Courtesan (35 page)

“Mine?” he repeated, incredulously. “My child?” He clutched his forehead and leaned back against the door again; his lips parted.

“I am yours,
chéri
. . .as is the life within me.”

Henri lunged for her. Taking her in his arms he twirled her around so that her legs and gown fanned out behind her.

“Mine? A child? Oh, I worship you!. . .oh!” he shrieked, and then put her down. All at once he began to pat her as though he had nearly toppled a precious vase. “Oh, forgive me! Great Zeus! Oh. . .have I hurt you?”

“I am fine,” she laughed and clasped her arms around his neck once again. “I have borne two others, remember? I will not break.”

“Oh, I want to give you the world! You have made me happier than I had ever dreamed possible!” He took her hands and held them up. He kissed them both, then said, “You know I want to marry you and that the King wants nothing so much as a grandchild. Now I can go to him and confess everything! I have heard rumors, even in the field, that he means to see to my divorce because Catherine is barren. It all will be perfect!”

Henri laughed loudly, joyously, with his head back and his eyes sparkling in the firelight. Diane had never seen him so happy. But she knew before she spoke that his happiness would not last. Gently, she ran a hand along the side of his face and in a firm but gentle tone said, “Henri. . .that is impossible.”

“But you are with child! His grandchild.”

Her smile faded, and with it, her own gentleness. Her arms fell away from him and she walked toward the fireplace, turning her back to him.

“On what grounds would you ask for this divorce, then? On the grounds that the marriage was never consummated?”

Henri hung his head, stung again by her remark. After a moment, he lunged toward her. “But there must be a way. This child inside you changes everything!”

“It changes nothing. Kings do not marry their whores. You have gotten me with a bastard child. Nothing more.”

“Damn! I will not hear that! It is not like that between us!” he raged and slammed his fist against the wall.

“Well, what then? What grounds? Perhaps her adultery? Do you have any reason to believe that Catherine has been unfaithful to your vows?” She waited a moment. “Of course not! She adores you; that is apparent to everyone.”

“She may adore me, but I despise her!” he seethed and bashed his head into the same wall in a defeated gesture. After a moment, he turned around. She was still gazing at the fire, her hands down around her newly rounded belly. “I will go to her and I will confess that I have gotten you with child. I will plead that she divorce me on those same grounds of adultery.”

“Henri, you cannot bargain with her. This child changes nothing. Do you not see that she wants you?”

“But she does not have me!” he seethed; his rage was out of control. “I am yours! I always have been and I always will be yours!” He lunged toward her, pulling her into his arms and clutching her so fiercely that she could barely breathe. “There must be a way!” He trembled. “There must!”

S
O IT WAS TRUE.
The hushed whispers, the snickers on the back stairs as she passed. They whispered that Henri had taken a lover. And so it was true, he had taken Madame Diane. Or was it she who had taken him? Damn her! Just when Catherine had been willing to believe that Henri’s return might finally signal the beginning of their real life together, the reality reared up at her, turning her as cold as stone. Oh, she had suspected it, even expected it since the day they were married. It was not difficult to recall his eyes; pained, passionate eyes that never left the sight of Madame Diane the entire day of their wedding. And the helpless look of regret that she had mistaken for apprehension.

Infidelity. Broken promises. They had defined her life. She thought of the way the King paraded his latest fancy before Anne d’Heilly; the way he paraded Anne before the Queen. Her mind followed to the memory of her Uncle, Pope Clement. She hated his memory for forcing her into this marriage; this prison where she was merely tolerated, and loved by no one. She had been the Pope’s bargaining chit, and she was the King’s regret now. Merciless bastards, all! Her Florentine blood boiled. She thought of the only maxim which could give her comfort now.
Odiate et aspetate.
Hate and wait.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Henri went to the King’s apartments in the company of Jacques de Saint-André. He had been told shortly after his arrival that His Majesty was again ill. Henri had been prepared to see his father as he had left him, weak and defeated. But when he was issued into the large apartment by one of the King’s guards, he found him huddled in a large black leather chair by the fire, elegantly clothed in a doublet of white and gold, with a collar of ermine. He had a large silver three-stringed rebec poised beneath his chin on which he was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to master a tune. Anne d’Heilly was at his side. The rest of the chamber was swirling with activity.

As usual in the morning, the room was full of courtiers and servants. Henri saw the Cardinal de Lorraine, who sat in a large velvet chair on the other side of the chamber reading a Book of Hours. His nephew, François de Guise, in his new post as guard, stood sentry at the door. His other nephew, Charles, Archbishop de Rheims, was playing a game of cards with Princess Marguerite.

The King did not see his son enter the room. Henri stood back for a moment, watching him. Despite the sumptuous costuming, the gems, and the King’s active appearance, he was struck by how old and tired a man his father had become. The bloat around his abdomen had become even more difficult to disguise. The chestnut hair was now heavily peppered with brittle gray strands receding from his forehead. The lines, once lightly drawn beside his eyes, were now deeply etched. It was whispered in the most discreet circles that the King was once again suffering from a venereal malady.

As Henri stood there, it was the image of the King’s mortality that captivated him. François I, once robust and untouchable, had become frail. Henri had never acknowledged the notion of his father’s death before. As quickly as he had the thought, he pushed it away.

“I was told that you were ill,” he said, managing to be civil as he approached. François stopped playing and looked up.

“Not to worry. It is nothing serious. I am afraid, my little man, that you will have quite a wait before you will have leave to commission my effigy for Saint-Denis.”

Henri groaned and moved nearer. “I did not come here to exchange insults with Your Majesty.”

The King looked at him with a vague stare. “Then why have you come?”

Henri took in a deep breath. His spirits were far too high with news of his forthcoming child to let even the King of France engage him in this tireless contest of wills.

“It was Your Majesty who summoned me,” he said, looming over the King.

Being in this room around all these mementos of a man he detested ignited old fires in Henri. He tried not to look, but the images were impossible to ignore. The volume of Machiavelli’s
The Prince
was displayed proudly on a table near the door, so that everyone who entered the room would be forced to see it. Over the mantel was the painting of a woman that Leonardo da Vinci had given him.
La Gioconda.
He took the painting with him everywhere he went as the ultimate symbol of beauty. It made Henri think only of the night that he had followed Diane to his father’s bed chamber, and Anne d’Heilly had caught them standing beneath it. He looked away. Beside the bed was a charcoal sketch of his mother, done before he was born. She had been beautiful then; so healthy and full of life. It was too difficult being here. He wanted to leave.

“There is this issue of your marriage to Catherine,” the King began, and suddenly Henri was catapulted back to his own tumultuous present.

“To be plain with you, boy, as you well know, she has not produced an heir. Though from what I gather, without a stud in the stable even a brood mare cannot get with a colt.”

“Say what you mean to say.”

“What would you say to a divorce? Perhaps a new wife with whom you would be more inclined to consider the issue of heirs.”

Henri softened. He could not help it. He was close. So close. He sat down in the chair across from the King and rested his chin in his hand. He tried to discern the possibility of a ruse by looking into his father’s eyes. Was it safe to propose Diane? Had he the slightest hope of predicting the motivation behind a master of manipulation?

“Perhaps Your Majesty can tell me, why is this the first I have heard of it from you?” he asked, stroking his chin as his father often did.

The King took a breath. They were playing a game with one another. A tactical game. The King was an old master while Henri was an eager novice. Henri wore his impatience on his shirt sleeve. It was so easy, it almost was not any fun at all. François paced himself. He waited.

“Because, my boy, I had hoped for the matter to resolve itself. As you know, I have grown quite fond of your little Italian bride.”

Henri stood again, unable to bear the intensity brewing between them. As he walked toward the window, he clenched his fists then released them. Just being near the King forced a dark rage to build inside him; a kind that began to lure him to dangerous and deadly thoughts. If this was difficult, proposing Diane would be impossible.

“And this new wife. . .have you someone in mind?” Henri cautiously asked.

The King looked up at his son. Yes indeed. He did have someone in mind. Someone young and far lovelier than the Sénéchal’s widow! Someone who could answer the boy’s new and obviously flourishing appetite. Someone who would put an expedient end to this scandalous liaison between them. All of her excuses; her demure refusals to him; to the King of France! In mourning, indeed! Lies, all lies! All the while wanting a boy instead of a man. What a mockery that woman had made of him. Now what a mockery she would make of his son. . .if he let her.

“Yes. As a matter of fact I do have a candidate. I would propose Marie de Guise,” the King declared with a tentative expression. “Though I would be willing to entertain an alternate selection if there is one who has not yet been considered.”

The King challenged the Prince. . .man against boy. Henri tried to hold himself in check. His heart raced. He must say it now. . .must propose her now. There was no choice. Now, he must speak. Now, before it was too late. Now!

“Well, Your Majesty knows that I am fond of Madame Diane.”

He heard himself say the words, though he could scarcely believe he had managed them when everything in his body had told him to stay silent. Uttering her name had put him in a vulnerable position with his enemy. The King brushed a hand across his face to hide the victorious grin.

“Ah. So there we have it, do we?” The King grinned, showing his teeth. “And, what do you suppose would become of this country if every Prince who had a whore tried to take her for his Queen?”

Henri had never hated his father so much as he did at that moment. He hated him with a violence and a rage that he had never known. The rage was like a power with a life of its own. His eyes slimmed to tiny slits of fury. The King had baited him. All along it had been a trick.

“Bastard! You vile, cretinous bastard!” He lunged at his father, tossing an oak table between them, onto its end. Three of the guards, including François de Guise, rushed after him. Two drew rapiers barring Henri from the King. Guise held Henri’s arms behind him so that he could not charge further. Henri’s chest heaved with anger and he thrashed wildly trying to free himself. After several minutes, he stopped. He stood there with his arms behind his back leering at the King.

“I am all right,” he said to Guise, beneath labored breath. François then loosened his grip. Henri looked at the King who was still grinning. “You are an old pathetic man. . .hardly worth the effort.” Henri turned away from his father in disgust.

“Foolish boy! Do you really think she could ever care for you? Ha! You are a child! You are a means to an end with her. She has the Dauphin of France in her bed! She is using you to get what she can and when she has it—”

“Heartless bastard!” Henri whipped around and shot his father another hate-filled stare. “You could not possibly understand what is between us!”

“No? Wait and see if she does not make a fool of you! In the meanwhile, you will take the Duchesse de Longueville as your wife, or things will stay precisely as they are!”

Those were the King’s final words. He then picked up the rebec and the bow as though he had not missed a note, and once again began to play. When he could sense that Henri had not moved, he glanced over at François de Guise.

“This meeting is over. Guise, see him out of here.”

T
HE
C
ARDINAL DE
L
ORRAINE
sat on the opposite side of the salon, facing the King. When Henri had gone, he raised his head from the Book of Hours. He looked over at the King and twisted the tip of his neat white mustache. So, it was Diane de Poitiers who had so captivated the Dauphin. Who ever would have thought! He stifled a grin. My, my, that did change everything. Opportunity had taken a turn right before him and if he was wise, he would seize it. Slowly, he closed the book and placed it on a silver tray on the table beside his chair. As he rose and took the pectoral cross between his fingers, François cast the rebec at the fire and bolted to his feet.