Courtesan

by Diane Haeger

  As a young man, the stern Grand Master had impressed the young Prince like no one else. Henri had long admired his sober judgment and common sense as qualities that he himself lacked. He also envied Montmorency’s staunch patriotism and his military achievements. Montmorency had been the father Henri had never had. He had an influence with which even she could not compete. For whatever their grievance in the past, Diane knew that Henri loved the old immovable Constable, and so now, must she too. Love. Yes, that would be the common thread, she thought; the one that would wash away the past and help them begin again; perhaps this time, as friends.

  When he could see that she would not oppose him in his desire to see Montmorency returned, Henri pulled her to his chest and kissed her. Then he looked down at the jewels spread around her.

  “Do they please you?”

  “They are far too extravagant a gift.”

  “They are only meager symbols of what I feel, Diane, and I shall not stop until the love that I bear for you has filled the whole world. . .Donec totum impleat orbum.”

  He repeated the words that were to become his official motto, for he meant them exactly. There could never be enough jewels, estates or extravagances to show her and the world the extent of his devotion. She alone had believed in him, understood him, and she alone had loved him from the beginning.

  THE NEXT MORNING, they lay together amid the spray of glittering jewels. The bedcurtains were still drawn so that they were alone. By the light of a huge tallow candle, Henri showed her the preliminary sketches for Anet. The work which he had most admired was by a young French artist named Philibert de L’Orme. He told her as they looked at them that a goddess required a proper temple, and with the help of L’Orme, he intended to build her one.

  “I love his ideas,” he said as they pored over the details drawn on large sheets of parchment and strewn across their knees on the heavy tapestried bedcovers. “His love of classic designs, as opposed to the Italian style, are what first endeared him to me. Saint-André favors him as well.” Then he pushed the sketch aside and leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose. “When it is complete, I want Anet to be a tribute to you and to what we share. One day when we are both gone, I would like people to look at it and know that he who was King for a time, lived his life in devotion only to her.” He lay his head back on the pillows and smiled a smile of vision. “Yes, I wish a new age to begin with L’Orme. He shall open the door for so many other young French artists: Cousin, Marten, Goujon. They shall all help me put my mark on Fontainebleau, the Louvre, and most especially, on Chenonceaux.”

  Diane lay back beside him and they looked at one another. He touched the cleft between her breasts where the long string of jewels still lay. He ran his fingers slowly along the hard, geometric surface. The feel of them against her soft skin sent through him a wave of desire, and he wanted her again. He thought how she never had to try to arouse him, even after all of the years, all of the lovemaking between them. Just a look, a laugh, the sight of her, and he wanted her, even more now than in the beginning. Adversity had bonded them. Passion had strengthened those bonds.

  But to please her, that was everything.

  “PERFECT. ABSOLUTELY PERFECT,” Henri said after reading another communiqué that Diane had written for him to sign. He leaned across the carpeted floor, breathing a sigh of relief for her assistance and drew her lips to his. They had worked through the next night and only now did either of them realize that it was morning, when they could see the sun through the long, uncovered windows near their unruffled bed.

  The King’s bedchamber at Saint Germain-en-Laye was littered with a spray of documents and state papers. All around them on the red and brown Turkish carpet were books on diplomacy and finance. Many were open to some random page where he had tired of the intricacies and moved on to the next volume. The fragrance of candles burned to a quick filled the room in the early hours of morning.

  On the wall above the fireplace was yet another portrait of Diane, one that he had commissioned the previous spring; Diana resplendent, and completely nude. It was a forest scene and the only creature with whom she had shared a canvas was a young deer. Beside his bed was the first sketch he had ever had done of her. It was by the famed artist, Clouet, done a month after the birth of their daughter. He had drawn her in chalk seductively clad in the sheerest lilac-colored silk, her breasts visible, and a curl of hair draped across her shoulder.

  “You must let me draw her as I see her, Your Highness, or there is no purpose in it,” Clouet had said when Henri grew violent at the voluptuous representation of his love. “To me she is Diana,” he had whispered as he began again the rhythmic strokes across the page. “Goddess of the hunt. Divine goddess of the moon. Fascinating. . .tempting. . .and yet, to mere men such as myself, forever. . .unattainable.” Since that day, the sketch had gone everywhere with Henri.

  When the festivities marking the coronation of the new King were finally at an end, Diane’s position was quickly defined. Even before he went to see Montmorency, Henri personally drafted an edict elevating her to Duchesse de Valentinois. In so doing, he restored the duchy that had once belonged to her family, but had been lost many years before for outstanding debts.

  In addition to her duties as Head Governess to the royal children, she was also to be present at all meetings of the conseil des affaires and the larger conseil privé. He leaned on her absolutely, and there was not a soul in France who was allowed to forget it. Despite the return of the once powerful Constable Montmorency and the appointment of all of Henri’s childhood friends to major cabinet posts, Diane was considered the voice with the single greatest influence over the King.

  Suddenly, the angry gossip against her ceased. Wise ladies of distinction tried to copy her sense of fashion. It was very popular to be blond, and the nobility even discussed the prospect of taking more frequent baths. Palaces, churches and even furniture began to be ornamented with the new royal emblem, the D interlaced with an H. Everywhere the shape of the crescent moon was emblazoned. Women wore them in their hair and had jewelry fashioned in their shape. Astute dignitaries quickly saw the extent of the King’s commitment to her. When the Pope in Rome sent a gold rose to the new Queen, he wisely sent Diane an exquisite rope of pearls.

  But behind the privacy of their chamber doors, not everything was ideal. The volume of information, foreign correspondence and edicts that were brought to Henri in those first few days were overwhelming. Letters of congratulations had been sent from nearly every ruler in the Christian world and when he could no longer postpone their acknowledgment, he went to Diane, pleading for her assistance. There was so much to assimilate, but he had been given only a matter of weeks to understand that for which his father and elder brother both had been meticulously groomed. In her chamber, surrounded with books and documents, their conversations centered around foreign affairs. They also spoke of the religious situation and the domestic policies which the new Court would support.

  At Diane’s suggestion, Henri had begun to study his father’s policy of taxation. An exorbitant policy that she opposed had left many French citizens threadbare so that they might pay for the King’s opulent lifestyle and his quest for Italian soil. Diane softly encouraged Henri in two new courses of action.

  First, she suggested that taxation be cut and that what revenues they did acquire be saved. There was a great likelihood that France would once again be forced into war, and both believed that they should be prepared. Second, Diane proposed that the money which was acquired through moderate taxation be reserved for the strengthening of French borders. They also resolved to continue the fight that his father had begun for northern Italy. As a condition of his own marriage, France had been promised Milan, Parma and Pisa. If Henri did not live to see them under French rule, then the shameful alliance that he now endured by his marriage to Catherine, and the loss of Diane as his wife, would be for nothing.

  Henri called to one of the pages who flanked the door, requesting quill and i
nk. Both were quickly produced on a silver tray. He signed the documents with a swirling representation of his name. Then he looked up and handed the pen to Diane.

  “Your turn,” he said simply.

  Like a reflex, Diane reached for the pen and then stopped, her face full of surprise. “But I cannot, chéri.”

  “Why not? You wrote them. You shall sign them.”

  Diane looked down at the black ink still wet on the page. Beside his signature he had placed a dash, indicating the place for her name. She gazed into the fire, of which only the red glow of embers remained.

  “To begin with, it would be a major breach of protocol for your mistress to sign, with you, an official state document.”

  “Oh? About that, I have been studying these things for days now,” he said, pointing with a half grin to the spray of books around him, “. . .and I can find nothing that forbids the cosigning of a document by whomever I so choose.”

  Diane paused, selecting her words carefully. She knew Henri would not be easily put off in this. The Court had now accepted her as Henri’s favourite, but they would not look so favorably on a paramour who appeared to have ambitions beyond the King’s heart.

  “It is just that I would prefer to be a more. . .indirect advisor in matters of state. I think it would create far less consternation on the part of the rest of the staff.”

  “Well, I would not prefer it! You are the lady of my heart and the first lady of France. I cannot, I will not make a move without you! Everyone, whether they are agreeable or not, shall one day come to accept that fact if they intend to stay in good stead with their new King!” As soon as he had said it, his sarcasm softened. Again he proffered her the pen. He lowered his eyes. “Please, m’amie. I truly want this, for both of us. I may not be able to make you Queen, but I can see to it that you have all of the power and the glory.”

  Diane took the quill reluctantly and looked up at him. His dark eyes sparkled full of love. He had never forgotten his promise to marry her and she knew that he would never stop trying to make up for having to break it.

  This official document, one of many that would be signed Henri-Diane, was only one of a long line of gifts which, since becoming King, Henri had bestowed upon her. Not only had he made her Duchesse de Valentinois, but he had legitimized their daughter. After his coronation, and for the rest of her life, the child was to be known as Diane de France, légitime. He had also dispatched Charles de Guise to Rome, on the child’s behalf, to begin marriage negotiations with the grandson of the Pope.

  Earlier that month, he had nullified Anne d’Heilly’s legal action against Anet, placing it solely back into Diane’s hands. But the act of love by the new King for his Diane thought most controversial involved a generous stipend called La Paulette.

  When she at first refused it, he said it was his way of paying back the money that she had once so generously loaned him in the early days. His advisors had assured him that it was not taken from citizens or taxation. The money came from the purchase of various ecclesiastical and military appointments. It was completely separate from any and all regular funds of the Crown. It was his to give, he said, and he had chosen to give it to her. When he explained that it could be used to finance work at Anet, Diane reluctantly accepted.

  “It is one of many crowns that I expect to lay at your feet,” he had said. But Diane was not to realize, for nearly two years, the day of Catherine’s own coronation, just how seriously Henri had meant what he had said.

  MONTMORENCY DID NOT LIKE any of the three Guises who were now so well installed at the Court of France. It was poor enough fortune to be required to share his influence with a glorified courtesan but an ambitious trio of sons from Lorraine was simply unacceptable.

  Since his return, he found that they had garnered great power. They had been good students of their uncle, the Cardinal de Lorraine. Montmorency now chided himself frequently for not having seen it coming in the years before his exile. Even then, they were planning their ascent. Each step for them had been strategic. Their sister’s marriage to the King of Scotland had produced a niece who, by her father’s death, was now the Queen. This not only gave them a powerful pawn over which they held control, but the blood tie to royalty elevated their own status. In the preceding months, they had also cleverly worked a marriage for their youngest brother Claude. He was to become the bridegroom of Diane de Poitiers’ youngest daughter, Louise, solidifying their standing with both the malleable King and his mistress.

  Furthermore, shortly after Henri’s coronation, Charles, the Archbishop de Rheims, had been given the honor of going to Rome to negotiate the marriage of the King’s natural daughter, Diane, and the Pope’s grandson. While he was there, he had also become Cardinal de Guise. Finally, they were doing their best to suggest a marriage between the little Queen of Scots and the French Dauphin, who at the moment was only four years old. Working in a cooperative manner, there was never a time when one of them was not at the King’s side. The Cardinal de Lorraine had cultivated his exacting, ambitious nephews and in a slow and steady fashion, they were coming to dominate the entire Court of France.

  Montmorency lay back in bed and stared around his bedchamber at Fontainebleau. Things were not as he had remembered them. He had less power and less control over his own wishes. He felt as if he had traded in his battleground with Philippe Chabot, and had received two new fronts in its place. He was not in the least certain if it was the Guises or Madame Diane whom he trusted less.

  He gazed out the long windows across from his bed. The sky was miserably gray. The wind howled and hurled a blur of red autumn leaves past the glass. A fresh fire had been stoked in the hearth beside him and he longed to lay back down and burrow beneath the covers like a child. But not today. During the night, the Queen had delivered another daughter and he must go to offer his congratulations. He knew that the King would be disappointed by the appearance of another female child; for it meant a need for more children between them. She had, after all, in fifteen years, managed to produce only one son. The risk of plague or accidental death made another male heir essential.

  Montmorency stood while his valet dressed him in a stylish soft brown leather doublet slashed with a white shirt beneath. His arms were slipped through a full pleated coat of purple velvet. Then he glanced at himself in the mirror as further layers were applied. A gold chain inlaid with rubies running from shoulder to shoulder. Puffed and slashed trunk hose of the same purple fabric as the cape. His toque of brown leather had a narrow stiffened brim and a soft padded crown. An ostrich feather swooped down beside his left ear. Large stoned rings ornamented four of his fingers.

  When his costume was finally complete, a small silver chest was brought. Montmorency opened it and took out a gold and ruby rosary. A perfect gift for the Queen, he thought. After he had examined it, he placed it back in the chest and smiled. Yes, perfect. Never mind, he thought, that he had few friends here. He didn’t need them. Oh, he knew the gossip. Since his return to power he was called quarrelsome, despotic and self-centered. All of it quite probably was true. But as long as he had one or two highly placed allies, he need not concern himself with his enemies. Feeling prepared, he tucked the silver box under his arm confidently, and left the room to continue his own quest for power.

  “HAVE YOU SEEN HER? They tell me she is beautiful,” asked Catherine.

  “Yes. I have just come from the nursery,” Henri replied. He tried to stave off the restless feeling that was already overwhelming him after no more than a few moments in her company.

  He sat in a large embroidered chair that had been placed for him beside Catherine’s bed. She was surrounded by fresh white linen sheets, her head propped by blue and green velvet pillows. At the foot of her bed, her aide, Piero Strozzi, mingled with Catherine’s two ladies, never being far from the Queen’s reach. One eye was always upon her.

  “I am sorry, Henri, that it was not a son this time. But the next one shall be a boy, I am certain of it,” Catherine said
in a lowered tone of voice.

  Henri paled at the thought that there would be need of a next time to bed her. As quickly as he had the thought, he was brought back to the moment by Catherine’s hand that she had poised in the air between them. It was several more minutes before he realized that she meant for him to take it. Her fingers were fat and moist around his own. From this confinement she was even fatter still, and there was an odor now that he had never noticed before; a kind of grease smell, like lard rubbed in sweat.

  Looking at her swollen and coarse face and the heavy black brows, he wondered how he had ever managed to give her the seed of this child at all, much less of two others. But even as the question arose in his mind, he knew the answer. Diane alone had been responsible for the conception of them all. Each of the times he had meant to make love to her, she had accepted him. But then, when he had surrendered hopelessly to passion’s spell, she would pull away. Go to her, Diane had whispered. It is your duty. And knowing no other release for his ardor, Henri had gone.

  “She does not look at all like me, I do not think. She has your coloring, Henri. Actually, she looks rather like your mother, from the portrait your father had commissioned at Blois. I think it would be so perfect if we named her Claude, after your mother.”

  Henri’s eyes were bright, but he did not see her. “Whatever you like,” he replied.

  “Then I like Claude. I had a boy’s name decided upon, which I was going to suggest to you. I quite favor Louis, after the King who reigned before your father. But now that we know it is a girl. . .well I think it shall be wonderful to honor the Queen’s memory this way, don’t you?”

  “What? Oh, Yes.”

  “Then you approve?”

  “Approve of what?”

  “Claude; the name Claude for our daughter.”

  “I told you, whatever you like.”