Free Courtesan by Diane Haeger Page B

presence of the Pope in Rome did little to balance out this powerful triangle. Despite his forbidding presence, the Pontiff had not been a real threat or a support to any side. It was in reality a weak papacy. Clement VII blew with the winds. Now, as subtle as a spring breeze, the winds were changing. In François’ mind a stormy offensive was brewing against the Emperor. At this point Henry VIII held all of the cards, and the sly fox knew it.
    If Henry sided with the Emperor against François, there would be no hope of France taking Italy. There would be no hope of his ever gaining back what he had lost. Unless of course, to get what he desired, the King of France gave the Pope what he desired in return. A French bridegroom for his niece. Perhaps then the pontiff would find the courage to stand with France against the Emperor, after all.
    As Anne slept, François rose and looked back at her. She did not stir. She was not troubled by any of this, and she had no idea how it troubled him. As long as she was rich and adored, he thought, she was happy. The tile floor was cold beneath his bare feet and he shivered in the alcove near his bed. After another moment, he rapped on the door for one of his gentlemen-of-the-chamber to stoke the fire which, in the early hours of morning, had begun to sputter.
    Henry VIII or Pope Clement. Those were the choices if he meant to regain Milan from the Emperor. And yet, surrendering his eldest son, his heir, to a degrading political marriage. . .in that there was no choice at all.
    “No,” he whispered. “I cannot. I must not. The English Ambassador will suggest a course to ally with Henry VIII. I will meet with him tomorrow. There will be another way. There must!”
    François crawled back beneath the covers and pressed himself against Anne’s warm flesh. The heat from her body warmed his own cold skin. It aroused him even more than his thoughts had done. He ran his rough fingers across each of her breasts. The contours of her small body excited him. Thank God for his little tart. In her arms he could stave off all of this madness, if only for a while. He reached up and, as she slept, stroked the fine alabaster flesh around her neck. What a good tumble she still was, when he was so inclined to have her. It always amazed him, even now, how ready and willing she was to secure her position by any means he desired. She knew how to please him. Like all successful courtesans, she had made his pleasure her life’s work.
    He touched her cheek and her eyes opened. She was beguiling, always knowing when he wanted her; always making him pay for her favors in one way or another. So beautiful and so cruel. He craved the contradiction. It was still early, he thought. As the servant stoked the fire to a fitful blaze, he drew the bedcurtains. There was still time before his
lever
began to avail himself, at least once more, of his little Anne’s very potent charms.
             
    “P LEASE , M ADAME, PERMIT me to speak!” Jacques de Montgommery called out.
    Diane continued down the pillared open gallery that faced the enclosed garden. She was holding open her book of verse as though she were concentrating on some particular passage. She looked down, but still could hear the sound of Montgommery’s footsteps on the stone as he advanced behind her.
    “Please, I ask only for a moment. Then I shall go away, if that is still what you desire.”
    Diane slowed and turned around. He looked ill. His skin was pasty and he had not changed his clothes from the night before. His doublet was gone and his yellow shirt was crumpled and stained.
    “You look dreadful,” she said.
    “I suppose that is part of the penance for my behavior last evening. It is no match for the way my head feels.”
    Diane closed her book and drew a little nearer. As she did, the smell of wine and vomit caught her and she stepped back, placing her hand to her mouth. Montgommery saw her and stepped back a pace himself.
    “Ah, yes. I