by Diane Haeger
The trite way he said it made her laugh, despite her dislike of this man who had helped to define her painful early years at Court. Like so many others who had snubbed her, now he too was clambering after her, begging her forgiveness. Also like the others, he sought to carve out a place for himself in the new regime by clever flattery, not sincerity. But there would be no place for the likes of either Clement Marot or Jean Vouté in the new regime. That was one thing to which Diane personally would see.
“OH, MAMAN, isn’t this a lovely party? His Majesty even spoke to me, though I scarcely think he knew who I was. He could not have known that I was your daughter, because he was actually quite polite to me,” swooned Louise de Brézé.
Louise, the whimsical younger daughter of Diane de Poitiers and Louis de Brézé, had come to Court at the Dauphin’s insistence. Not only might she pass the holiday together with her family, but he had also suggested to Diane that this would be a splendid opportunity to formally secure for her a suitable husband.
“He looks so different up close, Maman; so entirely different than I had imagined,” she continued and then cupped her hand around her mouth. “So old!”
Diane wanted to tell her to be mindful of her tongue, but she knew that there was little use in it. Louise had been her willful child and she had become an even more willful young woman. Beautiful, impetuous and willful. To the men at Court, these qualities had translated into exciting, and Louise had no shortage of suitors. Diane had seen for herself that François de Guise would become another of them if she were not careful. She knew that the marriage would be a difficult one to settle because quite possibly her daughter would refuse unless the candidate was to her own liking.
“. . .and then that very handsome Monsieur de Guise was telling me all about his family seat at Joinville. It sounds lovely, Maman,” she continued chattering in Diane’s ear. “He is one of His Highness’s best friends, is he not? They say he has begun to develop great influence here. Oh, I am certain a place will be carved out for him in the new regime. Quite a large place, do you not think?”
“Louise, I want you to keep away from Monsieur de Guise. He is nearly married, and his betrothed is a wealthy young woman with whom you have no hope of competing. An interest in him now can only mean heartbreak.”
Louise began to laugh. “Humorous, do you not think, Maman? You telling me about the dangers of a married man?” She had not meant to be quite so insolent. But when it was out, she could not take it back. Nor could she rid the look of pain in her mother’s eyes. “Oh, Maman, forgive me. I had no right.”
Diane looked at her daughter. The elegant veneer only chipped by the girl’s thoughtlessness. “They have sounded the call to dinner. You had better find your sister and Robert, and join them,” she said and turned from her daughter, back into the crowd.
What Louise de Brézé did not know, what no one knew, was that her mother had never learned to take the references to her relationship with the future King of France with the carefree aplomb that it required. Confidence was essential to survive the ridicule and silent whispers cast at a royal favourite. Anne d’Heilly had learned it. Françoise de Foix had learned it before her. Both women had taken what the position afforded them, and had held their heads high.
But for Diane, the reality of being a mistress was still too painful. Her one fatal flaw, the one that kept her so vulnerable, did not come from the ridicule of others; it came from inside herself. Diane de Poitiers was above all things a profoundly religious woman. This affair went against all that she believed. She had never made peace in her heart with the sin of adultery, that she committed every day by loving Henri.
No one can be this happy, she often thought, and commit a sin as great as mine. She knew that some day, somehow, she would be made to pay for turning her back on the Commandments. He may still love me now, but it has been fourteen years. He is still young. Soon I shall be forty-five. He is but twenty-nine. In the darkest, most secret place of her heart, she was afraid. She knew only too well that from even the best of dreams one must eventually wake.
“I SHOULD LIKE SOMEONE sent out there immediately to get the preliminary figures,” said Henri. “I wish to change it all. Enhance everything. The structure, the gardens, and especially the interior. Then bring me the figures. I need a working knowledge of what we are up against.”
While the banquet progressed downstairs, Henri and his friends had gathered, as he had requested, in a small room on the second floor of Fontainebleau. It was an anteroom beside the King’s drawing room. Henri stood against one of the long casement windows, looking out onto the garden as he spoke. Saint-André, Guise, Brissac and Bourbon were collected around him.
“But Your Highness,” Brissac cautiously objected, “what you ask would take a small fortune. I saw Anet myself with you last summer, and it, well. . .it is in quite a sorry state.”
Henri turned around. His eyes were sharp. “I am aware of the state of things, Charles, but Anet is her home. It means a great deal to her to know that no matter what, there is security there.”
“But money. . .” Saint-André stammered, broaching the indelicate subject of the Dauphin’s funds. As Henri’s chief companion, he knew better than anyone the state of his master’s finances. Even though Henri had his own accounts, every year Catherine used the majority of it for her household expenses and in refurbishing their chateau at Gien. Meanwhile, the King had still refused to turn over more than a minimum annuity on which he could live, and after her initial offer, Henri had refused to take more money from Diane. Saint-André’s objection was legitimate.
“Of course we will not proceed with the actual construction until after I am King. However, I doubt whether you will find much objection to postponed payment for a potential royal commission of that magnitude,” Henri replied, his voice full of confidence. “I also want you to commission a few artists, new ones, and see that they are French. Tell them positively no Italian designs. That will be the mark of my father’s reign, not mine. The theme, as you might have guessed, should be black and white, to honor her.”
“This could take some time, Your Highness.”
“I have no time, Brissac!” he snapped. “I want the sketches as soon as possible. They are to be a gift. I want all of you on this matter at once, do you understand? There has been a threat to Madame’s life, veiled though it is, and I mean to do everything in my power to protect her, and to see that she is not further disturbed by this.”
“Threats? Your Highness, we had no idea,” gasped Antoine de Bourbon.
“I am certain that you did not, but I want. . .I need to know that I can count on all of you, whatever my reasons. After all, you will be the core of my council, once I am King. One day I will need to lean on you absolutely, and I must know that you shall not question my authority in such matters.” After he said it, he smiled and added, “Saint-André, you are likely to find a post as Grand Master. Brissac, you are sure to become Lieutenant-General, and Bourbon, mon ami, my cousin Jeanne is nearly of age. I would not be at all surprised if you were made her husband and the next King of Navarre.”
His friends began to smile. It was very important to Henri that they understand; that they like him. These were his friends; except for Diane, the only friends he had in the world. He would honor each of them, if only they remained loyal to him and to the true Dauphine of France. After a moment, when none of them spoke out again, Henri cleared his throat and adopted a more stern expression.
“Brissac,” he began again. “I want you to contact Roland Chrétien. You shall find him currently employed in the kitchens. You are to tell him that I have need of a personal body guard for Madame. The job is his if he should desire it.”
“But, Your Highness,” Bourbon cautiously objected. “Certainly there are other more suitable candidates from His Majesty’s Guard.”
“And any of them could be bought off for less than the cost of that very elegant cape of yours, my friend! No. I trust Roland with my life, and w
ith Madame’s life. That can be the only criterion.” He let that declaration stand alone for a moment. Then he added, “When you speak with him, you are also to inform Clothilde Renard, the pastry cook, that she has been invited to join my staff as chambermaid to Madame. She is to report to Hélène Gallet at dawn.”
Both Roland and Clothilde had been kind to him when he was a boy. Long ago he had promised himself he would help them. He remembered the day when Clothilde had tried to spare the life of a dying puppy simply because she had known what it had meant to him. He had not forgotten a single cake that she had made just for him; nor the ale and the friendship he had shared with Roland. This would be a beginning, a way finally to repay their kindness.
Henri turned back around to face the window. The room was warm. A thick coat of steam had formed on the glass. Henri fingered it until he had fashioned their secret emblem; the interlaced D and H that had sustained him those long months that he was separated from Diane. Then he turned around once again to his friends.
“Guise, fetch a slip of paper and copy this. Tell all of the artistic candidates that it is to be incorporated into their proposed designs, wherever possible.”
When it was copied, Henri ran the palm of his hand over the glass, destroying the image.
“Oh, and Guise, one last thing. I could not help noticing you earlier with Mademoiselle de Brézé. I think it only fair to warn you that if you so much as touch her so that she is unfit for marriage, I will kill you myself. Is that clear?” Without waiting for a reply he added, “Now, gentlemen, I believe we have a banquet to which we must return!”
“I SWEAR IT, YOUR MAJESTY! I heard it with my own ears, I did! Just now in the anteroom outside of your apartments. The Dauphin was quite plainly making a fool of Your Majesty! Even picking his cabinet! Messieurs Saint-André and Bourbon were there, Monsieur de Brissac and even Monsieur de Guise!”
“How do you know this, Brusquet?” the King asked.
“Oh, they didn’t know I was there because I ducked into the hearth. I was lucky there wasn’t a blaze in it on such a cold night as this!” the jester chuckled and rung his hands nervously. “I just couldn’t stand to hear it, Your Majesty. I knew it was proper to come to you.”
“And where are they now?” asked the King in a controlled voice, the tone of which was just above a whisper.
“Still there, I should imagine, lording over your cabinet positions as if you was already dead. . .if you will pardon me for saying so, Sire.”
The little man with the orange hair was so busy trying to convince the King of what he saw as subterfuge that he did not see the anger building. The King turned full force on him, sprang to his feet and tossed his walking stick across the dining table. The room, which was filled with courtiers, musicians and servants, was rendered instantly silent.
“Call the guards!” François bellowed in a warbled, almost unintelligible voice. “It is time I teach that thankless little heathen the cost of impropriety!”
François’ cane was brought to him, but his anger seemed to give him a new burst of strength so that he did not need it. As he advanced through the crowded banquet hall, the only sound to be heard was Brusquet’s labored breath as he hobbled, trying unsuccessfully to keep up with the King.
“BASTARD! Greedy, greedy little bastard!” the King raged in guttural sounds, brought on by the loss of his uvula. In the heat of anger, his body did not know the same curse. He flew up the stairs, followed by an entourage of men. “You are not King yet. . .not yet, bloody little cur!”
The tails of his crimson cape billowed behind him and even his aides struggled to keep pace with him. His apartments were not far from the staircase he had taken. François did not wait for his guard. He cast open the double doors to the room where Brusquet had hidden.
“All right, where are you? Come out here and fight me like a man!”
In a rage, the King began to toss furniture around the room. First a small table went crashing to the parquet floor. Then a fifteenth-century secretary, a gift from the Sultan Suleiman. The two silver ink wells sprayed black liquid onto the floor as they tumbled. Two more chairs were tossed. As the second one crashed to the floor, a leg broke free. He picked it up and began swinging it around the room as though it were a bat. He smashed a window, the very window in which Henri had drawn the cypher. Out went glassware. A mirror. An English tapestry.
“How dare you?” the King raged, blood pulsing into his face with every word. “Come out and face me like a man!” He swung at another table with the wooden bat. A rare Chinese vase careened onto the floor, smashing into bits.
“Your Majesty, please!” the Cardinal de Tournon, who had followed him, cautiously admonished.
But the King did not hear him as he swung around. The Cardinal had the foresight to duck at precisely the moment when the table leg would have struck his head. François continued on his rampage with no regard for what he had already done to the room, or what he had nearly done to his councilor. He lunged toward the cavernous fireplace. Perspiration bled from his pores as he panted between the words.
“Hiding from me, are you, boy? Mock me and then hide? Spineless, gutless excuse for a son! Hide from me now if you will, but I will get you! I swear I will get you!” He swung the bat into the fireplace hollow. By now a collection of courtiers and guards had gathered in the doorway of the small antechamber. One of them nearest the front was Claude de Guise, the younger brother of François and Charles de Guise. He was new at Court but like his brothers, Claude had been bred to value ambition above all else. Seizing the opportunity with no more than a moment’s consideration, he turned from the scene and ran all the way back to the banquet room, praying that he was not already too late, to be the first to warn the Dauphin.
HENRI LOOKED UP at Claude de Guise. He was a tall, bony-faced boy whom he had personally seen brought here as a favor to the two elder Guises. Henri held a strip of warm capon between his thumb and forefinger and was ready to eat it when Claude advanced behind him.
“Your Highness, please,” the young boy muttered in a breathless whisper. “I’ve come to warn you. It is the King. He believes that you have betrayed him. Brusquet overheard you and went straight to His Majesty. I know because I saw him just now and he is in a rage; tore up the entire room in which you and my brother met earlier. Now he seeks to find you!”
“So then let him come,” Henri said blithely. He took the piece of meat into his mouth and began to chew it slowly, defiantly. Then he casually looked around the room as if daring the King to find him. Catherine gasped and lowered her head so that she would not be moved to speak out of turn. Saint-André put a hand to his lips.
“Henri, please,” Diane whispered, “do not begin your reign with such a mark to color it. His Majesty is an old man who sees himself as he was, not as he is. You could surely kill him with the anger between you.”
There was a long pause in which everyone around him held his breath. Finally, Henri stood and tossed his napkin onto the table.
“If you will excuse me, Madame,” he said to Catherine in a controlled voice. Then bowed to her and turned from the table.
“Your Highness cannot run from him!” said Bourbon, springing up beside Henri. “What will people say?”
“They will say, Monsieur de Bourbon, that a wise Prince shall make an even wiser King.” Diane interceded quickly with a reproving look, and then followed Henri from the table.
Surrounded by his entourage of Saint-André, the two Guises, Brissac and Bourbon, Henri and Diane walked briskly down the shadowy corridor away from the banquet hall. Steadily, the sound of music and the mélange of voices faded. It was replaced by the rhythmic echo of their gathered footsteps on the elegant parquet floor.
“Well, where shall we go?” he asked Diane as they paused on the landing of a steep spiral staircase. “Surely the King will seek me out at my apartments as well as yours.”
Diane thought a moment and then looked at Guise. “François, may His Highness an
d I have the use of your apartments for this evening?”
“But of course, Madame. Anything.”
“Good,” she replied with a smile and they continued on down the labyrinth of corridors that led from the opulent wing to Guise’s more modest accommodations.
“Thank you, my friend,” Henri said and cuffed him lightly as they gathered before the door. Diane looked at the younger brother, Claude, who had been the first to warn them.
“You have acted with honor toward His Highness and myself,” she said. “I promise you your allegiance shall not be forgotten.”
The others left, hoping not to attract attention, but Guise and his brother, Claude, remained. They waited until the Dauphin and his mistress had gone inside and they heard the click of the latch. Then, when he could contain it no longer, a sardonic smile broke across Guise’s large-featured face and he embraced his younger brother.
“Good work, my boy. It is just like the game of chess,” he muttered beneath his breath, repeating his uncle’s words from long ago. “Not just one move, but the next, and the next. . .”
DIANE AND HENRI stood together in the shadow of an early morning sun behind the stables; he not wanting to go, but knowing that he must. His white stallion was saddled. His guards were mounted and waiting. A thin blue mist fell around them as they held one another. He would go to Saint Germain-en-Laye. His three children had been permanently installed there to keep them from the unsettling existence of the Court’s constant travel. It would be natural for him to leave on the pretext of seeing them. This, they had decided, was the path to the least amount of rumor.
During the night they had passed in François de Guise’s small apartments, they did not sleep. Diane had managed to convince Henri that it was in his best interest to leave until both his anger and the King’s had subsided. No more than a few days, she had urged. He must take no chances now. Diane, however, would remain at Fontainebleau. Her daughters and son-in-law were still there. It would be inappropriate to leave without them, and she had all but decided on a husband for Louise. On the twentieth of March her daughters would return to Anet and then, she promised, she would join him.
