by Diane Haeger
Lady Flemming and her charge neared them just as the King’s eldest daughter had begun her inquiry about the Duchesse de Valentinois.
“I am sorry, ma mignonne, no, she has not come with me. Business has kept her in Paris a few days longer than she had intended. But you know that she sends all of you her love.”
When Henri stood again, he found himself facing Lady Flemming. She stood before him in a gown he thought more appropriate to a brothel than the environs of the royal nursery. It was sewn of crimson damask, and like the one she had worn the last time he had seen her, this one was cut to the lowest possible point of her bosom that propriety would allow. The velvet yoke around her gown and her hood were of black velvet. The colors against her russet hair were the most boldly inappropriate he had ever seen.
The little Queen and her Governess bowed to the King and Henri did his best to turn his attention toward the younger of the two. He bent down again and took her hand as his own daughters looked on.
“Welcome home, Your Majesty. It is very good to see you again,” she said.
The King smiled, pleased at the effort that she had undertaken to speak to him, this time in French.
“You must have worked very hard, my daughter, since we last met,” he replied, still smiling. The little girl’s face lit up with the joy only a child knows at the approval of a parent.
“She wished to surprise Your Majesty,” said Lady Flemming.
“And so she has.” Once again Henri stood, and again he was faced with the buxom Scottish beauty. “It appears that you are doing an admirable job with the Queen, Lady Flemming.”
“The construction of her words are her own, Your Majesty, but I assure you the sentiments are shared by us both.” Then she flashed the same gap-toothed smile that, until that moment, he had forgotten. Before he could reply, she bent down to herd the girls back to their tasks. “Come, ladies. Certainly His Majesty will want to have some time to himself before supper.”
She had turned to leave, but then stopped and turned back around. The look was more chaste; almost demure, as though she was another person entirely. “Will Your Majesty be dining with the children tonight, or should you prefer to take your meal alone?”
“No. Of course not,” he managed to say without staring. “I shall dine, as always when I am here, in the company of my family.”
“Then I shall, with pleasure, prepare the Queen of Scots to attend you.”
This time when she turned away, her skirts swirled behind her. Her perfume, a combination of orange and spice, caught the summer breeze around them. The Cardinal de Guise, who had been standing beside the King for the entire exchange, took in an animated breath and sighed.
“Ah! If I were not a man of God, I think that I should be hopelessly in love.”
Henri shot him an evil glance. “But you are, thank Heaven, a man of God, and speaking for the Holy Father, we will both thank you kindly to remember that!”
THAT EVENING, the King had supper served in his apartments rather than in the formal dining hall. He sat between his daughter Diane and Mary, the Queen of Scots. The Dauphin, François and Elizabeth, the more precocious of the royal children, were kept apart. They were made to behave properly by Madame and Monsieur d’Humières, who sat at the other end of the table. The King’s two youngest children did not attend their father’s banquet, Claude being not quite two, and Louis having been ill nearly continuously since his birth the previous autumn.
“I understand, Papa, that I am to be married soon,” Diane began as she took another candied plum from the silver tray and then looked directly at her father. Henri was caught off guard, not only by what she had said, but how she had said it.
He had wanted to tell her in his own time and in a much more private manner than this. But gossip at Court was swift, and now it was done. “And what do you think of the idea?” he cautiously asked.
“If you have chosen him for me, Papa, I am certain that he is a good man. I shall not be one to oppose your will.”
Despite her decorous words, as Henri looked at her he saw sadness. He thought how she wore this dutiful exterior with the same grace as her mother.
“Ah, I fear that there is a good deal more behind those pretty eyes of yours than you would have me believe.”
Diane looked away, hiding instinctively that part of herself that she knew would betray her. Henri took her chin in his finger and raised it. “Now, what is this, ma mignonne? We have no secrets from one another, do we?”
She glanced around the room. Charles and François de Guise were seated too closely. They could not speak privately. Carefully, she daubed the corners of her mouth with an embroidered napkin, then stood and excused herself from the table. She walked alone through an open glass door, and out onto the marble terrace. Henri followed her.
Outside, they stood beside one another for a long time, amid the far off sounds composed by the Court musicians. But soon their strains were lost to the shrill scratching night music of the crickets in the shrubbery beneath them.
“I am in love, Papa,” she finally announced.
“In love? With whom?”
“It does not matter his name now, since there is no possibility for me to be with him. He is only a member of your Majesty’s Guard, not someone suitable as a husband. Even though I understand and accept that, I cannot help but feel a boundless sense of loss at having to marry a man I do not love.”
Henri was stunned. He looked over at his daughter who he believed to be the mirror image of himself. In her he saw the same vulnerability; the same sensitivity. The pain that he felt for her now was an old pain from a long-possessed wound. It was the memory of his own beginning with Diane, and how he had once been forced to give her up to Montgommery and face his own duty.
The memory of Diane and Jacques de Montgommery still haunted him. He had always been the one imperfect facet in what Henri believed to be an otherwise perfect love affair with his goddess. Henri had never recovered from the bitter jealousy of what had passed between the two of them after he had been forced to marry Catherine. That another man could have taken possession of her heart, or her body, which he believed to have been born solely for him, was intolerable. But, that Montgommery had such knowledge of his Diane and then spread it like cheap kitchen gossip, fueled within him a raging jealousy that he would have done anything to avenge. . .Anything.
Henri took a labored breath. “Whoever it is, Diane, I want you to promise me that you will not see him again.”
“But, Papa, he is at the very least my friend, as Madame Diane is a friend to you.”
“Promise me, child! You will marry the Duke of Castro and that shall be the end of it. Believe me, I do know how you feel, but you must understand that it is your duty to leave him behind and to marry the man who has been chosen for you.”
“Just as it was your duty to leave Madame Diane behind so that you could marry the Queen?”
Henri clutched his chest. Her words would have been insolent, but the tone with which she had said them were so sincere, so honest, that he could find no fault with her. The tension between father and daughter slipped away.
“You did want to marry her, didn’t you, Papa? But they made you marry Her Majesty instead, because it was your duty.”
“Yes, ma mignonne, I did want to marry her, very much.” Henri took his daughter’s hand and turned to face her. “And that I did not will go with me to my grave as the single greatest regret of my life.”
Diane turned away. She looked down into the garden at the rustling chestnut trees, and did not speak.
“What is it, Diane? You do not believe me?”
“Perhaps what I wonder is too bold a thing for even me to ask you, Papa.”
“Ask me what you like.”
As she turned back to face him, her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and for a moment, just a moment, he believed that he was looking at her mother.
“I can understand about the Queen. That is your duty. But if you loved
Madame as much as you say, how did you get another woman with me?”
Her words were still sincere. She had never asked him about the story of the alleged Piedmontese peasant whom her real mother had fabricated. Henri’s face flushed with color as he led her a few steps to a stone bench. He sat down beside her and rested his elbows on his thighs. How could he explain an infidelity to a woman he worshipped? An infidelity that never happened. Yet he felt that she deserved some kind of reply. He struggled to find one worthy of the daughter whom he adored.
“Sometimes things happen between adults,” he began slowly. “We make mistakes; decisions that are not easily explained later, when one is called upon to do so. But you must believe this, ma mignonne, whatever I did, whatever Madame did, you are never to doubt the great love that we both have for you. Your knowing that is the most important thing in the world to me.”
She kissed his cheek and looked into his eyes. “Do you know what I wish, Papa? More than anything else, I wish that Madame Diane were my mother. Yes, that is my wish. I have always felt it, even when I was very small. She was so kind to me. I know that you probably think me very foolish for having such a wish, but to have been born of a love so rare, like the one you share with Madame. . .” When she looked up, she saw her father’s face drawn and his lips parted. “What is it, Papa? Have I said something to displease you? Oh, please tell me you are not cross.”
Henri was unable to speak. He felt as if his heart were breaking. All the years of lying, of hiding the truth from her, when all along the child wanted nothing more than to be precisely who she was. He had never longed so much as at this moment to tell her the truth. But he had promised and, no matter what, he would not falter. Not now.
“No. I am fine, truly. It was just, I suppose, sitting here, looking at what a fine young woman you have become, and about to be married, I was just a bit overwhelmed, that is all. Nothing for you to worry about.” Again he took her hands and squeezed them gently. “Now, I want to say something serious to you. It is something I want desperately for you to hear because you know, don’t you, that you have always been my favorite. Oh, I know that such a sentiment is unfair to the others, but nevertheless, it is true. You were my first child, and that makes the love I bear for you like nothing else in the world. Many years ago, when I was given up in marriage, no one spoke to me like this. No one explained anything, or cared how I felt. It was my role and I was told to take it in stride. I want things to be easier for you, ma mignonne. So, you will believe me, I hope, when I say that I do know how you feel to love someone whom you can never marry. It is precisely because I know it so well that I tell you now, my decision on your husband is truly in your best interest. You are of royal blood, Diane. You are the first born child of the King of France, and I wish desperately to see your future secured.”
Diane could say nothing else, so instead she leaned over to hug her father and in the shadow of the moonlight, she saw him weeping. It was at that moment that she first began to suspect the truth.
HENRI TOSSED AND TURNED beneath his bedcovers, unable to rid his mind of his daughter’s haunting words. I wish Madame Diane were my mother. . .I wish. . . How wonderful and yet how strange, he thought that they should both love Diane de Poitiers so deeply. To both want, more than anything, that bond with her when she was despised by so many others. Much of it was envy. They had learned to live with it, but the words of one crazed tailor had made a difference. Like it or not, it was Catherine, not Diane, who was Queen; a fact that stimulated much resentment, not unlike a general preference for an abandoned puppy over a well-bred hunting hound.
He could think of nothing but his Diane. He found as the light of dawn burst through the long casement windows that he was overcome by his physical need of her. A sense of impotence about her refusing to see him at L’Hôtel de Graville had come with him to Saint Germain-en-Laye. But now here, without her, the need returned with the dark fury of a tempest, and this time neither wine nor sleep could quell it. He wanted to be with her; to hold her and convince her that he worshipped her as much now as in the beginning. No words from a witless tailor could change that. He wanted to tell her that she alone was the thing that was right in his life, and that she always would be. There would be no rest. . .no release again until she and all the world knew it. He had only to wait until the tenth of July. . .only a few more days.
ON THE TENTH OF JULY, the morning of Catherine’s coronation, Diane sat on a stool in a purple satin shift and white stockings as Clothilde dressed her hair with diamonds and pearls. From the open window beside her, she could see the black and white banners hung from all of the windows, as they flapped in the warm summer breeze. The banners bore what was now the official royal emblem, and they were sprinkled with silver crescents.
Preparations were nearly complete, and everywhere she saw a splendor and extravagance unmatched in France. The official decorations were a triumph of classic style. Philibert de L’Orme, the man who was renovating Anet, and Jean Goujon had worked to create a new elegance to mark the reign of Henri II. Gone from France were the ribald jesters, the mummers and the sort of broad humor that marked the previous reign. Gone were the salamanders and the Italian designs. Their goal was to draw attention to the grand buildings along the route to the Cathedral de Saint-Denis that had been erected specifically for the event. Now on buildings there were crescents and D and H emblems. There was a fountain with a great thundering Jupiter (the symbol of royal omnipotence), and platforms on which allegories from Le Roman de la rose would be performed.
Hélène brought out the black velvet bag which contained Diane’s gown for the ceremony, but Diane did not see it. Her mind was miles from her dressing table and from the attendants who rushed around her with shoes, petticoats and jewels. This was Catherine’s coronation; the day when all of France would acknowledge her as their Queen. Although she had kept silent, it was curious, even to her, why Henri had chosen to afford his wife so great an honor. Diane knew that there had been no outcry; such a move was not called for by the people who had never completely accepted their Italian Queen.
Even though others had begun to whisper that the King kept his aging mistress out of obligation now, not love, Diane had ignored it as envious gossip. She had thought her own relationship with Henri stronger than ever. The only explanation was that the gossip was really the truth. Things must have changed between Henri and Catherine in ways he felt unable to tell her.
Of course that was it. Catherine had given him four children. He had come to accept that he could not divorce her. He had finally realized he could never make Diane his Queen. Once the hurt and the shock of that realization had faded, Diane promised herself that she would attend the procession with the same selfless dignity that she had for the past sixteen years.
“Madame, there appears to be some mistake.”
Hélène held the gown up for Diane’s approval. Her own lips were parted and her brows were raised with surprise as she waited for Diane to turn around. When Diane made no move, Hélène cleared her throat, and then with a weak uncertain voice said, “I put your gown in this bag myself yesterday and yet now there is another in its place, and this ermine cape is with it.”
Diane was finally drawn back from her thoughts. She turned around and looked at the gown as Hélène continued, her eyes still fixed with amazement.
“Madame, I am so sorry, but your gown. . .the one you had chosen to wear, to be honest, Madame, it is nowhere to be found.”
Before them in Hélène’s arms was an elaborate costume which Diane had never seen before. It was white moiré silk encrusted with jewels. Emeralds, rubies and sapphires were sewn into the embroidered lace bodice, and there was topaz in the large marten fur cuffs. Pearls nearly obscured the fabric of the skirt. Diane’s mouth fell open as she reached out to touch the elegant and costly gown.
“A clue to the confusion may be in this, Madame,” said Clothilde as she handed her a small sealed slip of parchment. “I only just now received it from
the King’s messenger.”
Diane looked at the gown again and then opened the note. It began with a poem written in Henri’s own hand:
Never swore vassal truer faith, my Princess, for a
Prince new-crowned, than my love’s pledge, that
shall be found
Steadfast in face of time, and death.
Wear this my love, for yourself, for France, and
for the man who has known, all of his life, but one God and
one love.
The royal cortege wound its way through the street to the Cathedral de Saint-Denis as crowds of Parisians cheered their Sovereign and their Queen. The cobblestones were strewn with white rose petals. People leaned from windows and stood on balconies to catch a glimpse of the procession as they strode solemnly on a path of gold cloth. First, there were heralds dressed in glittering black and white. Musicians followed, playing trumpets, flageolets and bass viols. Bishops and abbots all bore their crosiers as incense puffed from braziers around them. Then came a hundred members of the King’s Guard, all riding horses paired in black and white. The aging, white-haired Cardinal de Lorraine, in his flowing red gown, bore a great gold cross.
Behind the King and Queen came the Dauphin, the Queen of Scots, and the other royal children. Then came Diane de Poitiers in her jewel-encrusted gown and ermine cape in a position scandalously close to the royal family. To her surprise, behind her were her own two daughters by Louis de Brézé, who had been instructed by the King to follow her in the ceremony.
Light streamed into the cathedral and a great collection of celestial voices sung in the nave. Catherine sat on one raised dais, Diane sat on another of equal height. But it was not until the cathedral was packed with guests that two Captains advanced upon Diane to remove her cape. As the overgarment fell away, everyone saw that the ceremonial gown worn by the King’s mistress was an exact duplicate of the one worn by the Queen.