Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

‘Besides, you don’t want your beautiful clothes to be ruined.’ Sœur Seraphina smiled at me. She had a faint foreign accent, which I thought might be Italian as she sounded rather like the Mazarinettes, the seven nieces of Cardinal Mazarin, who had scandalised Versailles for years. ‘You would not wish to work in the laundries or the kitchens in such glorious golden silk.’

  I gazed at her in dismay.

  ‘An idle brain is the devil’s playground,’ Sœur Emmanuelle said. ‘Strip.’

  I sighed. ‘Someone will have to help me. I cannot undress myself.’

  Sœur Seraphina gently removed my lace fontanges. It was named for the King’s mistress Angélique de Fontanges, who had lost her hat while hunting one day and had hastily tied up her curls with her garter. The King had admired the effect, and the next day all the court ladies had appeared with their curls tied back with lace. Angélique was dead now, of course, and had been for sixteen years, but we still all wore the fontanges, vying with each other for height and elaborateness.

  One by one, Sœur Seraphina unfastened my skirts. First la secrète, of heavy gold embroidered all over with honeybees and flowers, and then la friponne, of golden tulle, clipped to the outer skirt with jewelled clasps in the shape of butterflies, and last la fidèle, of pale gold silk brocade. The dress had cost me a fortune, but I had gladly paid it as a subtle compliment to His Majesty, who, like the King Bee, ruled the hive.

  ‘If you’d like to finish disrobing …’ Sœur Seraphina held up a black cloak for me to hide behind as I pulled off my fine chemise and put on the one of coarse unbleached linen that she passed me. I then unrolled my silk stockings and passed them to her, then stood waiting for more clothes to be passed back to me. None came.

  ‘I am sorry, mademoiselle,’ Sœur Seraphina said. ‘I must examine you to make sure you are not with child. Our abbey cannot afford the scandal of a baby being born within our cloisters.’

  I stared at her in disbelief. ‘I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘I need to make sure. If you would please lie on the table.’ Sœur Seraphina indicated a sturdy table behind me, a white linen cloth spread over the dark oak.

  ‘My word should be enough.’

  ‘You may not know yourself.’

  ‘Zut alors. If I don’t know, how will you?’

  ‘I am the convent’s apothecary. Believe me, I can tell if a woman is with child.’

  ‘And no doubt tell her how to get rid of it too.’

  Sœur Seraphina said nothing, though her face was grave. Sœur Emmanuelle hissed, ‘That would be a mortal sin. You sully our walls with your words.’

  ‘Please,’ Sœur Seraphina said. ‘I will not hurt you if you submit, but, if you fight, my sisters will need to hold you down and then it will be much harder for me to be gentle.’

  I huffed out an angry sigh. ‘Make it quick then.’

  ‘Please lie down and lift your chemise.’

  I lay down on the table, my legs pressed together, and shifted my body so I could lift up my chemise. Sœur Seraphina must have warmed her hands at the fire, for her fingers were not as icy cold as I had expected. Quickly, she poked and prodded my stomach and then gently squeezed my breasts. A flippant comment sprang to my lips. I shut my teeth and said nothing. She pulled the chemise down over my belly, saying softly, ‘Her womb is not distended.’

  ‘No. I did tell you.’

  ‘I need you to open your legs now.’

  I squeezed my knees together. ‘Surely that’s not necessary.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I need to make a full examination.’

  ‘We know what the court of the King is like,’ Sœur Emmanuelle said.

  ‘Do you? For I must admit I wonder how. For your information, His Majesty the King is a pious man indeed these days and the whole court in an agony of ennui.’

  ‘If you please.’ Sœur Seraphina pushed my knees apart. For a moment, I resisted, gritting my teeth together, but once again I reminded myself I had nowhere else to go. I could only endure as she gently slid her fingers inside me. It lasted just a moment but I felt scalded with humiliation.

  As she removed her hand and turned away to wash herself, I sat up and pulled my chemise down over my knees. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘She is not with child,’ Sœur Seraphina said to Sœur Emmanuelle.

  ‘And?’ the novice mistress demanded.

  Sœur Seraphina shook her head.

  ‘If she means am I still a virgin, then I must let you know that I … I was once married.’ I had to force the words out through a large lump in my throat. Tears were burning my eyes.

  ‘Once? Where then is your husband?’ Sœur Emmanuelle demanded.

  I pressed my hands together. ‘My … my husband is …’ I could not say the words.

  Sœur Seraphina made a soft sympathetic sound.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Sœur Berthe said. ‘We didn’t know you were a widow. The letter from the King called you “mademoiselle”.’

  ‘I am mademoiselle,’ I answered harshly. ‘Must I sit here shivering in this dreadful cold? Pass me some clothes.’

  The nuns exchanged wondering glances. Sœur Emmanuelle’s face was alive with curiosity. I swear I saw her nostrils flare at the scent of scandal like a pig’s at the smell of deep-buried truffles.

  I gave her my coldest glare, standing stiffly as Sœur Berthe tied up my stays for me. I then allowed Sœur Berthe to help me into a heavy black dress, which smelt unpleasantly of the lye in which it had been washed. Added to this was a long apron, like a peasant might wear, dark stockings in thick itchy wool, tied above my knee by a length of leather string, then the ugliest sabots I had ever seen.

  I cannot describe the revulsion I felt wearing these clothes. They made me feel ill. It was not just their smell, their itch, their roughness; it was their ugliness. I have always adored beautiful clothes. I loved the sheen of satin and the sensuousness of velvet. I loved the beauty of the embroidery, the delicacy of the lace, the shush-shush-shush of silk moving against the floor. I liked to lie in my bed in the morning and think about what I might wear that day. With my choice of clothes, I could pay a subtle compliment to the King or win the attention of a man I wished to become my lover. I enjoyed planning some daring new fashion, like catching up my skirts with a ribbon to reveal my high-heeled slippers, or being the first to wear a dress of black ‘winter lace’ over a pale cream satin the same colour as my skin. I felt like a butterfly stripped of its gaudy wings by some cruel boy.

  Sœur Seraphina carefully removed the pins from my hair and let the artificial curls tumble down. She then removed a pair of shears from her basket and, before I could utter more than a startled cry, chopped off all of my hair with a few quick decisive snaps. It fell to the floor in writhing black snakes.

  ‘Mordieu! Not my hair.’ I clutched at my head, dismayed to feel my hair bristle against my palm like the spines of a baby hedgehog.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sœur Seraphina said. ‘All postulants must have their hair cropped.’

  ‘Much easier to keep it free of lice,’ Sœur Berthe said.

  ‘You didn’t say … no one warned me …’ My hands were still clutching my head. I’ll have to buy a wig like an old lady, I thought. I can’t appear at court with cropped hair! But wigs are so expensive … Tears prickled my eyes. ‘You had no right. You should have warned me. I’d never have agreed to let you cut my hair.’

  Sœur Theresa began to gather up the shorn locks.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ I seized her by the arm. ‘That is my hair. You probably plan to sell it to a wig-maker. Well, it’s mine. If anyone is to sell it, it’s me.’

  Sœur Theresa shrugged and let me snatch the locks of hair and thrust them into my portmanteau. ‘You must give up your bag to us also. We shall keep it safe for you in the storeroom.’

  ‘But I have my writing tools in there. My quills, my ink, my penknife …’

  ‘You have no need for such things here,’ Sœur Theresa said.

  ‘Novic
es are not permitted to write letters,’ Sœur Emmanuelle said.

  ‘But I must write. I must write to the King, and to my friends at court. I must write to my sister so she knows where I am … and my stories. How am I to write my stories?’

  ‘Stories?’ Sœur Emmanuelle spoke scornfully. ‘You think you may waste your time here writing such frivolous stuff? Think again, mademoiselle.’ She seized my portmanteau, trying to wrest it away from me.

  I struggled against her. ‘You have no right. How dare you?’

  Sœur Berthe came to her assistance. The portmanteau was wrenched from my arms and emptied on the table. Sœur Emmanuelle snapped my quills in half, emptied the bottle of ink into the pail, and crumpled the sheets of parchment and threw them in the fire.

  I tried to stop her but was held back by Sœur Berthe’s brawny arms. She did not release me, no matter how hard I kicked her with my heavy wooden clogs. ‘Salope,’ I cried, and, ‘Putain,’ and all the other curses and maledictions I could think of, but it did no good.

  My quills and ink and parchment were gone, and with them any chance of writing my way out of this prison.

  CASTLES IN THE AIR

  The Abbey of Gercy-en-Brie, France – January 1697

  That night, I lay in my bed and wept.

  The tears came like summer storms, shaking my body and snatching away my breath. Eventually, I would stop, exhausted, but then I would think again of all I had lost, and the tears would flow again.

  My writing tools were my most precious belongings. My best quill pen was made from a raven’s feather. When my husband, Charles, gave it to me, he told me it was as black and glossy as my hair, and as sharp as my wit. I only used it to write my stories; letters, gambling IOUs and billets-doux were all written with goose quills I had trimmed and shaped myself with my silver penknife, which had been the last gift from my mother. I was often so poor that I could not pay my mantua-maker, but I always invested in the best ink and parchment. I smoothed it with pumice stone till it was as white and fine as my own skin, ready to absorb the rapid scratching of my quill.

  At least my bundles of precious manuscripts were safe in my trunk. Or were they? Perhaps the nuns had gone through my trunk as well and thrown all my manuscripts on the fire. The thought caused me actual pain, as if my chest was being compressed with stones. So many dark hours of the night spent writing by the light of a single candle instead of sleeping. So many hours stolen from my duties as maid of honour, writing instead of standing for hours on aching feet and pretending to smile at the antics of the royal dwarves. Three of my novels had been published – anonymously, of course, to avoid the King’s censors. To my surprise and delight, they had sold well enough and had even brought me in a little money. I had been working on another, a secret history of Gustave of Sweden, which I had hoped to publish soon. What would I do if it was all burnt to ashes?

  As I moved my head restlessly on my limp pillow, I felt acutely the lack of my hair. I put up one hand and brushed it against the bristles.

  My hair had always been my one beauty. Even when I was only a little girl, it had been Nanette’s pride and joy. Every night, she would loosen it from its ribbons and brush it for me, while I told her all about the triumphs or petty tribulations of the day. In those days, Nanette was only a young woman, with more tenderness than fierceness in her black eyes. Under her white cap, her hair was fine and fair, and she had a soft bosom I liked to lean against.

  Once a week, she would massage my head with rosemary oil and carefully brush it with a fine-toothed comb, squashing any nits she found on an old linen rag.

  ‘Here’s a big one,’ she’d say.

  ‘Let me see. Oooh, it’s a grand-papa. He’s big enough to be a great-grand-papa.’

  ‘I don’t know where you get them all from. I could’ve sworn you were swept clean of the little beasts last week. Have you been playing with the miller’s children again?’

  ‘Well, yes, Nanette, but then who else do I have to play with?’

  ‘Not with snotty-nosed lice-ridden peasants.’

  ‘We’ve built a fort, Nanette. We’re playing the religious wars.’

  ‘Oh, my little cabbage, that’s not such a good game to play. Can’t you play something nice? Can’t you just play houses?’

  ‘But that’s so boring. We like to have battles. I’m the leader of the réformés and Jacques is the leader of the scarlet whores …’

  ‘Bon-bon! Don’t you speak like that. You must be careful.’

  ‘Of what?’ I twisted my head around to look at her in surprise.

  ‘Not everyone in France thinks like your mother, Bon-bon. The réformés lost the war, remember, and the King – God bless his soul – is Catholic.’

  I sighed. It was so hard to understand how the King could be both our monarch and our enemy. Nanette was perturbed, I could tell, her hand heavy on the comb. ‘Ow. That hurts! Don’t dig so hard.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is that better? Look, another big one.’

  ‘That one’s the great-grand-mama. Look behind my ears, Nanette. That’s the nursery, where all the babies are. Do you think nits have nurses too, Nanette?’

  ‘They’d need them with this many babies,’ Nanette grumbled, tilting my head to one side as she combed behind my ear.

  ‘When nits are all grown up, they climb the hill and look out for enemies.’

  ‘Invaders from the heads of the miller’s children.’

  ‘Yes. And then they fight them off … What would nits use for weapons, Nanette?’

  ‘Their teeth, I expect. Stop squirming, Bon-bon. If you sit still, I’ll tell you a story.’

  Nanette had a great storehouse of stories in her head: funny stories about a wicked fox or a fisherman whose wife wished his nose was a sausage; scary stories about giants that ate little girls, and ghosts, and goblins; and sweet stories about shepherds and shepherdesses falling in love. Whenever Nanette wanted me to sit still – while doing up my boot hooks or sewing up a dragging hem – she knew that all she had to do was promise me a story and at once I would stop wriggling and complaining and sit as quietly as she could wish.

  Where was Nanette tonight? Had she been given a bed or forced to endure the long journey back to Versailles with the carriage? She was so old and frail now, the journey would have exhausted her. I hoped she was sleeping comfortably somewhere. I would have to beg the nuns for some of my money back so I could pay for her to go home to the Château de Cazeneuve. She had left the chateau with me thirty-one years ago, when I had been summoned to court, and, like me, had never been back. I knew I could trust my sister, Marie, to have a care for her. How shocked Marie would be to hear I’d been banished to a nunnery. The thought brought a fresh rush of tears. I wanted Marie to be proud of me, her clever sister who served the royal family.

  I heard a shuffle of feet, and then someone came into my cell. I tensed and lifted myself on my elbow. It was Sœur Emmanuelle. I could just see her long white face with its high-bred nose in the dim light of the lantern that had been left burning in the corridor. She was dressed in a loose chemise, with a shabby old shawl huddled about her shoulders.

  Wiping away my tears, I rose higher on my elbow and opened my mouth to speak, but Sœur Emmanuelle lifted her finger to her lips and shook her head. I shut my mouth again. She nodded briefly, lifted the little clay pitcher next to my pallet and poured me a cup of water. She then sat beside me on the bed, passing me the cup. I drank obediently. The water was icy cold, but refreshing. I felt my shudders ease a little. She took the cup away and put it back on the table. Then she laid both hands beside her cheek, like a child pretending to sleep.

  Exhausted, I lay down again. She dampened my handkerchief and gently washed my face as if I was a child. I felt tears rise again at this unexpected kindness but tried to smile at her in thanks. She smiled, a small grim compression of the corners of her mouth, and passed me a triangle of folded cloth that she had carried tucked inside her sleeve. I mopped my eyes and then blew my
nose. When I shamefacedly offered her back her handkerchief, she shook her head and refused it. I scrunched it in my hot damp hand under my cheek. I felt her hand on my brow, stroking my forehead. I heaved a sigh, shut my eyes and felt my body slowly relax.

  I was almost asleep when I felt the edge of my blankets lift. Cold air rushed in. Even as I stirred and opened my eyes, Sœur Emmanuelle crept into my bed, one cold claw of a hand sliding around my body to clutch my breast, her gaunt body pressing itself against mine.

  I knew, of course, that women could have female lovers as well as male. I had friends at court who had been married against their will to ageing roués or vicious rakes, and who sought escape from their unwanted attentions in the tender arms of their women friends. Madeleine de Scudéry, whom I revered, was famous for her weekend salons, ‘Saturdays of Sapho’, which only women were permitted to attend. We all read each other love poems and wrote stories of a land of peace and harmony, where men were forbidden and women could be free of their brutish desires. I had even been propositioned by a woman once or twice, and had always refused with a smile. There was a difference, though, between the raising of a suggestive eyebrow and a cold bony hand groping at my breast, when I was already strung tight as a lute string with fear and dread and grief.

  I spun around, shoving at her so violently that she fell to the floor. ‘Don’t you dare,’ I cried. ‘Get out!’

  Sœur Emmanuelle landed on her bony arse with a thump that must have hurt. I heard a startled cry from the cell beside me. I sat up, clutching my blanket to me, and stared at her. I might have tried to say something but the look on her face thickened my tongue. It was a bleak black look, promising me that I would suffer for my rejection. For a moment, she stood there, looming over me, then she lifted the curtain and disappeared. I lay back, trembling inside.

  Sœur Emmanuelle punished me every day.

  I was made to empty all the chamber pots in the morning and scrub them out with water so cold that it formed a crust of ice in the bucket overnight. I was assigned to the kitchen and set to washing dishes in scummy water, and peeling endless mounds of vegetables. It was also my job to clean the ashes and charred remnants of wood out of the kitchen ovens and the fireplace in the parlour, the only room in the convent where a fire was permitted. I also had to keep the baskets of firewood replenished, staggering out into the snow to chop logs into kindling until my hands were blistered and sore. Sœur Emmanuelle kept a cane by her at all times and was quick to strike me on my back and shoulders if I did not obey her orders readily enough.