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.’
And with these scornful words, Catherine flung Margot from her; and Margot, who would have been quick-witted, who would have made her escape from any other, lay where she had fallen, as though petrified, unable to move, while her mother, portly and vengeful, swept slowly and majestically towards her.
‘Get up!’ she cried; and Margot rose immediately.
Catherine slapped Margot’s face, her rings cutting into the girl’s cheek.
‘Ah!’ said Catherine. ‘That must not be. We must not let your future husband know that we have had to beat you for wantonness with the Duke of Guise.’ Catherine pulled Margot towards her. ‘And why do you think Guise has made you his mistress? Because he loves you? Because he is as mad for you as you so shamelessly are for him? Never! Because, foolish wanton, the Cardinal of Lorraine told him to seduce you in the hope that, having been his mistress, it would be impossible for you to marry him whom I have chosen for you. That is their scheme. “Henry, I long for you.” “And I for you, Margot. And for all that you can bring me. Not your wanton body, you fool, but your name, your rank, for besides being a harlot you are the daughter of a royal house, the most noble house in France.” ’
‘You lie,’ said Margot. ‘He loves me … me.’
‘You little fool. Monsieur de Guise is not the sort to say “No” when a woman begs so insistently.’
‘You lie …’
Catherine took Margot by the sleeve of her gown and dragged her to a couch. She pushed her down and bent over her. ‘You may well show fear. You dare to tell me, your mother, that I lie! You dare to solicit favours of Monsieur de Guise! You dare to become the mistress of the man who threatens your brother the King and the whole of your family!’
This was one of those rare occasions when Catherine’s control broke. She imagined she heard Margot’s voice: ‘Henry, I long for you.’ She imagined she heard the deep, passionate response of Henry of Guise. But it was not these two she pictured; it was another Henry, oh, long ago, loving his mistress as he never could his wife.
In a sudden rush of fury, she tore off Margot’s clothes and beat her savagely.
‘Not the face this time!’ she cried. ‘We must not show the King of Portugal that we have a wanton for a daughter. We must beat you where the marks of a beating will not be seen … except, perhaps, by Monsieur de Guise.’
Margot lay panting under the fury of her mother, who had picked up a cane with a jewelled handle which Charles used when he left the palace on flagellating orgies. It came down again and again on Margot’s body; and all the time it seemed to Catherine that she was watching two lovers through a hole in the floor of the palace at Saint-Germain. It was not, it seemed to her then, Margot who lay there, but Diane.
Eventually her passion was spent. She reflected that it was a rare thing for her to indulge in such emotion. Yet it had been irresistible. Margot had called up too many memories. It had been foolish of her to compare Henry of Guise with Henry of Valois, simply because they both bore the same name.
Margot lay limp on the couch, and Catherine stared down at her bruised body.
‘Go,’ said Catherine. ‘Put on your dress. Later I will discuss with you the arrangements for the greeting of the King of Portugal.’
And while Margot, in her own apartments, was bathing her wounds, terrified lest some mark should spoil the perfection of her body, Catherine reproached herself for that outburst of fury.
Looking back was something in which she knew it was folly to indulge. There were too many dangers of the moment for past insults and humiliations to be of any importance.
Margot was preparing to meet her suitor. Her dress was of cloth of gold; her jewels magnificent; and her eyes were as hard and as brilliant as the diamonds she wore. She was saying to herself: ‘I will never marry him. I will marry Henry. There will be a way, and we will find it.’
She had seen Henry of Guise earlier that day. He was constantly in the company of the Princess of Clèves, being so much wiser than she could ever be. He knew of that interview she had had with her mother; he begged her to be calm, discreet. It was for Henry’s sake that she had feigned meekness and pretended to submit to her mother’s commands.