The Hostage Queen (10 page)

Margot giggled. ‘My mother calls him the old lecher. Is that why he is so sympathetic of lovers?’

‘What matters his motive?’ Guise carefully replied. ‘He is a great man in possession of immense power and influence, and has come up with a plan to help us.’

‘I would not hesitate to listen to such a man, if he could indeed bring us together.’

‘Then I believe we may hope for a good outcome.’

And as Guise pushed her down into the sweet-smelling grasses to explore the secret delights of her pliant body beneath the heavy skirts, all thought of politics vanished from her mind.

When the army returned to battle and the royal party to court, the Queen summoned Margot to her cabinet. She hurried to obey, anxious to fulfil her promise to her brother, and sank into a deep curtsey, heart racing.

‘Did I not see you walking in the avenues at Plessis with Guise?’

‘Only briefly, Madame, merely passing the time of day.’

Catherine gave her raucous laugh. ‘You exchanged more than a few pleasantries with that chevalier, I think. Enjoy him while you may, but take care, child. Pretty flirtations and nothing more. Have I not warned you that he is not for you?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

Margot stood before the formidable woman who was the Queen of this great realm, with a reputation that made great men tremble, let alone young girls like herself. This was, after all, no ordinary woman, and no ordinary Queen. Margot believed there were unexplained mysteries about her mother. She had an uncanny facility for seeing all and knowing all, even when matters were meant to be a secret. She could almost read Margot’s very thoughts, and seemed to possess a discomfiting foresight or prescience of momentous events before they actually happened.

On the night before her husband, King Henri, Margot’s beloved father, had fought in the tournament which had proved fatal to him, Catherine had dreamed that she saw him wounded in the eye and begged him not to fight. He had apparently laughed off her fears, but that was exactly what had happened. During her most recent illness, only days before Anjou was to fight at the battle of Jarnac, Catherine had lain sick unto death at Metz where she had gone to visit the convents, Margot herself nursing her mother, when she was again visited by a premonition.

She was heard to cry out, ‘Look, see how they flee! Ah, my son falls. Oh, my God, save him!’

The episode had sent chills down her spine, and Margot believed that her mother possessed the power to use her black arts in order to predict, or even manipulate the future. Today she was all sweetness, speaking to her with kindness, and for the first time in her life Margot felt at ease in her presence.

‘Anjou your brother tells me that he no longer considers you a child. In future, neither shall I. It will be a great comfort to me to converse with you as I would with him.
Render yourself, therefore, assiduous in your attendance upon me, and fear not to speak freely, for such is my desire
.’

The Queen’s words filled Margot with joy. It felt like a turning point in her life, a new beginning. It had ever been her wish to please her brother and her mother; now she could serve both.

Condé’s death was a bitter blow to the Huguenots.
Louis de Bourbon, the hunchback Prince of Condé,
had carried the charisma of having royal blood in his veins, and was a great loss to them. Coligny now stood alone beside his Queen; his wisdom and courage, his integrity and moral strength, and his skill at military strategy should make him appear well nigh invincible. But morale was low. The men were dispirited and battle weary, wanting an end to the strife, anxious to return home to their loved ones. Fighting an enemy so huge, so powerful as the Catholics had been daunting enough, but without Condé it seemed impossible.

Jeanne was an excellent statesman, but knew that she now faced her biggest challenge. The rabble-rousers, and those who relished a fight simply for the joy of it, had fled, yet the true believers remained. In the Queen of Navarre’s opinion, these stalwarts needed something extra, someone special to inspire them. They needed a Prince.

She looked at her son with his glossy black Gascon hair and bright, youthful good looks, and tried not to recall the glitter of speculation which always came into those fine eyes whenever they rested upon a woman. Any woman. He was already a philanderer like his father. Little Fleurette, whom he’d so casually abandoned to bear her child alone, had been found drowned in the river, her heart broken by his rejection. Poor girl, it was indeed a tragedy to love a Prince.

Without doubt the boy was frivolous and light-minded, and in her heart Jeanne had little faith he could rise to the challenge which now faced him. Yet he looked good, sat upon his horse well, and there was pride in his bearing, courage in that young face. The question was, could he inspire loyalty and worship in the troops?

She ordered Henry to dismount and then, grasping him by the hand, she held it high, punching the air with their joined fists as they stepped forward to face the assembled troops.

‘Friends and comrades, I give you my son!’

A ragged cheer went up and she smiled upon them all, glad to see they had some spirit in them still. Then she brought forward her nephew, son of the fallen Condé. A hand on each of them, there was great sadness in her voice as she addressed the men with a moving eloquence, and the battle-hardened soldiers who stood before her in their bloodstained weariness fell into a respectful silence to listen to her words.

‘Children of God and of France, Condé is dead; but is all therefore lost? No, the God who gave him courage and strength to fight for this cause has raised up others worthy to succeed him. To those brave warriors I add my son. Make proof of his valour. Soldiers, I offer you everything I have to give: my dominions, my treasures, my life, and what is dearer to me than all: my children. I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause that now unites us!’

They lifted their heads as if to the sun, taking in every word as she breathed new spirit into them.

‘It is a sad truth that we have suffered appalling atrocities, many of our best men slaughtered, our fine leader killed before our eyes, but we have others. We still have Coligny, and his brother Andelot. We have Rochefoucauld, Rohan and Montgomery. Condé may be no more. Our enemies may have destroyed the man but they cannot destroy our faith. We who loved him must fight on, as Condé himself would wish. We still have all to play for in this bloody battle, and cannot abandon the fight so easily. In his place, we have his son,
Henri de Bourbon, the second Prince de Condé.’

She urged the young man to step forward. ‘And
my own beloved son, the future King of Navarre. It is time now for these boys to grasp manhood and realize their destiny. Condé was a fine Prince and our cousin, but his son, and mine, will stand beside you in his stead. I have every faith they are ready for the task.’

The cheer that went up now was rich with hope, a new fire lit within the troops.

Henry was feeling close to panic, at a loss to fully understand what was expected of him, although equally stirred by his mother’s words. He wasn’t sure he could ever match their zeal, or agree that any particular form of religion was better than another, let alone worth dying for. His dear friend and cousin, young Condé, was a fervent Huguenot, and appeared flushed with pride, eager to take on the mantle of his father. Yet Henry felt unequal for the role demanded of him.

He heard a few sniggers from the young soldiers, quiet snorts of derision from the older men, both of whom knew him for what he truly was: a licentious womaniser who loved to quaff beer and tell crude jokes in the barrack room. He might be a Prince of the Blood who would one day be a King, but could he lead this army?

Coligny stepped forward to be the first to swear fealty to the young man hovering on the brink of manhood, and would one day be his king. ‘They ask only for you to have faith in them, Sire, and courage, if you can find it.’

‘I am not without courage,’ Henry quickly responded, thinking of the boar and stag hunts he relished, how he killed wolf and bear in the mountains of the Pyrenees. He loved to climb, and would scramble barefoot over rocks to reach the peaks. ‘I would expect no concessions for . . . for being who I am.’

‘And none will be granted,’ Coligny agreed. ‘What say you? Are you man enough for the task?’

Fired by the light in the older man’s eye, and by his mother’s faith in him, Henry grinned, excited suddenly by the promise of a new adventure. ‘I am!’ Then he turned to the raggle-taggle army of men before him and, addressing them in a strong, clear voice, made them a vow. ‘I give you my solemn oath never to desert the cause. My life is yours till we achieve the freedom you deserve. I will stand by you unto death.’

An almighty roar greeted these words. The men threw up their caps and helmets, slapped each other on the back, laughed, and cheered, as fresh hope and vigour was returned to them. Condé grabbed his friend in a soldierly embrace, while Jeanne wept with quiet pride.

From the day Anjou begged for her support, Margot devoted herself to the Queen’s pleasure. She abandoned her friends, her favourite pursuits of dancing and hunting, and even the crossbow, to give herself up to waiting upon her mother. Every morning she would present herself early at Her Majesty’s lever and be the last to leave at night, exactly as Anjou had instructed. She felt confident she was giving satisfaction as Catherine frequently sang her praises to the beautiful ladies she gathered about her, L
’escadron de la Royne mere
, more usually known as her Flying Squadron.

Margot was thrilled when her mother allowed her into conferences, or did her the honour of talking to her for an hour or more. She played her part with assiduous care by speaking often of her brother’s affairs, and again nursed Catherine during one of her bouts of ill health. Margot dared to hope that her mother might begin to regard her with some degree of affection after all.

Anxious also to keep in her brother’s good graces, she made it her business to write to him regularly while he was away fighting, keeping him fully informed of her progress in order to prove how very much she had his interests in mind. Notes and letters also flew back and forth between herself and Guise, courtesy of the contacts made available through the trusted Lottie, and their love for each other continued unabated.

Life was suddenly rich and exciting, filled with new promise. Relations continued on these excellent terms for some weeks and Margot often accompanied her mother when she went to the front to review the troops and restore morale. Now they were at
St Jean d’Angely with the King.

The Catholics had proved too formidable an army under the command of
Tavannes,
and had decimated the Huguenots. Charles had greeted this latest victory by Anjou with a cold and terrible silence. He told the Queen that he had no wish to see his brother usurp the power of maire du palais, and he would lead his own armies into the field in future, as did his grandfather, Francis I.

When Catherine blocked this plan, his mood became so terrifying that she thought it wise not to oppose him further. His knowledge of military matters was as feeble as his skill in government, yet he was determined
to at least have a say in the battle and take a share of the glory enjoyed by his brother.
Against all advice the King decided to besiege each town the Huguenots had fortified before attacking La Rochelle. Tavannes warned against this tactic, as it would split the Royal Armies, but the thirst for blood and glory was too strong, and Charles refused to listen.

Margot found living in the primitive conditions at camp both difficult and unpleasant yet did so gladly, if only because it afforded her the opportunity once more to be with Guise.

One evening as she prepared herself to meet him, Madame de Curton came to her, deeply troubled.
‘You should be wary of a new favourite of your brother’s,’ her governess warned. ‘He is
Louis de Beranger, baron du Guast, of noble descent, arrogant, ambitious and highly political.
He has so ingratiated himself into the Duke’s confidence that he dictates all his daily affairs, even controls his purse.’