by Diane Haeger
“I did not think you would be here, or I would not have come.”
She put a hand to his shoulder to make him face her.
“Dear Henri. . .are you so angry with me still, that you cannot bear the sight of me?”
“You know that is impossible,” he said, finally shifting his eyes to her.
His voice had deepened, and his face had matured. There were more angles; more definition to the chin and jaw. There was the hint of a beard that had been shaved away. Any remnants of a child’s softer features were gone. For a moment they stood breathless at the sight of one another.
“How are you?” she finally asked through a tentative smile.
“As well as I am supposed to be after what was taken from me; and what was forced in its place.”
“And your wife, is she well?” she asked, ignoring the sting of his remark.
“I would not know. I have only seen her twice since Marseilles.”
Again there was silence between them. Through it, a charged energy began to grow. The turbulence inside her swelled. She fought it. It was a battle that would have had her saying what she longed to. After a moment, she lost.
“I have missed you, Henri, and our talks. . .and jeu de paume, well of course, that certainly is not the same. I have never found anyone so willing to defeat me as you were.”
“And I have missed you a thousand times more than you could ever know.” He turned toward her unexpectedly; the veneer of anger fallen away, and behind it, the open and sensitive youth who she knew could break her heart if she let him. He raised his hand to touch her cheek. “How I have missed you, and dreamed of you. I have longed for you, when I thought I could never long for anyone. . .”
“Henri, please,” she said, turning from his touch.
“Did you really think your leaving me would change that?”
Diane sighed. She had known one day she would face this, but seeing him was far more difficult than she could have imagined. She had not been prepared. He moved behind her and spoke with the breathy intensity of a lover.
“I know you said that things would change; that I would change, but I love you still. No matter what you want for me, or whom you wish me to be with, there can be no one else but you.”
“Please. . .do not do this.”
Laughter from the doorway and the emerging of more guests broke the strain between them. Diane moved casually to the corner of the terrace and sat down on another of the stone benches. She was weak. Henri sat beside her. After taking a moment to collect herself she said, “You know I prayed for you. I truly expected to see you and your wife getting on much better, perhaps giving His Majesty the grandchild he desires.”
“Do not mock me, Madame! You know full well that she is nothing more than a tie to Italy for the King! I did not want her then, and I do not want her now!”
Before he could say another word, his brother, François, appeared in the doorway and came toward them. He was accompanied by three young girls, none of whom were his mistress, and all of whom clung to his sleeves, whispering to one another with drunken laughter.
“Why, Madame Diane! Welcome back!” the Dauphin said with a taunting smile and extended his hand. “And dear brother, Henri, I might have known I’d find you trailing after her the moment she returned.” Diane stood and curtsied to the future King. “You have been sorely missed,” he added. “How long has it been, Madame?”
“Almost two years,” Henri replied for her in a sharp tone, before Diane could speak for herself.
“Well yes, so it has. I believe it would have been the occasion of Prince Henri’s wedding, after which you left so abruptly. That would be, well, let me see, it is November. . .why, it would be two years last month! How strange of you to recall it so readily, brother dear.”
His tone was sarcastic, his motive cruel. Henri could not imagine hating him any more than he did at that moment.
“I was called away on business,” she explained.
“Indeed.” The Dauphin arched an eyebrow, and looked at each of them as though they were harboring some great secret.
“Well, if you will both excuse me,” Diane asked after a painfully long silence, and curtsied once again to the Dauphin.
“Madame, wait!” Henri called out, but before he could get beyond his brother, she had gone back into the crowded drawing room.
Henri stared contemptuously at his brother. “Move aside!”
“Really, Henri. Is it not time to let go of your nursemaid and find a real mistress? That is, if you do not like the wife Father bought for you.”
“Move aside, I said, or I shall knock you into that garden without a second thought!”
By the time he found her, the discussion circle had ceased and the royal ensemble was playing a ceremonial Pavane in honor of the King who had changed to a new and more extravagantly jeweled costume he wished to display. He had snatched Diane as his partner the moment she had returned from the garden. The rest of the Court watched respectfully as the two danced alone in solemn procession.
Henri stood beside a huge wall tapestry. While the others marveled at the footwork of the King, Henri only watched Diane. He watched her pass through the simple steps, her brilliant blue eyes following the King’s lead. The dance called for the King to walk behind his partner then lead her by the hand a few gliding steps. Next, each of them bowed to one another to the beat of the drum. After the dance was complete, other couples began to make their way onto the small dance area. At the same moment, Henri rushed up beside her.
“Please do not deny me. We must talk. I leave the day after tomorrow once again for the camps!”
The next dance began. As custom dictated, the formal Pavane was followed by the much lighter Tourdion. The others began to line up around them. Henri and Diane had no choice but to begin dancing with them. Most of the courtiers were drunk and were staggering and laughing as they whirled past one another. No one noticed or cared about the intensity between the young prince and the older Madame de Poitiers. First the ladies danced facing the gentlemen. Then the ladies paused while the men danced. Diane reluctantly took Henri’s hand and, as the dance warranted, let him draw her near.
“I know that you care for me, I can see it in your eyes, even if you will not tell me,” he implored beneath his breath.
Across the room, Anne d’Heilly had come up beside the Dauphin and the three girls. “Well, well, well. Will you look at that,” she whispered. “Little Prince Henri is dancing, and rather well. I wonder where he finally learned.”
“Why, of that too I am certain. He learned in Cauterets,” François glibly replied.
HENRI TRIED TO keep time to the music as the dance drew near its conclusion. “You are everything to me. Why can you not see that?”
“Henri, please, you must stop this! What happened is in the past. Now we must let go of it,” she implored while rendering a smile for the King, who stood on the sidelines.
“I have waited two years for this moment and after tomorrow I will be gone again. . .I cannot leave things like this!”
The music ended. The gentlemen bowed to the ladies. Henri bowed to Diane. As a crowd of guests surrounded her, she made her way quickly from the floor before the music began again. Henri followed. She was quicker. She stole past the crowds and past the posted guards. She ran down the small private flight of stairs away from the chamber. She ran down a long hallway, dimly lit by the golden glow of sputtering candles. Henri caught her just below the sweeping stone staircase. The charged emotion rendered him oblivious to the others who walked past them chatting and saying good night. He grabbed her arm and twisted it so that she would face him. He could hear the delicate seam on her silk sleeve tear beneath his force. Their eyes met. Both of their chests were heaving from the run. Diane’s face was flushed.
“You may be able to run away from me, Madame, but you cannot keep yourself from the truth!”
“What truth? There is no truth!”
“But there is. . .and in your
heart you know it! Despite our ages, despite everyone and everything that is against us, I loved you the first moment I saw you!” he seethed, in a low tone, just beneath his breath. “I love you still! No matter what you try to make me believe, that will not change. If you remember nothing else, remember what I told you two years ago. I have in this life only one heart to give, Madame, and long ago it was given to you!”
DIANE CLOSED THE DOOR and leaned against it. She was glad that he was going. Glad that the temptation would be gone. Her knees were weak. She tried to breathe more deeply but it did not help her heart’s pounding. The control she had felt when she returned to Court had now completely abandoned her.
“Madame, are you all right?” Hélène asked as she shuffled half asleep toward Diane. “You look flushed. You are not ill, are you?” She put a comforting arm around Diane and led her away from the still-open door toward her bedchamber. The coverlet was turned back and the pillows had been freshly plumped. Her copy of Le Roman de la rose was on the night table.
“There now, let me help you out of those things. Oh, you really do look as if you are ill. What on earth has happened?”
“I am fine. It has just been a long night. I need to sleep.”
Diane stood bracing herself against the bedpost as Hélène unfastened the small pearl buttons which girdled her into her satin-edged ball gown. Her mind wandered as her eyelids grew heavy and began to close. She was tired. So tired. But tomorrow was Christmas. It would be better tomorrow. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched passively as Hélène pulled off her shoes and her white stockings.
“Thank you,” she said after a moment. “I can manage the rest.”
“Madame, perhaps it is not my place. Charlotte would have scolded me for even asking, but you have seen him, haven’t you?”
Diane peered up at her through the thin haze of her own confusion. She did not need to reply.
“If you would like to talk—”
“No. . .no thank you, Hélène. I really can manage it.”
“Well, if you are certain there is nothing further I can do for you, then I shall bid you good night.”
But Diane could not sleep. Rest was beyond her. As she lay beneath her covers, her heart pounded until she thought it might burst through her chest. She was still in the Dauphin’s apartments, Henri before her. She could see him; feel the intensity between them. His hand on hers as they danced had been like a powerful narcotic; numbing her; ruling her. Beneath his grasp she became totally helpless. The power in that touch even now beckoned her back to something so forbidden that if she allowed it, she knew that Henri, and his dreams, could quite easily destroy her.
THE KING HAD MOVED his Court again after the Christmas holidays. On the first of February they had come to Blois to celebrate Candlemas. There his Majesty acknowledged the inevitability of war. The Duke of Milan had died unexpectedly, leaving the sought-after city without an heir. It was providence, his aides convinced him. The good Lord meant for him to have it back after all. The Emperor, however, would not give it up without a fight.
François’ two eldest sons had returned to the troops long before the ringing in of the New Year, and the King was left at Court to be swallowed up by obligations, and to sulk about the dwindling state of his alliances. He now entertained only the slightest hope of a Franco-English accord with Henry VIII that would have solidified his position against the Emperor. He sighed out loud when he thought of it. It had been many years since he had known such complete frustration.
A reply to the marriage he had proposed between his third son, Charles, and Henry VIII’s infant daughter, Elizabeth, had been postponed indefinitely by the English Monarch. François’ ambassadors had returned from England with rumors that the child’s mother, Anne Boleyn, had lost the affections of the King. Boleyn, it was said, had promised the King a male heir as the impetus for him to divorce his first wife. Her inability to produce what she had assured, along with her demanding and impossible temperament, had now sent His Majesty into the arms of yet another woman. This one apparently was one of the Queen’s own ladies-in-waiting, a young girl named Jane Seymour.
It was further rumored that King Henry was once again seeking counsel for a second divorce. If that should occur, as it had with the previous Queen, their daughter, like the Princess Mary before her, would also be declared a bastard. If Elizabeth’s legitimacy were called into question, a marriage between her and Charles would be pointless. The only hope in this dwindling race for allies was King James of Scotland. Though a lesser power than Henry VIII, he had become an ally worth cultivating when so few were to be had. Now widowed, the Scottish Monarch was said to be searching for a wife. The King of France had seized the opportunity by offering him a French bride. While he waited for a reply, he decided to go to Chenonceaux.
BY THE TIME they had made their way north through the Loire Valley and the forest of Amboise, the harshness of winter had faded. In its place was the fragile beauty of spring. Everything was fresh. There were a dozen different shades of green; vibrant red, yellow, and violet. François had wanted to escape. He had begun to feel as if life, his life, had been personified and, as a great foe, was now seizing on his weakness and finally catching up with him. His health too had been failing, and his only thought was of escape. He chose as his sanctuary a new royal acquisition, a small chateau along the edge of the river Cher, called Chenonceaux.
His military concerns entrusted now to Admiral Chabot, as each mile passed, François felt the enemy inside himself begin to fade. On the road once again, he began to laugh. Anne d’Heilly held the King’s hand as their horses slowly ambled along the banks of the river, and she watched as the grave expression that he had so often donned of late, slowly faded away.
When the King took the lute from his jester, the rest of the band sang the words to La Guerre, a song composed for him by Jannequin to mark his victory over the Emperor Charles in 1515. It was the kind of song he needed to sing just now, and no one could begrudge him that.
The first view of the castle was a magnificent one. The gravel path that led from the main road to the chateau was guarded by two stone lions at the end of a long, arched column of plane trees. The riders paused, taking in the vista that burst forth majestically before them. The small chateau was made of stone, painted a pale yellow, with pointed and gabled roofs and lovely, large stained-glass windows. It stood directly out on the water and was accessed by a drawbridge. To the right, separate from the chateau, was a small turret, a guard house. After the overwhelming elegance of Fontainebleau and the massive opulence of Chambord, this little manor was charming and unique, even at a distance.
“My, how beautiful,” uttered Catherine in her broken French. Diane smiled and took in a deep breath. The others led their horses toward the stables, where several young grooms stood waiting to help the King’s party from their mounts.
“There is quite a history here,” boasted the King with an arm extended. “On this very site was once a Roman villa. That building over there,” he said, pointing to the isolated turret, “was part of it.”
“Imagine it,” said Catherine, like a wide-eyed child whom everyone hears and yet to whom no one really listens.
The central vestibule was low and intimate with a vaulted ceiling. An innovative triangulated and ribbed design, it was a work of art in itself. There was a long table filled with freshly cut spring flowers along one wall, placed there in anticipation of His Majesty’s arrival. A large painting of the Three Graces occupied the other. When everyone gathered inside the doors, the King began to inspect his recent acquisition. The rest of the group followed, whispering among themselves. The first room to the left was the guard room, decorated and warmed with huge tapestries. The King and his entourage then passed through the Gothic chapel that hung out over the river. The gallery, the main drawing room with its magnificent ceiling and the entire chateau seemed to shimmer as the light from the water played into the colorful windows of stained glass. The King’s smile
broadened as his tour of the lower level was complete.
“Well. What do you think of my home?”
“It is magnificent, Your Majesty,” said Christian de Nançay.
“Splendid, Father,” said Princess Madeleine.
“Truly lovely, Your Majesty,” echoed Jacques de Montgommery.
“It is terribly small,” observed Anne d’Heilly with a scowl, a look that crinkled her nose and wrinkled her forehead.
“Yes, of course. That is the charm of it,” replied the King, as he winked at Diane, who tried to stand inconspicuously behind the King’s favourite.
ANNE D’HEILLY SAT BEFORE her mirror contemplating the prospect of another evening; another dinner with the King’s insufferable little band. More decadence. More indulgence. It had all been orchestrated long ago. There were no surprises. And she was tired. She would have given it all up just to be loved. That thought surprised her. François loved her in his own way, but it was not the real love she needed more strongly each day. She had always been a showpiece for him; the grand prize of his manhood. He had certainly been her prize. She had played the game and won the King of France. But she was not without her own faults in this game of indulgence. She had enough infidelities herself to force her to silence. It had all become so predictable. The coming together. The seduction. The gifts. The apologies. The betrayal. The hurt. Other mistresses. Other lovers. The breaking apart. Only to come back together again. And so it had gone. On and on. And on.
“I must act now. There will be no better time to pave the way for my revenge,” she muttered venomously to herself, hardened by the thought of her own bleak existence.
She had taken the first step in her final revenge against Diane de Poitiers by asking that Montgommery be brought to her. Her heart, thought Anne. Therein lies the key.
Now, she sat at her toilette table letting her sister, Louise, remove her headdress. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror as the mass of chestnut locks tumbled onto the shoulders of her white silk dressing gown. She touched a soft strand near her face and smiled. Revenge was sweet. She could tolerate the mindless chambermaids with whom he dallied but it was Diane de Poitiers who continued to be the real threat. She was the only one with enough power and style to unseat her any time she chose. And after all, why had she returned to Court yet again if she did not mean once again to attempt to steal the King?
