Courtesan (55 page)

There was the sound of heavy petticoats rustling beneath her as Catherine stiffened. Then a hardened look washed over her heavily featured face. “So, you would propose to swap one whore for another.”

“At least initially yes, Your Majesty. It is my belief that she is beautiful enough to sway the King, but not wise enough to keep him.”

“Thereby eventually ridding him of both the new and the old.”

“Precisely. But meanwhile, Madame Diane, upon her return to Court, would of course stumble upon the news of her lover’s infidelity. I am quite certain that since they began with one another, there has been no other between them, which of course would make this discovery all the more disagreeable.”

Catherine stood, tugged at the stiff magenta collar around her throat and began to stroll around the room with a stalking kind of intent. “So you believe his indiscretion would be unforgivable to her?”

“I am certain of it. Then, once they are both gotten rid of, Your Majesty can take her rightful and much-deserved place beside the King.”

“And of course, you would take yours.” There was another pause between them as she considered further. “Should I agree to this scheme, Monsieur, how would you propose to accomplish it?”

“My plan is far-fetched, I will grant you that, but I believe it to be a risk worth taking. His Majesty’s demeanor has completely changed since his return from the north. He is vulnerable, and if you will permit me, I believe that he is lonely. As you undoubtedly know, Madame Diane is mysteriously absent. Tomorrow night, if you should agree, it should not prove too difficult a task to ply the King with wine. It must be a quantity considerably more sizable than that to which he is accustomed. When the time is right, His Majesty shall be privy to a performance arranged in his honor. It will feature a dance of nymphs, seductively clad, who will dance around him.”

“Of whom you, no doubt, intend for the Lady Flemming to be one.”

Montmorency waited on the couch for the Queen to stop pacing and to look back at him. “Will Your Majesty agree to it then?”

“How can you be certain that the Lady will participate?”

“If you will pardon me, for being blunt, an opportunity to bed with the young and handsome King of France is not likely to be rejected by anyone with half an eye or an ounce of ambition.”

“Ah, yes. Of course you are right,” she conceded as she touched a line from her cheek to her chin. “Very well. But be advised of one very important thing, Monsieur Montmorency. If this fails, it is your head that shall roll, not mine.”

H
ENRI SPENT SEVERAL DAYS
at Saint Germain-en-Laye after his return from Chenonceaux. There, he vacillated between the solitude of the chapel and violent exercise. The latter was the only way in which he felt able, even for just a while, to stave off his pain at the loss of Diane. Had he not forced himself to believe that their estrangement was temporary, he was certain he would have gone completely mad.

There had been many separations between them over the years but this was the first time she had ever openly and intentionally sought distance from him. At the source of his pain was the belief that he had acted to honor her. By committing Montgommery to prison, he had tried to protect her. Yet rather than trusting him, she had chosen to believe the words of another man.

But this anxiety he felt now was not only for Diane. Her turning away symbolized a lifetime of rejection. Memories of his father and brothers were juxtaposed daily with the echo of her words, the worst of which was “betrayal.” She had opened up something in him; something weak and unsure, and raw. She needed time to heal, she had said; time to heal from a wound that he had inflicted. There could be, he thought, no worse pain than this; no worse torture than the loss of his Diane.

The pain of her absence was made worse by the fact that everything around him now reminded him of her. The shrines he had built to feel surrounded by her during their separations now haunted him. The sketches and the oil paintings of her looked down on him from almost every room; his wardrobe, his staff’s uniforms, all were of black and white. The crescent moons, and their emblem, were now incorporated into nearly every ceiling and every fixture of the chateau. The signs had been carved into furniture, sewn into bedlinens and painted on doors. For all of his efforts now, he could not escape the memory of her. Everywhere he turned he was reminded of her. . .and of the betrayal. Eager to forget his melancholy heart, even for a little while, Henri agreed to attend a banquet given in his honor by Montmorency.

Plates of roasted meats and bowls of fruit shared the table with large vessels of Bordeaux and imported mead. Catherine watched silently as Henri and Montmorency laughed and joked. Much of that was due to the Constable’s preparation, more than to the King’s attitude. Each time Henri took more than two sips of wine, a steward silently advanced and filled his chalice. His movements were full of such dexterity that the King barely noticed.

When the meal was complete and the two men sat back in their chairs, Montmorency held his hands above his head and firmly clapped them. The musicians, who were arranged behind a screen, changed from their melodic strains to a more exotic theme. Many of the candles were then extinguished and the room filled with the heavy aroma of smoke.

Henri sat back in his chair not quite able, for the effects of the wine, to keep from swaying.

“What? Have you arranged some entertainment, Monty?”

“I had hoped to please Your Majesty by arranging a small performance for you. The plays of Homer, and from them a small scene that I think you shall enjoy.”

Henri leaned forward and slapped Montmorency across the back. “Splendid!”

After a moment, four barefoot maidens danced into the room on their toes. They began to swirl around the room in layers of rose-colored silk, cinched at the waist in gold. Before each of their faces was a veil. To highlight their eyes, they had been heavily made up with dark kohl. Three of the dancers were short and plump; Italian girls from Catherine’s train. Janet Stuart’s flame-red hair and voluptuous form were a bold contrast to the others. It would have been impossible not to notice her.

Catherine watched her husband gaze glassy-eyed at Lady Flemming, who was expertly attempting to seduce him before all of their friends. It took her a great effort to stifle her rage. It was one thing, she thought, to know that her husband had been unfaithful; it was quite another thing to watch it. But then this was not the first time she had seen such a seduction. She remembered the tiny hole she had once cut in the floor of her apartments, and what she had seen in Madame Diane’s bedchamber below. She had lain prostrate watching them make love below her, hoping to understand what it was that had so totally captivated her husband. But that invasion of Diane’s bedchamber from above had not brought her the satisfaction she had hoped. The same pain she felt watching Diane in her husband’s arms, she felt now.

She forced the images and the memories from her mind and kept silent. As she sat fanning her face with a priceless Chinese fan, Catherine studied Lady Flemming. Until Montmorency had spoken her name, she had barely noticed the woman; certainly never considered her a viable challenge to the
favourite.
She actually thought, once she had taken time to examine her, that she was rather ordinary looking. Her beauty was earthy and pagan. She was the complete antithesis of Diane de Poitiers. But then perhaps at the moment, that would be in her favor. And in truth, this was a small price to pay if, once and for all, she could be free of the one woman who had ruined her life.

As the dance continued, Lady Flemming whirled around the King, smelling of ambergris and brushing his body with the sheers of rose-colored silk. Montmorency, who had watched intently since her arrival, paced himself with the deftness of a master. When he knew that the timing was right, he leaned toward the King.

“She is breathtaking, isn’t she?”

“Who do you mean?” Henri asked, unable to take his eyes from the dance.

“Why, Lady Flemming, of course.”

The sound of her name caused Henri to look at his friend, and then back at the sensual beauty who had so captivated him.

“Little Mary’s nurse?” he asked, trying to disguise the fact that he had known her identity all along.

“The very same. When she learned today that I was preparing a little entertainment for Your Majesty, she asked if she might participate.”

Henri shifted in his seat and took another swallow from the ever-full jeweled goblet. Then he looked out again at the dancers. Montmorency watched the King. The music was exotic, the wine was strong and the perfume intoxicating. Henri was completely transfixed, and the Constable knew it.

Finally, he leaned toward the King and spoke behind his hand so that no one else would hear. “I hope that Your Majesty will forgive my boldness, but you are King of all France. You are not like other men. Your Majesty is virile; your appetites are boundless. Your indiscretions are. . .expected.” Henri slowly turned his head. His eyes were glazed and his face was flushed.

“What are you driving at, Monty?”

“Just that. . .well, should your love for certain people give way to a more temporary need for gratification. . .such a move would certainly be understood.”

“Are you suggesting, my dear Constable, while Madame is away that I bed Lady Flemming?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. Such an inference would be inappropriate.” He paced himself; waited a moment, then added, “What I am saying is that Madame Diane, of course, possesses you exclusively. That is plain for all the world to see. So that a momentary transgression of the flesh, for one so supreme as yourself, would in no way be viewed as a challenge to your heart.”

“I will be faithful to her, Monty!” Henri snapped and slammed down his goblet.

“Of course, Your Majesty, I have overstepped myself. Forgive me,” he said as he watched Lady Flemming glide from the room and the King’s eyes follow after her.

Henry took another long drink of the wine, then set the goblet down. When he looked at the Constable again, his eyes were half closed and he had begun to perspire.

“Very well, Montmorency,” he finally muttered resignedly. “Arrange it.”

H
ENRI SAT UP
and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He opened the bedcurtains and gazed into the golden light of the fire. The rest of the room was dark. It was still the middle of the night but already his head was throbbing. He buried his head in his hands and let out a heavy sigh. He did not need to turn around to know that she was still there with him.

“Dear God, what have I done?” he murmured as he looked down at his own naked body, still bathed in glistening sweat.

He had waited until she had begun to doze, hoping to sneak quietly away. But he must have done something to rouse her. All at once she was behind him, her hands on his shoulders, and she was kissing his neck. He could feel the press of her full breasts against his back; smell the heavy scent of her perfume. When he did not respond, she pulled away.

“What is it, Your Majesty? You’re not going to be sick again, are you?”

Henri moaned and lowered his face again into his hands. When they had first arrived in his bedchamber, before he had touched her, the wine had taken its toll and he had been violently ill. But the retching had done nothing to dissuade her and she had, after a time, finally had her way.

“Was it all that bad between us?” she asked in the same thickly accented Scottish that had once made him cringe.

“No. No, it was not. I suppose that is precisely the problem.” The muffled words came from between his fingers. Lady Flemming ran her own fingers through his thick hair at the back of his head, pressing her breasts deeper into him. He arched his back, responding to her touch. It felt good to have a woman want him again, and yet, what he had done was forbidden. He had betrayed Diane yet again.

“I have never done this before,” he said. When she did not reply he added, “. . .been unfaithful.”

“What about your
favourite
?”

Henri took his hands from his face and forced himself to look at her. “It is from her that I have never strayed. No matter where I was or how long we were apart, there has never been, in all those years. . .another woman.”

“Well, there is always a first time for everything!” she chuckled and ran the tips of her fingers down his broad back and along the contours of his arms.

It had been different with her than it had ever been with Diane; with her he was always caring. There was a deep tenderness between them. This had been more furious; nearly violent. That dark need, buried deep inside him since his youth, had finally overpowered him. There had been nothing else but his own need, and in it, there had been no choice. He had not cared about this woman; her pleasure or her pain. He moaned again as her hands made their way down to the thick of moist black hair between his legs. Her pink tongue caressed the place behind his ear.

“Please do not. . .I beg you,” he whispered helplessly, as she wrapped her slender fingers around his penis and began to move them in a slow even rhythm. “Please,” he said again. “I love her, I love Diane.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I know. But you are lonely and alone. . .and she is not here with you now. . .I am.”

H
ENRI’S INDISCRETION
with Janet Stuart did not end with his sobriety the following morning. In Diane’s absence they seemed quite peculiarly thrown together at every turn, ever increasing the ease and the temptation to fall again from grace. When he rode, she rode with his party. When he dined, he found that she had been invited and was seated next to him. All the while, Henri was completely unaware of the plot against him that had been instigated by his wife and his own best friend.

For her part, Lady Flemming played it like a champion. When they were together she was loud and demanding, making it impossible for those close to the King to remain unaware of what had passed between them. When they were alone, she seduced him shamelessly with the bawdy expertise of a common street whore. But after a fortnight of submission in his bed and hers, trapped between his loneliness and her unrelenting advances, the emptiness returned. The longing for the only woman who could ever truly make him happy descended upon him with a vengeance. It filled him with overwhelming guilt. Then despair. He began to make attempts to avoid her; first subtle, and then more blatant. But as his desire to avoid her increased, her determination to capture him became obsessive. He panicked. He wrote feverish and impassioned letters to Diane, begging her to return to him. When she wrote that she was not yet ready, he pleaded with her to let him come there. But it was to no avail.