The Hostage Queen (25 page)

Seeing him nervously glance over his shoulder, she smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s all right, we are quite alone. Anjou, or the King of Poland as we must now learn to address him, is talking with the Queen Mother in her privy chamber. You can speak freely.’

Alençon continued, although carefully keeping his voice low. ‘I am as delighted as Charles by the imminent departure of Henri to Poland, and have already put in a request to take over the post of Lieutenant-General when he leaves.’

‘I’m not sure that will be granted,’ Margot tactfully warned, all too aware of Anjou’s duplicity in assuring the boy of his support in this request, whilst urging Charles to the contrary.

An excitement now crept into Alençon’s voice. ‘There’s talk of a new party being formed, a league which goes by the name of Les Politiques, who believe in toleration and religious freedom rather than following the strict tenets of the reformed church. They are not yet very strong, but when they are, I hope they will accept me as their leader, which would improve my standing in this ongoing conflict that afflicts our family, as well as on the wider political stage.’

Margot frowned as she considered this startling news. ‘I have no problem with tolerance and moderation, but what is your plan?’

‘I am already engaged in secret talks with the Huguenots, who are desperately in need of more leaders. They believe, with the help of the German Reiters, they can conquer the Netherlands.’

‘Coligny tried and failed.’

‘We may be more successful next time. This would be my first step towards independence, which would ultimately lead to my being declared King of Flanders.’

Margot was momentarily lost for words. It sounded a highly dangerous undertaking, yet never able to resist an adventure herself she did not blame him for dreaming of a crown. This neglected young man deserved something of his own. Even his name, François-Hercule, was an echo of his elder brother, François II. He was eighteen years old and surely had a right to some independence, and a future that was not despoiled by a manic King or the perverted tastes of Anjou.

‘You think it a hopeless task,’ he said, reading her silence as a condemnation.

‘No, no, I would not presume to comment on the possible success of your mission, and I do most certainly wish you well in it.’ Whereupon, she put her arms about this young brother of hers with his pock-marked face, so often referred to as the runt of the litter, and hugged him close. ‘Be assured that so long as you bring no harm to our brother the King, whom I also love, you have my full support.’

‘I knew you would understand, Margot. I need to prove myself, to get out from under our mother’s thumb and escape the claustrophobic confines of the Louvre. Together with the rest of the court we will shortly be escorting the new King of Poland on the start of his journey, and I may never find a better opportunity to make my escape. The Huguenots have troops waiting at Champagne and I wish to join them.’

‘As does Enric.’ Their gazes locked, Margot’s eyes bright at the prospect of fresh intrigue. Seconds later she was on her feet. ‘Come, let us talk to Navarre. He may have a plan.’

Catherine could hardly bear to consider the prospect of parting with her adored son. Delighted as she was for him to be elected as King of Poland and gain a crown, she would have welcomed any delay in the hope that a better one might soon present itself.

Having accepted the burden of responsibility for the massacre, as Sovereign of the realm, Charles seemed to be dying, piece by piece, before her very eyes. His depression and state of health gave Catherine grave cause for concern. She might not love him as she did Anjou, but she had stood by his side as regent since first he became King at the age of ten, and cared for him in her way.

The events of that terrible week had affected him badly. Many involved in the massacre had gone mad, fallen into a deep melancholy, or taken their own lives. The people of Paris blamed her, naturally. They said the Italian woman had sought revenge for her continued unpopularity. Not that their hatred troubled Catherine in the slightest. She was used to it.

‘All the evils of the Kingdom are imputed upon me,’ she would say to her ladies, as if it were a merry jape.

A book had been published claiming to tell the story of her life, listing all the murders and vile deeds for which she was deemed responsible. The author was a Huguenot, and Catherine had one of her women read it to her each evening, enjoying it hugely.

‘If they’d given me notice I could have told them so much more,’ she chortled with her easy humour, rattling the stone devils on her bracelet.

‘Even the Catholics are reading it and believing it,’ warned her ladies.

‘Let them, I care nought for public opinion.’

Another of her lies. The great Catherine de Medici cared very much what the world thought of her.

She knew Charles was still frantically writing letters, almost as a means of seeking absolution for the crimes, although the response he received was not encouraging. The views of foreign monarchs on what had taken place on St Bartholomew’s Eve were mixed. Philip of Spain, still fighting a religious war in the Low Countries, applauded the vile deeds perpetrated, as did the Vatican, which had no quarrel with exterminating those who refused obedience to the authority of the Holy See.

Maximilian II, father of Charles’s young Queen, took a rather different stance. Officially he maintained a marked silence on the matter, although Elisabeth had admitted that in private he described the act as the most abominable that could have been committed.

England had been appalled by the news, so much so that Queen Elizabeth had apparently refused to receive the ambassador sent by the French Court to explain and apologize for the massacre. When at length the man was finally admitted to her presence, Elizabeth had received him dressed in full mourning.

The woman was a consummate actress, Catherine thought, with venom in her heart.

Charles seemed to grow weaker by the day. There had been moments when she’d feared that the end was nigh, but the imminent departure of his brother appeared to have quite lifted his flagging spirit. The bad feeling that still existed between her sons had grown ever more poisonous, the jealous rivalry now turning to bitter hatred.

Catherine was at least thankful that the King did not possess an heir, his infant son having died and the new child Elisabeth had recently borne him was a girl, to be named after herself. The way was clear for her beloved Anjou to return and claim his rightful inheritance, when the moment came, as it surely would.

Yet despite everything, she had failed to quash the Huguenots, who seemed to be growing bolder, continuing to make outrageous demands. They had defeated Anjou by holding La Rochelle, his military desire for glory apparently a thing of the past. Even the women had fought alongside the men, pouring boiling pitch from the battlements down upon the royal troops, and bombarding them with stones. A form of peace had finally come early this summer, and liberty of worship was allowed in La Rochelle, Nîmes and Montauban, plus a few other small concessions. More than enough, in Catherine’s opinion.

As for Navarre, who knew what went on in that young man’s head? Although he loved pleasure and dalliance as much as did her own darling Anjou, Catherine could not help but admire the fact that he never brought shame upon his status, nor took part in the more frivolous and depraved revelries which so appealed to her favourite son. Navarre loved to play the fool but no one could be entirely sure what private thoughts went on behind the mischievous glint of those Gascon eyes. Could she trust him? Only time would tell.

Henry, King of Navarre, was in torment. He felt entirely responsible for the deaths of his friends and comrades. He should never have come to Paris, never have agreed to this marriage in the first place. He had given them his word that no harm would come to them, believing the assurances he had received from Catherine and from the King. How could he have been so naïve, so stupid?

It was hard to guess how much of the massacre had been pre-planned, but he suspected that, even if the Queen Mother had never intended for it to spread quite so rapidly and terribly as it had, she’d planned the death of Coligny in advance, and possibly those of the other leaders as well. Navarre was devastated by the atrocities, by the losses inflicted upon the Protestants that night. His cousin Condé was likewise in a sorry state, sunk deep in a fit of melancholy, not even certain he could hold on to the wife he so worshipped and adored.

Yet not for a moment did Henry allow his panic, his abiding fear for his own safety to reveal itself either in his manner or his expression. He remained resolutely cheerful, full of vitality and good humour, kept up the façade of affable fool, the merry, good-natured chap, which indeed he was at heart. A card he now played for all it was worth, for his very life depended upon it.

Let them imagine that he was too stupid to recognize the danger. Let them think he was like the Queen Mother with no heart, caring for no one but himself. Yet, unlike her, he had no real desire for power, only his freedom. He remained alert to every nuance, for any possibility of a way out of this disaster. He obligingly accepted the Mass, made an official apology to the Pope and, most difficult of all, conceded that his home kingdom of Béarn must return to Catholicism. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

So when Margot came to him with Alençon to discuss their future, he was more than ready to listen, and join in their plans.

A day or two later Margot was shocked to discover from one of her ladies that word of their plan had leaked out. She went straight to Charles, and the Queen Mother. Falling on her knees, she begged them not to punish the persons she was about to name; otherwise she could not reveal what she knew. ‘No harm must come to them. You can easily put a stop to this folly without revealing how you came by the knowledge of it.’

Catherine exchanged a speaking glance with her son, who seemed confused and indecisive, as always. ‘We agree. Speak, child. What is it you have learned?’

Margot told all, again begging her mother to excuse their folly. ‘My brother is desperate for an adventure, and my husband is simply anxious to return to his homeland. They cannot be blamed, and they meant no harm to the King.’

For once Catherine kept her word, and without ever informing either her son-in-law or her troublesome younger son how she had come to hear of their plot, she simply informed them that they would not, after all, be accompanying the royal party to Blamont. They would remain in the Louvre, where they would be ‘safe’. And since the Queen Mother’s word could not be disputed, they were obliged to accept that their plan had failed.

Margot was relieved that they never did hear her part in the failure of their scheme, and at least she’d been successful in ensuring that no harm came to them. What she didn’t foresee, and perhaps should have allowed for, considering her own personal experience, was the devious nature of her mother’s mind.

Catherine was furious, not only by the sheer audacity of the plot, but the fact that no word of it had reached her ears. Had Margot not panicked and revealed all to her, she might never have heard of the plan, which could well have succeeded. Such an occurrence must never be allowed to happen again. Consequently, she sent for one of her Escadron Volant, whom she received alone in her privy chamber.

The Queen Mother was seated in her most comfortable chair, veiled and gowned in her usual regal black as the young woman stood quivering before her. She did not invite her to sit.

Charlotte de Sauves was not only young but very beautiful and, some might say, a rather silly member of that delightful bevy of ladies of the robes and maids of honour whom Catherine employed to further her schemes. Now just twenty-three years old, at the age of seventeen she had become the wife of Simon de Fizes, Baron de Sauves, who had been secretary at different times both to the King and later to Catherine herself. Soon after their marriage in 1567 he had been appointed Secretary of State and i
f the Baron disliked the tasks his wife was sometimes called upon to fulfil for the Queen Mother, he had more sense than to express his displeasure. He at least had the consolation that she performed these duties out of patriotism towards France, although no one could deny that Charlotte enjoyed her work, and was vain enough to like being so admired.