Courtesan (28 page)

“Oh, please. . .” Montgommery cajoled, drawing her out of her reflections. “It would be so good to have you near me.”

Diane gazed into the reassuring depths of his eyes and the long soft face of the man she did not love. She had been so weak the last time. So afraid. She had been like a servant while Anne d’Heilly had been like her master. The King’s
favourite
had been in complete control. It could not be that way this time if she returned. But had she changed enough to bear it? That was impossible to know, unless she returned. . .with Montgommery.

“Well, Hélène, are you ready to return?”

“Oh yes, Madame. Most ready. . .if you are, that is.”

“I suppose it is time.” She took a deep breath and then smiled. “So be it. We shall leave with the Captain.”

Hélène could not contain her smile.

“Then, if you will excuse me. There will be much packing to do.”

Diane nodded her approval and then walked over to a carved writing table near the fire, drawing out a quill and a fresh sheet of parchment.

“
Maman,
Père Augustin is here,” announced Louise, who had seen him through the window. She scurried to her mother’s writing desk. “Will you be coming to Mass?”

“Yes of course, dear. You and Françoise go along with Jacques. I shall join you in a few minutes.”

When they had all gone, she dipped the long golden-tipped quill into the ink well. The pen hovered over the blank parchment for several moments before she lowered it and scrawled the first words of a note to the King of France. She had not yet decided exactly how to say that, with his good grace, she was finally prepared to return.

M
ONTGOMMERY STOOD BEFORE
the others did and, after receiving the blessing, walked out under the eaves of the private Brézé chapel. He rubbed a long hand over his chest and stretched his other arm over his head, arching his back like a cat. When Diane came out beside him, Jacques pulled her by the waist and kissed her.

“Please! We have just come from Mass!” she admonished him and wiped away the wetness from his kiss.

Diane walked out into the muddy courtyard between the chapel and the chateau. She had come to regret her decision to return to Court already. It had been peaceful in this protective estate. It had been safe. The pain had finally dulled, and now was nearly gone. The order to her life had returned and she was not at all certain that she desired to change that.

“We shall need new paint in the spring. And that roof over the ballroom leaks,” Diane said as she studied the facade, a light rain still falling.

“Oh, why do you not just sell the place,
ma chère
? It is such an old sleeping giant. Certainly it is nowhere near its former glory.” Jacques crossed his arms over his chest and gazed up at the main building. “Having been owned by the Grand Sénéchal de Normandie, and with the ample woods surrounding it, I am certain we could still net a fair price.”

Diane stopped in the center of the courtyard. She lowered the velvet wrap from her head. A light rain fell on her cap and her cheeks. She brushed it away and turned to Jacques.

“This is Louis’ ancestral home. It is my children’s birthright. How can you ask that of me?”

“Because it is cold and archaic and once we are married I shall refuse to spend another night in it!”

Jacques had a way of being direct and then smiling afterward to lessen the severity of what he had said. Diane looked into the hollow green eyes above the smile.
I wonder what I ever found attractive about him,
she thought.
How did I let it get this far?

“I had no idea you detested it so much here.”

“Well, shall we say, I simply prefer the comforts of Court to the more rustic life you have here at Anet.”

Jacques followed her down a small staircase, past a lion’s head statue poised on a stone pedestal. She stopped a moment and looked up into a collection of trees.

“They will be so beautiful in the spring, all of them green and rustling, full of new life. Birds will sing from all of these branches. And the geese will bathe and flutter in that pond. Louis taught our daughters to ride out there, past the gardens.” She looked up at him. “I cannot sell it.”

Jacques encircled her with his long arms and kissed her again. “You are so beautiful when you are determined,” he said and then pressed his mouth upon hers. His tongue swept inside. He clung to her with a vengeance until her urge to pull away was stronger. “Oh, when will you let me have you again? You know how I ache for you!”

“Must you bring that up again? We were having such a lovely day.”

“What is it then? Am I not good enough for you now that we are returning to Court? Perhaps you think that you shall have another chance with the King?”

“Jacques, please, don’t be petulant. It is really very unbecoming.”

She tried to turn away but he grabbed her gloved wrist, twisting it so that she was forced to turn back toward him. “That is not what you said in Marseilles! You liked my hot blood then!”

She detested his childish, angry outbursts, but he spoke the truth. Even now, nearly two years later, she could not bear to hear it. That night after all the wedding festivities had finally wound to a close; after Henri had married Catherine and she herself had drunk far too much wine, she had nursed her wounded pride by finally letting Jacques share her bed. Now the shadowy memory of that single intimate encounter with him made her blood run cold. Then, she had accepted it as her only way out of the quagmire of confusion in which she had felt herself drowning. She was a woman. He was a man. She had needed a man then. Not a boy. Or so she had convinced herself long enough to allow it to happen.

When he wrote and asked, six months later, if she would receive him on his holiday, she agreed. She needed a new life. At the time it had seemed right to include him. When he came to Anet, Diane had been determined to love him. Her daughters, alone and fatherless, were charmed by his pristine manner and glamorous tales of courtly life. He returned many times after that, and finally in spite of the lie she had told Montmorency, Diane truly did accept his proposal.

But her love did not grow. She began to feel trapped. She made excuses and threw up roadblocks to the marriage to which she had previously agreed. Now she found herself caring for him less each day. She thanked God she had been given the foresight not to marry him yet. One loveless marriage was enough for any one lifetime. Returning to Court now was the only way for her to rectify her mistake with Jacques and for both of them to get on with their lives.

“Well, answer me! Ha! So that is it! Perhaps it is not the King you want, but rather the King’s son! You are not going to start things up with that boy again, are you?”

“Jacques, let go of my hand.”

She did not break her gaze from his. Her words had been slow and punctuated. He recanted. Diane rubbed her wrist with her other hand as she looked at him.

“I am simply not ready to give you that part of myself,” she whispered. “I am sorry. I need more time.”

“By the time you are ready, Madame, the point shall be mute, for I fear I shall be too old to bed anyone!”

A smile broke across her face and she reached up to brush a finger across the soft skin of his cheek. “You really are a dear, dear man when you choose to be. But more often than not, Captain, you are thoroughly impossible.”

Jacques took her hand from his cheek and kissed it. His voice changed to a sincere and pleading tone from its former harshness. “Let us set a date then. Just give me a date, whenever you choose, and I shall be a happy man.”

“I cannot think about it now. But after the new year. Please, Jacques, just let us wait until then.”

T
HE DAUPHIN SAT ON THE FLOOR
of Anne d’Heilly’s salon early on Christmas Eve with his knees drawn up near his chest. He was half swallowed by a sea of bright blue, gold and green overstuffed silk pillows. On his legs, he balanced a dark wooden lute. Next to him, in a blue embroidered gown and raven hair, sat Agnese Pachecho, his mistress.

François was now eighteen, and this Spanish honor maiden to Queen Eleanora was his first officially acknowledged paramour. Surrounding the lovers were the younger members of the King’s
petite bande
of ladies. Folded out around them like petals on a rose, were their ladies-in-waiting. Beside them in the hearth, the yule log blazed as the Dauphin strummed at the lute halfheartedly and chatted with the people around him. Gentlemen and courtiers lingered around the edges of the room decorated with holly and ivy, conversing in small collections as they sipped wine from their expensive Venetian crystal goblets.

Near the fire, the King sat with Anne d’Heilly as she stroked the tiny pet marmoset on her lap that he had given her for her birthday. The King nodded to his son and he then began to sing.

I waited, waited for the Lord,

he bent down to me and heard my cry.

He brought me up out of the muddy pit, out of the mire. . .

Diane grew rigid at the sound of the Psalm sung so rollickingly by the Dauphin.
Sacrilege!
she thought, and discreetly made the sign of the cross. She had been back little more than a week, but it was a decidedly different Court than the one she had left two years before. She had heard the gossip that the King was suffering from some sort of malady brought about by too many mistresses. Also in her absence, Anne d’Heilly had been married and thereby elevated to the exalted title of Duchesse d’Etampes. But the most striking change at Court was the strengthening air of tolerance for the “new religion.”

At every dinner and ball, in every group of courtiers who gathered, the endless topic was the Reformation. Although he refused to make a public stance either way, it was the King himself who had personally approved the translation of the Psalms into secular verse. Now, not only were they being sung blasphemously by his own son here in the palace, but in every other fashionable salon in France.

Diane slid behind the large circle of courtiers and onto the terrace. The crisp winter air rushed at her. The laughter and the music dimmed. She took a deep breath and then looked up at the stars. The sky was clear enough to see the constellations. After a moment, her eyes drifted down to the shadow of a young man who sat a few feet from her on one of the stone benches. He seemed as unconcerned by the cold as she. His back was turned to her but she recognized him at once. There was no mistaking the outline of his shoulders, the tufts of thick, dark hair.

“Hello, Henri.”

He stood and turned around. They were separated by the white stone bench. He had not expected this, and the sight of her disarmed him. He wanted to smile but in the next moment the pain returned. He turned away from her, trying in vain to gaze up at the stars. His head was filled with a hundred things to say, and nothing at all. She walked around the bench and stood beside him. For a moment, she looked up at the sky with him.

“You have changed a great deal,” she said.

“I did not think you would be here, or I would not have come.”

She put a hand to his shoulder to make him face her.

“Dear Henri. . .are you so angry with me still, that you cannot bear the sight of me?”

“You know that is impossible,” he said, finally shifting his eyes to her.

His voice had deepened, and his face had matured. There were more angles; more definition to the chin and jaw. There was the hint of a beard that had been shaved away. Any remnants of a child’s softer features were gone. For a moment they stood breathless at the sight of one another.

“How are you?” she finally asked through a tentative smile.

“As well as I am supposed to be after what was taken from me; and what was forced in its place.”

“And your wife, is she well?” she asked, ignoring the sting of his remark.

“I would not know. I have only seen her twice since Marseilles.”

Again there was silence between them. Through it, a charged energy began to grow. The turbulence inside her swelled. She fought it. It was a battle that would have had her saying what she longed to. After a moment, she lost.

“I have missed you, Henri, and our talks. . .and
jeu de paume,
well of course, that certainly is not the same. I have never found anyone so willing to defeat me as you were.”

“And I have missed you a thousand times more than you could ever know.” He turned toward her unexpectedly; the veneer of anger fallen away, and behind it, the open and sensitive youth who she knew could break her heart if she let him. He raised his hand to touch her cheek. “How I have missed you, and dreamed of you. I have longed for you, when I thought I could never long for anyone. . .”

“Henri, please,” she said, turning from his touch.

“Did you really think your leaving me would change that?”

Diane sighed. She had known one day she would face this, but seeing him was far more difficult than she could have imagined. She had not been prepared. He moved behind her and spoke with the breathy intensity of a lover.

“I know you said that things would change; that I would change, but I love you still. No matter what you want for me, or whom you wish me to be with, there can be no one else but you.”

“Please. . .do not do this.”

Laughter from the doorway and the emerging of more guests broke the strain between them. Diane moved casually to the corner of the terrace and sat down on another of the stone benches. She was weak. Henri sat beside her. After taking a moment to collect herself she said, “You know I prayed for you. I truly expected to see you and your wife getting on much better, perhaps giving His Majesty the grandchild he desires.”

“Do not mock me, Madame! You know full well that she is nothing more than a tie to Italy for the King! I did not want her then, and I do not want her now!”

Before he could say another word, his brother, François, appeared in the doorway and came toward them. He was accompanied by three young girls, none of whom were his mistress, and all of whom clung to his sleeves, whispering to one another with drunken laughter.

“Why, Madame Diane! Welcome back!” the Dauphin said with a taunting smile and extended his hand. “And dear brother, Henri, I might have known I’d find you trailing after her the moment she returned.” Diane stood and curtsied to the future King. “You have been sorely missed,” he added. “How long has it been, Madame?”

“Almost two years,” Henri replied for her in a sharp tone, before Diane could speak for herself.

“Well yes, so it has. I believe it would have been the occasion of Prince Henri’s wedding, after which you left so abruptly. That would be, well, let me see, it is November. . .why, it would be two years last month! How strange of you to recall it so readily, brother dear.”

His tone was sarcastic, his motive cruel. Henri could not imagine hating him any more than he did at that moment.

“I was called away on business,” she explained.

“Indeed.” The Dauphin arched an eyebrow, and looked at each of them as though they were harboring some great secret.

“Well, if you will both excuse me,” Diane asked after a painfully long silence, and curtsied once again to the Dauphin.

“Madame, wait!” Henri called out, but before he could get beyond his brother, she had gone back into the crowded drawing room.

Henri stared contemptuously at his brother. “Move aside!”

“Really, Henri. Is it not time to let go of your nursemaid and find a real mistress? That is, if you do not like the wife Father bought for you.”

“Move aside, I said, or I shall knock you into that garden without a second thought!”

By the time he found her, the discussion circle had ceased and the royal ensemble was playing a ceremonial Pavane in honor of the King who had changed to a new and more extravagantly jeweled costume he wished to display. He had snatched Diane as his partner the moment she had returned from the garden. The rest of the Court watched respectfully as the two danced alone in solemn procession.

Henri stood beside a huge wall tapestry. While the others marveled at the footwork of the King, Henri only watched Diane. He watched her pass through the simple steps, her brilliant blue eyes following the King’s lead. The dance called for the King to walk behind his partner then lead her by the hand a few gliding steps. Next, each of them bowed to one another to the beat of the drum. After the dance was complete, other couples began to make their way onto the small dance area. At the same moment, Henri rushed up beside her.

“Please do not deny me. We must talk. I leave the day after tomorrow once again for the camps!”

The next dance began. As custom dictated, the formal Pavane was followed by the much lighter Tourdion. The others began to line up around them. Henri and Diane had no choice but to begin dancing with them. Most of the courtiers were drunk and were staggering and laughing as they whirled past one another. No one noticed or cared about the intensity between the young prince and the older Madame de Poitiers. First the ladies danced facing the gentlemen. Then the ladies paused while the men danced. Diane reluctantly took Henri’s hand and, as the dance warranted, let him draw her near.

“I know that you care for me, I can see it in your eyes, even if you will not tell me,” he implored beneath his breath.

Across the room, Anne d’Heilly had come up beside the Dauphin and the three girls. “Well, well, well. Will you look at that,” she whispered. “Little Prince Henri is dancing, and rather well. I wonder where he finally learned.”

“Why, of that too I am certain. He learned in Cauterets,” François glibly replied.

H
ENRI TRIED TO
keep time to the music as the dance drew near its conclusion. “You are everything to me. Why can you not see that?”

“Henri, please, you must stop this! What happened is in the past. Now we must let go of it,” she implored while rendering a smile for the King, who stood on the sidelines.

“I have waited two years for this moment and after tomorrow I will be gone again. . .I cannot leave things like this!”

The music ended. The gentlemen bowed to the ladies. Henri bowed to Diane. As a crowd of guests surrounded her, she made her way quickly from the floor before the music began again. Henri followed. She was quicker. She stole past the crowds and past the posted guards. She ran down the small private flight of stairs away from the chamber. She ran down a long hallway, dimly lit by the golden glow of sputtering candles. Henri caught her just below the sweeping stone staircase. The charged emotion rendered him oblivious to the others who walked past them chatting and saying good night. He grabbed her arm and twisted it so that she would face him. He could hear the delicate seam on her silk sleeve tear beneath his force. Their eyes met. Both of their chests were heaving from the run. Diane’s face was flushed.

“You may be able to run away from me, Madame, but you cannot keep yourself from the truth!”

“What truth? There is no truth!”

“But there is. . .and in your heart you know it! Despite our ages, despite everyone and everything that is against us, I loved you the first moment I saw you!” he seethed, in a low tone, just beneath his breath. “I love you still! No matter what you try to make me believe, that will not change. If you remember nothing else, remember what I told you two years ago. I have in this life only one heart to give, Madame, and long ago it was given to you!”

D
IANE CLOSED THE DOOR
and leaned against it. She was glad that he was going. Glad that the temptation would be gone. Her knees were weak. She tried to breathe more deeply but it did not help her heart’s pounding. The control she had felt when she returned to Court had now completely abandoned her.

“Madame, are you all right?” Hélène asked as she shuffled half asleep toward Diane. “You look flushed. You are not ill, are you?” She put a comforting arm around Diane and led her away from the still-open door toward her bedchamber. The coverlet was turned back and the pillows had been freshly plumped. Her copy of
Le Roman de la rose
was on the night table.

“There now, let me help you out of those things. Oh, you really do look as if you are ill. What on earth has happened?”

“I am fine. It has just been a long night. I need to sleep.”

Diane stood bracing herself against the bedpost as Hélène unfastened the small pearl buttons which girdled her into her satin-edged ball gown. Her mind wandered as her eyelids grew heavy and began to close. She was tired. So tired. But tomorrow was Christmas. It would be better tomorrow. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched passively as Hélène pulled off her shoes and her white stockings.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment. “I can manage the rest.”