by Diane Haeger
“Where did you get this?”
“It was on the doorstep when we returned from our meal in the kitchens,” said Charlotte.
Hélène and Charlotte looked at one another, then both looked back at Diane. “There was another just like it on your writing table,” Hélène added. Before she could finish her sentence, she felt the sharp pinch of Charlotte’s thick fingers on the skin of her forearm pressing her to silence once again.
“We thought it would please you, Madame, to read something with a bit of humor to it,” said Charlotte. “If we have acted inappropriately, I take full responsibility.”
Both women hung their heads like great broken stalks as Diane looked back at the parchment to read the rest of the verse.
“This is her doing,” she muttered as she read the words. “She means to insult me by these verses.”
“You, Madame?” Hélène asked, her softly knitted eyebrows closing in a frown. “Why, that simply cannot be. It is called ‘The Wrinkled One.’ It is about someone old and ugly, which, if you will permit me, certainly does not describe you.”
“It is an epigram, Hélène; a dramatization of the facts for effect.”
“I cannot believe anyone would stoop so low,” Charlotte declared, and yet remembering as she did, Mademoiselle d’Heilly’s hostility on the spiral staircase two days before.
Diane walked into the sitting room of her apartment, her serene confidence gone. She fell into one of the tall, cushioned chairs and washed a hand across her eyes. “No. It is a message for me from her. There can be no doubt about that. She fears I wish to steal the King and she is fighting viciously with all that she has.”
DIANE FELT AS if she had been granted a reprieve. After their encounter in the library, affairs of state had taken the King and several of his advisors to his palace, Chambord, leaving the rest of his entourage at Blois. In his absence, His Majesty had left word that he wished his guests to carry on as they pleased.
Knowing no one at Court but Jacques de Montgommery made socializing difficult, so Diane contented herself throughout much of the day by reading, sprawled across the heavy poster bed. Books were a passion that she had acquired long ago. They had helped her stave off the lonely and isolated hours married to an older man in the prison of his country castle. Books truly had been for her, as she had told the mocking King, the sustenance of her life. The growing resentment toward her from Anne d’Heilly became more evident each day and Diane was, in fact, quite happy to stay tucked safely inside her apartments, poring over the wonderful volume that she had been given by the King. She had grown accustomed to idleness and solitude early in her life.
By their fifth day at Court, conditions outside the old stone palace had turned abysmal. The gray skies mirrored the gray brown slush on the ground. Then on the sixth day, as an explosion of rain tore through the winter sky, a tall uniformed boy from the King’s guard delivered Diane a written message which changed everything. It was from Anne d’Heilly:
Please join me for an evening of entertainment. My private apartments. Tonight at eight.
Anne d’Heilly
Beneath the invitation was another message obviously written in a different hand, for the strokes were more forceful. I do so look forward to learning more about you, were the words scrawled in bold black ink. Diane’s heart was racing. It was a ruse. It must be. Anne had made her feelings quite clear on the staircase landing earlier in the week. Once again, however, Diane was trapped by protocol. If she was to refuse the invitation, it would be an insult to what was ostensibly a grand gesture of friendship. If she accepted, there was no telling to what evils she would be subjected.
“Madame, perhaps we could say that you are ill and unable to attend,” Charlotte suggested as she sat before an embroidery stand. Hélène sat near her on the windowseat, unwinding a spool of yellow string for the piece on which they were working.
“No, Charlotte. If something is in store for me, she will only postpone the invitation. I cannot run away from her, unless I choose to leave Court altogether.”
“You are very brave, Madame.”
“No, Hélène, she simply leaves me no alternative. . .and she knows it.”
Hélène cast the spool of string on the floor and bolted from her seat, sending the embroidery stand tumbling to the floor.
“She is not fit to take supper in the same room with such a lady as you, Madame. Even if she is the King’s mistress!”
“I commend your loyalty, Hélène, but it is precisely because she is the King’s mistress that I must go.” Diane walked slowly to the door and then turned around. “But first, I am going to chapel,” she said. “To try to find some strength to face what undoubtedly lies ahead.”
WELL, GENTLEMEN?”
The King waited until the carved oak doors to the council chamber at Chambord were closed. Then he turned back toward the long, narrow table. The English Ambassador to France had just seen himself out, having delivered his recommendations for improvement in relations between the two countries.
“Well then, what do you think?” he asked.
François stood, his hands on his hips, facing his three senior advisors, all of whom were still seated at the long council table. Montmorency looked down at a stack of papers which he was shuffling. He was visibly perplexed by the delicate situation that had been left for them to decide. Philippe Chabot shifted in his seat and propped his chin in his palm. He tried to avoid the King’s gaze. François loomed at the head of the table and surveyed their blank faces.
“It is an unusual suggestion,” Duprat finally said, his heavy face worked into a frown. The King gripped the back of his own large chair and leaned forward. The air was filled with tension. It had been a long day in a dark, damp hall and they were all weary. “You do know what he was really suggesting beneath that polite exterior of extended vagaries, do you not?” asked the King.
Duprat and Montmorency exchanged a glance as they watched the King’s anger build.
“He suggests that We plead Our good brother’s case before the Pope!” He slammed the large tapestried chair into the parquet floor to punctuate his claim. “Mon Dieu! That is what he wants for the promise of his support against the Emperor!”
“The Ambassador requests only another hearing of King Henry’s case, Your Majesty. He believes your support could have great influence in Rome,” Chabot cautiously defended.
“He requests an annulment, Admiral!” the King raged, “and he wants France to support it so that he can marry that whore of his, Anne Boleyn! How can he even ask such a thing as annulment when the Queen already has a daughter by him?” Chabot lowered his head. “Gentlemen, my friends. . .we are a Catholic nation. Henry VIII requests that all the world turn their heads while he commits a mortal sin, and he wants our support in doing so; can you not see that?”
“Well. . .I suppose by a stretch of one’s imagination, it could be seen, as the English Ambassador paints it, as a case of incest, which King Henry is trying to put right by divorce. After all, Your Majesty, he did marry his brother’s wife.”
“His brother’s widow,” Chabot corrected.
“Monty, mon vieux, what say you of this?” the King asked as he sat back down among his aides.
“I say it is preferable to the marriage of your son to the Pope’s niece. . .Your Majesty.”
François ran his jeweled fingers through his thick chestnut hair and then sat down. In this world alliances were everything. England or Italy. Spain or even Turkey. He closed his eyes. “Perhaps We should leave no stone unturned in this expedition of Ours. Very well. We shall put the matter over to further consideration. We shall have an answer to give to both King Henry and to the Pope by the time We return to Blois.”
ANNE D’HEILLY’S APARTMENTS were lit with the bronze glow from brightly burning wall sconces and the reflection of the flames from the large carved fireplace. The air was filled with the gentle scent of rosewater and dried hibiscus leaves that were set about the rooms in large silve
r urns.
In the far corner warming his hands before the fire, was François de Guise, the Cardinal’s young nephew and the King’s newest page. He was chatting in low tones with one of Anne d’Heilly’s attendants, a striking raven-haired girl names Caroline d’Estillac.
On the other side of the room, Admiral Chabot leaned against a rich paneled wall beside Jacques de Saint-André, the son of the tutor to the absent Prince Henri. Even though the Admiral looked like he was listening to Saint-André, he could not take his eyes from Anne. He watched her flit about the room checking the wine and the silver trays filled with tiny meat pastries. He also saw when she landed on the lap of Christian de Nançay, Captain of the King’s Guard.
Philippe’s narrow eyes narrowed still further as he watched, with kindling jealousy, Anne whisper seductively in the young man’s ear. He understood her attentions toward the King, but her open flirtations with a minor military officer was offensive. The Admiral glared at the Captain hoping to convey his anger, but Nançay looked in the other direction.
Jacques de Saint-André, the young man who stood beside Chabot, was tall and slim, with an angular jaw, pronounced cheekbones, and smoky sensitive eyes. His cropped blond hair seemed naturally to brush itself in a direction away from his face on which he had only recently grown a neat pointed beard. Costumed in a white satin doublet, puffed sleeves, gold brocade trunk hose and a plumed toque to match, he leaned casually against the casement of a long window. As Chabot fumed, Saint-André surveyed the ensemble of courtiers who slowly gathered in the various rooms of Mademoiselle d’Heilly’s apartments.
“This is quite an ensemble,” he quipped, and took a sip of burgundy from a silver chalice. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this mysterious event?”
Still unable to break his gaze from Anne, Philippe replied from the side of his mouth. “To incredibly good fortune, my boy. And if all goes as planned this evening, the pleasure will definitely be mine.”
“Where is His Majesty, the King this evening?”
“Gone to Chambord with Grand Master Montmorency, to receive the English ambassador.”
“What a shame,” Saint-André said smugly, “that he will not be here for the. . .festivities.”
He took another sip of wine and glanced around the room. That would be the extent of his inquiry. He intended to mind his own business, knowing that it was decidedly safer that way. But one thing was remarkable and highly suspect for a group of Anne d’Heilly’s usually eclectic friends. All of her guests were suspiciously young. So far, all except for Admiral Chabot.
As Diane neared the wing which housed the apartments of Anne d’Heilly, she could hear noise and laughter much as she had her first night at Court. But this time, unlike the last, she was not late. Her invitation had been clear. Eight o’clock, and it was just that now. Her stomach tightened. Perhaps I should have feigned illness, she reconsidered.
“Madame Diane! How good of you to come,” Anne d’Heilly called out and swept across the room toward her. “We were not certain you were coming. It was getting so late.”
Though her instinct was to refute the lie, Diane bit her tongue. She would do her best not to give Anne the argument she obviously desired.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. Try to mingle and meet some of the others. I do not believe you know anyone here; a difficult task, but not insurmountable,” she said before disappearing into a collection of her elegant guests.
Diane took a goblet of hot spiced wine from one of the stewards and drank it quickly. At the very moment that she lowered the empty cup from her lips, Jacques de Montgommery drew near her from behind a group of ladies.
“How wonderful to see you again,” he said with a bow, and then taking her hand in his own, kissed it politely.
“You look much improved since we last met,” she replied with a crooked smile.
“And you look magnificent as ever,” he returned, and tipped his plumed toque to her.
“What a rogue you are, Captain. Always so quick to flatter.”
“Not so much a rogue as I would like, I am afraid, since my manner results in nothing more than your avoidance of me.”
“Not at all, Monsieur,” she laughed nervously, and tried her best to sound sincere. “I have just been feeling a little under the weather myself these last few days.” It was easier to lie than to tell him that, in truth, she had been reluctant to make herself visible since the incident on the staircase with the King’s mistress.
“Well, now that you are well again, you must agree to go riding with me once we have arrived at Fontainebleau. Mind you, I shall not take ‘no’ for an answer this time, and I do promise to be ever the gentleman.” He smiled and touched the tip of his beard.
“Fontainebleau?”
“Why, yes, of course. The King is to return tomorrow from business at Chambord, and the entourage will leave shortly after for his palace near Paris.”
“But we. . .I have been here little more than a week.”
Montgommery laughed out loud and took a long swill of wine. “Silly girl. If you mean to find a place to settle, this Court is not the place for you! His Majesty loves nothing better these days than to uproot us all and take us packing from chateau to chateau. Apparently he finds excitement in the moving. After having been here the better part of two years now, I personally find it nothing more than tedious. On such trips the lot of us, those who do not share his bed or his favor, that is, are reduced to scrambling for inns or farmhouses at which to spend the night whenever he deems that he is weary. It is a bit like the game of musical chairs; hundreds of courtiers, servants and guards, all scrambling at the same time for only a few dozen beds. The great bulk of us know only too well the sound of chattering teeth or the feel of sod under our blankets for having to make our bed in any field we can find.”
Montgommery took another sip of wine. “But then we all do what we have to do, to stay in His Majesty’s good graces, do we not?”
“Well, you could be right, Monsieur. Perhaps this Court is no longer a place for me.” She glanced around the room. “So many things have changed, and I feel positively ridiculous here. There is not another single person in this apartment anywhere near my age.”
“Oh, Madame, surely you are mistaken. The Admiral is at least that!” He caught the slight in his words as he said them, but delivered them so quickly that he was at a loss to stop their expression. “Or older!” he added feebly.
Montgommery by her side, Diane tried to mingle but all the while she waited like a hen for slaughter. Anne d’Heilly might wear a mask of civility, but her eyes, those piercing emerald eyes, gave away her true intent.
“Oh, they are going to do the Passepied! Madame, dance with me!” Jacques pleaded.
Before she had a chance to object, they were gliding together toward the area of the room that had been set aside for dancing. It was opposite the hearth, where the large Turkish carpets had been rolled back. As she danced, Diane could not stop her thoughts from drifting back to the anonymous poetry that had mysteriously made its way into her apartments the day before. She was certain that it was the work of the King’s mistress. Before long, however, she was caught up in the complex steps of the latest dance and even began to enjoy it.
“Oh, I have had enough, Jacques!” She laughed and broke from him.
She walked toward a table filled with silver trays of small sweet pies and candied fruits. Beside them, a steward stood clad in red and blue livery, holding a tray of silver wine goblets. Diane took one and handed it to Jacques, then took another for herself.
As she began to breathe easier, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand and noticed her companion’s attention begin to wane. His eyes looked beyond her. After another moment of his fading attention, Diane turned around and found the subject by whom Jacques was now so openly riveted. It was Anne d’Heilly’s attendant, Caroline d’Estillac. The very stylishly dressed young woman had been commanding attention from a bevy of other courtiers for the bet
ter part of the evening. At the moment, she was speaking with the King’s new young page, François de Guise, but it was clear that she was caught up in Jacques de Montgommery’s flirtatious glances.
“Nice looking pair, do you not think?” Diane grinned as she looked back at Jacques.
“Oh, she would never couple with a boy like—”
Before he finished his sentence, he caught a glimpse of the smile broadening on Diane’s smooth pink lips. The surprise of her observation returned his attention completely to her.
“Well, are you not full of surprises!” he declared. “Not only are you rich, beautiful and principled, but you are sharp as a pin.”
“I take it, Captain, by your open flirtation that the young lady has not, shall we say, set her principles quite so highly as I have.”
“Dear lady, there is no one in all of France to whom I would rather give my heart so much as to you. But, as I told you, this is a very different Court than the one that you saw through the rose-colored glass of the Grand Sénéchal de Normandie.”
“But then, your heart really has nothing to do with your interest in her, does it, Captain?”
He laughed an easy laugh and reached out to touch her cheek. “You really are quite an exceptional woman, Madame de Poitiers. I shall very much look forward to our ride together at Fontainebleau, but not nearly so anxiously as I shall attend the loosening of your principles.”
AT THE EVENING’S BANQUET, Diane sat at Montgommery’s right. Caroline d’Estillac sat on his left. Late into the evening Diane had turned and inadvertently seen the two of them holding hands and intertwining their legs shamelessly. Her back turned to them again, Diane could only hear the muted strains of the mating ritual. It sickened her. Jacques took love from the highest bidder, Diane thought. At this moment she had nothing to bid, so he had turned elsewhere.
The sting of rejection dizzied her as she continued to sip her Bordeaux and pick at the moist flakes of pheasant meat which she had shoved to the edge of her plate. After a moment, she took a handful of her supper and cast it to the floor beside her where two hunting hounds lay in wait.
