Courtesan (14 page)

Diane’s father was not to be beheaded after all; but rather, by the good grace of His Majesty the King of France, Jean de Poitiers would spend the rest of his life in prison. The story at Court, and in all the noble houses of France, was that his young nubile daughter, Diane, had paid with her body the debt he owed to France.

“If you told me it was not true, I would believe you,” Henri said quietly, a childlike innocence borne out on his handsome face.

“They say I bedded your father. Why else would he have pardoned a traitor?”

“Clemency is the privilege of the King. Doubtless your husband served His Majesty well.”

The two strolled on among the mazed paths of hedges in spite of a mild spring mist which began to fall when the sun hid behind the clouds.

“You know,” she said, eager to change the subject, “I really cannot believe how much you have changed since I have been away from Court.”

“Not really so much.”

“Indeed. It is only your eyes which tell me that you are even the same person.”

“And yet you have changed scarcely at all since Saint Germain-en-Laye.”

“Ah, yes. Your first tourney.”

“You granted me your colors.”

“I remember. You wore them with honor.”

They stopped as they came to the place where the King’s garden ended and the kitchen gardens began. He had not been aware until he smelled the familiar aroma of basil and thyme that they had come so far. He had not meant to bring her here, to his secret place. She was the first woman with whom he had let down his guard.

Despite his father’s example, and perhaps because of it, Henri had cut himself off from all substantive contact with women. He had meant what he had said to Jacques. He despised their perfumes and their games. More exactly, he feared them. Diane’s manner was different. Subtle. Effortless. It awakened within him the same childhood attraction that he had felt for her all those years before.

“Oh, Your Highness!” Clothilde called out as she hobbled toward him from the open kitchen doors. “The tarts are ready; just come from the oven. I’ve got your favorites. . .” It was not until then that she saw that the Prince was with a woman. “Oh, your humble pardon, please!” She bowed repeatedly in Henri’s direction, then toward Diane.

“Please do not apologize. Diane de Poitiers, may I present Clothilde Renard, the finest pastry cook in all of France.”

When he spoke, his voice gained a new confidence. The servant blushed and averted her gaze in the manner of a young girl.

“It is a pleasure, Madame Renard,” Diane said as she extended her hand. Clothilde wiped the grease from her hands on her dirty apron which rode beneath her sagging breasts. She took Diane’s hand reluctantly in her own and squeezed it.

“I would be honored, Madame, if you would sample one of my tarts,” she said nervously. “I am told that the Banbury are the tastiest.” Clothilde looked at the Prince and then back at the woman. She saw a spark of something between them but she was not at all certain what. Without waiting for a reply, she began to bow, then step backward, heading steadily in the direction of the open kitchen doors.

“That would be very nice, Clothilde,” Diane called out as she disappeared through the double oak doors. She looked back at Henri. “What a lovely woman.”

“The best. Perhaps it will sound strange, but I believe that she is my touch with reality. If it were not for Clothilde, I sometimes think I would not likely be here at all,” he replied, still gazing at the door, a smile lingering on his face.

Now, for the first time, there was a silence between them. Also for the first time, Henri began to feel awkward. “Well, I. . .perhaps I shall see you more often now that you have returned to Court.”

“I would like that,” she smiled. “It would be nice to finally have a real friend here.”

T
HE
K
ING OF
F
RANCE
was a man tormented.

He wanted the return of Milan. He wanted all of Italy under the French Crown, and the longing he continued to feel grew stronger, more consuming, every day. Italy was an ambition that would not rest.

He sat in the tall carved chair near his bed and watched Marie de Sancerre sleep. For a while she helped to stave off the yearning, but she was only a child. Anne had not looked much older when he had first taken her to his bed; and this one had been almost as good. Or perhaps it was just that his own age made him savor this new conquest more than he might have in his youth.

The girl, the daughter of the Comte and Comtesse de Sancerre, stirred beneath the heavy tapestried bedcovers. François watched as she turned onto her back. The movement exposed tiny round breasts dotted with small pink nipples.
Ah, innocence!
She had it. He wanted to have his own again. This one had been worth keeping her irritatingly ambitious parents around.

But would she be worth losing Anne? Could he start over with her? Her innocence to give him strength? No. He did not want her as badly as he wanted back those early days of carefree abandon; before he had become King. That was what he
thought
when he looked into her wide violet eyes. What he
knew
was that she was younger than his youngest son.

What an old fool I am,
he thought. She stretched again, opened her eyes and pushed her cascading yellow mane from her face. François bolted from the chair and dove back between the bedcovers with her.

“Tell me how it was? I must know,” he urged.

“Sire?” she asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“How was it between us this time? How, I mean, was I?” He encircled her head with his large hand and began to stroke her hair. “Do I. . .do I excite you yet, even in the least?” He tried not to sound as though he was pleading.

“To be truthful, Your Majesty, I am afraid there is still not much pleasure in it.” She cast her eyes away. “I hope that I have not displeased you by my honesty.”

“How old are you,
mon ange
?” he asked, then propped himself on his elbow beside her. He could see her hesitate before she replied.

“Nearly thirteen, Sire.”

François gasped and rolled onto his back. “And your mother. . .your parents, do they know you are here with me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, they do.”

“What did they tell you, Marie?”

The girl returned his gaze and then sighed as though her reply was a great struggle. “They told me to give you whatever you desired and to ask nothing in return.”

“Guard! Guard!”

An army of guards rushed into the bedchamber, their rapiers drawn. “Captain, take this child back to her parents and inform them that they will be required to leave Court before the sun has set. I cannot stand the thought a moment more!”

The little girl screamed, terror stricken, as she was plucked naked from the King’s bed. “No! No! Please! They will kill me!”

François watched her thrashing limbs. Great God, a child of thirteen! He turned from her as the guard covered her mouth with his hand to stifle her screams.

“Let her at least have a gown, for Lord’s sake!” he ordered and covered his own face with his hands to avoid further sight of the pleading girl.

Chabot and Montmorency both sprinted down the hall and into the King’s bedchamber in just enough time to see the child being dragged, kicking and screaming, out of sight.

“What is it, Your Majesty?” the Grand Master panted.

François’ sigh was heavy. “Oh, nothing a dose of reality has not cured.”

H
ENRI HAD DECIDED
to attend the ball that his father was giving that evening. It had not been an easy decision since he had not attended any of the functions in over two years. But there was the thought, the possibility, of once again seeing Diane de Poitiers. For a moment, Henri let his anger pass.

“What will Your Highness wear?”

“What?” Henri turned to the sound of his valet’s voice.

“To the banquet, Your Highness. What will you wear? I shall need to prepare it. I thought perhaps you might select from the maroon satin doublet with the topaz and pearls or perhaps the teal blue. If I may say, both are exceptionally smart on you.”

“Choose whatever you like.”

Henri stood still as his valet draped a white muslin riding shirt around his back and then pulled each arm in through the sleeves. As he began to cover the shirt with a brown leather doublet, another servant was dispatched to answer a knock at the door. Henri turned to see the face of Roland, his cap in his large hands and his head lowered.

“I am sorry to come to you like this, Your Highness. I know it’s not proper, but Clothilde has sent me.”

At the grave look on Roland’s face, Henri pushed past his valet and cast the doublet onto the floor. “What is it? Is she ill?”

“No. I am afraid it’s the pup. He’s dead, Your Highness. Just gave up, not an hour ago.”

Before Roland could utter the last few words, Henri raced out of the room past him and down the long corridor toward the kitchens. His leather soles pounded against the tiled floors as he broke into a run. Roland hobbled behind him but, having been born with an uneven leg, he was no match for the furious speed of the Prince.

Henri fought back tears as he ran down the long staircase, and through the Grand Gallery then past the library and past the tapestry maker’s shop. He ran down the dark winding stone kitchen stairs two at a time so that he lost his balance and tripped at the bottom. Clothilde sat by the fire and looked up when he came in. The other servants stopped what they were doing and bowed to Henri.

“Where is he?”

Clothilde looked toward the little makeshift bed he had made and then motioned for him to advance. After a moment, he knelt and stroked the pup’s tiny face with the back of his finger. The skin was still warm.

“We will bury him for Your Highness,” Clothilde said.

“No!. . .I will do it!”

With trembling hands, Henri lifted the rich yellow shirt with the dead animal wound inside. Clothilde and Roland followed grim-faced out into the garden behind the kitchens.

“At least let Roland dig the grave.”

After it was done, Roland stood aside as Henri lowered the silk shirt into the hole. “Oh, Your Highness, not the shirt as well. It is such a fine thing,” Clothilde whispered.

“Leave it with him! It was the only thing he had in this wretched world.”

Honoring his wishes, Roland and Clothilde stood by as Henri himself shoveled the last heap of dirt. Then when he asked, they left him alone, a silhouette in pink sun, standing over the small makeshift grave.

B
Y THE TIME
his friends had coaxed Henri out of his apartments and they walked the chateau’s labyrinth of corridors, the vast banquet hall was already filled to capacity. It bowed with the sound of raucous chattering courtiers and the noxious scent of mingling perfumes. Ambergris, Tibetan musk, and damascene rosewater; all of it fought the rancorous odor of unwashed flesh and soiled garments too fragile to clean. Music and laughter were everywhere.

Flanked by Brissac and Bourbon, Henri took a goblet of wine from a steward’s tray and swiftly emptied it. After their reunion, he and Madame de Poitiers had arranged to play a game of
jeu de paume
. Although they had spent much of the following afternoon on the courts, now, only one day past, the prospect of seeing her again made his heart race with fear.

“Henri!” Jacques de Saint-André came up behind the Prince and slapped him across the back as the collection of noble young men rallied around one another. “So good to see you here! What a surprise!”

“With any luck, the King shall not have occasion to say the same,” he replied, motioning across the room toward his father and then emptying the second cup of wine. “Let’s get a drink, shall we?”

Jacques smiled and put a hand on Henri’s shoulder. “So, are you going to tell me what brought you out, or must I spend all night guessing the reason.”

“I simply felt like it, that is all. Must there be a reason?”

Jacques’ smile fell. “No, Your Highness, no reason at all.”

François de Guise and Charles de Brissac joined them. “What a surprise, Your Highness,” Guise said a little too loudly. “It is good to see you here!”

Brissac surveyed the crowd. “It is a lovely party.”

“Another of the King’s pretentious displays,” Henri grumbled.

His four friends exchanged a glance as the Prince headed for the large double doors that led outside.

“I need some air,” Henri said. “I cannot breathe.”

I
NSIDE THE BALLROOM
the music and laughter had reached a crescendo as the King danced the Passepied with Montmorency’s wife. The Grand Master himself sat at the King’s long table watching them and fingering the ends of his silver mustache. Then, the sound of discordant chatter began to rise up near him from the darkened alcove that surrounded the entrance. The shrill sound of a woman’s voice grew steadily louder. Soon it surpassed the music. Montmorency finally turned around and saw the Comtesse de Sancerre, followed several paces behind by her husband, who was dragging their sobbing daughter, Marie, by the shoulder. All three were trying to get past the guards who stood sentry at the door inside the alcove.

“You must let me see the King! You must! There has been some mistake. I demand to see the King!” shouted the Comtesse.

Montmorency, part of whose function was the smooth maintenance of the King’s household, leapt from his seat to intercede. He instructed the guards to pull the three uninvited guests back behind the marble pillar.

“What seems to be the trouble?” he asked, looking at the Comtesse and then at the guards.

“Not you!” she shouted again. “I demand to see the King!”

“Well, as you can see, Madame,” he said, pointing toward the dance floor with a jeweled finger, “His Majesty is engaged at present. Perhaps, if you made an appointment with his secretary—”

“An appointment? Ha! His Majesty has banished us! It is not bad enough that he sullies our good name, and that he has had his way with me and with our daughter, but now that she is made pregnant by him, he sends us packing!”

“Surely, Madame, there is a better time for this. At present the King is entertaining.”

“Indeed! I know all about his entertaining, Monsieur! You have only to look upon our daughter for the effects of that!”

People had begun to stare. Heads were turning in the direction of the dark alcove and a hush had fallen over much of the crowd as they tried to make out the rest of the bits and pieces of what was being said. Finally the King too was drawn to the tumult. He excused himself from the dance and moved toward the alcove.

“How could Your Majesty?” the Comtesse shouted at the King and motioned to her young daughter, who sobbed into her hands.

“Take them to the library at once,” the King commanded in a controlled voice and then nudged Montmorency along with him into the hall amid the hushed whispers of the crowd.

“Well, it looks like the old boy hasn’t lost his touch,” Chabot whispered to Anne d’Heilly from their table.

“Oh, do shut up, will you, Philippe? Do you ever know when you have said enough?”

The Admiral tipped his head to the side and then stuffed his mouth with the breast meat from another pheasant, allowing a ribbon of grease to dribble down his chin. She turned away from him in disgust and looked back to the now empty corridor through which Montmorency, the King, the Comte de Sancerre and his family had passed. At that moment Anne d’Heilly could not decide if she was more angry or curious.

F
RANÇOIS CLOSED THE
double doors and put his hands on his hips. Three sword-bearing guards stood behind the trio who were now seated in a row on one of the King’s settees. Marie de Sancerre, who had not given up her tears, sobbed continually into her small hands.

“Very well, then. Out with it. How do you know the girl carries my child?”

“How dare you?” the Comtesse began to rage again. “Marie is a good and honest girl. She gave herself to no one but her King!”

François looked down at her. “Is this true, child?” he asked with a tender note of concern.

When she did not reply, her father nudged her and she looked up with a face that was swollen and wet. “No, Your Majesty,” she whispered.

The room fell to a hush.

“What? Who the devil else? Who?” her mother raged, and hit her about the face and neck so that she was not able to reply.

“Answer your parents!” the King commanded.

They waited.

“The Dauphin, Your Majesty.”

The King paced the length of the book-lined room. The Comte and Comtesse were silent. They waited for his response. The guards stood at attention behind the carved-oak settee which held the trio. Montmorency stood near the door, knowing better than to speak out now.

“Bring the Dauphin, at once,” François ordered.

The minutes before the boy came into the library were filled with the strain of silence, the far-off sound of the music and the King’s angry scowl. François II finally entered the vaulted book-lined repository with the guard who had sought him. His arm was draped around a short dark-haired girl; they were laughing, and a flagon of wine was dangling from his hand.

“Get rid of her,” the King commanded in a seething monotone.

“What is it, Father?”

The younger François looked at the sullen group before him. He looked at Marie de Sancerre who was still sobbing. He saw her father’s rage. The blood left his face. His heart stopped.

“Father, I. . .it is not what you think. . .”

“Now, now, my boy. . .” He stifled his son’s confession and thrust a goblet of wine in his hand. “Ah, there is nothing like two men bedding the same whore to turn back the hands of time! My son, my own dear son. . .I feel like a boy again myself. Monty, do you recall that time in Italy before the wars; that tall willowy maiden. . .what was her name?”

“So then you are not angry with me?”

The King’s angry face softened. He put his arm around his son as though they were the only two in the room. “One of us has made her pregnant, boy. The child will need to be provided for.”

The Dauphin’s mouth fell open and he gazed over at the young girl he too had bedded.

“I will make you a bargain, my son. If you will agree to tell my Anne that it is your doing, then I shall overlook the duplicity of the entire affair. We shall tally it up to an enormous adventure, as Monty and I did all those years ago.”

“Gladly, Father!” The Dauphin smiled. The relief was evident on his long thin face.

“Cruel bastard! You sound as though she were a piece of meat!” the Comtesse muttered. The guard hit the back of her head with his hand just enough to sting.

“Be mindful of how you address your Sovereign Lord,” he warned in a firm baritone.

“Oh, Your Majesty, please!” the girl pleaded and dropped to her knees. “I want to be with you! Do not make me go! I love you!”

“Quiet, Marie,” her father urged.

“Love, you say? Foolish girl,” he scoffed. “What do you know of love? You loved me so much that you bedded us both! Did your mother give you instruction in that as well?” Tears spilled down her cheeks. She could say nothing in defense of herself. “Love, hah! Such a foolish word, and how like a child to use it at a time like this! I am a King. You are a child. I had you and now I shall pay for the pleasure.”

The Comtesse de Sancerre stood and straightened the bodice of her gown, preparing to confront the King. “Your Majesty, there is another solution that would bring harmony to all concerned.” The King would not look at her so she proceeded without invitation. “My daughter is well educated. She is the correct age, and of course, of the appropriate station to become the Dauphine. My husband and I propose that the boy marry her and give a name to the child.”

The King began to chuckle before he turned around. After a moment the sound blossomed into a raucous fit of laughter. The Dauphin and the guards smiled as the King began to grip his sides and double over. Montmorency stood silently by the King, his face expressionless.

“Are you mad, woman? He is to be King! I’ll not have him married to a whore who gives herself to the highest bidder! Ha! Who would sire the future Kings of France when she tired of my son? The stable boy? The cook? The Captain of the Guard here, perhaps?”

The Comte and Comtesse de Sancerre exchanged a defeated glance. All three stood and prepared to leave the library. “I assume, Your Majesty, that you are prepared to make good on your responsibility to pay for the privilege of defiling our daughter?”