am perfectly well. Please, don’t . . . it is all over for us.’
The sharp glare of the King silenced her. She could say no more, only cast her erstwhile lover an apologetic little grimace before spurring her horse to a canter.
Margot’s hopes and dreams were at an end. Madame de Curton made it her business to go about the court, ears pricked, and discovered that on seeing a pair of hunting knives left lying on a table, the King swore to use them to kill Guise for presuming to aspire to the hand of his sister, and for compromising her reputation.
‘You know how angry he gets, my lady. Further, the duc d’Anjou has also sworn that should Guise ever again attempt to approach your apartments, it will be his last visit.’
Margot was at once alarmed. ‘Dear God, Lottie, he must not come. He must make his escape and leave court with all speed. What can I say to convince him?’
Madame grasped her beloved charge’s hands, her old face wreathed in sadness. ‘You must renounce him, my darling. It is the only way to save his life.’
Margot knew in her heart this was true. Suspicion and fear seemed to be everywhere, pressing down upon her like a great weight. Yet it wasn’t so much fear for her own safety that made her tremble, but for her lover. They could have his head for despoiling a royal princess, and she would rather face the block herself than allow such a thing to happen.
Uncaring of his safety, that very same evening Guise appeared at the royal salon, ready to pay homage, as usual, to the King and the Queen Mother. He was prevented from entering by Charles, who imperiously demanded where he thought he was going.
‘Sire, I am here to serve Your Gracious Majesty!’
‘You would serve us best, Monsieur, were you to depart. You may leave at once, for I have no further need of your service.’
Guise bowed, judiciously making no reply and, on retiring to his chamber, discovered a note from Margot urging him to marry his alleged mistress, the Princess de Porcien, for the sake of his own safety, and for her own.
‘Only when you are safely wed to another will our security be assured.’
At last acknowledging the danger, to her as much as to himself, he gave urgent orders for his servants to pack his belongings, and departed for the Hôtel de Nemours in Paris.
Margot felt utterly bereft, her lover not only gone from court but within days had married Catherine of Cleves, the widowed Princess de Porcien, in a grand wedding in Paris. She’d salvaged her reputation, put a stop to the calumny being whispered about her, but lost the one man she could ever love. A helpless pani
c overwhelmed her.
And the ripples and repercussions from one night of love proved to be far-reaching. There wasn’t a single member of the House of Guise left at court. Banished in disgrace, they wisely chose to return to the family estates for a while. Thanks to the absence of the sly old Cardinal of Lorraine, the peace talks finally reached agreement, resulting in the Treaty of Saint-Germain. In this, discrimination against Huguenots was banned, and freedom of worship permitted in La Rochelle, Cognac, and certain other towns. In addition, goods and properties confiscated during the civil wars were restored to their owners.
Catherine thought the treaty far from perfect but believed it would at least buy time. With this in mind, she was able to turn her attention back to her favourite pursuit: that of marriages for Charles and her beloved Anjou, not forgetting the headstrong Margot.
These ambitions had very nearly been thwarted by her daughter’s latest escapade. The proposed match with the King of Portugal seemed doomed, but Catherine was determined that Nostradamus’s prophecy would be fulfilled. As part of the peace talks she reopened negotiations with Jeanne d’Albret for a marriage between her son, Henry of Navarre, and Margot. Navarre was a small kingdom but it nonetheless came with the required crown. As well as consolidating the peace, the union would lure the Huguenots out of their stronghold where they’d hidden away for far too long.
The wedding of Charles and Elisabeth of Austria took place on 25 November 1570, a splendid occasion at which Catherine spared no expense, despite the parlous state of the treasury. As ever, she wanted to make the citizens of Paris gasp at the magnificence of it all.
The Hostage Queen Page 10