Courtesan

  “All of our best interests?” Henri repeated with a mocking laugh. “Ha! You mean to say all of your best interests, do you not? I am not Dauphin! I shall not be King! It is in my interest to marry a woman that I love!”

  “Well, that is simply not how it is for any of us!”

  The King spit the words with fury as he raced back to face his son. “I have done my duty to this country willingly, and married who was chosen, as have all the others who came before us. Marrying for love is for servants and peasants, not for a Valois Prince! Get a mistress for that, boy!” And then he paused. A wry sneer broke across his angry face. “Or perhaps, little man, you already have.”

  The truth in his father’s words disarmed the younger opponent, and he searched the room frantically for some show of support. There was none. Not even from Montmorency. The King, quickly assessing the change in Henri, sneered more broadly.

  “Perhaps Madame de Poitiers has consented to rid you of more than your smugness!” he proposed with an evil laugh. This tactic of the King’s changed everything and Henri steadied himself against his own oncoming rage. If news of their liaison were out, he could no longer protect her. Chabot advanced to the side of the Ambassador, looking dangerously like reinforcement.

  “Respectfully, Your Highness, I am afraid that the issue is no longer open for debate. The agreement has already been signed.”

  “Signed? Signed by whom?”

  “Why, by the King and His Holiness Pope Clement, of course.”

  The room was still. Ice cold. After a moment to catch his breath, Henri laughed again.

  “And I suppose you have chosen the day, time and place for the deed without consulting me, as well!”

  Looking around at the lowered heads, his angry smile turned to disbelief at the firmness and exactitude with which his life was being irrevocably molded. He was trapped. The matrimonial prison to which he was being sentenced was far worse than any Spanish incarceration he had known as a boy. It was an impossible circle. If he married the Pope’s niece, he lost all hope of a future with the woman he loved. If he asked permission to marry Diane instead, it would mean her certain banishment from Court—or even a worse fate, if His Majesty willed it.

  “And if I refuse?” he finally asked.

  “Then you shall be bound, gagged and carried to the altar!” raged the King. “But, by God Almighty, you shall marry the Italian!”

  DIANE KNELT IN THE shadowy oratory before a statue of the Virgin Mary. She was so deep in prayer that she was startled by the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Seeing that it was Saint-André, she made the sign of the cross, stood and walked together with him back out into the corridor.

  “Madame, I am sorry to disturb you here, and I would not have come if it were not necessary. . .”

  “What is it, Jacques?”

  “It is the Prince, Madame. He returned to his apartments a short time ago. To be plain with you, Madame, he returned very drunk. He will take no food and will speak to no one. He only insists on being left alone in the center of the floor of the bedchamber with a jug of wine and some odd-looking crescent-shaped pendant that he refuses to surrender. I am worried about him, considering the events of the day. I know that it is asking a great deal, but it seems you are the only one he will speak with anymore. If you would go to him while the banquet is on,” he proposed, “I can see that you pass undetected into the royal wing.”

  “Take me to him, Jacques.”

  Diane and Jacques could hear the odd noises as they approached Henri’s apartments in the east wing of the Chateau Villers-Cotterêts. There were the warbled strains of someone singing, along with the crashing of silver as it hit the bare floor. When they came to the door, Diane stopped.

  “Are you certain you would not like me to come with you? He has a violent nature when he drinks too much.”

  “Thank you, Jacques. You are a good friend, but he will not harm me.”

  “I will be just outside if you need me,” he said and touched her shoulder.

  The room was dark, except for the silver glow from the moon through the long, open casement windows. There was no fire. There were no candles burning in their sconces. There was only a misty breeze through the windows which chilled the large, drafty rooms, and sent the wall tapestry near the window rippling on its heavy iron pole. Henri sat just as Jacques had described it, on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. Beside him was a large jug of wine he had brought from the kitchens. He held her ivory pendant close to his chest. Her heart ached at the sight of him; so defeated. She closed the heavy door behind herself and the round iron handle clanged against it.

  “You there! Out! I do not wish to be disturbed!”

  Before he could finish his sentence, he saw that it was Diane. She came beside him and stood looking down at him; at the crescent pendant which he held. After a moment, she could see the sparkle of tears in his dark eyes. Diane sat down beside him on the cold tile floor and he fell naturally into her arms. They held one another silently; she with one arm around his shoulders and the other stroking his thick, dark curls.

  She could feel the pain. The helplessness. She raised a hand to his face. At first it was just a touch; no more than a comforting hand brushed across the turn of his jaw. Compassion. The touch became a caress. He turned his head and kissed her hand. The warm feel of his skin was dizzying to her. The whisper of his breath so near to her own. Then, with their two bodies pressed closely together, it became something more. Diane could feel herself once again, as she had in Cauterets, begin slowly to sink into the deep forbidden abyss which nearness to him brought. But this time, there was no fear. There were no other thoughts. There was nothing else but the nearness of him.

  “I wanted it to be you,” he whispered.

  “I know. . .”

  Henri looked up at her. His eyes were filled with angry tears. Her own blue eyes were tinged with sadness. He moved closer to her. His lips, at first, only brushed hers. Then they met in a soft, gentle kiss, barely touching. He pulled away and looked once again into her eyes. Like a mirror to his own soul, he saw forever there. His life. His future. Everything was in her eyes. There was nothing else. No one. As though by a force, a primal instinct deep within him, he moved his own solid arms around her and kissed her again. This time the press of his mouth against hers was more powerful. She opened her lips to him, and he felt a surge of dark pleasure. A small sigh came from the moist hollow of her throat and he felt it echo through his entire body. A deep and powerful ache coursed through him. It was a longing he had never known before this moment. By instinct alone, Henri moved his hand behind her neck, still kissing her. Now it was she who sank willingly into his arms.

  He stood first, then helped her to her feet. Once again he was awkward. Unsure. The faint sound of the music from the King’s banquet echoed around them as they faced one another in the shadow of the moonlight. It highlighted her face as she turned away.

  “Do not go,” he whispered, and then squeezed her hand. “Please.”

  She followed him to the large canopied oak bed with the rose damask bedcurtains. He lay down first and looked up at her, not certain of what to do. After a moment she motioned to the back of her gown. With trembling hands, he moved toward her and unfastened the tiny pearl buttons on the back of the black silk. His fingers grazed the warm skin of her bare back and he could feel his own heart pounding.

  When she was free of her garments, Diane turned slowly to face him. The moon shimmered through the window near the bed onto her ivory skin. He was riveted to the sight of her small white breasts with their tawny nipples hardened by the cold of the drafty room. He had not known until that moment what to expect when he saw her. Nothing could have prepared him for the beauty of her body. The broad shoulders. The gently sculpted curves of her hips, and the small patch of blond hair between her legs.

  It was awkward. He tried not to look at her, but for Henri, women’s bodies had only been images in paintings, and in his mind. Until now. S
he sensed it. As if she knew his thoughts, she took one of his hands and drew it down onto the soft fullness of her breast. He gasped at the touch of her. Her breast felt like imported silk. Overwhelmed by a force completely foreign to him, Henri hurriedly pushed her back down onto the tapestried bedcover and began to kiss her neck. Then her breasts. First one, and then the other.

  She began to unhook his shirt, then she watched him remove it. Next his trunk hose and stockings. Diane had never seen such a firm, strong body as his. But his movements were awkward. Hurried. So, slowly, patiently, she began to guide him. She took his hand and raised it to her lips. She kissed the soft fleshy inside of each palm and then ran her tongue along the length of each finger, pushing one and then the other, lightly between her lips. Then they lay back together. When she finally drew his hand down, it was to guide him. Just a small movement of her hips, and like some kind of velvet dream, he was inside of her; closer to her than he had ever been to anyone.

  To Henri, it was not only a joining of their bodies, but a bonding of their two souls. It was what he had wanted. What he had craved. He wrapped his legs around hers, and groaned as the movement drew him deeper inside of her. He closed his eyes and moved his fingers across her neck and breasts with the delicate touch of one who is blind. Somehow she made him feel as though he had done this before. He was not ashamed. As he moved with the flow of her beneath him, he felt his own straining body begin to pulse. He felt his blood course, and begin to converge; to race downward. Down. Down. He was drawn like a spiral. He felt himself on the edge of a warm, dark pool into which he must plunge. Each thrust pulling him down to the warm, dark center of infinity.

  When it was over, in no more than a few short moments, he rolled onto his side, tears spilling down his cheeks. Diane reached up and kissed them away as they clung to one another in the cool, misty darkness.

  DIANE RODE BEHIND MONTGOMMERY, her powerful black stallion following his, through the dark, shadowy forest around Villers-Cotterêts. It was the first week of September; a month since the announcement of Henri’s marriage, and the heat of summer was stifling. As they rode, fingers of warm sunlight peeked through the thick trees and cast shadows on the moss-covered tree trunks, giving some little bit of relief from the searing heat. When they reached a small clearing, covered over with long reeds of new summer grass, Diane slid from her horse into his arms. When he tried, she let Jacques kiss her. After a moment, he broke away from her lips and smiled.

  “That is so much better than kissing your cheek.” He smiled and kissed her again more forcefully. Diane fought herself from pulling away from him. The feel of his thin, rough lips against her own sickened her.

  “Je t’adore. . .Je t’aime. . .” he whispered into her hair. “Please reconsider and say that you will marry me. There is surely no reason now to refuse me.”

  “Dear Jacques, despite your overwhelming pomposity, you are really rather sweet,” she said, as he clutched both hands around her waist, smiling at her praise. Diane looked into the long face and hollow eyes; the thin angular cheeks, more like a woman’s. She could feel his lanky frame pressed against her gown; feel the bones, washed over with thin flesh. There were no well-defined muscles. No firm arms to embrace her.

  “But I do not love you the way you want me to, or the way you deserve.”

  “So it is love, is it? Well, ma chère, those things come in time. More importantly to our future happiness, I believe that I now know that the Prince was nothing more than a dalliance.” He pushed away a small blond curl which had blown into his eye and continued.

  “Shall I tell you how it happened between you? Oh, do let me. Let me see. . .you were lonely, yes, very lonely, and in his youthful ardor, the poor melancholy Prince took advantage of your weakness. Yes, it was just like that, wasn’t it? But, not to worry. You will recover after he is fully married, and I want to be there when you do. I, my love, am a real man, and I will make you forget that you ever knew him.”

  His tone was playful, as though he was composing a trifle about someone else. He was having fun with her. He was making light of Henri’s feelings. And of her own. Then he pulled her even more closely to him so that she would know his straining ardor; feel the swell beneath his codpiece.

  She detested his condescension, the insufferable drone of his voice. Her body filled with revulsion as he kissed her, but she did not pull away. Jacques de Montgommery was the key to her sanity. He was the only path to safety from her feelings for Henri. Feelings she knew now that, if she let them, could easily destroy them both.

  Despite the intensity of what had passed between them that night, she had left his apartments without looking back. There was the reality of his impending marriage. Anything between them now, with so important a political liaison in the balance, would be a dangerous game. Diane believed she risked everything by harboring even the slightest romantic feeling for Henri. Her indifference to him was a matter of survival; a measure to save them both.

  When her official period of mourning ended, she had agreed to be courted by Jacques de Montgommery. It was a loathsome alternative. She did not love him. She never would. But she did not have the luxury of time; time to wait, alone and vulnerable, until someone else might show an interest in her. Seventeen years as the wife of the aging hunchback Sénećhal de Normandie had made her a realist. She knew that no matter what became of the marriage now proposed between Henri and the Pope’s niece, she would never be considered a suitable alternative for the son of the King so many years her junior. She also knew in her heart that, no matter what she felt for him, she had not been born to be a courtesan.

  “Say you will marry me,” Montgommery droned.

  “But, how can you still want me, knowing how I feel?”

  “Well. . .as any other husband would be, at first I shall be angry, of course. But, when you come to me, pleading on your knees, I shall look into those enchanting blue eyes of yours and be bound to forgive you.” He tossed his hand into the air with a twist and added, “He shall marry his Italian, and we shall go on with our secure and very comfortable life.”

  “You certainly have thought it through.”

  “I have thought of nothing else since that first night we met.” He leaned in and kissed her again but she pulled away when he tried to part her lips with his tongue. She stifled the shiver that ran up her back and blossomed through the rest of her like a violent clap of thunder.

  “Oh, please, say you will. . .please!”

  “I need more time, Jacques. You must be patient with me. I shall give you your answer as soon as I have one myself.”

  His eyes narrowed and his thin lips tightened. “You might as well agree. There really is no use waiting for the boy. He shall have to marry the Italian.”

  His words were sharp. She moved to rebuke him, but before she could object, he drew her close to his chest and whispered again in her ear. “Oh I just know you will say yes. And I will make you such a splendid husband. . .You will see.”

  AFTER HER RIDE in the woods, the afternoon was busy for Diane. Soon the royal entourage would depart for the wedding in Marseilles and there was a great deal to be done. Her wardrobe must be coordinated, jewelry selected; new headdresses to be fitted. Her mourning period had come to an official close and her limited wardrobe now necessitated changes. Though she continued to prefer the stark contrast of black and white which she had worn as a widow, she now had more liberty with the colors, fabrics and designs.

  She sat in the window seat which looked down over a large forest of trees. There was a selection of sketches for new gowns spread out on her lap. Attire was the most costly aspect of any stay at Court. For Diane, it was no exception. Everyone in attendance of the King was expected by His Majesty to wear only the finest fabrics and the most costly jewels, so that they might bear a more natural place beside him. No expense was ever to be spared if one hoped to keep company in the King’s circle. Gowns and doublets were sewn of velvet and silk. They were lined with the rarest furs. Otter.
Marten. Ermine. Sable. There were marble beads, gold and silver rings, bracelets and chains. There were jewels: rubies, diamonds, emeralds and garnets. A courtier could easily find himself in financial ruin for overstaying his time at the Court of France.

  Diane looked down at the sketch before her. A gown of black and white satin with a gold-embroidered yoke for the betrothal dinner. She cast it aside and looked at another. Black velvet with a collar of speckled lynx and puffed sleeves. This gown was for the gala celebration for the Pope’s arrival in France. She tossed the sketches aside with all of the others and lay her head back against the window. The first thing she saw when she closed her eyes was an image of Henri.

  A spasm of pain coursed through her. She saw his sad face and the dark soulful eyes. She could almost feel his touch. The firmness of his bare body pressed against hers. She shook her head to make the images disappear. She had started toward his apartments more times than she could count over the past month. Several times in the darkness of early morning she had even made it as far as the royal wing. But always she stopped herself, knowing in her heart that she was doing what was best. At least what was best for Henri.

  “Are you quite ready, Mademoiselle?”

  Diane heard the words as though from a distance. She opened her eyes. Jacques de Saint-André sat across from Hélène, who was contemplating a particularly good hand of cards. Diane watched her toss down a card and then look up at him with a faint smile. As she did, the heavy wooden door out in the main sitting room slammed shut. Hélène excused herself to see who it was.

  “And just when I was finally about to win,” he grumbled and then cast a good-natured smile over at Diane. A moment later, Grand Master Montmorency pushed past Hélène and stormed into the room, his blue velvet cape swirling around him. Diane looked up from her sketches.