Courtesan (29 page)

“Madame, perhaps it is not my place. Charlotte would have scolded me for even asking, but you have seen him, haven’t you?”

Diane peered up at her through the thin haze of her own confusion. She did not need to reply.

“If you would like to talk—”

“No. . .no thank you, Hélène. I really can manage it.”

“Well, if you are certain there is nothing further I can do for you, then I shall bid you good night.”

But Diane could not sleep. Rest was beyond her. As she lay beneath her covers, her heart pounded until she thought it might burst through her chest. She was still in the Dauphin’s apartments, Henri before her. She could see him; feel the intensity between them. His hand on hers as they danced had been like a powerful narcotic; numbing her; ruling her. Beneath his grasp she became totally helpless. The power in that touch even now beckoned her back to something so forbidden that if she allowed it, she knew that Henri, and his dreams, could quite easily destroy her.

T
HE KING HAD MOVED
his Court again after the Christmas holidays. On the first of February they had come to Blois to celebrate Candlemas. There his Majesty acknowledged the inevitability of war. The Duke of Milan had died unexpectedly, leaving the sought-after city without an heir. It was providence, his aides convinced him. The good Lord meant for him to have it back after all. The Emperor, however, would not give it up without a fight.

François’ two eldest sons had returned to the troops long before the ringing in of the New Year, and the King was left at Court to be swallowed up by obligations, and to sulk about the dwindling state of his alliances. He now entertained only the slightest hope of a Franco-English accord with Henry VIII that would have solidified his position against the Emperor. He sighed out loud when he thought of it. It had been many years since he had known such complete frustration.

A reply to the marriage he had proposed between his third son, Charles, and Henry VIII’s infant daughter, Elizabeth, had been postponed indefinitely by the English Monarch. François’ ambassadors had returned from England with rumors that the child’s mother, Anne Boleyn, had lost the affections of the King. Boleyn, it was said, had promised the King a male heir as the impetus for him to divorce his first wife. Her inability to produce what she had assured, along with her demanding and impossible temperament, had now sent His Majesty into the arms of yet another woman. This one apparently was one of the Queen’s own ladies-in-waiting, a young girl named Jane Seymour.

It was further rumored that King Henry was once again seeking counsel for a second divorce. If that should occur, as it had with the previous Queen, their daughter, like the Princess Mary before her, would also be declared a bastard. If Elizabeth’s legitimacy were called into question, a marriage between her and Charles would be pointless. The only hope in this dwindling race for allies was King James of Scotland. Though a lesser power than Henry VIII, he had become an ally worth cultivating when so few were to be had. Now widowed, the Scottish Monarch was said to be searching for a wife. The King of France had seized the opportunity by offering him a French bride. While he waited for a reply, he decided to go to Chenonceaux.

B
Y THE TIME
they had made their way north through the Loire Valley and the forest of Amboise, the harshness of winter had faded. In its place was the fragile beauty of spring. Everything was fresh. There were a dozen different shades of green; vibrant red, yellow, and violet. François had wanted to escape. He had begun to feel as if life, his life, had been personified and, as a great foe, was now seizing on his weakness and finally catching up with him. His health too had been failing, and his only thought was of escape. He chose as his sanctuary a new royal acquisition, a small chateau along the edge of the river Cher, called Chenonceaux.

His military concerns entrusted now to Admiral Chabot, as each mile passed, François felt the enemy inside himself begin to fade. On the road once again, he began to laugh. Anne d’Heilly held the King’s hand as their horses slowly ambled along the banks of the river, and she watched as the grave expression that he had so often donned of late, slowly faded away.

When the King took the lute from his jester, the rest of the band sang the words to
La Guerre,
a song composed for him by Jannequin to mark his victory over the Emperor Charles in 1515. It was the kind of song he needed to sing just now, and no one could begrudge him that.

The first view of the castle was a magnificent one. The gravel path that led from the main road to the chateau was guarded by two stone lions at the end of a long, arched column of plane trees. The riders paused, taking in the vista that burst forth majestically before them. The small chateau was made of stone, painted a pale yellow, with pointed and gabled roofs and lovely, large stained-glass windows. It stood directly out on the water and was accessed by a drawbridge. To the right, separate from the chateau, was a small turret, a guard house. After the overwhelming elegance of Fontainebleau and the massive opulence of Chambord, this little manor was charming and unique, even at a distance.

“My, how beautiful,” uttered Catherine in her broken French. Diane smiled and took in a deep breath. The others led their horses toward the stables, where several young grooms stood waiting to help the King’s party from their mounts.

“There is quite a history here,” boasted the King with an arm extended. “On this very site was once a Roman villa. That building over there,” he said, pointing to the isolated turret, “was part of it.”

“Imagine it,” said Catherine, like a wide-eyed child whom everyone hears and yet to whom no one really listens.

The central vestibule was low and intimate with a vaulted ceiling. An innovative triangulated and ribbed design, it was a work of art in itself. There was a long table filled with freshly cut spring flowers along one wall, placed there in anticipation of His Majesty’s arrival. A large painting of the
Three Graces
occupied the other. When everyone gathered inside the doors, the King began to inspect his recent acquisition. The rest of the group followed, whispering among themselves. The first room to the left was the guard room, decorated and warmed with huge tapestries. The King and his entourage then passed through the Gothic chapel that hung out over the river. The gallery, the main drawing room with its magnificent ceiling and the entire chateau seemed to shimmer as the light from the water played into the colorful windows of stained glass. The King’s smile broadened as his tour of the lower level was complete.

“Well. What do you think of my home?”

“It is magnificent, Your Majesty,” said Christian de Nançay.

“Splendid, Father,” said Princess Madeleine.

“Truly lovely, Your Majesty,” echoed Jacques de Montgommery.

“It is terribly small,” observed Anne d’Heilly with a scowl, a look that crinkled her nose and wrinkled her forehead.

“Yes, of course. That is the charm of it,” replied the King, as he winked at Diane, who tried to stand inconspicuously behind the King’s
favourite.

A
NNE D’
H
EILLY SAT BEFORE
her mirror contemplating the prospect of another evening; another dinner with the King’s insufferable little band. More decadence. More indulgence. It had all been orchestrated long ago. There were no surprises. And she was tired. She would have given it all up just to be loved. That thought surprised her. François loved her in his own way, but it was not the real love she needed more strongly each day. She had always been a showpiece for him; the grand prize of his manhood. He had certainly been her prize. She had played the game and won the King of France. But she was not without her own faults in this game of indulgence. She had enough infidelities herself to force her to silence. It had all become so predictable. The coming together. The seduction. The gifts. The apologies. The betrayal. The hurt. Other mistresses. Other lovers. The breaking apart. Only to come back together again. And so it had gone. On and on. And on.

“I must act now. There will be no better time to pave the way for my revenge,” she muttered venomously to herself, hardened by the thought of her own bleak existence.

She had taken the first step in her final revenge against Diane de Poitiers by asking that Montgommery be brought to her. Her heart, thought Anne. Therein lies the key.

Now, she sat at her toilette table letting her sister, Louise, remove her headdress. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror as the mass of chestnut locks tumbled onto the shoulders of her white silk dressing gown. She touched a soft strand near her face and smiled. Revenge was sweet. She could tolerate the mindless chambermaids with whom he dallied but it was Diane de Poitiers who continued to be the real threat. She was the only one with enough power and style to unseat her any time she chose. And after all, why had she returned to Court yet again if she did not mean once again to attempt to steal the King?

If she would ever lose her royal lover to another, it would be to a woman like that. She felt able to compete with the Sénéchale’s beauty; even her intelligence, now that she was Duchesse d’Etampes. But Diane had one advantage no gift from the King could ever match. The blood coursing through her veins was not noble. Her heritage had not been bought. She had chosen not to heed Anne d’Heilly’s earlier warning to leave the French Court. For that sin above all others, noble blood or not, Diane de Poitiers was now about to pay, and dearly.

“Answer the door,” she commanded her maid when she finally heard the knock.

Jacques de Montgommery entered the chamber and stopped only a few feet from the door. He was dressed in a brown doublet edged in gold. His cape, trimmed in ermine, was clasped near his throat with a gold buckle. His stockings were the color of honey; the color of his hair.

“Why, Captain, you must forgive me. I had completely forgotten I had called for you,” she said with a feigned note of sincerity. After no more than a moment standing at her toilette table, her eyes fixed on him, she turned and walked toward the large, heavily draped bed in the other corner of the room near the fire. The silk dressing gown fluttered around her ankles as she moved.

“I was just about to settle in for a rest,” she said, excusing her revealing attire. “But, do come in now that you are here. I will send for some nice mint tea.”

Montgommery stepped cautiously into the heavily scented chamber. He had been summoned to her apartments before but always when the King was present; and always when she was fully clothed.

“That will be all, Mademoiselle de Colliers,” she said. The servant bowed her head and left the room. Now they were alone.

“You need not bother about the tea on my account,” he said, removing his tilted toque and awkwardly clutching it at his waist.

Anne smiled at him, showing her perfectly straight white teeth. He was attractive in his own way, she thought. Yet she was at a loss to define how he had his choice of the ladies at Court, as Philippe Chabot had said. He was tall and thin with thick blond hair. His delicate features were covered by only a wisp of a beard and neatly trimmed mustache. She found his genteel mannerisms not at all to her liking. But that was not the point of it.

“Ah, well then, we will dispense with the tea. Perhaps you would prefer something stronger?”

Without waiting for a reply, she advanced to a small table in the center of the room. It was oval shaped and ornately carved, covered with a rectangular piece of tapestry that touched the tiled floor at each end. On top were several glass decanters on a silver tray. “I have claret, of course, but the anise wine is far stronger.”

She took a goblet in her hand and looked at him. Montgommery shuffled a few tentative steps closer to her, his toque still clutched in both hands. He did not like being alone in the
favourite
’s apartments. If the King were to see him there, and she in her underclothes, his future would be ruined.

“Please sit down.”

Anne motioned him toward a velvet-cushioned armchair near the fire, then she sat beside him in a matching chair. They sipped their wine but did not speak. She made no move to begin a conversation nor to explain why she had summoned him. As the moments passed and he sipped the strong anise wine, he began to forget about the King, and about Diane. He had never been this close to Anne. She was splendid. Such delicate small bones; such fine small features. His eyes drifted down to her rosebud mouth. As she lowered the small crystal goblet, a drop of the amber-colored liquid glittered there. Half dazed, he looked away. Behind her was the open bed; the bedcurtains half drawn, the pillows and counterpane already rumpled.

“It is a lovely chateau. . .do you not think?” he said at last, and swallowed hard.

“No, I do not think so at all. I think that it is hideously small and I am frightfully bored.”

Her lower lip turned down into a pout and Jacques was mesmerized by the sensuality of her face. He could not tear his eyes from her lips; so wet and full. So forbidden. Anne watched his eyes grow hungry as she licked each lip; first the top, then the bottom. . .slowly, seductively. She leaned forward, pushing her full breasts through the lace edge of the dressing gown. He let his eyes stray from her mouth, down over her figure. She could see the hunger in him. Ah, yes, this revenge would be sweet. So sweet. Just as she moved to stand, the door to her chamber flew open and the King’s guard, Christian de Nançay, strutted in.

“Well, there you are! I have been looking everywhere for you, man!” he said, advancing toward his fellow guard, Montgommery, who, thinking it was the King, had sprung to his feet the moment the door had opened. Anne stood beside him only partially dressed. Nançay glared at Montgommery. At Anne. Then at the tossed bedcovers behind them. He saw the half hidden flush of desire on both their faces.

“The King has returned and I am certain, Captain, that he shall have need of you as I am just off of my duty. After all, that is why you’ve come along to Chenonceaux, is it not, to attend His Majesty?”