Courtesan (41 page)

Anne lunged from her seat, snorting wildly her dissatisfaction at the way in which the King had been swayed. Montmorency stifled a triumphant smile by taking another sip of Bordeaux. The smile lasted only until the King spoke again.

“But I warn you, Monty,” he added, “if you are wrong about this, about him, then there will be only yourself to blame. And mark my words, you shall not be happy with the penalty that you shall be made to pay for such a grievous error in judgment.”

“The message, Your Majesty,” he nodded reverently, “is understood.”

F
OR TWO MONTHS AFTER
the Emperor left France for the Netherlands, and into the autumn of 1540, François, full of faith, waited for a decision on the fate of Milan. Montmorency tried to reassure him that it had been promised, and therefore it would be delivered. But each day the King found more reasons to doubt that the Emperor meant to keep his word. Each day also gave him more reason to doubt his old friend, the Constable. The Emperor had, after all, managed to leave France without ever having discussed Milan. The two Monarchs had touched casually, between their banquets and balls, on the issue of the Turks, and on religion. Nothing more.

When in February there was still no word from the Imperial Court, he instructed the French Ambassador to put the question directly to the Emperor. The reply was firm. Charles V formally thanked his good brother, the King of France, for safe passage through French waters, but said he had never made any such exchange of Milan as payment for their use.

François was devastated. He felt he had been made a fool of once again. The memories of the Pope Clement affair and the disastrous Medici marriage echoed back at him. In a rage, he dwelled on only one thing; that it had been Constable Montmorency who had encouraged him to try peaceful means first.

“Come in, Monty. Please, sit down,” the King stammered. The loss of his uvula caused him to speak like a child. He knew it, and now he was uncomfortable speaking more than necessary.

Montmorency strode the few paces from the door of the King’s private chamber to the throne near his bed. It was in an alcove painted in brilliant blue with glittering gold fleurs-de-lys. There was no music, as there usually was. There was no conversation and no servants. There was formality in place of the usual activity.

On the other side of the room, a fire blazed. Red and gold shafts of light flickered beneath the gold salamander crest. Beside the hearth, the two Cardinals, Tournon and Lorraine, stood, their red robes shimmering in the firelight. Claude d’Annebault stood beside them. The three men were silent, trying in vain to feign nonchalance.

Montmorency turned his head quickly away from them, but he knew that they were there; and why. His heart beat wildly against his chest and he found it difficult to catch his breath as his face flushed with a hot rush of blood. For the first time in his life he knew what it must feel like to walk the last steps to one’s death. His confident gait had vanished. In his mind everything was still; perfectly still.

The King stood on the dais that held his throne and leaned heavily on a gold and jeweled walking stick. Like his courtiers, François did not look directly at his Constable. All at once, Montmorency felt an overwhelming urge to plead with the King; to remind him of their years of friendship; the battles they had fought together, the victories and confidences they had shared. He knew before he was moved to speak that it would be pointless. This was to be his demise. But then, he had been warned.

“If it please Your Majesty, I would rather stand.” Montmorency’s voice cracked as he forced the words past his dry throat. He heard the rustling of the Cardinal’s tafetta robes.

“Very well. Then I too shall stand.”

The King gripped the top of his cane, the golden head of a roaring lion, and took the two steps down from the dais. The sun began to move through the east windows as it rose. It cast a streak of blinding sunlight across the King’s face. For that moment, Montmorency did not see the tears forming in the King’s eyes.

He came slowly toward the Constable. It was a great effort for him to walk now, but when he reached him, François put his arm around Montmorency and led him to the same sun-filled window. Both men looked down. In the courtyard below, courtiers strolled; some laughing, as they made their way back from the
jeu de paume
courts. Others were heading toward the chapel with their prayer books in hand. The church bell tolled and a collection of birds fluttered down from the rooftop and past the windows. These were the sounds and the signs of life. They echoed now, like memories, through the hollow, foul-smelling rooms of a once-great King.

“How is Madame de Montmorency?” the King finally asked.

He still did not turn around. The Constable was caught off guard.
Pleasantries?
he thought.
Now I am to receive pleasantries before he plucks out my heart?

“She is well, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

He looked out of the window in the same direction as the King. He could no longer see. The silence between them created a kind of blindness. A white light. He knew everything that he had worked for, all of the sacrificing, the planning; all of it was over.

“. . .Because I have not seen her for some time, you know, and. . .”

Now it was the King who stopped. He had run out of conversation. There was another awkward silence. It was more awkward than before because now he knew that the King was fighting for the words. “. . .and the children?” the King asked, almost victoriously, after another extended pause. “They are well?”

“All are well, thank you, Your Majesty.”

He was mildly aware that he was beginning to sound irritated, but Montmorency could not seem to chase the tone from his voice. Nor could he rid his body of the rigid posture that he had now adopted. Feet spread; chest extended; hands clasped behind his back. The posture of a condemned man, he thought. His body had automatically gone into a position of defense. He could not change the experiences of thirty years; not even for the King. His body knew what lay ahead, and it, not he, had reacted.

Montmorency had seen trusted aides dismissed before. Most often the less tasteful work was done by underlings, ambassadors or courtiers, unless of course those being relieved of their duty meant anything at all to the King. Then there was the code to contend with, the chivalric code. Machiavelli’s
Prince
reigned supreme over the King’s life, ghostlike; always haunting him, urging him to be, at an costs,
un vrai gentilhomme.
Montmorency had watched the King’s dismissals on more than one occasion. Flashes from those scenes now passed across his mind. There were always words of concern about family and about finances; a kind of hypocritical interest before the final, fatal blow.

“And do you have enough money. . .are you, comfortable?”

Montmorency looked at the King. The blood that had been pulsing in his face drained away and he went white as winter snow. His heart ceased, or so he thought.
Finances!
Now he was certain that it was the end. There had been a war and Anne d’Heilly had won. She had finally gotten what she wanted; what she had always sworn she would. She had finally destroyed him. And then, something came over him. Something he could not control.

“What is it, Your Majesty? François, my good friend, what have I done? I can see that I have displeased you. . .” He moved toward the King. Just a fraction of an inch, but it was too swift, too pleading. The King moved back. “. . .if I have disappointed you in some way. Please, just tell me and I am certain that I can—”

He caught himself. He was pleading. Before the King and the Cardinals, who he was sure had rejoiced in his demise, he was begging forgiveness. This despite the fact that he had sworn he would never grovel. The King wiped the tears with the back of his hand. That was it, thought Montmorency. Tears. He would have had a chance if the King had been angry. If he had been furious he would have known how to fight it, but this. . .All was lost! The King looked at him squarely, taking in a deep breath before he spewed forth the last deathknell.

“Monty, my dearest. . .dearest friend.” He put his hand on Montmorency’s arm. It was a hand covered with purple age spots and blue veins. “It is not anything that you have done. . .nothing that you can change. You have been a worthy general. . .and God knows, you have been a good enough friend. In fact. . .” He began once again to stumble over his words; the effects of his disease returning. “I can find no fault with you but that, God help me. . .you do not love those whom I love.”

So there, he had said it. The King was sobbing now between his words; unashamed, but he had said it, Anne d’Heilly had won. Montmorency was absolutely still. He turned and gazed out of the window again. The garden was empty. There were no courtiers. No movement. The King, he thought, was completely resigned. There was nothing left for which to argue; nothing left for which he could fight. By her wrath, he had been completely destroyed.

“I
SIMPLY CANNOT BELIEVE IT.
And to have left Court without even saying so much as adieu. Especially to me!” Henri groaned.

“It cannot have been easy for him,
chéri.
I am certain he will write to you and explain the entire matter once he reaches Chantilly.”

Diane sat beside Henri on a blue brocade settee, both of them still in their riding clothes when François de Guise had come to them with the news of Montmorency’s departure. He said he had received word from his uncle, the Cardinal, who had been in the King’s chamber earlier that morning. He explained that the King had personally relieved Montmorency of his duty. The official reason had been something about the Constable’s inability to contend with those whom the King loved. The real reason, everyone knew, was Montmorency’s inability to secure Milan.

“But to use him as a scapegoat for the entire affair is too much!” Henri cried. “It was her! I know it was her doing! She has always despised him, and she waited for precisely this chance to ruin him. Oh, I can imagine how she harped on the King. . .how she nagged and badgered until he acquiesced. The Emperor never had any intention of giving up Milan and she knew it. But she still managed to use it against Monty! So many years of service and His Majesty could give no better reason to his Constable than he did not love the same people the King loved?”

Henri slammed his fist into the carved-oak table that held the empty wine decanter. Diane could see the anger building. She knew, when he was like this, that she was powerless to stop the fury. It must run its course. She said nothing as she watched him spring to his feet.

“And I am Dauphin. Ha! Now that is humorous, do you not think? Heir to the throne of France and yet I am a part of nothing here! All just to spite me. He treats me as if I did not even exist! I know nothing of the workings of his councils, their opinions. . .even his rulings! To learn of this through gossip, like everyone else. . .oh, it is too much!”

He was so infused with his own anger that he did not hear the chamber door open. “Papa! Papa!” cried the little girl as she raced toward Henri. A tall man in a crimson and gold doublet followed her breathlessly into the room.

“Please forgive me, Your Highness. I could not stop her. She said she had to see you.”

Henri instantly softened as he scooped his daughter into his arms. He held her to his chest, kissing away the two little tears that streamed down her cheeks.

“It is all right, Monsieur Duval. My daughter has access to these apartments or my own, at her will.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Now, what is this all about?” he said, kissing the tip of her nose.

She was a beautiful child, nearly six now, with long full dark hair which, when she was three, had turned the color of her father’s. She wore it pulled away from her face at the top and covered by a small blue cap that matched her eyes; her mother’s eyes. It was fortunate, Diane had always thought, that as she grew, she looked less and less like herself and more like Henri; more like a Valois. She had the same long face. The same slender nose and the same ruddy skin. She had a curious nature and a key to her father’s heart. But it was the second key. The first key belonged to her mother, a mother whom she still did not know.

“Papa, is it true?”

“Is what true,
ma mignonne
?”

“That Uncle Montmorency is going away forever.”

Henri hugged her to his chest and then set her down before him. He then knelt beside her. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

The child looked up innocently at her tutor, who stood behind her. Then she looked back at her father. Henri’s thick, dark brows began to close over his eyes. His reassuring smile faded.

“The Duchesse d’Etampes was speaking to Monsieur Duval in the corridor this morning,” the little girl continued. “They did not know I could hear them. I could not make out all of the words because they were whispering but she did say that there was no hope of Uncle Montmorency ever coming back.”

What the child did not confess to her father was that she had heard other things too. She understood declarations of love from her tutor to the King’s mistress, and close kissing sounds, like her father often made with Madame Diane when they were certain that she was asleep. She knew that it could not be proper. After all, the Duchesse belonged to His Majesty just the way Madame Diane belonged to Papa. She knew that the sounds could not have been anything but wrong. Henri pulled her closely to him and she sat on his knee. He forced a smile. Diane gazed down at them but made no attempt to intercede.