by Diane Haeger
There was Montmorency who had tried to be a father figure, believing that Henri had no real father in the King. But, though he cared deeply for the Grand Master, in Henri’s eyes, Monty had one fatal flaw—he loved power above all else. His heart ached for more than the ambitious Grand Master felt free to give.
Slowly, out of Henri’s desperate need, grew a powerful resentment of everyone and everything around him; his way of reconciling the pain. The loss. Through this turmoil, Diane de Poitiers had emerged. To him, she was all grace and kindness; what the world should be. But more than that, she had displayed a vulnerability which, until now, had been completely foreign to him. It drew him to her in an inexplicable way, in spite of his fear. No one in his life had ever needed him. Here, now, he had come upon this lady who was virtually helpless against the mysterious hostility of his father’s powerful mistress. He could be Perseus to her Andromeda. He might finally have a purpose. Very few people would risk Anne d’Heilly’s disfavor by defending a newcomer. Very few, except of course, the King’s malcontent son.
THE NEXT WEEKS that passed brought a change in Henri, the cause of which to everyone but himself was thought to be quite mysterious. Each day he swayed more naturally toward the humor and easiness of Diane’s companionship. Slowly, he began to blossom under her kindness.
After their initial reunion at Fontainebleau, the awkwardness that he had felt in her presence vanished. In its place, a sensitive and caring young man had begun to emerge. She too had welcomed their friendship, anxious to find some little enjoyment in her stay at the French Court.
Two days after the King’s party, the Court had moved again. This time the Court was installed at the royal palace of Saint Germain-en-Laye near Paris. There, Henri and Diane took long walks in the King’s gardens and rode for endless hours in the deep evergreen forests surrounding the chateau.
Henri, who resented all things intellectual as a symbol of his father’s arrogance, now began to discuss Petrarch with her. He read Machiavelli, which he had always avoided simply because his father favored it. He even read Le Roman de la rose again because she had mentioned that she especially liked it. Each day after vespers, since their arrival at Saint Germain-en-Laye, they challenged one another to a heated game of jeu de paume on the back courts of the chateau.
“Oh, the deuce! I missed it!” Henri cried, pealing with laughter, as the heavy leather ball sailed past his racket and into the thick of grass behind him. The midday sun was cooled by a sweet spring breeze that blew gently across the outdoor court. On the sidelines, Hélène sat busying herself with a white needlepoint rose while Charlotte dozed and intermittently batted at a particularly persistent fly.
“Oh, come now, Your Highness can do better than that!” laughed Jacques de Saint-André as he paced the length of the court as referee.
“Whose side are you on? I have to beat him at least once!” shouted Diane as she batted another ball over the net. Then, as Henri returned the volley, Diane moved a little too close to the left and was struck in the forehead by the heavy sailing ball. Under the impact, she lost her footing and went tumbling to the ground.
“Diane!” Henri cried, dashing over the net toward her. Jacques and Hélène followed. Henri knelt by her side and supported her in his arms. “Oh, Diane! Diane. . .say something, please! Are you all right?”
“Jacques, please, get some water!” Hélène urged.
Jacques sprang to his feet to find one of the royal guards who were positioned discretely around the courts.
“Madame, it is Hélène. Can you hear me?”
Diane tried to clear her head by blinking. When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking into Henri’s gentle but frightened face. “Yes, I am fine,” she said a little weakly, as she tried to sit up.
Jacques came running back followed by two of the King’s guards; one of whom was carrying a small pail of water.
“Stop all this fuss now. I am fine. It was really very clumsy of me.” She smiled at Henri whose face was still filled with fear. “Truly,” she added for his benefit. “Now, if you would just help me up, please. We were not finished with the game.”
“Oh, but we are!” Henri insisted. “Jacques, help me lead her over to that bench.” The two young men took her beneath each arm and helped her from the court.
As Henri hailed his guards to assist them, he happened to meet Charlotte’s reproving gaze as she sat in her chair on the sidelines. Although she sat erect with concern, she had not moved during the incident, and now it was apparent that neither had she taken her judgmental eyes from Henri. He knew, as they looked at one another, that the years had made her wise. He also knew that she had seen far more from him toward Diane than just tender concern.
DIANE AWOKE IN steamy darkness.
Her windows had been closed and the room was still from the lack of fresh flowing air. She raised herself onto her elbows and lit a candle beside her bed. There were no sounds from Charlotte or Hélène moving around in the outer room, so she resolved to be quiet herself in hopes of gaining a few moments’ peace. She swung her feet around to the side of the bed and again touched her head where a smaller, more firm and painful knot had developed. She smiled, remembering Henri’s concern for her.
“Difficult boy, indeed,” she muttered to herself, until her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a green satin-covered box that had been placed on a small round table near the window. The box was square and tied with white lace ribbons. She lit another candle and carried it toward the table.
Turning the box upside down, she could see there was no note. Her heart quickened, as she thought of her previous gift from the King. She had hoped in the past few weeks that his interest in her had faded. She took a deep breath before she gained the courage to pull off the ribbons.
Inside, on a bed of red satin, was a small silver medallion with the Latin inscription VICTORY on the surface. Diane smiled again as she pulled the military medal from the box. It was round and etched with the image of one soldier bending over the limp body of another on what appeared to be a battlefield.
“Ah, there you are,” said Hélène as Diane stood in the arch of her bedchamber door.
“Did you sleep well? I see you found the gift,” Charlotte said, looking up from a game of cards the two women were playing at a small oak table near the fireplace.
“Who delivered it?”
“One of the royal guards, Madame, though he would not say for whom he bore it.”
“Did he say nothing, then?”
“Only that he was told you would understand once you opened it.”
“Was it from the King?” Hélène asked anxiously.
Charlotte swatted her. “That will be enough!”
“It is all right, Hélène. Would you please see to the black velvet gown with the white lace bodice for this evening,” Diane instructed, and then stretched her arms up over her head and began to yawn. It was dark, but much cooler in the sitting room than her own bedchamber had been, and she quickly began to feel more alert.
“But, Madame,” Charlotte objected after Hélène had gone back into the bedchamber. “You cannot possibly dine in the King’s company with a knot on your head like that. There is bound to be gossip; how a lady could sustain such a blow in polite society.”
“. . .and Hélène, ready the velvet turban as well,” she added, over Charlotte’s head. “That should hide my battle scar!”
AMID A LOW ROLLING FOG, an entourage of the King’s favorite courtiers gathered the next morning for the hunt. Outfitted in fur and leather to stave off the early-morning chill, the riders sat astride their elegantly draped horses and bantered among themselves as they waited for the King. Diane’s black stallion lowered his head to feed on the mossy grass at the base of a sapling just as Jacques de Montgommery rode up beside her. They watched together as a groom came out from the stables and helped Prince Henri onto his tooled-leather saddle.
“Well, well, well. Look at that, will you. The peevish Prince i
s about to grace us with his presence,” Montgommery muttered to Diane from the side of his mouth, smiling all the while.
“You had best watch your manners. He is the King’s son,” Diane returned. The firmness in her voice made him bristle as they both looked back over at the young Prince. She had been unable to thank him for the medal, as he had not gone to the King’s dinner the night before. She had hoped to thank him now. Henri nodded to her but then, to her surprise, he led his horse in the opposite direction, joining Guise, Saint-André and Brissac.
“Well, it would seem that your little protector has forgotten his own manners this morning,” Montgommery continued to harp. “Let us just hope that the King’s mistress does not show up for the hunt. Then you would really have no one to save you!”
“Jacques, why must you be so malicious? I am really very bored with how small you sound.” She punctuated her words by pulling the reins of her horse so that the animal turned away from Montgommery’s mount. After a moment, he nudged at his horse and followed her.
“Oh, come now,” he smiled. “I only meant—”
“I do not have the slightest care what you meant. You are very rude.”
“I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. Things were going so splendidly between us. I am sorry I spoiled it. Forgive me?”
Diane looked into his eyes. “Where is Mademoiselle d’Estillac?” she asked, changing the subject. “Perhaps you should try your pretty words on her.”
His countenance changed with her clipped tone and he shifted in his saddle. “Why would you expect me to know?” he snapped. “I am not her keeper!”
“But you are her lover! Tell me, Jacques, is it true that while you attempt to conquer me, she carries your child?” Diane asked angrily.
He opened his mouth as if to reply. Then, thinking better of it, he shook his head and cantered his horse over near Grand Master Montmorency, who was speaking to the King’s daughter, Marguerite.
“Well,” she whispered to herself. “I see that I have my answer.”
THE KING WAS THE LAST to take his mount and join the group of riders. Despite the magnificent green hunting costume, he looked more worn and tired than anyone had seen him. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin was ashen. Diane had heard the rumor which had been circulating among the courtiers that the King was once again contemplating war against the Emperor. It was said he could think of nothing else. She made the sign of the cross as she considered the prospect.
As he sat on his horse surrounded by his friends, the Master-of-the-Hunt brought forth to the King a map detailing the area where a burrow of wild boars were thought to nest. The hunt was led by the pack of yelping dogs, followed by the thundering hooves of the courtier’s horses, as they rode furiously toward the burrow. Dashing across the mountainous countryside, the King took the lead easily, passing his companions. Then Henri surprised the group by coming from behind to take the lead.
The two horses sprinted neck to neck. White clouds of early morning air puffed from their nostrils. The King turned his head with a start, surprised to see Henri pacing him so easily. He dug his spurs into the animal’s flanks to make him gallop harder. Diane saw the rivalry manifest itself from several lengths behind. When the King and Henri’s horses neared a grassy clearing, both father and son tumbled to the ground in a grappling display of anger and passion.
The King rolled onto Henri trying to pin back his arms but was downed by Henri’s knee as he thrust it into the King’s face. Dust and leaves puffed up around them. Limbs flew. Both of their chests heaved with fury. Henri stood up, only to be felled once again by a long spindly branch to the back of the knees. Again they grappled as the stunned riders looked on. Montmorency took a step forward but the Dauphin reached out a hand to stop him.
“This is between father and son,” he cautioned.
“Why, you little bastard!” raged the King, as he struggled to his feet beneath his son’s bold defiant stare. “So you think you can whip a King, do you? All right, little man, since that is what you appear to have become, then I will challenge you to a man’s game! A joust, full armor, six days hence in Paris!”
The crowd of courtiers continued in stunned silence. No one dared move until the King willed it. Finally he was on his feet and brushing the dust and leaves from his tooled-leather riding doublet.
“Brother, do not take him for a fool! You know how good he is,” the Dauphin urged, as Henri swaggered toward his horse. “Ask for his forgiveness, before it is too late!”
“Never!” seethed the second son, as he slowly lifted himself back onto his stallion.
“Then, brother, you are an even bigger fool than I thought. You deserve his wrath!”
BY MIDMORNING, the King had cornered the boar and had slain him with a wide stroke of his ivory-plated sword. The other riders had dismounted to stretch their legs and share a toast to the victory. Henri brushed dust from his stockings as Jacques de Saint-André stretched his arms over his head. François de Guise came up beside them and took a pewter goblet of wine from one of the stewards.
“Is that not Diane de Poitiers over there, speaking with Montmorency’s wife? I did not know she liked the hunt,” Guise remarked with a smile.
Henri looked across the field at her. She stood beside Madeleine de Montmorency and the Princess Marguerite, laughing, and holding a goblet of wine with both of her hands.
“I hear that she takes exercise just like a man; and to look at her I believe it. The woman plays jeu de paume, and she even swims in the winter; if you can imagine it! Perhaps she thinks she is her namesake, Diana, goddess of the hunt.”
Henri whipped around and shot Guise an evil glare. His body tensed as though he were preparing to strike. Saint-André, the eldest among them, intervened.
“I am certain he meant no harm, Your Highness.”
“I only meant that she is rather an extraordinary woman. . .not a bad one,” he stammered and then looked helplessly toward Saint-André.
When it was clear to him that he would not be able to please the Prince, Guise thought better of continuing, and resolved to finish his wine. Saint-André, who had watched the entire episode, had thought at first that he too might attempt a bit of good-natured needling about Henri’s being so defensive. Something told him not to. They both stood silently and watched him walk off alone into the woods.
Two wild boars were roasting on spits and large platters of partridge, pear pastries and sugared almonds were brought forth and presented to the hungry riders. They drank a sweet liquor made from wild cherries called maraschino. Diane waited until the meal was nearly ready knowing that the anticipation of the King’s hungry companions would serve to mask her disappearance.
At first she wandered toward the horses as though she were just strolling, and then when she felt she might pass safely undetected, she darted behind one of the sleek, glossy animals and into the woods in the direction that Henri had gone. She found him crouched beside a small pond, near a collection of moss-covered boulders, skipping stones into the water.
“They are serving dinner,” she cautiously said. “Are you not hungry?”
“Did you know a stone will skip four times before it drowns?”
Diane found it an odd choice of words but considering the somber mood of the entire afternoon and the humiliation he had endured in front of the others, she resolved to make no point of it. “I have not seen you since my rather ungraceful fall on the gaming courts the other day.”
Henri skipped another stone across the water. “And how is your head?” he asked, not turning to face her.
“Much better, thank you.” She drew closer and crouched down beside him. “May I try one?”
Their eyes met for only a moment before she took the small stone from his hand and tossed it across the pond. It skipped twice and then sank.
“I feel like that—like I am drowning sometimes. This life of mine is like one huge ocean waiting to just swallow me up,” Henri said softly. “You kno
w that the King has challenged me to a joust.”
“Will you accept the challenge?”
“I suppose I must, mustn’t I?” he asked and finally turned to look at her.
In his young eyes she once again saw the anger and the loneliness she had seen that first afternoon when he had rescued her from Anne d’Heilly. She had not noticed it in him since that day. “I wanted to thank you for the beautiful medallion. It was just what I needed to make me smile. It seems I do so little of that lately.”
“I am glad you liked it. It belonged to Bayard,” he finally said in a softer voice. “He was a noble and great knight in the early wars with the King.”
“Yes, of course. He is already a legend. Will His Majesty not be angry that you have given such a priceless thing to me?”
“It belonged to me!” he snapped, and then waited a moment, trying to quell his anger. “It was a gift to me from my mother. Bayard had given it to her. I wanted you to have it. After all,” he added, “you have certainly earned it.”
The conversation between them was disjointed. Uneasy. Diane persevered, trying to adapt to the rhythm of his thoughts. He was troubled. She knew it. He was not behaving like the boy she had come to know over the last weeks. Having seen the exchange between him and the King today, she now understood why. Something about their relationship touched off in Henri a profound rage. The King perpetuated the boy’s penchant toward violence. She was now certain how he had earned his reputation as difficult.
“I wonder if you would meet me behind the kitchens later today,” she asked. “I have something I would like to show you. It is with Clothilde.”
“Then you have been to see her?”
“Why, yes. Several times,” she smiled. “She was right. Her Banbury tarts are the best I have ever tasted.”
He stood and wiped his muddy hands on his puffed trunk hose. The intensity was gone from his dark, bottomless eyes and he managed a weak smile.
