Madame Serpent

HENRY THE BRIDEGROOM

AT AMBOISE, the French court was en fête. It usually was, for the King himself had said that if he would live peacefully with the French, and have them love him, he must keep them amused for two days in each week or they would find some other dangerous employment.

The Château of Amboise was a favourite of the King’s. From its rocky eminence, imperiously and cautiously it seemed to watch the undulating country and the silver stream of the Loire which watered it. Its thick embattled walls, its great buttresses and its round towers and tall windows made of it a fortress rather than a castle. Strong and formidable was outside; but inside, with its libraries, its great banqueting halls, its ceilings decorated with the fleur-de-lys or the salamander in the midst of flames, it was a magnificent setting for the most magnificent King in Europe.

The court had feasted, and in the great hall, which was hung with the finest tapestry and cloth of gold, the King’s sister and his favourite mistress had an entertainment to offer him. It would be witty, for these two were the wittiest women in a witty court; it would perhaps divert him from his thoughtful mood.

He lay back in his ornamental chair, a gorgeous figure in his padded clothes, that were studded with pearls and diamonds; his sables were magnificent; on his breast and fingers sparkled diamonds and rubies; and about him hung the scent of the Russian leather cases in which his fine Flanders linen was stored.

He had been at Amboise only four days and already thinking of the next move. He could rarely stay in one place more than a week or two at a time― even his beloved Fontainebleau could not hold him for more than a month; and then must begin the great upheaval of moving court, the carrying to another palace of his bed and all the artistic and carefully selected furnishing of his apartments which he could not bear to be without. He took a malicious delight in watching these removals― so uncomfortable for everyone but himself. He would sit in his chair, legs crossed, throwing an amorous smile at a pretty girl, making a witty observation, giving a friendly admonition. He was usually gracious, ever demanding, often sardonic; he was the most distinguished, charming man in France, born to admiration and flattery and taking them as a right; he was intellectual, ready to do a kindness provided the effort demanded was not too great; he was always ready to undertake an adventure, whether of love or war; amusing, seeking to be amused, loving artists as he loved women, he was the adored, the Sybarite, the pampered King of France.

He was too clever not to know what was wrong with him now. He was leaving behind that glorious period of youth when everything he had desired― until that great disaster of his life had overtaken him― had seemed ready to fall into his hands. He had never been the same since that humiliating defeat had befallen him; until then, it had seemed that Fortune, as well as the women of France, had chosen him for her darling. He would never forget the Battle of Pavia, when he had been made the prisoner of Spain; only his sister Marguerite, his pearl of pearls, facing death and danger on a hazardous journey across France to Spain, with her tender nursing had saved his life.

Now in this brilliant hall of his beloved Amboise, instead of the sparkling eyes of his own countrywomen, he was seeing those of the Spanish women who had lined the streets of Madrid to catch a glimpse of the prisoner their King had brought home from the wars. They had come to jeer, and instead they had wept.

His charm was such that, sick at heart, defeated and humiliated as he was, those foreign women had looked upon him and loved him.

That was past, but he had a Spanish wife as a result. He glanced now with some distaste at the heavy face of Eleonora. She was too pious to please him.

Moreover, he had been in love with Anne d’Heilly for nearly ten years. There were hundreds of women who aroused his interest fleetingly, but to Anne remained faithful― in his way. He liked to see them bathing in his pool; he had had mirrors fixed about it that he might catch views of them at all angles. He was an artist.

‘The little one with red hair,’ he would say. ‘She pleases us. She is charming, that one. I remember such another when I was campaigning Provence.’ Then he would try to catch at the days of his youth in Provence with the little red-haired one. What was the use? He was getting old. He was a man who could laugh at himself as readily as he laughed at others; so he must laugh now. Once he had been like a faun, so gay, so handsome; now perhaps resembled more a satyr. Age should not come to kings. Kings should be eternally youthful.

Then he remembered an impatient young man who had yearned for death to overtake an old king. So it has come to this! he thought. I, Francis, shall soon be such another as old Louis― panting after young women, buying their favours with this bit of jewellery, that work of art. No wonder a gay king grows sad. They had started the play. Yes, it was amusing. He laughed; and the court waited on his laughs. But he was not fully attending. The dark one was charming, draped as she was with the flimsiest of stuff; she would look more charming ort sheets black satin. Come, come! He was not really interested. He was trying to force himself to amorous intent. In the old days, what a man he had been! The greatest lover in a country that idealized love. The greatest lover― and, did they whisper behind his back, the worst soldier?

Now he began to wonder whether he would not have so new improvements designed for this palace. He had a passion for architecture, and it was his pleasure to invite artists to court to delight his ears and eyes as he lured women to delight his other senses. He thought of old friends― a sure sign creeping age!

Leonardo da Vinci! Poor Leonardo!

I honoured him with my friendship, thought Francis, but perhaps posterity will say he honoured me with his. I loved that man. I could make a king. There is my son Francis, who will be King one day. But only God can make an artist. He realized that. So he treasured these artists. Writers, painters, sculptors, designers in stone― he would have them know that there was patronage, even friendship, for them from the King of France. Many of these courtiers about him now had writhed at the writings of Francis Rabelais, and they could not understand why their King was so pleased with the quick-witted monk, for in truth the fellow showed no more respect for the King than he did for the courtiers. But, was the King’s retort, how amusing it is to see others satirized, even if one must pay for the pleasure by enduring a little slyness at one’s own expense.

And now, because he saw old age at hand, he wished to dwell on the glories of his youth. Not yet forty, he reminded himself, but not the same wild boy who had set a bull and three lions to fight here in the moat at Amboise; no longer was he the young man who had tackled a boar single-handed and refused the aid of his attendants while his mother wrung her hands in fear, though she glowed with pride for her beloved, her King, her Caesar. Well, he was still the King, and when he was not moody as now he was the gayest man in the court. He wished that he was more like his old friend and enemy, the King of England. There was a man endowed with the precious gift of seeing himself as he wished to see himself. A great and glorious gift! sighed Francis. A stimulus in youth, a comfort in age.

And he laughed down his long nose, thinking of Henry and his charming new wife, Anne, and wicked old Clement righteously excommunicating the pair of them.

Thinking of Henry and Clement brought his mind back to an irritation which had been disturbing him a good deal of late. There was the boy― the object of his dissatisfaction― as one might expect, sitting moody and alone in a corner.

What an oaf! What a graceless boor! Francis thought about offering a groom-ship of the Chamber and a pension to anyone who could make young Henry laugh out loud.

How did I get me such a one? he asked himself. But I will endure his scowls and boorish ways no longer. He looked up and beckoned to him the two people whom he loved and admired more than any in the court― Anne, his mistress, and Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, his sister and beloved friend of his childhood. What a distinguishing pair! One could look at them and be proud that France had them both. Indeed, what other country could have produced them? They were both beautiful in different ways, Marguerite spirituelle, Anne voluptuous; they were both in possession of that other gift which Francis looked for, in addition to beauty of face and form, in all the women with whom it delighted him to surround himself. They were of an intelligence which, and he was not sure did not excel, his own; with them he could discuss his political cares; they had intelligence with which to advise and wit with which to amuse him. Mistresses, he had in plenty, but Anne remained his love; as for Marguerite had been a passionate devotion between them since he been old enough to talk. Mistresses could come and go but the bond between the brother and sister could only be broken by death.

‘I loved you before you were born,’ Marguerite had said. ‘Husband and child were as nothing compared with the love I have for you.’ She meant that.

She had hated her husband for deserting her brother at Pavia; she had left her home and tempted death in order to go to him in Madrid. Now she sensed his mood more quickly than did Anne, for he and she were like twins― never completely content unless they were near each other, quick to sense a sorrow, ever ready to share a joy.

She said, smiling at him: ‘My dearest, you are sad today?’

He signed to them to sit one on either side of him, and leaning towards Marguerite, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. All his movements were graceful and full of charm. ‘Sad? No!’ he said. ‘But thinking of this Italian marriage.’

‘I like it not,’ said Anne. ‘What is this family? Who are these Medici tradesmen to marry with the reigning house of France?’

‘My love,’ said the King, ‘you echo the words of my councillors. Repetition, alas! can be tedious, even from your sweet lips.’ He signed to the musicians.

‘Play! Play!’ he commanded, for he did not wish too much of this conversation to be overheard.

‘The Pope is a rogue, Sire,’ persisted Anne. ‘And if truth be tedium, then tedium must be endured.’

‘A rogue!’ cried Marguerite. ‘He is worse than a rogue; he is a fool.’

‘My dear ladies, I would tell you of the advice I have had from the boy’s god-sire. He thinks that it is a sorry matter when the son of a royal house should mate with the daughter of tradesmen. He adds, with Tudor ingenuousness, that there would have to be some great profit for a King to consider such a marriage; but he feels that if the profit were great enough, then God would bless the match.’

They laughed. ‘Had you not mentioned that was the opinion of young Henry’s god-sire,’ said Marguerite, ‘I should have known those were the sentiments of Henry VIII of England.’

‘The saints preserve him!’ said Francis mockingly. ‘And may he get all his deserts with his charming new wife. I have written to him and told him that is what I wish him.’

‘He will thank you from the bottom of his heart,’ said Marguerite. “Now what are my deserts? he will say: What but riches, power, success and content for such a godly man as I! For if ever a man deserved these things, that man is Henry of England! He will think you had naught else in mind.’

‘I would poor Francis could offer the King of France one-tenth of that devotion which Henry Tudor lays at the feet of the King of England!’ sighed Francis. ‘Mind you well, I love the King of France― none better― but for his faults, where as Henry Tudor loves the King of England for his virtues. True love is blind.’

‘But he is right when he says there should be profit,’ said Anne. ‘Is the profit great enough?’

‘They are rich, these Medici. They will fill our coffers which alas! my Anne, you have helped to deplete. Therefore rejoice with me. Also, there are three very bright jewels which the little Medici will bring us. Genoa, Milan, Naples.’

‘Set in the promises of a Pope!’ said Marguerite.

‘My beloved, speak not with disrespect of the Holy Father.’

‘A Holy Father with an unholy habit of cheating his too trusting children!’

‘Leave Clement to me, my love. And enough of politics. I am disturbed and wish to unburden myself to you two wise women. It is the boy himself. By my faith, had his mother been the most virtuous woman in France, I would say he were no son of mine.’

‘You are perhaps hard on the little Duke, my King,’ said Anne. ‘He is but a boy yet.’

‘He is fourteen years old. When I was his age―’

‘One does not compare a candle with the sun, my beloved,’ said Marguerite.

‘My love, should not the children of the sun show lustre? I hate sullen, stupid children, and it would seem I have got me in that one the most sullen, the most stupid I clapped eyes on.’

‘It is because he is the son of your dazzling self, Sire, you look for too much.

Give him a chance, for as your gracious sister says, he is young yet.’

‘You women are over-soft with him. Would to God I knew how to put some sparkle of intelligence into that dull head.’

‘Methinks, Francis,’ said Marguerite, ‘that the boy is less stupid when you are not present. What think you, Anne?’

‘I agree. Speak to him of the chase, my love, and one sees in his face your very vivacious self.’

`The chase! He is healthy enough. Would to God the Dauphin were the same.’

‘Don’t blame your boys, Francis. Blame the King of Spain.’

‘Or,’ said Anne lightly, ‘blame yourself.’

His eyes smouldered for a moment as he looked at her, but she met his gaze challengingly. She was provocative, very sure of herself, alluring; and he was still in love with her after nearly ten years. She took liberties, but he liked a woman to take liberties. He was not her god, as he was Marguerite’s. But he laughed, for he could not escape that ability to see himself clearly. She was right. He had been a bad soldier, too reckless: And the result― Pavia! He was to blame, and the fact young Henry and his elder brother the Dauphin had had to take their father’s place in the Spanish prison as hostage for his good faith, was not their fault but his.

‘You take liberties, my dear,’ he said with an attempt at coolness.

‘Alas! my love, I fear ‘tis true,’ she answered pertly. ‘But I love you for your virtues as well as your faults. That is why I tremble not when I speak truth to you.’

Marguerite said quickly: ‘ ‘Twas an evil fate. The King had to return and the Princes to take his place. But let us face the real issue. The boys came back from Spain―’

‘Where young Henry had forgotten his native tongue!’ cried Francis.

‘Would I, a Frenchman, however long exiled from France, come back gibbering a heathen tongue?’

‘It was Spanish he spoke when he returned, Sire,’ said Anne. ‘And spoke it fluently, I understand.’

‘Indeed he spoke it fluently. He looks and thinks and acts like a Spaniard.

More like the son of my enemy than mine own.’

“Tis true he is a sullen boy,’ said Anne. ‘What will the Italian child think of her bridegroom, I wonder.’

‘She will take him most thankfully,’ said Marguerite. ‘Is he not the son of the King of France?’

‘I wonder,’ said Anne mischievously, ‘if she will think the sullen boy worth those three glittering jewels― Genoa, Milan and Naples.’

‘She will,’ said Marguerite. ‘For we do not bargain too hotly when we buy with other people’s money.’

‘Particularly when the bills may never be paid!’

‘Enough!’ said Francis with a hint of asperity. ‘Clement is a slippery rogue, but I can hold him to his promises.’

‘How will the child arrive?’ asked Anne.

‘Not without much pomp and many rich gifts as well as the Holy Pope himself. Not only will he bring her, but he will stay for the marriage.’

‘What!’ cried Anne. ‘Does he not trust us to make an honest woman of her?’

‘Doubtless,’ put in Marguerite, ‘he thinks our Henry will rob her of her virginity and send her back.’

‘After filching her jewels and her dowry!’

Francis laughed. ‘He does not know our Henry. He can rob a banquet of its gaiety, but never a maiden of her virginity. Holy Mother! I wish the boy had a bit more fire in him. I could wish he resembled his god-sire across the water, for all that fellow’s pomp and perfidy.’

‘I hear,’ said Anne, ‘that his Grace of England was a fine figure of a man.

And still is, though mounting fast to middle age.’

‘We are of an age,’ growled Francis.

‘But,’ mocked Anne, ‘you are a god, my love. Gods do not grow old.’

‘I am thinking of the boy,’ said Marguerite. ‘Now that he is to become a bridegroom something should be done. He should have a friend, a good friend, who will show him how to lose his fear of us all and, most of all, his father; someone explain that he is awkward largely because he lacks confidence in himself, someone to explain that the only way to overcome the effects of those unhappy years in Spain is to banish them from his thoughts instead of brooding on them.’

‘As usual you are right, my darling,’ said Francis. ‘A friend― a dashing young man of charm and beauty, a gay young man with many fair friends.’

‘Dearest, it was not exactly what I had in mind. There is no man at court who would have that subtle touch necessary. Spain is branded on the boy’s brain― how deeply, none of us know; but I fear very deeply. It needs a gently hand to erase such evil memories. He must recover his dignity through a subtle, gentle influence.’

‘A woman, in very fact!’ said Anne.

‘A clever woman,’ said Marguerite. ‘Not a young and flighty creature of his own age. A woman― wise, beautiful, and above all, sympathetic.’

‘Yourself!’ said Francis.

Marguerite shook her head. ‘Gladly would I perform this miracle―’

‘Miracle it would have to be!’ put in Francis grimly. ‘Transform that oaf, ingrained with Spanish solemnity, into a gay courtier of France! Yes― a miracle!’

‘I could not do it,’ said Marguerite. ‘He would not allow it for I have witnessed his humiliations. I have been present, Francis, when you have upbraided him. I have seen the sullen red blood in his face and the angry glitter in his eyes; I have seen that tight little mouth of his trying to say words which would equal your own in brilliance. He does not realize, poor boy, that wit comes from the brain before the lips. No! He would never respond to my treatment. I can but make the plan; some other must carry it out.’

‘Then Anne here―’

‘My well-loved lord, your demands upon me are so great that I could serve none other; and my zeal in serving you is so intense that I should have nothing but languid indifference for the affairs of others.’

They laughed, and Marguerite said quickly: ‘Leave it to me. I will find the woman.’

Francis put an arm about each of them. ‘My darlings,’ he said, and kissed first Marguerite, then Anne, ‘what should I do without you? That son of mine is like a hair in my shirt― a continual irritation― passing and recurring. The Virgin bless you both. Now let us dance. Let us be gay. Musicians! Give us some of your best.’

The King led Anne in the dance, and was delighted that his mistress and his sister had at length succeeded in lightening his mood; the courtiers and ladies fell in behind him and Anne. But in a corner, trying to hide among the tapestry hangings, the young Prince Henry slouched, wondering how soon he might be able to slip away to the peace of his apartments― loathing it all, the laughter, the gaiety, the courtiers and the women; but hating his father most of all.

The King dismissed his attendants, for he wished to be quite alone with Diane, the handsome widow of the Sénéschal of Normandy. As they went out, they would be smiling among themselves. Ha! So it is la Grande Sénéschale now, is it? What a King! What a man! But what will the charming Anne d’Heilly have to say to this? What a game it is, this love! And how delightfully, how inexhaustibly our sovereign lord can play it!

The King bade the widow rise. His narrowed eyes took in each detail of her appearance with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He was proud of women like Diane de Poitiers. By the Virgin, we know how to breed women in France, he thought.

She was afraid of him, but she did not show it. She was flushed and her eyes were brilliant. Understandable! She would be excited by a summons from the King. He told himself that she had scarcely changed since that other encounter of theirs. When was it? It must be nearly ten years ago! Her skin was still as beautiful as a young girl’s. It was difficult to believe that she was quite thirty-three. Her features were regular, her black hair abundant, her dark eyes lustrous, her figure perfect! She delighted him, and not less so because of that coldness, that lack of response to his admiration and immense charm.

She was clever too. It amused him to keep her guessing the reason for this summons, or, rather, to let her draw conclusions which must be making her heart flutter uncomfortably under that perfect but so prim bosom.

The King of France looked like a satyr as he regarded the woman standing before him.

He had seen her with the Queen and had thought : Ah, there is the woman. She could make a man of my Henry. She will teach him all the arts and graces which she has at her own pretty fingertips. She will teach him all that it is good for him to know, and nothing that is bad for him. She will teach him to love her own virtues, and to hate his father’s vices; and then I will put my head close to that charming one, and together we will find a mistress for him, a young, delightful girl, unless of course― and this may well be, for I could suspect my Henry of any mediocrity― he wishes to remain faithful to his Italian bride. ‘There is a favour I would ask of you,’ he said, his warm eyes caressing her.

She had risen. She held her head high, and protest was written in every protest was written in every line of her beautiful head and shoulders.

He would not have been himself if he could have resisted teasing her.

‘I beg of you be seated. We would not have you stand on ceremony. Come here― beside me.’

‘Sire, you are very gracious to me.’

‘And willing to be more so, dear lady, could I but get your kind consent. I often think on that long ago encounter of ours. Can it be ten years ago, Diane?

Why, you are the same young girl. They say it is a magic you have. They say you have discovered eternal youth, and by the faith of a nobleman, I would say, as I look at you, that they are right.’

‘I have no magic, Sire,’ she said. ‘And if you have sent for me that I may tell you of magic, I can only say that I am desolate because they have not spoken truly. There is no magic, Sire. If I had it, it should be yours.’

‘Ah! But you have magic in your beauty, fair Diane. And it is that magic which I would ask you to give.’

‘Sire, there are many beautiful women at your court who sigh for your attentions―’

‘The charms of Venus will not do. It is chaste Diane whom I seek.’

No, he thought; she has hardly changed at all. She had not been a widow ten years ago. A twenty-three-year-old beauty married to one of the richest and ugliest men in France. Shame! To give a lovely young girl of fifteen to a middle-aged widower! But Jean de Poitiers, with three daughters to marry, had thought the Grand Sénéschal of Normandy a good match for young Diane. She had been docile and borne the old fellow― two girls, was it? He thought so. He had been interested in her at the time. He had been interested then in every beautiful woman in his kingdom― duchess, grande sénéschale, or wine-keeper’s daughter, it mattered not! He was ready to welcome all to his bed― and hardly one of them able to refuse him! But Diane was one who had refused.

As he watched the calm face and sensed her hidden alarm at what she believed to be his renewed attack upon her virtue, he saw her again, a frightened woman kneeling before him, begging him to spare her father’s life. The old fool had been in the Constable of Bourbon’s conspiracy, and was at the time in a dungeon at Loches awaiting execution. And Diane had come to plead for his life with a monarch who was ever susceptible to the pleas of beautiful women. She had wept, but had kept her wits sharp; and he guessed that she had understood that bit of badinage which had passed between them. Inconsequently was his wont, the King had fallen in love with the pleader. He had said that as she would become his very good friend, he must grant her request, for there was nothing he enjoyed be bestowing favours on his very good friends.

And afterwards, when the old man’s life was spared, and he had looked for appreciation of his generosity, those eyes had been opened wide in horror, those damask cheeks flushed scarlet; worse still, she had wept. She feared she had been foolish; she had not understood the King, she declared. Was he suggesting that he had spared the father’s life in exchange for the daughter’s honour?

Those bitter tears! That respectful distaste! She was very clever, of course; and next to beauty in a woman he admired cleverness. What could he do? She had won. She had fooled him. He bade her depart. ‘Your beauty enchanted me, Diane,’ he had said, ‘but your wit has outstripped me. Go back to your husband.

I hope he appreciates your worth.’

He bore no malice; there was little malice in his nature; he saw her now and then, for she was one of his Queen’s women; she was so demure in the black-and-white mourning she wore for her departed husband.

But how could he resist the joy of teasing her! He would her to expect the worst― or the best. The rape of chaste Diane by the satyr King of France! And then he would let her down suddenly, so that she would be angry even though she would pretend to be relieved.

‘I have thought of you since that day you went to tell your father that his life was saved. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, Sire. I remember.’

‘How gaily you went! Did you tell your noble father you bought his life with― counterfeit coin?’

She said clearly: ‘My father would not have understood had I told him. He was half crazed after his imprisonment in that dank dungeon of Loches. Four stone walls and only a small window, through which his food was passed, to give him light. And then― on the scaffold― to be told that his life saved, but must be lived in a dungeon. I had thought you had said, “A pardon”. I did not understand it was to be imprisonment.’

‘There was much we did not understand― you of me, I of you, my chaste Diane.’

‘And there he remained, Sire, a prematurely old man.’

‘Traitors may not live like loyal men,’ said Francis coolly, ‘even though they possess beautiful daughters. And alack, if the daughters are virtuous as well as beautiful, that can indeed be a sorry thing for traitors.’

She was silent, but he knew that she was very much afraid. ‘And your father now?’ he asked.

‘You will graciously remember that he was released a little while ago, Sire.’

‘I rejoice. I would have lessened your anxiety had you let me. I may be the ruler of France, but I am the slave of beauty.’

‘Sire, your goodness is known throughout France.’

‘Now we understand each other. I need your services.’

She drew back, but he was already tired of the banter. He went on quickly:

‘It is the Duke of Orléans of whom I wish to speak to you.’

‘The little Duke!’

‘Oh, not so little, not so little! He is soon to be a husband. What think you of the boy?’

‘Why, Sire, I know not. I have seen him but once or twice.’

‘Speak freely. Say he is an oaf and a boor, and more like a Spanish peasant than a King’s son. I shall not gainsay you.’

‘He is a handsome boy, I think.’

The King laughed. ‘Can it be, Sénéschale, that those bright eyes of yours do not see as surely as they enchant? I tell you there is no need to choose your words so delicately.’

She smiled. ‘Well then, Sire, when I think of the little Duke, it is of a shy boy, awkward in his manners.’

‘An oaf, in other words.’

‘Well, he is young yet.’

‘The eternal cry of women! He is young― yet. And because he is young― yet, the women must feel tender toward him. He is fast putting on the years of manhood, and none of a man’s manners with them.’

‘I have heard he has often led the chase.’

‘So have the dogs! Now, I have been considering how best to nurture this son of mine, and I have chosen you as his nurse.’

‘Sire!’

The King’s smile was mocking. ‘Nothing is asked that of that could offend chaste Diane. It is simply this: my sister and Mademoiselle d’Heilly feel that the boy is to be pitied rather than blamed. They think the gentle hand of a woman could much to help him shed his ugly Spanish mail and don the armour of a Frenchman. I have chosen that your hand assist the change. Neither my sister nor Mademoiselle d’Heilly know yet of my choice. You are clever enough to guess why. You, Sénéschale, are my choice.’ He lifted his shoulders expressively. ‘Mademoiselle d’Heilly may be a little jealous understand? The voluptuous rose can sigh now and then for the grace of the lily; Venus may envy Diana. She know my eyes will light up at the sound of your name, and I adore a lady’s virtue, while now and then I am given cause to lament it. Then― my sister. You are a devout Catholic and my pearl of pearls flirts with the new faith.

But I, your King choose you. I choose you for your virtue, for your honest your dignity and wit; and because you are a Frenchwoman whom France can be proud. Therefore, I choose you to tutor my son. I would have you teach him the graces of the court. Beg him to emulate his father’s virtues― if in your clear-sighted eyes he has any virtues― and above all, teach him not to imitate his father’s vices.’

Diane was smiling now. ‘I think I understand, Sire. I will be his friend. Poor boy! He needs friends. I will make a gentleman of him. I am honoured that my gracious King think me worthy of this task. I never had a son. I longed for one.’

‘Ah!’ said the King. ‘We long for sons, little dreaming that when they come they may resemble Henry of Orléans. I trust you to do your work well.’

The interview was over. She bowed and left a faintly regretful King who continued to think of her after she had gone.

Young Henry lay in one of the enclosed gardens watching clouds chase one another across the summer sky. He felt safe here. If he heard anyone coming he would get up quickly and run away. He wanted to be alone; he always wanted to be alone.

He would rather be at Amboise than in Paris. He hated Les Tournelles, that old palace near the Bastille, since for Henry it was overshadowed by the prison and therefore a constant reminder of his dark childhood days. His father would not live in the Louvre; it was too dark and gloomy and old-fashioned; he had grand schemes for altering it. There were always grand schemes for altering buildings. He was building Fontainebleau, and that would be really beautiful; but there was no peace to be had there. His father was always discussing what should be done and who should do it; and showing how clever he was, while everyone worshipped him because he was the King.

Henry hated the brilliant man who was his father; and the hatred went deeper because, if Henry could have chosen to be like anyone on Earth, he would instantly have selected the King of France, his father.

How he talked! How did he think of all those clever things to say? How did he know as much as he did and still have time to hunt and write and sing and go to bed with women? Henry did not understand it. He only knew that this dazzling man was a cheat and a liar, and that the most wretched time that he, Henry, and his brother Francis the Dauphin had ever spent, had been brought about by their father.

They were to have gone to Spain― oh, only for a little while, they had been told. They were to be hostages because their father had been beaten in battle by the King of Spain and had had to promise to marry the King of Spain’s sister Eleonora, and to do many other things besides. And to make sure that these things were done, the little Princes must take their father’s place as prisoners in Spain. Only for a little while! But as soon as their father was free, he had forgotten his promises, forgotten his sons.

They had crossed the Pyrenees into Spain, and for four years they had remained in that hateful land― prisoners of their father’s enemy.

Young Henry pulled up a blade of grass and bit it angrily. His eyes clouded with tears. He had hated it. At first it not been so bad, for Eleonora had looked after them; she had loved and told them she was to be their new mother. How kind she had been, determined on making them good Catholics, wanting them to love her as if they were truly her own boys.

But then the King of Spain had begun to understand the King of France was a liar; and the two little boys were taken from the kindly lady who was to be their stepmother and put in charge of low ruffians who jeered at them because their father was a cheat.

Henry was deeply humiliated and his brother Francis was sick often; Henry suffered terribly,. wondering if his brother was going to die and he be left all alone in Spain.

Their clothes, as they grew out of them, had been replaced by shabby, dusty velvet. ‘Look at the little Princes!’ the guards had jeered. ‘Sons of the lying King of France!’ And in Spanish too! Nor would they answer a single question unless the boys asked it in Spanish. Henry never learned quickly, but he did pick up Spanish. He had to. And that was one of the things which made his father despise him so utterly. When he came home, he had forgotten his native French.

How overjoyed he and Francis had been to know they were going home at last. Home― after four years! Henry had been five when he left France; he was nine when he returned. He had thought life was going to be wonderful then. But the big dazzling man in jewel-studded clothes, whom everyone adored, and who made everyone laugh and be happy to be near him looked in dismay at his two sons, said something to them which Henry did not understand at all and Francis not fully; and then he had called them sober Spanish dons. Everyone had laughed.

Henry hated laughter. He himself never laughed; but his tragedy was that he wanted to.

It was easier for young Francis. After all, he was Dauphin, and people tried to please him because he would one day be the King. Young, morose Henry, they left to himself. His father shrugged his shoulders and hardly looked his way. Henry had no friends at all.

And as he lay on the grass absorbed in his miseries, someone came into the garden. It was a lady dressed in black and white. He scrambled to his feet. He hated her because he had to bow to her, and he could never manage the bow.

People laughed at the way he did it― not the French way, not the graceful way!

Clumsy, Spanish, oafish― more like a peasant than a Duke!

She smiled and he realized that she was beautiful. It was a true smile, he saw at once; it seemed to imply friendship, not superior contempt. But on second thoughts he could not believe that, and he was suspicious.

‘I hope you will forgive my intrusion into your privacy,’ she said.

‘I― I will go and leave the garden to you.’

‘Oh, please do not.’

He was moving away from her; if he could reach the opening in the hedge, he would run.

‘Please sit down,’ she begged. ‘Just as you were― on the grass. Otherwise I shall be convinced that I have driven you away, and that will make me very unhappy. You would not wish to make me unhappy, would you?’

‘I― I― cannot see that my presence here―’

‘I will explain. I saw you from the palace. I said to myself: Ah! There is Monsieur le Duc d’Orléans, whose advice I wish to ask. Now is my opportunity!’

The hot blood rushed into his face. ‘My advice?’ he said.

She sat on the grass beside him, surely an undignified thing for a great lady to do. I want to buy some horses, and I know that your knowledge concerning them is great. Would you, I was wondering, be kind enough to give me a little advice.’

He was staring at her, still suspicious, but his heart had begun to pound. He felt ecstatically happy one moment, suspicious the next. Was she taunting him, teasing him? Was she going to show him shortly that he did not know anything about the one subject he really believed he understood?

‘I am sure that you could find― people to― to,’ He was preparing to rise to his feet. He would make some attempt to bow and dash out of the gardens.

But she had laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘I could find people talk and look wise, I doubt not; but what I want is someone whose judgment I can trust.’

His mouth grew sullen; she was making fun of him.

She went on quickly: ‘I have watched you come riding in from the chase. I saw you on a chestnut mare― a lovely animal.’

His mouth turned up at the corners very slightly. Nobody could make fun of his mare, for she was perfect.

‘I should like to have a mare like that, if, of course it is possible to get one. I doubt if I could match her perfections.’

‘It would be difficult,’ he said; and he began to speak, out a stammer, of the delightful animal― of her age, exploits, of her habits.

The lady listened entranced. He had never had such conversation with anyone before, but as soon as he realize much he was talking, he became tongue-tied again and longed to escape.

‘Do tell me more,’ she said. ‘I see I was wise when I decided to ask your help.’

So he found himself telling her of the merits of others of his horses.

In turn, she told him of her home, the château of Anet in the lovely valley of the Eure, and of the forests which surrounded it. It was wonderful hunting country; but there again, she said, she felt that a little of the right sort of knowledge would make it even better. There was so much that should be done.

There was the cutting down of trees, he added; and the planting of fresh ones. He could tell her quite a lot about hunting country.

She wished that he could see it. ‘I confess I should escaping from the court for a while,’ she said.

Then he asked who she was. ‘I do not think I have see you before.’ He was sure he had not, for if he had, he could not have failed to remember her.

‘I am in attendance on the Queen. I love her dearly, but sometimes I am lonely. You see, I am a widow. It is two years since my husband died, but if one has been happy, one cannot forget.’ She smoothed the rich black and white of her gown with delicate white hands. She was like a statue, thought the boy; the statue of some beautiful saint. ‘I fear I do not fit in with this gay court,’ she added.

‘Nor I!’ he said bitterly. And now he did not wish to run away; in fact, he wanted to go on sitting here, talking to her; he was afraid that someone else would come into the garden and claim her attention, so that he would have to remember he was ashy boy, awkward and uninteresting.

‘You do!’ she told him. ‘You are the son of the King. I am just a lonely widow.’

‘My father― hates me!’ he spoke vehemently. He dared not say he hated his father, but his tone implied it.

‘Oh no! Nobody could hate you. Your father least of all. I have two little girls. I know. Parents cannot hate their own children.’

‘My father can. He loves my little brother, Charles. He loves my sisters Madeleine and Marguerite. I think too― though he is often angry with him― that he loves the Dauphin. But myself― never. I am the one who angers him most.’

‘No, no!’

‘But I assure you that it is so. His looks, his words tell me so. One can be mistaken in looks, but not in words. Francis is the Dauphin, and one day he will be King, and my father does not forget that. But he sneers at him. He says he is too solemn and dresses like a Spaniard and likes water better than wine. Francis is cleverer than I; he can learn French ways more quickly. But little Charles is the one my father loves best. Lucky Charles! He was too young to be sent to Spain.’

‘You could win your father’s favour as easily as Francis.’

‘How?’ The boy was pathetic in his eagerness.

‘It would take time. Your father has always surrounded himself with people who joke and laugh. He does not mind if the joke goes against himself even, as long as it makes him laugh If you can make your father laugh, you are halfway to his heart.’

‘He laughs at me― but in derision.’

‘He wants to laugh for amusement. Mind you, his wit high order, and it is not easy.’

‘My young brother can make him laugh.’

‘Oh, Monsieur Charles will be the King all over again. My lord Duke, if you were less afraid of offending your father, you would offend him less.’

‘Yes,’ said the boy eagerly; ‘that is it. I am always wondering what I must answer him, even before he has spoken to me.’

‘This is the first thing to learn, then: there is nothing to fear. And when you bow or kiss a lady’s hand, you should not wonder whether you are doing so with a lack of grace. You should not care. You should stand up straight and hold your head high. If you do not try very hard to please people, you can please them more. You must forgive me. I talk too much.’

‘Indeed, no! No one has ever spoken so kindly to me before.’

‘I am glad I have not bored you, for I was going to take a great liberty. I was going to ask you if you would be so good as to pay a visit to my home and look at those stables of mine― and perhaps ride out and advise about my land.’

His face lighted up. ‘I can think of nothing I should like better.’ The light died out of his face. ‘I should not be allowed to leave the court.’ He scowled, visualizing the scene with his father. So you wish to visit a lady! My dear Henry, the affairs of the heart must be conducted with some decorum― even here in France! Something like that, he would say, and with that coarseness always so gracefully expressed, would the honour of this beautiful lady. Henry knew he could not bear that to happen.

‘You could come accompanied by a few attendants. Why not?’

‘My father would never allow it, I fear.’

‘Monsieur le Duc, have I your permission to ask your father if I might take a small party, including yourself, for a brief visit to my home?’

She had a way of putting it that made it seem less unattainable. That was the way with some people. They were able to say with ease what they meant; he was so clumsy.

‘That would give me great pleasure,’ he said. ‘But I fear you will soon wish to send me back.’

She laughed. ‘Forgive me if I say you must dispense with such modesty.

Always remember that you are the Duke of Orléans, the son of the King himself.

Forget those unhappy years in Spain. They are gone and cannot return. I hope you will not be bored at my château. I shall do my best to give you the hospitality worthy of a king’s son. Now, have I your permission, my dear friend, to make my request to the King? Please say yes.’

‘I shall be desolate if I may not come, for I long to see your château and your horses and your land.’

She held out her hand and he took it, blushing hotly.

She put her head close to his. ‘Never forget,’ she said, ‘that you are the son of the King of France.’

She was right. He was the King’s son. He had never felt his importance so keenly before.

He stared after her as she left the garden. She gave him a smile over her shoulder as she went.

So beautiful, he thought, like a goddess, and yet so kind withal!

The summer months were the happiest Henry had ever known.

Miraculously, his lady had gained the King’s consent to the wonderful visit. He was not the same boy when he supped and talked and rode with Madame la Grande Sénéschale of Normandy.

‘I will call you Henry,’ she said, ‘and you shall call me Diane, for we are friends, are we not― friends for as long as we both shall live?’

He stammered something about hoping he would always be worthy of her friendship. They rode together, though not as much as he would ride in the ordinary course of events. Diane was not so fond of the chase as he was, and she had no intention of risking an accident to her beautiful body. She was making an excellent job of the task which the King had set her. In her company the boy seemed to shed all his awkwardness; it was a pity that it returned as soon as others were with him. She was getting fond of him. He was not without charm; and the devotion he was beginning to feel for her was flattering. It was so disinterested; she was accustomed to admiration, but that of the boy was different from anything she had before experienced. She was filled with pity for him. He had been so badly treated that it was small wonder that he responded as he did to a little kindness.

In a very short time after their first meeting, it seemed Henry that there was no happiness to be found away from Diane. To him she was perfect, a goddess in truth; and he asked nothing from her but to be allowed to serve her. He looked about for what he could do, but there seemed nothing. He longed to wear her colours and enter the jousts; but so many men wore a lady’s colours, and that just to win her favours. Henry wanted none to mistake his devotion. He did not wish for favours as ordinary people understood them. It was favour enough for him to be able to sit near her, to watch her beautiful face, and to listen to the wisdom that came from her perfectly moulded lips, to bask in the kindness she alone offered him She had given him a horse when she bought those which he had chosen. She had asked which in his opinion was the finest of the lot, and when he had told her― little guessing what in her mind― she said that one should be his. He had protested with tears in his eyes. He wanted no gifts; he wanted only to be allowed to serve her. But she had laughed and said: ‘What are gifts among friends?’

‘It shall be my dearest possession,’ he had told her earnestly.

Everything she did was exalted; nothing was ordinary. Even when she discussed his clothes and told him what to wear, how to bow, how to greet men and women, she did it with such grace and charm that it did not seem like a lesson. One thing she could not teach him, and that was to smile for others; he kept his smiles for her alone.

When he heard that he was to be married to an Italian girl, he was much alarmed; he went to Diane at once and told her of it.

Then was she her most sweetly sympathetic. She held his hands just as though he were in truth her own son; and she told him how she, a little girl of fifteen. about the age that he was now, had been given into marriage with an old man. She told him of her own fears.

‘But Henry, I quickly learned that there was nothing to fear. He was an old man; and this Italian is your own age. It is not for you to be afraid of a little girl.’

‘No, Diane,’ he said. ‘I should not be afraid, should I? But I wish I need not marry. I have no wish to marry.’

‘But my dear little friend, those of high birth must marry.’

‘I would have wished to choose a bride then,’ he lifted his eyes to her face.

‘But she whom I would choose would be too far above me.’

Diane was startled. What had happened to the boy?

She laughed lightly. ‘Oh come, my lord, who is too exalted for the Duke of Orléans?’

He was about to stammer something when she turned the subject quickly.

It was well, she thought that he was about to be married. She hoped the little Italian girl would be pretty enough to charm him.

It was with great delight that Henry heard Diane was to be of the party who would accompany him down to Marseilles where he was to meet and marry the little Medici.