Courtesan (20 page)

His anger had won. It turned his face crimson with rage and forced his lips into a sharp, thin line.

“You cannot protect her forever.”

“And why not, if she will let me?”

Across the room, Anne d’Heilly and Admiral Chabot rose from their seats and advanced in the direction that Henri had gone. The Dauphin and the young Prince Charles followed after them, both laughing and kicking one another mischievously from behind.

“I am going with them,” Henri declared. Jacques pulled harder at his arm, nearly tearing the fine red silk sleeve.

“Your Highness, do not, I bid you!” He cleared his throat. “What if she had chosen to go with him?”

“Never! I shall never believe it!” he declared and broke free of Jacques’ grasp, pushed over a chair in his path and darted toward the door after them.

T
HERE WERE NO AIDES
nor any servants when they reached the King’s private apartments. Even the guards whose post was inside the chamber doors had vanished. François had dismissed them all; dismissed them so that he might show her his private collection of art. Diane walked in slowly, several paces behind the Sovereign. On the wall to the right of the roaring fireplace, lighted by glowing wall sconces, were two dark oil paintings. Diane stood close, pretending to study them.

“They are quite beautiful, Your Majesty.”

“Please,
ma chère,
when we are alone, I would much prefer it if you would find it in your heart to call me François.”

Diane’s heart began to race. Desperately needing to change the subject, she moved closer toward one of the paintings. “There is great depth in this work,” she said.

“Not nearly so much as in my favorite. Come, let me show you,” he offered and extended his arm toward what she could clearly see was the door to his bedchamber. Diane shrank back, but the King held out his hand. “Come, please.”

“La Gioconda,”
he proudly announced. Then he turned to gaze, himself, on the illusive face in the painting before them.

Diane gazed at the wall on which a relatively small, gold-framed painting hung from a velvet cord. It was the picture of a woman; serene and mysterious, her long dark hair parted in the middle and framing an expression one could not quite call a smile. Diane thought it a curious study of an odd-looking girl.

“It is magnificent,” she lied.

“She and her husband had been friends of Leonardo, or so he told me before he died. Her name was Madonna Elisabetta Gioconda. She was called Mona Lisa. Is that not the most beautiful name?” As he spoke, François began to finger the delicate white lace at the base of Diane’s neck as naturally as if it were on his own garment. “I saw it hanging in Clos Lucé, the home I had given him near Amboise when he came to live in France. . .” He leaned over and grazed her neck with his lips. They were moist. Warm. Wanting. He was not thinking of Leonardo da Vinci, nor of Mona Lisa. Nor was he thinking of his dear little Anne. His lips traveled up Diane’s bare neck and to the lobe of her ear. His voice grew low and husky as he continued to speak in between kisses, and little bites at her skin. “It is one of my favorites. . .”

Her heart raced. She did not dare offend him but she would not bed with him.

“Please, Your Majesty. It is too soon for me,” she whispered as his hand groped from her neck down to the tender pink skin of her bosom. Lost in his own passion and trying to work her slowly toward his large canopied bed, François continued to surround her with his lips and arms.

“Your Majesty, our Louis is only dead ten months! I still grieve for him!” She had added the word
our
as a way of defining her husband in hopes of kindling his decency and arresting his ardor. The ploy worked. As though she had slapped him squarely across the jaw, he broke away from her in a reflex action. His eyes were now wide and alert though his face was still filled with the flush of passion. Diane watched his heaving chest. She could hear his breathing as a long silent look passed between them.

“Please forgive me. I was insensitive.”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty is most indulgent. That is why I was certain you would understand.” Diane lowered her head, wanting to appear humbled by his attraction to her.

François wanted to believe her. He did not want to believe that she would reject him so boldly. After a moment, he made his choice. He took her chin in his large warm hand and held it.

“I can also be a patient man,
chérie,
when there is something so lovely and exciting as you for whom to wait.” His words made her shudder but she was able to manage a weak smile. “In exchange for my patience, I should like to be the first to know when you feel your mourning is through.”

Diane wondered how often he had said that; how often he had called himself a patient man and held a woman’s chin so delicately, to keep her from looking for a means of escape. She wondered how many times it had worked. Just as the King set free her chin, Anne d’Heilly cast open the chamber door. She strode in, followed by Philippe Chabot and the Dauphin. Prince Charles lurked behind them.

“Ah well, so there you are,
mon amour
! We have been looking everywhere for you and here you are entertaining again. And so soon after your little indiscretion with the Comte de Sancerre’s daughter?” she asked, pouncing onto his bed, her voice full of sarcasm.

“Madame Diane asked to see my paintings. She has seen them and now she is leaving,” he defended and then turned toward the entourage at the door. “What the devil are the rest of you doing here?” he raged at the sight of Admiral Chabot, two of his sons and three guards. Chabot bowed humbly and exited the wide chamber door just as Henri entered. Henri had heard the King declare from a hallway away that it was Diane’s idea to come there, not his own.

“François, take your brother back to the party,” the King ordered the Dauphin and Prince Charles. He did not see Henri, who slid behind one of the huge wall tapestries near the door. The other two boys whispered like children at their father’s dilemma, and then left the room.

“So now tell me, are the paintings all that he has shown you, Madame La Sénéchale?” Anne asked, her voice full of anger. “I certainly do hope so for your sake. You know my darling François is an incurable tease. He fancies himself enamored of every woman he meets. At least until he beds with them.”

“Anne, that is enough!”

“Nonsense,
mon amour
. It is important for Madame to make an informed decision about with whom she will bed. Now, you do have a diversionary penchant for the more mature ladies here at Court. That is well known. No doubt she was witness to your indiscretion with the Comtesse de Sancerre herself; or was that before you arrived, Madame? It is just so hard to keep them all straight!”

Diane watched the anger rise on the King’s face, but she said nothing to defend herself. She said nothing because she knew that Anne d’Heilly would have liked nothing better than to turn this incident into a great cat fight.

“Oh, come now,
mon cher,
you must admit it. While maturity does seem to grasp your attention a bit sooner than the rest, of late, those possessing it never do seem to be able to retain it. Witness the child’s mother, the poor Comtesse de Sancerre, and before that—”

“Anne! You go too far!” François bellowed.

“I think I shall say goodnight, Your Majesty,” Diane whispered and without waiting for his leave, rushed from the King’s bedchamber.

L
ARGE BLUE BANNERS
sewn with royal golden fleurs-de-lys and images of the salamander flapped in the gentle spring breeze around the courtyard of Les Tournelles. Courtiers and peasants filtered together into the shaded wooden stands which looked down onto the tournament field. A balustrade with access from the palace had been prepared for the King’s family and guests. Diane took her place in the royal box between Grand Master Montmorency and the King’s young son, Charles. Charlotte and Hélène sat behind her. Anne d’Heilly, dressed in royal blue silk, her gown and cap encrusted with jewels, chatted with two of her attendants and sat comfortably beside Admiral Chabot.

The joust between the King and his son would be the day’s crescendo. It would be preceded by several others to pique the interest of the crowds. Among the early riders, the Dauphin François would ride against his friend, Guy Jarnac. Antoine de Bourbon would ride against Charles de Brissac.

The fanfare from the trumpets sounded, marking the parade of contestants who were about to make their entrance. A cool breeze mixed the dust and sent it swirling through the arena. Beneath the stands, shabbily dressed peddlers scalped tickets and made bets for the victors, while pickpockets worked the crowds. The throngs of people pressed tightly into the stands roared with excitement as the opponents pranced in, each astride a dazzlingly appointed horse. The field glittered with polished armor and the brightly colored peacock feathers that poised atop each helmet. The combatants waved toward the stands with gauntleted hands, and the furious applause increased.

The King and the Dauphin were first to enter. They strode in on opposite sides of the wooden guard. Both of their horses were decked in blankets of royal blue and gold with brilliantly colored gems lining the reins. Henri, who entered the field next beside Saint-André, did not wave at his introduction. The noise fell to a dull roar of murmurs and whispers at the sight of him. Amid all the colors and pageantry, Prince Henri rode a white horse draped with a blanket of black velvet with white silk piping. The large plume which rose from his helmet was black. Diane gazed down onto the field at the private tribute intended for her.

“How odd,” Diane heard Anne d’Heilly mutter to the Admiral from a few seats away. “To wear mourning colors in a joust. It is as if someone is going to die. Does the boy have no sense at all?”

“Perhaps,
chérie,
it is because today the King will send that sorry son of his back to his Maker.”

The two tittered evilly between themselves and looked back down onto the field.
I pray for your immortal soul,
thought Diane as she discreetly made the sign of the cross for Anne’s benefit.

The day was long and the sun grew more intense with each joust. The Dauphin won his match with his friend, Guy Jarnac. The crowd had cheered this dashing young Prince as he neared the stands in his black tweed under-armor garments, a purple velvet cloak tossed casually over his shoulders. He had come to watch the other matches. He sat regally between Montmorency and Diane and called with a wave for his gentleman to bring him some wine.

By the time the King and Prince Henri entered the courtyard again, the sun was a fiery orange ball which had begun to descend behind the arena. Both men rode as the others before them, toward the royal stands, their silver visors raised. Diane’s heart quickened as she was once again faced with the evidence of Henri’s infatuation. She smiled at him and placed her hand to her chest where the pendant had been. He nodded his head as far as his armor would permit, and then, pulling his jeweled reins, led his horse off the field toward the judges who would check his armor and lance.

The King waved to his Anne and she stood to blow him a kiss. The crowd cheered their public display of affection. There was no love lost among the people of France for François’ political liaison with Eleanora, the enemy’s sister.

“Well, imagine that,” whispered the Dauphin as he downed the first and called for another cup of wine. “It would appear that little brother Henri is quite taken with you,” he remarked, leaning toward Diane, his body washed in the sour smell of sweat and horseflesh.

“That is absurd, Your Highness,” she scoffed and pushed back a strand of hair that had come loose from her cap.

“I think not, Madame,” he began to snicker. “He wears your mourning colors on the field, does he not?”

“Surely if it is anything at all, it is a coincidence.”

Montmorency said nothing but the words rang through him like a shot. Could the boy be falling in love with her? A woman twice his own age. A woman of such a questionable past. No! It was unthinkable. Unacceptable. That was
his
boy. Henri was like one of his own sons. She was dangerous. He hadn’t liked her the day she came to Court, and he did not like her any more now. He must put an end to it. It was that simple. Just as soon as the tourney was over, he would see to it. Perhaps he should get Henri away from Court for a while, and away from such temptation. . .

L
ANCES SPLINTERED
and chips of wood flew into the stands, as the King and his son rode repeatedly at one another. Henri clutched his thighs tightly to his horse as his father broke his third lance against the scorching armor. The crowd cheered wildly for their King. By the time the sun had begun to set, the King had broken three lances to Henri’s four. Each rider rode with a vengeance, and to the crowd’s disappointment, neither managed to fell the other.

Inside the prison of his tightly fitting armor, Henri’s body was bathed in sweat from the afternoon sun. Beads of perspiration dripped from his brow into his eyes so that he could barely see through the slitted silver visor.
I despise you,
he thought as he looked ahead at his opponent. His father. His King.
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fell you. Right now, here in front of your chamberlains, your ambassadors, your subjects and your whore. And I could do it. How easy it would be. I felt you falter when I last struck a blow on the last lance. I saw you sway and grab for the pommel. Oh, how I despise you!

“What is wrong with the King?” Chabot whispered to Anne. “His pauses are long and he seems to falter. Perhaps we should send the physician to the field.”

“Keep quiet,” Anne hushed. “He is King. He shall win. It is nearly over anyway.”

As expected by nearly all who had wagered, the King was given the match in spite of the tie. They had broken four lances each. Someone in the crowd behind Diane remarked that Prince Henri had missed the last lance by such a wide margin that it appeared he had missed it intentionally. “Superior performance,” the judges said as the King and Prince paraded, visors up, before them to hear the decision. The crowds poured onto the dusty field and gathered around the contestants. The throngs of peasants who tried to near the King were held back by a queue of royal guards. Due to the weight of the armor, the King and Prince were helped down from the horses with the aid of several gentlemen-of-the-guard. The King’s horse was then taken back into the stables as he, the Dauphin and Prince Charles were led back to the chateau surrounded by a collection of supporters.