Courtesan

by Diane Haeger

  CATHERINE IS AGAIN WITH CHILD.”

  Henri made the announcement to Diane in a low, calculated tone, as he stood in the doorway of her apartments. He cast his gray doeskin gloves onto the floor and then slumped into a red and gold brocade chair near the fire. He looked pensively into the flames for several minutes without saying another word. His black hair glistened in the light and matched his velvet doublet. He crushed his toque between both hands and sighed.

  Diane let an uneven smile pass across her lips. She looked upward in a silent prayer and then walked the few steps to his side. “Thanks be to God,” she said.

  Henri looked up at her, at first, like a guilty child. Then his dark, absorbing eyes began to sparkle. He reached over, took her hand, then squeezed it. They were the same words she always said when the Dauphine was pregnant. It had been six years since Montmorency had been banished from Court, and this had been the third time she had used them.

  “Then you do not mind?”

  This was the same thing he always said at precisely the same moment after he had informed her of Catherine’s pregnancy. Diane gave a half laugh and then knelt at his feet.

  “Mind? How can you even think such a thing.? You will be King. It is vital that you have heirs.”

  Henri lay his head back against the brocade of the chair and looked into the fire for another moment before he replied. Of course she understood. Diane had twice escorted him personally to the Dauphine’s bedchamber.

  “I bed her because I must,” he said. “You have shown me that. The images of those times I can wash away in the love of your arms.” The guilty tone crept back into his voice. “But every time it happens, every time she gets with child, I feel as if it is firm proof that I have betrayed you. After all, I had the requisite son first, four years ago. The line is secure.”

  And by Diane’s prodding, he finally did have a son. The boy had been christened François II at Fontainebleau two years after Montmorency was driven from Court in the scandal with the Emperor. As Catherine’s mystic had curiously predicted, the child was born ten years, nearly to the day, after Henri had been forced into the political marriage with the Pope’s niece. Two years after the birth of François, a girl was born. She was named Elizabeth. Henry VIII, who had just beheaded his fifth wife and taken a sixth, had softened his policy against France. He had agreed to act as godfather to the child.

  Through tragedy, Henri’s own political position, along with that of France, had become more well defined. His father could no longer deny to himself or anyone else that one day he would indeed be King. In the autumn of 1545, shortly after his daughter’s birth, his younger brother, Charles, died of the plague. Out of the six royal children, only he and Marguerite now remained.

  Henri rose and walked to the window. It was snowing again. He watched the shimmering flakes whisper past the glass. He liked winter mornings because everything was so clean. Snow meant purity and honesty to him. It also meant Diane’s colors: black and white. To others, black was the symbol of mourning. To him it was the symbol of passion. The blinding lust that forever bound them. He wore nothing but those colors now, in tribute to her. White for purity, black for passion.

  He was glad to be finally with her again. Here with her, in her apartments, he could be himself. It was his custom to return to her every morning after Mass, as he did now, and every evening at quarter past eight. If the events of the day kept them apart, they always knew that they would have these times. But in the evenings before he could relax with Diane, he would take the long walk up the winding stairs of Saint Germain-en-Laye to the third floor, to the children’s wing. There, he would visit his son and his daughter, Elizabeth, until half past seven.

  Oftentimes, if his schedule would permit him, he would even get down on the floor with them and play. It did not matter the game, he simply wanted time alone with his children; to be the father that he never had. Then, when they were safely tucked in bed by the string of nurses and governesses that the Crown employed, he would kiss them each good night, blow out their candles, and at exactly half past seven, he would walk next door to see his daughter, his Diane.

  The little girl was accorded every privilege of the other royal children. She had her own suite of rooms in the nursery, and a bevy of royal governesses, tutors and guards to attend her. She was schooled in music and in dance. Madame Diane herself supervised her lessons in the classics. She played with her brother and sister, who adored her, and had the free run of their apartments. Henri forbid even the slightest preference to be shown for the Dauphine’s children. Although his son would one day be King, Diane, his mignonne, would always be the most precious to his heart. He disliked himself for that. It was not fair. In his own childhood, he had never been special to anyone. So he swore that despite his preference for one, the others would never bear the burden of knowing it.

  “The child is to be born some time in November,” Henri said. “Catherine is only a few weeks along, but somehow she knows. She always knows.” Then as an afterthought he looked up at her. Diane simply smiled the same supportive smile and took his hand.

  “Shall we ride this afternoon then, or under the circumstances, would you prefer the time with Catherine?” she asked him without the slightest intonation of jealousy.

  Without waiting for his response, she rose and walked slowly across the room to where two of her ladies’ maids were pouring cold water into a huge, silver tub. This was the procedure on mornings when the Court was so large that she could not have found the privacy to swim in the lake or river. Hélène removed her cap while another servant began to unfasten her gown.

  “Of course we shall ride!” he finally replied, and when he saw her same reassuring smile he added, “We shall see her together later, after supper. We can both inquire about her then.”

  One at a time, her buttons were undone beneath Henri’s gaze. He drew near. The shafts of daylight and the fire’s glow shadowed her body. Her skin was shaded pale amber as she stepped from the gown, shift and stockings and sank without hesitation up to her hips into the cold water. As she sat motionless, taking the water like a penance, Hélène scrubbed her back with soap and a rough cloth. This was a test of her discipline, she always said. Cold water every morning of her life.

  “You may retire,” Henri finally instructed her servants as he took a huge towel and held it open beside the tub.

  Hélène lowered her head and then quickly ushered the two other ladies from the bedchamber. When the heavy studded door closed behind them, Henri encircled Diane and kissed each of her breasts. Her nipples hardened with his touch. The taste of her skin was clean. Sweet. He pressed himself against her as the need grew.

  “You have the most perfect breasts in the world,” he whispered. “Perfection. . .sheer perfection.”

  His fingers trailed down across her hips and slowly she let the towel fall to the floor as he took her in his arms toward the huge canopied bed. Her head fell onto his shoulder and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck as he pushed her gently. . .gently. . .into the cool folds of fresh white linen.

  When they made love, they did so as they had from the first. Completely. Passionately. Their two bodies formed together as perfectly as if Michelangelo had fashioned them in an exquisite union of marble. The rhythm of one was always the response to a movement of the other. The sheets on the bed were strewn with fragrant rose petals. Their scent mixed with the aroma of leather, and of flesh. She let out a silent little cry as Henri trailed his tongue along the back of her neck.

  “You are my life, Diane. . .” he whispered, as though a reassurance for the child that soon would be born. “You are everything!”

  They lay perfectly still for several minutes, still pressed together. It was snowing harder now. As the wind rose up, bare branches slapped against the window panes near their bed. Diane heard only the crashing of his heart as he lay with her. It had been too swift for her; too raw to have given her pleasure. It took her longer now to climax than it h
ad when she was younger; when they were new lovers. But there would be other times, slower and more patient for her. As the years passed, Henri’s desire for her only increased. Perhaps it was because he had come to worship her with an almost mystifying depth. Perhaps, in part, it was because she had taken the time to learn what pleased him. She knew what his fantasies were, and she denied him none of them. Whatever the reason, the bond between Diane de Poitiers and the future King of France had become impenetrable. There was no one, and nothing that could separate them.

  After another moment, Henri rolled over and lay beside her. Diane put her hand beneath her chin and then looked over at him.

  “I wish we had another child. I wish we had a son,” he said.

  It was a comment that she knew had been brought on by Catherine’s latest pregnancy.

  “I am glad that we did not,” she laughed, and he knew why she said it. He could not forget that their daughter’s birth had nearly killed her. “. . .and besides, I much prefer attending to your children than bearing my own,” she added with a little chuckle.

  The way she said it made him laugh too. He let a rush of air pass through his lips, and then looked up at the carved-oak canopy above them. Though it was Catherine who now gave him what he longed to share with Diane, the Dauphine’s maternity had done nothing to dislodge Diane’s position in Henri’s life, as his wife had hoped. Rather, it had been the means by which a solid and respectable niche was carved out for her in his entourage.

  After the birth of Catherine’s first child, Diane was named official governess. She closely supervised their education, their diet and their daily upbringing. By Henri’s order, her decisions superseded anything that even Catherine might have desired for them. Henri knew that Diane alone was responsible for the children’s conception. Had it not been for her prodding, and for turning him away at appropriate moments, he would never have been able to bring himself to bed his wife. The honor accorded her was deserved.

  “They really are the most perfect breasts in the world.”

  “I think that perhaps you are just the slightest bit prejudicial in your opinion of my body.”

  “Nonsense! They are perfect, I tell you. Perfect!” he shouted playfully. “In fact, one day when I am King, I shall have glasses made from their shape and everyone shall drink from them! What do you think of that?!”

  “I believe that you are mad!”

  “Mad for you! But otherwise, completely, undeniably sane. And to that end, I am to be King one day, you know, and we cannot have the true Queen of France going around calling His Majesty touched in the head, now can we?” He pushed her back onto the bed and playfully pinned her arms over her head. “Because, do you know what we do with those who slander the good name of the King? We. . .tickle them until they are positively mad themselves!” He charged at her with all ten fingers until she recoiled with screams and giggles.

  “No, no! Very well!” Diane pealed with laughter. “I give in!”

  Henri looked down at her, his black eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, yes,” he smiled. “I do so like the sound of that.”

  A FAINT LIGHT came up through the small hole in the floor. Alone, in a chamber that smelled of oak polish and heavy Italian perfume, Catherine lay flat on the floor, her fleshy hands pressed into the floorboards. Here was the secret beneath her carpet. She muttered a silent prayer and then put her eye to the hole. Catherine’s heart began to race. It always did when she gained the courage to watch. What an irony, she thought, that the King should have chosen for her a suite of rooms that lay directly above those of her husband’s whore.

  After a moment, she could see them together. Two bodies, one wrapped in the other. The woman’s legs were long and slender; muscled around the calves. They were the legs of Diane de Poitiers. He was on top of her and they were laughing. Henri. Her husband. Her life. They rolled together, never leaving her view, almost, it seemed, in defiance of her.

  As it always did, Catherine’s mind whirled with a myriad of such evil thoughts that she could scarcely keep from crying out. Still, she would watch them again and again, and she would learn. For Diane was only a mistress. She was a wife. One day, Henri would grow tired of the forbidden fruit, as all men eventually did, and then. . .

  WHEN DIANE ENTERED the outer room of Catherine’s apartments, later that afternoon, Henri was already there. It was snowing again and even with the massive fireplaces all heavily stoked, there was a bone-chilling draft. But Diane was much too anxious to have noticed it. Henri had said come at four, and it was just that now. When she heard him already in the Dauphine’s drawing room, she knew he had arrived early. She took a breath to suppress a twinge of jealousy, an emotion she would never allow him to see.

  The Italian page at the door took her cloak and then retired. She was alone. They had not heard her come in. The conversation continued beyond the arched entry. Diane gazed around the corner of a white stucco wall. They were sitting together in the next room, beside the fire. Catherine was laughing and she had just put her hand on Henri’s arm. Diane watched with disdain her attempts at coquetry. She straightened her collar, straightened her skirt, and with determination prepared to enter the lion’s den.

  CATHERINE’S APARTMENTS on the second floor of Saint Germain-en-Laye were ominous. Everywhere was the scent of Italian musk and incense. Heavy velvet drapes hid the last remaining light from the windows throughout the large opulent rooms. For all the years Catherine had now spent in France, she still preferred the Italian designs. Her rooms were cluttered with heavy oak furniture, stained dark, and then painted in ornate designs. There was a collection of cabinets, chests and a heavy credenza painted black. The walls were thick with Italian tapestries, most of them hunting scenes. A long table draped in crimson silk near the door was covered with silver trays of jams, confits and pastries; another was covered with a selection of wine decanters and goblets. Though her obsession with astrology and mysticism was widely known, hidden from view now were the ever-present astrolabe, the charts and potions; evidence of practices of which her husband strongly disapproved.

  As she might have guessed, Catherine had seen to it that they were alone. The expression on her full face when she saw Diane revealed that she had not expected further company.

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Diane said in a confident tone as she stood in the doorway. She watched Catherine’s expression change even before she looked up. Henri sprang from his seat and came toward her.

  “Is it four? Oh, goodness yes, already. Catherine has been harping on me for approval of some sketches; ideas for the chateau in Gien. I thought I should make good use of my time here and come a few minutes early.”

  As Henri drew nearer, he reached out for her but Diane resisted. She believed that outward expression of their affection in the presence of the Dauphine would be cruel. Henri took her hand anyway and led her to the conversation area near the fire where Catherine was still seated, heavy now after the births of two children. Diane sat in the third chair. It was small, covered in brown velvet, and sufficiently lower to the ground than the other two. Catherine loomed over her, the corners of her thick lips turned up in a little half smile as Diane sank slowly into it. Diane silently wondered how long it had taken her to conjure up this subtle slight. She took a deep breath to steady herself. The smell of musk was suffocating. Only for Henri, she thought.

  “Your Highness, I wish to offer my personal congratulations on your forthcoming child. It certainly is a wonderful day for all of France.”

  Catherine only nodded. Henri watched them, Diane could feel it without looking. She knew he was searching for the least bit of disrespect paid to his mistress.

  “Indeed it is,” Catherine added at the last moment. “The physicians tell me that it shall be in late autumn.”

  “Ah, an autumn child. How fortunate not to face the summer heat for the birth. My daughter, Louise, was born in autumn and I found it much easier to bear than my first.”

  Diane real
ized that she was making polite conversation and she detested herself for it. But like everything else in her life, she did so without complaint, for the love of Henri. Even after all of the years, it had never ceased to trouble him that, by his love for Diane, every day of his life he committed the sin of adultery. Yet, he told her many times that an eternity in Hell would be far easier to face than life on earth without her. Reconciling his wife and his mistress, if only in his mind, somehow made it easier to live with his sin.

  “So do you hope this time for a boy or a girl?” Diane asked, trying to keep her voice reasonably pleasing. Catherine looked down from her chair. She brushed a hand across her face. Her fat fingers were covered with gold and jeweled rings that sparkled with the movement.

  “I care only, Madame, that my child is a legitimate heir.” She paused a moment in the stiff silence of the room to which Henri seemed unaware. Then she added, “Now then, may I offer you a cup of wine?”

  Catherine filled a small silver goblet from a decanter on the table beside her chair before Diane could reply and handed it to her with an ingratiating smile. As Diane raised the goblet to her lips, something made her stop; a force telling her no, she must not drink the wine. Then, as she held the goblet up before her, the blood drained from her face. She looked at Henri. His cup was different. It was crystal and studded with stones. She could see through it that his wine was not the same as hers. She looked up at Catherine who was still smiling at her. The hand that held the silver goblet began to tremble.

  “What is it, Madame? Do you not care for the flavor?” Catherine asked.

  Diane looked at her again. The heavily jowled face glistening with perspiration. The raven hair. The dark angry eyes. It was the first time she had ever considered the possibility that Catherine could hate her so much that she might actually want her poisoned.

  Suddenly Diane needed to escape. The urge was overwhelming. She was suffocating; smothered by the sour smell of musk and incense, by Catherine’s smile and by the very real threat to her life. It took no more than a moment for Henri, who was studying the interaction, to see that something was wrong.