The Hostage Queen (36 page)

Navarre, ever the perfect knight who hated to see a woman cry, was devastated to see his delightful mistress so upset, and must needs console her and make love to her all over again.

But he thought a good deal on what she had told him, and as she repeated the claim each and every time they met over the next few days, he began to think that there might well be some truth in the rumour after all. Certainly no harm would be done by exercising a little more caution.

Margot was alarmed to discover that, quite out of the blue, her husband suddenly stopped speaking to her. He became distant and reserved. Instead of being his usual open and friendly self, happily confiding his conquests to her as if with a much-loved sister, he began studiously to avoid her company. He stopped coming to her bed, which infuriated her all the more, despite the number of occasions she had complained about his unwashed feet, or the odour of his garlic-tainted breath.

When she tackled him on this odd behaviour he coldly informed her that she no longer held his trust.

‘I have been reliably informed that you have betrayed my confidences to the King, and to the Queen your mother, relating all that has passed between us.’

‘Reliably informed by whom?’

‘It will not do, Margot.’

‘It is a wicked lie!’ She fervently denied the accusation but he simply walked away.

The following morning as she left the Queen’s lever, Charlotte de Sauves smilingly whispered her condolences to Margot for the loss of her husband’s favour.

‘These lies are du Guast’s doing, and yours.’

Charlotte put back her elegant head and let out a trill of laughter, although the merry sound of it was tinged with acid. ‘Rumour is rife. Do you imagine your husband isn’t fully aware why you pay such frequent visits to your brother’s apartments? You’re entranced by a certain gallant by the name of Bussy.’

The sheer effrontery of the woman struck Margot dumb. Not for a moment would she admit the truth to this malicious, manipulative strumpet. Since coming to Paris she had indeed seen more of Bussy d’Amboise. Her excuse was that she could hardly avoid him, since he was First Gentleman to Alençon, and she was in and out of her younger brother’s apartments all day. But even had he not been so accessible, she would have sought him out. He was handsome, daring, audacious, master of the sword fight, and, most of all, fun!

Margot lifted her chin high. ‘Bussy formerly worked for the King, and His Majesty is annoyed that he’s chosen to leave his service and devote himself to my brother, who regards him highly. Which does not surprise me for t
here is none to compare with Bussy d’Amboise for valour, reputation, grace and wit.
Du Guast would seek any way to hurt him, and me, out of pure vengeance. Yet I have spread no lies or mischief against my husband.’

Charlotte coolly smiled. ‘But is it any wonder that he believes you have? He is convinced you are less innocent than you profess, when you willingly flaunt this relationship, causing him great distress.’

Margot couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I believe it would take someone with more skills than I to cause my husband any distress over my supposed intimacies with “a certain gallant”, whether the rumours be true or false. We have a measure of agreement, he and I, which suits us both very well. Nor should you imagine that I feel any jealousy over your own dalliance with
noste
Enric. I suggest you’ll find it a waste of your valuable time to attempt to cause dissension between us on that score.’

Charlotte’s tone was now that of a spitting cat. ‘I suggest to you, Madame, that you concern yourself with your own affairs, and keep your long Valois nose out of mine.’

‘No, indeed, you are the one who must take care,’ Margot snapped, and quitted the Queen’s ante-chamber, slamming the door behind her.

She went at once to her brother, for it was very evident that where once they’d taken their rivalry in good part, now they were increasingly at loggerheads. De Sauves had cleverly made each of the men think they were of first importance to her, and had created dissent between them.

Alençon, however, refused to listen.

‘On all other matters you heed my advice, why not this?’ Margot cried.

‘I will not be ruled by my sister on who I choose to be my mistress.’

Margot wondered if he was perhaps becoming rather full of his own importance, now that he was next in line to the throne. As heir he should properly be addressed as Monsieur, although most of his friends continued to call him Alençon, herself included.

‘Can you not see that you are both being used? She is creating disaffection as a means to ruin the friendship between you and Enric, a fact you have long sworn never to let happen.’

But no matter what she said, Alençon remained unmoved by her pleas. It was clear that he was utterly besotted, the fascination too strong, and all Margot’s arguments proved useless.

Navarre was sitting at his desk about to write to a friend, chewing on the end of his quill pen and wondering how to describe his concerns. There was increasing tension at court, and dissension between the different factions seemed to be growing ever more dangerous. Nerves were tested, which frequently led to sword fights and skirmishes.

One evening, aware that Alençon was with Madame de Sauves, Navarre had waited for him, and when Alençon had emerged from her apartment, he’d pretended to be just passing by and had ‘accidentally’ knocked the Duke in the eye with the hilt of his sword, leaving it badly bruised.

When they’d met the following morning, Navarre had attempted to look sympathetic. ‘Why, mon dieu, what is the matter with your eye? What a bruise! How did you come by it?’

‘It is nothing,’ the Duke had brusquely responded, and brandishing his sword dangerously close to Navarre’s throat, had hissed furiously at him, ‘If anybody says that I got it where you think I did, I will make him deny it.’

It had taken several courtiers, who happened to be present, to prevent a fight which might well have ended in the death one of them.
And this despite their pledge to Margot to remain united.

Navarre was beginning to sense that he may have misjudged his wife and was rather regretting his coldness towards her. He had no idea whether she was currently engaged in an affaire, nor did he greatly care. Generally speaking, they rubbed along surprisingly well, and she’d shown little sign of jealousy over his own notorious infidelity, beyond bruised pride. She’d gently bullied him into improving his manners and etiquette, and taught him much about how to survive in the French Court, not least how to keep his head on his shoulders.

Despite their petty squabbles, he did not believe she would ever betray him to the King, whom she despised. Did she not have every reason to want to keep their triumvirate strong, if only to protect her precious young brother?

She believed that du Guast and Henri were guilty of plotting unfounded mischief, and of using de Sauves to bring them all down. It was certainly true that
Charlotte, who was a born coquette, loved nothing better than to play off one lover against the other. There had been several occasions lately when she’d annoyed him by fawning over Alençon in his presence. Could Margot be right? Was that a deliberate ploy? Not that h
e’d been any more faithful to the delectable Charlotte than she was with him. Perhaps he was growing bored with her, and she seemed to be less available these days.

Navarre began to write: ‘This court is the strangest place on earth. We are nearly always ready to cut each other’s throats. We carry daggers, wear coats of mail and often a cuirass beneath a cape . . . All the band you know wants my death on account of my love for the Duke . . . They say they will kill me, and I want to be one jump ahead of them.’

But it was not in fact Navarre who they attempted to kill.

Margot was resting in her apartment at the Louvre when news reached her that her lover had been attacked. One of her brother’s gentlemen, an Italian, who was one of the party, came running for help, dripping blood from an open wound in his shoulder.

‘Bussy is attacked!’ he shouted, and Margot went white with shock. ‘We were set upon by a score of armed guards, the sword fight fast and furious. I know not if he is safe.’

Alençon joined Margot and was all for setting out there and then to defend his First Gentleman, but the Queen Mother, who had also responded to the call, urged him not to risk his life.

‘It is full dark, and you are ignorant of where the attack took place, or the nature of it. Your life is too precious to me, my son. See how many children I have lost already, and you are the heir apparent. You must not go.’

‘But if we do nothing Bussy may lose his life. I cannot stand by and let him die.’

Alençon was all for ignoring her orders, even though Margot added her own pleas to those of her mother. But Catherine was so determined to protect her son that she had all the doors securely barred, refusing to allow him to leave. The Duke had to be content with sending a contingent of his men, who returned some hours later to report that Bussy had thankfully escaped unscathed.

‘Hampered as he was with an injured right arm tied up in a silvery-grey scarf loaned to him by yourself, good lady, he nevertheless stood his ground and fought hard, defending himself with commendable skill. ‘Would you fight a fellow with only one arm?’ he cried, unable to believe, even as he parried and thrust, that this could be a serious attack. But when one of his colleagues, who wore a similar scarf, took a sword thrust through the stomach that killed him instantly, Bussy realized the assault did indeed have mortal intent. Unable to defend himself properly, he took refuge in a doorway, found it to be unlocked, and slipped quietly inside to escape by a back entrance.’

‘Praise God for providence,’ Margot breathed.

Next morning, the intended victim came striding into the Louvre, his usual daredevil self, grinning from ear to ear as if he had endured nothing more taxing than a joust at a tournament. He was eager to prove by his solid presence that he had indeed defeated his enemies.

Margot almost fainted with relief. ‘This is the work of du Guast,’ she cried, longing to enfold him in her arms but dare not to do so before the curious gaze of her brother and his entourage. Normally she snapped her fingers at public opinion, cared not a jot what anyone might think of her, but today, with Bussy having come within a whisker of death, discretion seemed the better part of valour. ‘At least you are safe,’ she said, her smile radiant.

But she spoke too soon, for moments later the room filled with armed guards and he was arrested. She cried out in his defence but her lover was marched away, as was her brother. In fear, trembling, she waited anxiously for what might happen next. Was this to be a repeat of that earlier incident? Would she soon be seeing poor Bussy’s head roll as La Molle’s and Coconnas’s had done? How would she endure it?

The pair were held in prison for several days before Catherine, who was weary of the foolish squabble, finally persuaded Henri that there was no plot, no intrigue against him, merely foolish jealousy, and that he should settle for dismissing the miscreant from court.

The pair were released and Bussy banished to his estates. The dashing young courtier left on a note of defiance, flaunting Margot’s favour in his hat, accompanied on his journey by the highest noblemen in her brother’s service.

The Queen Mother, who harboured no bourgeois principles or moralistic disapproval, caring only that a love affair not turn into political intrigue against the crown, ordered her daughter to be more discreet in future. And although Margot would miss her lover, she sighed with relief that at least this way he would keep his head.

But the incident proved that she might never be free to have friends, or a lover, simply because of the King’s paranoia over possible intrigue against him.

Only days later, Navarre fell ill. Fearing for her husband’s life, Margot painstakingly nursed him back to health, just as she had done once before. Terrified of the morceau Italianizé, she personally prepared his food, bringing him warm possets and beef broth to tempt his appetite, allowing no one but herself to feed him.