The Hostage Queen (14 page)

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 long-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 panic 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 beautiful young bride was dressed in a gown of silver set with pearls, a cloak of purple embroidered with fleur-de-lys flowing from her slender shoulders, and with a jewelled crown upon her fair hair she looked enchanting. Even Catherine left off her customary black to display herself in a gown of gold brocade for this special occasion. Anjou and Alençon did their best to outshine everyone with their jewelled brilliance, but Paris fell in love with Elisabeth’s fragile blonde beauty at first sight.

Margot was equally enraptured by the girl’s sweetness and calm, and Elisabeth marvelled at her sister-in-law’s exuberance and beauty. They were a perfect foil for each other and became firm friends. The Princess proved to be devout, fresh and unspoiled, and with a quiet, loving nature, content with her lot, she was smiling happily the morning after her wedding night.

Catherine sighed with relief, although aware that Charles had his gentle, sensitive side and none of his brother’s perversions, one could never be absolutely certain of him. She now turned her attention to her beloved Anjou, offering him to Elizabeth I of England in place of Charles. Ever the consummate diplomat, Elizabeth pretended to give the matter her serious attention, for all their age difference was considerable, she being thirty-seven to his nineteen years.

Anjou himself was less enamoured of the proposal, seeing the virgin Queen not only as old but a heretic, and possibly illegitimate. His passion was still for Renée de Châteauneuf, whom he absolutely adored, albeit in a romantic, poetic fashion. But he was content to play the game and wrote many letters filled with flowery phrases and gushing compliments to the English Queen’s beauty. When nothing came of them, he soon grew bored. In despair, Catherine offered her youngest son, François-Hercule, the Duke of Alençon, to the English Queen instead, and Elizabeth diplomatically considered him, too, despite the fact he was even younger and far less prepossessing.