Courtesan (18 page)

“Of course. As Your Highness wishes.”

D
IANE HASTENED DOWN
the hall and out of the royal wing. She prayed that no one had seen her.

“How could I have been so careless?” she muttered to herself with her head discreetly bowed. “Think of the scandal, you fool! Coming out of the Prince’s private apartments in the broad light of day! What on earth were you thinking? Oh, I am such a fool for even wanting to believe that they were wrong about Jacques. But I am an even bigger fool for allowing such a vulnerable and tormented young man to console me. I will not. . .I cannot afford to make that mistake again, or it may well be my last!”

And then, as she began again to run in her elegant velvet slippers across the tiled floor, she did not know how or why, but a line came to her from some strange, dark place inside her. It was a line which at first she did not recognize as from the pages of
Le Roman de la rose
.

He did not know if she were a lie, or the truth. He drew back, not knowing what to do; he dared not draw near her for fear. Fear of being enchanted.

Y
OUR
M
AJESTY,
we have another response from Rome,” declared Chancellor Duprat. “The Pope has received your rejection of terms for the marriage. He has continued to sweeten the deal now by adding Parma as well. With these strongholds, you shall have Italy once again in the palm of your hand!”

“And I would sooner surrender it forever than see the Dauphin married to a merchant’s daughter, no matter what riches they offer! All of you know my position.”

“But Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider,” Admiral Chabot interceded in the dim council chamber. “In addition to the property, she comes dowered with a great sum of money, and if we play the game well, there is now a hint that the Pope may actually add the Duchy of Milan to sanction the match! There is rumor already that he is trying to obtain it as a wedding gift!”

“So, you would recommend for Us, for all of France, a commoner, and a foreign one at that, as future Queen?”

“Sire,” said the Cardinal de Lorraine. “Think of the thorn in the side of the Emperor that this marriage would become. As we speak, he recommends one of his own to marry the girl so that he may further his own ambitions. We would take that away from him.”

François whipped around to face the Cardinal. “Not the Dauphin. She is beneath him.”

“Your Majesty, it is far more serious than that to which the Cardinal alludes,” said Duprat. “I have it on good authority from my men in Rome that the Pope is, at this very moment, also negotiating the marriage of his niece with the Duke of Milan, Francesco Sforza, should His Holiness find his negotiations with you unsatisfactory. You know as well as I that Sforza is the Emperor’s puppet. If that union is agreed to, where will that leave Milan when you mean to claim it?”

“What of my proposal of another son, if not the Dauphin?” Admiral Chabot cautiously forged.

“Oh, not that again!” Montmorency sighed and put his hand to his head.

“A second son of France is better than no son at all,” Duprat agreed.

There were rumbles of agreement with the declaration.

“Gentlemen, please!” Montmorency bolted from his seat, leaned forward and balanced his knuckles on the table before him. “You must all listen to reason! You cannot subject that boy to such a thing. He is not prepared for an institution the magnitude of marriage. He lived four years of his life behind iron bars. We all see every day what scars he bears from that. I know him, and I tell you he is not ready!”

François’ mind whirled with the prospect of the continually sweetened deal which the Pope had proposed. He still felt the conflict between the desire to succeed against the Emperor and his belief that Henri had suffered enough already by his hand. But the facts were clear. As the second son of France, Henri’s marriage was simply not so important as the Dauphin’s. He could be sacrificed.

It was not as if Catherine de Medici was completely without her connections. Though orphaned since birth, her father had been Lorenzo de Medici, Duke of Urbino. Her mother, Madeleine de La Tour D’Auvergne, was French, descended from the sainted King Louis XI. The child was descended from Cosimo de Medici, one of the most distinguished figures in Italian history. Like it or not, Chabot was right. The match could be a brilliant way of getting back a foothold in Italy.

“Very well, then,” he finally said. “We shall give it over to a vote by secret ballot.”

Each council member took a piece of parchment and quill from the inkwells before them. Having sealed their responses, they then tossed them toward the center of the table.

“Scribe!” the King called. “Read the results aloud.”

Each man watched the others as they were read. Montmorency held his breath.

“Six for the marriage, and one against.”

“Well, I certainly find no objection, so long as His Holiness is willing to help us recover Milan.” He looked at each of his advisors. “Very well. So, then it is settled. Duprat, you may dispatch the Ambassador for Italy with our revised proposal for the marriage between his niece and Our second son. For that union, We demand the cities of Pisa, Livorno, Reggio and Modena. Also, of course, a substantial dowry, perhaps 600,000 ecus would be appropriate for the son of a King. In return for his niece’s hand, We will give to the Prince and his bride 80,000 ecus of his maternal inheritance, the Duchy of Orléans, with a guaranteed annuity of 50,000 ecus a year, and the chateau of Gien for their personal use. Now, let us see what His Holiness shall say to that!”

H
ENRI DETESTED THE PROSPECT
of being among the guests for supper in the King’s private apartments, but he was obsessed with seeing Diane again. He felt he must discover the truth about the relationship between she and Jacques de Montgommery before it was too late.

Saint-André was right. At least to a point. Henri’s feelings for her were changing in ways he did not like; changing in ways he did not understand. He found himself thinking of nothing but her, thinking about her hair, trying to remember the shades of it; trying to remember her skin, the fresh, earthy scent of it; how it had felt to hold her in his arms. He had even thought of himself like his brother, with her. . .inside of her. But that had been too much. That was something which he still could not understand. There was only one thing about his relationship with Diane de Poitiers which Henri knew to be so without question, without desire or need to understand it. He wanted to be with her.

“Rumor has it that His Majesty is once again readying the country for war,” said François de Guise. “They say he is making some mysterious bargain with the Pope to do so.”

“I, for one, would be glad of it,” Henri replied dryly as he sipped maraschino amid the trio of Brissac, Guise and Saint-André. All of them but Henri, in costly costumes and jewels, searched the room for the young painted demoiselles who filtered in through the open doors and circled casually around them. Guise stuffed his mouth with an entire sugared plum from one of the fruit baskets on the table behind them, and then looked around.

“Would you go to war if we did?” Brissac asked Henri.

“Gladly! Anything to be rid of the nauseating sight of our good King.”

Saint-André laughed at Henri’s cryptic tone, but he stopped short when he saw the King enter from his adjoining chamber near them. Anne d’Heilly was on his arm. Emeralds dripped like green fire from her ears and she wore a rope of pearls around her neck.

“Great Zeus, she is gorgeous!” Guise whispered as he set the pit of his plum on the table near the fruit bowl.

“She is a whore!” Henri snapped.

Guise shrugged his shoulders and lifted his wine goblet. Brissac seemed not to notice or care about the Prince’s foul mood. He was far too interested in captivating the attention of the sensuous-faced brunette across the room, who had just smiled back at him.

“What is bothering you?” asked Saint-André. But before Henri could respond, the Prince’s wise friend had his answer. Diane de Poitiers entered the King’s apartments beside Madeleine de Montmorency and Henri’s face came to life.

“So, that is why you braved the King’s supper. I should have known. Is it not enough to know that she means to marry Montgommery?”

“I told you, I do not believe you! But, if it is true, I want to hear it from her.”

Henri lunged forward as though he were about to go to her. Saint-André grabbed his arm to stop him. “Your Highness, I bid you, do not make a fool of yourself!”

Henri shook free of his grasp with a vengeance and whirled around, his eyes lit with anger. “I am afraid it is too late for that.”

“No. . .it can never be too late.”

“Look, Jacques, be my friend or be on your way! I need no more enemies in this dreadful place!”

Henri headed off in Diane’s direction without waiting for a reply. He brushed past Montmorency and did not speak to his brother, the Dauphin. He walked so briskly through the crowd of guests that he did not see the King behind the Cardinal de Lorraine. He stood near a long, covered table blocking the path. There was no way for Henri to gracefully avoid the Sovereign.

“Well, if it is not my son, the little man! Look, everyone, it is Henri. Tell me, boy, to what do we owe this rare pleasure? No one better to insult this evening?” The King flicked his hand with a casual smile and then began to chuckle. “Did you all know we are set to joust together in Paris next week? Yes, the little Prince thinks he is ready to be a man.” The others laughed, following the King’s lead. François slapped his son on the back when he saw him stiffen. “Oh, come now, boy, learn to take a ribbing. You never could, you know. So intense. Morose, actually. Why can you not be more like your brother?”

The Dauphin smiled from the King’s side. “Yes, Henri, why is it that you are not more like me?”

“Perhaps it is the company he keeps,” said Anne d’Heilly, with her savage smile.

Henri looked at her, completely unable to see the beauty in her that the others saw. For him it was masked by too much evil.

“Let me pass,” he said. “The air in here is foul as death!”

F
ROM BEHIND THE HEDGE,
Henri could see them silhouetted in the moonlight beneath a wooden arbor. They were facing one another. Montgommery was talking. Diane was not. It almost looked as if he were pleading. His hands were clasped on her arms, above her elbows. He was clutching her tightly. Shaking her. Then she turned from him.

“I think she is crying.”

Henri turned with a start. Saint-André crouched behind him, peering with him through the foliage. “No. She would never cry. Not for the likes of him. . .and for that matter, what in the devil are you doing here?”

“Ah, perhaps you are right, not for him. But whatever they are saying, it cannot be pleasant.”

“It does not look like a courtship to me,” Henri said with a crooked smile. “And you. . .you still have not told me what you are doing here.”

“I came to apologize for what I said earlier. You are the best friend I have here and, above all, I would like to believe that I am your friend, as well.” Henri’s lips lengthened into a smile. “Just take care with her. All right?”

“That is the woman I am going to marry, Jacques. I only just realized it myself. So you see, it would be impossible for me to take care, as you say. I will do anything to have her.”

Henri leapt over the low hedge behind which they had been hiding and strolled out across the lawn toward the gazebo. They still did not see him. As he drew near, he could hear them arguing. With the distance between them and the sound of the crickets, he could only make out a few words. It was Diane who said, “How dare you. . .” and Montgommery who kept insisting that she listen to reason. Henri wanted desperately to stand behind the protection of the large birch tree before him and listen to their exchange, but he sensed more keenly, just from her tone and the few fragmented words, that she needed his help.

“Madame, what are you doing so far from the party?” he asked as he strode up beside them, trying his best to make it look as if it were a coincidence. For a moment he was obscured in the shadows, and Montgommery searched the darkness to see who was speaking. As he squinted and strained, Henri strolled out of the moonlight shadows dressed in an elegant gray velvet doublet with royal blue slashings. He tipped his toque to the Scots Captain.

“Good evening, Montgommery. You know, I believe the King was calling for you earlier. Something about a woman who was looking for you. I do not recall her name precisely. . .I believe, perhaps, it was. . .Estillac? Caroline, was it? Anyway, His Majesty seemed rather intent on locating you. Perhaps you should be getting back.”

Montgommery could not help himself. He leered at the Prince. “As Your Highness wishes,” he said as he bowed. Then he looked back at Diane. “This affair is not settled between us; not nearly settled!” he said, and then left the gazebo without debate.

Almost before he started across the lawn, Diane began to laugh. She raised her hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. “Oh, your timing is something! I am afraid you are not going to be very popular with the Captain, in the future. And how can I ever thank you for that?!”

Her laugh was sweet. It was a rich sound which came from her heart. Henri knew instantly that, unlike the others who fawned around the King, she did not laugh for effect.

“I was not certain you would wish to thank me if you had agreed to court him,” he finally said.

First the laughter stopped. Then her smile faded. “Your Highness—”

“Henri,” he corrected her.

“Very well. Henri, I have told you that it would not be proper for me to court anyone at present. I am afraid the Captain sometimes forgets his manners. There is nothing more to it.”

Her tone had been almost scolding. It was harsh and yet edged, he thought, with a hint of some kind of fear. She had not spoken to him like that before. Feeling as though he had said too much, Henri looked away, yet he knew that he could not stop now. She must know. He must tell her. He must show her how he felt. He gathered the strength to turn his gaze upon her once again.