Now, sitting before her, each of them still on their horses, she looked at that smug little face, the little rosebud lips and the arched brows; she could not bring herself to put her rival’s unfounded fears to rest. At least not yet. There had really been no indication that it would make a difference if she did. Anne d’Heilly believed so strongly in some vague competition between them that it had required an act this drastic. It was not likely that any reassurances she could give now would change a thing. Diane looked at her again.
“Madame de Brosse,” she began in a low controlled tone, calling her by the name of the man she had married, in an attempt to deliver her own direct slight. “You have the world at your feet, and if your disdain of me was the only reason for surrendering your body to a servant of the King, who himself has no more morals than one of the hunting hounds, then I pity you. I truly pity you!”
The two women glared at one another; the fire between them was at a flash point. Neither would give way to the other.
“I want you away from Court,” Anne seethed.
“I am an invited guest of the King.”
“But you are not welcomed by his favourite.”
“And, if I choose to stay?”
“If you do not retire to your estate of your own accord, then your existence among us shall take a decided turn for the worse. That, I do promise you!”
In that strange, singular moment between Anne’s reply and her own, Diane thought of Henri. She suddenly wished that he would come out from behind one of the large evergreen trees around them and put this viper appropriately in her place, as he had done for her so many times. He was the only one who could do it. But Henri was not here, and there was no one but herself to fight the battles that had come so routinely to plague her.
“I could go to the King,” Diane ventured.
“He loves me. He will never take your word over mine.”
Anne’s stare was fierce and contemptuous. Diane, who had begun to learn something from this competition between them, met it completely. Therefore she could not see the wild wolf, whose hungry, yellow eyes peered out from the wild brush behind her. Though she did not see it, her horse smelled the danger. Suddenly, he bolted. In a powerful leap, he reared up onto his hind legs, braying his own fear with a highly pitched whinny. Diane tightly gripped the reins, unaware of the danger behind her, but she could not steady him. In that same moment, Anne looked behind Diane and saw the ragged gray wolf coiled to attack.
“Wolf! Dear God, it is a wolf! Run! Run!”
Anne’s terror-stricken screams warned the others. She turned the bridle of her own horse away from Diane and the imminent attack, and galloped for shelter behind a thick cluster of trees. Catherine and Marie de Guise, the Cardinal’s niece, scattered behind bushes as the wolf sprung from his place and leaped at Diane’s chestnut-colored mare. In his frenzy, his sharp molars pierced her calf. One deep, growling bite. She recoiled at the searing pain.
The Princess Madeleine began to cry as she watched the scene in horror. Diane continued to wrestle with the fearful horse who was now being attacked by the savage animal. Madeleine’s sister, Marguerite, grabbed her arm and dragged her into the shelter of the woods behind the others. Diane was left alone.
Again the horse reared and then whinnied in pain as the savage wolf gouged with his teeth, again and again into the animal’s hind leg. As he reared up again, this time erect, the force was too great, and Diane was thrown to the ground, hitting her head on a large boulder. She groped in the dirt, trying to inch herself away from the attack site, but she could not move.
The King and two of his guards, who had heard the screams, dashed back toward the clearing just as Diane had fallen to the ground. When he saw the wolf, His Majesty motioned to his men and then circled around behind the seething animal with a poised crossbow. The others watched from the safety of the trees and bushes. The guards distracted the animal so that François de Guise and his brother could go to Diane, who now lay unconscious in the wild grass. Just as the wolf prepared to leap onto Diane’s limp body, the King shot a single golden-tipped arrow. The savage animal faltered, then swayed, and finally collapsed onto the ground with a whimper, and was dead.
THE KING HAD SENT a diamond and emerald brooch. The young Archbishop de Rheims had sent her a book of architectural style, based on the work of the Roman master, Marcus Vitruvius Pollio. Her room was lined with white roses picked by François de Guise. They had saved her life. Fortune had been on her side. For her ordeal with the raging wolf she had sustained relatively few injuries. A bruised arm and a bump on the back of the head were impairments that would mend. The puncture on her leg, however, would not be so quick to leave her. The King’s physician, after a thorough inspection, had insisted upon complete bed rest for the wound to properly mend. So, for the two weeks following the King’s hunting party, she had limited herself to a quiet game of cards with Hélène at her bedside and supper in her room.
Now, Diane thought she would go mad. One more hand of cards or another game of chess and she was sure to lose her mind. She sat propped in the bed, draped in her nightclothes and surrounded by a sea of velvet cushions. The King’s physician had forbid her even to dress until further notice. Bed rest indeed! She had not been impaired a day in her life. Even with the births of both of her daughters, she had been in bed no more than a few days. If only she could swim, the fresh water would certainly heal her wounds far better than these foul smelling plasters and potions he insisted on using. Oh, to feel the sun and the air, the gentle breeze from the river. . . She looked up. The windows were all neatly latched; that was also by order of the royal physician, Pierre de Bourges. There was no air and it was stifling. She looked over at the clock in the corner. It continued to tick. That same monotonous tick. Tick, tick, tick.
A knock at the door brought Hélène to her feet. She closed the book and placed it on the table beside the small carved chair. Jacques de Montgommery entered slowly, as the door was opened. His long face was drawn and the soft feminine features had become more harsh and shadowed. He was dressed austerely in a costume of plain gray wool. There were no jewels or the customary medallions draped from his doublet. Diane had not seen him since that night. She sat up in the bed to a nearly rigid posture. Jacques saw the change and stopped at the foot of the bed. He removed the gray plumed toque and held it in both hands as a symbol of humility; just as he had done when he had gone to see Anne d’Heilly that first afternoon.
“I am sorry, Madame. He would not wait to be introduced,” Hélène softly said.
Diane looked at him. His face pleaded with her, though his lips did not. She was glad he did not beg this time. She knew she could not bear to hear it.
“It is all right, Hélène. You may leave us, but leave the door open and remain just outside. The Captain will not be long.”
Hélène looked at her mistress and then at the estranged suitor. “As you wish,” she said reluctantly, and left them alone.
The moment she was gone, tears filled his eyes and he lunged forward to the side of Diane’s bed. As he dropped to his knees, he put his head in his hands and began to sob. Diane recoiled at the performance.
“Stop it! Stop it this instant, do you hear?” she whispered through clinched teeth.
After a moment, he lifted his head and wiped the back of his hand across his wet eyes.
“It is only that I love you so.”
“Love? Now there is a laugh! I would be an even bigger fool than the two of you put together if I continued to believe that.”
“You have every right to be angry, but you must listen—”
“There is nothing to hear, Jacques. What was between us is over.”
“But, mon amour, you cannot mean it. You are angry with me. I understand that. But I know that with time, that shall pass.”
“It is over between us, do you hear? There is nothing left!” she said, in a more determined voice. Her eyes met his, squarely. To her surprise, his own tired eyes sharpened
into angry slits at the sound of her words, and he rose back to his feet. After no more than a moment, any sign of the repentant suitor who had entered her room vanished. In his place was a fierce and raging man.
“You will not humiliate me like that! You are mine; you accepted me and I will never let you go!”
“Do you dare to speak to me of humiliation, Monsieur, after what occurred in that room just next to mine?” Her eyes were filled with fire, and the rage in her heart made her quiver as she spoke. “It is over between us and if you ever, ever try to see me again, I will go straight to the King! I swear it!”
Their eyes were locked. She meant it and he knew after what he had done she would do it for less.
“The King! The King comes!”
Hélène burst back through the door just ahead of the royal guard. There was still an intensity between them but Diane fought to take her eyes from Jacques, with the nearing sound of soldiers’ heavy footsteps. After the first appearance of the royal guards who flanked her door, the King swirled around the corner in a red velvet cape which was cut to his knees and lined with sable. Anne d’Heilly walked a pace behind him in her revealing emerald ball gown. Her new perfume preceded her and within moments, the closed room was filled with the overpowering aroma of Tibetan musk.
“I hope Your Majesty will forgive me for not rising,” Diane said.
François advanced to her bed with a smile and took her hand. His fingers were covered with chunks of rubies, emerald and gold.
“Only if you will forgive me for not coming sooner to see you. But I trust you did receive the brooch in my stead?”
“Oh, yes indeed, and it is far too extravagant.”
“I would agree with that,” murmured Anne from the foot of the bed.
“Nevertheless, I shall wear it with great honor,” Diane said, finishing her sentence, and then glancing at the Duchesse d’Etampes with her own newly kindled hauteur. The King ignored them both and snapped his fingers over his head.
“Nothing is too good for one of our own,” he said as he beckoned François de Guise to bring the tall velvet-covered chair from beside the window.
“But, Your Majesty, it is you who risked your life to save mine. It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“I would have done the same for any of my band. So tell me, how are you getting along? You have my personal physician tending to you. Is he seeing to your care?”
“Quite well, Your Majesty. You were most generous to extend his service. He feels I shall make a full recovery.”
The King shifted in the chair. “Yes, well. . .to the matter at hand, Madame. The royal physician has informed me that you will require several additional days in which to convalesce. Regrettably, however, I find that I am required back at Fontainebleau for strategic talks with my commanders.”
Diane looked past the drawn bedcurtains at Anne’s triumphant smile. “France’s victory is of the utmost importance. Your Majesty must return at once.”
François shifted again and scratched his beard. “Indeed it seems I must. But I insist that you take all the time you need. It is lovely here,” he said, looking around the room, “and a perfect place for you to recover. We shall leave the royal physician at your disposal, and your girl there as well,” he said, glancing with disinterest at Hélène, who stood near the door.
“That is most gracious of you, Sire.”
The King looked up at Jacques, who still stood at the head of Diane’s bed. “And since I desire for you to be well protected while you are away from Court, I certainly can spare Montgommery here and a few of his men for the few additional days,” he said with a charitable smile.
Diane did not move her head but shifted her eyes toward Anne as the King spoke. She would have given anything, God help her, at that moment to tell the King about the entire vile affair. But even with Anne’s unrelenting cruelty, Diane still could not manage to entertain the notion of revenge.
“I thank Your Majesty for your concern, but I think it would be best if the Captain returned with the rest of you. I am certain to be fine here in this lovely place. Besides, he will be of far better service to his country if he attends his King right now, and not me.”
François looked at the Scots Captain and then back at Diane with animated surprise, but his look was ineffective. Neither betrayed the other. “Well then, as you wish,” he replied with a flick of his jeweled wrist as he stood up beside her bed. “Then, when you are well, we shall look forward to your speedy return to us. Will we not, mon amour?”
“Oh yes indeed,” said Anne. “We shall count the days.”
THE NEXT MORNING Diane watched from her window as the King and his cortege mounted their brightly draped horses and set out for Fontainebleau. As they rode down the long tree-lined causeway which led into the forest, Chenonceaux was transformed, once again, into the quiet chateau that it must have been before the King and his friends had descended upon it. At least now she was alone with her thoughts. Since the incident with Montgommery, Diane had craved the peace of solitude to mend her wounded pride. At last she had found it.
After another week, she began with short walks around the chateau, and by the month’s end, with permission of the royal physician, she was taking strolls with Hélène in the garden. After much disapproval, Bourges reluctantly agreed to let her swim once again in the river.
“I have been in that room of mine for so long I had forgotten how beautiful the sunlight could be,” she exclaimed with a smile, a walking stick in one hand and her other arm wrapped in Hélène’s. They strolled slowly out past the formal parterre to the point of the forest. A crisp breeze blew from the river and a collection of leaves whirled past them.
“These days have not been easy for you, Madame,” Hélène said cautiously.
“God tests us in curious ways.”
“Those among us whom he tests the most are often the strongest.”
Diane squeezed her maid’s hand. “What a friend you are to me, Hélène. You cannot imagine how much it has meant.”
“You are very kind, Madame, but such feelings take little effort for you. I am always, before all other things, at your service.”
As they strolled past the aviary, back through the ornamental boxed hedges which overlooked the river, Diane noticed the figure of a man coming toward them from the chateau. With the sun in her eyes, however, she could not make out his identity. As he neared, she could see that it was the King’s physician. Just beyond him in the gravel-covered courtyard, a royal guard stood at attention beside his horse. Bourges was waving a letter. By the time he reached them, he was so winded that he simply thrust the document at her without speaking. Hélène looked at her mistress as she cracked the red wax seal. They both knew at once who it was from. Diane read the words slowly and deliberately:
My dear Madame,
I beg you to send me news of your health so that I may act accordingly. For if you continue to be ill, I should not wish to fail to come to see you and be of what service I may. The truth is that I cannot live long without seeing you. I am not afraid to risk the loss of my father’s favor in order to be with you. Honor me, I pray you, by granting my deep desire to serve you. I assure you I shall know little peace of mind until my courier returns, bringing news of your health. I beg you therefore, to send me a true word.
Your most humble servant,
Henri
“Madame?”
Diane folded the letter and looked up at Hélène, her face expressionless and white as chalk. She could not reply. Her mind was racing too fast to speak.
Bourges stood with his hands behind his long cape. “The royal messenger waits for a reply, Madame,” he said impatiently.
She turned her back to them both and walked a few steps. She gazed out at the swiftly flowing river beyond the chateau and tried to steady herself. Dear God, can it be that he still loves me? After everything; the harsh words, my denial, and all of the insurmountable odds, he can still find it in his heart to care for me
? Diane felt that she had never in her life experienced the pure love of the kind Henri was offering. So many people had promised so much, and they had all betrayed her. Louis had not loved her. He had married her because her status was beneficial to him. Then there was Jacques. Her dreams of an honorable gentleman, as in Le Roman de la rose, had been dashed long ago by the reality of her ordered life. She was becoming cold. Hardened. She was a realist. For two years she had turned her back on the first person who had truly made her happy, in the name of that reality. What would become of her, she wondered, if she were to go on this way?
“Madame, the royal guard. . .” Pierre de Bourges began again.
Diane turned on her heels and put her hands to the sides of her black velvet headdress. “Please! I cannot think! I need time to think!”
Hélène intervened with the physician. “Perhaps it would be best if the guard were taken to the kitchens for a meal and some wine. I shall come when Madame has a reply to give you.”
Diane turned around only after she could hear Bourges’s heavy feet as he stomped through the garden back toward the chateau. She had heard Hélène, but it was as though she had listened to her from a distance. All of her thoughts were of Henri. The intensity of his brooding eyes; his dark waves of hair. . .the kindness of his soul. Oh yes, God save her, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She had, from nearly that first moment almost two years ago when he had stepped out of the darkness at Fontainebleau. She had never admitted it to a single human being—not even to herself; until now.
Hélène stood beside her. Dutifully. Silently. She watched her mistress’s pinched face slowly soften. She watched a faint smile pass over the slim lips and then fade away before she turned away.
“God help me, I have tried to forget him,” she whispered.
Hélène advanced and put her hand on Diane’s shoulder, just barely touching it.
“Oh, Hélène, I am so wretched. . .”