Courtesan (19 page)

“You look magnificent tonight. The black color against your fair skin. . .your hair. . .”

He took her hand in his own and gently kissed it; then held it near his lips, as he had seen his father and his brother do so many times. He only hoped it was proper. He felt as if his heart would crash through his ribs or stop altogether. His stomach was knotted. His lips were dry. But after he had touched her hand to his lips, he could not find the strength to surrender it.

He looked down at her. The bodice of her gown was black silk crested with white lace. Across her breastbone was a string of pearls. They drew his eyes downward. Down to her breasts; the same breasts he thought of in the night sometimes. The easy smile had left her face. Without a single word between them, he knew she felt the power of his eyes; knew she felt the intensity as he continued to hold her hand. That touch was their connection. The skin of her hand was soft; smooth like velvet. Like nothing he had ever known. . .or would know again. He would never. . .could never be here again. Not exactly like this. With her.

Now, he was only mildly aware of a strange force growing inside of him. A force pulling him toward her. Closer. Easing the fear. Replacing it with a warm, almost numbing sensation. He saw her lips, long and slender. Pink. The color of a musk rose. Slightly parted and moist. Slowly, he moved toward her and then pressed his firm lips against hers in an awkward yet powerful adolescent kiss.

“Henri,” she gasped, putting her fingers to her lips. “You mustn’t ever do that again.”

“But why? I thought that you cared for me.”

“Your Highness must not think of me in that way. If I have given you any reason to believe there was anything more than friendship between us, I am very, very sorry.”

“But you must know how I feel about you before that bastard Montgommery sweeps you away.”

“I believe that you care for me, Henri, as I care for you. But when one is young, feelings of friendship can often be mistaken for different and even deeper emotions.”

“But, I love you, and I have reason to believe that you feel the same!” He blurted out the words and then stood before her with his lips parted, his eager face flushed.

Diane felt her mind begin to whirl. She leaned back against the gazebo to steady herself. “You have no reason,” she calmly replied and then took his hand. “Henri, you must listen to me. You are the son of a King. I am a widow with two daughters who are nearly your age. I was young once myself. I know what you are feeling, but you must believe me, it is not love.”

As Diane struggled to convince him, she could see from the corner of her eye the shadow of a man coming down the lawn toward the gazebo with a large retinue around him. She moved away from Henri to a place behind a thick tangle of ivy, hoping to see who it was. As he passed beneath the light of the moon, Diane could see to her horror that it was the King.

Her heart began to race and she was choked with fear. Their presence alone together here could be very damaging to them both. But how could she convince a headstrong boy like Henri, who thrived on being the bane of the King, that for both of their sakes he must hide? She had no idea what she might say to convince him. She must say something. Anything. But as she turned back, prepared even to plead with him, she found herself alone. Just as the King and his courtiers came upon her, she turned around in time to see the shadow of a young man heading alone into the protective thickness of the forest.

T
HE
C
OURT MOVED TO
P
ARIS
from Saint Germain-en-Laye the following morning. The King’s favorites, his
petite bande,
his confidants and his aides, rode with him in a train of royal barges down the teeming river that flowed into the Seine. The others would follow on horseback.

Henri had done his best to avoid Diane before they departed. He did not attend vespers in the chapel when he knew that she would be there, nor did he show up for their game of
jeu de paume
. When he found that she would be going by the King’s barge, he resolved to take his horse. Jacques did not ask him about the meeting in the gazebo but he knew it had not gone well. The flicker of light that Diane de Poitiers had illuminated in the eyes of the young Prince had once again dimmed.

Diane herself was consumed by the entire incident and berated herself for having encouraged it.
It is my fault. I should have seen it coming. I should have seen the signs of it. If only I had not gone to his room that afternoon. I was too familiar. It was wrong of me. Dear Mother Mary, help me now,
she silently prayed and clutched her small leather prayer book to her breast.
I am just so alone. So lonely. He is young. Strong
. . .

She thought of his body as he had stood there before her in the moonlight. She had watched his eyes narrow as he had held her hand; felt the gentle touch of his fingers. He did not love her in some chaste way. He had wanted her. She knew that. It was not difficult to see in one so young. Her knees grew weak at the thought of him. A shiver ran through her. She could feel her nipples tense against the velvet bodice of her gown; feel a deep, disturbing surge.

“Madame?”

“What? Oh. . .”

Jacques de Saint-André had sat down beside her on the tented royal barge but she had not noticed. They rode in the second barge behind the King as soft music from the lute player drifted back to them on the wings of a gentle breeze.

“Why are you not with the Prince?” she asked, gazing out at the trees and the thatched roof cottages that lined the shore.

“He asked me to go on ahead. He wanted to ride alone.”

She looked at him for a moment, as she had never before. He had a kind, sensitive face. Gentle eyes. Henri trusted him. She trusted him.

“Oh, Jacques,” she whispered. “It seems as if I have made a terrible mess of things.”

“He cares deeply for you, Madame.”

“He fancies himself in love.”

“I suspected as much. You are the first person that he has valued, besides Montmorency, who showed him the least bit of favor.”

“I knew it must be something like that. Oh, Jacques, what am I to do? He is such a kind and gentle young man. I have no wish to cause him any more hurt than this life has given him already.”

There was a long silence between them. Jacques gazed out across the river. A cool spring breeze lashed across his face and rippled his blond hair.

“I suppose then, Madame, you must be very certain about what you do want to do before you act upon it.”

She clutched his arm and took in a deep breath. “Oh, you are both so wonderful and so very young. The very notion of such a thing is impossible.”

“Yes, Madame. I would agree with you for myself, but Henri is different. Spain aged him in a way that you or I will never completely understand. He seemed to lose any remaining vestige of his youth there. Since then, he has always seemed old, you know; well beyond his years.”

Jacques shifted in his seat and adjusted his toque, which the breeze had pushed back on his head. “Yet in the past month I have seen him smile and laugh as though he were a child again.”

“And you think it is because of me?”

“All I am saying, Madame, is that I believe you wield an enormous amount of influence over His Highness just now. More than you know. As his friend, I would ask you, please, to consider the knowledge of that well before you act.”

Diane gazed back out as the barge swayed and moved its way into the city of Paris. She could see the Cathedral de Notre Dame in the distance with its two beautiful high pillars rising up toward the cloudless sky. As they neared the city, the royal barges converged into the city’s canals.

These congested waterways were steadily swollen to capacity with the tangle of barges and fishing boats. The Seine was a major artery for supplies and travel. It was also a pestilent sewer, teaming with the odor of refuse. Diane smiled in disbelief at the beauty that was Fontainebleau forty miles away, as she covered her mouth to the vile stench that filled the air of the city.

Jacques’ words haunted her so that she barely noticed the filthy streets, used as a dumping ground for the town’s refuse. Holes and blue-black puddles of grease were stepped over, as the entourage made their way from the landing up the rue Saint-Honoré toward Les Tournelles.

She did not see the thatched roof dwellings or the timber front mansions flowing out of the twisted dirty streets. She missed the sight of the beggars and the dirty faced children who were kept back by the pointed rapiers of the King’s guard. The shops full of silks, velvet, books and pictures. The hollering of fish mongers. Weavers. Butchers. The sight of all of them were lost to her.

Be certain,
Jacques had said.

Certain of what? Was he suggesting that she was falling in love with a boy half her age? It was too absurd to consider. He was a handsome and sensitive young man who one day soon would meet and marry a beautiful and dowered young woman. They would laugh together about his infatuation one day. Yes, years from now, she and Henri would share a private joke about their stolen kiss in the gazebo.
I am too old. I have children. I have a past. I am a widow. It is impossible.

T
HE DAYS OF SPRING
at the Court of France were strung together by an endless series of banquets, hunting parties and poetry readings in the gardens. For Diane, things had finally begun to develop a rhythm. Even the constant uprooting and the endless ceremonial journeys were beginning to seem commonplace.

Since the Sancerre trio’s ouster from Court and Anne d’Heilly’s return to her place as undisputed
favourite,
the vicious poetry that had regularly begun to find its way beneath Diane’s door had ceased. Anne no longer used the regular gatherings as occasion to slight her. Diane had also managed to rekindle old friendships with the Grand Master’s wife and the King’s two daughters, Madeleine and Marguerite. For the most part, she would have considered herself quite content had it not been for one element: the breach with Henri.

Diane had tried to get word to him through Jacques as soon as they had arrived in Paris. She had proposed a neutral game of
jeu de paume
in an attempt to ease the tensions between them. She had only hoped to discourage his advances; she had not wanted to lose his friendship. Much to her surprise, however, a polite refusal to her invitation was returned through his valet. The very civil explanation to her was that His Highness was kept quite busy of late, training for his upcoming joust with the King. Diane knew the real reason for the turn of events between them and she felt responsible.

I have hurt him,
she thought.
But what other choice did I have?

“H
ÉLÈNE!
C
HARLOTTE!
Where are you with my gown!” Diane called. “I shall be late for the King’s ball!”

Diane was not herself. She had been nervous, and the tension had caused her to lose her temper several times that day. Tomorrow the King would fight his son. They would joust. France had a passion for the sport. It brought out all of Paris, who celebrated wildly in the taverns, inns and brothels of the city, before and after such a match.

Tomorrow the stands would be filled with music and courtiers. Beautifully painted women would spill forth from the stands, waving the scarf of their colors at the victor whom they had chosen. Banners would fly and trumpets would herald the arrival of the final athletes of the day: King François and Prince Henri.

Part of the thrill of the joust to a gentleman of honor was the danger. It was a perilous sport, and one opponent was as likely to be felled as the next. In times past it had been more dangerous but after several serious injuries and deaths, modifications to the sport had been made. Each man would be dressed in full armor. Rather than riding directly at one another, the arena, called “the lists,” was divided by a long wooden panel. Each man rode toward the other on opposite sides of a low barrier. It was also no longer the intent to fell one’s opponent; the purpose was to break a lance against the opponent’s shielded body.

Diane looked out of her open casement window at Les Tournelles onto the courtyard below. There she could see the lists being constructed. As the afternoon sun dimmed, the men carried large sheets of wood which were then bolted together to form the divider. Diane thought of Henri. He was young and strong. His well-developed body could survive the rigors of a joust with the King. But accidents had happened. It was dangerous. Her mind wandered back to their kiss and the cool taste of his lips pressed against hers.

“Stop it!” she cried out. “Hélène! Charlotte!”

The two women came into the room together. Hélène’s arms were full with a long black gown. Charlotte held the black velvet slippers and the jewelry casket, neither of them having apparently heard her cry.

“Are they really going to fight?”

“Yes, Hélène, they are,” Diane replied, turning back from the window.

“Imagine giving a ball to celebrate a battle with your own son! Joust indeed! If you ask me, it is all-out war. He hates the boy and all of France knows it,” Charlotte muttered to herself as she set the jewelry casket on the bed then handed Hélène a pearl and ruby brooch.

“No, not that one,” Diane said. “Tonight I shall wear the crescent.”

The two servants looked at one another again.

“The talisman?”

“Yes, Charlotte, the talisman. You do not approve?”

“Well, Madame, since you ask, it is just that you have so many more, well, so many more stunning pieces than that old bit of ivory.”

“That
old bit of ivory,
as you call it, was given to me many years ago as a good luck charm,” Diane reminded her.

She looked down at the pendant, perfectly shaped as a crescent moon which hung from a thin chain of solid gold. She remembered with the clarity of yesterday, the day she had received it. The woman was old, her hair gray and matted.
I know not who you are,
she had said, moments after Diane had plucked her from the river,
but I would have drowned. I owe you my life.
When she told the old woman that her name was Diane, her gray-blue eyes had blinked with astonishment. Then, she had reached under her gown, pulled a pendant from her neck and thrust it into Diane’s hand.
I was told long ago,
she began again with a quivering voice,
that one day, there would be someone to whom I should give this. When the time came I would have no doubt who that was. Now, I am certain. You see,
she said, pointing to the shape of the ivory.
A moon. Symbol of Diana, goddess of the moon. It is your symbol. Please take it. It has brought me luck. Now, it shall do the same for you. One day when it is time for you to pass it along, you also shall know it.

“Yes, tonight I shall wear the crescent,” she declared and then turned around.

Her servants both backed away as Diane took one final look at herself in the mirror. What she saw caused her to draw nearer to her image. There were two tiny lines beside each of her eyes. She touched them.

“Ah, well. The first signs of it,” she sighed. “Tonight I shall be glad that the ball is a masked affair.”

“Madame, you are beautiful!” said Hélène.

Diane turned and kissed her whimsically on the cheek. “And you are a faithful servant.”

Finally, Charlotte hooked the black velvet mask over her eyes and beneath Diane’s headdress. When the costume was complete, she turned back around toward them and smiled, hoping that there was still some modicum of truth in her young maid’s declaration.

S
HE SAW
H
ENRI
before he saw her.

He was standing alone by one of the long open windows through which Diane could see the glowing crescent shape of the moon. Henri was the only one in the room who did not wear a mask and yet that did not particularly surprise her. He stood against the window, looking from side to side and swilling a large gold chalice of wine. She was so struck by the image that, for several moments while she was sheltered by a swell of guests, she hid herself and watched him. She had not known, until that moment, how completely alone someone could actually be in a room filled with so many people.

“Not very sporting of Your Highness to come without a mask,” she finally said, trying her best to sound casual.

“I do not like games,” he replied without looking when she came up beside him.

“Then why did you come at all?”

“Only because the King threatened to send me back to Fontainebleau for another month alone with the Queen and her Spaniards, if I did not comply.”

“Oh, Henri, I am sorry.”

“Do not be. By now I have grown accustomed to it. People are like puppets to him, and he is the grand puppeteer. He says ‘do this. . .’ so we do. ‘Do that,’ and so we do. . .we always do. Not bad once you know the rules,” he said sardonically, and finished the rest of his wine.

It was more awkward than it had ever been between them. He still had not looked at her, yet there was a kind of anger in his voice that told her he had closed himself off to her. Nothing she said could make him react. He set his empty goblet on the tray of a passing servant and took a full one. He did not seek to continue their exchange. Then, when there was nothing else she could say, Diane unfastened the crescent-shaped ivory pendant from around her neck and held it out to him.

“So then. Tomorrow you joust.”

“Tomorrow the King exhibits publicly his disdain of me.”

“Well, I should very much like for you to have this with you. I was told by an old woman once that it is a talisman of sorts; that it brings good luck to whomever shall wear it.”

Henri took the pendant and looked for the first time into Diane’s masked eyes. “It is crescent shaped, just as the moon is tonight.”

Diane nodded, surprised that he had noticed.

“It is very beautiful.”

“Yes it is. It is also very special to me.”

“It is the shape of a crescent, and you are Diana. . .like the goddess of the moon. This is your symbol. Are you certain you want to give it to me?”

“Very certain.”

“Then I shall fight for your honor tomorrow with this pendant beneath my armor,” he declared in an uneasy and faltering voice, more like the one she had heard beneath the gazebo when he had said he loved her. With an overwhelming instinct of fear, she turned from him. He could see that he had made her uneasy.

“. . .Just as I did in my first tourney when you gave me your scarf. Remember?” he added. Diane continued to look away. “Madame, I meant nothing more by it. You have made your feelings clear. But please, let me ride for you. You know that I have no one else.”

Her heart swelled beneath her elegant black damask gown. She smiled and then turned to face him again. What could she say? Now she was being foolish. She had offered peace between them by giving him this talisman. He had done nothing more than agree to take it; and she desperately wanted their friendship.

“Very well, then. It would be a great honor, Your Highness, if you should ride for me tomorrow.”

Just as Diane had agreed, the King and Grand Master Montmorency came up beside them. Diane turned, then curtsied to His Majesty.

“Why, Henri,” said the King in mock surprise. “Your presence here tonight surprises me.”

“I was not aware of a choice in the matter,” Henri sniped.

“I believe that I made your choices quite clear. And Madame, what a pleasure it is to see you here as well. Where have you been keeping yourself these past few days? Do not tell me that this foolish boy is the only one fortunate enough to have enjoyed your company.”

“Madame de Poitiers was only being polite, Your Majesty. She was inquiring of me the reason for our match tomorrow.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I was forced to confess to her that intense dislike and a great desire to inflict pain between the opponents were the only motivations I knew. Now, if you all will excuse me. . .”

Montmorency lowered his head, anticipating the King’s reaction. Diane and the King watched him fade into the crowd.

“Blasted boy! Damn! How sorry I am to have given seed to him! Madame, I assure you, you are wasting your time on the ungrateful wretch!”

“I have found no problem with him, Your Majesty. Prince Henri is always very proper with me.”

“Then perhaps we should all take lessons from you, for if you speak the truth, you know a very powerful secret!”

“Madame, Prince Henri is, well to be plain. . .he is disturbed,” explained the Grand Master. “His Majesty believes that the years in Spain fostered in him a kind of illness of the mind that we are thus far at a loss to cure.”

“I see. Well I am sorry then if I have overstepped my bounds.”

“It is not your fault,” said the King. “You could not have known. And if he is, as you say, proper with you, then perhaps there is some small ray of hope; for you would be the first. Ah! They are doing the Passepied. My favorite! Do come dance with me, Madame. Help me forget all this trifling.”

Diane’s instinct had been to go after Henri, but by now he was hopelessly lost amid the panoply of courtiers and dignitaries. François was tugging at her hand, bidding her to join him. She must dance with him. One did not reject such an offer.

“Rumor has it, Your Majesty, that we will soon be at war again,” Diane remarked. François turned from her and bowed in time to the music.

“Tell me, Madame, have you ever been to Italy?”

“I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure.”

They turned again and circled past other partners. When they were reunited, they again bowed and joined hands.

“It is the most beautiful land in the world, with riches that you can scarcely imagine. There are cathedrals, sculptures and art to overwhelm. Come, I will show you what I mean,” he suddenly declared, and pulled her from the dancing area. The rest of the guests came to a halt as the King led Diane de Poitiers by the hand, out of the ballroom.

Henri surged forth protectively from his place by the open window. Jacques held him from advancing. “Where is he taking her?”

“Steady yourself, Your Highness. She is a grown woman.”

“But she is no match for these people! She must give way to the King and his whore or be thought disobedient! I know how he works, and I shall not let her become one of his conquests!”