The Hostage Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Oh, I do trust you, Louis, with my life. Pray stroke my head, I swear it aches from all of this worry.’ And Henri lay prostrate on the bed while his favourite tended to his needs.

  Henry of Navarre lay contentedly in his bed, his mistress, Charlotte de Sauves, curled seductively by his side. He met her each morning at the Queen Mother’s lever, due to her role as a lady of the robes, and spent as much of the rest of the day with her as he possibly could, only returning to the matrimonial bed very late at night.

  The courtesan was draped across the bed in a silk robe de chambre that was very nearly transparent, and in Henry’s view she looked absolutely delicious. He kissed her full generous mouth and told her so.

  ‘How would I tolerate being penned up in this royal prison were it not for you? For years I have barely been allowed to go out, hunt, joust, or take part in any of the pursuits which keep a gentleman amused without a guard by my side. And even now that the King has granted me liberty, or so he claims, I am still closely watched.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘But here, with you, I am not under scrutiny. With you I can be myself.’ He fondled her breasts, the peak of each nipple excitingly erect beneath her filmy gown.

  Charlotte arched her back, moaning softly as he pushed the thin fabric aside and began to caress the soft mound of her belly and the delightful triangle beneath. She nipped at his shoulder with her pretty teeth, raked her fingernails across his back as he mounted her, and gasped with joy as he penetrated her yet again.

  His energy always astonished her, even if his foreplay might leave something to be desired. Guise was a more imaginative lover, but his visits were rare. He too had a wife, and still yearned after Queen Margot, much to Charlotte’s irritation.

  Now, as she bucked and churned beneath Margot’s husband, attempting to ignite him to greater passion, as du Guast had instructed, she gazed up at the ceiling, idly tracing the swirling patterns painted in Italian fashion on the wooden beams. Even as she gave a sterling performance in the art of love, Charlotte was secretly bored, mentally assessing how soon she could escape and if she could lure Guise into her bed later.

  Yet she smiled to herself, knowing that so skilled was she in artifice that Navarre believed she preferred him above all her other lovers, and never felt neglected. Men were so easy to please, so long as you had the sophistication and the experience.

  His hands were cupping her buttocks, smoothing up and down the silky planes of her back, lifting her against him. She offered him her mouth and he claimed it with almost brutal force, as if all the demons of hell were clamouring for his soul. The poor man was highly charged with frustration, having been penned up, as he called it, so long between these four walls.

  She sighed with a mix of relief and pleasure when finally he reached his climax, shifted his weight from her and lay sweating by her side.

  ‘Does your darling wife give you half so much pleasure?’ Charlotte teased, and Navarre gave a throaty chuckle.

  ‘I never compare my women. They all have their own individual charms.’

  Charlotte rolled over on to her side, pretending to pout as she trailed a finger down his naked chest. ‘Are you saying that you have other mistresses, besides me? How ungallant! Tell me, I want to know.’

  ‘If I have, they would never match your fire, my sweet. There, does that satisfy you? And do not you also have other lovers? Who do you lie with, my brother-in-law?’

  Charlotte languorously rose from the bed and went over to admire her reflection in the Venetian looking glass, her gown slipping from her silken shoulders. She tweaked a curl into place, smoothed a caressing hand over the firmness of her breasts, the trim line of her slender body. ‘Perhaps I prefer him to you? What do you say to that?’ She pivoted on her heel, swirling about to cast him a teasing glance and, with a rumble of barely restrained fury, Navarre reached out, grabbed the hem of her gown and dragged her squealing back into bed.

  ‘You vixen, I hate to be bested, but then the Duke is a friend, so I will forgive him.’

  Charlotte almost ground her teeth in fury, even as she smiled. Why was he not even the slightest bit jealous of the time she spent with Alençon? The King of Navarre was far too casual in his approach to love, and she had been instructed that it was her task to change that in him.

  ‘It does not surprise me if you feel the need to have other women in your bed, as your wife neglects you shamefully. Not only that, but she cuckolds you with her many lovers.’

  Navarre laughed, stretching his limbs, feeling relaxed and sated. ‘Not so many as her enemies claim, and I have no objection to Margot finding pleasure and affection where she will. As do I.’

  De Sauves gazed at him out of wide innocent eyes. ‘And you do not even mind that she betrays your confidences, that she tells all your business to her brother the King?’

  Navarre became very still. ‘What are you saying?’

  Charlotte put a delicate hand to her mouth in feigned dismay. ‘Oh, dear, perhaps I have spoken out of turn.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but the ladies of the robe do so love to chatter. Word gets about.’

  ‘The entire court is a hothouse of gossip,’ Navarre growled. ‘What is it they are saying?’

  ‘That Queen Margot is duplicitous and has betrayed all your private business, your amourettes, your plans for the future and hopes of returning to your homeland. She is very much in her brother’s pocket.’

  Navarre’s eyes narrowed, trying to follow this, which didn’t sound at all like his wife. ‘Nonsense, Margot has no fondness for the King.’

  ‘But he holds sway over her. Are you quite certain you can trust her?’

  Seeing the doubt in his face Charlotte at once burst into tears. ‘Oh, dear, it is all because she is jealous of me, isn’t it? She told me that you no longer love me, that she means to poison your mind against me. I believe she wants to oust me from your life, and I swear I could not bear it if she succeeded.’

  Navarre, ever the perfect knight who hated to see a woman cry, was devastated to see his delightful mistress so upset, and must needs console her and make love to her all over again.

  But he thought a good deal on what she had told him, and as she repeated the claim each and every time they met over the next few days, he began to think that there might well be some truth in the rumour after all. Certainly no harm would be done by exercising a little more caution.

  Margot was alarmed to discover that, quite out of the blue, her husband suddenly stopped speaking to her. He became distant and reserved. Instead of being his usual open and friendly self, happily confiding his conquests to her as if with a much-loved sister, he began studiously to avoid her company. He stopped coming to her bed, which infuriated her all the more, despite the number of occasions she had complained about his unwashed feet, or the odour of his garlic-tainted breath.

  When she tackled him on this odd behaviour he coldly informed her that she no longer held his trust.

  ‘I have been reliably informed that you have betrayed my confidences to the King, and to the Queen your mother, relating all that has passed between us.’

  ‘Reliably informed by whom?’

  ‘It will not do, Margot.’

  ‘It is a wicked lie!’ She fervently denied the accusation but he simply walked away.

  The following morning as she left the Queen’s lever, Charlotte de Sauves smilingly whispered her condolences to Margot for the loss of her husband’s favour.

  ‘These lies are du Guast’s doing, and yours.’

  Charlotte put back her elegant head and let out a trill of laughter, although the merry sound of it was tinged with acid. ‘Rumour is rife. Do you imagine your husband isn’t fully aware why you pay such frequent visits to your brother’s apartments? You’re entranced by a certain gallant by the name of Bussy.’

  The sheer effrontery of the woman struck Margot dumb. Not for a moment would she admit the truth to this malicious, manipulative strumpet. Since coming to
Paris she had indeed seen more of Bussy d’Amboise. Her excuse was that she could hardly avoid him, since he was First Gentleman to Alençon, and she was in and out of her younger brother’s apartments all day. But even had he not been so accessible, she would have sought him out. He was handsome, daring, audacious, master of the sword fight, and, most of all, fun!

  Margot lifted her chin high. ‘Bussy formerly worked for the King, and His Majesty is annoyed that he’s chosen to leave his service and devote himself to my brother, who regards him highly. Which does not surprise me for there is none to compare with Bussy d’Amboise for valour, reputation, grace and wit. Du Guast would seek any way to hurt him, and me, out of pure vengeance. Yet I have spread no lies or mischief against my husband.’

  Charlotte coolly smiled. ‘But is it any wonder that he believes you have? He is convinced you are less innocent than you profess, when you willingly flaunt this relationship, causing him great distress.’

  Margot couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I believe it would take someone with more skills than I to cause my husband any distress over my supposed intimacies with “a certain gallant”, whether the rumours be true or false. We have a measure of agreement, he and I, which suits us both very well. Nor should you imagine that I feel any jealousy over your own dalliance with noste Enric. I suggest you’ll find it a waste of your valuable time to attempt to cause dissension between us on that score.’

  Charlotte’s tone was now that of a spitting cat. ‘I suggest to you, Madame, that you concern yourself with your own affairs, and keep your long Valois nose out of mine.’

  ‘No, indeed, you are the one who must take care,’ Margot snapped, and quitted the Queen’s ante-chamber, slamming the door behind her.

  She went at once to her brother, for it was very evident that where once they’d taken their rivalry in good part, now they were increasingly at loggerheads. De Sauves had cleverly made each of the men think they were of first importance to her, and had created dissent between them.

  Alençon, however, refused to listen.

  ‘On all other matters you heed my advice, why not this?’ Margot cried.

  ‘I will not be ruled by my sister on who I choose to be my mistress.’

  Margot wondered if he was perhaps becoming rather full of his own importance, now that he was next in line to the throne. As heir he should properly be addressed as Monsieur, although most of his friends continued to call him Alençon, herself included.

  ‘Can you not see that you are both being used? She is creating disaffection as a means to ruin the friendship between you and Enric, a fact you have long sworn never to let happen.’

  But no matter what she said, Alençon remained unmoved by her pleas. It was clear that he was utterly besotted, the fascination too strong, and all Margot’s arguments proved useless.

  Navarre was sitting at his desk about to write to a friend, chewing on the end of his quill pen and wondering how to describe his concerns. There was increasing tension at court, and dissension between the different factions seemed to be growing ever more dangerous. Nerves were tested, which frequently led to sword fights and skirmishes.

  One evening, aware that Alençon was with Madame de Sauves, Navarre had waited for him, and when Alençon had emerged from her apartment, he’d pretended to be just passing by and had ‘accidentally’ knocked the Duke in the eye with the hilt of his sword, leaving it badly bruised.

  When they’d met the following morning, Navarre had attempted to look sympathetic. ‘Why, mon dieu, what is the matter with your eye? What a bruise! How did you come by it?’

  ‘It is nothing,’ the Duke had brusquely responded, and brandishing his sword dangerously close to Navarre’s throat, had hissed furiously at him, ‘If anybody says that I got it where you think I did, I will make him deny it.’

  It had taken several courtiers, who happened to be present, to prevent a fight which might well have ended in the death one of them. And this despite their pledge to Margot to remain united.

  Navarre was beginning to sense that he may have misjudged his wife and was rather regretting his coldness towards her. He had no idea whether she was currently engaged in an affaire, nor did he greatly care. Generally speaking, they rubbed along surprisingly well, and she’d shown little sign of jealousy over his own notorious infidelity, beyond bruised pride. She’d gently bullied him into improving his manners and etiquette, and taught him much about how to survive in the French Court, not least how to keep his head on his shoulders.

  Despite their petty squabbles, he did not believe she would ever betray him to the King, whom she despised. Did she not have every reason to want to keep their triumvirate strong, if only to protect her precious young brother?

  She believed that du Guast and Henri were guilty of plotting unfounded mischief, and of using de Sauves to bring them all down. It was certainly true that Charlotte, who was a born coquette, loved nothing better than to play off one lover against the other. There had been several occasions lately when she’d annoyed him by fawning over Alençon in his presence. Could Margot be right? Was that a deliberate ploy? Not that he’d been any more faithful to the delectable Charlotte than she was with him. Perhaps he was growing bored with her, and she seemed to be less available these days.

  Navarre began to write: ‘This court is the strangest place on earth. We are nearly always ready to cut each other’s throats. We carry daggers, wear coats of mail and often a cuirass beneath a cape . . . All the band you know wants my death on account of my love for the Duke . . . They say they will kill me, and I want to be one jump ahead of them.’

  But it was not in fact Navarre who they attempted to kill.

  Margot was resting in her apartment at the Louvre when news reached her that her lover had been attacked. One of her brother’s gentlemen, an Italian, who was one of the party, came running for help, dripping blood from an open wound in his shoulder.

  ‘Bussy is attacked!’ he shouted, and Margot went white with shock. ‘We were set upon by a score of armed guards, the sword fight fast and furious. I know not if he is safe.’

  Alençon joined Margot and was all for setting out there and then to defend his First Gentleman, but the Queen Mother, who had also responded to the call, urged him not to risk his life.

  ‘It is full dark, and you are ignorant of where the attack took place, or the nature of it. Your life is too precious to me, my son. See how many children I have lost already, and you are the heir apparent. You must not go.’

  ‘But if we do nothing Bussy may lose his life. I cannot stand by and let him die.’

  Alençon was all for ignoring her orders, even though Margot added her own pleas to those of her mother. But Catherine was so determined to protect her son that she had all the doors securely barred, refusing to allow him to leave. The Duke had to be content with sending a contingent of his men, who returned some hours later to report that Bussy had thankfully escaped unscathed.

  ‘Hampered as he was with an injured right arm tied up in a silvery-grey scarf loaned to him by yourself, good lady, he nevertheless stood his ground and fought hard, defending himself with commendable skill. ‘Would you fight a fellow with only one arm?’ he cried, unable to believe, even as he parried and thrust, that this could be a serious attack. But when one of his colleagues, who wore a similar scarf, took a sword thrust through the stomach that killed him instantly, Bussy realized the assault did indeed have mortal intent. Unable to defend himself properly, he took refuge in a doorway, found it to be unlocked, and slipped quietly inside to escape by a back entrance.’

  ‘Praise God for providence,’ Margot breathed.

  Next morning, the intended victim came striding into the Louvre, his usual daredevil self, grinning from ear to ear as if he had endured nothing more taxing than a joust at a tournament. He was eager to prove by his solid presence that he had indeed defeated his enemies.

  Margot almost fainted with relief. ‘This is the work of du Guast,’ she cried, longing to enfold him in her arms
but dare not to do so before the curious gaze of her brother and his entourage. Normally she snapped her fingers at public opinion, cared not a jot what anyone might think of her, but today, with Bussy having come within a whisker of death, discretion seemed the better part of valour. ‘At least you are safe,’ she said, her smile radiant.

  But she spoke too soon, for moments later the room filled with armed guards and he was arrested. She cried out in his defence but her lover was marched away, as was her brother. In fear, trembling, she waited anxiously for what might happen next. Was this to be a repeat of that earlier incident? Would she soon be seeing poor Bussy’s head roll as La Molle’s and Coconnas’s had done? How would she endure it?

  The pair were held in prison for several days before Catherine, who was weary of the foolish squabble, finally persuaded Henri that there was no plot, no intrigue against him, merely foolish jealousy, and that he should settle for dismissing the miscreant from court.

  The pair were released and Bussy banished to his estates. The dashing young courtier left on a note of defiance, flaunting Margot’s favour in his hat, accompanied on his journey by the highest noblemen in her brother’s service.

  The Queen Mother, who harboured no bourgeois principles or moralistic disapproval, caring only that a love affair not turn into political intrigue against the crown, ordered her daughter to be more discreet in future. And although Margot would miss her lover, she sighed with relief that at least this way he would keep his head.

  But the incident proved that she might never be free to have friends, or a lover, simply because of the King’s paranoia over possible intrigue against him.

  Only days later, Navarre fell ill. Fearing for her husband’s life, Margot painstakingly nursed him back to health, just as she had done once before. Terrified of the morceau Italianizé, she personally prepared his food, bringing him warm possets and beef broth to tempt his appetite, allowing no one but herself to feed him.