Courtesan (26 page)

“I will not take your money, Monsieur. . .but neither will I stand in the King’s way. I will continue to refuse to see the Prince privately. After he has married, I pray God that the infatuation he now feels will pass.”

“May the Lord bless you, Madame. You are doing the best for all concerned.”

“But for that assurance, Monsieur, it is I who have a condition.”

“You have only to name it.”

“You must get word to the Prince before you depart for Marseilles this evening that the Captain of the King’s Scots Guard, Monsieur de Montgommery, has proposed marriage and that I have accepted. You must tell him that he has no reason to delay his wedding.”

Diane moved toward the window and looked out onto the grounds and an emerald hedge clipped into the shape of a huge diamond. It was over. It must be over. “Now please leave me, Monsieur.”

“Thank you, Madame. I know you shall not regret this.”

Montmorency fumbled at the card table and then, tossing the blue velvet cape across his shoulders, headed directly for the door. As he put his hand on the heavy iron handle, he turned back around to her.

“I was away from Court a great deal when you were here with your husband. Tell me, did you not know the Queen, his mother, quite well?”

“I did.”

A faint smile passed across his thin lips. “Ah, well then. Of course, that explains it. You see, Madame, you mustn’t blame yourself for this awkward state of affairs. His Highness is very young and impressionable. The death of his mother at so young and tender an age left him, I believe, quite vulnerable to the attentions of a mature woman; one so close in age to the former Queen. I went through it myself, many years ago, of course. For me it was my governess; wonderful old woman. I swore one day I would marry her. Can you imagine it? Fortunately for us both, she had the good sense to turn me down. She died the year my first son was born, but my memories of her shall always be fond. So you see, you may rest assured that in time those emotions, along with all of the other vestiges of a man’s impetuous youth, shall be relegated to a few bewildering memories. One day he will thank you for it. You shall see.”

As he slammed the heavy wooden door behind himself, the iron handle clanged against it. The sound was like cannon fire in her mind. The feeling in her heart was as black as death.

D
IANE FALTERED
as she stepped from the last royal barge onto the hard Provençal soil of Avignon, seventy-five miles from Marseilles. The sun was hot. It intensified the colors. The azure blue water. The mix of beige, russet and mauve coloring the hills. The bleached bone white of the rocks. An extraordinary palate.

They arrived in the south by barge a day later than they had anticipated, owing to the turn of the tide down the Rhône. Diane had found a seat for herself and for Hélène on the last barge in the queue, some four barges behind Henri. She had wanted to be as far from him as she could be. She must attend the wedding. To avoid it now would be to invite gossip. But she had decided after the ceremony to return for a while to Anet. It had been six months since she had seen her daughters. She needed time with them. Time alone. Time to reflect and to mend.

She faltered again as she climbed the steep, limestone incline. She did not adjust as quickly as she had expected to the shift from water to land. Hélène clutched her about the arms to steady her.

“Madame, are you all right?” she whispered, as Diane regained her footing and pushed onward up the rocky hill to the waiting assembly of horses that would take them on to Marseilles.

“It is my legs. What I really need is to walk a while to steady them.”

Hélène’s round eyes narrowed with concern. She watched Diane glance back down at the string of royal barges, still thick with courtiers and massive luggage chests. Though there was a steady stream of servants who were transporting the cargo up the hill, it would be some time before the caravan would be ready to depart. The area at the top of the hill was shaded by a grove of cypress trees, and Diane found herself longing for the freedom of a moment’s solitude.

“Then I shall attend you, Madame.”

“No. I appreciate your concern, but I need a few moments to myself.”

After she had reassured her maid, Diane ambled slowly down the path of tall grass and cypress trees which lined the road. When the voices and the grunting noises from the men who hauled the heavily laden chests had begun to fade behind her, she took a deep breath. This trip had been far more difficult than she had expected, but soon Henri would be married and she would return to Anet to see her daughters.

As she walked, she breathed deep the warm Provençal air, filled with the fragrance of spices and lavender. It had been a long while, she thought, since she had noticed anything so beautiful; it had been since Cauterets. She quickly forced the thought from her mind and replaced it once again with thoughts of her two daughters. It would be a comfort to see them. She needed the reality of family just now.

“You must be careful not to go too far; it would be only too easy to find yourself lost out here.”

Startled by the sound of a man’s voice, Diane jumped back onto the heels of her leather slippers and turned around. Brissac, Saint-André, Bourbon and Henri were coming toward her across a field of lavender. It was Jacques who had spoken, and who advanced toward her now. Henri hung back with Brissac and Bourbon and peered up into the sky as though he did not see her.

“Thank you, Monsieur. I shall be careful.”

She tried not to do it but after a moment her will escaped her. She looked over at Henri. He was still several feet away from her, beneath the shade of a tall cypress tree. He stood there in emerald-green satin; the plume in his velvet toque and the large white tassel from which his dagger was slung at his side were gold. She had not realized until she looked at him just then, how great a sacrifice she was about to make for France. She looked back at Jacques, and her eyes asked the question she could not.

“Talk to him, Madame. Please,” he whispered. He then motioned to Bourbon and Brissac with a wave of his yellow, balloon sleeve and they began to walk back toward the moored barges, leaving Diane alone with a great distance between her and Henri.

Finally, he looked down and his dark, brooding eyes met hers. His brows were raised; lips parted, as though he were waiting for her to speak. In his eyes, she saw the return of the same pained fierceness by which she had been so struck on the day they had met. A songbird chirped in the tree above them, masking the deafening silence.

This was the first moment that they had been alone together since that night in his chamber nearly two months before. Now, standing there looking at him, she wanted to abandon everything she had promised God and everything she had promised herself. She bit her own tongue to stop herself from blurting out what she longed to say; what she knew he longed to hear. As the silence between them grew more heavy, the sadness in his eyes changed to fury. After what seemed an eternity with nothing more than a penetrating look between them, he turned away from her and began to head down the road after the shadowy figures of his friends.

“Henri, wait!”

Moved to stop by the sound of her voice, he stood motionless in the road, his back to her. The bottom of his green satin doublet rippled around his thighs from the warm summer breeze. Slowly he turned and looked at her once again.

“I wanted. . .” she faltered. “I wanted to wish you the best tomorrow, when you meet her. I wanted to tell you. . .be happy.”

His lips pressed tightly together at the sound of her words, and his thick brows lowered over glittering black eyes. He waited. Then, when it was clear that she had nothing more to say to him, he turned swiftly and ran down the dirt road away from her.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Henri stood alone on the veranda of the Pope’s sumptuous villa with a sweeping view of the ocean. He could prolong it no further. The wedding festivities began tomorrow, and today he must meet his bride. Now he and the rest of the royal family had been summoned for the formal introduction. Henri had made no further attempt to contact Diane. He understood now that there would be no point.

This will be the end of me,
he thought.
I will meet the Pope’s niece and then tomorrow the marriage will be performed, and that will be the end of my life.
Lost in the bitter taste of his third goblet of wine, he did not hear the Pope finally make his entrance back inside the villa.

Pope Clement VII was attired in a long, starched white gown. His white beard met the point of his gold, jewel-encrusted pectoral cross. His fingers were covered with jeweled rings. He made his way down the sweeping stone staircase and into the salon followed by two Cardinals in long red cassocks and birettas.

“Finally,” the King smiled as he took the Pope’s hands.

“Yes, finally,” echoed the Pontiff, with a faint smile over his taciturn face and yellow jowls. “Have you brought the boy?” he asked, moving directly to the purpose of the reception.

Just at that moment, he began a violent fit of coughing. He lifted a hand to his mouth as two of the green-clad pages brought one of the heavily carved chairs for him. François looked around and caught sight of Henri who was still standing alone on the veranda. He motioned for Montmorency to retrieve him. The room fell silent except for the coughing. After a moment, Henri came forth through the flapping crimson drapes. The Pope, his yellow face now flushed red, extended his jeweled hand to the Prince. Henri kissed his ring and then looked up. The two men studied one another as François tentatively looked on. The King cleared his throat. Montmorency stood behind Henri, a hand placed gently on his black silk shirt. Two gulls screeched as they flew past the open window.

“Indeed. . .you shall do nicely for my little Caterina,” he mumbled in Italian.

After another moment of inspecting Henri as though he were one of the King’s chamberlains, the Pope snapped his fingers above his head in the direction of a woman who stood behind him in the doorway. Henri thought that he could not possibly have seen her. He must instinctively have known she would be there. She was a plain woman. Her nose was large and hooked and her heavy brows fused together over her eyes. She wore a huge round, blue turban set back on her head, and a long-bodiced gown with puffed sleeves and a huge full skirt. It was the highest of fashion in Italy. Anne d’Heilly merely winced at what she considered to be hopelessly common.

“That is not—” Henri managed to gasp as he looked in the woman’s direction. The Pope chuckled and ran his fingers the length of his white beard.

“Oh, goodness no, dear boy. That is Maria Salviati, Caterina’s aunt.” The laughing made him begin to choke once again and he reached for a silver chalice beside him on a tray. After he had taken a sip he added, “She is a good woman, a Medici herself.” The Pope looked up at the dark-haired woman. “All right, Maria,” he said in Italian. “It is time to bring her.” The Pope rose to his feet and turned so that he, Henri, the Dauphin and the King stood in a semicircle facing the open double doors. Once again everyone in the room fell silent. François dabbed at the hair around his ears, insuring it was in place. The Pope coughed into a handkerchief. Henri wished he had taken just one more goblet of wine.

After a few moments, a small, frail-looking girl with dark bulging eyes came around the corner and through the doorway. She too had thick lips and a large nose. Her features were bold and her skin was sallow. She was so unassuming that when she turned the corner beside her aunt, Henri thought her to be another attendant and he continued to look on at the empty doorway. But then the Pope stood.

“Ah, now this is my little Caterina!” he exclaimed upon seeing her. When he extended his arms, she drew forward, kissed his cheek and then lowered her head shyly. Henri closed his eyes.

“Merciful heaven,” muttered Anne d’Heilly beneath her breath. The Pope took his niece’s hand and led her forward, toward the King. She looked up from beneath a coronet of dark braids in which was nestled one ornamental ruby at the center of her forehead. From larger than average ears, pendant earrings of pearl and ruby glittered. Her gown was gold and white, with voluminous puffed sleeves and full skirts that overpowered her.

“She looks like a well-dressed mouse,” the Dauphin snickered to Admiral Chabot also beneath his breath.

“Merciful heaven,” repeated Anne d’Heilly.

“May I present my niece, Caterina Maria de Medici,” said the Pope, as he led her toward the King.

François was aware that he towered over the young girl, and so he sought to reassure her with his smile. Feeling sufficiently superior, he extended his hand. But instead of taking his in return, she went down onto her knees in the gold and white gown and then dropped completely onto her chest, prostrating herself on the bare marble floor. As she kissed the King’s slippered feet, he looked around the room with a startled grin.

“Oh, my merciful heaven!” Anne said, raising a hand to her lips, doing her best to muffle a snicker. The King tossed her a sharp stare and she released her hand quickly, back down to her side.

Montmorency glanced at Henri. His lips were pursed tightly and his eyes were open now, but cast upward. Henri looked as though he were going to be ill. Catherine remained prostrate on the floor before the King. No one said a word. After a moment he bent down and clutched her arm, drawing her onto her knees.

“Here, here,
ma chère,
let me help you.”

“You will forgive her,” said the Pope. “She has spent most of her life in the convent. She has not had the attention to protocol that I would have wished for her.”

“On the contrary. We are most humbled by this reverent and charming display.”

She was still on her knees when she spoke. “It is my great honor, Your Majesty, that I am in your presence. It is, however, a dream far greater than I could have imagined, that I am to become your daughter.”

Her voice was deep for her young age; almost husky, and her French was awkward. But both had a certain charm that captured the King.

“And her Latin is far better than her French,” the Pope interjected to excuse the poorly constructed phrase.

“Do not worry,” said the King, as he drew her up to her feet and chucked her gently beneath the chin. “She will learn soon enough.” Still clutching her tiny hand in his own, the King led her to his left. “
Chérie,
this is my son, the Dauphin. One day he will be King. I should like the two of you to become friends.”

“It would be an honor,” she repeated and curtsied fully.

The Dauphin smiled and then nodded. “The King led her further to his left.

“And this. . .” said the Pope. “This will be your husband. Henri, may I present my dear niece, Caterina Maria de Medici.”

Henri looked at the Pope who beamed at her as if she were his own child. He then looked at the rakish grin splashed across his brother’s face and at Montmorency’s studied gaze. Once again she curtsied. He searched in vain for something pleasant to say, but as he looked into her bulging, watery eyes his mind went blank.

“Perhaps we could all use a bit of wine now,” suggested Montmorency as he put a comforting hand, once again, on Henri’s shoulder. Henri looked away from the Medici girl and helplessly back toward the King.

“Splendid idea,” said His Majesty.