Courtesan

by Diane Haeger

The prisoner, who was a tailor from Paris, stood before the King and Diane. With simple and precise words, he responded to each question put to him in turn by the various guests. No matter what he was asked, he responded in the same manner. When he was questioned about his contempt for the Holy Mass, his reply became insolent. He never wavered. Finally, it was time for the King to question him. Henri stood and paced the length of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “So then. Here you are, before the most noble and highly placed men of France. To my surprise, you reply boldly; even daringly. Nothing about our questions appears to ruffle you. And so now you are to be given an opportunity to speak directly to your King.” Henri neared the man. He felt his own impatience. “Tell me, Monsieur, why is it that when most men would show great humility in your place, you choose to maintain a most ill-advised hauteur?”

  The tailor looked with renewed confidence, directly at the King. “My reasons, Your Majesty, are simple. I have been chosen by God Almighty to reveal His true doctrines to you. I never doubted that one day this opportunity would come. Since it is my true destiny, and I know it, I am able to maintain, through anything, the dignity that God has given me.”

  That God should speak through this man, rather than through the King of France, was too much. Henri threw up his arms and turned back to the ring of his friends who were seated behind him. All of them but Diane had questioned the prisoner.

  “I give up. I have nothing further to add. Madame, have you anything to say to this man?”

  Before she could reply, the tailor stepped forward, pursed his lips and spit at her. “Madame, you are an evil woman! Be satisfied with having already poisoned France. Do not now mingle your venom and infamy with anything so holy as God’s truth, for fear that He may send a plague upon the King and his entire realm!”

  Henri whipped around, his face white with rage. He lunged forward, grabbing the man by the collar. “How dare you!” he seethed. “On your knees, swine! Do you hear me? On your knees!” When the man refused, Henri used one powerful hand to the top of his head to force the prisoner down. No one dared to intervene.

  “Humble yourself to her! Now!”

  “To Diane de Poitiers, never!”

  Henri pulled his hair so that the tailor’s head was drawn backward with a quick snapping movement. “Madame! She is Madame to you and anyone at all who hopes to live in my presence!”

  After another moment, when it was clear that the tailor was not going to comply, Diane stood. She walked across the room away from the exchange. Saint-André put a hand on the King’s shoulder.

  “Perhaps Your Majesty should let the guards see to his punishment from here.”

  Henri leered at the man. His fists were still clenched and poised up near his chest, as though at any moment he might strike again.

  “You are fortunate, sir, that I do not kill you myself! Your death is bound to be far less painful at the hands of the executioner than it would have been with me! I can no longer bear the sight of you. Now take him away from here at once! Have him tried immediately. I want nothing further to do with him.”

  The prisoner, who said nothing in his own defense, was then led from Diane’s dining hall. The other guests attempted to occupy themselves with idle conversation as Henri moved to Diane, and a young page stood before her trying to clean the front of her gown with a wet cloth. When she knew that Henri was behind her, she issued the page away.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered, still not turning to face him.

  “What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

  “For the position in which I seem to have put you with your people.”

  Henri could not reply. His feelings were a mixture of raging anger at the man who had wounded her, and an overwhelming tenderness; a desire to protect her. He put his hands on her shoulders from behind and whispered to her.

  “Let me send them all away so that we may retire. Let me show you how dear you are to me.”

  “Oh, Henri, I am afraid my company would be dreadful just now.”

  “That would be impossible. Please, m’amie, let me just be near you.”

  Diane turned around and faced him with a weak smile. Her eyes were full of a pain that he had almost forgotten. It made him feel more helpless than he had since long before his father’s death.

  “I thank you for your concern, chéri, but I think just now I would rather be alone. Oh, please do not look so worried. I shall be fine. I promise.”

  “I leave for Saint Germain-en-Laye at dawn. . .”

  “Yes, perhaps that is best.”

  “But you will be there for Catherine’s coronation. You promised me that.”

  “That I did,” she assured him. “And I shall keep my word.”

  He longed to object. He wanted to say anything at all that would make her stay with him, but that would be selfish. Reluctantly, he took his one remaining hand from her shoulder and let her go. The other guests watched discreetly as the Duchesse de Valentinois crossed the room and left alone.

  When she was gone, Henri called Charles de Guise to his side. “Follow her, will you.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “I think she may need your counsel just now, more than my own. And Charles, whatever you do, please be gentle with her. She is more fragile than a great many of you would have her be.”

  THE CARDINAL SEARCHED for nearly an hour before he found Diane in her private oratory. She was alone, kneeling in the shadows on her crimson velvet prie-dieu. He knelt beside her and made the sign of the cross. After a moment when she saw him, she stood, genuflected and left the room.

  He followed her and they walked out into the garden before either of them spoke. Diane took in the fresh aroma of spring; the new musk roses, to steady her. From the side, Charles could see that her eyes were red and her lips were swollen from crying.

  “You mustn’t let an old man upset you. His reason and judgment were lost to him long ago when he quit the Church. It is certain that the devil guides him now.”

  “It is not only the tailor, though his words expressed many of my own feelings.”

  Diane put her arm through his as they walked down a flight of stone steps into the small vegetable garden behind the kitchens. Charles could see that she was fighting valiantly to suppress her tears.

  “There have been other words that have come to me in the form of rumors,” she continued. “At first I believed them to be nothing more than envy. But now I no longer know what to believe. I have prayed to God. I ask if I could not better serve His Majesty if I were to take the veil; perhaps surrender myself to a nunnery where I am no longer a temptation to the King or a disgrace to his people. But I get no reply.”

  Charles was silent. He must think.

  Diane de Poitiers was one of the only people he had ever come to respect at the French Court. She was direct and honest. Those qualities had drawn him instantly to her that first time at Chenonceaux when he was no more than a boy. He also knew that she did not consider such a proposition lightly. He felt a great surge of power at this realization; as though the fate of France rested in his own two hands. She was not cruel or calculating. Behind the veneer of cool reserve, she was like every other woman; soft and unsure, and fiercely protective of the man she loved.

  In the silent moments that followed, Charles found himself considering the prospect of her absence from Court. The voice of his ambition was nearly deafening. If he chose to encourage it, his own influence and that of his family would surely increase. Then an image of the King sprang to his mind. The image was from that one summer when Diane had been forced by some mysterious illness to stay at Anet. The King had been beside himself. Everyone had seen it. There could be little doubt of his complete dependence on her. Perhaps France would suffer a far worse fate if she were gone. He fingered the heavy cross at the point of his chest and finally looked at her.

  “You, Madame, have a mission higher than even a life in service to God can provide. It is a miss
ion that I believe you alone can perform.” Diane looked up at him with surprise, though still she did not speak. “These are difficult times for the Church,” he continued. “The wolf of heresy is at our door. You know that it presses further each day to overtake us. I have seen you with His Majesty, Madame. I know of his dedication to you. It is my firm belief, as a minister of God, that you alone have the power with the King to hold him firm in his duty.”

  “That may be true. I know that he trusts me, but at what price?” Diane cast her arms down by her sides and turned her gaze up toward the trees. “Oh, Charles, every day of my life, every time I open my eyes, I commit a sin against God and against the Church. You know, they have begun to call me His Majesty’s courtesan. Once that was a designation I found the most vile in the world. Now I do not know anymore that they are so far from the truth.”

  He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Then how better for you to win your salvation than by holding a great King to his obligation to persecute those who betray God? You alone can do it, Madame. He relies on you for everything.”

  She turned back to face him, her pleading eyes completely disarming. “But to achieve this end,” she said. “I must commit the sin of adultery. For the rest of my life and that of the King I fear that it is too much to ask God to forgive.”

  Then, he did not know what it was or why, but it came to him. Perhaps it was the thoughts of Chenonceaux, the place where they first had met all those years ago. Perhaps it was the injured look on her face; the one he had seen only one other time; that same evening of their meeting at the little chateau on the river. Whatever had triggered it, he now knew beyond any doubt the identity of the man he had seen that afternoon. The man who had caught his eye in the dim, foul-smelling Paris prison was the Duchesse de Valentinois’ former lover, Jacques de Montgommery.

  CERTAINLY YOU WERE MISTAKEN,” said François de Guise, his gaunt face rich with shadows and full of surprise.

  “I thought as much in the beginning,” Charles finally replied, far more calm than his brother. “I too thought that such a thing was impossible in so civilized an age. And if I had not been met with those eyes myself, perhaps I would not have believed it either. But if you had seen him then, François, as I did, I promise you, there would be no doubt in your mind.”

  The two brothers stood gazing up at a huge wall tapestry which had recently been installed in the main salon of the Hotel de Guise in Paris. The tapestry told the story of Sisyphus, King of Corinth, who had been condemned to push a heavy boulder up a never-ending hill. Charles had especially liked the story because it reminded him of the struggles that his own family had endured to reach their present level of power.

  “But Montgommery was such a fixture here at Court for as long as I can recall,” said François. “His position as Captain of the Scots Guard was always secure.”

  “Secure perhaps in the last regime. Not the current one. You know quite well that King Henri detests him, and why. I suspect His Majesty was simply biding his time, waiting for a legitimate reason to be rid of him, as he was with anyone left over from his father’s Court. . .No, dear brother, there is no mistake. The man in that prison is Captain Montgommery. On that, I would stake my life.”

  François stroked his neat russet-colored beard. “So that is what became of him after he led such a disaster at Lagny-sur-Marne. I had heard that King Henri confiscated his estates and that he was relieved in disgrace for having allowed such unnecessary violence and bloodshed. But I never suspected—”

  “He flaunted his affair with the Duchesse de Valentinois to anyone who would listen. And in the most lurid detail. I would imagine that the good Captain is paying for that as much as for any military blunders.”

  “Actually, now that I think about it, I cannot say that it is much of a loss. There never was a more pompous, a more conceited man than he.”

  “Except perhaps Constable Montmorency.” Charles smiled.

  “Indeed,” the brothers agreed as they strolled across the tiled floor together toward a large green and gold brocade couch.

  “Well, you must tell Madame Diane what you know,” François finally said. The Cardinal looked at him as they sat down.

  “I considered that option. But I cannot see what possible purpose it would serve.”

  “Oh, Charles, really! Do you not recall some years ago, how our uncle taught us the value of the game of chess? Well, I have come to discover that he was absolutely right. Strategy. It is all strategy. When Madame Diane discovers what has become of Montgommery, she will, of course, use all of her resources to free him. And can you imagine, even for a moment, the response by the King, who looks upon her as if her very soul belonged to him?”

  “But what if it creates a breach between them?” asked the Cardinal.

  “Precisely, dear brother. What if it does? What do you suppose would happen to the will of the King without the woman around who leads him by the nose?”

  “I was under the impression that you liked Madame Diane.”

  “That I do. But I have the good of the family to consider; and on that score, all is fair.”

  “Need I remind you that her daughter is our brother’s wife? That by their marriage, Diane de Poitiers is part of our family? And for that matter, do you realize that this could just as easily work against us as in our favor? I know His Majesty would sooner be rid of his entire Court than lose Madame. If we were caught trying to undermine her—”

  “How could we be found guilty in any of this? We would simply be reporting information, and then letting fate take its course. Oh, the deuce, brother, this is delicious! So delicious!”

  “You can be very cruel, François.” Charles shook his head. “I had forgotten that about you. May I remind you that we owe everything, our entire elevation here, to her favor?”

  François sprang from the couch and turned back so that he was looming over his brother. “I am the eldest, Charles. You know it is not in your power to oppose me in this.”

  “So that is what it has come down to.” The Cardinal paused a moment. He looked away as though he were deep in reflection, since he knew how much his very impatient brother disliked it. “Well, I have one final trip to make after the Queen’s coronation. It was to have been a trip to Ferrara to finalize the terms of your marriage. But I have been thinking these past few days that perhaps I shall not go after all. Since, as you say, you are the oldest, perhaps you could better negotiate your own alliance.”

  “My younger brother threatening me?” asked François, his eyebrows arched.

  “Oh, such a nasty word. No, not threatening; only reminding you of my own persuasive power. One thing you never did learn from our uncle about the game of chess, dear François, was the patience that it requires to succeed. Trust me on this score with Madame. I have only our best interest at heart in my silence. When the time is right, neither of us shall be disappointed. On that you have my word.”

  AS HENRI STEPPED from his horse he could see his daughters. They were sitting on a large embroidered blanket beneath the shade of a rustling beech tree at the far end of the courtyard. Elizabeth and Diane each had an embroidery hoop before her. Little Mary, the Scots Queen, who had just turned six, was receiving a lesson on the lute. Around them, a ring of courtly lords and ladies sat in attendance. The strains of the simple tune played by Mary whispered on the breeze and made him smile. He was always so glad to see for himself that his children were as well as Humières had written that they were.

  The day after the incident with the tailor, Henri had been required to leave Paris for Saint Germain-en-Laye. He was to hear vespers with the townspeople and perform a laying on of hands to those who suffered from scrofula. He had not wanted to leave Diane alone in Paris after what had happened, but he knew that his duty to his people must come before his personal concerns. He tried to put the event out of his mind now as he stood near his horse, gazing at the little girls and their attendants, all of whom were still unaware of his presence. He stepped f
orward a few paces so that he could conceal himself behind a tall conical-shaped yew.

  Diane was now fourteen, and he could see even from a distance that she had grown into a very pretty young woman. She was the only child who had inherited his own ink-black hair and olive skin. Those dark features were in contrast to her bright blue eyes; her mother’s eyes. His heart sank at the prospect of surrendering her to such a boldly political marriage as one with the Pope’s grandson. But for all he had done to legitimize her, he could not forget that she was still a bastard child. Such a powerful match for her would assure him that, no matter what became of him, she would always be well provided for. As he had reluctantly come to understand the reason for his own match, one day she would come to understand hers.

  He studied each of his daughters from a distance. Pretty Mary, who was almost like a daughter. Petite Elizabeth. Then he noticed that among the children’s attendants was Lady Flemming. She stood behind the Queen of Scots, laughing as the child erred on the piece she was playing. Henri looked at her and he was uncertain of what he could possibly have found inviting about her that night in his daughter’s room. She laughed too loudly, was too plump and was much too forward for his taste.

  “Shall I inform them that Your Majesty has returned, and that you wish an audience with them?” Saint-André whispered to the King. Just as he was about to reply, something caused Diane to look up and see her father across the courtyard.

  “Papa!” she cried, casting down her embroidery hoop and taking up her gown so that she could run. Elizabeth, who was now five, followed her half-sister. Henri bent down and took them both into his arms. After several minutes of welcoming kisses and hugs, Queen Mary and her Governess, the Lady Flemming, approached.

  “We thought that you were not coming until Thursday!” said Diane. “Monsieur d’Humières told us that you had been delayed. Oh, but what a wonderful surprise!”

  Elizabeth sat on her father’s knee with her arms around his neck while Diane spoke from the other side. “François, Elizabeth and I have staged a play for you and Madame Diane. But our brother, I am afraid, keeps forgetting his lines, and I am certain he shall not be ready until Saturday at the least to perform it.” She began to look around. “Where is Madame Diane? Did she not come with you? Oh, she promised that she would come!”