by Deryn Lake
“Then how do we get to see them?”
“Very simply,” said Etienne, his face slanting a grin at her. “I will ask His Grace if I may examine the Master’s papers. Francois does not wish them to be secret, merely secure.”
“It’s worth a try, my darling,” Helena said eagerly.
Etienne smiled his spectacular smile and said gently, “Think of me as your darling always, Helena. Then I shall be happy until you return to me.”
And with that the Vicomte left the room and she was alone.
Suddenly nervous, Helena went toward the great bed with the thought of trying to rest for an hour, but the door opened once more and the astrologer put his head round it.
“You are to come at once, Helena,” he said. “Madame has a gift for you.”
With one sweep of his eyes Ruggieri took in the fact that she had changed her clothes to those in which she had arrived.
“Cooler for you, no doubt,” he said but made no other comment as he bowed low, letting her pass in front of him.
The palace seemed amazingly quiet and Helena guessed that the peacock King and his butterfly court must be at rest before the night’s festivities.
“The Dauphine does not sleep?” she asked tentatively, only to see the astrologer smile wryly.
“Madame will never rest until her purpose is done,” he answered, the double meaning obvious.
But Catherine at least had removed her heavy skirts and put a loose robe over her many petticoats, even if she had not taken to her bed.
“The Widow sleeps till noon every day, did you know that?” she asked inconsequentially as Helena was ushered in. “But yet she rises at dawn, bathes in cold water winter and summer alike, then goes for a long ride, before sleeping again. All this to preserve her legendary beauty. But she won’t be so beautiful tomorrow, will she, little ghost?”
*
Catherine’s dark eyes lingered on Helena, absorbing every detail. “I see you are wearing the strange things you wore when you came here last night. You are not thinking of leaving us before the ball surely?”
“No,” countered Helena, “I am already dressed for what I must do. Then you promised to return me, Madame.”
“So I did,” said Catherine with a half-smile. “And so I shall, when you have done your part. But meanwhile your dress offends me. I suggest that I lend you some more fitting clothes and that you stay with me until the ball begins so that I may help you prepare.”
“But I must see Etienne, Madame. I haven’t yet said goodbye to him.”
“Plenty of time for that,” answered Catherine soothingly, “I promise you that you will be alone with him before this evening is over.”
She crossed to a small wooden chest and took from it a jewelled pomander case on a heavy gold chain. “This is for you, Helena. I want you to wear it and think of me. It is scented, you know. One sniffs it to keep away the smell of the common people,” she explained.
Helena took it silently, lifting the precious thing to her nose. The scent coming from it was heavy, almost sleep-inducing, and it was with a certain reluctance that she put it down again.
“Now,” said Catherine softly, “why don’t you rest here a while? I will take care of you, Helena. I will keep you safe from harm until the time comes for you to do what I tell you. Sleep now, deep sleep.”
And with that Helena closed her eyes, the lids suddenly too weighty to stay open, and was instantly unconscious.
*
That evening there seemed to be a great many people on the staircase all mingling together, silently rubbing shoulders as they climbed. On the marble steps skirts swished against high-heeled buckled shoes while ornamental swords, their handles encrusted with rainbow gems dipped and rose as their owners made their steady way upwards.
It was the dream, only this night, this suffocating, fragrance-filled night when every courtier at Chambord graced the King’s masked ball, it was difficult to know dream from reality.
From the pomander case hanging at Helena’s waist rose a heavy musky smell like incense which made her senses dance and reasoning power slow. But, despite that, she knew however real some of the people and events might seem, it was in truth the most vivid dream of all.
Pressed in the midst of a crowd, none of whom knew she was there, Helena could have panicked had not the scent from the pomander calmed and soothed her so that nothing seemed threatening. Not even climbing the staircase to the spot where stood that frozen beauty, that superb being who never smiled or showed emotion, the most beautiful of the beautiful, the Seneschal’s widow, Diane de Poitiers.
Helena knew that all she had to do this evening to please her dear friend Catherine was simply to push the Widow through one of the observation bays in the staircase’s hollow central column and watch from above as Diane crunched onto the distant floor below.
Then . . . Helena blinked hard as for a moment she saw clearly before the sensation passed. Then . . . she would stay and serve the Dauphine always, living with Etienne, but really being her friend Catherine’s invisible servant, though everything would still be a dream.
The throng with whom Helena mingled suddenly began to climb faster, as if they had together received a silent signal, but straining her ears she realised what it was. The musicians on the first floor, seated between the window and the staircase, had struck up. Laughing to herself at the strange merry sound, Helena hurried with them.
It was then that through the pillars of the balustrade, she saw Diane, talking to he who loved her so much that he would publicly insult his wife. The Dauphin, dressed in black and white, his large eyes brimming with adoration, was just about to lead his lady out in the dance.
Helena’s eyes swept the crowd for Catherine but there was no sign of her, nor of Etienne. She had been left quite alone to do the Dauphine’s bidding, though the wonderful vapour which issued from the pomander was comforting, giving her courage. As she reached the first floor and joined the throng of dancers, Helena raised it to her nose.
She had not noticed the Vicomte ascend the other staircase, the one that spiralled above that which she had climbed, so that when he surreptitiously came up to her and murmured, “Follow me to the roof terrace, my dear,” Helena felt quite startled.
“Must I?” she answered distantly, and was surprised when he wheeled quickly round to look at her more closely.
“What has she done to you?” he snapped, and sent the pomander flying from her hand. “You little fool, you’ve let yourself be drugged. Come into the fresh air.”
Helena would far rather have stayed where she was, listening to the music and watching the ladies and their gallants.
“This is only a dream, Etienne,” she said slowly. “You don’t exist. Only Hal exists, but Madame says I would be happier staying with her than going back to him.”
Her arm was almost wrenched from its socket as Etienne grabbed her hand at once and pulled her roughly towards the staircase, pushing his way unceremoniously through his fellow courtiers and dragging Helena behind him to where both the spirals came to the end of their secret joke. With his hand in the small of her back Helena felt herself propelled out onto the roof of the Chateau de Chambord.
She gazed on a different world, full of avenues and towers, the lantern dome huge as a church, the narrow walls looking out over magnificent vistas of forestland.
“Listen,” said Etienne urgently, “the Medicis are known for their use of poisons and potions to achieve their ends. Whatever Catherine has told you is false. You must leave Chambord now, at once.”
“But how?” she answered, not really caring.
“With me. We will go to my estates at Fleurmont. There you can be safe from the world.”
“But does it matter when none of this is real?”
“The power of Catherine de Medici is always real.”
Helena’s brain cleared slightly and she remembered something. “But what about Leonardo’s papers. Have you learned his secrets?” she asked.
“Then what am I to do?” Now reality was coming back.
“Stay here and watch. When you see me come round from the stables with two horses run down the staircase and join me.” He pulled her close to him. “If we should miss one another, come to Fleurmont. I shall wait for you there.”
“I will come,” said Helena, kissing him goodbye. “I promise you that.”
Then he was gone and she was alone in the moonlight, staring down at the moat and the gardens, watching for the first sign of a rider. A dark shadow detached itself from behind a chimney stack decorated with a monumental salamander, emblem of King Francois.
“Come, little one,” said Ruggieri, “it is time.”
*
It turned from dream into nightmare as he took her by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh, strong as wire, and led her down to the second floor where Catherine de Medici awaited him. Without a word they pushed Helena forward and she saw that two lovers stood on the staircase, locked in deep embrace. She knew from the dark velvet of the woman’s gown and the white lace that trimmed it, that she was looking at the incomparable Diane and her lover, so enamoured with her that he could not keep from touching his mistress, even though others observed them together.
Catherine smiled her dark secret smile and lifted the pomander so that the blue haze wafted into Helena’s face.
“Remember this is only a dream, little one. Now do as I command,” she said softly.
Hearing something, Diane de Poitiers looked up and Helena stared straight into that amazing face, quite chilling in its flawless splendour.
“It’s cold,” said the Widow. “I think the ghost of the staircase must be near by.”
Henri laughed. “You don’t believe that old story, do you. Come, my darling, would you like to dance again? As long as I am close to you I am happy whatever you decide.”
In agony Helena looked as the couple kissed again, quite unaware that death stalked one of them in the shape of a girl who had yet to be born. Right behind her, hidden in shadow, she sensed rather than heard Catherine de Medici draw breath. So this was to be the moment, there could be no escape for her.
Taking off Etienne’s diamond ring and closing her eyes, Helena rushed past the lovers and hurled herself bodily through the bay, plunging down and down into darkness, as somewhere in the dimmest of distances, a shrill bell began to ring.
*
A hand was reaching out towards her, a hand that Helena took so very gratefully and pressed against her cheek. She lay quite still then, feeling the comfort of the hand, and wishing that she did not have to open her eyes.
“Helena,” said a familiar voice, “Helena, my darling, are you all right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, though it was barely audible, “yes, I think I am.”
“Then look at me.”
Almost with reluctance, Helena raised her lids. She lay within the cramped confines of the staircase’s central column; above her, at a distance that looked enormous, was the rearing vastness of the lantern dome. Between the dome and herself was Hal, leaning over her, holding her gently in his arms, and gazing at her with both concern and love.
“The Widow?” she murmured anxiously. “Did she fall too?”
“She’s concussed,” said a voice beside her other ear. “A doctor has been sent for.”
Helena peered round and saw that men in uniforms, men who could only be security guards, stood in the doorway leading from the hall, shining torches onto where she lay.
“Can’t you turn that alarm bell off,” said Hal, but nobody made a move.
“Oh, my God,” said Helena, frantically trying to sit up. “Please tell me what has happened and why you are here.”
“Helena,” said Hal, “don’t move. You’ve had a nasty fall and you must keep still until a doctor’s had a look at you.”
“I didn’t fall — I jumped. It was the only way out.”
“Try to be quiet,” Hal said soothingly. “The doctor will be coming any minute.”
Helena rolled desperate eyes at him. “The date, Hal please.”
“28th September, and it’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“2016?”
“Yes, of course.”
Helena lay back, exhausted. “But if it’s that time on the 28th it means I’ve been here only an hour.”
Hal looked at her in bewilderment. “At the most. You see, I’ve been behind you throughout.”
Helena stared at him bleakly. “You followed me?”
“Yes, I heard the car start up and watched you go from the bedroom window. I knew you had headed for Chambord.”
“What did you do?”
“I hired a taxi, middle of the night though it was. I lost you when we got to the chateau but then I heard the alarm ringing.”
As if Hal had put a spell on it, at that moment the bell stopped. “Apparently the guards found a window open, which had triggered off the mechanism, then they searched the chateau and discovered you here, unconscious.”
“You mean that I broke into Chambord, wandered about for a while and then fell through the staircase?” She sounded amazed. “That’s all that happened?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. But you’re alive and in one piece, or so I should imagine from the way you’re moving. We might even get to celebrate my birthday today, if we’re lucky.”
“Oh, Hal,” answered Helena, bursting into tears. “A very happy birthday, my darling.”
*
They left France the next day, Helena having been pronounced fit, though somewhat bruised, and the officials at Chambord deciding to forget the whole affair. Leaving the Loire behind, Hal went west, making for the coast, but it was as they entered the Forest of Chandelais that Helena, who had scarcely spoken since her fall, saw a signpost marked Fleurmont.
“Hal,” she said urgently, “please. I must go there. Bear with me just a little longer.”
“You know I’ll bear with you whatever, so long as you don’t forget your promise.”
“What promise?” she answered vaguely.
“To tell me before this holiday is over whether or not you are going to marry me.”
“Has it occurred to you,” asked Helena very primly, “that there might be something odd about me? Do you really want to marry someone who goes round breaking into chateaux and falling downstairs in the dark of night?”
“Yes, please,” answered Hal, and they both laughed.
The village of Fleurmont was charming, centred round a village square full of flowers, as befitted its name. On the hill above sat the chateau, small compared to Chambord, yet large enough to be an imposing sight.”
“If I buy the lunch,” said Helena, “can we go there?”
“There’s no need to bribe me,” Hal answered. “We’ll go if you feel up to it.”
Helena would have liked to have been honest with him then, to have told him that the name meant a great deal to her; that in the dream she had experienced in Chambord, the owner of that particular castle had gone through a form of marriage with her. But common sense prevailed.
So it was with her secret held closely to her that Helena walked through the entrance and bought the English version guide book, finding herself in a long and beautiful hall round which hung family portraits. Almost as if it had spoken to her, Helena went immediately to the portrait of Etienne which she identified in her guide as number sixty-four.
“This portrait painted in 1550,” she read, “is of Etienne Charles, eleventh and last of the direct line of Vicomtes de Fleurmont. From a lively and handsome young man, as he is depicted here, Etienne – a friend and courtier of Francois I — became lonely and reclusive in middle age and the subject of rumour and gossip.
“Although there is no record of the Vicomte ever having married he always maintained that he had a wife who, for mysterious reasons which he would
never divulge, left him for long periods at a time. Even when she was supposedly in residence, according to contemporary records, the Vicomtesse was never seen or heard and the servants conjectured that Etienne was mad and had no wife at all.
“According to his physician Dr Le Blond, however, the Vicomte was perfectly sane and he once glimpsed the Vicomtesse ‘wearing outlandish clothes that did show both her legs’. A strange tale that brings a note of mystery to the lovely Chateau de Fleurmont. Whatever the solution, Etienne died childless in 1575, at the age of sixty-five, leaving no heirs but his cousins whose descendants are the present Viscomtes de Fleurmont.”
As I Helena’s eyes filled with tears she suddenly realised that Hal was standing behind her.
“Darling,” she said, without turning round, “would you mind if I did the rest of this tour alone? I just want to be private when I look round this particular chateau.”
He smiled at her wryly, a lock of butterscotch hair falling forward as he shook his head.
“I’ll go the other way. Meet you in the hall in half an hour.”
In a daze Helena set off, seeing the table at which Etienne had eaten, the desk at which he had sat to write letters, then the beauty of his bedroom. Opposite the bed, which was as grand and formal as the one in Chambord, hung a painting in oils of Etienne and herself in very elaborate and elegant formal dress. She was wearing the Fleurmont diamond on her finger.
“Number seventy,” Helena read, “is a portrait of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Fleurmont on the occasion of their anniversary. As this picture was painted by the Vicomte himself and as there is absolutely no evidence that the Vicomtesse ever existed, it is treated with suspicion by historians and is generally considered to be a work of imagination.”
“A work of imagination,” said Helena to herself with a slight smile. “I wonder.”
It was almost a relief to leave behind the coolness of the chateau and step into the warmth of the sunshine, Hal’s long body casting a shadow that consumed them both.
“What did you think of the place?” he asked, just a shade too casually.
