The Hostage Queen (15 page)

Christmas at court passed with its customary merry-making and feasting, although Margot could not bring herself to appreciate its joys. She wept quietly at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve as she remembered her lost love, nor did she have much appetite for the dinner of oysters, foie gras, and traditional bûche de Noël that followed
.
She kept thinking how much more fun it would have been had Guise been by her side, as he used to be, and dare not allow her mind to dwell on what he might at this moment be engaged in with his new bride.

The banquet seemed endless, dragging on for hour upon hour until the moment when the entire court processed with great ceremony to a withdrawing room so that the servants and lower orders could partake of their own meal in the main hall.

While the courtiers enjoyed dessert, wafers, and spiced wine, known as the void, and were entertained with carols sung by the choir, in which the King himself took part, Margot escaped the hubbub to lie on her bed and weep into her pillow.

Twelve days of feasting followed and she hated every one of them. Catherine was as jovial as ever, laughing at the puppet shows and applauding the actors in the mystery plays. In normal times Margot herself might have acted in one, or written the lines, but this year she took no part, her heart too bruised for celebrating.

In the New Year she was called to the Queen Mother’s cabinet and at last given news of her fate.

Margot was outraged. ‘You mean to marry me to that oaf, to that clod-hopper of a provincial? A Huguenot? How can you ask that of me? Have you forgotten that I am a Catholic?’

‘Would you defy me?’

‘How could I, when your will is mine?’ Margot instantly responded, her usual clever reply which irritated her mother rather than offering the obedience she demanded.

It did not trouble Catherine in the slightest that Navarre was the son of her old enemy, and a Huguenot. Metaphorically speaking, the Queen Mother would climb into bed with anyone, so long as it brought wealth and peace to the nation, and added to her own power.

The King had readily signed the Peace Treaty, the Queen Mother quietly reminding him that he would need her support to enforce it. For all his feebleness of mind and body, the boy was growing in independence, but Catherine had no intention of letting go the reins of her regency just yet. She had not forgotten the agreement she’d made with Alva in Bayonne all those years ago, and much as she needed peace for France, if the two religions could not co-exist peacefully side by side, then more drastic measures would indeed be called for.

She’d written to Jeanne twice in recent months, asking her to come to court to discuss the proposed match, and to bring her son with her. The Queen of Navarre, however, was proving to be highly suspicious, and so far had refused. Admittedly, it was not in the woman’s nature to be greedy for a crown, however tempting the prospect.

Now Catherine made an attempt to reassure her daughter. ‘You would not be obliged to embrace his faith; rather I hope the opposite will be the case, given time and the right degree of persuasion.’

Margot was close to tears remembering what she’d lost: her brave, handsome chevalier, so gallant, so exciting. ‘Navarre doesn’t wash enough, his hair sticks out like an old brush, and he stinks of sweat and garlic.’

‘I shall ensure that when he arrives, he is cleansed, groomed and combed before being brought to you.’

‘Nor do I relish a mother-in-law as austere and Puritan as Jeanne d’Albret.’ Margot loved her life in the French Court, as well as being the subject of great admiration for her burgeoning beauty. She did not welcome the prospect of living in some far-flung rural backwater, let alone one ruled by thrift, modesty and sober piety. That was not the Valois way.

‘The boy has turned seventeen, long past time he cut his mother’s leading strings,’ Catherine agreed, failing to see the irony of her own words. ‘He’s a good looking, amiable young man. I quite warmed to the boy when he lived with us here at court.’

‘He is a fool! A nincompoop! Nothing but a capricious flirt, always chasing some light of love.’

‘Then I should think the pair of you will suit each other well.’

Margot burst into tears.

‘There, there, you know I wish only for your happiness, dear daughter,’ Catherine soothed, with weary insincerity. ‘You claim my will is yours in this issue of your marriage, and the union will bring much-needed peace.’

Margot dashed away her tears, furious at her own weakness. How many times had she heard her mother claim that this, that, or the other action would put an end to these dratted religious wars? ‘Peace, you say, when will France ever have that? And what of Philip of Spain? He would not welcome such a marriage.’

It was certainly true that King Philip had expressed extreme displeasure over the peace treaty, at what he judged to be complete surrender to the Protestant cause. Catherine still feared war with Spain above everything, and could only hope that such a risk could be avoided, if she took proper care. She would also need a special dispensation from the Pope as the pair were third cousins. Catherine didn’t see this as a problem either.

‘I am sure we can circumnavigate any possible difficulties from that quarter. As things stand at present the Court of La Rochelle is being run almost as a separate country, within the bounds of our own great nation, heedless to our laws and the will of our monarch. This marriage would go a long way towards consolidating peace for our realm, child. It is your duty to the King, and to France, to bring it about.’

‘And presumably you would also gain the Kingdom of Navarre,’ Margot dryly remarked.

Catherine allowed herself a small smile. ‘We would indeed. Now I’d quite forgotten that. Which might well prove to be a useful defence against Spain, since the territory sits upon the border between our two nations.’

Margot was fully aware that the strategic position of Navarre and Béarn had always been a part of the bargain, despite the Queen pretending otherwise. She loathed the very idea of this marriage, felt ill-used by her mother and brother, but was numb with grief over losing Guise, far too emotionally battered to resist any longer. There wasn’t an ounce of fight left in her. Besides, it was impossible to defy her. Didn’t Catherine of Medici always get her way in the end?

When the Queen of Navarre received an invitation to go to Blois and discuss the wedding of her son to the Princess Marguerite, she couldn’t bring herself to accept. Much as she longed to see Henry happily settled and secure, and such a union would undoubtedly strengthen his claim to the throne of France, yet she held back. Jeanne still didn’t trust her old enemy. She remembered too well how Catherine had led her own husband, Antoine, by the nose with one of her notorious Flying Squadron. Might she not do the same with her son?

On the same day that Elisabeth was crowned at Saint-Denis at the end of March, a rather more modest, typically Calvinist affair was taking place in La Rochelle. Coligny was marrying for a second time to a lovely new bride.

Jacqueline d’Entremonts was a young widow who had long admired the fifty-year-old Admiral, and, hearing that he had become sad and lonely after losing his wife and son, and brother Andelot, she’d let him know of her affection for him. He’d resisted her advances at first, because of their age difference, but she’d won him over in the end, and the pair had fallen in love. Now they were man and wife and none could be happier.

Jeanne wept to see their joy and, kissing them both, wished them many long years of happiness together. Following the ceremony, Coligny knelt before Henry and asked for his blessing. The young Prince took a drawn sword and dubbed him Knight. Téligny, who was about to become Coligny’s son-in-law, buckled a pair of golden spurs on to the old warlord, and set a golden helmet on his head.

‘Never had a man greater friends, or truer loyalty,’ Coligny cried.

But the joy of the day was marred by news from England that his brother, Cardinal Odet, who had been intending to join them in their celebrations at La Rochelle, had died at the pilgrims’ lodge in Canterbury in mysterious circumstances. Was this another case of death by poison? If so, then who was responsible? Surely not Catherine, now that they had the Peace Treaty and she was seeking a marriage for her daughter Marguerite. Would she take such a risk? Or was dispatching another member of his family her way of reminding Coligny of her power, should he refuse to lend his support to her wishes?

More likely the perpetrator was Guise. That family still possessed a strong desire for revenge over the death of the leader of their House, Le Balafré. But whoever was the perpetrator, there was every reason to take care.

Catherine was sitting sat at her writing table reading
her correspondence when she was
brusquely interrupted by Marie Touchet, who came running unannounced into her privy chamber. ‘Your Majesty, forgive me, but I beg you to come to the King at once. He hides in terror in his bed, refusing to rise, convinced that the wrath of God is about to strike him dead at any moment.’

Catherine leaped to her feet in great alarm, knowing the King’s mistress, inoffensive as the girl was, would never intrude upon her unless it were urgent. ‘Why, what has happened?’

‘He has received a missive from his Holiness the Pope, and it has struck the fear of God into him. I have never seen him in such a state. This time I truly fear for his sanity.’

Together, the two women hurried to Charles’s bedchamber which they found in great disarray, chairs and tables stacked up against windows and doors as if to barricade it against some imagined demons. The young King himself was huddled shivering behind his bed curtains, his gaunt face ashen, his golden eyes like black coals in his head, flecks of foam at his mouth as he screamed at some poor page to bring him his bible and his rosary. ‘And a priest. I must have a priest. I must be shriven.’

Catherine could never remember seeing the fragile young King in such a lather of terror. ‘My son, my son. Calm yourself, I pray. See, Marie is here, and I, your mother. What has upset you so?’

Charles flung a crumpled letter at her. ‘It is from His Holiness. Read it, read it! France is doomed! I am doomed! Is it because my nurse is Huguenot, and my beloved Marie the daughter of one? I have always tried to be more sympathetic of their cause than most. Is this the price I must pay?’

Catherine’s heart sank as she read the letter, and saw at once why Charles was in such a dreadful state.

In it the Pope repeated his urge for strong action against the Huguenots, calling for their destruction. ‘Let Your Majesty take for example, and never lose sight of, what happened to Saul, King of Israel. He had received the orders of God, by the mouth of the prophet Samuel, to fight and to exterminate the infidel Amalekites . . . But he did not obey the will and the voice of God . . . Therefore he was deprived of his throne and his life.’

‘You see how he likens me to Saul?’ screamed the King, in great agitation. ‘I could lose my throne, my crown, even my life! What am I to do? What does His Holiness ask of me?’

Catherine stifled a sigh. In her view, the words of Pius V could not have been more clear, although she
privately wished that the Holy Father would confine such dramatic remarks to herself, who was robust enough to take them.
His letters to her were far more plain speaking, to the point almost of callousness. He frequently chastised her for failing to curb the Huguenot advance, offering his assistance, and that of heaven, in order to root out the heretics. But then he understood her practical nature, as well as her power over her son.

The plan growing in her mind was becoming firmer by the hour, and the King must be brought round to it, little by little. Catherine calmly regarded her son as he chewed on his finger nails, weeping and wailing like a demented child.

‘We must do as the Pope commands, my son. We must rid the land of Huguenots, sparing no one. They are the ones at fault, not you. We cannot allow them to hide away in La Rochelle challenging our realm with their rival religion.’

And to make her point, she continued to read out loud from the Pope’s letter. ‘
By this example, God has wished to teach all kings that to neglect the vengeance of outrages done to Him is to provoke His wrath and indignation against themselves.’

Charles let out another wail of anguish and buried his head under his pillow. Marie was beside him in a second, her arms tight about her lover in protection.

Catherine was unmoved, her firm resolve all too apparent in the cool tone of her voice.
What was it Alva had said? ‘
The head of one salmon is worth the heads of a thousand frogs.
’