The Hostage Queen Read Free

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