Courtesan (3 page)

“My most humble pardon, Your Majesty, but I do crave a word with you on this matter of the Pope’s niece. I really can wait no longer. His Holiness, Pope Clement, anxiously awaits your reply.”

The small dark-haired Italian man spoke quickly and in a French tongue thickly laced with the sound of his native language. Montmorency and the others turned around in their chairs. The man advanced still nearer to the King. Chabot, who was closest in proximity to him at the end of the table, bolted from his chair. He drew a long pearl-handled dagger from the scabbard at his waist and held it beneath the man’s chin. The royal guards rushed behind him and drew their rapiers. Montmorency rose and advanced toward the end of the table, but his gait was slower, more deliberate.

“Monsieur,” he began without looking at the Ambassador. “How long is it that you have been in residence here at Court?”

“It is now six months time, my lord.”

“Six months? Well, certainly that would seem sufficient time for you to have noted that His Majesty hears no business until after Mass.”

The Ambassador looked over at the King for confirmation, but François said nothing. The Italian Ambassador, who was also the Duke of Albany, lowered his head again. He took a deep breath and advanced further toward the King. The unexpected movement caused five chamber guards to raise their rapiers, and with them, to bar the little Italian man from advancing farther. Through the maze of steel he spoke.

“I do beg Your Majesty’s most humble pardon, but I have been patiently awaiting an audience with you for several days. His Holiness the Pope grows more angry with me by the day for the delays and I. . .”

“Silence!” The King at last voiced a thunderous command, his large amber eyes reduced to slits. The active room of courtiers fell silent. All eyes turned upon the Ambassador.

“If you persist in forcing the matter without allowing Us time to consider the proposition, you must then relate to His Holiness that the answer is, ‘no.’ Never shall my son, the Crown Prince of France, be made to marry a commoner, even if she has had the good fortune of having been born the Pope’s niece!”

The King stood as the last words left his mouth. The guards advanced from a nod given by the Grand Master and they escorted the grumbling Ambassador from the drawing room.

The Treaty of Madrid had bound France with Spain and taken away France’s claim to Milan. Now, after seven years, peace was losing its appeal for the French Monarch. Each day he grew restless for territorial superiority over the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. There was something to be said for an Italian alliance, should he choose to forsake the treaty with Spain. Lately he had given it more than passing consideration. Such a marriage as the Pope proposed, through the Duke of Albany, would certainly secure his superiority over the equally ambitious Emperor. It would possibly even see Milan returned to him. Since his childhood he had been taught to think of Milan as his own. His great-grandmother, Valentina Visconti, had been the daughter of the Duke of Milan. It was his birthright. Milan belonged to France. Undaunted by his past acquisition and loss of that great city, and no matter what the treaty prohibited, François meant to have it once again under the French Crown.

But it was not only territory that the French King craved. It was the world of Italian art and architecture that the key of Milan would open up to him. Leonardo da Vinci had answered the call, but he had arrived in France so aged that he had contributed little more to French history than having died there. Still there was Michelangelo, Raphaël and Cellini to be courted. Such cultural greats as these had all rejected his entreaties to come to France. If however, he could win the return of Milan, he might one day count them among his own national treasures. With their help, he dreamed that he would create the most magnificent palaces on earth. He would have in his personal collection works of art praised by all. If he could achieve this, the masters would no longer share their great gifts with Italy or Spain or even with England. Their work would all be for him; for France.

“Perhaps Your Majesty should reconsider,” Chabot suggested cautiously once the Ambassador had gone. “A Medici marriage would bring to France a very strategic and much needed alliance with Italy.”

Philippe Chabot, a small and impish looking man, was as cold as he was ruthless. Unlike Montmorency, he had not won his place in the triumvirate; he had taken it.

“The dowry alone, quite likely, could finance your next campaign. . .provided of course, that there is to be a next campaign.” When he saw by the King’s expression that he had not completely abandoned the idea, Chabot continued. “And we must not forget that he is offering Pisa and Livorno in the bargain.”

“But marry the Dauphin off to a merchant’s daughter? Make a commoner the next Queen? For the love of God, there is not enough money in all of Italy for a concession like that!” the King declared. Then he remembered Milan. The desire for it made him soften. “We shall give the matter over to further consideration. In the meantime, send the good Duke of Albany back to His Holiness with Our complete refusal. . .. Then let Us see just what else they may propose.”

T
HE SERVE WAS
a good one and Claude d’Annebault, though considerably smaller and less physically agile than the King, returned the serve with force. His Majesty scrambled for the return.

“All right, Claude! Show Us what you’ve got between those legs of yours!” the King called out to his opponent. He whacked the small leather ball into the air with the force of his racket and it sailed across the string net.

The gaming court in winter for
jeu de paume
was a large indoor hall several yards from the main chateau. Inside was a long row of wooden benches. When the King played, they were always brimming with courtiers and heavily perfumed ladies to cheer him on. Both the King and his opponent wore tan puffed trunk hose over silk stockings. Their shirts were loose fitting and made of muslin. Montmorency stood on the sidelines beside Chabot, Barre and Duprat. Chabot took great pains to cheer the King with more animation than his rival, Anne de Montmorency.

“Bravo, Your Majesty!”

“Good return, Your Majesty!”

Both men looked bitterly at the other as the words flowed simultaneously from their mouths. Admiral Chabot flashed an insipid smile and took a step forward, away from the Grand Master. The two men despised one another and nothing was spared between them in their quest for the King’s favor.

They watched the King’s studied volley. Perspiration dripped from his forehead as he poised an arm overhead and prepared to return a serve. The movements of his tall, forceful body were at once strong and graceful. He was in the prime of his life and everyone who watched him play could see it. Yet, when his opponent missed the game point, it appeared to everyone that he had done so intentionally. The opponent, Marshal Claude d’Annebault, also among the King’s inner elite, hopped across the net and bowed before the Sovereign.

“Good match,
mon vieux
!” declared the King. “But see to it that you practice a bit more before We sport with you again!” He playfully cuffed the Marshal’s head as he turned to leave the court.

“Splendid game today, Your Majesty,” Montmorency flattered. As he walked on the right of the King, Chabot, as always, was on His Majesty’s left. Jean de La Barre and Chancellor Duprat trailed behind them.

“Claude was too easy with Us in this game, Monty. He could easily have claimed victory in the final set. I suspect he fears truly to challenge the King.”

“Your Majesty is much too modest. You are playing better than ever.”

“So I am, indeed,” he agreed, and slapped the Grand Master on the back.

François smiled his same devilish, thin-lipped smile as a wealth of ambassadors, courtiers and nobles surrounded him to congratulate him on his victory. Across the court, he caught among the ladies, the willing eye of the woman with whom he had spent the previous night.
The Comtesse of something-or-other,
he thought. She stood out easily amid the other ladies with whom she pretended to converse. She was striking, though he had remembered her as more slightly built. And she had looked younger than she now appeared, layered in her eggshell blue silk and her smart French hood. When she saw that she had caught his eye, she smiled and slowly lowered her head. The King returned the nod.

Two young pages, both of noble families, stood before him. One had been given the honor of holding a large silver bowl while the King splashed water onto his face to cool himself. The other, François de Guise, the newest page to the King, offered him an embroidered towel. His Majesty liked the boy, and so chose to honor him with his thanks. Guise blushed.

“Barre!” the King shouted.

The First Gentleman hurried toward the Sovereign through the sea of brocade gowns and ermine capes.

“Did you see that Mademoiselle d’Heilly received her trinket?” the King inquired, though careful to exhibit only minimal interest as he gazed once again in the direction of the noble woman with whom he had spent the previous night. Again she smiled. Again he nodded. His afternoon diversion had been arranged. One of the pages took away the silver bowl. Young Monsieur de Guise, who had offered him the towel, now advanced with a jeweled, almond-colored velvet cape. He lay it gently across the King’s shoulders.

“Most assuredly, Sire,” Barre replied. “I am told by her senior-most attendant that she squealed with delight as the jeweler bore it to her on a velvet pillow.”

“And the note, Barre. What of the note?”

“As you commanded, Sire, he inscribed a sweet lilting verse professing your undying affection and most sincere apology.”

“My love, Barre! My undying love! Anne will not let me off so easily with this one of last night. The lady was devastatingly beautiful and Mademoiselle d’Heilly becomes very jealous if they are, any of them, nearly so beautiful as she. What was her name again?”

“The Comtesse de Sancerre, Sire.”

“There you see, Monty? My taste is not always for servants and whores. We suspect, however, that she was ‘arranged’ for Us.”

“The Comte and Comtesse de Sancerre are the invited guests of Chancellor Duprat, Sire. Certainly Your Majesty’s charms enticed the lady beyond that.”

“Yes, indeed,” he agreed. “We still do rather well with the ladies, do We not?”

“Your Majesty’s charms are unrivaled.”

He smiled and then beckoned with his long arm the return of his new page, François de Guise.

“Come closer.” He motioned to the boy whose face was beset by deep black eyes and a tousle of russet hair. The stalk-thin boy, all arms and skinny legs, was here in a place of such honor as a favor to the Cardinal de Lorraine, the boy’s uncle. It was the cleric’s great fortune also to be counted among the King’s closest friends. He shielded the boy with his arm so their discourse would not be overheard, much as he had done earlier that morning with Barre. “We have a little job for you to do,” he said, walking Guise away from the others. “Late this afternoon, after my appointments are concluded, you are to bring to my bedchamber that young maid I met earlier this morning. I believe her to be in the employ of the Comtesse de Sancerre.”

“But Sire. . .”

The King ignored his objection. When he looked back his amber eyes glittered with resolve. “And if she is unwilling, you are to pay her. . .whatever it takes. Do you get my meaning?”

His dark eyes widened over a large hawkish nose and a long exaggerated chin. “But, Sire, Grand Master Montmorency, to whom I report, gave me the strictest order about—”

“Boy,” the King cut him off. “Your family is much loved at this Court, and with that in your favor, your ambitions will take you as far as you please. But you must learn one rule above all others. You must never circumvent the wishes of Your King for those of his subordinates. Do we understand one another?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“Splendid. I am so glad.”

“I shall arrange it at once.”

“And François, my boy, I needn’t remind you that you are to say nothing of this to the voice of my conscience over there,” he added, indicating Montmorency.

H
ER SERVANTS WOKE
to the sound of the coach wheels on courtyard gravel. They stretched, straightened their gowns and headdresses, and waited silently for the door to open. A string of pages waited, dressed in blue doublets and puffed trunk hose with red velvet slashes and bright red hose.

The first person Diane saw as she stepped from the cabin was the Grand Master, Anne de Montmorency. Graciously, but with a little too much affectation, he strode before the line of servants and extended his own hand to help her down.

“Welcome back, Madame La Sénéchale,” he said in a rough, sober voice from behind the neatly pointed silver beard. His steel blue eyes were cast upon her, yet looked through her, as though she were not there.

“Le Sénéchal was my husband, Monsieur Montmorency. I think it will be much simpler from now on if people were to address me by my birthright, simply as Madame de Poitiers,” she replied in Montmorency’s same tone of formality. Then she waited as the two women of her household were helped to the ground.

Montmorency bristled but extended his arm to her anyway as they passed through an arched doorway into the chateau. There was an immediate and instinctive dislike set about between them at that moment. It was one which both of them, for civility’s sake, tried to disregard.

“The King, of course, shall want to know,” he began again as they walked, “if the transportation that he extended to you was pleasing.” The deepening of his antagonistic tone made it clear that her comfort was no concern of his. His inquiry was nothing more than a matter of protocol.

“Quite pleasing, Monsieur,” she lied as they entered the hallway of the chateau’s new wing. An elegantly dressed young woman waited in the shadow of a carved oak staircase. When she saw Diane, she lowered her head.

“This is Mademoiselle Doucet,” Montmorency said without looking at either the young woman or at Diane. “She will be your attendant during your stay.”