The Hostage Queen (2 page)

Margot straightened her spine. ‘I enjoy parties and dancing, I cannot deny it, but I have little inclination for setting myself off to advantage by dress, or exciting admiration of my person and figure. Certainly not in order to marry with a madman.’

‘You will be expected to do your duty.’

Margot responded with passion. ‘I will do my duty, so far as I am able, but I tell you, Lottie, even if my mother drags me to the altar, I will refuse to marry unless I like the husband she chooses for me.’

Words which were to come back and haunt her.

Margot waited anxiously at the quayside at Saint-Jean-de-Luz for her sister to arrive, her slender body afire with outrage as much as the early summer heat. Elisabeth was due at midday but the hour came and went and so stifling was the day that several soldiers collapsed and died, suffocated in their own armour. Margot glared at her mother, half wishing she would do the same.

She knew that the Queen too disliked the heat, as it made her perspire profusely because of her heavy build. Even the leafy arches she’d ordered to be erected offered little in the way of shade. A stout woman in her forties, Catherine de Medici was dressed from head to foot in funereal black, as had been her custom since the death of Margot’s beloved father some six years previous. She stood impatiently fanning herself, using the fan she kept pinned to her girdle for that purpose, the young King by her side, together with her favourite son Anjou, and Henry of Navarre, their cousin. François-Hercule, as always, kept close to Margot, being the youngest and least prepossessing of the Valois brothers, and not liked by their mother.

It was five years since mother and daughter had last seen each other, and they had never been close even before Elisabeth had left France to marry at fourteen. Surely, Margot thought, the Queen Mother must be acutely aware that this once timid girl was now wife to the most powerful prince in all of Christendom, one whom she feared more than any other. Watching her keenly, Margot thought that mayhap she did look somewhat anxious. Her round, olive-skinned face glowed pale and sickly beneath the widow’s veil, although she was clever enough to keep her hands quietly clasped at her waist, giving no tell-tale sign of nervousness.

Anxious over the proposed marriage, Margot’s own mood continued to sour, and the prickle of sweat beneath her armpits, which must surely be marking her pretty gown, wasn’t helping. She’d quarrelled again with her governess this morning, Madame insisting that a union between the House of Valois and Hapsburg could only add to the strength of France in the Catholic world.

‘The Queen favours this marriage simply in order to restrain the power of the Guises,’ Margot had cried, desperation making her tone bitter, and her whole body tremble with fear. If only she dared to discuss the matter with her mother, but however confident she might be with everyone else, Margot always felt clumsy and dumbstruck in the presence of the great Catherine de Medici. She could only vent her spleen upon poor Lottie. ‘I see no reason to pick a quarrel with so noble a family. Indeed, Henri has been my particular friend for years, as you well know, Lottie.’

Charlotte de Curton had clicked her tongue by way of reprimand. ‘Do not presume to question your betters when you know nothing of politics, child. No more do I. You must put that young man from your mind.’

Now, as she watched the fishing boats come and go in the harbour, Margot knew this to be quite impossible. How could she, when she loved him so? When every part of her ached to be done with childhood and have Henri pay proper court to her. She had loved him since she was but
four or five years old, and he a few years older. She’d been sitting on her father’s knee watching the Prince de Joinville, as he then was, playfully jousting with the Marquis de Beaupreau. The King had asked which of the two she would choose as her chevalier.

‘The Marquis,’ had been her pert response.

‘Why so? He is not the handsomest.’

It was true. The Prince de Joinville was tall and blond, and his friend dark and not nearly so striking. But, young as she was, Margot had known better than to add to Guise’s arrogance. ‘Because the Marquis is better behaved, while the Prince is always making mischief and thinks himself master over everyone,’ she’d retorted, making her father laugh.

Yet were she allowed the opportunity, she would favour him still. And why should she not? He
was courtly, eloquent and charismatic.
Descended from the great Charlemagne himself
, with the royal blood of the Capet line running through his veins
. Surely a worthy champion for a Princess, as well as being handsome enough to quicken any young girl’s heart.

Margot knew that they were meant for each other, and
longed to be free to marry her
chevalier.
Yet how could they ever hope to come together if her mother so feared the power of his family that she would rather sell her youngest daughter to a madman?

S
he was a Valois, a Daughter of France, as her darling Lottie kept reminding her, with no control whatsoever over her own life.

Margot was but twelve years old and she shivered with foreboding.

Catherine had no intention of selecting a husband for her daughter from any other motive than diplomacy. Until the tragic death of her eldest son, François II, who had inherited the crown from his father Henry II, the Guises had been in a high position at court because the young King’s charming and spoiled wife, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, was one of their girls. The House of Guise had held the power then, not herself, the King’s own mother. Catherine had become regent only when Charles, merely a boy of ten at the time, had ascended the throne.

François and Mary had loved each other dearly, but while the young widow was still in mourning it had come to her knowledge that the Guises were approaching the Spanish King for a new marriage for the girl. Catherine had been outraged, for any such match would have resulted in too strong a union between the House of Guise and Philip of Spain.
T
he Guises coveted the throne of France, wishing to supplant her power with their own. Consequently, Mary had been dispatched back to Scotland, and the Queen Mother was now offering her own daughter in her place, determined to forge whatever links she could with the mighty Spain.

After two hours of waiting the royal barge at last approached, and with joy in her heart, Catherine stepped forward to welcome her daughter. She was surprised and delighted by what she saw. This dark-eyed beauty bore little resemblance to the shy child she remembered from the royal nursery, her girlish figure now that of a woman, beguiling and curvaceous. Catherine was relieved to note that her complexion remained unmarked by the small-pox she’d suffered shortly after reaching Spain, and that she had the tall graceful bearing of all the Valois. In a black velvet gown trimmed with jewels, slashed to reveal embroidered scarlet satin sleeves, she seemed aloof and somewhat remote. The timid young girl had indeed turned into a magnificent Queen.

Elisabeth wept softly as they embraced, before turning to greet her siblings. While soft kisses and salutations were exchanged, the troops released a cannonade in salute.

Catherine felt a surge of pride in her daughter even as her gaze flicked over the assembled lords and Spanish nobles, seeking a face which was clearly absent, as she had feared it might be.

There had been doubts for some weeks that Philip may not keep his promise to attend the meeting. Rumours at court had been rife, and although such gossip ceased whenever Catherine drew near, the reason for His Majesty’s absence was plain. Philip II disapproved of her too tolerant attitude towards religion: the fact that she was willing to pacify alleged heretics rather than see France torn apart by yet more civil war.

Addressing her daughter,
Catherine coolly enquired, ‘He did not come then?
Do you not see that your husband’s suspicions will lead us straight to war?’

Elisabeth’s response was not only impassioned but regal. ‘What cause have you to believe that the King mistrusts Your Majesty? Only evil-minded people could give you such ideas.’

‘My dear daughter, you have become very Spanish.’

‘I am indeed Spanish, as it is my duty to be so. But I am ever your daughter, the same that you sent to Spain.’

Catherine’s smile barely touched her round, slightly protruding eyes. ‘I trust you will always recognize your duty to your mother.’

Elisabeth looked discomfited, the innate fear of her mother still present despite her new regal status. ‘My husband the King sends his apologies, and his emissary, the Duke of Alva, a soldier and statesman of renown, in his stead.’

Right on cue, the gentleman himself, stern-faced with a long nose and a beard, stepped forward to bow over the Queen’s hand in courtly fashion.

Catherine barely managed an icy smile, striving not to reveal her fury and disappointment. She had hoped not only for a marriage for Margot, but also a union between her darling Anjou and the Dowager Queen Joanna, Philip’s own sister. Despite the difference in their ages, a match would help to unite the two nations. Instead of Philip, she would now be obliged to deal with this odious little man with an even greater reputation for harshness and cruelty than his cold-hearted master.

The day of the water picnic dawned
hot and humid, and Margot felt sticky with the summer heat, even in her silver tissue, and excited at the prospect of the celebrations ahead. It was to take place on the Isle of Aiguemeau on the Adour River.

The Queen Mother had spent many tiring weeks preparing for this most important day, ordering alcoves to be built, each one containing a round table to seat a dozen revellers, with the royal dais raised on four banks of grass at one end.

Pretty shepherdesses dressed in cloth of gold and satin, after the fashion of the different provinces of France, tripped and danced across the meadows. Mermaids draped themselves in artistic decadence upon the rocks, while imitation dolphins playfully disported themselves around magnificently decorated barges. Margot was enchanted. It was a fabulous display, no doubt intended to demonstrate that France was a rich and powerful nation.

The Duke of Alva looked on unimpressed.

The royal party, including this unwelcome interloper, had been carried upriver on the royal barge, accompanied by satyrs and nymphs playing their pipes and flutes and singing their songs of welcome.

He was old, Margot decided, older even than her mother, and thin and erect like a soldier. His face was long and hollow-cheeked, the skin like yellow parchment, the brown eyes shrewd and piercing, and his long beard much speckled with grey. Most striking of all, she recognized a sardonic cruelty in the way his lip curled. Margot thought that her mother might need all her diplomatic skills to deal with such a man.

She watched almost with sympathy as Catherine
leaned over to show the Duke an artificial whale leaking red wine from a supposed wound, pointing out how grand King Neptune looked as he rode his chariot pulled by sea horses. Alva glanced disdainfully at the scenes being enacted on the river. Nor did he appear to be listening to a word the Queen said, behaviour the great Catherine de Medici was certainly not accustomed to.

Yet
Margot
felt more sympathy for herself. She
was in an agony of emotion, anxiously awaiting her fate. Would
she be wed to a madman, or could she continue to hope and dream of Guise? Her heart skipped a beat at the prospect.

An army of servants brought cold meats to the tables
: the jambon de Bayonne, duck and pigeon, foie gras, fine cheeses and custard tarts. As she nibbled on a sweet pastry Margot could barely drag her gaze away from the two Queens, her mother and sister, as they sat huddled together in close conversation. One moment they were squabbling with icy coolness, the next smiling, kissing and embracing each other. Like everyone at court, the young princess was skilled in the art of eavesdropping, an accepted part of court life and often the only way to survive.

‘Do you think,’ she whispered to the ever-present Madame de Curton, ‘that these talks yet touch upon me?’

‘They are discussing the Huguenots, which is far more important.’

Margot stifled a sigh.

She must try to be optimistic. She was
young, after all, with an immense appetite for life. Her natural exuberance would always come to the fore and allow her to hope. Besides, the stern dissatisfaction in her mother’s face seemed to indicate that the discussions were not going well.