Courtesan

by Diane Haeger

  Between each neatly laid square, were perfect walks covered with flesh-colored gravel. Diane stood amid her new garden, collecting white roses. Henri left his horse near the stables and let Jacques lead it to the equerry. He nervously touched his toque, then pulled off his gloves a finger at a time. His heart was pounding with such dread that he thought for a moment it might suddenly stop. He moved a few paces nearer until Diane looked up and saw him. She did not run to him as she might once have done, nor did she call out his name. Instead, she walked slowly toward him still clutching the collection of roses.

  “Hello, Henri,” she said, but made no move to embrace him. She had not spoken to him with such reserve since that night on the terrace, after he had married Catherine.

  “I have missed you,” he managed to say as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. “M’amie, we must talk.”

  “Yes.”

  She began to walk out to the end of the garden on a winding gravel path toward the chateau. He followed a pace behind her, his gloves clutched like a death grip in his hands.

  “How did you discover it?” he asked as they finally came into the drawing room.

  “What does it matter?” she replied as she closed the doors behind them. “It is only important that I know, and the knowledge that you could have done such a cruel thing has tortured me every day since I discovered it. Please tell me, Henri, how could you have done it? Please make me understand.”

  Her tone of voice, which had been flat, was now alive and imploring. Her brilliant blue eyes were pleading for a reply. The pain was too great. He turned away.

  “I shall not defend my actions, Madame. I can tell you only that I did it, as I have done everything else in my life, for love of you.” He stood rigid before her, one hand still gripping his gloves, the other on the dagger at his side.

  “For me? How can you stand there and say such a thing? You know that Jacques did not deserve this!”

  “You do not know that!”

  “For the love of God, Henri, the man has lost three years of his life already to some ancient grudge. Please, I beg you, sign the paper to free him before it is too late!”

  There was a greater distance between them now than all the miles to Boulogne. He knew even if he signed the release now, it would do little to close the gap that he had wrought between them. He could not make her understand.

  “I cannot. Please trust me. I do not know who has counseled you in my absence, but believe me, Montgommery has earned his fate.”

  “No one has counseled me, Henri. I went to see him myself. Jacques is no threat to you! He is an old and feeble man, reduced from the life of a gentleman and condemned to a stench-filled hole in the bowels of Paris!”

  Henri’s eyes narrowed. His face began to patch red and white with anger. He lunged at her. “You saw him?! How dare you go to your old lover when you knew that I was gone? Pitiful bastard haunts me still! I shall kill him! I swear I shall!”

  “Henri, please, listen to yourself! You do not need this anger! I do not love him!” Diane grasped his arms above the elbows and tried to make him listen. “I have never loved any man so much as you! You are my life. You are everything to me!”

  Like a raging giant, he softened with her gentle words; words for which he had waited in fear that he would never hear again. His dark eyes grew large, his brows arched into a pleading pyramid. Now that she could see the remorse in him, she opened her arms and he fell into her embrace.

  “I shall free him. Bring me the paper and I shall sign it. I shall do whatever you wish, only, I must not lose you. Without you there would be no purpose in any of it for me. You know that.” He kissed her with the greedy possession of a hungry animal and then buried her in the force of his solid arms. No one saw this side of the King, for no one elicited it but her.

  “It is the right thing to do,” Diane whispered as she broke free of his grasp. “But no matter what you do, I made a decision of my own before you returned. I may as well tell you now.” She walked away from him and advanced to the fireplace hearth where a raging fire burned. There, she surrendered the bunch of musk roses that she had been holding since he first came into the garden. He followed her.

  “I must return to Rouen. Louise is with child and I want to be there for her.”

  “But I do not understand. I agreed to do as you asked.”

  “And I thank you.”

  “Please, m’amie, do not do this! I have been away for so long!”

  She turned back around, her face full of conviction. She ran a finger along the line of his jaw. “Yes, and the wound from this, from all of this, has had all that time to deepen.”

  “So you must let me make it up to you! I can. . .I will!”

  “Only time can heal the betrayal I feel.”

  “Betrayal?”

  “Yes. . .” she whispered.

  “Listen to me! An absence between us cannot solve this. No! Absolutely not. I forbid it. I shall not let you go!”

  “Please, do not force this, chéri. Can you not understand how deeply I was hurt by such a deception between us?”

  “And you must know that I am sorry for the pain it has caused you. . .the desperation I feel! I would do anything. . .anything to change it!”

  “Then give me time. . .please. Oh, Henri. . .I have gone on blindly for so many years thinking, with all that we have been through, that the one thing that would never come between us was ourselves. And yet, here we are.”

  He lunged at her again, pulling her to his chest and then kissing her again until he nearly choked her with his strength. “But, I love you. . .”

  “I know,” she replied, touching his cheek. “And I love you.”

  MONTMORENCY’S STAR ROSE to its zenith following the capture of Boulogne. It had been on his advice that the King had sought the attack, and now the Constable reaped the benefits of a conquering hero. But the pedestal on which he placed himself beside the King was not large enough for three, and he had waited patiently for just the opportunity to unseat the Duchesse de Valentinois.

  Catherine too had waited for such an opportunity to expel her. She no longer had any pride when it came to the fight for Henri’s affection. For seventeen years she had closed her eyes to the angry pawing of a man who did not wish to be with her. For seventeen years she had been his wife and carried his children, but never his heart. When Montmorency whispered to her that night at supper that he might have a plan, the Queen was ready to listen. He said that with the arrival of little Mary Stuart in France, and the mysterious disappearance from Court of Diane de Poitiers, he had finally found the required circumstance, and she wanted more than anything to believe him.

  Montmorency stayed in the Queen’s apartment that evening after the conversation circle had finally disbanded. When they were alone she could no longer contain her curiosity. Surrounded by layers of voluminous magenta silk, her black frizzy hair crowned with a spiral of rubies, she sat on a sofa looking up at him.

  “Well, what is it? What is your plan?”

  Montmorency poured himself another silver goblet of sweet wine and sat down beside her. “What I have to say may not be easy for Your Majesty to hear, but you have only to say the word and I shall speak no further of it.”

  “No, no. Please go on.”

  “Tonight at supper,” Montmorency began, “I was reminded of the King’s attraction to Queen Mary’s Governess, Lady Flemming. Though the King tried to avert his eyes, it was the same look I had seen them exchange some time ago. Your Majesty, to be quite plain about it, I believe the woman has caught the King’s fancy.”

  There was the sound of heavy petticoats rustling beneath her as Catherine stiffened. Then a hardened look washed over her heavily featured face. “So, you would propose to swap one whore for another.”

  “At least initially yes, Your Majesty. It is my belief that she is beautiful enough to sway the King, but not wise enough to keep him.”

  “Thereby eventually ridding him of both the new and the old.”


  “Precisely. But meanwhile, Madame Diane, upon her return to Court, would of course stumble upon the news of her lover’s infidelity. I am quite certain that since they began with one another, there has been no other between them, which of course would make this discovery all the more disagreeable.”

  Catherine stood, tugged at the stiff magenta collar around her throat and began to stroll around the room with a stalking kind of intent. “So you believe his indiscretion would be unforgivable to her?”

  “I am certain of it. Then, once they are both gotten rid of, Your Majesty can take her rightful and much-deserved place beside the King.”

  “And of course, you would take yours.” There was another pause between them as she considered further. “Should I agree to this scheme, Monsieur, how would you propose to accomplish it?”

  “My plan is far-fetched, I will grant you that, but I believe it to be a risk worth taking. His Majesty’s demeanor has completely changed since his return from the north. He is vulnerable, and if you will permit me, I believe that he is lonely. As you undoubtedly know, Madame Diane is mysteriously absent. Tomorrow night, if you should agree, it should not prove too difficult a task to ply the King with wine. It must be a quantity considerably more sizable than that to which he is accustomed. When the time is right, His Majesty shall be privy to a performance arranged in his honor. It will feature a dance of nymphs, seductively clad, who will dance around him.”

  “Of whom you, no doubt, intend for the Lady Flemming to be one.”

  Montmorency waited on the couch for the Queen to stop pacing and to look back at him. “Will Your Majesty agree to it then?”

  “How can you be certain that the Lady will participate?”

  “If you will pardon me, for being blunt, an opportunity to bed with the young and handsome King of France is not likely to be rejected by anyone with half an eye or an ounce of ambition.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course you are right,” she conceded as she touched a line from her cheek to her chin. “Very well. But be advised of one very important thing, Monsieur Montmorency. If this fails, it is your head that shall roll, not mine.”

  HENRI SPENT SEVERAL DAYS at Saint Germain-en-Laye after his return from Chenonceaux. There, he vacillated between the solitude of the chapel and violent exercise. The latter was the only way in which he felt able, even for just a while, to stave off his pain at the loss of Diane. Had he not forced himself to believe that their estrangement was temporary, he was certain he would have gone completely mad.

  There had been many separations between them over the years but this was the first time she had ever openly and intentionally sought distance from him. At the source of his pain was the belief that he had acted to honor her. By committing Montgommery to prison, he had tried to protect her. Yet rather than trusting him, she had chosen to believe the words of another man.

  But this anxiety he felt now was not only for Diane. Her turning away symbolized a lifetime of rejection. Memories of his father and brothers were juxtaposed daily with the echo of her words, the worst of which was “betrayal.” She had opened up something in him; something weak and unsure, and raw. She needed time to heal, she had said; time to heal from a wound that he had inflicted. There could be, he thought, no worse pain than this; no worse torture than the loss of his Diane.

  The pain of her absence was made worse by the fact that everything around him now reminded him of her. The shrines he had built to feel surrounded by her during their separations now haunted him. The sketches and the oil paintings of her looked down on him from almost every room; his wardrobe, his staff’s uniforms, all were of black and white. The crescent moons, and their emblem, were now incorporated into nearly every ceiling and every fixture of the chateau. The signs had been carved into furniture, sewn into bedlinens and painted on doors. For all of his efforts now, he could not escape the memory of her. Everywhere he turned he was reminded of her. . .and of the betrayal. Eager to forget his melancholy heart, even for a little while, Henri agreed to attend a banquet given in his honor by Montmorency.

  Plates of roasted meats and bowls of fruit shared the table with large vessels of Bordeaux and imported mead. Catherine watched silently as Henri and Montmorency laughed and joked. Much of that was due to the Constable’s preparation, more than to the King’s attitude. Each time Henri took more than two sips of wine, a steward silently advanced and filled his chalice. His movements were full of such dexterity that the King barely noticed.

  When the meal was complete and the two men sat back in their chairs, Montmorency held his hands above his head and firmly clapped them. The musicians, who were arranged behind a screen, changed from their melodic strains to a more exotic theme. Many of the candles were then extinguished and the room filled with the heavy aroma of smoke.

  Henri sat back in his chair not quite able, for the effects of the wine, to keep from swaying.

  “What? Have you arranged some entertainment, Monty?”

  “I had hoped to please Your Majesty by arranging a small performance for you. The plays of Homer, and from them a small scene that I think you shall enjoy.”

  Henri leaned forward and slapped Montmorency across the back. “Splendid!”

  After a moment, four barefoot maidens danced into the room on their toes. They began to swirl around the room in layers of rose-colored silk, cinched at the waist in gold. Before each of their faces was a veil. To highlight their eyes, they had been heavily made up with dark kohl. Three of the dancers were short and plump; Italian girls from Catherine’s train. Janet Stuart’s flame-red hair and voluptuous form were a bold contrast to the others. It would have been impossible not to notice her.

  Catherine watched her husband gaze glassy-eyed at Lady Flemming, who was expertly attempting to seduce him before all of their friends. It took her a great effort to stifle her rage. It was one thing, she thought, to know that her husband had been unfaithful; it was quite another thing to watch it. But then this was not the first time she had seen such a seduction. She remembered the tiny hole she had once cut in the floor of her apartments, and what she had seen in Madame Diane’s bedchamber below. She had lain prostrate watching them make love below her, hoping to understand what it was that had so totally captivated her husband. But that invasion of Diane’s bedchamber from above had not brought her the satisfaction she had hoped. The same pain she felt watching Diane in her husband’s arms, she felt now.

  She forced the images and the memories from her mind and kept silent. As she sat fanning her face with a priceless Chinese fan, Catherine studied Lady Flemming. Until Montmorency had spoken her name, she had barely noticed the woman; certainly never considered her a viable challenge to the favourite. She actually thought, once she had taken time to examine her, that she was rather ordinary looking. Her beauty was earthy and pagan. She was the complete antithesis of Diane de Poitiers. But then perhaps at the moment, that would be in her favor. And in truth, this was a small price to pay if, once and for all, she could be free of the one woman who had ruined her life.

  As the dance continued, Lady Flemming whirled around the King, smelling of ambergris and brushing his body with the sheers of rose-colored silk. Montmorency, who had watched intently since her arrival, paced himself with the deftness of a master. When he knew that the timing was right, he leaned toward the King.

  “She is breathtaking, isn’t she?”

  “Who do you mean?” Henri asked, unable to take his eyes from the dance.

  “Why, Lady Flemming, of course.”

  The sound of her name caused Henri to look at his friend, and then back at the sensual beauty who had so captivated him.

  “Little Mary’s nurse?” he asked, trying to disguise the fact that he had known her identity all along.

  “The very same. When she learned today that I was preparing a little entertainment for Your Majesty, she asked if she might participate.”

  Henri shifted in his seat and took another swallow from the ever-full jeweled goblet. Then h
e looked out again at the dancers. Montmorency watched the King. The music was exotic, the wine was strong and the perfume intoxicating. Henri was completely transfixed, and the Constable knew it.

  Finally, he leaned toward the King and spoke behind his hand so that no one else would hear. “I hope that Your Majesty will forgive my boldness, but you are King of all France. You are not like other men. Your Majesty is virile; your appetites are boundless. Your indiscretions are. . .expected.” Henri slowly turned his head. His eyes were glazed and his face was flushed.

  “What are you driving at, Monty?”

  “Just that. . .well, should your love for certain people give way to a more temporary need for gratification. . .such a move would certainly be understood.”

  “Are you suggesting, my dear Constable, while Madame is away that I bed Lady Flemming?”

  “Of course not, Your Majesty. Such an inference would be inappropriate.” He paced himself; waited a moment, then added, “What I am saying is that Madame Diane, of course, possesses you exclusively. That is plain for all the world to see. So that a momentary transgression of the flesh, for one so supreme as yourself, would in no way be viewed as a challenge to your heart.”

  “I will be faithful to her, Monty!” Henri snapped and slammed down his goblet.

  “Of course, Your Majesty, I have overstepped myself. Forgive me,” he said as he watched Lady Flemming glide from the room and the King’s eyes follow after her.

  Henry took another long drink of the wine, then set the goblet down. When he looked at the Constable again, his eyes were half closed and he had begun to perspire.