Courtesan

by Diane Haeger

  Now Henri belonged to her.

  “Yes, chéri, it is I,” she replied in a softer voice than her own, and then swallowed hard. “You knew I could not stay away.”

  “Oh, yes. I knew it.” He tried to smile but the bandages now covered nearly all of his face. “I knew you would find a way to come to me. . .”

  There was a long silence and Catherine began to fear that he had recognized her voice.

  “I am sorry, but I do not think. . .I shall make it through this one, m’amie. I held on to see you again, but I am so very tired now. . .so tired.”

  “Does it hurt too desperately?” she asked, clutching his hand in her own and trying her best to imitate the voice of the Duchesse de Valentinois.

  “Only when I think of being without you.”

  “Please, try not to speak. You shall only tire yourself more.”

  “I must tell you this. Please. Oh, Diane. . .my own Diane. You always knew. . .didn’t you? No matter what obstacle we faced. . .you always knew what was in my heart.”

  “Yes, chéri,” she replied and brought his hand to her heavy cheek. Then she kissed it again.

  “Please. . .let me hear the words from your lips, as you have heard them from mine. All of my life. . .” he began and then stopped, waiting for her to finish the phrase.

  The pain of it was unbearable, but Catherine struggled to compose herself as the tears spilled down her face and she sobbed quietly. She knew what he wanted to hear; the words meant for only one other person to whisper. But she had heard them too, and now for this one precious moment, he was hers.

  “I have known. . .” she finally said with steeled determination, “but one God. . .and one love.”

  “Oui, mon coeur,” he whispered. “Un vrai amour.”

  Then, content that he had said adieu to the goddess with whom he had shared his life, he quietly turned his head, and let go of life.

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME TO DIE,” she whispered. . .“it should have been me.”

  Diane’s eyes were heavy. She closed them for a moment, wishing she could close them forever. She wanted to be alone with her pain and the Queen’s guards had given her a last few moments. Like a wounded animal, she had limped lifelessly back to the security of their home at Chenonceaux, and now she wanted nothing more than to try to heal herself here. But they had followed her, and now Catherine de Medici was finally taking it away.

  She walked slowly from the alcove into their bedchamber. In the stillness of the afternoon her senses heightened. She noticed each article and every inch of the room, seizing it as she had never done. Time reverted back to the last time they had been here together. On the night table lay his favorite volume of Amadis de Gaul, his page marked by a scarlet ribbon. Beside it was an enamel by Limosin, and his silver hairbrush. On a tall table across the room was the official state medal encased in purple velvet depicting the two of them together on horseback. Behind it on the wall was the tapestry he had brought back from Calais on his final campaign. It was a blend of blue, green and ruby red silk depicting the labors of Hercules. It was so full of him and his spirit. It had hung there for nearly two years, and until today she had simply overlooked it as just another example of his extravagant devotion to her.

  She stood gazing at the tapestry, tears running down her face. The Queen had mandated that nothing be removed from Chenonceaux. Diane had already surrendered her house in Paris, all of the furnishings, tapestries, artwork, and most of the gifts from the King. Her apartments at Saint Germain-en-Laye and Fontainebleau, full of twenty-six years of acquisitions and of memories, had now been taken over by Charles de Guise. Even before Henri had been entombed, Catherine had prepared her revenge. Gifts, even personal ones, were now property of the state. She could take with her what she could carry, and nothing more. Making her choose was revenge in itself.

  The clock struck six. A blue glass vase on a table near the window filtered the dusty afternoon sunlight. It cast a kaleidoscope of colors against the wall. It had been a birthday present to her from the Sultan Suleiman. Beside it was a tooled leather jewel casket, a gift from the Pope. In it lay the Crown Jewels. Like all of the jewelry Henri had given her, these too would remain.

  Slowly, and with a movement full of great effort, she approached the table. She could almost see his face the night he had given them to her. I promised you one day that I would lay the world at your feet, he had said. These, ma bien-aimée, are only the beginning.

  She opened the case and the jewels glittered in the sunlight from the nearby window. Diamonds. Rubies. Emeralds. A fortune lay before her, and yet none of it meant anything to her now. But what came next would be far more difficult. She took in a deep breath and let it out. The pain was dark; black and demonic.

  She wiped away her tears and then held up both of her hands. They trembled with age and with grief. She looked at them through cascading tears and then gently slid from her left hand the first ring he had given her. It was a ruby and diamond ring with which he had asked her to be his wife when they both still believed there had been half a chance. Another he had given her as a renewal of their love.

  Finally, and as painfully as if she were parting with a piece of herself, she slid the last ring from her hand. It was a large damascened initial H that he had sent her after Catherine’s illness at Joinville. The Queen had been specific about its return.

  She sank slowly into a chair before the fire. It was a tall chair of dark Italian leather, worn by the shape of his body. He had loved it so much that sitting in it now was almost like feeling him there with her. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth, the sobs tearing her throat and racking her body. For twelve years they had lovingly transformed this chateau into a grand palace full of the symbol of their love. From the ceiling beams to the embroidered slipcovers, Chenonceaux symbolized them; their tastes and their life together. Yet, despite everything Henri had done to secure it for her, now Catherine was taking even that away.

  The score was even.

  Finally, in a move she had been avoiding all day, she forced herself to look above the mantel at his final portrait. He had chosen to be painted next to his horse, in his black and silver armor. It was an image so proud and full of life that she could barely bring herself to look at it. His life had been snuffed out so early, so senselessly. He had barely a chance to be a great King.

  The tears that she had fought for nine days continued to flow like rain from her dim blue eyes. She closed them again, straining to recall his voice; needing to recall the contours of his body that time had worn into the dark leather chair. Then she surrendered her face to her hands. He was really gone and there was nothing left for her now. The pain stabbed at her heart and she recoiled from it, rocking back and forth in his large leather-covered chair.

  “It should have been me to die first, chéri,” she whispered again through her tears, “for it would have been far easier to watch you lose your love for me, than to watch you lose your life, as I have done.”

  GRAND-MÈRE, it is the Queen of Scots!”

  Diane’s granddaughter rushed from the large window that faced out onto the stone courtyard. Diane sat in a large velvet chair by the fire surrounded by her daughters, Diane de France, Louise, her son-in-law, Claude de Guise and two scruffy gray lap dogs. She had been so taken up by the passage that she was reading as her children played cards that she had not heard the horses outside or the activity in her own foyer.

  “That is foolish, child,” she scoffed with indifference. “Her Majesty would have no reason to come to Anet after all of this time.”

  “But it is true, just the same!” The little girl rushed at her, her face gleaming with excitement and the ringlets of blond hair flowing behind her. “I remember Her Majesty’s red hair, and she is all dressed in white, the mourning attire for King François. I know it is she!”

  Before Diane could respond, Hélène tapped on the door and came into the library. The two lap dogs scampered one after the other yelping at Hélène,
who quickly closed the doors behind herself. Diane saw that her maid’s face was flushed.

  “Forgive me, Madame,” she said, “but Queen Mary waits in the foyer and prays that you will see her.”

  Diane lay down Henri’s favorite volume of Ronsard’s poetry and stood. She did not look back at her granddaughter. “Why of course, Hélène. Please show Her Majesty in.”

  The early death of her husband had aged Mary Stuart. She had been Queen of France for only sixteen months before a mysterious ear infection had claimed her young husband. In spite of her grief, she was still breathtakingly beautiful, with the same milk-white skin and hair the color of fire, but gone now was the shy innocence which had so endeared her to Henri. Diane had not seen her since the afternoon when they had sat across from one another in the painted tribune at Les Tournelles, the day Henri had been fatally wounded.

  “Your Majesty,” said Diane as she and everyone else sank into proper bows and curtsies. Mary stood before them in a gown of white Spanish lace, the high neck bordered with pearls and the long cuff edged with white satin. Her hair was pulled away from her face and her head was covered with a jeweled headdress and a long white veil.

  “Please, please, not for me. Not here,” she said and rushed into Diane’s arms.

  “Dear one,” whispered Diane as they embraced. “It is good to see you again.”

  “Not half so good as it is to see you, Madame.”

  Mary kissed Diane’s cheeks and then gazed at her, so overwhelmed that she was unable to speak for several moments.

  “I am leaving France,” she finally said with a tone so full of emotion that Diane knew it had taken all of her strength to do it.

  “You can come to no agreement with Catherine, then?”

  Across the room Diane and Henri’s daughter watched her former playmate as she struggled to reply.

  “She wants no accord with me, Madame. She wants the title of dowager to herself.”

  “Ah, yes,” Diane said with an ironic smile, knowing as no one else could the far-reaching effects of Catherine’s bitterness. “Will you marry Don Carlos, then?”

  “I shall return to Scotland. I am needed there. Much is transpiring with England. But I shall return to my homeland as the widow of the King of France, not as another man’s wife.” There was a pause and then she added, “It is rumored that Queen Catherine wants Philip’s son, Don Carlos, for her own daughter, Marguerite, and his stalling with regard to our negotiations makes me believe it is true.”

  Diane led Mary to the two chairs by the fire in which she and Louise had been sitting. The only sound was the rustling of taffeta as the newly widowed Queen adjusted her skirts. Louise, Claude de Guise and Diane de France stood in the corner of the room near the door, all of them moved to silence. As Diane looked at the young girl whom she had raised from childhood, she knew then that Mary had come to say good-bye.

  “How I loved this place in my youth,” said Mary as she lay her head against the back of the chair and took a slow sip of wine from the silver goblet Hélène had poured for her. Diane followed her eyes above the fireplace hearth to the profile portrait of Henri done the year she had been brought to Court. Around it on the mantel lay a sprinkling of spring flowers: daisies, bluebells and roses. “You know that Anet is the closest thing to a home I have ever had, Madame. I shall miss it terribly.”

  Diane knew that returning to the cold and unforgiving shores of Scotland had not been the first choice of this delicate girl. But now with the proposal of marriage to Don Carlos seemingly collapsed, there was nothing left for her in France. Catherine had long been jealous of her younger, more beautiful daughter-in-law. She had also despised her for having been so close to Diane, and for having had so great an influence on the young King. She understood that François’ death was now a reason to be rid of her at last.

  “How is it for you now? I mean, does the loss become easier to bear?” She looked over at Diane with tear-filled eyes.

  “The loss shall be with you forever,” Diane said. “With the dawn of every day, with every breath you take, there are thoughts of the past and a kind of void; like living and not living. But yes. . .for you, mon coeur, with time, it shall get easier.”

  The fire between them cracked and popped, and for another moment there was no other sound.

  “I understand that the marriage of your granddaughter, Diane, to the nephew of the King of Navarre shall proceed next month as planned,” Mary said, struggling to wipe away the continual flow of tears.

  “Yes, Antoine de Bourbon was a good friend. He has graciously agreed to proceed.”

  “Such a thing shows that your years at Court meant a great deal more than just an alliance with His Majesty. I am glad for you, Madame, that all was not lost when King Henri died.”

  Diane looked at her, her thin lips parted and her proud cheekbones as elegant as the day they had first met.

  “Oh, but it was. All of it for me was lost forever at Les Tournelles.”

  “I tried desperately to come sooner,” Mary said, squeezing her hand. “You must know that. But the Queen forbid my doing so, and my husband agreed with her. I loved him with all my heart and soul, but you know that he never was strong enough to contradict her.”

  Diane managed a half smile. “I understand,” she said quietly.

  “But now everything has changed, and I could not leave France without first seeing you.”

  “I am honored that you should feel that way about your old Governess.”

  “So many things have changed at Court since you left, Madame. It is a different world. Now Charles is King and my uncles have more power than they did before. They virtually run the country for Queen Catherine.”

  Diane looked at her, knowing by the tone in her voice that there was something else. “What is it, Mary? Do not spare me what you have truly come to say.”

  As she looked at the young girl, Diane could see that her eyes were tinged with sadness.

  “Queen Catherine now wears your rings.”

  Diane took a controlled breath. “Such news does not surprise me.”

  “But they are your beautiful rings, Madame!” she said, springing from her chair, “. . .from the King!”

  “The Queen wears them. They are hers.” She looked up at Mary whose brilliant green eyes still filled with tears.

  “Oh, do not weep for me, child. I need only my memories to remind me of what was true. Even my rings shall not bring her the same peace.”

  Claude de Guise advanced and offered his handkerchief to Mary. She took it from him, touched his shoulder and then dried her eyes. She took a deep breath and looked once again at the portrait over the mantel.

  “He loved you very much, Madame. It is not difficult to understand why.”

  “Doubtless you are alone in your conviction, but you are very kind to say so.”

  “I only speak the truth. Oh, I owe you that and so much more. You treated me as if I were your own daughter. You helped make my life here bearable. My allegiance has always been to you. I know that is why she detests me so.”

  “Tell me, then, the fate of young Captain Montgommery.”

  It was the first time she had been able to bring herself to inquire about the man who had single-handedly altered not only her life, but the course of history.

  Mary looked at her, trembling and unsure, but when she looked at Madame Diane she knew that she must continue. So much had been kept from her. She had a right to know this. “Before his death, King Henri sought to pardon him, Madame.”

  “And was His Majesty’s wish fulfilled?”

  Mary lowered her head. “The King’s opponent fled from Court after the tourney. I take no pleasure in telling you that they say he is a Protestant, Madame, and that now. . .well now, he rides for their cause with a banner displaying a splintered lance.”

  The two women looked at one another, their shared loss open and raw. After a moment, Mary held out her hand. In it was a small purple pouch that she offered to Diane.
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  “But I come for something more than to bear you news, Madame. I believe this is the most difficult thing that I shall ever do,” the young Queen began with an uneven voice. “Before he died, King Henri put the contents of this pouch in my hand. He did not speak, for the others around us, but the way he looked at me, I knew he meant for you to have it. I believe, Madame, that he knew I would see it safely back to you. I am only sorry that it has taken so long.”

  For the past year and a half, Diane had lived her life without thinking. Without feeling. The immeasurably long days passed into endless nights. Today became yesterday, like all of the other yesterdays. Winter, spring and summer all passed; autumn had come and gone. Through them all she had watched her own life with a detachment, as though she too had died. It had helped her bear the overwhelming pain of those first months without him. Now, hearing Henri’s name again from the lips of someone who had adored him, was an opening up of the old wound. She fought a wellspring of tears and struggled to find the strength to loosen the black velvet strings. What she saw stripped her of the protective cloak behind which she had protected herself since Henri’s death. She gasped a little wounded sound as the small ivory crescent and gold chain fell into the palm of her hand.

  A flood of tears cascaded down her cheeks as the images rushed back at her. The emblem around his neck. His dark glittering eyes above it. The confident smile on his face the day of the joust. She faltered as she searched with her trembling hand for the chair behind her. She strained every muscle in her body to fight the tears, but such an attempt was useless. In their cruel separation he had still found a way to reach her. Even now, long after his death, he was still pledging his love to her. Mary was right. He had chosen her as messenger because he knew that she would not forsake him. She held the crescent to her chest now and felt the tears wash down her face. Across the room Louise de Brézé quietly wiped her own tears as her husband squeezed her other hand. They all knew what the pendant had meant.