Marguerite of Navarre
Author’s Note The life of Marguerite de Valois was so full of drama, romance, intrigue and danger that very little in this story needed to be invented. I have nonetheless used my imagination to interpret her reaction to events, her love affairs, and to fill any gaps. Much that was written about her was pure malice or propaganda, rather than factual history, and I have done my best to stay true to what seemed most likely. Although they form the background to her story, this is not a history of the Wars of Religion, rather the effect upon them by one woman. While historians agree that the seed for the Massacre of Saint Bartholemew was sown in the talks at Bayonne, there is some dispute on how much was pre-planned. I have made my own decision on this, which I feel is logical. Where these are known, I have used a person’s actual words, modifying them slightly to suit the modern ear. Read an extract... Part One - Pawn in a Royal Game Bayonne 1565 Summer 1565 The hot summer sun seared through the drawn curtains of the litter as the cumbersome vehicle trundled with bone-aching slowness through the French countryside, every jolt jangling Margot’s already shredded nerves. A fly buzzed annoyingly around her flushed cheeks and she flapped it impatiently away. The clink of harness, the clomp and thud of hundreds of tired feet from those walking alongside, pounded ever louder in her ears, making her head ache. She felt hot and sticky and cross, for once uncaring of her appearance, of her rumpled gown and the fact that her dark curls hung in damp tangles instead of shining with their usual luscious richness. Margot was bored. She longed to be out in the fresh air galloping across the open countryside, not forced to sit demurely beside her governess breathing in the sweaty stink of horses and baggage mules from the confines of her mother’s litter. However luxurious, however pretty a shade of green were the plush velvet cushions, it felt very like a prison. Occasionally some incident would occur to enliven the journey: a brawl or a duel, which Margot always found entertaining. So when she heard the screams and sobs and heartrending wails coming from some distance behind them, she couldn’t resist poking her head out between the curtains to see who was making such a din. ‘Sit still, child, and stop fidgeting,’ Madame de Curton chided. Ignoring her governess, Margot asked a young groom riding along-side what was amiss. ‘Some court lady has been discovered in an indiscreet affaire,’ the boy confided. ‘She has been abandoned at a roadside convent to reflect upon her folly.’ Margot felt a surge of pity for the poor woman, and turning to her governess, chestnut eyes blazing in outrage, cried, ‘Is that not the cruellest way to treat a wife?’ ‘It is not for us to judge, child.’ ‘But why should a husband be allowed to spread his favours as he wishes, but not his wife?’ Madame de Curton stifled a sigh of exasperation. She was not above indulging in a little gossip and scandal herself, and after more than a year of travelling any diversion to break the tedium was welcome. Stalwart that she was, even she had grown weary of the jolting to her aging bones. But while she might sympathise, or even agree with her young charge’s passionate defence of the poor lady, it would be wrong to say as much. ‘Because that is the way of the world, dearest. A lady must at all times conduct herself with propriety and modesty, and of course obey her lord.’ ‘But that is so unfair!’ Numbering almost a thousand souls, the Royal Progress comprised some of the noblest Catholic lords in the land, Princes of the Blood and great officers of state. Loyal as she was to the crown, Madame was the first to accept that their brilliance was displayed more by the splendour of their robes and the length of their private retinue, rather than the virtue of their morals. She smiled fondly upon her charge. ‘You might do well to learn the art of obedience yourself, my child. Now close those curtains and sit still.’ The entire court was on the move: maids and cooks, guards and grooms, doctors and priests, the usual hangers-on seeking favours, merchants and charlatans who would join this seemingly endless royal progress for a part of the journey, staying in local inns if they could find rooms available, before returning home exhausted and often much the poorer for their efforts. Rogues and pickpockets lurked amongst the crowd, local peasants came to gawp, children and feral dogs ran alongside, excited by this long caravan of people that stretched for miles. It was as if a whole town had suddenly got up one morning and decided to take a walk together. All of this great procession had been planned by Margot’s mother, Catherine de Medici, who loved nothing more than to devise magnificent tours in order to display the wealth of the realm and impress the people. The baggage for such a large number of persons was considerable for they must needs be accompanied by huge wagons and mules loaded with trunks of magnificent clothes, and all the paraphernalia needed for the many masques and pageants held en route. Then there were the oak beds and silken sheets, washbasins, trenchers, linen, trestle tables and gold plate for banquets that were required by the royal family on their travels. Today, Catherine had ridden south to Bayonne on one of her finest horses to get everything ready for the reunion with her eldest daughter, Elisabeth, Queen of Spain. Margot was filled with excitement at the prospect of seeing her sister again, and said as much to her companion. ‘Why could I not ride with the Queen my mother? You know I ride well, Lottie, and it would be such a relief to escape the litter for a while.’ ‘Her Majesty does not have time to linger over admiring the scenery or picking pretty flowers. She has important business to attend to.’ ‘What sort of business? Not the war again?’ The nation had been torn apart by civil war for years, and Margot knew that the Queen believed it essential that France should be seen to triumph. Her aim was to bring the two opposing factions, Catholic and Protestant, to a greater tolerance of each other at a local level. She had driven the cavalcade through province after province, town after town, bestowing smiles and false promises, or stern admonitions, as the fancy took her. It mattered not that the court often shivered under winter snows, forded turbulent rivers, ploughed through fields thick with mud, or, now that summer was here, fever and disease stalked them daily. Margot was only too aware that any inconvenience must be suffered in silence, as it was of vital importance for the people to see her brother King Charles IX, now that he had reached his majority at fourteen. ‘I trust not, sweeting,’ Madame said. ‘Her Grace must prepare for the meeting with King Philip of Spain, and there is to be a marvellous water picnic by way of celebration. You will enjoy that, will you not? You know how you do love to dance. Now, what shall you wear?’ Instantly suspicious of this diversion which was a favourite tactic of her governess when faced with an awkward question, Margot’s eyes flashed with rebellion. ‘I’m too hot to care.’ ‘You must care,’ Madame de Curton gently scolded. ‘The Queen Mother likes you to dress well, as she herself is always supremely elegant and magnificently attired.’ Margot thought her mother looked like a fat old crow in her habitual widow’s black, however bejewelled, but then she was in the mood to be as difficult as possible. She might even refuse to attend yet another masque and go hunting instead, except that she loved her darling Curton dearly. Her beloved governess was an intelligent, remarkable woman who had taught her well: not simply the more traditional female skills but literature, philosophy, Latin and Greek, in addition to her religious devotions. At least the Queen had ensured a proper education for her children, even though she’d shown them little affection in the process. It was to Madame de Curton that Margot had turned for love, which she‘d received in abundance. The governess was fiercely protective, keeping her fully informed of all that was going on, essential in this mischievous court of plots and double dealing. Margot was never quite certain whom she could trust since her own brothers continually squabbled, their childhood bickering and petty jealousies turning bitter and dangerous as each vied to wear a crown. Now she heaved a dramatic sigh, for her resistance was mostly sham, in keeping with her ill humour. There was nothing she liked better than to dress up and look pretty, but she had no wish to give in too easily. ‘The Queen my mother constantly accuses me of being difficult, light-minded and frivolous, which is not true at all.’ Madame de Curton smiled as she stroked Margot’s damp curls from her hot brow. ‘It is most certainly true that you have an inquisitive mind, sweeting, and display far more spirit and intelligence than is perhaps quite appropriate for an obedient daughter. Now tell me, which gown do you favour?’ Margot pouted. ‘I may choose the orange gold, since that is my favourite colour.’ ‘I believe Her Majesty would prefer you to wear the silver tissue, far more appropriate for a young princess on such an important occasion.’ Margot gave a shrug of careless agreement, bowing to her mentor’s superior knowledge in such matters. These extravaganzas were common-place in court life, yet her keen mind warned her she’d been neatly side-tracked, and she resolutely returned to her unanswered question. ‘Then if it is not the war which concerns my mother, what is the purpose of this so-important meeting?’ Madame picked at a thread on her gown, avoiding the girl’s probing gaze. ‘They are to discuss a marriage proposal.’
|
