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.