by Diane Haeger
“Find Christian,” she snapped, her voice thin and implacable. Mademoiselle de Colliers curtsied. “And inform my sister that you and your ladies may have the rest of the afternoon to yourself, once he arrives.”
“Will you be attending Monsieur Duprat’s party this evening, then?”
“Oh yes, of course. I shall need you all to help me dress. But wait until near eight before you return.”
Anne rose and walked slowly toward the mirror that hung near the fire. She pinched her smooth cheeks to fill them with their own natural blush. She would not be made a fool of by any man, not even the King of France. Casually, she tugged at the stiff décolletage of her sweeping emerald gown. The movement defined the cleft between her firm breasts. She placed her hands around her tiny waist, as if to insure that she still had her figure. She did. Reassured of her beauty, she smiled. The knock at the door brought an even larger smile.
Christian de Nançay entered slowly, and closed the door. He leaned against a heavy carved pillar and gazed at her with a piercing sensuality. Their scene that morning before the other servants had not angered her so much as it had excited her. There was danger in their liaison and for her, danger and passion were inextricably mixed. He moved forward and stood before her, blond curls framing his angular face and the burst of young manhood evident beneath his codpiece. They both knew why he was there. It was not the first time.
Anne walked slowly toward him and put her hands to his chest as they gazed at one another. “You have been very bad,” she whispered. “I would have thought that after last night—”
The young Captain did not answer but kissed her, prying open her mouth with his own. His force urged her on. She would not regret this, no matter what the cost.
“She means nothing to me,” he finally whispered into her ear as he licked and nuzzled the lobe. “I cannot have you nearly often enough. It was nothing more to me than a physical need; like eating. . .sleeping. . .it was not at all like this. . .”
Anne smiled and slowly began to unfasten his doublet. She wanted him in spite of his indiscretion with the pathetic little maid; perhaps because of it. As she began to lose herself in the strength of his arms, she became aware of a sound; a collection of footsteps; then a low rumbling of voices. It was the King and his entourage. She could hear François’ laugh and the dull monotonous drone of the Cardinal de Lorraine. Her heart quickened and she struggled to free herself from Christian’s grip. To be found out would be her ruin. He never came to her in the afternoons any longer. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps Montmorency had seen. Told.
“Holy Virgin! It is the King! Quickly, Christian, you must hide! In the fireplace, hide there! You cannot be seen leaving now, it is too late. Go quickly, please!”
Reluctantly, the amorous Captain stole into the cavernous hearth. The glowing orange embers were nearly extinguished. He stepped beside them and hid in the side wall amid the cinders. He held his breath. At the very moment when he had hidden himself away, her chamber door swung around and hit the wall behind it with a great thud. Anne now too held her breath, though the pace of her heart quickened.
“Gentlemen, I shall meet you in the gallery shortly. Until then I do not wish to be disturbed.”
Anne heard the King as he slammed the large vaulted outer door to her apartments. The rest of the footsteps continued down the corridor and the Cardinal’s drone faded. Anne looked up nervously to see a smile, not anger on her royal lover’s face. She breathed an inaudible sigh of relief and went to his waiting arms.
François had intended to spend the afternoon with the Comtesse de Sancerre, but her husband’s greed had got the better of him. The Comte had chosen the opportunity to barter his wife. When the King arrived the Comtesse was not alone as she had been instructed. The Comte de Sancerre was there with his wife. It had been no secret that the King’s previous favourite, Françoise de Foix, had also been married and that the liaison that had lasted several years had given considerable wealth to the husband as well as the wife. But financial arrangements had been the furthest thing from the King’s mind, and he did not enjoy surprises.
He had looked at the woman trying to recall what it was that he had found so appealing about her the night before. The light of day was cruelly honest. It revealed a hard face with cracks where the thick white ceruse had dried and broken like a plaster casting. He had felt a shiver and suddenly missed his little Anne. So he excused himself, leaving the Sancerres arguing wildly as he walked down the hall.
Now François pawed Anne furiously. “Just lift your skirts, mon ange, just the skirts this time,” he whispered. Without further words between them, she lay face down on the smooth, green bedcover. The King raised her heavy skirts from behind. It was time for her to earn her place.
Christian de Nançay smiled as he stood motionless within the corner of the massive white stone fireplace watching His Majesty have his way with Mademoiselle d’Heilly. Then, to his surprise, his own breath quickened at the sight of so supercilious a lady bent over the bed, her small white bottom thrust in the air and a ribbon of white lace edging the small of her back. A tangle of her chestnut hair met the lace. Moved to act by his own heightened lust, the wise Captain chose instead to bide his time in awkward silence. There would be enough for him later. Of that he was certain.
It did not take long for the King to satisfy himself. When it was over, he sat on the edge of the bed and wiped his brow with the back of his large hand. He paid little mind to the sweat-soaked shirt or the sour odor of perspiration that clung to his chest. Anne lay motionless on her side, looking up at him as he panted. Her heavy green gown was wrinkled and wet. All she could think of was Christian, who she was certain had watched the entire episode.
After a moment, François looked over at her with a smile, slapped her thigh affectionately, and walked casually toward the fireplace. Anne held her breath. She was ruined. He had seen Christian. They would both be punished. Perhaps killed.
“François!” she cried out instinctively and leapt to her feet. “What are you doing, mon amour?”
She tried not to let him hear the terror in her voice, but she was not successful. The King turned from the entrance to the fireplace and looked at her quizzically.
“I’ve got to piss,” he said with a smile and aimed himself into the large cavernous receptacle that stood as tall as he.
She longed to cry out and to thrust forth the chamber pot, but she knew that he liked to do as he pleased when the urge occurred. Billowing clouds of gray smoke from the near-dead embers filled the fireplace. Anne put her hand to her mouth so she would not scream. The King looked at her as he laced his codpiece and straightened his doublet.
“Ah! much better. . .What is it, ma chère? You look terribly strange.”
She could not speak. Her throat was dry. Anne could only manage to shake her head. François chucked her under the chin and shook his own head.
“I must go. Montmorency has me meeting with the English Ambassador in half an hour. You understand.”
She shook her head again.
“Then be a good girl and give me a kiss to send me off. You know how I detest sparring with Monty. He is so good at it.”
When he had gone, Anne raced back into the bedchamber. Nançay emerged from the fireplace covered with ash that had turned his blond hair and his shirt powder gray. One of his soft doeskin slippers was wet and he smelled of urine. He coughed and tried to brush away the soot. She raced toward him.
“Christian, no! Not on the carpets. They’ll be ruined!”
He turned to her, his face burning with anger.
“Now, now, do not be cross. It doesn’t become you. It is just that you look so. . .”
Before she could finish her sentence, he grabbed her arms and drew her toward him. The soot on his face and clothes mingled with her own cosmetics and left a gray-sooted print on her cheeks. He kissed her with a vengeance, intending to take something at that very moment for his troubles. She struggled but was no match for hi
m. As he forced her down onto the carpet, she freed her lips and bit his tongue hard. He screamed in pain and a streak of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Instantly he released her and put his hands to his face, moaning like a wounded animal.
“Bitch!” he screamed, trying to insult her but the bloodied tongue purged forth from his mouth made the word unintelligible.
Anne sprang to her feet with a look of disgust. She wiped violently at her gown to rid it of the soot. “You disgust me, you filthy helot! Now get out of here before I call the King back!”
Christian limped from the chamber still holding his mouth. He had fallen victim to the one threat that mattered. She must not inform the King of their affair. He could do anything he pleased at Court, as long as he was careful. But if the King were to discover it, his career and his life would be over. No woman, not even Anne d’Heilly, was worth that.
When he was gone, she smiled like a lazy cat, her green eyes shimmering. That would teach him. He would be sorry he had forced himself on her. He would apologize and she would forgive him. He was too worthy a lover not to. But first he must wonder for a while. She may have to give herself to the King at his every whim, but that did not mean that she was there for the taking by the rest of the world. That was a lesson the amorous young Captain would not now soon forget.
DOWN THE LONG HALLWAY glittering gold with torchlight, Diane ran. She had gotten lost in Le Roman de la rose and she had fallen asleep. Now she was late for the King’s banquet. She had not planned to make so conspicuous an entrance on her first evening back at Court. Like it or not, however, it appeared she was about to.
She clutched her full black silk gown abut the knees, hiked it up and, abandoning all decorum, scurried past the statuesque hall guards motionless in blue and red livery. As she neared the grand hall, the faint sound of laughter and music deepened. Her heart quickened. Perhaps I can steal in behind someone and find a seat, she considered. But there was only one main entrance to the large, sunken hall.
As she peered in from behind a heavy velvet curtain, she could see that the room was a sea of people, all laughing, talking and moving about. The King’s guests wore velvets and satins in brilliant hues. There were men parading in multicolored brocades and silks. From the top of the stairs the reds and blues, yellows and bright greens blended in a prismatic kaleidoscope of color.
The guests milled around three long tables that were set together to form a great U-shape that lined the room. The tables were covered with white sheets of damask and great silver candelabras. The aroma of incense and perfume mingled with the smell of roasting mutton, veal and of wine. An abundance of candles and torches burned brightly on the walls as on the tables, and their flames bathed the room in a smoky orange hue.
“Madame de Poitiers!”
The scribe announced her name as he plucked her from behind the velvet curtain in the doorway. Fortune was not on her side.
She entered the massive banquet room through a grand staircase. It led down two flights, half of them to the side and ending squarely in the center of the room. In her simple black gown she was completely set off amid the opulence of Court.
The walls and pillars of the room were fashioned of cold white stone. From above, it felt like a giant chasm waiting to engulf her. The King’s ambassadors, courtiers and servants pivoted as they gazed upward at the doorway. The lute player stopped playing. The laughter ceased. That one moment seemed to her like an eternity. Her heart was the only sound she could hear in the momentary, deafening silence.
The King was seated in a throne across the room at the head dining table. Diane loomed above him. Having himself enjoyed the privilege on these state occasions of being the last to enter, François was awestruck at the power that her entrance now commanded. She was stunning in black silk, her slim white neck rising from it. Around her neck was draped a strand of simple white pearls. François gasped at her beauty. As she began tentatively to descend the stairs, he rose and came from behind the long dining table, meeting her as she reached the last step. Diane curtsied and he took her hand in his own as they began to walk together into the room. the conversation around them and music recommenced.
“Your Majesty, please forgive me. I am late when your invitation was so specific.”
“Not at all, ma chère, Madame. You have had a long journey. Tonight your tardiness is easily overlooked.”
“I am afraid that Your Majesty is too kind.”
“Tomorrow, of course, would be another matter,” he added with a self-important grin.
She bowed her head as the King’s dogs circled around her, sniffing hungrily for a piece of meat that lay near her on the cold stone floor.
“Mes amis! You remember Louis’ wife, Diane de Poitiers. Treat her as you would treat Your King. She has been too long away from Our Court.”
Diane glanced up and found the silent eyes of Anne de Montmorency not far from the King. François had not addressed her as the Sénéchale, nor had the scribe. She had asked it of the Grand Master in passing, and despite the dislike she knew he felt, he had seen to it. Montmorency was thorough; not trustworthy, but thorough. She gave him a decorous nod of thanks. He extended one back and then turned from her to begin speaking with Chancellor Duprat.
Her arm still tightly bound by the King’s grasp, she found herself being led into the throngs of smiling, ingratiating courtiers who clambered to meet her. There was no hope of retreating. The grand hall was warm from the press of bodies, the smoking candles and the two blazing hearths.
Diane began to feel ill. She had not eaten all day and the faint smell of body odor that she had detected from the King when they met earlier had now matured into a pungent smell. The strong, musky perfume in which he was bathed did not mask it; rather it fused the two odors into a vile stench. Trying with difficulty not to choke, she lost herself in introductions to the remote and imposing Cardinal de Lorraine and the small, hawk-faced Admiral Chabot, who stood beside him.
“It is very rude of Your Majesty not to introduce me.”
The voice which came from behind, masked by the shifting sea of people, was shrill and brittle. Diane turned with the King. Before them stood a fragile looking young woman with long chestnut curls spilling out from an emerald-studded turban. Her eyes were bright green and were set off by the jewels on her gown and in her headdress. Her small body was made even smaller by the tightly corseted gown.
“Forgive me, mon amour,” the King said, turning fully around with an expression of surprise. “Diane de Poitiers, may I present Anne d’Heilly.”
At last. His Anne. She was young, and yes. . .every bit as pretty as they had said. Diane smiled almost too graciously at such great fortune. She had clearly worried for nothing.
“I am honored, Mademoiselle,” Diane said as she nodded to the King’s favourite. The young woman’s suspicion was masked by a calculated smile.
“Charmed,” she replied to veil her instinctive sense of rivalry for anyone whose beauty paralleled her own. Then she linked her arm boldly with the King’s. As she did, she thrust forth her heavily jeweled hand, glittering with more emeralds, diamonds and gold than Diane had ever seen on any one person.
“His Majesty and I wish to welcome you, and hope your brief stay with us shall be a pleasant one.” The words were studied; spoken from her mouth, not her heart. Almost before the King could nod in agreement, she added, “Now come along, chéri. You have been absolutely ignoring the Cardinal de Tournon, and you know how petulant he becomes when he is left to his own devices.”
In one of those brief, yet fateful encounters where nothing of substance is said, yet everything of importance is conveyed, Diane had met the King’s official mistress.
As he was whisked away by Anne d’Heilly, the other courtiers who had surrounded Diane began to disband. She searched desperately for a familiar face, and finally she found it. In one corner of the room beside a marble pillar, was His Highness François II, Dauphin of France. He stood huddled with the Comtess
e de Sancerre, with whom his father had spent the previous night.
The eldest son of the King of France was tall and his face was striking for so young a man. He had dark straight hair and a prominent patrician nose that rendered unmistakable the resemblance to his father. He wore a toque, trunk hose and doublet of mulberry velvet with snow white slashing. His sleeves were covered with rubies and sapphires.
His eyes had been roving searchingly about the room, only half concentrating on the much older woman who desperately sought his attentions. Those same eyes grew bright now with the recognition of Diane. He smiled. She nodded a smile in his direction. She pretended not to watch, but out of the corner of her eye she could see the young Prince whisper something in the woman’s ear and then begin to make his way toward her.
“Madame Diane!” he called out.
The other courtiers around her bowed as he neared them and opened his arms to her. Upon closer inspection, she could see youth and manhood joined on his face. Beneath small, clever eyes, he sported a neat, dusty beard amid the faint remembrance of adolescent pimples. Despite them, he was still a strikingly attractive young man. Like his father, he had the stately bearing of a King. Also like his father, he used it to his advantage. He had changed a great deal in five years. Time in the Spanish prison with his younger brother Henri appeared to have somehow strangely enriched his spirit, not broken it.
“His Majesty said that you would be returning to Court, but I had no idea it would be so soon! I am so glad that you had the courage to do it. Oh, do give us another hug! How is Françoise?” he inquired of her elder daughter.
“She’s growing into quite a young lady since the two of you played in the orchards behind Anet.” Diane smiled.
“Ah yes, hide-and-seek for hours,” he said in a voice thick and richly urbane. Then he began to laugh. “Mischief would hardly be the same without the little minx! Oh, I would so love to see her. Where is she now?”
