Courtesan

by Diane Haeger

  “You have done it, Madame!” they cheered as she rode her handsome black stallion through the rue de Saint-Antoine beside the King.

  “God save Diane de Poitiers!”

  FIRST THERE WAS BLOOD washed across her mind like paint on canvas; red liquid oozing through her unconsciousness. Flash. A thunderbolt of lightning, and then the screams. Wrenching wails of agony. Twisted contorted faces, moaning, pleading. . .praying.

  Then she woke.

  Catherine bolted erect in her bed, her chest heaving with terror. Her heart was pounding with such ferocity that she could not breathe. She gasped, then screamed again.

  “Your Majesty! What is it?” Lucrezia darted into the room in her nightclothes. One look at the stricken face of the Queen and she knew.

  “Did you have the dream again?”

  “Oh. . .yes. . .yes, and it was so real! It was real! I know it. His Majesty is in danger.” Catherine grabbed the shoulders of her lady-in-waiting as she sat down on the side of the bed. Marie, who had come in behind her, poured her a goblet of wine from a decanter on the night table, then helped her drink it. In the preceding weeks, this had become a nightly ritual for the women of Catherine’s train.

  “Now, Your Majesty, you know it was just a dream. The physician warned you about eating so late in the evening,” Lucrezia carefully chided.

  “But I did not eat anything! Oh, do you not see, the King is in grave danger, I know it! Gauier was right. I feel it. Monsieur Nostradamus even confirmed it. Oh, dear God, there must be something I can do!”

  “But, Madame, the war is over. There can be no more danger for him. He is safely installed at L’Hôtel de Graville.”

  The two women looked at one another. “Would you like me to send for him?” Marie asked.

  “No! No, that shall not be necessary,” she replied and then took in a deep breath to clear her mind. She wiped a hand across her brow and felt the perspiration. “Oh, Lucrezia, it was so real!”

  Both of her ladies-in-waiting watched the Queen’s fear transform into an unbearable look of remorse as her heavy eyebrows parted. “I know there is danger to him. I feel it to the very core of my soul and yet, it seems that there is not one thing I can do to save him.”

  She sank back against her pillows, spent by the ordeal.

  “If Your Majesty will not let me send for the King, then you must go to him at first light,” Marie said. “I fear you shall have no peace from these nightmares until you do what you can.”

  “It is the joust,” Catherine murmured, not having heard Marie’s words. “He was not meant to die in battle after all, but in a battle of a different kind.” She closed her eyes. “The young lion. . .” she began to whisper, “will overcome the older one, on the field of combat in single battle. . .then he dies a cruel death.”

  “His Majesty must be warned,” said Lucrezia.

  “I am his Queen, I must warn him! He cannot. . .he must not die, now that he is finally nearly mine!”

  Catherine bolted from her bed. “What is the time?”

  “Just past four, Your Majesty. Not yet dawn.”

  “I must go now! I must warn him now before it is too late. His Majesty is scheduled to joust today. He must not. I know it! Send Madelena at once to dress me, and send word to the equerry that I shall need a horse readied by the half hour.”

  “Your Majesty, are you certain that you want to go to him now?” Lucrezia asked, lowering her eyes. “It is quite likely that you shall not find him alone if you do.”

  “That does not matter. Do you not see, either of you? Nothing matters anymore if he dies! Please, Lucrezia, just do as I ask. I shall face what I must when I arrive at L’Hôtel de Graville.”

  DIANE SLEPT FITFULLY. She could not seem to find a comfortable position beneath the heavy bedding. She was surprised that all of her tossing and turning had not awakened Henri. She finally opened her eyes again, surrendering to the insomnia, and looked over at him. His face was peaceful. Soft. It reminded her of him when he was a boy. When they had first met. She watched the gentle fluttering of his lashes, the unguarded parting of his lips.

  “Beloved,” she whispered, and ran a finger across his bearded chin.

  What would my life have been without you? If I had not written to you from Chenonceaux, would I have been alone as Montgommery once thought? Lonely? Plagued by regret?

  Her thoughts took her to the day just past. The wedding of Henri’s daughter, Elizabeth. They had attended together with the pride of parents as the young woman had taken her vows. Their own daughter was also well married. After Diane de France’s first husband had been lost at the battle of Hesdin, she was now wisely and strategically married to Anne de Montmorency’s eldest son, François.

  Their children were given to good marriages. Finally, there was peace in France. Henri and Diane had everything they could possibly have wanted. She touched her own chest where the Crown Jewels still lay. He had insisted she wear them to the wedding despite her own reservations. So she had cast off her pearls, putting in their place the gift that had marked the beginning of their reign as King and unofficial Queen.

  She gazed down at a large ruby set in gold that lay between her breasts. He had made love to her like this, with the same passion as when he had first given them to her. Wear them for me, he had bid her. Wear them for me tonight when we are alone.

  She rolled onto her back and gazed up at the canopy. Twenty-six majestic shining years. Even now she marveled at the idea that he had told her all those years ago, I have known but one God and one love. He had kept his word, though even she had never expected it to last this long.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but you cannot go in there! You cannot. . .”

  Jacques de Saint-André’s insistent voice pierced the calm darkness as Catherine swept past him and into the bedchamber of the Duchesse de Valentinois.

  “It is all right, Jacques,” Diane said as he stood open-mouthed beside the door. Henri, now roused by the commotion, sat up in bed, his eyes squinting from the beam of light at the door. He lit the candle beside the bed. The early-morning sun was just beginning to come up and filter pink through the long paned windows.

  “Great Zeus, Catherine! Have you any idea what time it is?” he asked, holding the candle near the clock. When she did not reply he looked up and was met by her waxen, tear-stained face. Diane sat up and wrapped herself in a robe, but not before Catherine could be spared the sight of the Crown Jewels still glittering around her rival’s throat.

  “Well, what is it that has troubled you to come all this way over here in the middle of the night?” he asked, rubbing his eyes again.

  She rushed at him as Diane moved away from the bed. “Oh, Henri, I beg you not to joust today. Please do not!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The prophecy from the Centuries! This is what he meant!”

  “Nostradamus? Catherine, that is absurd. The threat of that was laid to rest long ago when I returned from Calais. Besides, his words say that harm shall come in combat. I face no such action in the lists. What has brought this about?”

  “I have been having the most awful dreams.”

  He tried not to laugh at her for all the pain in her eyes, but he could not contain himself. He rose from the bed, wrapped himself in a robe and stood before her. Her trembling had moved him, and he draped an arm around her.

  “Here, come here and sit down. May I have some wine brought for you?”

  Diane stood near the fire saying nothing. Saint-André remained motionless by the door.

  “No. I want nothing but to hear you say you shall not joust.” Long streaming tears flowed down onto her round face as she pleaded.

  “Catherine, that is foolishness. I am a knight, a gentleman. I must. . .I want to joust. It is a matter of honor now that I have committed myself to it. What would my people think of me if I withdrew now? They would say that their King was a coward; that he was weak. No, I must joust and I shall not have you going on like this
and frightening yourself or Madame.” Then he softened again. “I shall be fine. You shall see. Really. There is nothing for you to worry about. The danger is past. It was over in Calais. I promise you.”

  AFTER SHE HAD BATHED in cold water, Diane returned to her bedchamber. Henri was standing in the center of the room being fitted in new armor by two of his grooms. Saint-André stood beside the King on one side, Montmorency on the other. Outside were the sound of townspeople shuffling past L’Hôtel de Graville on their way to Les Tournelles for the day of jousts.

  “I think you have never looked so handsome,” Diane said, pausing to look at him as she leaned against the door. Henri smiled at her. The armor had been especially made for this event. It was wrought of silver, tooled in black and completely covered with their emblem. Her crescent. His letter H with the crescent above it. The ultimate symbol. The goddess of the moon who still, and forever, ruled him.

  “Then you like it,” he said. “It was to be a surprise, but you’ve ruined that.”

  “It is exquisite.”

  “It is Spanish silver.”

  “Now that is a surprise.” She smiled.

  “Yes, well, I thought it time to put the last of my demons to rest.”

  Once he had her approval, Henri stood still as his grooms stripped off the layers of silver and he stood before them in plain black shirt and stockings. His feet were bare. Montmorency and Saint-André both gave the armor to the grooms who would see it safely transported to the field, then left the room with them.

  “Do you think she could be right?” Diane asked once they were alone.

  Henri looked up with an expression that said he had not heard her correctly. “You were listening.”

  “It is only a very few steps from the fireplace to our bed, chéri. I could not help but hear.”

  Henri went to her, took her in his arms and began softly to laugh. “Can this be? My own beautiful Diane falling victim to the words of a man skirting the bounds of heresy?”

  “Do not make light of it, Henri, please. There is more than one voice of doubt at Court that has been silenced by this man’s words. They say Monsieur Nostradamus is rarely wrong.”

  “He is vague, m’amie. He molds the prophecy to the event, just like that fortune-teller in Cauterets, do you remember?”

  “She predicted I would have a third child and that I would come to have great power.”

  “If you had read Nostradamus’s work, what I tell you would be imminently clear. He also predicted doom in combat, and you can see very well that France is at peace. We are celebrating a wedding. Does it look to you as if there is any danger of combat in Paris?”

  “That is a matter of semantics. I don’t know, perhaps the Queen is right. Perhaps it would be better if you did not joust today.”

  “Not you too! How can you ask that of me, m’amie, when I have had the armor made especially to honor you? I want to ride for that honor, as I did all those years ago, when I was just a boy. It is the very same field in which I shall ride today. It is an anniversary of sorts, do you not think? I was a child then; no more than ten, but you found something worthwhile in me even then. You alone made me a King. I want to wear your scarf on my lance, so that all the world shall know that our love is stronger, more impenetrable than ever. How can you deny me that?”

  She looked at the winsome expression on his face; the one so capable of seducing her to whatever end he desired.

  “Well, can you?” he asked again.

  “I suppose there is nothing I can say. . .”

  THE DAY WAS HOT, and all of Paris sweltered in the heat of the tightly packed courtyard of Les Tournelles. The jousting had lasted all day with matches between François de Guise and Charles de Brissac and François de Montmorency and Admiral Coligny. The royal heralds called out each new contest with the accompanying fanfare of trumpets. Finally, as the afternoon sun began to pale, it came time for the King to joust. His match had been saved until the last to arouse the crowds.

  The Queen sat in one tribune looped in blue silk and stamped with gold fleurs-de-lys. Beside her were the Dauphin, Queen Mary, the Duc de Savoy and her astrologer, Gauier. Diane had her own tribune beside the Queen. Hers was draped in black with small white crescents and the royal emblem in the center worked in diamonds. She was flanked by her daughter, Diane de France, the Cardinal de Lorraine and the Princess Marguerite. Other galleries had been assembled for the King’s distinguished guests and members of the Court, who now sat soaked with sweat in the unrelenting late-afternoon sun.

  As the sunset stained the western sky, the heralds finally called out the King’s entrance from his pavilion. Everyone rose to their feet. Trumpets blared as Henri’s horse cantered proudly into the lists. This was the third day of tournaments and the crowd had waited patiently for their Sovereign. Now, at the prospect of the magnificent spectacle which lay before them, there exploded a frenzy of adulation. The crowds tossed flowers toward him from the stands as His Majesty rode Compère, a magnificent Spanish stallion belonging to the Duke of Savoy.

  Henri sat proudly in his saddle in his new suit of armor, gleaming against the sunset. His helmet was plumed with feathers of black and white. A black banner bearing their emblem ran across his breastplate. He waved to the crowd and the diamonds on the black trappings of his horse shimmered in the sunlight.

  The two riders met in the center of the field and then converged on Diane’s tribune. It was not until they had both reached her, their visors open, that Diane and those around her tribune heard the announcement. His Majesty’s opponent would be the new Captain of the Scots Guard, Gabriel de Montgommery, Jacques’ son!

  The face of the warrior before her now had once long ago belonged to Jacques de Montgommery. Diane was so surprised by the young man’s uncanny resemblance to his father that she held a hand over her mouth. He was tall and thin, as his father once had been, with the same honey-colored hair and soft, almost feminine features. Gazing at him took her back to a young man who had wagered her a coin that he knew the will of the King better than she. It brought her forward to the memory of a weary, aging nobleman held captive in the bowels of a Paris prison.

  Diane’s heart stopped as both men saluted her. She could not speak. Her lips, parted by fear, formed a tiny breathless gasp. Seeing the son of her former lover, his eyes tinged with what she knew was hate, filled her with fear. Was this to be revenge by the son for what had happened to the father? She longed to call out to stop the match, but Henri was too invested in the romance of the pageantry that he had created to honor her. He waved to the crowds and they cheered even more wildly.

  “I ride for the love of you!” he declared to Diane but loudly enough for all to hear.

  As the crowds cheered and hung over the barrier, their daughter tossed him a white rose, Diane’s favorite flower. It was yet another symbol of her parents’ great love. He held it up to the crowds in one silver gauntleted hand. Henri led his horse a few steps closer to the stands so that he could take the black silk scarf that he would sport on the end of his lance.

  Diane looked at him, his beautiful dark eyes crinkled into a smile. He was happy. He was doing what he loved best in the world. She could insist and he might comply, but she could not ask him to do that. Reluctantly, she surrendered the scarf. First he kissed it, then placed it on the tip of his lance. The deafening applause rose to a crescendo.

  Damn Catherine for frightening me like this! I can think of nothing but those vile prophecies. I have only to make it a little while longer and it shall all be over.

  Henri looked at her again. Once the scarf was secured, he put his hand over his heart and smiled at her. Then he closed his visor and galloped onto the field.

  She leaned uneasily into her seat between her daughter and the Cardinal de Lorraine.

  “It shall soon be over,” she whispered and clutched her pearl rosary. “Pray God.”

  THE LANCES WERE LEVELED and the two horses lunged at one another in a swirl of dust. Shadows of the
two mighty steeds lengthened across the vast yard. The crowds fell silent as no man managed to fell the other. Montgommery was a worthy opponent, not so easily unseated as the King had hoped. The two men circled the field to the sound of thunderous clambering hooves and returned to their places.

  Henri readied himself again. He was hot and tired. He could feel the sweat run down his chest beneath his armor. It was not so easy as it had been in his youth. But he must do this. He must do it for Diane. Henri dug his jeweled spurs into the horse. He gripped the jeweled pommel. Again they charged. Two silhouettes approached one another on the steadily darkening field. Again the cheers and shouts of the crowd rose up. Suddenly he felt his body jerk backward with a powerful force; his neck snapped forward and then back, but there was no pain. It had been a sharp blow to his breastplate. He held tight to the pommel. He began to reel in his saddle, but he held fast as they passed one another. As he recovered, the crowd roared their praise.

  “Thank God,” Diane muttered as she clutched her rosary, knowing that now it was finally over.

  Henri rode to the end of the field where Montmorency sat in the judges’ box. He raised his visor. “Have a fresh lance brought for me,” he said. “I shall have one more go at the little bastard before the day is through.”

  “But Your Majesty, the rules are clear. This marks the end of the match.”

  “The deuce it does! I am King and I say we shall go once more!”

  He was becoming obstinate, but Montmorency had been on such tenuous ground lately that he dare not push the King too hard. He left the judges’ box and walked down beside his mount.

  “Your Majesty knows full well you are not yourself today,” he whispered, looking up at Henri.