The Hostage Queen (29 page)

‘A dance is but a moment in time. Only allow me sufficient access to your person, Madame, and I could do both.’ While his words were daring to the point of reckless, his expression was serious, and so confident that it was Margot who felt vaguely discomfited.

When the dance was over she returned to her chair, only to find that the moment the musicians started up again, he was beside her in an instant.

‘A gentleman always returns a lady’s invitation,’ he remarked.

Margot couldn’t help but chuckle, her usual good humour returning. ‘I think you are a shameless rake, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘I think you might be correct,’ said he with a smile.

And they did indeed quite shamelessly exploit the rules by continuously inviting each other up to dance for the rest of the evening. Not a soul in the room could fail to notice the growing attraction between them, which was not only openly displayed, but positively flagrant. It pleased Margot to see how Guise’s gimlet gaze followed their every move, every step in the dance, every glance and hold. She prayed that he might grow jealous, wanting him to storm over and come between the pair of them as they sat with their heads together, gossiping and giggling, almost as if they were lovers already. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the sort of man to do anything quite so dramatic.

Navarre was simply amused, accosting her on the subject the very next day. ‘I see you have a new fancy, wife; a handsome friend to become your devoted slave, and indeed your own devotion to him is clearly evident.’

‘In view of your own affaire, I do not see how it can be any business of yours with whom I dance.’

Navarre shrugged. ‘I have to say that I do not like the fellow. He is an upstart who thinks too well of himself. I feel you could do better, but if he amuses you, who am I to judge? You must do as you choose, dear lady, I will not stand in your way.’

‘Why would you care?’

‘Why indeed?’

Before leaving for Poland, Anjou had made his dislike of the Comte well known, not only because he was a favourite of Alençon, but because he had dared to flirt with his darling Marie. Charles had stoutly defended the man, but now, on hearing the gossip of what had gone on at the dance, he too was infuriated by his impertinence.

Walking in the gardens with his Queen and Marie Touchet, each lady now happily reconciled to the other, he watched in dismay as his sister continued to make an exhibition of herself.

‘The fellow is little more than a commoner, a mere servant, however well connected.’ Charles was reduced to the same state of rage he had once experienced when she had flirted with Guise before her marriage. ‘The girl is incorrigible, a wanton. Does she not appreciate that only gentlemen are allowed to flirt and play games of love with those of a lower rank? Certainly not Princesses of the Blood.’

‘I dislike this too close a friendship between Navarre and Alençon,’ Catherine told him. ‘And talk of your sister’s behaviour is rippling through the palace like a forest fire.’

‘I will deal with this. Madame, you are the cause of everything. Everything!’ he screamed at her.

Charles was tired, exhausted, frequently ailing, but still needing to prove, to himself at least, that he was in charge of the Kingdom. He constantly rejected Catherine’s advice, hated and feared her, haunted as he still was by the demons of the massacre. Yet in this she might be right. He too was terrified of the influential friendships his younger brother was acquiring, the intrigue which was undoubtedly bubbling between Alençon and Navarre. Now his own beloved sister was behaving like a wanton.

‘I will make her sorry, and teach that lout to regret his impudence.’

Rippling with rage, Charles gathered about him a few of his most loyal gentlemen, including a secretly amused Guise, and they hid themselves at the foot of the staircase leading to the Duchess of Nevers’ chamber. They had been informed that La Molle was attending a supper party that evening, and impatiently awaited his departure. Charles carried a cord and was visibly jittery, frantic for the moment the libertine would come clattering down the stairs, when he intended to strangle him.

An hour slipped by, and another, Charles’s highly emotional state worsening by the minute. When La Molle still hadn’t appeared on the stroke of midnight, he began to shiver, although whether from frustration, fury, or simply cold, wasn’t clear. At length Guise ventured to suggest to His Majesty that the miscreant may not appear at all.

‘Why would he not?’ roared the King, setting off a fit of coughing.

‘I suspect,’ said Guise, ‘that he may have paid a call upon another lady, following supper with the Duchess. He may not come down these stairs until morning.’

Charles reacted with horror. ‘If you are referring to my sister, then think carefully on what you impute.’ He was turning purple with rage, and then almost as quickly lost all colour completely as he began to cough up blood.

Guise was instantly alarmed. ‘Sire, allow me to help you to your rooms. We can do no more this night.’ Taking Charles gently by the arm, he half carried the King of France back to the care of his nurse.

Margot lay upon the black satin sheets she’d had made specially to show off her white skin, her new lover beside her. ‘I would say that you fulfilled your part of the bargain splendidly, for you did indeed both amuse and entertain me.’

‘And for longer than the length of a dance. Would you care for a reprise?’

Margot laughed. ‘You are incorrigible, sir. See, it is nearly morning, and long past time you left.’

Their night of love making had gone some way towards appeasing the sense of loss and rejection she harboured as a result of her husband’s casual betrayal and the defection by Guise. The excitement of discovering new thrills had acted as a solace to her bruised pride. La Molle had proved to be an experienced lover and, despite his maturity, his body was lean and hard, and quite beautiful. Margot could quite see why he was a favourite with all the ladies.

Not that she could ever compare the emotions he inspired in her with those of Guise, the man she truly loved. Yet surely it was better to enjoy the attentions of this handsome fellow, rather than spend endless sleepless nights alone? Wasn’t she a woman who needed to be loved?

Le Comte was preparing to leave, pulling on his breeches, fastening his cloak in place, when something dropped from an inner pocket. Margot picked it up.

‘What is this?’ She was frowning, for it was a small waxen doll with a pin stuck through the heart.

‘Madame, you make me blush. I had the Queen Mother’s astrologer, Cosimo Ruggieri, make that for me. As you can see it wears a crown and is meant to be in your likeness. It was intended to make you fall in love with me.’

Margot’s eyes widened. ‘I suppose this pin piercing the heart is supposed to represent your love for me?’

His smile was mischievous, and beguiling. ‘Have I not pierced your heart, Madame, with my unwavering devotion, and my attention to your needs this night?’

‘Be gone, fool. This is no more than superstitious trickery,’ and she tossed the doll to him, laughing all the while.

Grinning, he tucked it away again in that secret pocket. ‘Ah, but it worked, Your Majesty, you cannot deny it. I swear I shall never now be parted from the doll, hoping that it may keep me in your good favour.’

‘You need only love me to achieve that,’ she smiled. ‘Not depend upon trickery.’

‘The King is gravely ill, and this time they fear for his life,’ Navarre announced to Condé one morning. ‘The lung disease has progressed and his condition is worsening. Nor will the February chill help to sustain him.’

The pair were waiting in Alençon’s ante-chamber for the start of one of their secret meetings, kicking their heels and pacing back and forth with impatience. They were always edgy and on their guard on these occasions, for were the Queen Mother to discover how they met privately with Huguenots within the walls of the Louvre, she would spare no one. And the Bastille was a far less pleasant prison than this one.

‘And with Anjou in Poland, the Queen Mother grows ever more suspicious of the ambitions of her youngest son, whom she fears may attempt to usurp the throne intended for her beloved favourite. Having rid himself of one brother, His Majesty now appears to be harassed by the other,’ Condé dryly remarked.

‘Indeed, particularly since he refused to grant Alençon the post of Lieutenant-General. Charles is considering offering it to his sister Claude’s husband, the Duke of Lorraine, instead.’

Condé raised his brows in surprise, then sadly shook his head. ‘Had Alençon been granted such a high office, he could have done much for our cause.’

‘By bowing to his brother and the Queen Mother’s wishes in this matter, Charles has forged a new enemy,’ Navarre agreed. ‘It does not surprise me in the slightest that Alençon is bitter. How could he not be when his own mother has made it very evident by the way in which she has largely ignored him all his life, that he is of no account. She pours all her love and attention into Anjou. If Charles is jealous of her favourite, how much more so is Alençon? And Good Queen Bess seems resolutely unwilling to take her little frog, as she calls him, for a husband.’

‘He grows increasingly restless, a born intriguer. I’m not sure I can trust him.’

A dwarf entered with a flagon of wine and proceeded to pour a goblet for each of them. Condé watched with a thoughtful frown as he was followed by La Molle and Coconnas, who were laughing and preening themselves like the fops they were as they took their seats at the table.

‘This little court he keeps, think you not it’s an odd mix? Sober Protestants and roués, pretty women, alchemists and adventurers. Most of whom have linked themselves to him in order to further their own interests. Although I believe Alençon himself is equally guilty of that crime. He is far more concerned with his own selfish glory, rather than the good of France.’

Henry gave his cousin a playful punch. ‘Not all men are as unselfish or as devoted to God as are you, coz.’

Other gentlemen began to arrive: Damville and his brother Montmorency, along with Turenne and Thore, slipped quietly into their places, shuffling papers and conversing together in a relaxed fashion as the dwarf attended to their needs, pouring more wine.

‘Unlike you, my good friend, your brother-in-law is not a natural leader. Men would not follow him to their deaths, or women fall at his feet as they do yours. Nevertheless, this rival court of his seems to have persuaded the Duke that Spain, the Pope, and his mother are all in league against him.’

Navarre gave a wry smile. ‘They might well be right. We may differ in many respects, Alençon and I, not least in our nature, but we both live in fear for our lives within these grim walls.’

Condé readily conceded this. ‘If the fellow has the desire to be a leader of our party, then let him. We’re in dire need of such at present, and he might make a fine statesman one day, if he could but rid himself of this obsession over sibling rivalry.’

‘I doubt he will remain a Huguenot for long. It is no more than a passing fad.’ Dropping his voice to a whisper, Navarre continued, ‘He means to join the Politiques, once they have grown sufficiently to require a leader. Alençon seems to have a need to be independent, to be his own man, and they will readily accept him since he took no part in the massacre of St Bartholomew’s Eve. What better way to prove the honour of their campaign than to have a Son of France as their leader? Alençon’s aims, however, are less altruistic. He wants a crown, perhaps at any price.’

The door opened and the Duke himself came in, an odd mix of self-importance and diffidence warring for supremacy on his ugly face. ‘Pray, gentlemen, be seated, I beg you.’

He began with an assessment of the situation in the Low Countries: the successes achieved in Normandy, of twelve hundred brave Béarnais troops gathering near Fontenay, towns opening their gates to the Huguenots. He then moved on to the health of his brother, his tone slightly mocking.