The Hostage Queen Read Free Page B

recognized a sardonic cruelty in the way his lip curled. Margot thought that her mother might need all her diplomatic skills to deal with such a man.
    She watched almost with sympathy as Catherine leaned over to show the Duke an artificial whale leaking red wine from a supposed wound, pointing out how grand King Neptune looked as he rode his chariot pulled by sea horses. Alva glanced disdainfully at the scenes being enacted on the river. Nor did he appear to be listening to a word the Queen said, behaviour the great Catherine de Medici was certainly not accustomed to.
    Yet Margot felt more sympathy for herself. She was in an agony of emotion, anxiously awaiting her fate. Would she be wed to a madman, or could she continue to hope and dream of Guise? Her heart skipped a beat at the prospect.
    An army of servants brought cold meats to the tables : the jambon de Bayonne, duck and pigeon, foie gras, fine cheeses and custard tarts. As she nibbled on a sweet pastry Margot could barely drag her gaze away from the two Queens, her mother and sister, as they sat huddled together in close conversation. One moment they were squabbling with icy coolness, the next smiling, kissing and embracing each other. Like everyone at court, the young princess was skilled in the art of eavesdropping, an accepted part of court life and often the only way to survive.
    ‘Do you think,’ she whispered to the ever-present Madame de Curton, ‘that these talks yet touch upon me?’
    ‘They are discussing the Huguenots, which is far more important.’
    Margot stifled a sigh.
    She must try to be optimistic. She was young, after all, with an immense appetite for life. Her natural exuberance would always come to the fore and allow her to hope. Besides, the stern dissatisfaction in her mother’s face seemed to indicate that the discussions were not going well.
    Catherine’s voice rang out momentarily above the hubbub. ‘Philip should never doubt the strength of my faith. I am the niece of a pope, after all, and when orphaned as a young child, spent some of my most formative years being educated by nuns.’
    ‘His Grace the King wishes me to remind Your Majesty that he has no desire to be the ruler of heretics.’
    So Madame was right, they did still talk of religion. Was that good or bad? Margot was a great admirer of her mother’s skills in pacifying the religious fanatics of either persuasion, but t he fierce Duke of Alva looked very much a persecutor rather than a peacemaker. He seemed eager to prove that his master, surely the most powerful monarch in the world, was ready to stand against the Queen Mother, if needs be.
    A frightening consideration, even to Margot, a mere girl.
    The royal children had grown up through the first turbulent wars of religion. When Margot had been but seven or eight even her brother Anjou had flirted with Calvinism for a while, simply out of a desire to follow the fashion, ever a weakness of his. He would constantly tease and plague her, ordering her to replace her rosaries and Book of Hours with the Huguenot prayer book, and on one occasion had even thrown it into the fire.
    Despite her tender age she’d stood up to his bullying, remaining firm in her devotions. ‘I would suffer whipping, and even death, rather than be damned,’ she’d told him, tossing her dark curls, eyes blazing.
    Fortunately, neither fate had been called for. Madame de Curton had taken her to the Cardinal of Tournon who recommended she hold fast to her faith and provided her with a new Book of Hours, to replace the one that was burned. Anjou had continued to mock her childish piousness, yet she’d steadfastly ignored him. And once their mother had learned of her favourite son’s misguided fancy, he’d been sternly brought back to his true calling.
    Surely no one would dare to view the Queen Mother’s tolerance as a sign of weakness. She was without doubt a strong woman, a clever and wily diplomat, prepared to bend events to her will. A Medici