Courtesan (5 page)

She had come to care for Louis, but it had not begun that way. At the age of fourteen she had pleaded with her aunt not to force the union. He was thirty years her senior; an ugly man with a hump in his back. He lived in an old castle so far out in the country that she feared she would never see another soul except the villagers of Anet. But to society, it was an exceptionally good match and so her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Time passed, and after her adolescent tears had ceased she had learned how to be a wife. She bore him two daughters and when he died she had a huge monument erected to him in Rouen. But he had never made her feel passion. The knight who lay tucked between the pages of her worn blue volume of
Le Roman de la rose
was as close as she could ever expect to come to someone she could adore. She had spent eighteen years married to Louis. Her youth was gone. Now she had only her dreams.

Or so she believed.

M
ONTMORENCY!
Grand Master Montmorency! Present yourself at once!”

The shrill, insistent tone belonged to the King’s mistress, Anne d’Heilly. Her voice resonated like the sound of a bell through the vaulted stone hallways as she plunged into each closed chamber door in the east wing. Followed by her collection of puzzled attendants, she shrieked the Grand Master’s name again and again so that the walls nearly bowed with the piercing sound.

“I know he is here! I know it! Where else could he be? Not at chapel. . .his apartments. . .Fit to run the entire Court, is he? Ha! We shall see about that! Montmorency!”

Yards of emerald green taffeta flowed behind her as the train of her gown swept across the tiled floor. Her headdress hid a mane of soft chestnut hair, nearly the exact color of the King’s. The headdress had been designed in Venice to accentuate her eyes and delicate bone structure. On her face, she wore a thin layer of
ceruse,
an opaque face powder made of white lead. Her lips were kept crimson and her cheeks bright with an ocher-based shade called China Red.

In the beginning, she had worn the cosmetics to appear older to the King. Now that she was twenty-six, she worried continually about savoring the vestiges of her youth. She daubed herself liberally with the romantic scent of violets; currently the most fashionable fragrance, and on a gold chain which swung from her waist, she carried a pomander so the scent the King most enjoyed would continually surround her. It also served to diffuse the odor of the others at Court who, like herself, washed little through the long months of winter. She dressed regularly in shades of green and preferred silk to brocade for the feel of it next to her skin. The King had once told her that green was
her
color as it set off the loveliness of her emerald green eyes. When he was feeling enamored or repentant, as he had that morning, it was usually emeralds that he bestowed upon her.

As she continued marching down the hall, opening one after another of the heavy carved doors, her fury increased. Then as she cast another open, she froze and the screeching stopped. A captain of the guard was rutting with a servant girl against the far wall of the empty chamber. Torn from his pleasure by the disgruntled murmurs of Anne’s ladies behind him, the Captain turned with a start. His eyes were glazed and his honey-colored face was glistening with sweat. Seeing the royal
favourite
at the head of the circle of women, he hung his head. The young girl gasped and then dashed into the wardrobe.

“How dare you?” Anne growled as she collected herself and marched toward him. “You are in the King’s employ, Captain. His Majesty pays your wages to work, not to fornicate with the help like a stud with a brood mare!”

The young man continued to hang his head as Louise d’Heilly, Anne’s sister and principal attendant, hustled the other ladies from the room.

“You risk a great deal, Christian,” she whispered when they were alone. “Where is your superior, Grand Master Montmorency?”

For a moment he did not reply; only stared at her with a seductive smile. The look which passed between them was not one which passes among strangers; nor even between master and servant.

“I know only, Mademoiselle, that he is not with me,” the dashing young Christian de Nancay said as he continued to meet her gaze.

“Well, once you rid yourself of that smug expression, I suggest you locate him and tell him that I have need of him. If you do not do as I say, rest assured I shall see you back where I found you, with the rest of your sorry lot!”

As she spoke sharp and undaunted, her tiny nose flared. It excited him, but he knew his place. . .for the moment. She was right, it had been through her influence alone that he had a place at Court. He was not titled nor nobly born. His gift in life, like hers, was his beauty and his ability to use it.

“As you wish, Mademoiselle,” the young man complied, tossing his head back with a smile no longer of insolence, but now of confidence. As he smiled, he began to rehook the codpiece of his puffed trunk hose. The pace at which he did it took on a seduction all of its own.

“I shall be in my apartments when you find the cretin,” she added, her voice less brittle as she turned quickly, not wanting to acknowledge his smile.

Once she had left him, the only sound was her elegantly slippered feet as they echoed on the icy marble floors of the south wing at Chateau Blois. “Mademoiselle de Colliers,” she said to another of her servants. “Do you know the name of that whore who was with the Captain just now?”

“I believe that she is one of the downstairs kitchen maids under Clothilde Renard, Mademoiselle.”

“You are to inform Madame Renard immediately that I wish the little trollop relieved of her duties, and out of this house by tonight.”

“As Mademoiselle wishes.”

Anne sighed as she entered her own lavish apartments. It was like a sanctuary and, for the moment, it was a comfort to be there alone. François’ behavior with the Comtesse de Sancerre had been an embarrassment to her and she wanted nothing to do with his usual excuse making today, even if it meant more jewels.

The rooms themselves were soothing to her. The walls were hung with green brocade, reflecting the King’s preference. At the center of the bedchamber was a large mahogany bed covered in emerald green tapestry. On the night table beside it, was a small enamel of herself that the King had commissioned. In the large sitting room was a collection of green tapestried couches and delicately carved chairs. All of them were placed on large Italian carpets. There were tables inlaid with marble and tortoise. They were covered with silver bowls, candlesticks and flagons of wine. Over the mantel of the massive fireplace was an imposing painting of her lover, the King of France. It served always to remind her of her place and the reason that, when he desired it, she willingly gave herself to him.

Louise d’Heilly loosened her sister’s headdress and took it into the dressing room as Anne fluffed her own matted hair. This time she would not give him the benefit of her raging jealousy. There were a hundred ways to get the better of the King of France without his knowing it. She saw to it that they were even. François had his indiscretions.

She most certainly had hers.

“W
HERE IS SHE?”
Montmorency asked one of her ladies who had met him at the door.

The young woman pointed into the large vaulted sitting room and then disappeared behind a curtain. Montmorency found Anne d’Heilly sprawled in silhouette on an embroidered daybed beneath a huge paned window. He gazed around the room as long as he could, since seeing her lovely little face would inspire in him an anger that he felt unable to deal with today. He loathed that face; those perfect features. She was so rude. . .so cruel. . .so alluring.

Anne did not reply nor even acknowledge him for several minutes, though she had heard his heavy steps across her tiled floor. She hated him. He hated her. They loved to taunt one another, given half a chance. It was a game, like everything else at Court. But this was not his day. He had drunk too much and slept too little last night, and he was in a foul mood; not at all prepared to spar with the King’s whore.

“Mademoiselle beckoned me while I was having my breakfast, and I do not like being beckoned. What is it you want?”

His voice was like splintered glass, but she did not respond. Instead she lay her head back and tore a large bit of flesh from a pomegranate. Pink juice dripped onto her cheek and the slow movement was almost seductive. Satisfied with the impression she had made, she sat up and wiped her face. At the sight of her, the blood rose from a small vein in his neck and wrapped crimson red like a band around his forehead. Anne d’Heilly saw it, and smiled.

“I haven’t all day, Mademoiselle d’Heilly. What is it you wish?”

“Monsieur is a servant of the King, and would do well to remember his place.”

“Surely Mademoiselle forgets that she is not the King.”

“Perhaps more important to remember, Monsieur, is that there is no one else quite so close to the King as I.”

Point. She was close to winning again, and he had not wanted to play at all. She did speak the truth, however, and it would be most unwise to push her now. He knew from experience that in the end, a courtesan always held greater influence with this King than even his closest friends. He had been reminded of his place, and skillfully. Finally, Montmorency bowed to her.

“Then I am at your service, Mademoiselle.”

“Ah, good. So you are. Yes, well then. . .you may tell me if it is true.”

“I am afraid that, once again, Mademoiselle, you have me at a disadvantage.”

“I want to know about that woman. . .the Sénéchale.”

Montmorency bit his lower lip until he felt it begin to bleed. She could have asked any one of her servants for such innocuous gossip. This was too much! It was an insult and they both knew it.

“You certainly could have asked Nançay if that is all the information you desire! He knows all that I know of such matters, and it is certainly his company that you prefer.”

Montmorency pushed the line. Her affair with the young Captain, Christian de Nançay, was no secret on the back stairs of Court. Their eyes locked in a combative stare.

“The Captain is useless refuse. Chancellor Duprat is a glutton, and Admiral Chabot requires payment that I am not inclined today to give. Like the others, you too serve the King. So, you see, you are what is left to me. Not desirable, but practical just the same. I have heard the gossip, and I must know if she. . .if that woman, has had the courage to return in full view of this Court, and if she has, what precisely she expects to accomplish!”

“How is it that you expect me to know?”

“You are His Majesty’s keeper, are you not?! Since you do make it your business to know the King’s business, what better informant might I ask than the one who is most highly paid?”

“My wish is to serve you, dear lady,” he lied, knowing that he was outmatched today. “I shall tell you all that I know.”

Her angry face softened.

“That would be Madame de Brézé, about whom you inquire. Though now that she is widowed she prefers to be addressed simply as Madame de Poitiers. As to her present locale, she has indeed returned to this Court, which has been, I might add, at the request of His Majesty the King.”

As he spoke, he sauntered toward a table near the fire, then fingered a large apple in a silver bowl in the table’s center. “The lady has taken up residence in the east wing and was summoned some time ago to a private audience with our Sovereign. Beyond that, I am afraid I can tell you nothing.”

There was a long pause.

“Those who have seen her say that she is very elegant. . .very sophisticated. I can trust only a man’s opinion in this,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Ah, so when all of the sparring was done, that was the real reason he had been summoned. He was the only one at Court who despised her enough to tell her the truth about another woman!

“I would agree with your sources, Mademoiselle.”

“So then. Would you also say that she is more beautiful than I?”

“Not actually,” he said, contemplating carefully and turning the apple around in his hand. He took a bite. The question had surprised him. Beauty. . .Now there was the chink in her armor! Perhaps he hadn’t lost, at that. He forged ahead.

“No, no. Not more beautiful at all. She has. . .rather a sort of, how shall I say. . .a regal sort of countenance. She reminds one of the King’s beloved late Queen: her Majesty Claude.”

Anne’s face flushed. Game point. He had done it. She was young and beautiful enough to compete with any other woman except the memory of François’ dead wife! She turned from his view. Montmorency may have won this round but she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Seizing the victory, the Grand Master bit into the apple again and then stared at her, his bright eyes glinting in the afternoon light.

“Will there be anything else, Mademoiselle d’Heilly? My breakfast awaits.”

Anne struggled in vain to retain her composure. When she did not reply, he bowed, linking his hands loosely behind him.

“Ah well, if not, then I shall say adieu.” As he turned to leave, he placed the partially eaten apple back down on the table near the fruit bowl, then looked up one last time, his lips smiling with a cruel confidence.

“Heathen!” she muttered from behind clenched teeth as he slid quickly out the door and down the long winding hall. “You, my dear Montmorency, may have had this laugh on me, but you may bet that it is I who shall be your final undoing!”

When he had gone, she gazed back up at the shimmering painted image of the King that hung over the mantel. He had been painted in a magnificent black velvet cloak sleeved in sable. He was mounted on a black mare, caparisoned in silver fringe. Colorful sparks from the fire cracked and popped beneath it. The painting recalled for her an earlier time, when nothing and no one had come between them; when she had had more confidence than jewels.