The Hostage Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  Navarre and Guise’s warning proved to be entirely justified. Margot had barely entered the Queen Mother’s privy chamber when Catherine flew into a furious temper, shouting at her and accusing her of all manner of wanton behaviour. Margot defended herself as stoutly as she could, calmly explaining the purpose of her outing, and listing the names of those who had accompanied her.

  ‘These ladies were with me the entire afternoon. Ask Mademoiselle Montigny; her aunt lives at the convent and helped us gain access. Ask Liancourt and Camille, who are the King’s servants. They begged a lift and stayed with us, joining in the fun.’

  Catherine refused to believe her. Her favourite son had given her the facts as he saw them, and she would far rather take his word than that of a wayward daughter.

  ‘Why do you see only wrong in me?’ Margot cried, her heart starting to pound.

  ‘How can we not when your younger brother is proving to be at odds with the King, and a threat to his crown? And you and Navarre are his supporters in this.’

  ‘You read too much into that, Madame. How can a perfectly normal friendship be seen as a threat to the King?’

  ‘You know perfectly well why,’ Catherine roared, her rage now incandescent. ‘The two princes were fortunate to keep their heads.’

  Margot swallowed, realizing she trod on dangerous ground, but could not allow this to go entirely unchallenged. ‘Yet you declared them innocent of such a calumny, Madame. This is not the first time Henri has done me ill service by listening to the malice of his favourites. He finds faults in others when he would more likely find them in himself. Why do you listen to such nonsense? Why do you believe every corrupt word he utters?’

  The Queen Mother was incensed by this criticism not only of her own good judgement, but also of her precious darling. ‘I have my spies who keep me fully informed of all that goes on in this court. Think you I am not aware of your flirting with a certain gallant? My valet de chambre saw you in that square, visiting with your lover. I have his word on it.’

  Margot knew that she lied, that she was covering up for Henri. ‘Then you have been misinformed, Madame. I was not there! I was in the convent, visiting with the nuns, as I have already explained.’

  Arguing her case, however just and right it might seem, only served to inflame the Queen Mother’s rage all the more. Moreover, Margot was painfully aware that every word of their quarrel was clearly audible by her Escadron Volant, whose ears would be wagging at the other side of the partition.

  Realizing it was hopeless to defend herself further, and still fearing her mother might physically attack her, Margot fled from the privy chamber almost in tears, back to her husband’s apartment.

  Navarre was waiting for her, anxiously pacing the floor. As soon as she entered, he went to take her hands. ‘Was it not just as I told you?’ he laughed, and then seeing her face, softened his tone. ‘Do not grieve or torment yourself. I’m sure it can all be put to right. Liancourt and Camille will be at the King’s coucher and will inform him of the wrong that he has done you.’ Henry put his arms about his wife, awkwardly patting her shoulder as if to offer comfort. ‘I am sure that tomorrow the Queen Mother will receive you in a very different manner.’

  ‘I have suffered too gross an affront in public to forgive those who caused it, by which I mean du Guast, and the King my brother. Nor can I tolerate this vicious attempt to set us against each other.’

  Navarre grinned. ‘Ah, but, God be thanked, they have failed in that, have they not?’

  She smiled then, feeling the warmth emanating from him which made him so very likeable, despite his failings as a husband. ‘I believe any thanks are owed more to your amiable disposition than any divine intervention. However, we must interpret this little episode as a warning to be on our guard against the King’s stratagems. I’m sure he means to bring about dissension between yourself and Alençon by causing a rupture between you and me.’

  As if on cue, the Duke of Alençon at that moment entered, and Margot ran to grasp her younger brother’s hands and bring him over to Navarre. ‘I wish you two to renew your friendship, to swear you will allow none to cause friction between you.’

  Laughing off her anxiety, they shook hands and slapped each other on the back in brotherly fashion, quite at ease in their comradeship.

  ‘There,’ Margot said, well pleased as she kissed each of them on the cheek, quite at ease in their comradeship. ‘No one can do us harm so long as we remain united.

  Satisfied perhaps that he’d successfully stirred up trouble, and despite the Queen Mother’s continued disapproval, Margot’s other brother Henri turned contrite, perversely wishing to smooth relations between them.

  ‘I am more than ready to offer you a thousand apologies, dear sister. I never believed a single word against you.’

  He was positively effusive in his apologies and excuses, blaming others, showering affection and good will upon her with not a shred of sincerity, quite unable to recognize his own hypocrisy. First he’d accused her of seeing a lover, and now claimed he’d never believed in her guilt.

  The experience of this superficially trivial incident chilled Margot to the bone and increased her fear of the new King. How could she ever trust him?

  A day or two later Catherine was shattered to receive the tragic news that the Princess de Condé had died. She had successfully given birth to a healthy daughter, but Marie herself had never properly recovered from the birth. There had been rumours that the child might be Henri’s, but generally it was believed that their love affair had been entirely platonic and romantic. Some even doubted her son’s ability to produce an heir. Catherine hoped and prayed they were wrong. But now, in view of the hopes he had built up for their eventual marriage, she was at a loss to know how to break these dreadful tidings to her precious boy.

  He spent every free hour writing passionate letters to his beloved, had stubbornly refused to accept the old spinster bride they’d planned for him in Poland, remaining faithful to his darling Princess. He constantly reaffirmed his promise of the crown of France, begging her to take the necessary steps to obtain a divorce the moment her accouchement was passed.

  Now that romantic dream was as dust.

  Fearing his reaction, Catherine left the letter strewn upon his writing table amongst his other messages. Later that day, and quite by chance, Henri picked it up, and read it without warning. He cried out in shock then fell to the ground in a dead faint.

  Catherine was immediately called as his mignons carried the King to his bed where he lay for days in a stupor, refusing either to eat or drink. Much to her alarm, his condition deteriorated into a high fever as he gave himself up to grief.

  Consequently, the court remained in Lyon for two more months until Henri was sufficiently recovered to sail down the Rhone to Avignon. Despite his mother’s exhortations that he should seek an alternative bride, he remained in deep mourning which manifested itself in another bout of religious fervour. He joined the brotherhood of the battus, who indulged in ascetic extravagances. They dressed in sackcloth, wore masks, walked barefoot in torchlight processions and thrashed themselves with a whip or switch.

  Henri had first been inspired to take part in these dangerous habits years ago by one of his favourites, Lignerolles, to whom Catherine had taken a dislike and who had been found mysteriously murdered in a dark alley quite close to the Louvre. Now he again eagerly adopted these practises, hung a rosary of small ivory skulls on his girdle, and even had tiny skulls embroidered in white silk on to his funereal black clothes, shoes and stockings. He prayed constantly to the Blessed Virgin for his beloved Princess de Condé’s soul and bullied and persuaded others among the courtiers to join him in his pilgrimages.

  Navarre refused to take the matter seriously. ‘This show of penitence is more to my taste when viewed at a distance rather than close at hand,’ he joked.

  Among these devoted followers was Guise’s uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, anxious not to be left out of the pious
displays. Tragically, walking barefoot through the streets on a snowy night in December brought on a chill which turned to pneumonia, and a few days later he died. That night there was a terrible storm. The Jesuits claimed that le tigre de la France had died a fine death, taken from a nation who had never properly appreciated him, and would go straight to heaven. The Huguenots said the storm proved the witches were holding their Sabbath, and had come to spirit away his soul to hell.

  Catherine privately gloried in the death of her hated rival. ‘Now we shall have peace,’ she said, as she calmly sat down to dinner that night. ‘The Cardinal de Lorraine is dead and he was the one person that prevented it.’ Perhaps realizing that a little caution would be wise, she added, ‘He was a great prelate and a wise one, and France – and ourselves, also – have suffered a grievous loss in his death.’

  But beneath her breath, she added, ‘Today has died the wickedest of men,’ and, lifting her glass to her lips, she suddenly began to tremble; the glass fell from her hand to smash on the tiled floor.

  ‘Jésus!’ she cried. ‘There is Monsieur le Cardinal! I see him, I see him before me.’

  Margot felt the hairs rise at the nape of her neck, as they had done many times before when faced with evidence of what seemed like her mother’s second sight.

  Seconds later Catherine pulled herself together, laughing the whole thing off by saying that she’d seen the good man on his way to Paradise. But she suffered nightmares that night and, like her daughter, those who had witnessed the Queen Mother experiencing visions on previous occasions did not hesitate to believe that she saw him in very truth.

  Henri ignored his mother’s efforts to find him a bride, having set his heart on Louise de Vaudémont whom he had met at Nancy when returning from Poland. Although not beautiful, her figure was slender and he’d found her to be gentle, elegant and kind. Most of all she reminded him of his adored Marie. He’d discovered that the young girl was not treated well by her family, her father being somewhat neglectful and her stepmother unkind. She’d spent her days alone in prayer, reading and needlework, and Henri had felt great pity for the way she was persecuted. He’d generously tried to rectify this neglect by asking her to dance, and taking her with him whenever he drove about the countryside. Now he announced his intention of marrying her.

  Catherine was appalled. ‘But she is of the House of Lorraine, a girl of no consequence who possesses no fortune.’

  ‘Nonetheless I have already dispatched the Marquis du Guast with a request for her hand.’

  The matter, it seemed, was settled, and Catherine was once more obliged to accept the inevitable. Much to her dismay, her son already seemed to be exercising his new power and independence rather sooner than she had expected.

  Henri was crowned at Rheims, but it was not the joyous occasion he had hoped for. The Huguenots were making substantial gains under the leadership of Damville. On his way to his coronation, those whose towns were under siege by the King’s armies lined the streets to curse him, shouting that he would not murder them as he had the Admiral, which made Henri shudder with foreboding.

  On the day itself he found the ceremony so long and tiring that Henri demanded constant rests. He complained the crown was too heavy and hurt his head, and during the sacrament it almost fell off, which was looked upon as a bad omen – as was the fact that those upon whom he’d touched for the King’s evil were not in fact cured of their ills. But then he had barely been able to bring himself to lay so much as a fingertip upon their unclean skin.

  The following day was his wedding day, and Henri welcomed this with much greater enthusiasm. He insisted upon dressing Princess Louise’s hair himself, prinking her gown and making up her face, spending so many hours on the task that the service had to be postponed until late evening.

  Later the people would chant, ‘Henri de Valois, King of Poland and France by the grace of God and his mother, concierge of the Louvre, hairdresser-in-ordinary to his wife!’

  The decision to marry had been made so quickly that there had been no time to collect the usual gifts of money from the populous, although he meant to make up for this lack later. The state of the treasury was parlous but his mother had spared nothing in providing a magnificent state occasion. Neither had Henri exercised any thrift when designing the gown and jewels for his young bride, or for himself and his favourites. He’d handed over vast sums of money to du Guast for this very purpose.

  He meant to squeeze yet more taxes out of the people in order to pay for it all, and for the pageants, balls and masques he would hold.

  Madame de Curton, Margot’s faithful old governess and lady of her bedchamber, came to her one morning and asked if she had any livres in her purse, so that she might purchase some new silks. ‘We are quite out of several colours and the ladies are working on new hassocks for the Priory. I wouldn’t trouble you, my lady, only the merchant from whom I attempted to order them has politely pointed out that a long standing account for fabrics, garments, hats, ribbons and gewgaws has still not been settled since the wedding and coronation, which was many months ago.’

  Margot shook her head in despair. ‘I learned the other day, Lottie, that the treasury is so low the King cannot afford to journey home to the capital. The people are saying he cannot even afford the price of a dinner.’

  ‘It is certainly true that the court pages have been obliged to pawn their cloaks in order to fund their own travel expenses.’

  Margot let out a growl of fury. ‘Yet Henri hands out gold to his favourite, du Guast, along with fat bishoprics which the odious man sells on at a profit. How have we come to this? I have asked my mother time and again for money to pay my ladies-in-waiting but she fobs me off with endless excuses.’

  ‘I understand Her Majesty is seeking a loan, and you needn’t fret about my own wages, my lady. My needs are small. A few silks are all we require.’

  ‘Oh, Lottie, but you shouldn’t have to come begging for them like this,’ Margot railed, riffling through her purse and pockets in the hope of finding a few coins. ‘But what can you expect when a knave such as my brother occupies the throne? He is taxing the people so much they can barely afford to eat. Yet he frizzes his hair, plays with his lap dogs, parrots and monkeys, enjoying his frivolities so much he can barely find the time to attend council meetings.’

  Sufficient funds were finally collected to enable the court to return to Paris, but even as they arrived they learned that Margot’s sister, Claude, the Duchess of Lorraine, had died. Catherine could hardly bear it and took to her bed. Claude had never been her favourite, but visiting this happy family, her daughter and grandchildren, had been one of the few joys in her life. Now she was gone, yet another lost child.

  Margot, too, was distraught, for she had ever been fond of her sister, remembering how Claude had wept and tried to warn her of the St Bartholemew’s Eve massacre. She would be sorely missed.

  As if being plunged once more into mourning was not enough hardship, yet another malicious rumour began circulating that one of Margot’s ladies, a Madame de Thorigny, was said to be exercising an evil influence over her. The King issued an order that she must be dismissed.

  ‘What sort of influence? What is it he accuses her of?’ Margot wearily asked Madame de Curton when her companion broke this unpleasant news to her.

  ‘I do not know how to explain it, or what words to use,’ the poor woman said, her cheeks flushed bright crimson with embarrassment.

  Margot sighed. ‘Say it quickly, Lottie. However unpleasant, be assured no blame will be attached to you. I know the root of this mischief.’

  ‘Well, they are saying that you and she are engaged in . . . are excessive fond of . . . that you hold a particular affection for her and . . .’

  ‘Stop!’ Margot was aghast. ‘Are you saying that I am now being accused of having a love affair with one of my ladies-in-waiting?’ She did not need to wait for Lottie’s nod of agreement; she saw the answer in the flame of scarlet in the old woman’s usuall
y pale, faded cheeks.

  Margot burst out laughing. It seemed essential to see the funny side, or she might well go mad with fury. But really it was no laughing matter, as she could not bear to lose such a good friend. She went at once to her husband, but sadly, on this occasion, he was unable to help her.

  ‘I agree it is all a nonsense, Margot, but Henri is the King. If he says that I must dismiss Madame de Thorigny, then I have no choice but to obey. Let us be glad that is all he demands. Be thankful it is no worse. If du Guast ever convinces him we are plotting against him, then he’ll be calling for our heads.’

  It was not a comforting prospect.

  Henri watched with sullen disapproval the strong friendship that was evident between the King and Queen of Navarre and the Duke of Alençon. He saw it as an attempt to undermine his power, was deeply afraid of where it might lead, and therefore sought any opportunity to divide the parties.

  ‘Your mother suggests we use Madame de Sauves,’ du Guast quietly remarked one day, as he massaged his master’s elegant hands with perfumed oil.

  ‘My sister is the cement that holds it together,’ Henri railed. ‘I hoped to create a coolness between Margot and Navarre; then we might start to get somewhere. Unfortunately, they remain good friends, not in the least jealous of each other.’

  Du Guast’s lips curled upward in the parody of a smile. ‘I could urge Madame de Sauves to strive harder at creating jealousy and dispute between this triumvirate, to convince Navarre that his wife is not only jealous, but plotting against him. Neither Navarre nor Alençon have been faithful to the lady. We need her to inflame their passions afresh so that they can think of nought but her, desire her to such an extent that they become violently jealous of each other. Trust me, Sire, I will speak to de Sauves, and ensure she uses every artifice at her disposal to bring this about.’