The Hostage Queen (28 page)

Navarre watched Margot riding ahead, studiously ignoring him. ‘Does she seriously imagine that I could be a faithful and true husband to her, even unto death?’ He almost laughed out loud at the thought. Impossible! It simply wasn’t in his nature, not when there were so many beautiful women to enjoy. De Sauves fascinated him, and was considerably more tolerant of his foibles than his dear wife, so why should he not savour the delights she had to offer? ‘I’m quite certain Margot still holds a candle for Guise, she cannot deny it.’

‘Wives seem to imagine there is one law for them, and another for their husbands,’ Condé grumbled, the bitterness he felt at his own wife’s defection all too evident in his tone.

Navarre cast his cousin a sidelong glance, noting how he slumped dispiritedly in the saddle. ‘How is the lovely Marie?’

‘Not too well at present. She is
enceinte.’

Navarre reined in his horse. ‘Dear God, you do not think she carries Anjou’s child?’

‘Indeed I do not! Is the man even capable of siring a child?’

‘There’s no evidence to the contrary. Even if he does prefer pretty boys, he’s not averse to dallying with a woman now and then, so how can you be sure?’

It was clear by his cousin’s grim expression that he couldn’t. Nevertheless,
Condé
seemed determined to remain loyal to his beloved Marie. ‘She tells me their love affair was purely platonic.’

Navarre kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse to spur it on. If that was what
Condé
chose to believe, then who was he to dispute it?

His cousin
was proving to be a source of great irritation to the Queen Mother by ostentatiously parading his new religion. He would make the sign of the cross even if he was about to do nothing more taxing than peel an orange, or cross the Palace courtyard, as if to say, ‘see what a good Catholic I am?’ The performance was as insincere as it was flippant and insulting.

On one occasion Catherine had said as much, rebuking him for his sacrilege.

Condé had sarcastically retorted, ‘Ah, Madame, the Princess my wife initiates me well in the use of that sign! Have you received any letters from your son this week? If not, I can tell you that he is well. Every other day brings couriers from Krakow bearing letters of a most passionate nature addressed to her. They are filled with protestations of fidelity, signed with his own blood. Can anyone doubt his sincerity? And my darling Marie weeps constantly over his absence.’

Now he told Navarre, ‘I am driven near demented by jealousy.’

‘Then let us hope we are allowed out on another hunt soon. The day has been kind to us, perfect for hunting,’ Navarre airily remarked, considering it wise to change the subject. ‘No wind, no rain, and the birds falling as they should. Although they are a somewhat tame prey for my tastes. Do you remember that time in Pau when we invited the ladies to join us on a hunt? Just as well they didn’t
as their nerves would have been in shreds. Two of the horses killed by bears, and a bowman hugged to death by another. Then one ferocious beast charged that group of men stationed on the top of a precipice, and the whole lot of them, bear and all, fell and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below.’

Condé smiled ruefully at the memory. ‘We’ve enjoyed some good hunts together, but perhaps that one was a touch too adventurous, Enric, even by your standards.’

Navarre sighed. ‘You speak true.’

They dismounted, leaving the stable lads to tend to the horses, and walked together across the courtyard, heads still bent in quiet conversation.

‘You’ll need to take excessive care with de Sauves,’
Condé warned, returning to their earlier topic.

‘I do assure you coz that I exercise extreme caution in any post-coital conversations with the lady. It would be reckless in the extreme to indulge in indiscreet pillow talk with a spy of the Queen Mother’s, and I am under no illusions that that is what she is.’

‘Catherine would snatch at any excuse or opportunity to persecute you,’ Condé agreed.

‘I will not give her the chance.’

‘So you’ll take care?’

‘I’ll take every care.’

Margot was feeling ill used and neglected. She had endured many betrayals in her short life: by her brother Anjou, and by her own mother. Now, it seemed, she must accept treachery from the two men who should be the most loyal to her: her husband and her lover. Guise’s infidelity was the worst to stomach. If she couldn’t trust her beloved chevalier, the one man she truly loved and who claimed to love her, then who could she trust?

She sat impatiently tapping her toe, paying scant attention to the skipping and leaping of the dancers taking part in the evening’s entertainment. It irritated her slightly that everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, while she felt dispirited and low.

Navarre was stepping out with his accustomed clumsiness, while Guise was lounging in a corner talking to his friends. Margot steadfastly averted her gaze and idly watched a rather handsome fellow expertly lead his partner through the lively steps of the tourdion.

How the ladies of Catherine’s court did love to dance. They made the excuse that the exercise was good for their health, as well as for their amusement. Although the real motive was to seek any opportunity to get close to whichever young man had currently taken their fancy. Often, at the end of a dance, the gentlemen would be permitted to kiss their partner, which always elicited much giggling and delight. Margot rather thought there was no country in the world that danced with more grace and elegance, more devotion, than they did here in France. They had even danced at the Château of the Tuileries the day after St Bartholomew’s Eve.

Later would come the ballets, for which the Queen Mother had her Escadron Volant specially trained by a dancing master. Margot would often join in, as there was nothing she loved more than taking part in a performance of dance or drama. But tonight she meant to retire early to her bed, in which she would be sleeping alone.

The Duchess of Nevers, who was seated beside her, whispered in her ear. ‘Are you watching le Comte?’

Unaware that her eyes had indeed been following the pair of dancers, now performing the Galliard, Margot shook her head. ‘I know not to whom you refer, Henriette.’

Her friend squeezed her hand. ‘Yes, you do. See how he watches you. He may be dancing with that strumpet, but his eyes have rarely moved from your face. He is dying from love of you.’

Startled, Margot glanced at her friend, then back at the gentleman in question. ‘Who is he again?’

‘Hyacynthe Joseph de Boniface, le Comte de la Molle, known simply as la Molle by his friends. He is the younger son of an aristocratic family from Provence, one of your brother Alençon’s gentlemen, although quite low down in the pecking order, I have to admit. He is forty-four years old, experienced, charming, gallant and, as you see, exceedingly handsome.’

The Duchess cast Margot a sly, sideways look from beneath her lashes, noting how her doleful expression had suddenly changed into one of keen interest. Feeling that her mistress was in dire need of a distraction, she pressed his suit still further.

‘He made quite an impression upon Elizabeth of England when he was sent to prepare the way for the duc d’Alençon. Although not successful in winning the Queen for your brother, he certainly won the hearts of the ladies of the English Court, and Her Majesty apparently considered him one of the finest dancers she had ever seen.’

‘He is certainly skilled in the art,’ Margot murmured, becoming increasingly fascinated as she studied his lithe grace, his natural elegance, his handsome figure.

The Duchess of Nevers giggled. ‘He is skilled in other arts too, I am told, and has quite set his mind to winning you. But he dare not approach Your Majesty for fear of seeming impertinent or above his station, and although he is well thought of by his master, the Queen your mother seems less enamoured of him.’

‘Indeed? That is almost a recommendation.’

‘Perhaps, Ma’am, you would allow me to introduce you to him?’ the Duchess finished, with an air of unconcern. ‘Or mayhap choose to invite him up yourself?’

Not fooled for a moment, Margot turned laughing eyes upon her friend. ‘Henriette, you are wicked, utterly outrageous.’

By way of reply the other woman shrugged her pretty shoulders. ‘Where is the value in chastity? No one else practises it, and certainly not our husbands. My own is in Poland with your brother, so heaven knows what mischief he gets up to. Did I mention that La Molle has a charming friend, Coconnas, with whom I confess I am already acquainted? He is a Piedmontese nobleman and captain of the guard to the duc d’Alencon. I should warn you, darling Margot, that La Molle arouses a fierce discontent amongst the husbands of the wives he pursues. He is reputed to be an enthusiastic and lively lover, but does not neglect his sacred duties either, being deeply religious.’

Margot looked askance at the alleged libertine in wide-eyed disbelief. ‘He does not appear to me to be the religious type.’ She noticed how he had somehow managed to dance closer to her, and was by now shamelessly ignoring his partner, who was growing quite frantic with jealousy as his adoring gaze fastened firmly upon the Queen of Navarre.

The Duchess cupped a hand to Margot’s ear as she whispered, ‘Your brother the King has been known to remark that anyone who wishes to keep a record of La Molle’s conquests need only count the number of daily Masses he attends.’

Margot burst out laughing, thoroughly intrigued by this time, fascinated by the description her friend was giving her, and by the wicked gleam in the eye of the man himself. The gentleman in question had now parted company with his dancing partner and repaired to sit upon a chair, recently vacated by another. He even sat most elegantly, Margot noted, both feet and knees close together, not crossed or sprawled in a careless fashion.

He was a fine-looking man who seemed perfectly at ease with himself. He wore a short cream jacket lined with crimson satin, matching velvet cap trimmed with a white ostrich plume; a pearl hung from his left ear, and the hip-length cloak fell from his shoulder with draped perfection. Even his gloves were of scented leather. Without question he was a dandy, although not quite the fop as was her brother Anjou.

‘Despite his apparent devotion to the faith, he is also said to be deeply superstitious,’ Henriette continued. ‘Coconnas tells me that he has begged Cosimo Ruggieri, the Queen Mother’s own sorcerer, to make a spell for the purpose of winning Your Majesty’s heart.’

Margot was helpless with laughter, despite feigning horror at such whimsical nonsense. ‘Enough, Henriette, you win. I shall meet the fellow. But spare me your introductions.’

As Margot approached the row of chairs, several young gentlemen sat up very straight, gazing upon the Queen of Navarre with hopeful adoration that she might invite them up to dance. One or two even stretched out a hand to her, which she politely pretended not to notice. Margot did not keep her gaze lowered, as was sometimes the case with more timorous young ladies. Nor did she wear a mask, as it was not her custom to do so, but fixed her gaze firmly upon her alleged admirer. She did not speak, merely sketched a slight curtsey and waited.

La Molle scrambled swiftly to his feet, doffed his cap, and described a perfect bow, left foot elegantly extended, making the accepted reverence from the side wherein lay his heart.

‘I am humbled by your invitation, Your Majesty.’

‘So I should hope,’ Margot laughed.

He kissed his hand to her, allowing his lips to touch his fingers in a slow and seductive fashion, his eyes never leaving hers. Margot responded by daringly offering her own hand for him to kiss, an honour he accepted with alacrity.

She thought that his manners were sublime, true and correct, that he did not fawn, although he was no doubt filled with vanity, all too aware of his own handsome good looks and his attraction to the ladies.

‘The question is, can you amuse or entertain me for the length of an entire dance, for I am not in good humour this night,’ she said, thinking to discomfit him.