Madame Serpent

THE MISTRESS

AT THE French court it was thought that the little Italian was colourless; she was too quiet, too eager to please. They did know, they could not guess, what emotions were hidden from them. Catherine rejoiced in the hard training which had taught her to smile when she was most unhappy.

During the first year, she mourned Ippolito. It seemed to her that the memory of her handsome cousin would be with her forever. I am the most wretched person in the whole of this country, she assured herself.

At the same time, she was finding it difficult to recall very clearly what Ippolito looked like; the tones of his voice had become blurred and, odd though it was, when she tried to conjure up images of her cousin they would become merged in that of her young husband.

She could not hate Henry, although she wanted to. She wanted to feel towards him as he did towards her. She embarrassed him, she wanted to tell him that he embarrassed her. ‘Do you think I want to be with you!’ she longed to shout at ‘Why, when we are together, and you think it is you I wish to love., it is not. It is Ippolito! If you think that I desire you, then you are mistaken. It is Ippolito whom I want, whom I have always wanted and always shall.’ There was in her a passion, n a desire which frightened him. He was so cold; he wanted to keep aloof. Love between them― but that was the wrong word for it― was to him a duty which he undertook as he might a penance. Love! There was no love. Only the need to get children.

He avoided her as much as possible. Whenever he could, he would escape to the Chateau d’Anet, where his great friend would entertain him. Catherine could not understand that friendship between the beautiful widow and her husband.

What could two such people have in common? Why was it that he sought the company of such a dignified, such a worldly woman, when his wife, his own age, was ready to be his friend even if she could never love him.

Catherine felt shut in by youth and inexperience. She was lonely often, frightened sometimes. She was indeed a stranger in a strange land.

But for the friendship of the King, she would have been desperately unhappy. When he talked to her she would he conscious of an exhilaration; she would be actually glad that she had come to France. He enchanted her; he fascinated her. She felt that, in a strange way which was incomprehensible to her, she was in love with the King. It was her delight to think over his conversation with her and those about him; to try to read what was in his mind.

Sometimes she would say to herself: if only Henry were like his father! And then, again, she would be glad that he was not, for although Henry avoided her, he avoided other women as well. It was only that attachment to a woman old enough to be his mother that persisted. Catherine thought she understood. Henry had no mother, and he felt the need of one. Henry was only a boy. She wondered― not without excitement― when he would become a man.

Life seemed to be made of pleasure. There was always a masque about to begin, or a banquet to prepare for, balls, jousts, and journeys. The meeting of Francis and Clement had not been solely the occasion of the marriage of their young people; they had made plans for campaigns against Spain and England.

The King, loving pleasure so much that it was never easy to tear himself away from it, yet yearned for military successes to wipe out the defeat of Pavia. As for the Pope, he was always ready for a new ally, providing that ally kept his plot secret. And who could be a better ally than the King of France, now tied to him by the bonds of relationship?

So, while awaiting the fruition of his schemes, Francis, being impatient, must be kept amused. There was Marguerite to soothe him with her sisterly devotion; Anne d’Heilly to respond to the love he gave her; many lovely women to divert him. He kept close to him some twenty or thirty young women, all renowned for their beauty and their wit. Wherever he went, they rode with him, and he would listen to their counsels rather than to those of his masculine advisers. It was not sufficient to be beautiful enough to charm his senses; they must be clever enough to please his lively mind. Theirs was the task of providing erotic and intellectual pleasure for their master. If his appetite was jaded, they must serve up old dishes garnished to taste like knew. No sultan ever had a more solicitous harem. They must be skilled in the arts of lust and politics; they must be strong to endure hours in the saddle without fatigue; perfectly formed that they might sport with grace in a mirror; sharp-witted enough to converse with foreign ambassadors. Entry into this esoteric band was reserved for the very talented, and was considered the highest honour which could befall a lady of the court. Catherine longed to join the Little Band. She could not, of course, be one of those to those whom the King made love, but she fervently wished that on that on those days when they rode off together and would be away for the whole of the day, that she might be with them. Anne, the King’s favorite mistress, was head of the Little Band, and she had shown preference for the little Italian.

If only I could join, Catherine would think. Not only would it show Henry that his father, who despises him, is fond of me, but I should have many happy days in which to forget my melancholy.

She realized that she was becoming increasingly anxious to show Henry that she was not dull and stupid, that she was worthy of some notice. Indeed, she was piqued by this young husband of hers Not that she should have cared. He was of no account. The King had nothing but contempt for him, and Catherine was not surprised, considering the way he would and stammer when spoken to and had hardly a smile for anyone.

Why should she care? She kept telling herself that it was not his regard she sought. Let him escape to Anet whenever he could; she did not care.

In such contempt did the King hold his son that he would not give him a separate establishment even now that he was married. Catherine did not mind that. It meant that they must share household with the other young Princes and Princesses. And a grand household it was― far grander than anything Catherine had ever known before― with its hosts of officials, chamberlain’s equerries, pages, doctors, surgeons, ladies and gentlemen, stewards, and pages. Still, it was expected that Henry should have an establishment of his own.

Catherine was much less lonely living with the other young people than she would have been in a household of their own. She was growing quite fond of them all. Young Francis, a delicate boy, was gentle in his manners and kind to the little stranger; his clothes were very sober in cut and colour, and he preferred drinking water to wine. The two Princesses, Madeleine and Marguerite, were quiet little girls, but eager enough to be friends with her. As for young Charles― his father’s favourite― she secretly disliked him. He was too boisterous and found it immensely funny to play rather unpleasant practical jokes on the members of the household. Catherine had found a dead rat in her bed on one occasion; and on another a pail of icy water had fallen on her head when she entered a room. She bore these tricks with good humour; she did not wish to offend one so beloved of the King, and she gathered that she had not fared badly at the hands of young Charles. She had heard that one of the women of the household― a pious creature― had, on going to her bed at dusk, found a man there, naked and dead. Catherine’s quiet acceptance of the tricks played on her was such as to make the young Duc d’Angoulême feel that she was not a worthy subject for his, and she was very quickly left in peace.

She wondered how quiet, sensitive Henry could be the brother of such a one.

She was, even more than she realized, bringing Henry increasingly into her life, by continual comparisons with others. She made up her mind, time and time again, to tell her husband of the love she had had for her cousin in Italy; but she never did.

Three important events took place in that first year. The first of these was her election to the Little Band. An excellent horsewoman, she knew she could qualify in that respect, and she decided to tell Francis of her desire.

Most humbly, she begged for an audience in private, and when she stood before him she became overcome with fear and wanted to run away. Francis watched her with amusement.

‘You must forgive, Sire,’ she blurted out. ‘I am afraid I came to you thoughtlessly. Please give me leave to retire.’

‘Indeed, you shall have no such leave until I hear what is on your mind.’

‘I dare not.’

‘I know. It is that husband of yours. Foy de gentilhomme! It is no use coming to me, little Catherine. It is true that I sired him. Yes my dear, I am responsible for that dark deed! But do not ask me make a man of him, for it would grieve me to deny you anything, and in asking that you would ask the impossible.’

‘Sire,’ she said, ‘it was not of Henry I wished to speak, but of myself.’

‘Ah! A happier subject, my little one!’

‘I am a good horsewoman, I believe, Sire. You yourself complimented me.

It was this that gave me temerity―’

‘Well, well?’

‘On occasions, with a light remark, I have had the great honour of seeing a smile appear on your face. I― I think I have pleased you―’

She felt now as though she were outside the scene, as though she were watching a play in which the actors were the King of France and his little daughter-in-law. She had made the play, had written the dialogue; because she understood the character of the King and the character that the King believed his daughter-in-law to possess, she had written some very good dialogue.

She knew, she said, that she was not beautiful; but in her relationship to him, he would not look for beauty in her. In short, she was asking a great favour, while all the time she knew that it was to be refused her.

‘But, Sire, when I watch you ride off with La Petite Bande, I so yearn to be with you that I am heartbroken until I see you return.’

She knelt and buried her face in her hands, begging the King to give her leave to depart. She had been over-bold. He must forgive her, for if he did not, her life would be wretched. It was only his smiles that she lived for. She longed to win them so much that she had been tempted into this indiscretion.

Though she kept her face hidden, she knew exactly how he would be looking. This was new― this platonic love, this admiration which amounted almost to worship and adoration. Francis was always attracted by novelty. He had experienced the complete devotion of a mother; he still enjoyed the adoration of a sister; women, women everywhere to count it an honour when his lustful eyes rested upon them― Anne among the others; but he knew enough of these mistresses of his to realize that he could never be certain of their devotion.

Not if he died this night he could say with certainty, ‘Two women loved me.

One was my mother; one was my sister.’ He felt that he might add to that, ‘My little daughter-in-law was also fond of me.’

He lifted her and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘My darling,’ he said, ‘it was good of you to open your heart to me thus.

Why, you shall have a special place in my Petite Bande. It shall be your task to ride beside me, to amuse me with your talk and tell me your secrets. How like you that?’

She kissed his hands, and she laughed with him because she was so happy.

This was a piquant situation such as he loved. So original, so amusing― to have his little daughter, for whom he was indulging in a platonic love affair, among his courtesans!

So Catherine rode in the Petite Bande. But this did nothing to endear her to her husband. Her friendship with his father seemed to make him more suspicious of her than ever.

But Catherine seemed to grow up quickly among the King’s ladies. She heard chatter of the private parties that were enjoyed in the King’s apartments; she heard of things which she had never known existed; and her thoughts, as she listened, would go unaccountably to Henry; and she could not stop imagining Henry and herself at these parties.

The second upheaval of that eventful year caused a deep alarm in Catherine’s heart. Suddenly and mysteriously, Pope Clement died. For the man she cared nothing. How could she care? She looked upon him as the destroyer of her happiness. But for his ambitions, she would have been Ippolito’s wife; and together, she and her cousin would have ruled the city of Florence. But she was diplomat enough to know that Clement was her only powerful relative, and that the King of France had agreed that she should marry his son because of the benefits such a marriage would bring to France. But, alas! The dowry was not yet paid in its entirety; and what about those tempting jewels― Naples, Milan, Genoa? A new Pope would snap his fingers at the ambitions of the Medici.

People whispered about her. It angered her that they did not think it necessary to keep their voices low when she was near. ‘Here is a fine matter!’ it was said. ‘Our King has been fooled. Where is the fine dowry, where the Italian provinces which alone made possible this marriage between a Medici girl and a Valois Prince? Here is our King’s son saddled with a marriage which can only demean himself and France.’

Catherine’s thoughts were muddled. Was she truly alarmed? She hardly knew. It was fortunate that she could show a calm front. What would happen to her now? Would the marriage be dissolved? Would she be sent back to Italy?

‘If you are,’ said a voice within her, ‘and if your marriage is dissolved, you will be free. You can return to Rome. And Ippolito will be there.’

Oh joy! To be with Ippolito once more, to be free to love. She would not have to live with a husband whom she did not love. No more of that furtive intimacy that he made so clear was solely for the begetting of children. ‘How happy,’ she murmured, ‘should I be to say goodbye to you, Henry!’

But, alas! Ippolito was a Cardinal. He could not take a wife. Nonsense!

Ippolito could break away from the Church if he wished.

She waited, uncertain of her desires, while fresh news came from Rome.

There was rejoicing throughout the Eternal City― throughout all Italy― at the death of one who had made himself despised and hated. Each night, it was said, the grave of Clement was raided by the mob, who desecrated his body, and in their hatred of him did all manner of vile things which they had longed to do to him while he lived. Only the intervention of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici had prevented an enraged populace from dragging Clement’s body on a hook through the City.

Oh, Ippolito, dearest Ippolito, thought Catherine. How like you to protect, in death, the man who, in life, made you unhappy, who wrecked our lives, when he kicked aside our love for his ambition! And thinking thus, she grew angry with Ippolito. He was not strong enough, she thought. He allowed us to be parted. The third incident of importance did not seem such at the time it took place.

She had no great liking for the Dauphin, but she had always sought to please him, and he had grown to like her mildly. One day he sought to honour her, and being in need of a new cupbearer he thought to please her by selecting a young Italian whom she had brought with her in her suite. Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli was a handsome and very patriotic young man whose earnestness had pleased Catherine, so that she was glad now to hear that he had been selected for favour.

‘I am deeply grateful for the honour you do my countryman,’ she told the Dauphin.

Then she dismissed the matter from her mind.

A lovelier spot than that on which Diane’s castle of Anet stood could not be found in the whole of Europe. Past its high stone walls flowed the Eure, and beyond it stretched out the gently sloping vineyards. Diane, under Henry’s guidance, was doing everything humanly possible to make the place all that huntsmen could desire; she had enclosed a small but thick forest in which wild beasts were preserved; her stables were acknowledged to contain some of the best horses in the country; the castle itself combined luxury with comfort, and to Henry it was home.

He was growing up. He was past sixteen, and out of this idyllic friendship that had begun on the day of his first encounter with his beautiful benefactress, passion was beginning to grow.

As for Diane herself, she was fond of the boy. She looked upon him as she might have looked upon a delicate plant which, after a doubtful start, had blossomed into unexpected beauty. He was her creation. She had pruned away the awkwardness until dignity had developed in its place; quiet he was, for she could not cultivate where there was no root; but she had taught him self-confidence; she had made him conscious of his royal standing. He was deeply grateful to her.

She had been quick to sense the change in his attitude toward herself. Once she had been a goddess, a saint in a stained-glass window; now she was the perfect woman. He had become a husband since the first days of their friendship, but nearly two years of married life, while doubtless it had made him aware of love and passion, had not taught him to love his wife.

Diane had known for some time that this was a problem she had to face.

expecting him to arrive at Anet on this day. Soon she would hear the horns of the huntsmen who would ride with him. She would see him, at the head of his attendants, come clattering into the courtyard, colour in his usually pale cheeks, his eyes bright with eagerness at the thought of seeing her.

She was fresh and perfumed from her bath. This odd habit of taking frequent baths alarmed her women. They thought that the baths contained some magic which kept her young; it amused Diane to see the fearful way in which they poured out asses’ milk and emptied it away when the bath was over. They asked themselves how any woman could, without the aid of magic, preserve a perfect figure such as Diane possessed, after the birth of two children. It was no use telling them that exercise did that for her. They would not believe it. Diane was up with the dawn, when she rode for two hours in the fresh morning air; after that she returned to her couch, where she read until midday, thus preserving not only an elasticity of body, but of mind. Diane said she lived by regular habits which she had proved to be good; those about her said she lived by magic.

As a practical Frenchwoman, she now knew that the time had come for her to make a decision. Henry was yearning to be her lover, but the suggestion that he should become so, must, as all suggestions between them, come from her.

She was by no means a sensual woman, and she did not feel the desire for a lover; she had been a faithful wife to her middle-aged husband, and she felt it no great hardship to live without him. Her horror at the King’s advances had been genuine; but now she could calmly consider those of his son.

She was more fond of Henry that she was of anyone also, even her own daughters. He was so dependent upon her; he adored her so naїvely. Would, she wondered, physical contact lessen or strengthen the bond between them? This step from the stained-glass window to the bedchamber needed a good deal of consideration. One thing was certain: Henry was in need of love, physical love.

If Diane did not give it, would he look elsewhere? If he did, and if he found it, Diane’s rule would necessarily decline. There were many people who thought the Italian girl colourless; Diane was not so sure. It might be that the girl preferred to keep in the background than make blunders. It was not folly which would lead her to act thus, but wisdom.

What was she to do? She was fond of the boy; she had come to regard him as important in her life. Was she to lose him to his wife or a possible mistress?

Moreover, for all his modesty, he was the King’s son― a person of some consequence in the court. Diane needed influential friends at court.

Mademoiselle d’Heilly was growing in importance― she had now been married to the Duke of Etampes to give her standing and respectability at court and she had always hated Diane. The woman was loved devotedly by the King; Diane must be loved in the same devoted manner by the King’s son. No! She could not risk losing Henry; he was too important to her both practically and emotionally.

She said to her woman: ‘Madeleine, do I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs?’

‘I think you may, Madame. I heard the horn full five minutes ago.’

Diane was smiling as she went to the window. She saw him ride into the courtyard at the head of his party. Yes, he was indeed a noble youth. He leaped from the saddle and called to his grooms with that air of authority which had grown from her coaching, and which he seemed to put on when he came to Anet.

A page came in. ‘Monsieur d’Orléans is here, Madame.’

‘Tell him he may come to me here.’

She was lying on the couch when he came in. She dismissed her attendants.

He knelt and kissed her left hand, and with her right, she touched his hair. It was thick and dark. She caressed it lightly, and he lifted his head and looked at her, so that she saw he was filled with emotion.

‘I had thought you would be here earlier,’ she said. ‘It seems long since you came.’

‘I rode hot-foot,’ he answered. ‘Never have miles seemed so long.’

‘You look at me oddly, Henry.’

‘You are so beautiful.’

She laughed lightly. ‘I am glad I find favour with you, my dearest friend.’

He kissed her hand again; his lips were hot and he was quivering with his passionate desire for her.

Marriage had indeed changed him. She thought: how is he the little Italian? She was faintly jealous of the child, envying her her youth and her status as his wife.

She said: ‘I think of you often, my dearest. Henry, I think I am a little jealous.’

He lifted his head to stare at her, not understanding; he was always slow of understanding.

‘Jealous,’ she said, ‘of Catherine.’

He flushed and looked quickly away from her. She liked his shyness,. How much more appealing it was than his father’s practiced ways!

She went on: ‘I am an old woman, Henry, compared with you. It makes me sad that I should be so old and you so young.’

He stammered: ‘You― you could never be old. You are perfect. Age? What is age? How I wish I were of an age with you! I would gladly throw away those years which separate us.’

She took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘How adorable you are, my Henry. You see, I think of you as mine. But I must not.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why― should you not?’

‘You must not come to Anet as you have been doing, my dearest. You see― we are friends; that is all. Always I shall think of you as my dearest friend. But now you are no longer a boy. You have a wife―’

‘But what has she to do with our friendship?’

‘Everything, Henry. You have a wife― and you visit me. How can we expect the rest of the world to understand this friendship of ours? They laugh.

They sneer. Mademoiselle d’Heilly― I should say Madame d’Etampes― has slandered us, Henry.’

‘How dare she!’

‘My darling, she dares much. Her position enables her to do so with impunity.’

‘I have always hated her. Oh, how dare she breathe a word against you!

Were she a man, I should challenge her.’

‘My chivalrous darling! A king’s son may not challenge another, you know.

You never do yourself justice. You are ever ready to forget your rank. I had to show you with my love and admiration that you were worthy of the world’s regard. I did. My God, I am glad that the task was mine. Every moment has been a joy to me. But now it is over. You have a wife. You must have children. You are no longer a boy who can visit a woman, if you wish to avoid gossip.’

‘Diane, I care not for that. I care for no one but you. Let them say what they will. I must come to you. I love you― you only. Nothing else in my life is of the slightest importance to me. I was miserable, and you changed my life so that I cannot live it without you. If they say I love you, then they are right.’

She said quietly: ‘It is not wise, is it, this friendship of ours?’

He stood up and turned his back to her. She knew that he was greatly excited, and that he was going to say that which he dared not say while he looked at her.

He stammered: ‘If― they― say that I am― your lover and you are my― mistress― then I am honoured. They could not shame me by such talk. They could only make me long that this were so.’

She did not speak, and suddenly he turned, and running to her, threw himself at her feet, burying his face in her black-and-white satin gown.

He stayed a week at Anet. He did not hunt. He spent the days with her as well as the nights. He was in a state of ecstasy; he was overwhelmed, shy and masterful in turns.

She thought: It is delightful to be loved like this. He talked a good deal, and it was unusual for him to talk very much, even to her; he sat at her feet, kissing her hands, as he poured out his heart to her. He explained his hatred for his father’s way of life, and how he had always longed for one love― one love alone; he had little dreamed that such a blessing could come to him. He wished he were not a King’s son. Then he might not be married to a wife whom he could not love; he could have married Diane. He would have been completely happy if their union could have had the blessing of the Church.

He wanted no other than Diane; he never would as long as he lived. She must not talk to him of age, for what did age matter to lovers? He wanted her to know that she was enshrined in his heart forever.

‘There will be your duty to your wife,’ she reminded him.

‘That is impossible now. It would be more distasteful even than before. I could never banish your image from my mind for one moment. I have not done so since I have known you.’

‘My darling,’ she said, ‘you are so wonderful.’

‘ I? ’ He was genuinely astonished. ‘But I am so unworthy.’

‘No, no. You are young and delightful and you mean everything you say.

You enchant me. I could not bear to lose you now. Henry, never let anyone part us.’

‘Never!’ he swore.

They exchanged rings. ‘I shall wear yours always,’ he told her.

They kissed solemnly.

‘These are our marriage vows,’ he told her.

His father sent word for him to return to Paris at once. He laughed. ‘I refuse to go.’

‘Henry, you must be wise. You dare not enflame his anger.’

‘I have no wish to go to Paris. There is only one place where to I wish to be.

Here― with you― at Anet. This is our home, Diane― yours and mine.’

‘Do not let this wonderful love of ours bring harm on either of us,’ she begged. ‘Remember the ruthless power of your father. He is quick to anger. He knows that you are with me. If you will not protect yourself from his anger, you must protect me.’

She knew that would be enough to send him riding back to Paris.

The court was at Fontainebleau, Francis’s favourite spot in the whole of France; he had not completed it to his satisfaction, and at this time was absorbed by the artistic work of Il Rosso on his, Francis’s, own gallery. Fontainebleau had a hundred delights to offer― a mixture of wild country and cultivated gardens, with the little Seine close by, pushing its way through the vineyards.

Francis was weary. He was trying to whip up his old enthusiasm for the new war he was proposing to carry into Italy. He could never stop thinking of Italy, and longed to add it to his possessions. It was a bitter blow that Clement should have died when he did, before he was able to pay Catherine’s dowry.

And then there must be petty matters at home to worry him. He was not well, and his sickness was manifested by an ugly abscess which made him feel weak and ill until it burst and healed. It was not the first time this troublous thing had worried him, and his physicians said that it was a good sign that it did appear, for if it did not, his condition would be serious. Francis, like Henry of England and Charles of Spain, was suffering from the results of excesses.

Anne, who heartily disliked Diane, had pointed out to him that Catherine had, as yet, no children. How, demanded Anne, could the poor child hope for them, when her husband spent time with the old woman of Anet? The King should talk to his son and point out where his duty lay.

While Francis could smile at his mistress’s jealousy of a woman who was almost as beautiful as herself, though some ten years older, he conceded that there was some truth in what she said.

Nearly two years of marriage and no child born to the young pair! It was far from satisfactory with the Dauphin still unmarried. The Dauphin himself presented yet another problem. A wife for young Francis was needed quickly.

The King was tired and his abscess was throbbing; and Italy was as far out of his reach as ever, in spite of his second son’s undignified marriage.

When Henry stood before him, Francis saw the difference in his son at once.

The conquering lover! So Diane had scorned the father and taken the son. Was the Grande Sénéchale of Normandy quite sane?

The King dismissed his attendants with a wave of the hand. ‘So,’ he said, ‘without permission you absent yourself from court. You were always a boor.

You came home smelling of a Spanish prison. Foy de gentilhomme! You shall not play your peasants’ tricks in my court.’

Henry was silent, though there was hatred in those dark eyes of his.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded the King.

‘You know. Did you not send for me at Anet?’

‘At Anet! Carousing with your aged mistress!’

Hot colour burned in the Prince’s face. His hand went to his sword.

Francis laughed. ‘ Pasques Dieu! She has put some fire into you, then! She has taught you that a sword is to be used and not merely to impede the gait.’

This reference to his awkwardness stung Henry to speech. ‘The example you have set us does not― er― does not―’

Francis cut in: ‘Come along! Come along!’ He mimicked Henry’s voice. ‘― is not one which my brothers and I, in the interests of virtue, should follow! That is what you are stammering about, is it not? But do not, my son, have the effrontery to place yourself with the Dauphin and the Duc d’Angoulême. These are men. They take their pleasure, but they are not ruled by one woman, so making themselves the laughing-stock of the court.’

Again that quick movement to the sword-hilt, that sharp pace forward.

My God, thought the King. I am liking this boorish son of mine the better when he shows anger.

‘It― is easy to see people laughing at others,’ said Henry, ‘but we do not always see them laughing at ourselves.’

‘Ah! There’s subtlety here. Pray explain your meaning.’

‘I care not if people laugh at me. Who are these people to laugh at a pure love? The morals of this court― set by yourself― are a matter to make the angels weep.’

Diane, thought the King. You have done your work well. ‘You are insolent, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Take care that you do not arouse my anger as well as my contempt.’

‘I care not for your anger, Sire.’

‘What!’ cried the King in mock anger. I will put you in a dungeon― and there your mistress cannot visit you.’

‘You are amusing yourself at my expense.’

The King went to his son and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen to me, my son. Do what you will. Have twenty mistresses. Why not? It is sometimes safer to have twenty than to be faithful to one. I no longer doubt that if any dare laugh in your face, you would know how to deal with him. But there is a serious outcome of all this flitting back and forth to Anet. What of the little Duchess, your wife?’

‘What of her?’

She is young; she is not without charm; get her with child, and then think of the months you might, with a free conscience, happily spend at Anet or wherever the fancy took you. None drank more freely of the fountain of love than I; yet however sparkling the drink, never did I forget my duty to my house and country.’

Henry was silent.

‘Think of these matters,’ said Francis more gently. ‘I would not keep you from your pleasure. The good God knows I am glad to see you growing up at last, for in faith I thought you never would. Women are a complement to the life of a man. Do they not give us birth, pleasure, children? I rejoice to see your inclinations take a natural turn, and I leave you to deal with any that should mock you. But I do ask this of you: remember your duty to your wife and to your line.’

Francis smiled at the sullen face before him and gave the boy’s shoulder a not unkindly slap. Let us be friends, Francis was saying. After all, you are my son. The long bright eyes were even a little wistful. He was rather big strong-looking boy.

But Henry looked away from his father, back into his childhood and there he saw the gloomy shadow of a Spanish prison.

It was Francis’s nature to forget what was unpleasant; but Henry forgot his friends― nor his enemies. He turned from the affection his father was offering him. There was one person in the world― and only one― whom he could love and trust.

At the jousts next day, he rode into combat, defiantly and proudly displaying the black-and-white colours of Diane de Poitiers.