by Diane Haeger
When François found the conditions unsuitable, he issued a counterproposal suggesting Charles as the bridegroom of Boleyn’s infant daughter, Elizabeth. But that did not fair better. Henry VIII would agree to that proposal only if François would persuade the new Pope to lift his excommunication.
In the silence, the Chancellor rose to his feet and called Christian de Nançay, Captain of the Guard. The two men exchanged words. The Captain then took two of the other guards and rushed from the King’s council chamber to handle the disturbance outside. Once they had gone, François put his face in his hands. Anne poised her hands on her hips.
“What are you going to do about that husband you’ve given me?” she whined.
François lowered his head as he stormed toward the door. “Oh, leave me alone, will you! I must think!”
After a moment of unbearable silence, Anne pointed her chin in the air, turned on her heels and went out into the corridor after him.
“Well, that is that,” Chabot sighed once the King and his mistress were gone. “It is to be war then.”
“There is really no other choice,” Bourg agreed. “With the new Pope in Rome so disagreeable, everything has changed.”
The Cardinal de Lorraine shook his head. “A war is the only way His Majesty will ever get back Milan now.”
There was a rumbling of voices from several of the other men at the table who echoed the sentiments of the Admiral. Montmorency was not among them.
“Such conjecture is vastly premature, Chabot,” the Grand Master huffed. “And you serve no purpose by second-guessing the will of the King.”
“If his foreign policy is as tenuous as his stand on religion,” Bourg shook his head, “then may the good Lord help us all!”
Montmorency searched each of their faces. Such fierce competition among them and yet all of it masked by Machiavellian civility. They really were so pitiful. After a moment, he gathered up his papers, stood, and looked back across the council table.
“Seems such a shame that it has all come apart like this,” he said with a sneer.
Chabot rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Only that so strategic a bargaining chit as His Majesty’s second son should be wasted upon a merchant’s daughter. . .and a barren one at that.” Montmorency strode across the room and then turned back around once he had reached the door. “His Majesty is bound to be furious when he remembers who it was that encouraged such a travesty. And you certainly cannot say you were not warned.”
DIANE SAT NEAR the fire but her eyes were directed at the window where fresh drops of rain fell gently past the long sheet of glass. Jacques de Montgommery sat at a small table at the other end of the room. He was playing chess with Françoise, Diane’s eldest daughter. Hélène sat in a third seat watching as Montgommery lost.
“Maman! Maman!” Louise, Diane’s younger daughter, ran into the room and nearly tripped over a hassock by the door. “Hélène has had news from Court! May I read it? Oh, please may I?”
Diane looked up as though she had been brought back from a deep sleep. Louise, who was nearly thirteen, bounced into the room and twirled about with the letter in her hand. Hélène stiffened. When Louise did not surrender the letter, Diane stood and walked toward her daughter.
“Now, now. Give that to Hélène. Letters are a private matter,” Diane reproached.
The girl looked up at her mother and began to giggle. Louise was her willful child. She was the mirror image of Louis. She had his dark, thick rings of hair and her coal-black eyes were framed by thick straight brows. She also had his temperament. After a moment, Diane grew stern so that Louise reluctantly surrendered the letter to her mother’s maid.
“Oh, do read it aloud. Please!” Louise whined. She fell onto the floor and propped her elbows on Hélène’s knees.
“Do get up, you spoiled thing!” her sister scolded, but Louise stayed put beneath the game table and did not move her arms from Hélène’s lap. Everyone was silent as she read the single page of parchment to herself. Diane sat down in a smaller red velvet chair near the table and put an affectionate hand on Montgommery’s shoulder.
“News from Monsieur de Saint-André?” she asked. Jacques took her hand from his shoulder and kissed it.
“Yes, Madame.”
“He is well?”
“Yes, though he says he has lost weight at the camp. He explains it by saying that the food is no more enticing than the company.” She smiled as she read the line.
“And the Prince,” Diane continued. “Is he also well?”
“He does not say, Madame. Only that he will be accompanying His Highness home from camp. They have been called home to Amboise by His Majesty for Christmas.”
Hélène folded the letter and placed it on the table.
“Does he have other news?” Diane dared to venture further.
“He does ask when we shall be returning to Court.”
To this Jacques turned around in his chair. He lifted a hand and ran his long fingers gracefully through his smooth, pointed beard.
“Well, my dear, it is a good question,” he said. “Will you return? You know I must myself return to service before the tenth, and it would be so splendid if we could go together.”
Diane stood and walked back toward one of the windows which ran the entire length from the parqueted floor to the vaulted ceiling. She ran her hand along the frame.
“I wonder if it will ever stop raining. Everything is so gray this time of year.”
Jacques strode toward her and encircled her with his arms.
“What do you say, ma chère?” he pushed. “Will you return with me? It is time for you to get back for more than just one of your brief visits anyway.”
Diane turned and saw Hélène perched pensively on the edge of her chair. Her daughters were both gazing up at her expectantly, knowing the honor that it would be for the entire family.
“I do not want to leave them at Christmas.”
“Oh, nonsense. They are nearly grown women. Besides, they will be going back to the convent after the New Year and you will be left alone in this big, ugly old place.”
Diane gazed around the large room. The paint on the ceiling was cracked. The tapestries were shredded. The roof leaked and even with the fires fully stoked, it was a dark and drafty old keep. She thought of Court and the comforts there in winter. She thought of her own splendidly decorated apartments; the parties and the banquets. It had been over a year since she had any occasion to wear anything formal. She had chosen not even to have any new headdresses or gowns made since last season. In the two years since Henri’s wedding, she had returned to Court only once. It had been last summer when she knew, through Jacques de Montgommery, that Henri was safely away at military camp.
She had gone to Fontainebleau for only two weeks to attend a celebration of His Majesty’s birthday. The invitation had been personally written by the King. The image of François, and the memory of his persistent overtures, shot through her mind. It wound around to memories of Anne d’Heilly and her vicious taunting. The images terminated with the memory of Henri. The kiss they had shared in Cauterets. The forbidden night. The wedding in Marseilles. The pain she had caused. The disappointment. The sadness.
“Oh, please. . .” Montgommery cajoled, drawing her out of her reflections. “It would be so good to have you near me.”
Diane gazed into the reassuring depths of his eyes and the long soft face of the man she did not love. She had been so weak the last time. So afraid. She had been like a servant while Anne d’Heilly had been like her master. The King’s favourite had been in complete control. It could not be that way this time if she returned. But had she changed enough to bear it? That was impossible to know, unless she returned. . .with Montgommery.
“Well, Hélène, are you ready to return?”
“Oh yes, Madame. Most ready. . .if you are, that is.”
“I suppose it is time.” She took a deep breath and then smiled. “So be it. We shall leave w
ith the Captain.”
Hélène could not contain her smile.
“Then, if you will excuse me. There will be much packing to do.”
Diane nodded her approval and then walked over to a carved writing table near the fire, drawing out a quill and a fresh sheet of parchment.
“Maman, Père Augustin is here,” announced Louise, who had seen him through the window. She scurried to her mother’s writing desk. “Will you be coming to Mass?”
“Yes of course, dear. You and Françoise go along with Jacques. I shall join you in a few minutes.”
When they had all gone, she dipped the long golden-tipped quill into the ink well. The pen hovered over the blank parchment for several moments before she lowered it and scrawled the first words of a note to the King of France. She had not yet decided exactly how to say that, with his good grace, she was finally prepared to return.
MONTGOMMERY STOOD BEFORE the others did and, after receiving the blessing, walked out under the eaves of the private Brézé chapel. He rubbed a long hand over his chest and stretched his other arm over his head, arching his back like a cat. When Diane came out beside him, Jacques pulled her by the waist and kissed her.
“Please! We have just come from Mass!” she admonished him and wiped away the wetness from his kiss.
Diane walked out into the muddy courtyard between the chapel and the chateau. She had come to regret her decision to return to Court already. It had been peaceful in this protective estate. It had been safe. The pain had finally dulled, and now was nearly gone. The order to her life had returned and she was not at all certain that she desired to change that.
“We shall need new paint in the spring. And that roof over the ballroom leaks,” Diane said as she studied the facade, a light rain still falling.
“Oh, why do you not just sell the place, ma chère? It is such an old sleeping giant. Certainly it is nowhere near its former glory.” Jacques crossed his arms over his chest and gazed up at the main building. “Having been owned by the Grand Sénéchal de Normandie, and with the ample woods surrounding it, I am certain we could still net a fair price.”
Diane stopped in the center of the courtyard. She lowered the velvet wrap from her head. A light rain fell on her cap and her cheeks. She brushed it away and turned to Jacques.
“This is Louis’ ancestral home. It is my children’s birthright. How can you ask that of me?”
“Because it is cold and archaic and once we are married I shall refuse to spend another night in it!”
Jacques had a way of being direct and then smiling afterward to lessen the severity of what he had said. Diane looked into the hollow green eyes above the smile. I wonder what I ever found attractive about him, she thought. How did I let it get this far?
“I had no idea you detested it so much here.”
“Well, shall we say, I simply prefer the comforts of Court to the more rustic life you have here at Anet.”
Jacques followed her down a small staircase, past a lion’s head statue poised on a stone pedestal. She stopped a moment and looked up into a collection of trees.
“They will be so beautiful in the spring, all of them green and rustling, full of new life. Birds will sing from all of these branches. And the geese will bathe and flutter in that pond. Louis taught our daughters to ride out there, past the gardens.” She looked up at him. “I cannot sell it.”
Jacques encircled her with his long arms and kissed her again. “You are so beautiful when you are determined,” he said and then pressed his mouth upon hers. His tongue swept inside. He clung to her with a vengeance until her urge to pull away was stronger. “Oh, when will you let me have you again? You know how I ache for you!”
“Must you bring that up again? We were having such a lovely day.”
“What is it then? Am I not good enough for you now that we are returning to Court? Perhaps you think that you shall have another chance with the King?”
“Jacques, please, don’t be petulant. It is really very unbecoming.”
She tried to turn away but he grabbed her gloved wrist, twisting it so that she was forced to turn back toward him. “That is not what you said in Marseilles! You liked my hot blood then!”
She detested his childish, angry outbursts, but he spoke the truth. Even now, nearly two years later, she could not bear to hear it. That night after all the wedding festivities had finally wound to a close; after Henri had married Catherine and she herself had drunk far too much wine, she had nursed her wounded pride by finally letting Jacques share her bed. Now the shadowy memory of that single intimate encounter with him made her blood run cold. Then, she had accepted it as her only way out of the quagmire of confusion in which she had felt herself drowning. She was a woman. He was a man. She had needed a man then. Not a boy. Or so she had convinced herself long enough to allow it to happen.
When he wrote and asked, six months later, if she would receive him on his holiday, she agreed. She needed a new life. At the time it had seemed right to include him. When he came to Anet, Diane had been determined to love him. Her daughters, alone and fatherless, were charmed by his pristine manner and glamorous tales of courtly life. He returned many times after that, and finally in spite of the lie she had told Montmorency, Diane truly did accept his proposal.
But her love did not grow. She began to feel trapped. She made excuses and threw up roadblocks to the marriage to which she had previously agreed. Now she found herself caring for him less each day. She thanked God she had been given the foresight not to marry him yet. One loveless marriage was enough for any one lifetime. Returning to Court now was the only way for her to rectify her mistake with Jacques and for both of them to get on with their lives.
“Well, answer me! Ha! So that is it! Perhaps it is not the King you want, but rather the King’s son! You are not going to start things up with that boy again, are you?”
“Jacques, let go of my hand.”
She did not break her gaze from his. Her words had been slow and punctuated. He recanted. Diane rubbed her wrist with her other hand as she looked at him.
“I am simply not ready to give you that part of myself,” she whispered. “I am sorry. I need more time.”
“By the time you are ready, Madame, the point shall be mute, for I fear I shall be too old to bed anyone!”
A smile broke across her face and she reached up to brush a finger across the soft skin of his cheek. “You really are a dear, dear man when you choose to be. But more often than not, Captain, you are thoroughly impossible.”
Jacques took her hand from his cheek and kissed it. His voice changed to a sincere and pleading tone from its former harshness. “Let us set a date then. Just give me a date, whenever you choose, and I shall be a happy man.”
“I cannot think about it now. But after the new year. Please, Jacques, just let us wait until then.”
THE DAUPHIN SAT ON THE FLOOR of Anne d’Heilly’s salon early on Christmas Eve with his knees drawn up near his chest. He was half swallowed by a sea of bright blue, gold and green overstuffed silk pillows. On his legs, he balanced a dark wooden lute. Next to him, in a blue embroidered gown and raven hair, sat Agnese Pachecho, his mistress.
François was now eighteen, and this Spanish honor maiden to Queen Eleanora was his first officially acknowledged paramour. Surrounding the lovers were the younger members of the King’s petite bande of ladies. Folded out around them like petals on a rose, were their ladies-in-waiting. Beside them in the hearth, the yule log blazed as the Dauphin strummed at the lute halfheartedly and chatted with the people around him. Gentlemen and courtiers lingered around the edges of the room decorated with holly and ivy, conversing in small collections as they sipped wine from their expensive Venetian crystal goblets.
Near the fire, the King sat with Anne d’Heilly as she stroked the tiny pet marmoset on her lap that he had given her for her birthday. The King nodded to his son and he then began to sing.
I waited, waited for the Lord,
he bent d
own to me and heard my cry.
He brought me up out of the muddy pit, out of the mire. . .
Diane grew rigid at the sound of the Psalm sung so rollickingly by the Dauphin. Sacrilege! she thought, and discreetly made the sign of the cross. She had been back little more than a week, but it was a decidedly different Court than the one she had left two years before. She had heard the gossip that the King was suffering from some sort of malady brought about by too many mistresses. Also in her absence, Anne d’Heilly had been married and thereby elevated to the exalted title of Duchesse d’Etampes. But the most striking change at Court was the strengthening air of tolerance for the “new religion.”
At every dinner and ball, in every group of courtiers who gathered, the endless topic was the Reformation. Although he refused to make a public stance either way, it was the King himself who had personally approved the translation of the Psalms into secular verse. Now, not only were they being sung blasphemously by his own son here in the palace, but in every other fashionable salon in France.
Diane slid behind the large circle of courtiers and onto the terrace. The crisp winter air rushed at her. The laughter and the music dimmed. She took a deep breath and then looked up at the stars. The sky was clear enough to see the constellations. After a moment, her eyes drifted down to the shadow of a young man who sat a few feet from her on one of the stone benches. He seemed as unconcerned by the cold as she. His back was turned to her but she recognized him at once. There was no mistaking the outline of his shoulders, the tufts of thick, dark hair.
“Hello, Henri.”
He stood and turned around. They were separated by the white stone bench. He had not expected this, and the sight of her disarmed him. He wanted to smile but in the next moment the pain returned. He turned away from her, trying in vain to gaze up at the stars. His head was filled with a hundred things to say, and nothing at all. She walked around the bench and stood beside him. For a moment, she looked up at the sky with him.
“You have changed a great deal,” she said.
