Alençon. She’d written him scores of heartrending letters begging him to take care, terrified he might be killed.
She bought a house in Rue Culture Sainte Catherine but stayed at the Louvre while work was being done on it. To her relief the welcome she received from her brother Henri was friendly, at least superficially, although Margot was aware there was a reason behind his kindness. He and the Queen Mother were disappointed that Navarre had not come with her, and wished Margot to write to her husband and persuade him to join her. She elected not to do so, knowing he would not come.
Margot understood Navarre’s fears but thought they may well be groundless. The Queen Mother was showing her age and seemed less interested in stirring intrigue than previously, almost mellow by comparison with her younger self. Margot remembered feeling flattered as a young girl when her mother had first allowed her to take part in the Queen’s lever . She’d been terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing, of displeasing this all-powerful, all-seeing woman who was in equal parts feared and respected throughout the land.
This morning they talked easily together as Catherine drank her coffee and Margot fastened the ribbons of her mother’s petticoat about her waist, scenting again that nauseous mix of stale sweat and perfume. The Queen Mother’s rheumatism had grown worse and she sighed with relief as she sank onto a stool for a maid to tie on her stockings.
Margot solicitously enquired after her health, but since Catherine de Medici had no patience with ailments, even her own, she was instead regaled with political and family concerns.
‘You know that Alençon is not at all well. My hopes for a secure future for France, for seeing the work of a lifetime fulfilled seems to be rapidly fading before my eyes. One son ailing, a daughter apparently barren. There is no sign of a child yet, is there?’
‘Dearest Alençon should spend less time on campaigns and more resting at court,’ Margot said, preferring not to respond to the more personal part of the question. But her mother was not done yet.
‘Even my beloved Henri has turned against me.’
‘How so?’ Henri was Catherine’s favourite, although he had not always responded well to his mother’s adoration.
‘Come, let us take the air,’ the Queen Mother said, leading her daughter out of the royal chambers, where they could talk more freely away from wagging ears. ‘Henri relies too much upon his mignons , and he too is still without an heir, and likely to remain so. The people mock him and hate him, saying he has bled them dry and left them near to starvation. He has ruined his own health and that of the kingdom by debauchery. Can they not see that he suffers the flaws that beset all my sons?’
All the Valois brothers had suffered from consumption, and some from other afflictions passed down from the sins of their fathers, but Henri had developed many more of his own. Margot gravely nodded, not wishing to remind her mother of the painful losses she had borne, even as she admired her valiant strength.
‘If Alençon does not survive,’ Catherine was saying as they stepped out into the spring sunshine, flunkies opening doors for them as they passed by. ‘I see no alternative but for the succession to pass to Navarre. That would be a political disaster, unless he agrees to take the Mass. I take it my son-in-law is still firm in his beliefs and remains a Huguenot?’
‘Let us not speak of such things today,’ Margot said, anxious to avoid conflict. Although it was true enough. Navarre would indeed inherit following the demise of her two remaining brothers. And after him came his cousin, Prince de Condé, a widower with one daughter: a man of fierce Huguenot zeal, unpredictable temper, soured by his grievances against the Valois, and the loss of his beloved wife.
‘At least with Navarre, assuming I can persuade him to change his religion, it would mean that you,
She bought a house in Rue Culture Sainte Catherine but stayed at the Louvre while work was being done on it. To her relief the welcome she received from her brother Henri was friendly, at least superficially, although Margot was aware there was a reason behind his kindness. He and the Queen Mother were disappointed that Navarre had not come with her, and wished Margot to write to her husband and persuade him to join her. She elected not to do so, knowing he would not come.
Margot understood Navarre’s fears but thought they may well be groundless. The Queen Mother was showing her age and seemed less interested in stirring intrigue than previously, almost mellow by comparison with her younger self. Margot remembered feeling flattered as a young girl when her mother had first allowed her to take part in the Queen’s lever . She’d been terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing, of displeasing this all-powerful, all-seeing woman who was in equal parts feared and respected throughout the land.
This morning they talked easily together as Catherine drank her coffee and Margot fastened the ribbons of her mother’s petticoat about her waist, scenting again that nauseous mix of stale sweat and perfume. The Queen Mother’s rheumatism had grown worse and she sighed with relief as she sank onto a stool for a maid to tie on her stockings.
Margot solicitously enquired after her health, but since Catherine de Medici had no patience with ailments, even her own, she was instead regaled with political and family concerns.
‘You know that Alençon is not at all well. My hopes for a secure future for France, for seeing the work of a lifetime fulfilled seems to be rapidly fading before my eyes. One son ailing, a daughter apparently barren. There is no sign of a child yet, is there?’
‘Dearest Alençon should spend less time on campaigns and more resting at court,’ Margot said, preferring not to respond to the more personal part of the question. But her mother was not done yet.
‘Even my beloved Henri has turned against me.’
‘How so?’ Henri was Catherine’s favourite, although he had not always responded well to his mother’s adoration.
‘Come, let us take the air,’ the Queen Mother said, leading her daughter out of the royal chambers, where they could talk more freely away from wagging ears. ‘Henri relies too much upon his mignons , and he too is still without an heir, and likely to remain so. The people mock him and hate him, saying he has bled them dry and left them near to starvation. He has ruined his own health and that of the kingdom by debauchery. Can they not see that he suffers the flaws that beset all my sons?’
All the Valois brothers had suffered from consumption, and some from other afflictions passed down from the sins of their fathers, but Henri had developed many more of his own. Margot gravely nodded, not wishing to remind her mother of the painful losses she had borne, even as she admired her valiant strength.
‘If Alençon does not survive,’ Catherine was saying as they stepped out into the spring sunshine, flunkies opening doors for them as they passed by. ‘I see no alternative but for the succession to pass to Navarre. That would be a political disaster, unless he agrees to take the Mass. I take it my son-in-law is still firm in his beliefs and remains a Huguenot?’
‘Let us not speak of such things today,’ Margot said, anxious to avoid conflict. Although it was true enough. Navarre would indeed inherit following the demise of her two remaining brothers. And after him came his cousin, Prince de Condé, a widower with one daughter: a man of fierce Huguenot zeal, unpredictable temper, soured by his grievances against the Valois, and the loss of his beloved wife.
‘At least with Navarre, assuming I can persuade him to change his religion, it would mean that you,
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