Courtesan

  François’ mind whirled with the prospect of the continually sweetened deal which the Pope had proposed. He still felt the conflict between the desire to succeed against the Emperor and his belief that Henri had suffered enough already by his hand. But the facts were clear. As the second son of France, Henri’s marriage was simply not so important as the Dauphin’s. He could be sacrificed.

  It was not as if Catherine de Medici was completely without her connections. Though orphaned since birth, her father had been Lorenzo de Medici, Duke of Urbino. Her mother, Madeleine de La Tour D’Auvergne, was French, descended from the sainted King Louis XI. The child was descended from Cosimo de Medici, one of the most distinguished figures in Italian history. Like it or not, Chabot was right. The match could be a brilliant way of getting back a foothold in Italy.

  “Very well, then,” he finally said. “We shall give it over to a vote by secret ballot.”

  Each council member took a piece of parchment and quill from the inkwells before them. Having sealed their responses, they then tossed them toward the center of the table.

  “Scribe!” the King called. “Read the results aloud.”

  Each man watched the others as they were read. Montmorency held his breath.

  “Six for the marriage, and one against.”

  “Well, I certainly find no objection, so long as His Holiness is willing to help us recover Milan.” He looked at each of his advisors. “Very well. So, then it is settled. Duprat, you may dispatch the Ambassador for Italy with our revised proposal for the marriage between his niece and Our second son. For that union, We demand the cities of Pisa, Livorno, Reggio and Modena. Also, of course, a substantial dowry, perhaps 600,000 ecus would be appropriate for the son of a King. In return for his niece’s hand, We will give to the Prince and his bride 80,000 ecus of his maternal inheritance, the Duchy of Orléans, with a guaranteed annuity of 50,000 ecus a year, and the chateau of Gien for their personal use. Now, let us see what His Holiness shall say to that!”

  HENRI DETESTED THE PROSPECT of being among the guests for supper in the King’s private apartments, but he was obsessed with seeing Diane again. He felt he must discover the truth about the relationship between she and Jacques de Montgommery before it was too late.

  Saint-André was right. At least to a point. Henri’s feelings for her were changing in ways he did not like; changing in ways he did not understand. He found himself thinking of nothing but her, thinking about her hair, trying to remember the shades of it; trying to remember her skin, the fresh, earthy scent of it; how it had felt to hold her in his arms. He had even thought of himself like his brother, with her. . .inside of her. But that had been too much. That was something which he still could not understand. There was only one thing about his relationship with Diane de Poitiers which Henri knew to be so without question, without desire or need to understand it. He wanted to be with her.

  “Rumor has it that His Majesty is once again readying the country for war,” said François de Guise. “They say he is making some mysterious bargain with the Pope to do so.”

  “I, for one, would be glad of it,” Henri replied dryly as he sipped maraschino amid the trio of Brissac, Guise and Saint-André. All of them but Henri, in costly costumes and jewels, searched the room for the young painted demoiselles who filtered in through the open doors and circled casually around them. Guise stuffed his mouth with an entire sugared plum from one of the fruit baskets on the table behind them, and then looked around.

  “Would you go to war if we did?” Brissac asked Henri.

  “Gladly! Anything to be rid of the nauseating sight of our good King.”

  Saint-André laughed at Henri’s cryptic tone, but he stopped short when he saw the King enter from his adjoining chamber near them. Anne d’Heilly was on his arm. Emeralds dripped like green fire from her ears and she wore a rope of pearls around her neck.

  “Great Zeus, she is gorgeous!” Guise whispered as he set the pit of his plum on the table near the fruit bowl.

  “She is a whore!” Henri snapped.

  Guise shrugged his shoulders and lifted his wine goblet. Brissac seemed not to notice or care about the Prince’s foul mood. He was far too interested in captivating the attention of the sensuous-faced brunette across the room, who had just smiled back at him.

  “What is bothering you?” asked Saint-André. But before Henri could respond, the Prince’s wise friend had his answer. Diane de Poitiers entered the King’s apartments beside Madeleine de Montmorency and Henri’s face came to life.

  “So, that is why you braved the King’s supper. I should have known. Is it not enough to know that she means to marry Montgommery?”

  “I told you, I do not believe you! But, if it is true, I want to hear it from her.”

  Henri lunged forward as though he were about to go to her. Saint-André grabbed his arm to stop him. “Your Highness, I bid you, do not make a fool of yourself!”

  Henri shook free of his grasp with a vengeance and whirled around, his eyes lit with anger. “I am afraid it is too late for that.”

  “No. . .it can never be too late.”

  “Look, Jacques, be my friend or be on your way! I need no more enemies in this dreadful place!”

  Henri headed off in Diane’s direction without waiting for a reply. He brushed past Montmorency and did not speak to his brother, the Dauphin. He walked so briskly through the crowd of guests that he did not see the King behind the Cardinal de Lorraine. He stood near a long, covered table blocking the path. There was no way for Henri to gracefully avoid the Sovereign.

  “Well, if it is not my son, the little man! Look, everyone, it is Henri. Tell me, boy, to what do we owe this rare pleasure? No one better to insult this evening?” The King flicked his hand with a casual smile and then began to chuckle. “Did you all know we are set to joust together in Paris next week? Yes, the little Prince thinks he is ready to be a man.” The others laughed, following the King’s lead. François slapped his son on the back when he saw him stiffen. “Oh, come now, boy, learn to take a ribbing. You never could, you know. So intense. Morose, actually. Why can you not be more like your brother?”

  The Dauphin smiled from the King’s side. “Yes, Henri, why is it that you are not more like me?”

  “Perhaps it is the company he keeps,” said Anne d’Heilly, with her savage smile.

  Henri looked at her, completely unable to see the beauty in her that the others saw. For him it was masked by too much evil.

  “Let me pass,” he said. “The air in here is foul as death!”

  FROM BEHIND THE HEDGE, Henri could see them silhouetted in the moonlight beneath a wooden arbor. They were facing one another. Montgommery was talking. Diane was not. It almost looked as if he were pleading. His hands were clasped on her arms, above her elbows. He was clutching her tightly. Shaking her. Then she turned from him.

  “I think she is crying.”

  Henri turned with a start. Saint-André crouched behind him, peering with him through the foliage. “No. She would never cry. Not for the likes of him. . .and for that matter, what in the devil are you doing here?”

  “Ah, perhaps you are right, not for him. But whatever they are saying, it cannot be pleasant.”

  “It does not look like a courtship to me,” Henri said with a crooked smile. “And you. . .you still have not told me what you are doing here.”

  “I came to apologize for what I said earlier. You are the best friend I have here and, above all, I would like to believe that I am your friend, as well.” Henri’s lips lengthened into a smile. “Just take care with her. All right?”

  “That is the woman I am going to marry, Jacques. I only just realized it myself. So you see, it would be impossible for me to take care, as you say. I will do anything to have her.”

  Henri leapt over the low hedge behind which they had been hiding and strolled out across the lawn toward the gazebo. They still did not see him. As he drew near, he could hear them arguing. With the distance between th
em and the sound of the crickets, he could only make out a few words. It was Diane who said, “How dare you. . .” and Montgommery who kept insisting that she listen to reason. Henri wanted desperately to stand behind the protection of the large birch tree before him and listen to their exchange, but he sensed more keenly, just from her tone and the few fragmented words, that she needed his help.

  “Madame, what are you doing so far from the party?” he asked as he strode up beside them, trying his best to make it look as if it were a coincidence. For a moment he was obscured in the shadows, and Montgommery searched the darkness to see who was speaking. As he squinted and strained, Henri strolled out of the moonlight shadows dressed in an elegant gray velvet doublet with royal blue slashings. He tipped his toque to the Scots Captain.

  “Good evening, Montgommery. You know, I believe the King was calling for you earlier. Something about a woman who was looking for you. I do not recall her name precisely. . .I believe, perhaps, it was. . .Estillac? Caroline, was it? Anyway, His Majesty seemed rather intent on locating you. Perhaps you should be getting back.”

  Montgommery could not help himself. He leered at the Prince. “As Your Highness wishes,” he said as he bowed. Then he looked back at Diane. “This affair is not settled between us; not nearly settled!” he said, and then left the gazebo without debate.

  Almost before he started across the lawn, Diane began to laugh. She raised her hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. “Oh, your timing is something! I am afraid you are not going to be very popular with the Captain, in the future. And how can I ever thank you for that?!”

  Her laugh was sweet. It was a rich sound which came from her heart. Henri knew instantly that, unlike the others who fawned around the King, she did not laugh for effect.

  “I was not certain you would wish to thank me if you had agreed to court him,” he finally said.

  First the laughter stopped. Then her smile faded. “Your Highness—”

  “Henri,” he corrected her.

  “Very well. Henri, I have told you that it would not be proper for me to court anyone at present. I am afraid the Captain sometimes forgets his manners. There is nothing more to it.”

  Her tone had been almost scolding. It was harsh and yet edged, he thought, with a hint of some kind of fear. She had not spoken to him like that before. Feeling as though he had said too much, Henri looked away, yet he knew that he could not stop now. She must know. He must tell her. He must show her how he felt. He gathered the strength to turn his gaze upon her once again.

  “You look magnificent tonight. The black color against your fair skin. . .your hair. . .”

  He took her hand in his own and gently kissed it; then held it near his lips, as he had seen his father and his brother do so many times. He only hoped it was proper. He felt as if his heart would crash through his ribs or stop altogether. His stomach was knotted. His lips were dry. But after he had touched her hand to his lips, he could not find the strength to surrender it.

  He looked down at her. The bodice of her gown was black silk crested with white lace. Across her breastbone was a string of pearls. They drew his eyes downward. Down to her breasts; the same breasts he thought of in the night sometimes. The easy smile had left her face. Without a single word between them, he knew she felt the power of his eyes; knew she felt the intensity as he continued to hold her hand. That touch was their connection. The skin of her hand was soft; smooth like velvet. Like nothing he had ever known. . .or would know again. He would never. . .could never be here again. Not exactly like this. With her.

  Now, he was only mildly aware of a strange force growing inside of him. A force pulling him toward her. Closer. Easing the fear. Replacing it with a warm, almost numbing sensation. He saw her lips, long and slender. Pink. The color of a musk rose. Slightly parted and moist. Slowly, he moved toward her and then pressed his firm lips against hers in an awkward yet powerful adolescent kiss.

  “Henri,” she gasped, putting her fingers to her lips. “You mustn’t ever do that again.”

  “But why? I thought that you cared for me.”

  “Your Highness must not think of me in that way. If I have given you any reason to believe there was anything more than friendship between us, I am very, very sorry.”

  “But you must know how I feel about you before that bastard Montgommery sweeps you away.”

  “I believe that you care for me, Henri, as I care for you. But when one is young, feelings of friendship can often be mistaken for different and even deeper emotions.”

  “But, I love you, and I have reason to believe that you feel the same!” He blurted out the words and then stood before her with his lips parted, his eager face flushed.

  Diane felt her mind begin to whirl. She leaned back against the gazebo to steady herself. “You have no reason,” she calmly replied and then took his hand. “Henri, you must listen to me. You are the son of a King. I am a widow with two daughters who are nearly your age. I was young once myself. I know what you are feeling, but you must believe me, it is not love.”

  As Diane struggled to convince him, she could see from the corner of her eye the shadow of a man coming down the lawn toward the gazebo with a large retinue around him. She moved away from Henri to a place behind a thick tangle of ivy, hoping to see who it was. As he passed beneath the light of the moon, Diane could see to her horror that it was the King.

  Her heart began to race and she was choked with fear. Their presence alone together here could be very damaging to them both. But how could she convince a headstrong boy like Henri, who thrived on being the bane of the King, that for both of their sakes he must hide? She had no idea what she might say to convince him. She must say something. Anything. But as she turned back, prepared even to plead with him, she found herself alone. Just as the King and his courtiers came upon her, she turned around in time to see the shadow of a young man heading alone into the protective thickness of the forest.

  THE COURT MOVED TO PARIS from Saint Germain-en-Laye the following morning. The King’s favorites, his petite bande, his confidants and his aides, rode with him in a train of royal barges down the teeming river that flowed into the Seine. The others would follow on horseback.

  Henri had done his best to avoid Diane before they departed. He did not attend vespers in the chapel when he knew that she would be there, nor did he show up for their game of jeu de paume. When he found that she would be going by the King’s barge, he resolved to take his horse. Jacques did not ask him about the meeting in the gazebo but he knew it had not gone well. The flicker of light that Diane de Poitiers had illuminated in the eyes of the young Prince had once again dimmed.

  Diane herself was consumed by the entire incident and berated herself for having encouraged it. It is my fault. I should have seen it coming. I should have seen the signs of it. If only I had not gone to his room that afternoon. I was too familiar. It was wrong of me. Dear Mother Mary, help me now, she silently prayed and clutched her small leather prayer book to her breast. I am just so alone. So lonely. He is young. Strong. . .

  She thought of his body as he had stood there before her in the moonlight. She had watched his eyes narrow as he had held her hand; felt the gentle touch of his fingers. He did not love her in some chaste way. He had wanted her. She knew that. It was not difficult to see in one so young. Her knees grew weak at the thought of him. A shiver ran through her. She could feel her nipples tense against the velvet bodice of her gown; feel a deep, disturbing surge.

  “Madame?”

  “What? Oh. . .”

  Jacques de Saint-André had sat down beside her on the tented royal barge but she had not noticed. They rode in the second barge behind the King as soft music from the lute player drifted back to them on the wings of a gentle breeze.

  “Why are you not with the Prince?” she asked, gazing out at the trees and the thatched roof cottages that lined the shore.

  “He asked me to go on ahead. He wanted to ride alone.”

  She looked at him for
a moment, as she had never before. He had a kind, sensitive face. Gentle eyes. Henri trusted him. She trusted him.

  “Oh, Jacques,” she whispered. “It seems as if I have made a terrible mess of things.”

  “He cares deeply for you, Madame.”

  “He fancies himself in love.”

  “I suspected as much. You are the first person that he has valued, besides Montmorency, who showed him the least bit of favor.”

  “I knew it must be something like that. Oh, Jacques, what am I to do? He is such a kind and gentle young man. I have no wish to cause him any more hurt than this life has given him already.”

  There was a long silence between them. Jacques gazed out across the river. A cool spring breeze lashed across his face and rippled his blond hair.

  “I suppose then, Madame, you must be very certain about what you do want to do before you act upon it.”

  She clutched his arm and took in a deep breath. “Oh, you are both so wonderful and so very young. The very notion of such a thing is impossible.”

  “Yes, Madame. I would agree with you for myself, but Henri is different. Spain aged him in a way that you or I will never completely understand. He seemed to lose any remaining vestige of his youth there. Since then, he has always seemed old, you know; well beyond his years.”

  Jacques shifted in his seat and adjusted his toque, which the breeze had pushed back on his head. “Yet in the past month I have seen him smile and laugh as though he were a child again.”

  “And you think it is because of me?”

  “All I am saying, Madame, is that I believe you wield an enormous amount of influence over His Highness just now. More than you know. As his friend, I would ask you, please, to consider the knowledge of that well before you act.”