He trusted her completely. She wanted to trust him. They were compagnons d’armes in a war that seemed, though in different ways, directed only at the two of them. They were both inexperienced and uneasy against all the intrigue and ugliness of the French Court. For all her money, her connections and her noble birth, Diane was not so worldly as she might have been. She had been hidden away. Sheltered. This return to Court had been difficult. Henri had made the path easier. He had made her depend on him. It lessened the differences between them. And though she would not realize it for some time, the bond between them, which even death would not sever, had already begun to form.
“WE UNDERSTAND, Monsieur Henry, that you leave by the morrow,” Michel said as he bit into a piece of bread at the dining-room table where all of the guests had gathered. “My wife and I have become quite fond of all of you and of this place. Rarely have I had such a welcoming audience for my playing. You shall be missed.”
His wife nodded in agreement.
“Not so fond as I have become of this place. It is painful for me as well, to part from it,” Henri replied and once again tried to engage Diane in a glance.
The other guests as well had come to share Michel’s fondness for the mysterious group who said they were from Paris. They asked questions and drank continuous toasts to prosperity and to the happiness of their new friends. Between the dialogues and the embraces, Henri struggled to find a way to request a private moment with Diane. Though she avoided his gaze, he could not help staring at her. She drew him like a magnet. He traced her long thin nose with his eyes; the nose that gave way to those lips. Those lips that I have kissed, he thought. Now, by the indifference she is showing me, she would have me believe that it never happened. He grew more rigid in his seat as Michel moved near the dancing area with his flute. He would play the music for a last dance for the group who, as the mayor had muttered, would probably never be together again. Jacques took Hélène’s hand and the mayor led Michel’s bride in a dance.
“Dance with me?” Diane whispered.
In his surprise, Henri found himself unable to object. He let her lead him outside into the courtyard where he had first learned. As they moved alone through the steps in the shadows of the moonlight, she finally met his gaze. He drew near enough to her to feel her breath.
“I have had such a wonderful time here,” she whispered. “This place is magical to me. It is as if here, all time around us has stopped. I wanted you to know how special this has been.”
Henri tried to smile but he was tortured by her nearness. He wanted to claim her as his own; hold her in his arms and kiss her as he had done that afternoon. But he dared not. When the music ended, she curtsied to him as part of the dance and slipped a small piece of parchment into his palm before she returned to the open dining hall.
The men shook hands. The women embraced and said their tearful adieus. Michel’s wife promised to write and perhaps to visit Henri’s fictional address on the rue des Étuvres, when they were next in Paris. It was only after most of the guests had retired, and Diane had bid an early good night, that Henri glanced down at the folded slip of paper. His heart raced as he read the words which, by now, he knew well.
Before I stirred from that place where I should wish forever to remain, I plucked with great delight, the flower from the leaves of the rosebush, and thus I had at last, my rose.
It was the last line from Le Roman de la rose.
THE JOURNEY BACK to Court was arduous, with sloping hills and twisted roads. But this alternate route, charted for them by the King’s guides, would be more expedient and the urgency of their return required it.
Charlotte had fallen ill near Targes and Hélène and Diane were forced to attend her closely. As the ride on horseback would have proven too strenuous, a sedan chair, draped with heavy tapestry to block the wind, was hastily constructed for her.
They traveled down through the villages of Agen and Cahors, surrounded by bare, wild hills. Past Brivé and Limoges. The final night of their long journey home was spent in Chateauroux on the banks of the river. Henri and his friends were welcomed by the mayor of the town and would stay the night at his manor. Diane and her attendants stayed at the home of Monsieur Dutel, the town’s wealthiest merchant. It would be their last night together before returning to Court and Henri desperately wanted things more clarified between them.
Throughout their journey home, Diane avoided being alone with him. They had not shared a private word since their final morning in the baths at Cauterets. He had gone there after receiving her poetry, expecting a change in her. A change in him. But she was indifferent. They sat together in the warm, effervescent sulfur water speaking about Père Olivier and what they might further do to help him rebuild the church. Their conversation was cordial; at times, even happy. But for all the smiles and the plans, she had made no mention of their kiss in the meadow the day before. In his overwhelming confusion, neither had he. Now was his final opportunity to establish things between them.
Diane descended the stairs just as Hélène showed him inside. She stood midway between the top and the bottom of the carved mahogany staircase as Hélène looked up at her. Henri’s eyes followed. He gasped at the sight of her. Diane had not expected to receive visitors and she was not properly dressed. Her thick blond hair was loose and hung long over her shoulders and she wore a loose fitting dressing gown of embroidered white silk.
“Please leave us,” she said to Hélène, and descended the rest of the stairs with a silver hairbrush still in her hand. Henri waited to speak until they were alone.
“I think you look more beautiful than I have ever seen you,” he whispered and moved closer to her. Then he stopped. He could see in her eyes that something had changed. “I have missed you,” he added with an awkward cracking voice.
Diane steadied herself against his troubled expression by turning to sit on a small oak and pourpoint couch near the fire. After a moment, she took a deep breath and then looked up, beckoning Henri with her hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked when he was sitting beside her, their faces lit by the copper-colored flames.
“No. I am not well at all. Henri, what happened between us that afternoon was very special to me. You must know that. . .”
He reached over and put his hand on top of hers as she spoke, but her body grew more rigid with his touch. It made him pull away.
“However,” she continued, steeling herself to him. “It cannot. . .it must never happen again.”
“But I do not understand. What has happened? Have I done something foolish to displease you without even knowing? Because if I have—”
“No, of course not. You could never displease me. Your friendship has brought such joy to my life, you shall never know.” She paused and turned away. “It is just that I am so afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of this! Of what is happening between us. What happened in those beautiful mountains; what surely would have happened had we stayed, would be viewed by others at Court as scandalous; as something absurd, even grotesque! You must know that.”
“Damn them all! I do not care what any of them say!”
“But I do! I must. Henri, please be reasonable,” she said calmly. “You must understand, until now, my life has been so ordered; so predictable. Now, with you, all of it has become so tangled and confused.”
“How strange that sounds to me when, for the first time in my life, I have found a bit of harmony with you. You know, once upon a time not so very long ago, I thought this could never happen to me. I was sure of it. I ran from everything and everyone. But when I met you, from the first moment, everything changed.”
“Please do not be angry with me,” she whispered, brushing a hand across his cheek. “I just need some time. Surely that is not so difficult to understand.”
“I could deny you nothing. I think you know that. Just say that no matter what, you will always remain my friend. If I have that to hold on to. . .”
She
put her finger to his lips to silence him, and said, “Then it is promised.”
CHARLOTTE DID NOT SURVIVE her illness. She was buried quietly in the town of Chateauroux on a hill washed with gray tombstones. Hélène and Diane stood motionless over her grave, watching with unflinching eyes as three nameless, faceless men lowered the unornamented box into the ground. Finally the gap-toothed grave digger carelessly heaped the last mound of rich soil onto the box, and the townspeople looked on through the wrought-iron bars, whispering and pointing fingers at the mysterious collection of mourners.
When it was done, they rode in solemn procession back into the deep emerald green forest, toward the chateau Villers-Cotterêts. Henri and Diane cantered high on their horses beside one another, still dressed in black, under the royal canopy with the blue and gold fleurs-de-lys. As they wound their way through the forest, with the chateau in sight, the sun had already descended. They had seen the lights from the chateau for miles through the sparsely populated village and the surrounding forest.
“Jacques, take Mademoiselle Gallet to Madame’s apartments,” Henri instructed as the group dismounted in the chateau courtyard.
The King’s grooms advanced to lead away the horses as Saint-André walked toward the chateau with Hélène. Amid the commotion of lowering trunks and congregating servants, Henri managed to grip Diane’s hand. He pulled her forcefully away from the courtyard and down a stone path lined with beech trees, to a place behind the stables. There in the moonlight, surrounded by the brisk night air, they held one another in silence. After a moment, Henri pulled his arms from around her and cupped her face in his firm hands.
“I feel as if we have lived a lifetime with each other,” he whispered. “And no matter what happens now that we have returned, we will face it together.”
His youthful idealism touched her, and she almost believed it. Diane smiled and turned her head to kiss one of the hands that rested on her cheek. “I think you are the best friend that I have ever had,” she whispered.
“I know that you are the best friend I shall ever have.”
They embraced again with the determination of companions who carried with each of them a deep impenetrable secret. Then Henri waited silently while she shielded her face with her cloak, stole back up toward the courtyard and into the doors of the chateau. He stayed alone in the dark for several minutes trying to collect himself. Facing his family would be difficult. So much had changed. But she had promised, and he trusted her.
DIANE STROLLED ALONE down by the river’s edge to meet Jacques de Montgommery as she had promised him she would do. She had come early to be alone and to collect her thoughts. It was some time amid the shadows from the trees before she realized that she was smiling. She could not recall ever having been this happy. Although she had tried to deny it to herself and to Henri, she cared deeply for him. He was young, but he was also mature and handsome. As though plucked from the pages of a medieval romance, Prince Henri was like her shining knight. Just when she had given up ever finding happiness, he had galloped into her life and saved her. She strolled in the warm summer breeze and found her mind ambling back to thoughts of their afternoon together in the hills around Cauterets. She remembered his youth. His strength. His passion. Again she smiled, feeling herself blush at her most private thoughts.
“There you are!” Jacques declared with a smile as he advanced quickly toward her, late for their meeting. He took her hands in his own, and kissed each of them.
“Welcome back! Oh, I have so missed that pretty face of yours. How dull it has been here without you.”
Diane smiled back at him, retrieved her hands and clasped them behind her. They began to stroll together on the dirt path bordered by stones, beneath the ordered chestnut trees.
“I was so pleased that you agreed to meet privately with me like this,” he said.
“Well, are we not friends?”
“Yes, of course. It is just that you were so angry with me before you left. I was not certain you would ever want to see me again.”
“Well, that seems such a long time ago, and now I feel inclined to forgive you. A great deal has happened.”
“As it has at Court. In fact, as we speak the King is meeting with his conseil des affaires and Prince Henri in private session.”
Diane stiffened at the mention of Henri’s name. “Do you know what they are meeting about?”
“Why, yes, of course. I have just come from my post in the King’s chamber. But I am not certain that I should be sharing His Majesty’s private affairs, even with you.”
Diane turned to him. Her smooth lips turned up in a sensual smile. “If I let you kiss me, will you tell me then?”
“I will tell you anything if I may kiss you!”
“Here, on the cheek,” she pointed as demurely as a young girl.
Jacques leaned toward her and took her chin in one of his long slim hands. He drew near her a little at a time, attempting to savor the moment he had been given. When he was close enough to whisper to her, he said, “This news is certainly worth more than your cheek. Please do give me a taste of your sweet lips. You will know the news before anyone, even Mademoiselle d’Heilly.”
“The cheek, Jacques,” she insisted. He kissed the spot on her cheek near her ear, and then grazed her skin with his warm tongue. Diane was startled by his advance, and jumped back.
“You see just how good it might be with us?”
“All right, Jacques, enough teasing. Now it is your turn. What do you know of the business between the King and Prince Henri?”
“I should have known. It is always back to that dreadful boy,” he declared with irritation, his eyes cast upward. Then he looked back at her with a pointed stare.
“What is it between the two of you?”
“Answer me, Jacques. What do you know?”
“All right, all right,” he said. He found a large stone between the trees, sat down, and then looked up at her. “Well, it seems that, for some time now, there have been secret negotiations taking place between the King and the Pope in Rome. His Holiness has a niece whom he means to marry off; and he has been bartering her with every power in the Christian world. It would seem that due to her relations, the little girl holds the key to Italy, and apparently the old goat has been holding out for the best match he can make.”
“And what has that to do with the Prince and the conseil des affaires?”
“It would seem, my lovely, that our good King has won. Prince Henri is to marry her.”
“. . .There is some mistake,” she whispered.
“I was standing right there when the Chancellor read the King’s reply. There is no mistake.”
Diane clutched herself at the waist and exhaled as though she had been pelted in the stomach. Without turning around, she leaned against the tree behind her for support. She was sick. The bile rose from her belly into her throat with a swift force. She fought it.
“I must go,” she said in a faint tone and turned. He grasped her arm and stopped her. “Let me go, Jacques!”
“What in the devil is going on between you and that boy?” he charged. She threw her head up toward him. His eyes met with hers. She was near tears. Seeing the ashen pallor that had overtaken her, he had his answer.
“You stupid fool! I should have seen it coming. Why, by the look on your face I will bet he has even bedded you already, hasn’t he? Oh, what a fool you made of me with your feigned virtue and chaste kisses, when all the while you have been sharing your favors with that pathetic child!”
“Leave it alone, Jacques. You do not understand,” she whispered and twisted her arm until she was free of his grasp.
“You are right about one thing. I do not understand how you could choose a boy when you have a man bowing at your feet! I am the one you should be sharing your favors with, not him!”
Diane did not hear his last few words as she ran down the footpath as fast as her legs could carry her. She must get away. She must. From Jacques. From Court. Fr
om everything. She ran through the gardens, past the other courtiers, without a care to what they might think. She needed to find the safety of her own apartments inside the chateau. She was going to be ill.
“I WILL NOT MARRY HER!”
“Do not be insolent with me, you little bastard!” the King raged.
“I will not marry her, I tell you! I want to choose my own wife!”
The King and his son stood squarely opposing one another; both with hands on their hips. They were so close that Henri could feel his father’s warm breath and see his chest heave with anger through the heavily jeweled doublet.
“You are the son of a King, boy. Your will is not your own!” The son, who had grown the height of the father, said nothing in return and the King grew weak beneath the intensity of the confrontation. “Oh, why can you not be more like your brother and obey your Sovereign King?”
“Because, sir, my brother would not be pawned off to a merchant’s daughter for the sake of a little land and gold!”
“Pay heed how you address the King,” Montmorency cautioned from behind the young Prince, but his words were as good as whispered in the wind.
Across the room, the King was snorting wildly and stalking up and down with his hands still firmly on his hips. Then, in his rekindled rage, he turned over a table, and the silver goblets and decanter on top were sent clanging onto the bare tiled floor. The Dauphin, Chabot and Montmorency remained silent. Sensing complications, the Duke of Albany, who had negotiated the marriage for the Pope, interceded with Henri.
“Your Highness must listen to reason. A marriage is really such a small thing. Do with your heart what you will but you must consider the consequences on all of France if you refuse. Truly, sharing your title with the Pope’s niece is in all of our best interests.”