The French King’s Mistress: Diane de Portiers

The mortuary chapel stands serenely in the French countryside with its manicured lawns and waving trees with their fresh, lime-green buds, and brilliant flowered gardens. The chapel rests not far from the swooping arches, French windows, mansard roof and medieval splendor of the Chateau d’ Anet.

It’s spring in Normandy, a lazy, picturesque, 45-minute drive from Paris, as the pearly pinks of morning welcome yet another reawakening of nature. The chateau was built by Philibert de l’Orme from 1547 to 1552 for Diane de Poitiers, the mistress of Henry II of France. A gift from the king, it was built at the center of the domains of Diane’s deceased husband, Louis de Breze, Seigneur d’Anet, Marshal of Normandy and Master of the Hunt.

A statue of Diane as Diana, goddess of the hunt, and a relief portraying her by the Italian master Benvenuto Cellini artfully adorns the chateau’s façade. The architect of the gardens designed the gardens of three French kings.

Inside the medieval chapel, a black coffin rests upon a catafalque. Jacques de Poitiers, lean and aristocratic appearing at the age of 49, arranges a red ribbon with gold letters that states Diane de Poitiers 1499-1566. Eyes of the assembled mourners lower solemnly as he speaks.

I, Jacques de Poitiers, as the last of the Poitiers, have the honor today to return the mortal remains of Diane de Poitiers to rest eternally at her beloved chateau. She will remain forever in the heart of her beloved king, Henry II, and in the nation she served, France.

Wearing a finely cut black tuxedo, he places a wreath of crimson roses on her coffin. A scene he has often envisioned flashes across his mind. It’s the three-day jousting tournament at the Palais des Tournelles celebrating the anniversary of the queen’s coronation. By agreeing to wed her, the Spanish Emperor Carlos V had agreed to free the French King Francois I who was languishing in a freezing, stench-filled cell in a somber tower outside of Madrid. Now his sons, too, freed four years later from horrible Spanish prisons, are back in France at last.

CHAPTER 2

Jacques recalls all the details vividly. Trumpets sound, King Francois I looks down on his sons at their first tournament, small, pale figures in chain mail and shining armor. Both enter mounted as their pages carry their standards. The dauphin, Francois II, age 13, and his brother, Prince Henry, age 11, bow to their father, the king. Both are expert horsemen. The tall, muscular, handsome king nods and then cautiously looks down at his thighs. Soft, feminine fingers move between his strong thighs, squeeze hard and then slowly massage his bulging codpiece. His breathing becomes more rapid, and his eyes focus on a distant cloud. He pushes his thighs forward ever so slightly.

Tournaments, parades and executions provide the entertaining spectacles of the day. The tournaments are held to enhance warrior skills. Audiences are bound to silence. The jousting takes place in the lists, marked lanes where mounted riders charge each other with lances poised. The goal: unhorse one’s opponent. Rider and horse are armored; serious injuries are not unknown.

The king’s mistress, the Duchess d’ Etampes, secure in her beauty and wit, smiles as her fingers work their magic and they feel the king respond. She hears a feminine snicker nearby. The king smiles politely at a snickering countess whose abundant flesh battles mightily to escape the confines of her magnificent dress. She nods and smiles knowingly. The king thinks that perhaps someday countess it will be your turn. After all, my motto is a court without ladies is like spring without flowers.

The finely figured Duchess d’ Etampes is creature of her age. Her virtue depends on her goal of the moment. And why not? Her father had three wives and 30 children. She early learned she had three ways to make her way, the convent, marriage or the beds of rich men. The queen mother accepted her as a lady-in-waiting after the king pressed her case because of her sparkle, laughter, wit and other talents.

The duchess would always choose to act, not wait. She was not afraid to ask the king as she had asked other men: What do you want of me? What arouses your passion? How can I best fulfill your fantasies in bed and in life. I have grace, honor and a jewel box. I enjoy money. If we understand each other, I am yours. A kiss to begin our adventure?

The duchess has fine skin, large breasts which she tends to hide under her rich gowns, nipples which grow stiff and upright quickly and large aureole which amazed her as she grew up. Even her young sisters giggled when comparisons were made. The king, too, was amazed and then drawn to them as he fondled, suckled and worshiped them. She has smooth, curvy hips, shapely legs and a prominent, soft mound. Her beautifully crafted face features heavenly blue, beckoning eyes. They seem to ask: Do you want me, can you afford me? Can you laugh easily? My chest of jewels is not yet full.

Last night was delightful, the king begins and then a clash of armor interrupts his thoughts.

I never get enough of you, Sire, she says as she pulls a blanket over the king’s lap, deftly reaches below his doublet, frees his organ, squeezes it hard and then milks it slowly, but firmly, as the king’s breathing becomes more rapid.

He sighs and recalls entering her bedroom last night where a pungent rose perfume overcame him. Candles flickered, illuminating her naked curves against her black satin sheets. She rose quickly, pulled off his rich garments and pushed him onto her huge bed. She kissed him wildly and pushed him against her pillows. He collapsed in laughter before reaching for her and pulling her atop him.

Welcome, Sire, she said. "When I first met you I wondered if your sword was as long as your nose and fingers. Now I know it is longer. He breathed quickly and arched his back as she reached down, kissed his penis and worked it with her hands. She knew this is the most comfortable position for the king, flat on his back, which seemed to lengthen his pleasure. She loved kissing his face and watching the excitement flash across his eyes. Without waiting, her warm fingers invitingly brought his pulsating sword to life and guided it gently and caressingly into her warm, tight vagina after she gingerly pulled back his foreskin to give him maximum pleasure.

Then she thrust her hips to meet his every stroke. She maneuvered his throbbing organ, trying different angles as her clitoris stiffened, enjoying each thrust. She gyrated her hips in a circular motion, then opened wide her legs and lifted them to give the king deeper penetration. As their passion grew she wrapped her feet around his buttocks and pulled him deeper and deeper. She increased her rhythmic thrusts. She screamed as an orgasm shook her body, thrilling every cell. Breathing hard, she slowed the motion of her gyrating hips, but warned the king, Not yet, not yet, my pet. More pleasure awaits you. The rhythm of her hips slowed tantalizingly.

Armor clashes, but the king finds his attention focused on a bright blanket that the duchess has spread across his lap.

It’s very attractive, don’t you think, Sire? I think you’ll be glad that I brought it.

A surprise?

I always attempt to surprise you, Sire. I think you’ll agree.

The warm fingers of the duchess’s right hand slide under the blanket and then give it a sensuous rhythm, sometimes slow, other times rapid. She leans into him, cups his warm, hairy testicles in her left palm and circles her wrist as her right hand moves faster. She whispers in his ear, This tension is too much for you, Sire. You need a pleasant release.

The blanket comes alive as she whispers encouragement in the king’s ear, while her hands to do their work under the blanket. Then, without warning, the royal sperm shoots across her hands and explodes wetly against her blanket, soaking it. The crowd roars and the king moans loudly. She fixes her eyes on the king, kisses him lightly on the cheek and a wide smile spreads across her finely featured face.

The crowd did not need to cheer me. Exciting, wasn’t it, Sire. Your face is flushed. Perhaps your doublet was too tight.

You know how to capture a king’s attention, my dear. Remind me tomorrow to purchase another blanket and a dress of your choice for you.

She wipes the royal sperm off her hands, rolls up the blanket and drops it under the stands.

CHAPTER 3

A thunderous roar fills the arena. The king readjust his clothes as he returns to the present reality, sighs deeply, and says, My sons look well after four years in Spanish prisons, considering ….

The duchess lets his words hang on the air. Considering what, Pampered One?

I was in a Spanish jail too. A filthy cell in Madrid not fit for a rat. The stench was unbearable.

One-half of the knights of France, ten thousand, were not so lucky, Sire. They died in six hours at the battle of Pavia in Italy.

Twice my horse was killed from under me. The white plume of my helmet was knocked to the ground by a sword’s blow. I refused to surrender, but, alas, I was a foolhardy commander. I had some 30,000 soldiers and 370 pieces of artillery. And I lost. A French fool in that magnificent land of Italy. My army fell into that Spanish bastard’s trap. Emperor Charles V got lucky. That bastard! But, ah, wonderful Italy.

And?

It took four long, miserable years and 200,000 gold ducats to ransom my sons. The four tons of gold were carried on hundreds of mules, escorted by 400 cavalry, and then I had to I marry Eleanor at the Spanish emperor’s demand, but I would have married Charles’s mule to be back in France."

Are your son’s relearning to speak French?

Slowly. Four years in prison is a long time. The dauphin, 13, remains in fragile health, but his infectious laugh is returning.

The dauphin is escorted by pages flashing brightly colored banners as he enters the lists. It’s the brothers' first tournament. The dauphin spurs his powerful charger, his heavy lance is thrown skyward, but he doesn’t fall from his saddle. His horse wheels, charges again and the dauphin’s lance quickly unhorses his opponent. His opponent smiles secretly and thinks Me, embarrass the dauphin, do you take me for a fool? When he’s king I may need his favor.

The dauphin, the warm sun in the king’s universe, tips his helmet visor to his father. The king nods appreciatively and says, Handsome lad, Francois. My kingdom will flourish under him. But his younger brother, Henry, God spare us from that dull, dim-witted lad.

Young Prince Henry, flanked by heralds, takes a deep breath and rides up to the Women’s Gallery. He looks gaunt and grave, but rides straight in the saddle and carries the weight of his armor well. He fears life and its pleasures; a gloom seems to surround him. The crowd assumes he will stop in front of the king’s mistress as Henry’s brother has honored the king’s mistress with a salute.

Instead, Henry reigns in his charger and looks up at the lovely Diane de Poitiers, a radiant woman at 30, whose porcelain skin, crimson-gold hair and exquisite features offset her emerald green dress. Her long neck, tall, slender body, strong arms and legs from riding, long fingers, white teeth, and elegant clothes make her the ideal of her time. Her style, grace and refinement are never questioned yet she has little liking for jewels.

According to the standards of chivalry, each contestant can chose a lady from the audience for whose honor he will fight. Surprised by the intensity in the youthful eyes of Henry, she nods and offers a loving smile. In a squeaky voice of confusing French, the prince loses his courage for a moment, regains it and says, My lady, I beg your service. Allow me to wear your colors on my lance.

Diane replies in a dignified, formal voice so all can hear, I’m greatly honored, Your Grace. She stands, unties a green pennant from behind her seat, leans over and ties it to Henry’s lance. Henry looks up at her lowered bosom, feels its nearness and a deep longing fills him. Everything but her smile disappears from his mind and he momentarily forgets to wheel his horse away. The ladies behind Diane titter. Enraptured, Henry thinks that no one smiles at me with such kindness.

She feels like bending down and giving him a kiss on the forehead and a motherly hug, but says so all the gallery can hear Good luck. Yes, she thinks, good luck you wonderful boy. I held you at birth even before your mother. I’ve been there for you in all your times of trial. You have suffered more than men three times your age. May God bless you with good luck.

Trumpets blare while the king thinks the tournament is costing him a fortune. Henry, quick, well-built, with dark, brooding eyes, nods, slams down his helmet visor, wields his lance with elan, spurs his horse and rides off to the lists. He rides powerfully and well, thinks Diane, in his way he rides as gracefully as I do. If he wins, he’ll be my knight for the day as is the custom.

Henry charges his opponent as the hooves of his horse pound, loses his courage for a moment, then lifts his lance and drives it into his opponent’s armor while barely fending off his opponent’s thrust. Both are nearly unhorsed. A thunderous roar greets them. Henry wheels his horse and charges again. Another booming clash momentarily silences the crowd. Again the pair charge, lances clash and Henry’s opponent is tossed to the ground. Surprised, Henry looks down on the sprawled body of his opponent. I am good at only sport, Henry thinks. But I did it for my love, not my father. I hate him and his whores.

Nearby, memories flood back to Diane as she recalls kissing the miserable, small Prince Henry goodbye before