The Hostage Queen (13 page)

‘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.

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.