by Diane Haeger
He moved a piece again across the chessboard. This time it was checkmate. Prince Charles scoffed at his opponent’s victory and stood on the other side of the gaming table. First he stomped his foot, then turned his lip out in a childish pout. He leered at the Archbishop and then advanced toward the King. François slapped his son’s back and they smiled at one another.
“Oh, enough of all this!” he declared. “Let us have a game of jeu de paume. Is the match set?”
“Yes, Father,” answered Charles. “You know it is the Dauphin who has agreed to challenge me.”
“Ah, so it is. He is awfully good, you know.”
“But I am better. I can win, Father, I can!”
They embraced and then François smiled and held the boy at arm’s length. “Of course you can. After all, I am unrivaled on the court, and you, Charles, are most definitely your father’s son.”
HENRI WAS IN PRISON.
The Court of France was his cell; the King, his captor. He had been back at Court little more than a week and yet the prison of his mind was far worse than any Spanish captivity that he could recall; and it was Diane de Poitiers who held the key. She would not see him; could not had been her words. It is not safe, she had said. Until just before the child comes. Then I will send for you.
Each day stretched on into eternity. Each night he met his own private hell. How was she? How was their child? He was taunted. Tortured by his own thoughts that something had gone wrong. I must see her. I will go to her. No! I must wait. I will wait, if only because she has asked.
Henri paced the length of the royal jeu de paume court waiting for his brother and his brother’s entourage. The fence around the court slowly lined with courtiers, dignitaries and nobles who found entertainment in the personal rivalry between the two brothers. Henri disliked Charles. He found him arrogant and spoiled. Even though they were the King’s two remaining sons, they had never become close. There was the three years between them. And Charles had always been spoiled. The last son; l’enfant terrible. Henri detested that; envied that. The rift between them had only increased after the Dauphin’s death. Charles was now the King’s favorite. This match was really nothing more than a public exhibition to display that preference. It would be an arena for the favored son to please the master. Charles had whined and begged Henri for days for such a challenge. After their father, they were the two best players at Court, Charles said; unbeatable, he said. Henri knew he could defeat his brother playing with his eyes closed.
But since he had been forced to return from the front with a truce in sight, Henri had been seized by an insurmountable melancholy, which in Diane’s absence, only violent exercise could quell. Beating Charles in front of the King would serve to stave off the depth of his despair for a little while.
Jacques de Saint-André stood on the other side of the net with his hands on his hips. He had tried volleying the ball to Henri, to ready him for the match, but he continued to miss it. The Dauphin’s mind was elsewhere. He paced the length of the court. His head was down and his brow was lowered into a scowl. Something was wrong. She was not with him, and yet he knew. There was a bond, not physical or even mental. Something higher. Mystical. When he was not with her, he knew things. He knew if she was ill, or sad. He felt it. If she was in trouble. He felt it. Henri. Diane. Since the day that they had met, he was at a loss to know where one ended and the other began.
“Your brother shall be here any moment. Please, you must concentrate.”
“I cannot do this!” Henri announced, not looking at anyone and not certain if anyone had heard. When he tossed the racquet to the ground, whispers rose up among the crowd. Jacques jumped over the net and ran toward Henri.
“Your Highness cannot leave now. The match is set.”
“I must go!”
“But what will everyone think if you forfeit now?”
“To hell with the match! Something is wrong. I know it!”
“Madame Diane?”
“I do not know. I only know that I must go to her, and quickly!”
DIANE JERKED VIOLENTLY and rolled onto her side beneath the bedcovers. Beads of sweat formed on her brow and above her lip. She tried to relax; tried to slow her breathing, to try and end the torturous pain pulsing through her body. She lay bracing herself against the next spasm, rigid with fear. Hélène sat beside her squeezing her hand.
“Madame, please, just another breath. Just one more.” She held her own breath to help pace Diane. But something was wrong with the child. Diane could feel it. It had not been like her other pregnancies, and this was not like the other births. This child would surely die, or it was going to kill her first. She had known the risk of having this child at her age. It had fought her from the very beginning. Almost as though it was struggling for dominance of her body. The violent jabs. The sickness. The bleeding. He would not come into this world easily. Her fevered mind played tricks on her. It moved to the image of Queen Jane. She had been told only that morning that King Henry in England had lost his wife to childbirth. She considered the irony. Poor Queen Jane is dead, she had heard them whispering in the hall outside her door. Died in childbirth. She was supposed to have been asleep. Was it a sign? England’s Queen had been half her age. The clock struck six. A deep, stabbing pain shook her. She stifled her screams by clutching the bedcovers.
“Have you called for His Highness?” she gasped, forgetting that she had asked the same question only moments ago; and an hour before that.
“Yes, of course, Madame,” Hélène patiently replied. She looked up at the midwife who stood at the foot of the bed with her red, wrinkled hands at her face. She was an old woman from the village who had spent most of her life delivering babies; and even more time burying them. She was worried, and she took no pains to hide her concern. The labor was taking far too long. There was little else she could do now but pace and pray.
THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE.
It was midnight and Diane was weak. The child had nearly sucked the last ounce of strength from her body, and still it would not come. She lay beneath the crimson and gold covers on her bed, her face ashen; eyes rolling back in her head, almost to a close. She muttered to herself, whimpered and then lay quiet for a time, only to begin it all again when the pain returned. Pain and cessation. It went on with the heartless drone of a pendulum. By two, it was pain that ground and tore and left her sweat-drenched and pleading for her own death.
Through it all, Hélène had not left her side. She mopped her brow with a cool cloth and in her other hand held a rosary as she whispered prayers.
“I cannot go on. . .”
Hélène was rocked from her prayers. “Oh no, Madame! You must not say that. You must!”
Diane’s maid bolted from the stool beside the bed and squeezed her hand more firmly. The midwife advanced from the foot of the bed and tore back the heavy covers. She placed her hands onto Diane’s swollen belly to feel the placement of the child. Hélène ran a clean cloth through the white ceramic basin on the stand near the bed. She looked back at the midwife who muttered to herself as she continued to move her hands.
“She is going to be all right. . .isn’t she?”
The midwife placed the covers back over Diane and shook her head.
“If it doesn’t come soon,” she said, gnashing her teeth, “neither of them has a chance.”
IT WAS JUST BEFORE DAWN when the echoed thunder of galloping hooves broke across the cobbled stones of the old keep at Anet. The white mare snorted pillows of air as Henri brought him to a halt before the main entrance. He left the horse unattended, and in the dull blue-gray of morning, ran into the main vestibule of the chateau. He raced up the circular stairs without taking a moment to assess where he was going. Past the main hall he ran, to a smaller arched corridor that he knew would lead to the bedchambers.
“Diane!” he called out as he ran, his cape fanning out behind him. He opened one door and then the next, shouting her name, “Diane! Diane!” The commotion brought Mad
emoiselle Terre Noire, Diane’s housekeeper, from behind a closed chamber door, her arms loaded with bedding. She did not recognize Henri as the future King of France.
“Monsieur, I beg your pardon, but Madame is indisposed. . .” she said and protectively barred the door.
“Where is she?” he charged.
Before she could reply, he leapt at the woman, toppling her to her knees. Disarmed by his force, the woman managed only to point weakly with a crooked finger toward a large curved door behind her. Without knocking, he flung it open and burst inside. Dawn had not yet broken. The rest of the room before him was dark except for one comer that blazed burnt umber from the fire. At the sight of him, Hélène bolted from her chair beside the bed. She did not bow to him or acknowledge his true identity, because of the midwife who was still at the foot of the bed.
“Thank God you’ve come,” she said, touching his arm. Her cheeks were pale, tear-stained. Her round eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Henri looked over at Diane. She moaned as the midwife touched her.
“What is it? What is wrong?”
“It is the child. The midwife says it is turned the wrong way and she is not of a proper knowledge to take it from the belly.”
Henri rushed toward the bed. “Can you not do something?”
“I am sorry, monsieur, but she is in God’s hands now,” the old woman replied.
“God’s hands?” he repeated the words. He looked at the two helpless faces before him; one young, one old. Henri flung himself onto the bedside and took Diane’s hand. He squeezed it to try and rouse her. She did not know he was there.
“Hélène, bring me a cool cloth!” he said and ran his hand across her forehead, brushing back the wet curls of hair from her face.
“I am sorry, chéri,” she whispered, her eyes opened to a half dazed stare. She tried to smile. “I am sorry but. . .I can go no further.”
“Of course you can!” he said, pushing a smile past his own worried expression. “You must! I will not go on without you.” He pressed her hand to his chest. “We can do it! You know that together we can do anything!”
Diane closed her eyes again. She was tired. The dark circles beneath her eyes. The shallow cheeks. She was bathed in perspiration and her skin was white; the white of death. He forced the thought of her death from his mind. On the table next to the bed was Hélène’s rosary. Blue-speckled beads. A silver crucifix. Henri took it in his other hand and closed his eyes.
So then I am to be punished. Punished for Catherine. Punished for not loving her. He shook his head. He had never been able to see Catherine for the sight of Diane. She was his obsession. She was the only thing in the world. I cannot lose her. Without her I am nothing. I am lost. Yes, God, I will do anything. Anything! In that moment it was clear what must be done. What he must do. He gripped the rosary tighter between his thumb and forefinger. Let them live! God in Heaven, I beseech you, let them live and Catherine shall have me. . .and a child. . .I shall make her my wife in more than our names!
In that moment when one promises anything to change the course of fate, Henri made his pact with God; a pact that he knew would change his life and Diane’s forever.
AS THE GRAY MUTED light of the winter morning filtered through the leaded panes of the east window, Diane delivered Henri’s child. A daughter. Sobbing without shame as he took the screaming, bloody infant from the midwife, Henri wrapped her tiny body in a blanket and took her to his chest with trembling hands. Diane looked up at him with a weary smile and a half-dazed look of contentment. In the end, the child had come without the aid of a surgeon, and everyone, including the midwife, had been mystified.
Henri brought the child to his lips and kissed the soft down on the top of her head. Hélène wiped the tears from her own cheeks as she and Mademoiselle Terre Noire wrapped their arms around one another.
“Dear Lord, thank you,” Hélène whispered.
They backed away from the bed and retired with the midwife to chairs near the fire. After a moment, Henri placed the baby girl onto Diane’s bare breast. Almost instantly she ceased crying and opened her eyes. They were blue; the same deep blue as her mother’s. Henri looked in awe at them as Diane placed the child to her nipple and let her nurse. Henri sat down on the edge of the bed.
“If I had lost you,” he whispered, “my life would have been over. I just never thought I would come so close.”
THE CHILD WAS BLOND like her mother, with the same wide blue eyes. For the two weeks of Diane’s convalescence, she was rarely out of her father’s arms and they were rarely out of Diane’s company. When Diane was strong enough, they began to take walks around the grounds. One morning, two days before they were to return to Court, they walked out across the vast lawn, quilted winter white, their gloved hands joined and their heavy leather shoes crunching in the thick layers of freshly fallen snow. In his other arm, Henri held his daughter, burrowed beneath the folds of his black velvet cape. Here at Anet, they were a family. There was nothing in the world Henri wanted more. There could never be another time again like this; time with just the three of them. He took in a deep breath and let the cold winter air sting his nostrils as he tossed back his head.
“Oh! It is beautiful here!” said Henri with a wide-mouthed smile. “So far from all of it; so far from all of them.” He squeezed her hand tighter as they walked down the few steps that led to a courtyard. Past a frozen pond. Past a stone lion perched on a pedestal, forever posed just ready to roar as the snow fell around him. From the bottom step Henri spun around and kissed her nose, which was red with the cold. It made him smile.
“Ah! I feel so good here. And with you beside me, I am complete.”
Henri’s words made her think of Montgommery. Another winter. Another lifetime. She thought of relating how much he had detested Anet; wanted her to sell it. She was so glad Henri felt as she did. But as the words formed on her lips she thought better of telling him. For all of his growth and his maturity, he was still young. Still volatile. Montgommery brought back a time between she and Henri that she was not anxious to recall. It had meant pain and uncertainty for them both.
“Wherever I am, I think I shall always want to return here,” she heard herself say instead.
“Then indeed you shall. It is your home. I have never known a place like this. A real home. All of the King’s palaces are nothing more than showpieces for the monarchy. But this. . .” He pulled away from Diane and opened his arm to frame the scene. “This is truly a home. . .and it is one that I shall be honored to share for as long as you will have me.”
They walked down along the frozen pond and Henri lifted the blanket to peer in at his daughter. He ran a finger along her cheek and covered her back over with the cape.
“She’ll need a name, you know,” he said.
“I had not thought about it.”
“You know, there can only be one name.”
She looked at him.
“Her name is. . .it must be, Diane.”
“Henri, that would be impossible! The King will know—”
“The King will know only that I adore you. He can make of that what he will, but he knows that we have long been friends. It would be most natural for me to do it.” She shifted her head from side to side as though she were looking for someone. Her brows arched with the look of hesitation. She took in a breath and then looked back at him.
“I think we risk too much.”
“Please. . .do this for me,” he pressed. His dark eyes glistened in the reflection of the snow. “If she can have nothing else of her mother, then I want her to have this one connection with you. Please.”
ENCIRCLED BY AN ENTOURAGE of royal escorts and covered with a canopy of magenta silk, Henri and Diane rode beside Hélène and a wet nurse through Touraine. A cutting winter wind slashed against them as they wound their way slowly up the private cobblestone road that led to Amboise.
Hélène held the swaddled infant in her arms, covered in a tapestried blanket. The child’s head an
d body were wound tightly in white cloth to help keep her warm. Beside her rode a wet nurse from the village of Anet waiting to fulfill her duty, to feed the royal child. She was brought along at this early stage to help perpetuate the ruse that the child had no mother. A message had been dispatched to Court. A child, it was said, named Diane had been born. The issue of Henri, Dauphin of France and a Piedmontese peasant named Filippa Duca. The child had been conducted to the Chateau d’Anet where Madame Diane had graciously received the Dauphin and his entourage. She was now accompanying him on his return.
The small party was trailed by the Dauphin’s personal infantry of guards who rode in precise military cadence. As the gates were opened and the entourage passed through them into the courtyard, the deception would officially begin with Montmorency. The Grand Master, now the celebrated Lieutenant-General, stood firm-footed in the Gothic arch of the doorway. He was flanked by François de Guise, Charles de Brissac and Jacques de Saint-André. The King had sent no one of his own entourage down to meet his son. But these bold slights no longer affected him. Henri had long ago grown accustomed to his father’s indifference.
“Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want?”
He whispered the words to Diane as he brought his horse to a halt with a tightening of the reins.
“No, Henri, I shall never be certain. But to protect that precious life, I know of no other way.”
Saint-André and Brissac smiled across the courtyard at them. Guise waved an eager hand out from beneath his cape. Montmorency, the more stoic, stood motionless in a long ermine vest and shirt of gold silk with his hand behind his back.
