 The woman whom the poet Ronsard had compared to the moon, daughter of Catherine de Médicis, possessed an indomitable spirit that did not comprehend the "whys" and the "wherefores" of conventional society. Dubbed Queen Margot by a jealous brother, Charles IX, the glorious princess had always laughed aloud when she liked, wept unashamedly when so moved, taken any man to her black satin draped bed whom she had pleased to entertain and ignored the critiques of husband Henri and the court. But lately, she found the routine pleasures of the flesh tedious, uninspiring, and her rebellious soul craved a more perfect union, a more complete experience, a love tryst she had at one time possessed, before the night De la Mothe was taken from her apartment in chains. Yes, she had lain naked next to men such as the Duke de Guise, next to her own brother, Anjou, for that matter, but none had ever quenched her tumultuous desires as had De la Mothe. No other had understood her need for depravity, for cruel censure — no one but that wise noble had seen snakes in her eyes in the place of stars, no other man would ever crouch down at her feet again and proffer up the only true scepter she cared to grasp ceremoniously — the long, stiffened lace of the huntmaster’s art. Once gone away from the formality of life at court in the grand city of Paris, once far from the gaze of mothers and brothers, archbishops and Huguenots, Margot was free to wear fringed and tasseled boots, shorter skirts, less rouge and carry a whip at the country estate of Cazeneuve. She was released from boredom and able to ride with her coterie through the forests and fields, she was at liberty to make exciting discoveries such as the Queen’s Cave, that personal refuge her subjects were to coin, La Grotte de la Reine. Henry and his mistress might loll about for hours, content to fornicate to their mutual hearts’ content, but she was having none of such recreation. Certainly not when the lure of the woodland called out to her, the tremor of a steed’s haunches might be felt beneath a silk-stockinged thigh or the pounding of wild boar’s hooves on grassy knoll might be felt within her chest, pummeling with carefree abandon against her heart. As Margot and her trusted companion, Babette, neared the cave’s entrance, the vigorous queen recalled with relish the eve when she had dared confide to her truest love the thrill she sensed he might ken, the initial instant when she had known that a sublime satisfaction could be had from eliciting painful shrieks from a man. "Tell me again," De la Mothe had begged her, his lips close to a diamond studded ear, "recount how you made Alençon scream," and she had sighed with relish at the memory of that grand day seized at the Louvre, repeating the tale. Her mother’s favourite, young brother François, had attempted to place a frog in the bosom of his sister’s exquisite gown’s richly embroidered bodice and while her attendants had swooned, Margot had grabbed the young prince by the hair, pulled the boy down to the floor and had sat atop his head, heavy skirts muffling the frightened Alençon’s cries for aid. She had known in that instant that she might kill him if she so fancied, but she stood up in time, just soon enough, to allow the precious babe of the Valois an opportunity to flee. Ah, but the combined look of hatred and respect on François’ visage had been worth the forthcoming punishment from Catherine, and never again did the royal babe attempt to annoy his sibling as he had in the past. De la Mothe, for his part, had kissed the hem of her white satin in response, had stained it with tears, handing her the plaited crop, pleading with her to discipline him as well; he who had his pick of the greatest beauties in France. And Margot had happily complied, instinctively, night after night, joining with her grateful confederate in the satisfying rite of purification and sanctification — their own personal Eucharist — that was, until, the Duke de Guise staged the Night of St. Bartholomew and took her Huguenot away. "I shall never forget you," Margot whispered to no one as she entered the cavern, appointed with costly furnishings, decorated with a Valois in mind. Babette scurried to a darkened corner, returned with a cat-o-nine and held the stick out for her mistress to inspect. "Prête?" the confidante inquired, a wry smile gracing plump lips. "Call them in," Margot decreed, testing the supple spring of her instrument between two gloved hands. Babette knew her rôle and performed the scene well, assembling the troop of footmen before her sovereign lady, instructing each of the attractive servants to remove livery jacket, loosen cravat and allow hands to be bound with a streamer of white, woven lace. Margot in the meantime watched unmoved, her countenance as a mask, her dark eyes narrowing with delight. When the assemblage had been prepared, la Reine de la Grotte said only one word: Kneel. And kneel they did, each bending lower to lick her boots as she walked slowly past their supine heads. Each received a tap of her stick, each quivered with the possibility of a flogging given them by a true Queen of the Blood, a woman who might prove the last of her Valois line. What an honor, each footman thought, that I might dare graze her shoe, but none said a word, keeping their silent, collected rapture private, each unto himself. When she had finished inspecting her guard, Margot returned to center stage. "Bring me the relic," she declared, tossing her long, brunette tresses behind shoulders which were squaring as though to receive a life-threatening blow. "Bring me my most treasured possession, darling Babette, and let these aspirants witness a true nobleman’s service to his queen." On a chastened platter of silver, the lovely friend brought forth from a resplendent altar the cherished keepsake of Marguerite de Valois. The brocade cloth covering the priceless artifact was lifted by the queen with a ceremonial air, fluttering to the ground as the dark beauty reached out, took the tray and gazed transfixed upon the curio. "Behold, le Comte de la Mothe," Margot cried, near to frenzy, "who went to the block to prove his undying passion for me, refusing the pardon I won him, for he alone understood how it pleased me for him to suffer. His was the ultimate gift—he alone had the heart to love — do any here possess the courage to offer the same?" The men began to weep and lament, their protestations bouncing off the low ceiling of the underground crypt. Margot kissed her dear embalmed head on the lips, returned the saintly memento mori to the countess, and turned swiftly on heel. "Then be punished, know remorse, cry out to me for mercy," she wailed, striking the slaves one by one, slicing the air with unabated anger. "None compare, you are all as weaklings, feel the heat of my sting." Margot beat down upon them as her willing victims crowded closer around her in a circle, pressing eager tongues against her polished feet, buzzing with newfound excitement, as might drones in a beehive. Much later, when the ritual was complete, the head footman returned De la Mothe’s remains to a locked cabinet, upon whose doors were etched the count's epitaph: Est-ce crime d’aimer le Fouet toujours? M’en punir est-il de raison? Point ne sont de belles boudoirs, non plus que de laides prisons!* FINIS *Is it a crime to forever love the whip? Must I be punished for it? For there are no beautiful bedrooms, no more than there exist ugly prisons! |
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