by Diane Haeger
“Your Majesty, our Louis is only dead ten months! I still grieve for him!” She had added the word our as a way of defining her husband in hopes of kindling his decency and arresting his ardor. The ploy worked. As though she had slapped him squarely across the jaw, he broke away from her in a reflex action. His eyes were now wide and alert though his face was still filled with the flush of passion. Diane watched his heaving chest. She could hear his breathing as a long silent look passed between them.
“Please forgive me. I was insensitive.”
“On the contrary, Your Majesty is most indulgent. That is why I was certain you would understand.” Diane lowered her head, wanting to appear humbled by his attraction to her.
François wanted to believe her. He did not want to believe that she would reject him so boldly. After a moment, he made his choice. He took her chin in his large warm hand and held it.
“I can also be a patient man, chérie, when there is something so lovely and exciting as you for whom to wait.” His words made her shudder but she was able to manage a weak smile. “In exchange for my patience, I should like to be the first to know when you feel your mourning is through.”
Diane wondered how often he had said that; how often he had called himself a patient man and held a woman’s chin so delicately, to keep her from looking for a means of escape. She wondered how many times it had worked. Just as the King set free her chin, Anne d’Heilly cast open the chamber door. She strode in, followed by Philippe Chabot and the Dauphin. Prince Charles lurked behind them.
“Ah well, so there you are, mon amour! We have been looking everywhere for you and here you are entertaining again. And so soon after your little indiscretion with the Comte de Sancerre’s daughter?” she asked, pouncing onto his bed, her voice full of sarcasm.
“Madame Diane asked to see my paintings. She has seen them and now she is leaving,” he defended and then turned toward the entourage at the door. “What the devil are the rest of you doing here?” he raged at the sight of Admiral Chabot, two of his sons and three guards. Chabot bowed humbly and exited the wide chamber door just as Henri entered. Henri had heard the King declare from a hallway away that it was Diane’s idea to come there, not his own.
“François, take your brother back to the party,” the King ordered the Dauphin and Prince Charles. He did not see Henri, who slid behind one of the huge wall tapestries near the door. The other two boys whispered like children at their father’s dilemma, and then left the room.
“So now tell me, are the paintings all that he has shown you, Madame La Sénéchale?” Anne asked, her voice full of anger. “I certainly do hope so for your sake. You know my darling François is an incurable tease. He fancies himself enamored of every woman he meets. At least until he beds with them.”
“Anne, that is enough!”
“Nonsense, mon amour. It is important for Madame to make an informed decision about with whom she will bed. Now, you do have a diversionary penchant for the more mature ladies here at Court. That is well known. No doubt she was witness to your indiscretion with the Comtesse de Sancerre herself; or was that before you arrived, Madame? It is just so hard to keep them all straight!”
Diane watched the anger rise on the King’s face, but she said nothing to defend herself. She said nothing because she knew that Anne d’Heilly would have liked nothing better than to turn this incident into a great cat fight.
“Oh, come now, mon cher, you must admit it. While maturity does seem to grasp your attention a bit sooner than the rest, of late, those possessing it never do seem to be able to retain it. Witness the child’s mother, the poor Comtesse de Sancerre, and before that—”
“Anne! You go too far!” François bellowed.
“I think I shall say goodnight, Your Majesty,” Diane whispered and without waiting for his leave, rushed from the King’s bedchamber.
LARGE BLUE BANNERS sewn with royal golden fleurs-de-lys and images of the salamander flapped in the gentle spring breeze around the courtyard of Les Tournelles. Courtiers and peasants filtered together into the shaded wooden stands which looked down onto the tournament field. A balustrade with access from the palace had been prepared for the King’s family and guests. Diane took her place in the royal box between Grand Master Montmorency and the King’s young son, Charles. Charlotte and Hélène sat behind her. Anne d’Heilly, dressed in royal blue silk, her gown and cap encrusted with jewels, chatted with two of her attendants and sat comfortably beside Admiral Chabot.
The joust between the King and his son would be the day’s crescendo. It would be preceded by several others to pique the interest of the crowds. Among the early riders, the Dauphin François would ride against his friend, Guy Jarnac. Antoine de Bourbon would ride against Charles de Brissac.
The fanfare from the trumpets sounded, marking the parade of contestants who were about to make their entrance. A cool breeze mixed the dust and sent it swirling through the arena. Beneath the stands, shabbily dressed peddlers scalped tickets and made bets for the victors, while pickpockets worked the crowds. The throngs of people pressed tightly into the stands roared with excitement as the opponents pranced in, each astride a dazzlingly appointed horse. The field glittered with polished armor and the brightly colored peacock feathers that poised atop each helmet. The combatants waved toward the stands with gauntleted hands, and the furious applause increased.
The King and the Dauphin were first to enter. They strode in on opposite sides of the wooden guard. Both of their horses were decked in blankets of royal blue and gold with brilliantly colored gems lining the reins. Henri, who entered the field next beside Saint-André, did not wave at his introduction. The noise fell to a dull roar of murmurs and whispers at the sight of him. Amid all the colors and pageantry, Prince Henri rode a white horse draped with a blanket of black velvet with white silk piping. The large plume which rose from his helmet was black. Diane gazed down onto the field at the private tribute intended for her.
“How odd,” Diane heard Anne d’Heilly mutter to the Admiral from a few seats away. “To wear mourning colors in a joust. It is as if someone is going to die. Does the boy have no sense at all?”
“Perhaps, chérie, it is because today the King will send that sorry son of his back to his Maker.”
The two tittered evilly between themselves and looked back down onto the field. I pray for your immortal soul, thought Diane as she discreetly made the sign of the cross for Anne’s benefit.
The day was long and the sun grew more intense with each joust. The Dauphin won his match with his friend, Guy Jarnac. The crowd had cheered this dashing young Prince as he neared the stands in his black tweed under-armor garments, a purple velvet cloak tossed casually over his shoulders. He had come to watch the other matches. He sat regally between Montmorency and Diane and called with a wave for his gentleman to bring him some wine.
By the time the King and Prince Henri entered the courtyard again, the sun was a fiery orange ball which had begun to descend behind the arena. Both men rode as the others before them, toward the royal stands, their silver visors raised. Diane’s heart quickened as she was once again faced with the evidence of Henri’s infatuation. She smiled at him and placed her hand to her chest where the pendant had been. He nodded his head as far as his armor would permit, and then, pulling his jeweled reins, led his horse off the field toward the judges who would check his armor and lance.
The King waved to his Anne and she stood to blow him a kiss. The crowd cheered their public display of affection. There was no love lost among the people of France for François’ political liaison with Eleanora, the enemy’s sister.
“Well, imagine that,” whispered the Dauphin as he downed the first and called for another cup of wine. “It would appear that little brother Henri is quite taken with you,” he remarked, leaning toward Diane, his body washed in the sour smell of sweat and horseflesh.
“That is absurd, Your Highness,” she scoffed and pushed back a strand of hair that had come loose from he
r cap.
“I think not, Madame,” he began to snicker. “He wears your mourning colors on the field, does he not?”
“Surely if it is anything at all, it is a coincidence.”
Montmorency said nothing but the words rang through him like a shot. Could the boy be falling in love with her? A woman twice his own age. A woman of such a questionable past. No! It was unthinkable. Unacceptable. That was his boy. Henri was like one of his own sons. She was dangerous. He hadn’t liked her the day she came to Court, and he did not like her any more now. He must put an end to it. It was that simple. Just as soon as the tourney was over, he would see to it. Perhaps he should get Henri away from Court for a while, and away from such temptation. . .
LANCES SPLINTERED and chips of wood flew into the stands, as the King and his son rode repeatedly at one another. Henri clutched his thighs tightly to his horse as his father broke his third lance against the scorching armor. The crowd cheered wildly for their King. By the time the sun had begun to set, the King had broken three lances to Henri’s four. Each rider rode with a vengeance, and to the crowd’s disappointment, neither managed to fell the other.
Inside the prison of his tightly fitting armor, Henri’s body was bathed in sweat from the afternoon sun. Beads of perspiration dripped from his brow into his eyes so that he could barely see through the slitted silver visor. I despise you, he thought as he looked ahead at his opponent. His father. His King. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fell you. Right now, here in front of your chamberlains, your ambassadors, your subjects and your whore. And I could do it. How easy it would be. I felt you falter when I last struck a blow on the last lance. I saw you sway and grab for the pommel. Oh, how I despise you!
“What is wrong with the King?” Chabot whispered to Anne. “His pauses are long and he seems to falter. Perhaps we should send the physician to the field.”
“Keep quiet,” Anne hushed. “He is King. He shall win. It is nearly over anyway.”
As expected by nearly all who had wagered, the King was given the match in spite of the tie. They had broken four lances each. Someone in the crowd behind Diane remarked that Prince Henri had missed the last lance by such a wide margin that it appeared he had missed it intentionally. “Superior performance,” the judges said as the King and Prince paraded, visors up, before them to hear the decision. The crowds poured onto the dusty field and gathered around the contestants. The throngs of peasants who tried to near the King were held back by a queue of royal guards. Due to the weight of the armor, the King and Prince were helped down from the horses with the aid of several gentlemen-of-the-guard. The King’s horse was then taken back into the stables as he, the Dauphin and Prince Charles were led back to the chateau surrounded by a collection of supporters.
“Shall we go, Madame, and join the others?” Charlotte finally asked, uncomfortable from the long hours they had spent on the bare wooden benches.
“You go on ahead,” Diane replied. “I should like to sit here a little while longer.”
Charlotte looked back to the place on the field that held her mistress’s attention. Prince Henri stood there alone, still in full armor. His helmet was in his hand, and he was stroking the black nose of his snow white horse. Then she looked back at Diane.
You do not think I know, but I do, she thought. I see it in your eyes every time you look at him. Every time he looks at you. Dear girl, he is but a boy. . .God help you both for what you are about to do.
“MIGHT I HAVE A WORD with Your Majesty?”
Montmorency deftly maneuvered a place beside the King, Anne d’Heilly, and their entourage as they strode toward the entrance to the chateau on a flagstone path. I must protect the boy, he thought. Not only from those self-seeking opportunists who would marry him so carelessly to a commoner, but now too from a middle-aged harridan.
“What is it, Monty?” the King beamed, fresh from his victory, his wet arm draped around Anne d’Heilly’s elegant beaded gown.
“It concerns the Prince Henri, Sire.”
“Oh, really, Montmorency! Can this not wait?” Anne snarled and reached over protectively to brush a wet strand of hair from the King’s brow.
“Anne is right, mon ami. I have just defeated the boy; taught him a lesson. Can I not revel in it a while longer before you bring me news of more trouble?”
“But Your Majesty, it is of the utmost importance,” he persisted.
“Very well then. The rest of you go on ahead. I shall only be a moment.”
He waited until those who had circled around him had gone in through the carved stone entrance before he turned back to the Grand Master. “Very well then, Monty, what is it?”
“Your Majesty is aware that the boy and I are close.”
“Yes. Yes.” He waved. “What of it?”
“Well, I find it is most distressing to report, Your Majesty, but I have been witness to a return of his sour temperament of late.”
“You tell me nothing that I have not seen myself. Yet, it was only a couple of weeks ago, back at Fontainebleau, when his tutors reported to me that he had much improved.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. He was much changed, until the other day.”
“And what do you speculate has been the catalyst?”
“Perhaps this is no more than a phase. You know how common it is in young people to volley between ecstasy and despair. At any rate, I should like to propose a holiday for the Prince, with your permission of course; get him away from Court for a while. A change of climate would certainly divert his attentions from whatever, or whomever, appears to be troubling him.”
The King lowered his brows until he was frowning. Then he began to smile. “Are you suggesting, my dear Montmorency, that the boy has found himself a tart?”
“That I cannot say, Sire. But if it is a young girl who is the cause of his malaise, then the change of scene should all but cure it. If you also find it necessary to make a marriage between him and the Pope’s niece, this obstacle, whatever it is, can only stand in the way.”
The King appeared to be considering the matter. He put his hand up to his neat triangular beard and began to stroke it. “Perhaps it would be in order,” he said, and then thought a moment longer. “So be it. We will send the Prince and his companions to. . .to Cauterets!”
“A brilliant idea, Your Majesty. I know you shall not regret this. There is nothing like a mineral spring to ease the pangs of adolescence. I shall organize it at once.”
“You do that, Montmorency. And bring me a list of suitable companions who might accompany him. Yes, perfect,” he said, and then added with a sneer, “But in the meantime, I shall be the one to select his chaperone, and old friend, you have given me a splendid idea! I believe that I have just the candidate.”
“I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK with you about my son, Prince Henri,” the King began as he offered Diane a seat in the long, cold hall called the council chamber.
The vaulted room was paneled in rich wood and furnished only with the long council table, twelve chairs around it, a cabinet by the window and a tapestry near the fireplace. François was seated at the other end of the table between Philippe Chabot and Anne de Montmorency, a sea of empty chairs away.
“I understand from the Admiral here that you were very modest in our conversation last evening,” the King began. “He tells me that the boy seems to have taken quite a fancy to you. No doubt it is a maternal sort of attachment, he was so young when his mother died. No one since the Queen seems to have been able to do what you have accomplished in a matter of weeks,” he said, and then snapped his fingers. One of the liveried servants, who stood silently by the door, advanced and filled his silver goblet with wine.
“He actually seemed to be coming around until recently, something near to being civilized, or so We are told,” he continued. Diane shifted in her seat. “Montmorency here seems to think there is a woman involved.” She began to feel faint. Her mouth was dry. “On the Grand Master’s sage counsel, and in an attempt to r
evive the boy’s most recent heightened spirits, We have arranged a holiday for him at Cauterets. Do you know the place?”
Diane cleared her parched throat. “Cauterets, yes. Mineral baths in the Pyrénées, is it not?”
“Precisely. Well, ma chère, We shall come straight to the point.”
He beckoned for another glass of wine and motioned that one was to be poured for her as well. Diane was grateful for anything to wet her throat. She was not certain she would be able to speak again if he asked her anything else.
“We would consider it a great service to your country if you, along with your attendants of course, would agree to attend the Prince on his holiday, as chaperone. We shall be sending his companions Saint-André, Brissac, Guise and Bourbon along with his staff. We have thought perhaps you, as well, might benefit from a change of scene.” He leaned forward. “Time to consider and reflect,” he added, punctuating his remark with a sly grin.
Diane’s eyes widened and she turned from the King so that he was unable to see her flush. Montmorency bit his lip wanting to burst forth his objection. This was not at all what he had intended.
“We are aware,” the King continued, “that the prospect of escorting a group of young people, no matter how lovely the destination, is not particularly enticing in and of itself; which is why I am prepared to offer you an inducement.”
Diane looked back toward the King to see his lips turned in an uneasy smile. “Your Majesty,” her voice cracked. “Such a thing is hardly necessary in my service of the Crown.”
“We are certain that it is not. Just the same, Madame, We would feel better about the entire affair if you would accept a small token for your troubles.” He stood, then strode over to the oak cabinet set between two of the long windows. He took a small book from inside. “We recently had to take a small chateau on the Cher river called Chenonceaux into Our possession for unpaid debts to the Crown. This was among its possessions.”
