Courtesan (34 page)

S
INCE YOUR MAJESTY HAS ASKED ME,
I shall be direct. It is my opinion that the Dauphin should divorce her.”

“Divorce?” the King scoffed. “Impossible! I shall leave those unsavory matters to the house of England, at which my good brother Henry has become so proficient. No. Divorce shall not happen in the house of France.”

It was the first of April, seven months since the Dauphin’s death. Although the spring had put his consumption to rest, François’ mood was still a melancholy one. The Cardinal de Lorraine, the ambitious head of the house of Guise, strolled slowly beside the King as they wound their way through the new formal parterre. The Cardinal pretended to appreciate the precision of the beauty around him, having been undaunted by the King’s response to his calculated suggestion. After all, the idea was a new one. There was time. If his plan was to be accepted, it must be executed perfectly. He could not push. It must seem like the King’s own idea. There was no margin for error when the honor of his entire family was at risk. He paced himself. He took a breath.

“The fact remains, Your Majesty, that it has been four years and yet the Dauphine has not produced a child. Now that Prince Henri is Dauphin, France is without an heir. As you know of course, that is an exceedingly dangerous state of affairs.”

The King did not respond, but Guise knew that he had made his point. They continued to stroll. The Cardinal managed a sideways glance once he was certain the King could not see him. François stopped to admire an emerald yew clipped like a cone, but despite His Majesty’s attempt to disguise it, the Cardinal could see the consternation on the King’s face.

After a moment he said, “But We have taken Catherine on as if she were Our own daughter. How could such a thing even be considered?”

“Your Majesty need not concern yourself with the details of such a move. You need only say that you agree for it to be dealt with.”

They walked the length of the garden, toward the pavilion. He was once again silent, careful not to overplay his hand. Jean de Guise, the Cardinal de Lorraine, was an artful man, not so handsome as he was wise. A tall, stately looking man with white hair and a neat pointed beard now gone partially yellow, he had been in service to the King most of his life. He was systematic, clinical and exceedingly ambitious; qualities that had not only secured him a high ecclesiastical position, but had also seen him named
compagnon de coeur
to the French Monarch. Being the King’s confidant was a power base which, at the moment, with Montmorency in the south and Chabot also away from court, he reveled in sharing with no one.

But nothing at this Court was ever fixed, and he knew it. Looking toward the future, he had secured good positions for both of his nephews. One was Archbishop de Rheims; the other had recently been elevated from a royal page to one of the elite personal guardsmen to the King. Now the Cardinal knew he must seize this opportunity for his niece, Marie, the eldest of his brother’s children, as though there would never be another.

“Have you someone in mind to replace the Dauphine?” the King finally asked as he looked up at the sky.

Guise waited a moment, reflective, then answered. “It is but a thought, Your Majesty, but perhaps His Highness would fare better this time with a French bride, someone with whom he has more in common.”

“Indeed.” The King looked at him, his lips pressed into one long, thin line.

“The Comte de Saint-Pol has a daughter. Her name has been proposed.”

“Hmm.”

“There is also Marie, daughter of the Duc de Vendôme.”

“And?” asked the King, still appearing to study a white puff of clouds.

“Of course Your Majesty knows that the Duchesse de Longueville is now widowed.”

“Ah, yes. Your own niece, Marie.”

They were interrupted by two guardsmen escorting a messenger. “Word, Your Majesty, from the Lieutenant-General,” he announced in a formal voice, and handed over a sealed slip of parchment to the King. François opened it. The Cardinal stood silently beside him as he read the communiqué.

“Monty has decided now to take on the Imperial city of Hesdin in the north,” the King sighed. “He says that it is weakly garrisoned and may mean a stronger hold against the Emperor when we sweep back into Italy.”

“But the men, Your Majesty, the lives. We have lost so many already. Is it not too great a risk?”

“When I made Montmorency lieutenant-general I did so giving him free rein. And we have come this far. If it means I may get Milan back one day, I must support him. I only pray God Monty is certain of what he is doing.”

The Cardinal de Lorraine was not sorry that the subject had been changed. He had still managed to propose his niece. It was what he had hoped to do. Plant the seed. And for now that would be enough. “If Milan is what Your Majesty desires,” he said wisely, “then it is what I shall pray for also.”

M’amie,

I write you this from camp near Therouenne. So many days and nights I have gone without the light of your smile or the tenderness of your words. Your sign to me alone is what gives me strength.

Diane folded the letter and pressed it into the bodice of her gown. She could not find the strength to finish reading it. She just made it to the edge of her bed before she collapsed on top of the covers. She had tried to ignore it, but with each day the pain increased. It had started with mild nausea; then blood coming from her private parts. Her flux, she had thought. The pain subsided, only to have it resume a few days later. Her breasts were swollen and sore and she found it more difficult each day to keep down the slightest bit of food.

“Madame, please, let me call the doctor,” Hélène pleaded as she rushed toward her. “His Highness would never forgive me if you were ill and I did not—”

“No!” Diane gripped her belly and rolled onto her back on the bed, taking in deep breaths to try and stop the pain. After a moment she recanted. “Please forgive me,” she said and pushed herself up onto the pillows. Hélène pulled the covers up around her. Diane was shivering and yet her skin was moist and warm. There was a film across her blue eyes and dark circles beneath them.

“I know what is the matter. . .” she said weakly. “I have faced it twice before. I was told at Cauterets there would be a third. The prophesy has come true, Hélène. I am with child.”

Hélène covered her mouth with both of her hands to hide her horror.

“I thought it was impossible now. My oldest daughter is to be married soon.”

Hélène’s hands fell away from her face. “Oh, Madame, what will you do?”

“What can I do? The Prince has his wife. I have known that all along. I suppose that this is to be my penance.”

Diane lay her head back on the pillows. The child was kicking again; tiny little waves of movement against her belly. Dear God, what would Henri think? Her lean body swollen by this child; both of their lives changed forever. And what did she think of it herself? To be a mother again. . .now. And without benefit of a husband. It would create a great scandal. He was bound to be furious. It was likely to put an end to everything. She tried to console herself, wondering now how long it might have lasted with him even under the best of circumstances.

A
S THE FIGHTING CONTINUED,
the Court remained the next month at Meudon: a chateau southwest of Paris, which was one of the three seats of the wealthy Guise family. At the end of 1536, much against his will, the King’s young daughter, Madeleine, his favorite, became the bride of King James V of Scotland at a ceremony in Paris. He had wanted to bind their two countries with a marriage. . .a marriage with anyone but his “lily.”

Consumptive all of her life and weak at the time of her wedding, she had to be carried down the aisle before Notre Dame in a litter. In Scotland six months later she died in her husband’s arms. Once again the great strips of black fabric draped the windows of the King’s chateaux. Once again the banquets ceased; the jousting stopped. There was no music and no laughter. Only a hollow echo marking her death.

Shortly afterward, the King lapsed into a severe state of consumption himself brought on by depression. He was unable to move on as he had planned, to join the Dauphin and Montmorency in Thérouanne as they launched their latest attack against the Emperor. The Cardinal de Lorraine could not have been more pleased at this positive turn of events for it gave him time to continue the implementation of his plan to see his niece Marie named new Dauphine in place of Catherine de Medici.

Throughout the long, hot summer days the King was plied with a tincture of cider and syrup of roses to quiet the coughing brought on by consumption. Absinthe and the extract of lime blossom was administered to help him sleep. Now swollen and defeated, he would speak to no one save for his confessor.
My greed has done this,
he told himself.
I put my need to have Italy above all else, and now I am paying in the most dear way that I can for that desire. My son is dead. The Dauphine is barren. Now, my Madeleine. I have lost my little girl; my pale little lily.
She had been the reminder of his own youth. His own lost innocence. His mortality.
Oh, to look upon those eyes again! I would give it all to have her here.
But nothing could push back the demon lover who had lured him with his own ambition; not the claret, not Anne, not the volumes of his own tears.

Finally late in September, a proposed armistice was brought to him in the hand of the Queen Dowager of Hungary. She acted, she said, on behalf of the Holy Roman Emperor. It was only a limited truce that was offered, applicable only to Picardy and Flanders, both in the north where the French had been successful. But François asked no questions. He signed it immediately, hoping to quell the anger and rage of a God who, it seemed, was bent on his destruction.

I
N THE ENDLESS DAYS
which Catherine de Medici had spent alone since her arrival in France, the realms of astrology and prophecy had begun to consume her. She too had heard the gossip that the King was considering her divorce and nothing but fantasy held any real hope. Thank the dear Lord for Ruggieri.

“If only Henri would get me with a child. . .” she moaned as she paced back and forth in velvet slippers.

The chamber her Italian mystic, Giuffrido Ruggieri, occupied was dark. The windows were draped with long, black sheets of silk. Hundreds of long, white tapers burned throughout the day and spilled their liquid wax onto the tables, onto sconces, and onto the mantel above the fireplace. The room glowed. The bureaus were peppered with amulets and talismans. On the table near the fire were dozens of jars filled with hysop, citronella and valerian. Other smaller earthen jars were not marked. There were ancient, tattered books on the subjects of the stars and alchemy scattered open on the bed and on the tiled floor.

“If only I could have a child, then I am certain he would accept me as his wife. Is there not something you can give me? Some potion?”

Ruggieri moved toward the cluttered table. “I can give you something, child, but if you do not bed with him, it shall be of no use.”

Her eyes brightened and she bolted toward him from her chair. “Let me worry about that. Just tell me what I must do!”

Ruggieri’s thin face was pale from the long hours he had spent in darkened chambers. His hair and beard were long and white. After contemplating the Dauphine’s troubled face for a moment, he turned toward his table and began opening jars. Catherine neared but recoiled at the pungent aroma which wafted from them.

“What is it?”

“Sheep’s urine,” he replied and opened another vessel. The liquid inside was a gray-blue color and more foul-smelling than the first. He looked up at Catherine with a half smile, Before she could inquire further, he said, “It is best not to ask. If you mean to cure yourself you shall have to drink it.” Then he lowered his head to his work. In the space of half an hour, he had mixed together an elixir of sheep’s urine, rabbit’s blood and mare’s milk that had been widely constituted as a philtre; a potion thought by the ancient alchemists to arouse sexual passion. After she had drunk it, Ruggieri smiled. A bit of the mixture framed her lips. He daubed it with his sleeve.

“Your Prince returns from battle tonight, yes?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then go to him, child. And with God’s help and mine, you shall be filled with his child by morning’s light.”

T
HE WELCOMING DELEGATION
for the Dauphin’s troops began to emerge from the chateau at Meudon after the sun had set. The grounds and the courtyard were lit by a hundred flaming gold torches to illuminate the path of the approaching legion. Diane stood behind Catherine and Henri’s sister, Marguerite. Marie de Guise, the Cardinal’s niece, stood quietly beside her. After a moment, the echo of thundering hooves signaled their arrival, as another band of courtiers emerged from the long glass-paned doors of the south wing of the Cardinal’s chateau. They had been waiting only moments when the first rider, carrying the large brilliant blue banner splashed with the emblem of the salamander, wound his way up the wooded path to the grand entrance. Another moment passed and the Dauphin’s brightly draped horse thundered into the courtyard. Clustered around Henri, riding high on their mounts in a swirl of dust, were François de Guise, Jacques de Saint-André, Claude d’Annebault and Anne de Montmorency.

Henri had changed. Diane could see that from the first. His look was more wild. More fierce. His dark hair was long around his ears and he had grown a dark mustache and beard. But it was far more than his appearance. After he stepped from his horse, she could see that he walked with a more confident stride. His head was higher, his pace more commanding. Embroidered onto his doublet in silver thread she was shocked to see the interlaced D and H cypher.

He gave the bridle over to a groom. Jacques walked beside him and they were whispering something between themselves. Jacques had the same wild look as Henri. His light hair too had grown long, and was brushed away from his face and behind his ears. The other men dismounted after the Dauphin and his companion. Then they ambled collectively toward the chateau in their soiled uniforms and mud-splashed, soft leather shoes, laughing and slapping one another’s backs. Catherine ran out to Henri in the dusty courtyard and wrapped her arms around his neck. His sister, Marguerite, followed behind her at a more delicate pace. Diane watched the exaggerated display of affection as Catherine kissed him on the lips, then on both cheeks. She stood silently for the moment and watched them embrace one another. When they turned, they walked toward the entry with their arms linked. Then Henri saw Diane. He broke away from Catherine instantly and advanced toward the others who still stood in a greeting line on the steps near the entrance.

“’Your Eminence,” Henri said, lowering his head to the Cardinal de Lorraine. Then he moved to the left and embraced his Aunt, who was Queen of Navarre.

“Welcome home, Henri,” she said. Again Catherine was at his side, clutching his sleeve.

He moved a few sideways steps and ran a hand nervously across his bearded face. It was the first time in weeks he had considered his appearance. He had not seen a mirror since he had left the camp. Marie de Guise, who stood next to Marguerite, curtsied next in his presence. Her uncle, the Cardinal, watched the performance, hoping for a promising exchange between them. He had spent enough on her gown to have paid the King’s Captain a year’s salary. But Henri moved on almost immediately after he had extended the requisite greeting. The next person in line was Diane de Poitiers.

“Madame,” he said as he took her hand. The action of extending his hand forced Catherine to let go of his arm. But still she stood beside him, watching him. Watching them. Henri then put Diane’s hand to his lips. “How is it, Madame, that you are more beautiful each time we see one another?”

Diane lowered her eyes. It was an awkward thing for him to have said. Not at all like something he would have said aloud before he had left. Afraid to draw further attention, she stepped back a pace and kept her eyes lowered. Catherine, who had missed none of the exchange, clutched greedily at him again and fought to stave off a jealous rage.

“The King has requested our immediate presence in his chamber as he is unwell enough to greet you here,” said Catherine, more for Diane’s benefit than for Henri’s.

“Oh, no! Not tonight. All I want is a very hot bath and a large cup of claret. You may have your people tell His Majesty that he will have to wait until morning if he wishes to extend his audience to me.”

C
ATHERINE’S PACE QUICKENED
as she reached the corridor down which Henri had gone. The sun had begun to set and the last brilliant bit of orange burst through the panes of the long, leaded west windows. As she walked, she clutched the amulet. Around her neck, a small sack containing the ashes of a large frog. Around her waist she wore a belt woven of goat’s hair. Like the philtre, these were charms from Ruggieri to induce pregnancy. She would stop at nothing to have Henri’s child. Her advisors had suggested that now, when he was so newly returned to civilization he would be most vulnerable to sweet perfumes and soft words. If she had to beg him to bed her, she would. A child was her only hope of remaining his wife.

The echoed sound of footsteps before her caused her to stop. She had caught up with him and now he was near. He was also finally alone. She must go to his chamber but he must not know that, like a spy, she had followed him. Afraid that Henri would be angry, she ducked behind a massive tapestry and peered out from the corner. He stopped. Catherine clutched the amulet at her chest. She was not really spying on him. After all, he was her husband.

She watched him stop in the center of the corridor, accompanied only by his own shadow cast boldly against the wall beside her. He glanced around to see that he had not been followed. Then he rapped on one of the closed doors. Catherine held her breath. The tapestry behind which she had hidden was just a few steps away. After a moment, the door opened. Diane de Poitiers was on the other side, dressed in a white linen dressing gown. Catherine could see her breasts through the fabric. She bit her finger to keep from screaming. They kissed. She watched them. Lips touching. Hands tenderly at each other’s faces. Then she drew him inside.

F
RIPPONE AND
F
RIPPER,
the two hounds Diane had given him, lunged at Henri, both of them whimpering and barking.

“Oh, I have missed you!” he said, burying his face in her hair. He pressed his body against hers and covered her mouth with kisses. Then he stopped. His eyes moved to her face and then down to her belly. He looked at her again. His joyous expression faded to the blankness of a slate. He leaned back against the heavy door as though he had been struck. Then he looked at her again with one long expressionless stare. So he knew, thought Diane. He had felt it. And now there was silence between them. Deadly silence.

“Oh, Henri, please say something!”

“So. . .” he said, pulling himself from the wall. “Who is to be the father of it, then?”

Diane’s smile faded to match his own blank expression. “Why, you of course,” she replied with a nervous half laugh and then tilted her head to the side, waiting apprehensively for him to respond. She watched his eyes widen and his mouth fall open. “Yes!” she repeated when she could see his surprise. “Of course it is you!” She punctuated her words with a larger smile. “Henri, there has been no one else. There never could be. I thought it was impossible after all of these years but—”