The Hostage Queen (24 page)

Obstinacy dissolved in the face of passion. Condé agreed to take instruction in the Catholic faith at the monastery of Saint-Germain des Pres, where his uncle, the Cardinal de Bourbon, was abbot. The ceremony was performed the following day, and his freedom granted by the King.

Navarre held out for only a few days longer. Weary of confinement and desperate to return to Béarn, he finally accepted the Mass. Why should he not? Did he not believe in tolerance?

In the weeks following, gossip at court concerning Anjou and the Princess de Condé was rife, as was that regarding Margot and Guise, for all the new Queen of Navarre declared her innocence. Margot longed for Guise, ached for him with every fibre of her being, yet felt her new husband deserved her loyalty more, and her distrust of Anjou remained obdurate.

But then the prospect of a Polish crown for Anjou came into view, and the court had a new source of tittle-tattle.

The people of Paris had never seen anything like it. They watched, open-mouthed with astonishment, as the Polish ambassadors made their entry into the city one hot August day in 1573. A cortege of fifty carriages, each drawn by eight horses, along with several dozen more men on horseback, entered the capital in a long, stately procession to parade through the city streets so that they might be seen by all. The tall, stately Poles were a sight to behold with their shaven heads and long beards, robes of gold cloth trimmed with a deep border of sable, wide boots studded with spikes of iron, and caps sparkling with rare gems. They were both majestic and fierce with their scimitars, swords, and jewelled quivers filled with arrows. Even their horses were richly caparisoned in gold, and decked out with plumes and bells which jingled as they rode by, bear skins flung across their saddles.

The next day a group of them attended the Louvre to present themselves to Anjou. It had taken months of discussion and legal argument to reach this point, plus a considerable sum of money paid willingly enough by Charles, who was more than anxious to see the back of his brother.

The Polish envoys approached, and if Anjou found their appearance strange, he could tell by their confused expressions that they didn’t quite know what to make of him either. He stood before a canopied throne in all his magnificence: elegant, scented and pomaded, diamond pendants swinging from each ear, his hair curled and back-combed, topped off with a toque he considered to be suitably Polish in style, and decorated with huge clusters of pearls.

Anjou guessed they thought him frail and weak by comparison with the tough-looking warriors among their own party. They might well be right. Even now one of his headaches was beginning to pound behind his temple. But he meant to show them that he had strength of will, which they would soon discover was not so easily governed by others.

The following day, the ambassadors again repaired to the Louvre, this time to pay homage to the King and Queen of Navarre, to the Prince and Princess de Condé, and the Cardinal of Bourbon.

They were instantly entranced by the beauty of their new King’s sister, and indeed Margot
was exquisitely dressed in a velvet gown of Spanish rose, covered with spangles. Her naturally dark hair was hidden beneath a glorious blond peruke, which she’d taken to wearing on grand occasions such as this, and upon which she wore a cap of the same rose velvet, adorned with plumes and jewels. Not a soul in the room could deny that she looked utterly ravishing.

The Polish nobles were lost in admiration, likening her to Aurora, who comes at dawn with her fair white face surrounded with rosy tints.

It was not the first time Margot had been the subject of such accolades. The soldiers in her brother’s army had often declared that the conquest of such beauty would be better than that of any kingdom. Even great nobles would gaze upon her in silent awe, and the Polish ambassadors were likewise rendered speechless.

Lasqui, the head of the Polish embassy, overcome by the sight of her, was heard to remark, ‘Never do I wish to see such beauty again, as nothing could be as fine.’

Sadly, Margot’s own husband appeared indifferent to her courtly charms, his own attention, as ever, busily assessing the relative beauty of various members of the Escadron Volant
.

When the ambassadors had concluded their carefully prepared speech in fluent Latin, Margot
stepped forward and replied on behalf of herself and her husband, the King of Navarre, in the same language, speaking with eloquence and fluency, vivacity and charming grace, and without the assistance of a single note.

She sent silent thanks to her beloved Madame de Curton, who had been responsible for arranging her education and teaching her so well. She presented her hand to be kissed, and proceeded to chat with each of the envoys in whatever language seemed appropriate; to the Pope’s representative in Italian, Latin or German to the Poles, and in French to her own people.

‘What a
divine woman,’ they cried, highly impressed by her language skills, as well as by her beauty and charm.

The ceremonies continued, day after day, the Polish lords revelling in the opulence, as did their wives, who went everywhere with an entourage of pages, dwarfs, and torch-bearers.

The Queen Mother held a magnificent ball at the newly completed Tuileries Palace to celebrate her favourite son’s new status. It was magnificent, as were all her extravaganzas. The guests dined on whole roasted peacocks richly stuffed, their tails spread wide; guinea fowl and venison; mullet, plaice, and bream; tarts and pastries garnished with sugar and rosewater; custards and candied fruit. And when the tables were cleared, the
Escadron Volant
, dressed as nymphs, entertained the assembled company with dancing and ballet, songs and poems to commemorate the glories of the life of the new King of Poland, and the realm of his beloved France.

Anjou hated every moment, dreading the day when he would be forced to leave this court which he loved so much. He viewed the acceptance of the Polish throne as little more than a form of exile, and felt thoroughly piqued by his brother’s determination to banish him from the realm.

Not only that, but he would be forced to leave his beloved Marie and required to marry some Polish princess. His mother had shown him a portrait of a severe-looking woman of small stature, more than twice his age, dressed entirely in black as she was still in mourning for her brother. She apparently waited for him at Krakow with great excitement.

How will I endure it? He felt as though his heart was bleeding. His love for the Princess de Condé may still be platonic in the strict sense of the word, but he adored her, wanted no other woman as his wife, and he had nurtured hopes to make her so very soon, once he’d freed her from marriage with his enemy.

Catherine drew closer, instinctively able to read the gloomy thoughts of this, her most precious child. ‘Do not fret, my son. Your exile will not be for long. Charles is failing; any fool with eyes in his head can see that. You will wear a far more splendid crown sooner than you might imagine.’

‘And Alençon will grab it while I am gone,’ he groaned.

Catherine smiled. ‘No, you can trust me to guard your heritage well, my darling. I will ensure that no one shall take it from you.’

The entire court was to accompany the new King of Poland on the first stage of his journey as far as Blamont – Margot, Navarre, and Alençon among them. Not that Anjou was paying much attention to the preparations being made on his behalf, being too caught up in his love affair.

Margot watched with wry amusement as her brother cheated, lied, bribed, and flagrantly flattered the silly Princess de Condé in order to win her, oblivious to her marital status or her finer feelings. He was like a greedy child, always wanting what another had, particularly if the object of his desire belonged to his sworn enemy. There was a ruthlessness beneath his gallant charm, and Margot feared for how things might turn out. The fair lady’s husband must surely be aware that if he declined to consent to a divorce, in order for his wife to marry her new lover, Anjou could dispatch him as easily as he had his father at Jarnac.

Margot herself made a point of keeping well out of his way.

And then one evening as they savoured a delicious bouillabaisse at supper, he asked, ‘Are we to be friends again? I would have us reconciled before I depart upon my new life. You know how I shall depend upon your good will in my absence from court.’

‘It was not I who marred our friendship,’ was her cautious response. Margot was not so easily flattered these days, nor so inclined to believe her brother’s vows and promises. Having seen the leaders of the Huguenot faction cut down so savagely on Saint Bartholomew’s Eve, she recognized the lengths the Queen Mother and her favourite son were prepared to go to rid themselves of obstinate opponents. She was now infinitely more wary of them both.

Anjou passed her a dish of sugared almonds, which she declined. ‘I would not have you work against me. Can we not reseal our pact?’

‘So far as I am aware I never did work against you, brother. The malicious rumours that were spread about my behaviour were simply that, with no truth to them. But you must understand that my first loyalty now is to my husband. And I have other siblings, and friends, who all deserve my love.’

He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, causing a cold shiver to run down her spine. ‘Ah, but far better to ally yourself with a future King of France than a husband who is still Huguenot at heart, and a weakling malcontent. I’d advise you to think carefully before bestowing your favour, sister dear.’

Margot’s heartbeat quickened. Was that a threat? Did Henri believe that she should be exclusively his creature? Was she allowed to love no one but him?

She felt no guilt for no longer loving this brother with his twisted, scheming mind and his selfish demands. Love had been banished by caution, and by fear.

She realized that Anjou’s behaviour was greatly influenced by their mother. The Queen’s passion for this favourite son of hers, her longing to see him on the throne of France, was a major factor in the formation of his character, almost compelling him to practise deceit, to conspire and to plot. Catherine had instilled into his young mind that it was perfectly reasonable to use whatever means necessary to achieve his heart’s desire. He was now not only self-obsessed and hypocritical, but entirely unscrupulous.

Margot had no wish to be his friend, but feared making him her enemy.

As a consequence of her distrust of Anjou, Margot found herself turning more and more to her younger brother. Alençon seemed to be making every effort to win her affections, using whatever means at his disposal to make himself agreeable to her. He too had been deeply affected by the events of that terrible night, but somehow had not been corrupted by them. Left out of the entire business he expressed increasing sympathy for the persecuted. He was not a fanatic, had no strong feelings for either religion, nor had any immediate hope of ascending to the throne of France, although he certainly coveted it.

‘They see me as being of no consequence,’ he mourned to Margot as they strolled in the gardens one lovely autumn day.

‘I’m sure you exaggerate,’ she consoled him, her heart filling with affectionate sympathy for this, the least prepossessing of Catherine’s sons.

They had
 
never had the opportunity to get to know each other well as their mother had largely ignored him and the poor boy had spent much of his childhood and adolescence alone in various country palaces, having little contact with his other siblings. Now she saw that he was every bit as ambitious as them.

‘I mean to prove myself. I dream of a future every bit as brilliant as my brothers’. I too want a crown.’

Margot laughed. ‘The Valois obsession. Take care what you wish for, dear François. Crowns sometimes come with more problems attached than you bargain for.’

Alençon pouted. ‘I still have hopes it might be achieved through marriage with Elizabeth of England, but that isn’t certain, despite our mother’s efforts. Therefore, I must look elsewhere to make my mark and gain influence.’

Margot suggested they rest for a moment on a garden bench, realizing he needed to talk, that something was preying on his mind. ‘And do you have any particular solution in mind?’