‘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.