The Hostage Queen (6 page)

Coligny rested a gentle hand upon the young man’s shoulder. ‘I welcome your support, Téligny, as always, but you know as well as I that if the Queen Mother summons me to court, I must obey.

Leaving Henry with his mother for a short visit, the court journeyed on through western France, through Bordeaux and Nantes, accompanied by a large body of men, which proved wise as they were frequently heckled and jeered by Calvinist fanatics in this very Protestant region. By November they reached Angers, and from there they sailed up the Loire, stopping at various chateaux en route, including the Queen Mother’s favourite, Chenonceau, till they reached Moulins, where the planned reconciliation was to take place.

Catherine hoped this might be the day to act on the promise she’d made to Alva. She would welcome the opportunity permanently to separate Coligny’s clever military brain from those able shoulders of his.

But there were too many of them, and they came well armed, bristling with suspicion. There would be other opportunities but today she must smile and dissemble, and keep the peace amongst these dangerous rivals.

She watched with interest as they warily circled each other. Coligny and the Prince de Condé on the one side, and the entire Guise family, including Anne d’Este, widow of Francis of Guise, on the other. The two families had not been in the same room together for months, convinced as they were that the man really responsible for the murder of the head of their House was Coligny, and not Poltrot.

The greatest amongst the Guises now was the Cardinal of Lorraine, that sly old fox who spent far more time with his many mistresses than reading the scriptures. His nephew, the handsome young Henri d’Guise, was largely ignoring his Bourbon rivals as he sat whispering with Margot.

These powerful men thought themselves so grand, so supremely important; the Guises with their eye on the throne arrogantly challenging her power. Coligny determined to oppose the orthodox religion of the realm. She meant to teach them all a little humility.

Catherine curled her lips into a practised smile. ‘My dear friends, it is good to see you all gathered here together. Without question we all mourn the death of your leader, the great Francis of Guise, victim of a cruel and cowardly act. But for the sake of France we must strive to banish this resentment that exists between your two houses. My one wish is to see you reconciled.’

Charles said, ‘We wish to officially acquit our dear friend Coligny of any part in the great warlord’s tragic death. Let us see this matter settled.’

There was a short, tense silence as nobody spoke, nobody moved.

‘Come now, Cardinal,’ Catherine urged. ‘We require you to offer a kiss of reconciliation, of forgiveness for the ill feeling between you, which a man so pious as yourself should have no difficulty with. Think of it as necessary for the good of our nation.’

‘I bow to your greater wisdom, Madame,’ the Cardinal dryly responded, ‘since you always put the good of the nation before your own.’ With these insincere, ambiguous words, and beneath the cold, watchful gaze of the Queen Mother, he stepped forward towards his bitter rival.

Coligny stood pale faced, his hand on his sword, carrying out the order with obvious distaste. When it was done, both men stepped quickly away from each other. It was a theatrical display which fooled no one.

Catherine next turned to the Cardinal’s nephew, the young Henri, Duke of Guise. Face flushed with youthful defiance, he refused point-blank to play the game.

‘You ask too much. I cannot betray the memory of my father, not even to please Your Majesty.’

Catherine considered the heartfelt passion in the boy’s face, his rigid stance with his hand on his sword, as was Coligny’s still, and knew she had lost. She noted how the rest of his family stood proudly behind him, emphasizing by their very stance that although their great leader was dead, they nonetheless had a fine replacement in the form of his son. The meeting had turned into a farce. For all her efforts, her clever acting and dissembling, nothing had been achieved.

Henri and Margot walked hand in hand in the park. ‘How could I betray my father’s memory? You know how I loved him, how I have sworn to take revenge for his murder.’

Margot pulled Henri down on a grassy sward to hold him in her arms, breathing in the warm scent of his skin, loving him, swearing her complete support as emotion overcame him over the loss of the father he loved so dearly.

‘You are right, my love. How could you risk it? I thought you so brave to stand up to my mother the Queen like that. It was unfair of her to attempt this nonsense of a reconciliation. The order certainly did not come from the King. Charles has far too much sensitivity.’

The young man dashed the tears from his eyes, embarrassed by this show of weakness. ‘I hate Coligny. The coward should own up to his crime. Poltrot was but a half-witted youth of twenty, clearly acting under orders. My father didn’t stand a chance. He wasn’t even wearing his usual coat of mail, and was shot in the back by an arquebus.’

‘I remember that my mother offered her finest surgeons, sitting by his bedside at the camp until he breathed his last,’ Margot said, combing her fingers through Guise’s fair curls as she leaned against the hard strength of his shoulder.

‘Poltrot said Coligny had offered him one hundred écus to do the job. What price is that for a life? My father’s life, for pity’s sake! A hero, a warlord.’ Too agitated to sit still, the hot-headed young man broke free from her embrace to stride back and forth in a fury of impatience. ‘I know Coligny swore on his life that he did no such thing, that he was innocent, but I do not believe him. He is a liar! The plot came directly from him. He freely admitted that Poltrot was one of his men, but it is no defence to say that he would never have trusted the gibbering fool to carry out such a task. The fellow’s very idiocy might have been considered a defence.’

Margot frowned. ‘I am sure you have every right to be angry, my love.’ Whatever the rights and wrong of the case, Margot wished he would stop ranting and railing, and hold her in his arms.

Guise swung about, fists clenched, eyes burning with hatred. ‘And do you know what else he said? That although he was innocent, he nevertheless regarded the duke’s death as the greatest benefit which could have befallen the kingdom, God’s Church, and in particular his whole House. What kind of remark is that to make about my father?’

‘Despicable!’

‘It fills me with rage to think of it. I’d rather run the blackguard through with my sword than kiss his cheek.’

‘You can kiss mine.’

He looked at her lovely face, at the glittering promise in her chestnut eyes, then put back his head and laughed. Gathering Margot tightly in his arms, he kissed her cheek, her lips, her hair, the smooth silk of her throat. ‘At least I have you. Know that I love you, Margot.’

Warmth spread through her as sweet as honey. ‘I know it. I carry your love in my heart every day.’

‘They may allow us to marry in time; we can still hope.’

‘There is always hope, and I shall ever love you.’

‘And one day – one blessed day – I shall have my revenge on Coligny.’

***

LOVE AND WAR

1567–1572

September 1567

THE ROYAL FAMILY were enjoying a sunny autumn holiday at the château de Montceaux-en-Brie. Margot was delighted, for she loved to ride, and would each morning join the hunt with her mother and brothers. It felt good to have the sun on her face, the wind streaming through her dark hair; to remind herself that she was fourteen years old, and still free.

The question of her marriage had not been discussed for a year or more, but then everyone was too concerned with the fact that the religious wars had broken out again. Last year Alva had been responsible for slaughtering thousands of innocents in the Netherlands. Since then, monks and Catholics had been killed by Protestants in retaliation; religious statues destroyed or desecrated, churches burned, with much barbarity on both sides. Neighbour once more distrusted neighbour, brother turned against brother.

Perhaps sickened by the scourge of killings, things had quietened down in recent months and the Queen Mother had decided that an autumn holiday would be the very thing for the King’s increasingly fragile health.

‘Country food and fresh air will do us all good,’ she had declared. There was nothing Catherine loved more than a display of family unity.

It was as they were returning from a morning’s hunt that a rider appeared at full gallop. Skittering to a halt in a cloud of dust, he proved to be one of Catherine’s grooms and blurted out a warning of a plot by the Huguenots to kidnap the royal party.

Catherine reined in her horse with a cry of vexation, her eyes cold as they settled on the poor beleaguered messenger. ‘They wouldn’t dare! Tis all bluster and hot air.’

‘But Madame, there are reports of soldiers massing at Rosay-en-Brie. I beg you move to Meaux, which is better fortified.’

The Queen Mother took some persuading, irritated at having her holiday interrupted, and convinced that peace was at last secure. Finally, she agreed to the change of quarters, although with strict orders that the family holiday should proceed as before. Fortified or not, she had no intention of confining herself to the house, and continued to ride out every morning. Margot felt nought but admiration for her mother’s courage.

But then who would dare beard the she-wolf in her den, let alone when she was holidaying with her cubs?

It was barely three o’clock in the morning, with dawn not yet broken, when Margot was shaken awake by Madame de Curton. ‘Hurry, my lady. You must dress quickly. The castle is under attack.’

Margot was out of bed in a second, reaching for her linen even as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. ‘What is happening?’

The governess let out a frantic moan. ‘We are in danger of being murdered in our beds.’

The pair embraced, close to tears, finding some comfort in being together, as always, but there was no time to linger. Mayhem had broken out. Maids of honour were screaming, dogs barking, servants, dukes and princes running about in equal panic, the entire royal household out on the road, fleeing for their lives.

Margot and Madame de Curton travelled in the Queen Mother’s chariot with the King and other family members, protected by Swiss guards within a square of pikes. Senior courtiers followed close behind in the fastest, lightest carriages. The rest were obliged to walk, or run if they could. The procession was hotly pursued, and never had Margot known such fear. Her heart was pounding, expecting at any moment to be apprehended by the enemy and her throat slit. It took twice as long as normal to journey to Paris so that they arrived close to collapse and weeping with shock and horror.

Charles at once fell into one of his tantrums. He wept and raged, vowing he never wished to be frightened like that ever again. ‘I swear I will pursue the culprits to their deaths.’

It was left to Margot to calm him, a skill at which she had become adept. The young king, feeling lonely and sick, trusted no one, and his sister had become his solace and dearest friend, although Margot grew ever wary of upsetting him.

‘Do not let this incident distress you, dear brother,’ she soothed. ‘See how well protected we are here in the Louvre. They can do us no further harm.’

‘I am no coward to hide away, Margot. I will not be treated so rudely!’ Charles cried, chewing on his finger nails as he moved about his privy chamber in great agitation.

‘Of course you are not; no one has accused you of such.’

‘I shall gather my men and fight. I must kill whoever has the effrontery to rise against us.’

‘Sire, you must leave that task to others. You are too important to the realm.’

Madame de Curton added her own pleas for calm, and called for his nurse. The old woman came quickly and warmed a decoction of camomile tea, then held the young king warm and safe against her breast till he fell sleep. Margot watched with sorrow in her heart. Charles did so need to be a child again sometimes.

The danger remained strong, despite the relative safety of the Louvre, as the Huguenot rebels prepared to besiege the city. All entry into Paris was blocked, even the Seine, and the people soon grew hungry for lack of supplies. It was exactly as Catherine had feared: the Huguenots suspected her of being in league with Philip, and yet the Catholics didn’t trust her either.

‘This attack is the greatest wickedness in the world. I will pacify and conciliate no longer.’

She went to her desk, took up a sharpened quill and penned a furious letter to Philip of Spain. ‘You may imagine with what distress I see the kingdom returning to the troubles and afflictions from which I laboured to deliver it.’

It was almost two months before the siege finally ended with the death of the Lord High Constable at the Battle of Saint-Denis. Whereupon, blinded by her passion for Anjou, Catherine appointed her favourite son Lieutenant-General and put him in full command of the army. He was sixteen years old.

Anjou strutted with arrogance at the honour, confident he could make a good leader. Charles was less happy by the appointment, wishing that he could be the one to lead his men to war, and made no attempt to disguise his displeasure.

‘I only agree to this because my brother will have great soldiers to advise him: the Duke of Nemours, Montpensier, and the Marechal de Tavannes.’

Catherine soothed the King’s hurt pride, disguising her own reservations with a manufactured smile. The state of the treasury gave little prospect of a swift conclusion to their difficulties. And led by an effeminate fop
who had been cosseted and petted throughout his life, was unused to the hardships of soldiering, there seemed little prospect of an easy victory. Yet Anjou was the love of her life and she must give him this chance to prove himself.

A bitter winter followed, and Coligny at Châtillon grew increasingly uneasy, particularly when a stranger, an Italian, came to live close to his chateau. He was being quietly surrounded by his enemies.
Word had filtered through that
Catherine
had ordered the Admiral and Condé to be seized. She wanted the latter’s ‘tête si chère’. His head, however, was far more valuable to the Huguenots still attached to his neck, not least to Condé himself.

Coligny swiftly moved his family to Noyers in Burgundy, together with the Prince de Condé, and they began to gather supporters. Still grieving over the recent death of his wife, yet he rallied sufficiently to write to Catherine in protest, accusing the Queen Mother of plotting to kill them. ‘God will not leave unpunished the shedding of so much innocent blood.’

It was the end of August, and without waiting for a reply the Huguenot leaders, along with their followers, slipped quietly away from Noyers that same night, and set out for La Rochelle, finding strength in being together. There was little time for mourning as Coligny led the way, his four young children by his side. Condé carried a babe in his arms, his wife the Marquise ill and fretting, the couple’s children straggling along beside her. The rest of the company marched in almost biblical procession behind.

The numbers grew as many more joined them en route till they were likened to the flight from Egypt of God’s chosen people: like children of Israel hopeful of a new land and redemption.

As they approached the Loire they saw that the river ran high. Panic rippled through them as they felt certain their pursuers must be closing in, but just as with the children of Israel, the floods subsided at an opportune moment and they crossed in safety. Yet they knew that their enemies would be waiting for them on the opposite bank, and with one accord fell to their knees and sang a psalm.

‘Lord save us and be with us in the hour of our need,’ Coligny prayed, and all who were with him found comfort in his calm.

Refreshed and invigorated from their prayers they travelled on with renewed hope, despite the perils that lay ahead, the crying children, and the hunger that cramped their bellies.
In the first days of September,
Condé
and Coligny entered La Rochelle at the head of their followers.

Henry of Navarre lay in the summer meadows at Nérac savouring the charms of Fleurette, the gardener’s daughter, the wars of religion the last thing on his mind. Following his visit with his mother towards the end of the royal progress in 1565, he’d returned to the French Court. But in recent months Jeanne had again secured his release for a visit, once more appealing directly to the King to bypass the Queen Mother’s objections.

He was busy with the fastenings of Fleurette’s bodice, her plump breasts spilling out of the low neck of her print gown, when the pretty young maid excitedly informed him that he was to be a father. Arrested by this startling news, all passion instantly deserted him. Throughout this long, delightful dalliance, any possible consequences of the pleasures they enjoyed together had never troubled him.

‘Are you pleased?’ the girl asked, giggling, and he had to smile because she was so very delightful. The dimples in her cheeks, her soulful eyes and the comeliness of her figure were really quite exquisite. Was it any wonder if he could hardly keep his hands off her, or that she had fallen? ‘I shall give you a son,’ she proudly announced, as if she could easily arrange such matters. ‘And he shall be a fine Prince of Navarre, like his father.’

Henry removed her clinging arms from about his neck. Young as he was, she was by no means his first amourette and marriage was the last thing on his mind, certainly not to a gardener’s daughter. But it was no fault of hers if she was generous and loving. He kissed her full red lips and regretfully tugged her bodice back into place. ‘I trust he will be the image of his pretty mother. But how could we wed, my sweet? I love you dearly,’ he lied, ‘but my mother would never agree to the match.’

Fleurette pouted. ‘My father would expect you to do the honourable thing. He would not have me ruined. He was very angry when I told him.’

Henry paled slightly, hiding his alarm as always with that merry laugh of his while his mind rapidly sought some excuse to escape. His mother might well hear of this scandal before he had time to break the news gently to her himself. She would not be pleased. Jeanne d’Albret put great store by high moral behaviour, and making the gardener’s daughter enceintée certainly did not come into that category. Yet it was done now, so he must accept it. He would not be the first Prince of the Blood to produce a by-blow, and he accurately surmised that this child would not be the last of his born on the wrong side of the blanket.

He was on his feet now, still kissing Fleurette’s hands and swearing his undying love. ‘Do not fret, my sweet, I will not abandon you, and shall always recognize the boy, or girl, as my own. You will be well taken care of.’

‘Of course I shall, as your wife,’ the girl insisted, pressing her eager young body against his.

‘Ah, there now, I believe my mother is calling me. We will talk of this later.’ And with a last, lingering kiss, Henry left her.

One glance at his mother’s face was sufficient to assure him that she had already heard the news. Henry gave a resigned shrug, smiling sheepishly. ‘What can I say? These things happen. She can be properly taken care of, I trust? I would not see her in distress.’