‘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.