Henry was furious; Margot was to have been his creature. Now she was entirely Henry of Guise’s.

‘You have ignored my interests,’ he accused.

‘Indeed, there was nothing to report.’

‘You were too busy looking into the eyes of Henry of Guise.’

‘And you, my lord, have been listening to idle gossip.’

Henry left her and went to his mother.

‘You know of this affair between Margot and Guise?’

Catherine knew. She had, through her tubes, heard certain conversations between the lovers. The shamelessness of Margot made her laugh. Her spies had been secreted in certain places and had given her details of what had taken place between those two. It seemed to Catherine that she had a wanton for a daughter, a reckless, passionate girl who pursued Henry of Guise with complete lack of shame, just as she always had done since she was a child.

‘My dear son, Sebastian of Portugal will soon be here, and he will be made your sister’s husband.’

‘And in the meantime you allow her to behave as she does with Guise?’

‘It is too late to stop that now.’

‘The scandal …’

‘There will always be scandal concerning Margot. Besides, she goes into a new country where this scandal will not be known. I have made it clear to all those who have spoken of the matter to me that it would be better to remain silent on the subject.’

‘So meanwhile our lovers continue to enjoy each other.’

‘And never did two enjoy each other more!’ Catherine burst into coarse laughter. ‘And, my darling, you are back, and it is good to see you.’

‘Mother, she should be working for me.’

‘My darling, have you not learned yet that there is only one who works for you?’

‘I know it.’ He kissed her hand and, kneeling, let her fondle his hair. He was thinking of a very charming young man who had come to his notice recently: De Guast. What beauty! What elegance! He wanted nothing so much as to be with his new friend. It was irritating to find that Margot had betrayed him, to have to endure this very possessive love of his mother’s.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘you do not take this affair of Margot’s in any great seriousness. Why? The Guises are our enemies. They are too powerful, too ambitious. Duke Henry is Duke Francis all over again.’

‘I am watching everything, my dear one. I shall let nothing injure you. I have them watched. When necessary, Monsieur de Guise shall receive his congé.’

‘For my sake,’ said the enraged Henry, ‘I beg of you to speed up my sister’s marriage with the Prince of Portugal.’

‘For your sake, my darling, I would lie down and die.’

He kissed her cheeks. She was happy, as she always was when he gave her a caress for which she had not asked. She smiled at him yearningly. This was how she had felt towards that other Henry who had humiliated her so shamefully with Diane de Poitiers. Loving a son was, she decided, a happier affair than loving a husband. She drew him to her and kissed him fondly. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she said, ‘it makes me happy to have you home.’

‘I am happy to be with you, Mother dear … And you will speed on the arrangements with Portugal?’

‘I will, my son.’


* * *

Margot was angry, but she did not believe for a moment that the marriage with Portugal would come to anything. Henry would not allow it. Henry and his powerful family wanted their marriage, and the Guises rarely failed in anything they undertook.

Her family were against her. Her brother Henry had now played on the emotions of her brother Charles; and in spite of the fact that she despised Charles, she had to remember that he was the King. It was always easy to work on Charles by telling him he was in danger of assassination. Brother Henry had told Charles some story about Henry of Guise’s ambitions to marry their sister and that, being a Guise – the son of Le Balafré – he already imagined he had some right to the throne of France. What a King he would make! thought Margot. And what a Queen she would be! The very thought made her clench and unclench her hands with the longing for him. The citizens of Paris adored him. Who would not adore him? All her loyalty was for him. If he wished to snatch the crown from her brother – well, then she would do everything within her power to help him. There was no loyalty for Margot but to her lover. No one else in the world mattered. If she could help to bring him the crown of France for a wedding present, she would be happy, even if, to do it, she had to see her brothers lying dead. It would be but a small reward for all the pleasure he had given her.

Her brothers hated her now. Charles had screamed at her; Henry had been sarcastic about her. What did she care? They could not touch her love.

Charles had cried: ‘I tell you I will not have that spy at court. I’ll have him killed. I am the King, am I not?’

‘It would not seem so, to look at you now, Sire,’ Margot had retorted.

She was daring, reckless, but had she gone too far?

Charles foamed at the mouth. ‘Have her whipped!’ he cried. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

He ran at her with eyes flashing; he was certainly terrifying in his madness; she must remember that he was the King; he could give an order and have her taken to a dungeon. When his madness was on him he might do this.

She ran to Marie Touchet and begged for her protection.

‘Marie, my dear, I have offended the King. Plead with him for me.’

And good-hearted Marie did, soothing the King as only she could soothe him. His sister Margot was but a child. He should remember that. She was so sorry to have offended him.

‘She … she is a wanton. She … she gives herself and our secrets to Henry of Guise.’

‘But if she loves, my dearest lord, can we blame her? Do not we also love?’

Margot wanted to laugh at that. Mild Marie Touchet and mad Charles … to be compared with her and Henry!

But she had learned her lesson. She must not be so rash. She might put Henry in danger if she were; after all, he had managed to make some people think he was contemplating marriage with the Princess of Clèves.

Her brother Henry was not wild, like Charles, but he was very angry with her. He frightened her more than Charles did, for she knew he discussed her with their mother.

One day Catherine sent for her, and as she entered the Queen Mother’s apartments she began to tremble; she felt the sweat in the palms of her hands as she used to when she was a little girl.

‘Come here,’ said Catherine.

Margot went to her and curtsied. Her lips touched her mother’s hand.

‘Rise now,’ said Catherine. ‘No ceremony, my daughter.’ Her lids slid down over her eyes. Madame le Serpent, thought Margot, waiting, deciding whether or not now is the time to strike.

Catherine started to walk up and down the apartment.

‘My daughter, it is time you married. You are no longer a child, and princesses must marry early.’ Margot’s heart began to pound. ‘I have taken a good deal of trouble on your account already, and have, I think, succeeded in making a brilliant match for you.’

Margot began: ‘Madame …’ But Catherine looked at her in astonishment that she should have dared to interrupt, and Margot was immediately silent.

‘Sebastian, the King of Portugal, is considering whether he will take you as his wife.’

Margot gulped and tried to speak.

Catherine went on: ‘As you know, he is the nephew of the King of Spain, and Philip himself puts no obstacle in the way of the match. I am sure that when Sebastian himself sees you in all your maidenly beauty, he will be eager to make you his wife. Now, my daughter, you will be ignorant of the duties of the married state, and you may need instruction in such matters. Do not forget that I am your mother and that I shall be willing to help you and tell you what you wish to know of such matters of which you, as a maiden, will be ignorant.’

Margot flushed scarlet; she knew that her mother was aware of her love affair. She wanted to show defiance as she had to Charles and Henry, but she was numbed by that cold terror which she always felt in the presence of her mother.

‘Speak, my daughter! Speak, Marguerite, and tell me that you are happy because of this match I have arranged for you. Tell me, what is your will in all this?’

The cold eyes held Margot’s, and the girl felt as though she were in the presence of a supernatural being, something inhuman and horrible that was threatening death to her love, and life-long misery. She remembered her lover’s instructions to be calm, to indulge in temporary deceit for the purpose of winning in the end.

‘I … I have no will of my own, Madame,’ she heard herself say. ‘I only have that will which depends on yours.’

Catherine burst into loud laughter. She took Margot’s ear and pulled her towards her.

‘No will but mine … and that of Monsieur de Guise, eh?’

Margot cried out in pain, but her mother gripped her ear the harder. Then she put her lips close to that ear and began to whisper that she knew what Margot believed to have been known only to herself and her lover. All Catherine’s coarseness came out now. The loud laugh on her lips, the crude words, made Margot flinch.

‘Harlot! Wanton! Do you know no better? It is you who have seduced him … not he you. It is you who have importuned Monsieur de Guise to take you to his bed. Marriage! What of that? The Princess of France, for whom I have tried to arrange one of the grandest marriages the world has ever known, is a harlot, begging the favours of the Duke of Guise. “Henry … take me … take me … Now … now … I cannot wait. I long so for you …” ’ Catherine began to laugh. ‘Monsieur de Guise must have found the conquest of the Princess of France the easiest he ever undertook.’