Courtesan

by Diane Haeger

  Diane gazed back out as the barge swayed and moved its way into the city of Paris. She could see the Cathedral de Notre Dame in the distance with its two beautiful high pillars rising up toward the cloudless sky. As they neared the city, the royal barges converged into the city’s canals.

  These congested waterways were steadily swollen to capacity with the tangle of barges and fishing boats. The Seine was a major artery for supplies and travel. It was also a pestilent sewer, teaming with the odor of refuse. Diane smiled in disbelief at the beauty that was Fontainebleau forty miles away, as she covered her mouth to the vile stench that filled the air of the city.

  Jacques’ words haunted her so that she barely noticed the filthy streets, used as a dumping ground for the town’s refuse. Holes and blue-black puddles of grease were stepped over, as the entourage made their way from the landing up the rue Saint-Honoré toward Les Tournelles.

  She did not see the thatched roof dwellings or the timber front mansions flowing out of the twisted dirty streets. She missed the sight of the beggars and the dirty faced children who were kept back by the pointed rapiers of the King’s guard. The shops full of silks, velvet, books and pictures. The hollering of fish mongers. Weavers. Butchers. The sight of all of them were lost to her.

  Be certain, Jacques had said.

  Certain of what? Was he suggesting that she was falling in love with a boy half her age? It was too absurd to consider. He was a handsome and sensitive young man who one day soon would meet and marry a beautiful and dowered young woman. They would laugh together about his infatuation one day. Yes, years from now, she and Henri would share a private joke about their stolen kiss in the gazebo. I am too old. I have children. I have a past. I am a widow. It is impossible.

  THE DAYS OF SPRING at the Court of France were strung together by an endless series of banquets, hunting parties and poetry readings in the gardens. For Diane, things had finally begun to develop a rhythm. Even the constant uprooting and the endless ceremonial journeys were beginning to seem commonplace.

  Since the Sancerre trio’s ouster from Court and Anne d’Heilly’s return to her place as undisputed favourite, the vicious poetry that had regularly begun to find its way beneath Diane’s door had ceased. Anne no longer used the regular gatherings as occasion to slight her. Diane had also managed to rekindle old friendships with the Grand Master’s wife and the King’s two daughters, Madeleine and Marguerite. For the most part, she would have considered herself quite content had it not been for one element: the breach with Henri.

  Diane had tried to get word to him through Jacques as soon as they had arrived in Paris. She had proposed a neutral game of jeu de paume in an attempt to ease the tensions between them. She had only hoped to discourage his advances; she had not wanted to lose his friendship. Much to her surprise, however, a polite refusal to her invitation was returned through his valet. The very civil explanation to her was that His Highness was kept quite busy of late, training for his upcoming joust with the King. Diane knew the real reason for the turn of events between them and she felt responsible.

  I have hurt him, she thought. But what other choice did I have?

  “HÉLÈNE! CHARLOTTE! Where are you with my gown!” Diane called. “I shall be late for the King’s ball!”

  Diane was not herself. She had been nervous, and the tension had caused her to lose her temper several times that day. Tomorrow the King would fight his son. They would joust. France had a passion for the sport. It brought out all of Paris, who celebrated wildly in the taverns, inns and brothels of the city, before and after such a match.

  Tomorrow the stands would be filled with music and courtiers. Beautifully painted women would spill forth from the stands, waving the scarf of their colors at the victor whom they had chosen. Banners would fly and trumpets would herald the arrival of the final athletes of the day: King François and Prince Henri.

  Part of the thrill of the joust to a gentleman of honor was the danger. It was a perilous sport, and one opponent was as likely to be felled as the next. In times past it had been more dangerous but after several serious injuries and deaths, modifications to the sport had been made. Each man would be dressed in full armor. Rather than riding directly at one another, the arena, called “the lists,” was divided by a long wooden panel. Each man rode toward the other on opposite sides of a low barrier. It was also no longer the intent to fell one’s opponent; the purpose was to break a lance against the opponent’s shielded body.

  Diane looked out of her open casement window at Les Tournelles onto the courtyard below. There she could see the lists being constructed. As the afternoon sun dimmed, the men carried large sheets of wood which were then bolted together to form the divider. Diane thought of Henri. He was young and strong. His well-developed body could survive the rigors of a joust with the King. But accidents had happened. It was dangerous. Her mind wandered back to their kiss and the cool taste of his lips pressed against hers.

  “Stop it!” she cried out. “Hélène! Charlotte!”

  The two women came into the room together. Hélène’s arms were full with a long black gown. Charlotte held the black velvet slippers and the jewelry casket, neither of them having apparently heard her cry.

  “Are they really going to fight?”

  “Yes, Hélène, they are,” Diane replied, turning back from the window.

  “Imagine giving a ball to celebrate a battle with your own son! Joust indeed! If you ask me, it is all-out war. He hates the boy and all of France knows it,” Charlotte muttered to herself as she set the jewelry casket on the bed then handed Hélène a pearl and ruby brooch.

  “No, not that one,” Diane said. “Tonight I shall wear the crescent.”

  The two servants looked at one another again.

  “The talisman?”

  “Yes, Charlotte, the talisman. You do not approve?”

  “Well, Madame, since you ask, it is just that you have so many more, well, so many more stunning pieces than that old bit of ivory.”

  “That old bit of ivory, as you call it, was given to me many years ago as a good luck charm,” Diane reminded her.

  She looked down at the pendant, perfectly shaped as a crescent moon which hung from a thin chain of solid gold. She remembered with the clarity of yesterday, the day she had received it. The woman was old, her hair gray and matted. I know not who you are, she had said, moments after Diane had plucked her from the river, but I would have drowned. I owe you my life. When she told the old woman that her name was Diane, her gray-blue eyes had blinked with astonishment. Then, she had reached under her gown, pulled a pendant from her neck and thrust it into Diane’s hand. I was told long ago, she began again with a quivering voice, that one day, there would be someone to whom I should give this. When the time came I would have no doubt who that was. Now, I am certain. You see, she said, pointing to the shape of the ivory. A moon. Symbol of Diana, goddess of the moon. It is your symbol. Please take it. It has brought me luck. Now, it shall do the same for you. One day when it is time for you to pass it along, you also shall know it.

  “Yes, tonight I shall wear the crescent,” she declared and then turned around.

  Her servants both backed away as Diane took one final look at herself in the mirror. What she saw caused her to draw nearer to her image. There were two tiny lines beside each of her eyes. She touched them.

  “Ah, well. The first signs of it,” she sighed. “Tonight I shall be glad that the ball is a masked affair.”

  “Madame, you are beautiful!” said Hélène.

  Diane turned and kissed her whimsically on the cheek. “And you are a faithful servant.”

  Finally, Charlotte hooked the black velvet mask over her eyes and beneath Diane’s headdress. When the costume was complete, she turned back around toward them and smiled, hoping that there was still some modicum of truth in her young maid’s declaration.

  SHE SAW HENRI before he saw her.

  He was standing alone by one of the long open windows through
which Diane could see the glowing crescent shape of the moon. Henri was the only one in the room who did not wear a mask and yet that did not particularly surprise her. He stood against the window, looking from side to side and swilling a large gold chalice of wine. She was so struck by the image that, for several moments while she was sheltered by a swell of guests, she hid herself and watched him. She had not known, until that moment, how completely alone someone could actually be in a room filled with so many people.

  “Not very sporting of Your Highness to come without a mask,” she finally said, trying her best to sound casual.

  “I do not like games,” he replied without looking when she came up beside him.

  “Then why did you come at all?”

  “Only because the King threatened to send me back to Fontainebleau for another month alone with the Queen and her Spaniards, if I did not comply.”

  “Oh, Henri, I am sorry.”

  “Do not be. By now I have grown accustomed to it. People are like puppets to him, and he is the grand puppeteer. He says ‘do this. . .’ so we do. ‘Do that,’ and so we do. . .we always do. Not bad once you know the rules,” he said sardonically, and finished the rest of his wine.

  It was more awkward than it had ever been between them. He still had not looked at her, yet there was a kind of anger in his voice that told her he had closed himself off to her. Nothing she said could make him react. He set his empty goblet on the tray of a passing servant and took a full one. He did not seek to continue their exchange. Then, when there was nothing else she could say, Diane unfastened the crescent-shaped ivory pendant from around her neck and held it out to him.

  “So then. Tomorrow you joust.”

  “Tomorrow the King exhibits publicly his disdain of me.”

  “Well, I should very much like for you to have this with you. I was told by an old woman once that it is a talisman of sorts; that it brings good luck to whomever shall wear it.”

  Henri took the pendant and looked for the first time into Diane’s masked eyes. “It is crescent shaped, just as the moon is tonight.”

  Diane nodded, surprised that he had noticed.

  “It is very beautiful.”

  “Yes it is. It is also very special to me.”

  “It is the shape of a crescent, and you are Diana. . .like the goddess of the moon. This is your symbol. Are you certain you want to give it to me?”

  “Very certain.”

  “Then I shall fight for your honor tomorrow with this pendant beneath my armor,” he declared in an uneasy and faltering voice, more like the one she had heard beneath the gazebo when he had said he loved her. With an overwhelming instinct of fear, she turned from him. He could see that he had made her uneasy.

  “. . .Just as I did in my first tourney when you gave me your scarf. Remember?” he added. Diane continued to look away. “Madame, I meant nothing more by it. You have made your feelings clear. But please, let me ride for you. You know that I have no one else.”

  Her heart swelled beneath her elegant black damask gown. She smiled and then turned to face him again. What could she say? Now she was being foolish. She had offered peace between them by giving him this talisman. He had done nothing more than agree to take it; and she desperately wanted their friendship.

  “Very well, then. It would be a great honor, Your Highness, if you should ride for me tomorrow.”

  Just as Diane had agreed, the King and Grand Master Montmorency came up beside them. Diane turned, then curtsied to His Majesty.

  “Why, Henri,” said the King in mock surprise. “Your presence here tonight surprises me.”

  “I was not aware of a choice in the matter,” Henri sniped.

  “I believe that I made your choices quite clear. And Madame, what a pleasure it is to see you here as well. Where have you been keeping yourself these past few days? Do not tell me that this foolish boy is the only one fortunate enough to have enjoyed your company.”

  “Madame de Poitiers was only being polite, Your Majesty. She was inquiring of me the reason for our match tomorrow.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I was forced to confess to her that intense dislike and a great desire to inflict pain between the opponents were the only motivations I knew. Now, if you all will excuse me. . .”

  Montmorency lowered his head, anticipating the King’s reaction. Diane and the King watched him fade into the crowd.

  “Blasted boy! Damn! How sorry I am to have given seed to him! Madame, I assure you, you are wasting your time on the ungrateful wretch!”

  “I have found no problem with him, Your Majesty. Prince Henri is always very proper with me.”

  “Then perhaps we should all take lessons from you, for if you speak the truth, you know a very powerful secret!”

  “Madame, Prince Henri is, well to be plain. . .he is disturbed,” explained the Grand Master. “His Majesty believes that the years in Spain fostered in him a kind of illness of the mind that we are thus far at a loss to cure.”

  “I see. Well I am sorry then if I have overstepped my bounds.”

  “It is not your fault,” said the King. “You could not have known. And if he is, as you say, proper with you, then perhaps there is some small ray of hope; for you would be the first. Ah! They are doing the Passepied. My favorite! Do come dance with me, Madame. Help me forget all this trifling.”

  Diane’s instinct had been to go after Henri, but by now he was hopelessly lost amid the panoply of courtiers and dignitaries. François was tugging at her hand, bidding her to join him. She must dance with him. One did not reject such an offer.

  “Rumor has it, Your Majesty, that we will soon be at war again,” Diane remarked. François turned from her and bowed in time to the music.

  “Tell me, Madame, have you ever been to Italy?”

  “I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure.”

  They turned again and circled past other partners. When they were reunited, they again bowed and joined hands.

  “It is the most beautiful land in the world, with riches that you can scarcely imagine. There are cathedrals, sculptures and art to overwhelm. Come, I will show you what I mean,” he suddenly declared, and pulled her from the dancing area. The rest of the guests came to a halt as the King led Diane de Poitiers by the hand, out of the ballroom.

  Henri surged forth protectively from his place by the open window. Jacques held him from advancing. “Where is he taking her?”

  “Steady yourself, Your Highness. She is a grown woman.”

  “But she is no match for these people! She must give way to the King and his whore or be thought disobedient! I know how he works, and I shall not let her become one of his conquests!”

  His anger had won. It turned his face crimson with rage and forced his lips into a sharp, thin line.

  “You cannot protect her forever.”

  “And why not, if she will let me?”

  Across the room, Anne d’Heilly and Admiral Chabot rose from their seats and advanced in the direction that Henri had gone. The Dauphin and the young Prince Charles followed after them, both laughing and kicking one another mischievously from behind.

  “I am going with them,” Henri declared. Jacques pulled harder at his arm, nearly tearing the fine red silk sleeve.

  “Your Highness, do not, I bid you!” He cleared his throat. “What if she had chosen to go with him?”

  “Never! I shall never believe it!” he declared and broke free of Jacques’ grasp, pushed over a chair in his path and darted toward the door after them.

  THERE WERE NO AIDES nor any servants when they reached the King’s private apartments. Even the guards whose post was inside the chamber doors had vanished. François had dismissed them all; dismissed them so that he might show her his private collection of art. Diane walked in slowly, several paces behind the Sovereign. On the wall to the right of the roaring fireplace, lighted by glowing wall sconces, were two dark oil paintings. Diane stood close, pretending to study them.
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br />   “They are quite beautiful, Your Majesty.”

  “Please, ma chère, when we are alone, I would much prefer it if you would find it in your heart to call me François.”

  Diane’s heart began to race. Desperately needing to change the subject, she moved closer toward one of the paintings. “There is great depth in this work,” she said.

  “Not nearly so much as in my favorite. Come, let me show you,” he offered and extended his arm toward what she could clearly see was the door to his bedchamber. Diane shrank back, but the King held out his hand. “Come, please.”

  “La Gioconda,” he proudly announced. Then he turned to gaze, himself, on the illusive face in the painting before them.

  Diane gazed at the wall on which a relatively small, gold-framed painting hung from a velvet cord. It was the picture of a woman; serene and mysterious, her long dark hair parted in the middle and framing an expression one could not quite call a smile. Diane thought it a curious study of an odd-looking girl.

  “It is magnificent,” she lied.

  “She and her husband had been friends of Leonardo, or so he told me before he died. Her name was Madonna Elisabetta Gioconda. She was called Mona Lisa. Is that not the most beautiful name?” As he spoke, François began to finger the delicate white lace at the base of Diane’s neck as naturally as if it were on his own garment. “I saw it hanging in Clos Lucé, the home I had given him near Amboise when he came to live in France. . .” He leaned over and grazed her neck with his lips. They were moist. Warm. Wanting. He was not thinking of Leonardo da Vinci, nor of Mona Lisa. Nor was he thinking of his dear little Anne. His lips traveled up Diane’s bare neck and to the lobe of her ear. His voice grew low and husky as he continued to speak in between kisses, and little bites at her skin. “It is one of my favorites. . .”

  Her heart raced. She did not dare offend him but she would not bed with him.

  “Please, Your Majesty. It is too soon for me,” she whispered as his hand groped from her neck down to the tender pink skin of her bosom. Lost in his own passion and trying to work her slowly toward his large canopied bed, François continued to surround her with his lips and arms.