Courtesan (2 page)

“Your Majesty shines gloriously in all colors. Alas, it should prove an insurmountable task to decide which costume should be benefited more by the wearing.”

François’ grin widened and his sleepy eyes twinkled with delight. Perhaps there would be some fun this morning, after all.

He fingered the green doublet and puffed trunk hose that Barre held for him. As he did, the echo of footsteps grew outside his bedchamber. The King looked toward the door and the costume fell to the floor. Like the preceding mound of red satin which the King had discarded, this one was quickly scooped up by a gentleman-of-the-chamber. It was then whisked back to the royal wardrobe in a motion as smooth as a finely orchestrated dance. Then the door opened and a tall, elegantly dressed man burst in. He was Principal Tutor to the royal children.

“Your Majesty!” he panted, struggling to catch his breath. He lowered his plumed toque as he neared the Sovereign. François turned slowly. “I am afraid to report, Sire, that it is Prince Henri again.”

“Will that boy give me no peace?!” he bellowed and flung himself onto an ornately carved settee. Two of the hounds raised their heads, growled, then fell back to sleep.

“Oh, very well, Saint-André. What has he done now?” the King groaned. His eyes were closed and the rest of his long face was pinched.

“I am told that Monsieur La Croix wished the Prince to recite his Latin in the company of his sisters, the Princesses Marguerite and Madeleine. Well, Sire, he quite plainly refused, and when Monsieur La Croix raised his voice, His Highness picked up the poor man, carried him downstairs and tossed him, fully clothed, into the well!”

The other courtiers muffled snickers as the King lay his head against the back of the settee. This was not the first time the King’s second son had sought publicly to embarrass his father.

“And the condition of La Croix?”

“If Your Majesty shall pardon my candor, it took four of your best guards to retrieve him. I regret to inform you that he has asked to be relieved of his duty.”

François opened his eyes and picked up a large jeweled wine decanter from a stand near the settee. Tilting his head back, he began to drink at such a pace that the crimson colored liquid dripped down his beard and fell in little drops onto his bare chest. In a sweeping motion, he rubbed the wine with his hand and tossed the heavy silver decanter onto the carpet. “So be it. Bochetel,” he said, leaning over to one of his Secretaries of Finance. “See that Monsier La Croix is compensated for his trouble.”

After the secretary had made note of the King’s command, Saint-André advanced further. “Shall there be a flogging for His Highness, then?” he cautiously asked.

“No! No flogging. The boy has endured enough of that sort of thing in Spain.”

Saint-André’s expression grew more tentative. He lowered his head. “Will there be punishment then for my son, in His Highness’s stead?”

The King studied the tutor. He brought his finger to his chin until the moment of recollection. “Ah yes, your son is that tall fellow always in Henri’s company.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. My son Jacques is companion to the Prince, and as such, it is he who customarily takes His Highness’s punishment.”

“So he is. Well, this time it is not so simple a task. Until We decide on a proper course of action, you are to inform the Prince that he shall be sent ahead to Fontainebleau. A fortnight alone with the Queen should be sufficient penance for any crime.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.”

“So, my son is fond of yours, is he?”

“I am told that he is, Your Majesty.”

“Then the Prince shall not have your son’s company on his journey.”

“As Your Majesty wishes. Will there be anything further?”

“No, Saint-André. I suspect that is quite enough for one day.”

When the tutor had gone, Barre returned. He went back to preparing the King’s wardrobe as though the exchange had not occurred. The others present shuffled around the room or engaged in private whispers to mask the fact that they had heard everything. François only shook his head, propped his chin in his long hand, and slumped farther down in the settee.

“Oh, Monty, what in the name of God am I to do?”

The Grand Master moved forward with his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

“I tell you, that boy means to have me pay for his blasted incarceration for the rest of my life!” the King moaned. “And yet I cannot undo, God forgive me, what either of my sons endured at the hands of the bloody Emperor! I had no choice. . .You know I had no choice. It was either my sons, or me!” He sprung forward and paced the length of his bedchamber. His strides were long and his sable-trimmed dressing robe streamed back like the wings of a great crimson bird.

Anne de Montmorency was brusk, sober and ambitious. He was one of three men who held the most influence over the King. They had all been with him since before his accession to the throne eighteen years ago. It was Montmorency, however, who held a place in the King’s heart upon which no other courtier seemed likely to encroach. Monty (as the King called him to avoid the embarrassment of his feminine name) had fought beside him in the wars, shared the same games and the same whores. For his fidelity, he had been rewarded with the most powerful post in the French Court.

“I know that Your Majesty has not agreed in the past upon this score, but I still say that your son requires less restrictive companionship.”

“Oh, nonsense. You’ve always been too soft on the boy, Monty. Your judgment is tainted.”

“Most humbly, Your Majesty, it would do him far more good than the imperious sort of governors he has thus encountered since his return from his Spanish prison.”

“And why would that be?” he asked, beginning to show his irritation.

“If I may hazard a guess, I should imagine His Highness sees tutors such as Monsieur La Croix as a further extension of his captors. A boy his age is bound to rebel.”

“Well, I still say that lenience is not the answer! Not for insolence!”

“But perhaps Your Majesty would find it the answer to adolescence.”

“Great Zeus, Monty! Why must you always disagree with me? It doesn’t look at all good,” the King moaned.

“If I may remind Your Majesty, you have remarked to me many times that my unfeigned opinion is of value here.”

“Oh, so it is,” he acquiesced, as he looked around the room at his more laudatory collection of advisors. “But We really must disagree with you in this. If you recall, We have tried that approach at your urging with Monsieur Renault. Surely you have not forgotten him. The old fool deserted Us within a month’s time, despite his reputation for managing boys far more difficult than Henri. No. There must be another way to bring him around.”

Another intrusion at the bedchamber door distracted the King. One of the guards gripped the iron handle, but before he could open it, François was chiding him.

“Well go on! Open it, you fool! Go on! Ah, it appears I shall have no peace at my
lever
this morning, as it is!”

A young chambermaid, costumed in an aubergine velvet gown, slipped past the guards and hurried into the chamber. Her head was lowered and the rest of her face was hidden by a veil and hood.

“Well, what is it?” François gestured impatiently. As he stood before her with his hands at his hips, his dressing gown flew open again. The girl gasped and surrendered her face to her hands. Seeing her embarrassment, the King looked down. Until that moment he had not been aware that beneath his open dressing gown, he was completely bare. Amused, he strode casually toward her and closed the robe.

“Well then, that was a sight now, was it not? You may consider that a. . .
royal vision
if you like! Hah!” he chuckled, as pleased with his sense of humor as he was with himself.

The pages, gentlemen-of-the-chamber and guards followed the King’s lead and laughed among themselves. The young girl could not compete with the King’s bawdy humor or the laughter of so great a throng of men. She began to cry into her hands. Suddenly her innocence pleased him.

“Well now,
chérie,
it cannot have been that awful, can it?” he joked, and the guard behind her winked in return to the King. “All right then, come, come. What was it that brought you here to my bedchamber at such an hour?”

She could scarcely raise her head much less manage a reply.

“Out with it, girl,” snorted the corpulent Chancellor Duprat, another of the King’s powerful aides, as he moved closer. “His Majesty has not got all day!”

“I. . .I have come to claim the Comtesse de Sancerre’s things.”

“Oh, was that her name?” the King muttered, brushing a casual hand across his face so that only Montmorency, Duprat and a few others nearest to him could hear.

“Come here,
chérie,
” the King finally said.

As the girl advanced, he took her hand as if to shake it. Then, without a blink of his eye, pulled her hand down onto his bare penis. A look of sheer terror overcame her shy face, and she struggled with an involuntary spasm to free herself.

“What is the matter, Mademoiselle? Surely you know what an honor it is to hold the
royal jewels
!” he said, tilting his head back with a throaty laugh. The wise courtiers once again followed suit, watching skillfully to laugh only so long as their King.

“Very well,
ma petite.
There you go. Now, off with you!” he said, pointing to the mass of deep blue silk spread out on the floor near his bed. The girl, who by now had managed to collect herself, bowed discreetly and filled her arms with the opulent cloth. She then backed out of the chamber with careful steps through a filter of laughter.

After she had gone, the King turned to Montmorency. “Who was that?” he asked with an impetuous grin.

“Really, Your Majesty, I must object,” he replied, knowing from experience why the King had asked. “She is just thirteen and only this month returned from the convent. We really have been all through this sort of thing, have we not?” he asked with as much of a discouraging tone as his position would allow. François scowled back at him.

“Your Majesty might recall that it was precisely these kinds of ladies, I shall grant you of slightly less noble breeding, but these types nonetheless, who led you into trouble the last time.”

Trouble for the King meant the French disease, syphilis, so named because it was believed to have originated in France and then spread to various other European countries during wartime. The King had fallen victim to it several years before, and after a series of brutal treatments, now cast a wary eye at the prospect of its return.

“I think Your Majesty would agree that we have managed to keep you amused with a rather steady stream of. . .well, more certain types of ladies, those whose backgrounds we can more thoroughly investigate.”

“Like the Comtesse de Sancerre?”

“Precisely. Then of course there is always your
favourite,
your Mademoiselle d’Heilly.”

“Yes, yes.” He wrapped his arm around the Grand Master and strolled back toward his mirror. The courtiers and dignitaries followed them like yearling geese. “But it is the variety that amuses me, Monty.”

Jean de La Barre, having heard the exchange, took this cue to move forward. “Sire, I feel I must tell you that as it is, Mademoiselle d’Heilly is very angry after your. . .selection for last evening. It would appear that she expected to be invited to your bedchamber.”

“Well, I am King, and she is only my whore!” he bellowed, raising a small vase of Venetian glass from the nightstand and tossing it toward the fire in a self-indulgent show of superiority. The vase hit the wall above the mantel and splinters of glass sprayed the room. After a moment, he recanted. “Oh, perhaps you are right. After these many years, she has come to expect certain things. Very well them, Barre. Have the jeweler fashion something for her. Emeralds are her favorite. Have it delivered to her apartments with a note professing my undying love and humble apology for my. . .indiscretion. The Court poet, that one she so enjoys, can create something endearing, do you not suppose?”

“Most certainly, Sire.”

“All right then, see to it at once. And on your way, pay a visit to my companion of last night. Duchesse. . .no, no, Comtesse of. . .of whatever. Invite her to dine with Us. Tell her I shall come to her apartments at noontide. Oh, and Barre. . .since they tell me she is married. . .do see that she is alone.”

A
FTER HIS
LEVER
, the toilette and dressing ritual complete, the King spent time alone on his silver prie-dieu in his private chamber for prayer. Then he advanced to his outer apartments to read his dispatches. He would also converse with his most intimate advisors, collectively called the
conseil des affaires.
He did not attend to the formal business of the Court until late morning, after having heard Mass in the royal chapel. Only then, properly attired and disposed, did the King of France receive those who had business with him.

“Well, what have we on the agenda today, Duprat?” the King asked. Antoine Duprat, an obese, odorous man with blue fluid eyes and pale fleshy cheeks, looked up with surprise and then began to riffle through a collection of papers for the list of the King’s appointments.

Duprat was His Majesty’s Chancellor, Chief Secretary, and the second of three in most favor at the Court of France. He was a ruthless little man who in his time had killed and ruined lives without benefit of contemplation. Now the years and the haunting echo of death taunted him and he spent his days far more absorbed by gluttony than in either corruption or hygiene.

He sat beside François at the head of a long table in one of the drawing rooms. On the King’s right, sat Grand Master Montmorency and the Cardinals de Tournon and Lorraine. Philippe Chabot, Admiral of France, and the final member of the King’s triumvirate, had garnered the other end of the oblong-shaped table. He sat there, arms folded, his full lips set in a perpetual sneer.

As the
conseil des affaires
began, a man dashed out from beneath one of the large wall tapestries at the far end of the room. He headed directly for the King.