The Hostage Queen (7 page)

Jeanne’s expression was unforgiving. ‘You distress me, your mother, by this unseemly behaviour. But I will speak to the maid’s father and see that all due consideration is given to her when it comes to her lying-in. You must try to set a better example, Enric, and curb these rapacious appetites of yours.’

Should he remind her that they were but natural, certainly so far as he was concerned? Perhaps not. He had long since learned that dallying with servants and peasant girls was a sensitive subject to his mother. He was undoubtedly following in his father’s, and his grandfather’s footsteps. Perhaps that was why she wasted no further time in chastising him now, knowing it to be useless.

‘We have other, far more important matters to concern ourselves with today than dallying in the rose arbour with servant girls. If you are old enough to take a mistress, then it is time you began to practise the skills of soldiering. Condé and Coligny will be your mentors.’

Henry’s expression was rueful, but he could see that something was afoot. The whole castle was abuzz, preparations clearly being made for their departure, and before the end of September,
Jeanne d’Albret, the leader of the Huguenots, and her son, the fifteen-year-old Bourbon Prince, Henry of Navarre, rode into La Rochelle to join their followers.

The Queen Mother was at Saint-Maur, recovering from one of her periodic gastric attacks. Margot dutifully tended to her, and to the King who grew increasingly frail and thin, and was presently recovering from an abscess. She never raised any objection to helping to ease their ills, although she always felt rather nervous of Charles. His beautiful, golden brown eyes and sympathetic expression hid a fatal flaw of insanity. If she carried out a task less efficiently than he pettishly demanded, or failed to answer his every beck and call, then he would lash out at her, pinch her arm, or fall into a fit, as if she were the naughty child and not he. Apart from his old nurse, no one but herself and his mistress Marie Touchet could keep him calm. Certainly not his mother, who had quite the opposite effect. He was remarkably obedient and dutiful to the Queen Mother’s wishes, which was her intention of course, but if Catherine pressed him too far he would fall into a rage. Even Margot, who was fond of him, could not deny that he was an odd boy.

He often struck up inappropriate friendships with lute players or servants, would sit with these unlikely companions listening to music or poetry readings by candlelight till well past midnight. To be fair, their mother never objected as the sessions seemed to bring Charles some sort of contentment.

At other times he would sink into worrying moods of deep melancholy, stay in bed all day, or worse, be gripped by a mad frenzy when he would don a mask, waken some of his wilder friends, and, taking lighted torches, would go on a rampage around the darkened streets of Paris. They’d call on some poor unfortunate, drag him from his bed and beat him senseless, purely for the pleasure of it. Or he might turn on his dogs or horses and thrash them instead. When the lust for violence came upon him, there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. The mere sight of blood seemed to both terrify and excite him.

There were certainly times when he frightened her, and Margot was careful always to do as she was bid, and thereby avoid a beating.

One afternoon, despite the risk of upsetting the King, Margot couldn’t resist creeping away to see Guise, simply for the bliss of falling into his arms, and to savour the thrill of his demanding kisses. Soon he would be off to war with her brother Anjou, and Margot dreaded his going. She would not know a moment’s peace while he was away, fearful he might be wounded, or worse.

‘You will write to me every day,’ she begged, as they sat together in a secret arbour.

‘Of course, my love.’

He only had to look at her, or smile, and a quiver of longing would ripple through her. She gasped as he traced his lips over the curve of her throat, slid his fingers beneath the bodice of her gown to tease the dark bud of her nipple. She needed him so much. They belonged together. Why could her mother not see this and understand?

‘I must go; the King will be wanting me.’

But he pulled her closer into his arms. ‘Just one more kiss. Stay a little longer.’ His mouth was hot on hers, the urgent trembling in his young body irresistible, his hand on her silky thigh beneath her skirts tempting her to taste unknown dangers.

Margot stayed with him till her hair was tumbled and her cheeks were hectic with passion, and when she finally raced through the rooms in answer to the King’s call, she found him in a fine temper.

Catching Marie Touchet’s warning glance, Margot sank into a deep curtsey then quickly reached to kiss his hand. Charles snatched it away and smacked her hard across the face.

‘There, now you will be sorry for defying me. I have been calling for you this hour past.’

‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty.’ Margot was trembling, her face stinging, but she offered no excuses, no lies. Charles would not have believed them, and any dispute would only inflame his temper still further. She was grateful for Marie’s presence, otherwise he may well have set about her with his whip. Fortunately, his mistress deftly distracted the King with a glass of warm cinnamon milk, and the moment passed. Until the next time.

Henri, duc de Guise had grown even more handsome at eighteen than Margot’s fond memories of him in that playful joust as a boy. His blond hair had darkened somewhat, but, like his father before him, he possessed genuine charisma and an engaging personality. The Parisians loved him, he was their hero. They would call to him as he rode by, or touch his cloak if he walked amongst them. They would call out ‘Vive Guise’ and he would sweep off his great plumed hat and bow to them, grinning broadly.

He was a young man with a passion to emulate his father, the old warlord and military hero. Henri had been but thirteen years old when his father, Francis, the second duke, had been murdered, dispatched because of his opposition to appeasement with the Huguenots. Known as Le Balafré from a scar he’d received in battle, he’d been head of the House of Lorraine and an ardent Catholic. The blood feud born out of tragedy on that fateful day existed still, the Guise family convinced that the killing had been instigated by the admiral, Gaspard de Coligny. And the young duke was ardent in his desire for revenge.

But none of that was on his mind today as
he stood before his uncle, the immensely powerful Cardinal de Lorraine
.
Tall and regal in his scarlet robes, the ecclesiastic exuded an awesome presence, known for his extreme Catholic views as well as the fact that his family’s interests were of paramount importance to him. Guise was curious to know what scheme the old man was planning now
, for he’d been summoned to his apartments to discuss his future.

A manservant brought wine as they sat in the window embrasure, looking out over the gardens of the Louvre, talking of the time Henri had
hoped to gain military experience by fighting the Turks, but had been disappointed not to be involved in any action.

‘Which was why I returned home to take part in the wars of religion, as they are again raging.’

‘Nevertheless, I hear that by demonstrating immense courage, you have won over the love of the people. It appears to be a trait of yours. Haven’t you already
won Princess
Marguerite’
s heart? She is growing
into a great beauty.’

‘She is indeed.’

‘And you are fond of the girl?’

Guise paused before answering, scenting a purpose behind this apparently superficial enquiry, and wary of revealing his feelings too easily. ‘We enjoy a mild flirtation,’ he agreed with a wry smile.

The Cardinal laughed. ‘I understand it has progressed far beyond that, although I see no wrong in it, I assure you.’

Guise frowned. ‘I doubt her mother would agree.’

The man who had successfully installed his family close to the throne, as well as acquiring himself one of the finest suite of rooms in the Louvre on the old King’s death, had no intention of being blighted by an ambitious mother, even if she were a queen. Catherine’s second daughter, the Princess Claude, had already married the head of his house. He had once nursed hopes of a union between their girl Mary, Queen of Scots, and Charles or Anjou, but that was impossible now she was effectively being held prisoner in England. Guise was his last hope, and what better way to strengthen the ties between the two houses than by marrying his handsome nephew to the delectable Marguerite de Valois.

‘You would not be against the idea of marriage? She is a prize worth winning, as I’m sure you’ll agree. I would be willing to finance such an alliance, under certain conditions.’

Guise considered his uncle with undisguised interest. There was no disputing that he loved Margot. Who could not fail to love her, since she was so utterly irresistible? She had fire and a strong streak of independence, as well as rare beauty. But he was also ambitious. With royal blood in his veins, and a weak king who held on to the throne only through his mother’s skills, Guise had every confidence that he could one day win the crown.

There were the two younger brothers, of course, but they too were sickly. H
e envied Anjou his position as Lieutenant-General of the army
,
a role Guise felt he could carry out with much greater skill
, since he was now the accepted leader of the Catholic faction
. But, inexperienced as Anjou was, the boy who was heir to the throne could easily be killed in battle.
Alençon he dismissed without thought
.

Henry of Navarre was the most serious contender as a Bourbon Prince, but he was a Huguenot, therefore Guise considered he possessed the greater right to succeed.

The wars of religion were far more than a battle between Catholic and Protestant. They were a fight for power, one the House of Guise meant to win. And, as his uncle indicated, did he not also have the love of Paris?

Aware of the Queen Mother’s suspicion of the Guises, he had never considered a match between himself and Margot a serious possibility. Now he did so, and very much approved of the notion. ‘What kind of conditions?’

‘You would need to play your hand very carefully. The way you are behaving at the moment, like a love-sick puppy in the throes of first love, is attracting unwelcome attention and you will soon be the talk of the court. You must counter it by spreading your favours a little wider.’

The young man stiffened. ‘I have no wish to do so. My feelings for Margot are neither light nor frivolous. I love her.’

‘Indeed, and she adores you, only a blind fool would doubt it.’ The old man leaned closer, the scent of the incense that always lingered about his person suddenly overpowering, making Guise feel slightly sick. ‘Catherine de Cleves, the Princess de Porcien, has always favoured you.’

‘She is married.’

‘Not for much longer. Her husband is in his death throes. Besides, there are advantages in taking a married woman as your mistress.’ The old lecher, who had never kept his own vows of chastity too strictly, leered mockingly at the young boy.

Guise flushed with anger. ‘I have no wish for any other mistress.’

‘But you wish for a crown?’

Silence hung between them as Guise fought with his principles. As great-grandson of Louis XII through his maternal line he saw no reason why he should not pursue his claim. He was not only a Prince of the Blood but also had access to an enormous revenue. And soon he would add his own heroic achievements to those of his father’s.

Satisfied that he’d scored a point, the Cardinal continued, ‘That being the case, we need to keep the scandal-mongers off the scent until we are certain of our quarry.’

Guise said, ‘The Queen Mother is more serpent than fox; she will not easily be cornered. She is busy making all manner of marriage proposals for Margot. How would you ever hope to win her round?’

‘Leave Her Majesty to me. I am
richer even than the monarch himself, and,
in my experience, a vast fortune is a great softener of prejudice. Besides, marriage negotiations rarely run smoothly, and I will choose my moment to put our proposition to her. Meanwhile, you must do what you enjoy most, continue to make yourself agreeable to our delectable princess, but also make political court to Catherine of Cleves.’