and touched the tip of his beard.
“Fontainebleau?”
“Why, yes, of course. The King is to return tomorrow from business at Chambord, and the entourage will leave shortly after for his palace near Paris.”
“But we. . .I have been here little more than a week.”
Montgommery laughed out loud and took a long swill of wine. “Silly girl. If you mean to find a place to settle, this Court is not the place for you! His Majesty loves nothing better these days than to uproot us all and take us packing from chateau to chateau. Apparently he finds excitement in the moving. After having been here the better part of two years now, I personally find it nothing more than tedious. On such trips the lot of us, those who do not share his bed or his favor, that is, are reduced to scrambling for inns or farmhouses at which to spend the night whenever he deems that he is weary. It is a bit like the game of musical chairs; hundreds of courtiers, servants and guards, all scrambling at the same time for only a few dozen beds. The great bulk of us know only too well the sound of chattering teeth or the feel of sod under our blankets for having to make our bed in any field we can find.”
Montgommery took another sip of wine. “But then we all do what we have to do, to stay in His Majesty’s good graces, do we not?”
“Well, you could be right, Monsieur. Perhaps this Court is no longer a place for me.” She glanced around the room. “So many things have changed, and I feel positively ridiculous here. There is not another single person in this apartment anywhere near my age.”
“Oh, Madame, surely you are mistaken. The Admiral is at least that!” He caught the slight in his words as he said them, but delivered them so quickly that he was at a loss to stop their expression. “Or older!” he added feebly.
Montgommery by her side, Diane tried to mingle but all the while she waited like a hen for slaughter. Anne d’Heilly might wear a mask of civility, but her eyes, those piercing emerald eyes, gave away her true intent.
“Oh, they are going to do the Passepied! Madame, dance with me!” Jacques pleaded.
Before she had a chance to object, they were gliding together toward the area of the room that had been set aside for dancing. It was opposite the hearth, where the large Turkish carpets had been rolled back. As she danced, Diane could not stop her thoughts from drifting back to the anonymous poetry that had mysteriously made its way into her apartments the day before. She was certain that it was the work of the King’s mistress. Before long, however, she was caught up in the complex steps of the latest dance and even began to enjoy it.
“Oh, I have had enough, Jacques!” She laughed and broke from him.
She walked toward a table filled with silver trays of small sweet pies and candied fruits. Beside them, a steward stood clad in red and blue livery, holding a tray of silver wine goblets. Diane took one and handed it to Jacques, then took another for herself.
As she began to breathe easier, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand and noticed her companion’s attention begin to wane. His eyes looked beyond her. After another moment of his fading attention, Diane turned around and found the subject by whom Jacques was now so openly riveted. It was Anne d’Heilly’s attendant, Caroline d’Estillac. The very stylishly dressed young woman had been commanding attention from a bevy of other courtiers for the better part of the evening. At the moment, she was speaking with the King’s new young page, François de Guise, but it was clear that she was caught up in Jacques de Montgommery’s flirtatious glances.
“Nice looking pair, do you not think?” Diane grinned as she looked back at Jacques.
“Oh, she would never couple with a boy like—”
Before he finished his sentence, he caught a glimpse of the smile broadening on Diane’s smooth pink lips. The surprise of her observation returned his attention completely
“Fontainebleau?”
“Why, yes, of course. The King is to return tomorrow from business at Chambord, and the entourage will leave shortly after for his palace near Paris.”
“But we. . .I have been here little more than a week.”
Montgommery laughed out loud and took a long swill of wine. “Silly girl. If you mean to find a place to settle, this Court is not the place for you! His Majesty loves nothing better these days than to uproot us all and take us packing from chateau to chateau. Apparently he finds excitement in the moving. After having been here the better part of two years now, I personally find it nothing more than tedious. On such trips the lot of us, those who do not share his bed or his favor, that is, are reduced to scrambling for inns or farmhouses at which to spend the night whenever he deems that he is weary. It is a bit like the game of musical chairs; hundreds of courtiers, servants and guards, all scrambling at the same time for only a few dozen beds. The great bulk of us know only too well the sound of chattering teeth or the feel of sod under our blankets for having to make our bed in any field we can find.”
Montgommery took another sip of wine. “But then we all do what we have to do, to stay in His Majesty’s good graces, do we not?”
“Well, you could be right, Monsieur. Perhaps this Court is no longer a place for me.” She glanced around the room. “So many things have changed, and I feel positively ridiculous here. There is not another single person in this apartment anywhere near my age.”
“Oh, Madame, surely you are mistaken. The Admiral is at least that!” He caught the slight in his words as he said them, but delivered them so quickly that he was at a loss to stop their expression. “Or older!” he added feebly.
Montgommery by her side, Diane tried to mingle but all the while she waited like a hen for slaughter. Anne d’Heilly might wear a mask of civility, but her eyes, those piercing emerald eyes, gave away her true intent.
“Oh, they are going to do the Passepied! Madame, dance with me!” Jacques pleaded.
Before she had a chance to object, they were gliding together toward the area of the room that had been set aside for dancing. It was opposite the hearth, where the large Turkish carpets had been rolled back. As she danced, Diane could not stop her thoughts from drifting back to the anonymous poetry that had mysteriously made its way into her apartments the day before. She was certain that it was the work of the King’s mistress. Before long, however, she was caught up in the complex steps of the latest dance and even began to enjoy it.
“Oh, I have had enough, Jacques!” She laughed and broke from him.
She walked toward a table filled with silver trays of small sweet pies and candied fruits. Beside them, a steward stood clad in red and blue livery, holding a tray of silver wine goblets. Diane took one and handed it to Jacques, then took another for herself.
As she began to breathe easier, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand and noticed her companion’s attention begin to wane. His eyes looked beyond her. After another moment of his fading attention, Diane turned around and found the subject by whom Jacques was now so openly riveted. It was Anne d’Heilly’s attendant, Caroline d’Estillac. The very stylishly dressed young woman had been commanding attention from a bevy of other courtiers for the better part of the evening. At the moment, she was speaking with the King’s new young page, François de Guise, but it was clear that she was caught up in Jacques de Montgommery’s flirtatious glances.
“Nice looking pair, do you not think?” Diane grinned as she looked back at Jacques.
“Oh, she would never couple with a boy like—”
Before he finished his sentence, he caught a glimpse of the smile broadening on Diane’s smooth pink lips. The surprise of her observation returned his attention completely
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