The Lady and the Unicorn

by Tracy Chevalier

  When Marie-Céleste repeated her story about a man setting on me and trying to rob me, Béatrice said nothing. That made Marie-Céleste frantic — she began to spin a more and more complicated web, with grudges and purses of money and friends of brothers and angry words. She got herself into a terrible tangle.

  At last Béatrice cut her off. ‘How did the man get in the house? He must have known someone here.’

  Marie-Céleste started to speak, but finally understood that words were her enemy and went silent as if someone had just stuffed a rag in her mouth.

  Béatrice opened my tunic and pressed her cloth on my shoulders and chest, making me wince and moan. My cries loosened Marie-Céleste's tongue again. ‘Don't know what that man was doing —’

  ‘Go and get some clean water,’ Béatrice interrupted. ‘Some warm water.’

  As Marie-Céleste ran inside someone must have appeared in the doorway behind me, for Béatrice turned her head. ‘Ask if they have any leopard's bane. If not that, then a handful of dried daisies or marigolds in the warm water will help.’

  Whoever it was made a movement and was gone.

  ‘Was that Claude?’ I asked. I could barely move my lips.

  When Béatrice did not answer I opened my eyes and looked up into her brown eyes that filled so much of her plain face.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was the daughter of the house.’

  I could not guess if she was lying. Turning my head, I spat from my mouth two teeth. They missed Béatrice's blue moiré skirt and bounced on the ground.

  ‘What have you done to get such a beating?’ Béatrice asked softly. ‘Whatever it was, you probably deserved it.’

  ‘Béatrice, put your hand in my pocket.’

  Her arched, painted eyebrows made even higher arcs into her forehead.

  ‘Please. There's something there I want you to deliver.’

  She hesitated, then reached in and pulled out the note from my doublet. There was blood on it.

  ‘Give it to Claude.’

  Béatrice glanced behind her. ‘You know I can't do that,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, you can. Please. She would want you to. You are her woman, non? You must do what's best for her.’ I gazed deep into her eyes. Women have often said my eyes are what they like best about me. Just as well it wasn't my teeth.

  Béatrice's face softened, her chin tucking into her neck and her nose flaring. She said nothing, but stuffed the note up her sleeve.

  Marie-Céleste came back then with a bowl that smelled of flowers. I closed my eyes and let her and Béatrice wash me. Another time I would have enjoyed the attentions of two pairs of women's hands on me, but now I was so sore that I just wanted to sleep to escape the pain. Madame de Belleville appeared briefly to order that men be called to cart me home. I was drifting to sleep when she turned her harsh voice on Marie-Céleste.

  I was abed three days before I could move properly again. My joints were stiff, my eyes black, my nose swollen, and a rib was cracked so that a sharp pain flashed through me when I tried to move. I stayed in bed and drank beer but ate nothing, and slept much of the day, though at night I lay awake cursing at the pain.

  I was waiting for Claude to come. On the fourth day I heard steps on the stairs, but it was not she who opened the door. Instead Léon Le Vieux stood in the doorway and surveyed the cold, dirty room — the girl from Le Coq d'Or had not yet come up to light the fire and clear away the food she'd brought me the day before. Léon does not usually visit me, but sends a messenger to fetch me to his house. I struggled to sit up.

  ‘You've been a naughty lad, haven't you?’

  I started to protest, then stopped. Léon seemed to know everything — there was no point in lying to him. I lay back. ‘I did take quite a beating.’

  Léon chuckled. ‘Get some rest now. You need to be well soon — for your pains I'm sending you on a pilgrimage.’

  I stared at him. ‘What? Where?’

  Léon smiled. ‘Not south, but north. To see a Brussels relic.’

  GENEVIÈVE DE NANTERRE

  Claude would not look at me as we walked back to the rue du Four. She strode so fast that she almost trod on a sweeper boy who was clearing the street of dung and rubbish. Béatrice hurried after her. She is smaller than Claude, who takes after her father in size. Another day I would laugh to see Béatrice trotting after her mistress like a little dog. Today I did not laugh.

  I stopped trying to keep up with my daughter and walked at a more sedate pace with my ladies. Soon they were far ahead, giving much trouble to the groom sent along to escort us to and from the rue des Cordeliers. He ran back and forth between the two parties, but didn't dare ask Claude to slow down, nor me to speed up. He did speak to Béatrice, but it had no effect — by the time we reached the Porte St Germain Claude and Béatrice were out of sight.

  ‘Leave them,’ I said to the groom when he came back to us. ‘They're not far from the house anyway.’

  The ladies clucked their tongues. Indeed it must have seemed strange. For the past year I've kept Claude under close guard, yet now I was letting her out of my sight just as the man I was guarding her from came to the very house we were visiting. How could Claude have arranged such a meeting under our noses? I couldn't quite believe it, even though I had recognized Nicolas des Innocents the moment I saw him flat on the ground, his face bruised and bloodied. I was shocked at the sight, and had to stand very still so that Claude wouldn't see me flinch. She too had not moved, as if to hide what she felt. And so we two had stood side by side and still as stones, looking down on him. Only Béatrice had buzzed about like a bee worrying flowers. It was a relief to send her down to him.

  I was tired of thinking about Claude. I was tired of caring what happened to her, when she clearly didn't care herself. For a moment I was even tempted to push her into the painter's arms and shut the door on them for good. Of course I couldn't do so, but I let her and Béatrice disappear ahead of us and half-hoped she would do it for me.

  When we got back the steward told me that Claude had gone to her room. I went up to my own chamber and sent for Béatrice, one of my ladies sitting in her place with Claude.

  When Béatrice came in she dropped to her knees by my chair and began to speak before I could say a word. ‘Madame, she says she knew nothing of Nicolas des Innocents being at the rue des Cordeliers. She was as surprised as we when she saw him out there, and in such a state. Claude swears by Our Lady that she's had no contact with him.’

  ‘And you believe her?’

  ‘She can't have, or I would know. I've been with her all these months.’

  ‘At night as well? You must sleep.’

  ‘I never fall asleep before her. I pinch myself to stay awake.’ Beatrice's eyes were as wide as I've ever seen them. ‘And when she falls asleep I tie a silk cord around her ankle so that she can't get up without my knowing.’

  ‘Claude knows how to untie knots.’ I was rather enjoying Beatrice's anxiety. Clearly she feared for her position.

  ‘Madame, she has not seen Nicolas. I swear to you.’ Béatrice reached into her sleeve and pulled out a piece of paper. There was blood on it, as well as on her sleeve and her bodice. ‘Here, perhaps this will tell us how it came about. He gave this to me to give to her.’

  I took the paper and carefully unfolded it. The blood was dry now.

  Mon Amour —

  Come to me — the room above Le Coq d'Or, off the rue St Denis. Any night, as soon as you can.

  Ça c'est mon seul désir.

  Nicolas

  The scream tore my throat out. Béatrice fell backwards in fright, scrambling away from me as if I were a boar about to charge. The ladies all stumbled to their feet.

  I couldn't help it. Seeing my own words — for I knew at once that he was echoing me — written on a bit of bloody paper in a crude hand, by some drunkard sneering in a tavern, was too much to bear.

  Claude would pay for it. If I couldn't have mon seul désir, I would be sure that she didn't ei
ther.

  ‘Go and wash your dress,’ I said to Béatrice, crumpling the paper. ‘It looks slovenly.’

  She stared at me, then pulled her dress around her with shaking hands and got to her feet.

  When she was gone I said to my ladies, ‘Come change my dress and do my hair. I am going to see my lord.’

  I had not said a word to Jean about the troubles with our unruly daughter over the past year. I knew what he would do — throw my words back in my face and blame me for not looking after Claude well enough. He is not close to Claude or his other daughters — though perhaps he is softer with Jeanne — but she is his heir, for better or worse. Certain things are expected of her, and it is up to me to make her ready. If Jean knew the truth — that Claude would prefer to lose her maidenhead to a Paris artist than preserve it for her husband — he would beat me, not her, for not having taught her obedience.

  Now I had to break my silence. What I proposed to do with her would require his consent — the very consent Père Hugo had counselled me against the year before.

  Jean was in his chamber with the steward, going over the household accounts. It was a task I was meant to do, but Jean preferred to be in charge, as he does in all things. I curtsied low beside the table where they sat. ‘Monseigneur, I would like to speak with you. Alone.’

  Jean and the steward both jerked their heads and frowned, as if they were puppets being worked by the same man. I kept my eyes fixed on the fur collar of Jean's gown.

  ‘Can't it wait? Steward's been out and we've only just sat down.’

  ‘I'm sorry, Monseigneur, but it is urgent.’

  After a moment Jean said to the steward, ‘Wait outside.’

  The steward nodded as if he had slept badly and his neck was stiff. I rose as he did. He bowed briefly to me and left us.

  ‘What is it, Geneviève? I'm very busy.’

  I would have to tread carefully. ‘It's about Claude. She is to be betrothed next year, as is proper, and you will decide soon — or perhaps you have done so already — who will be her lord and husband. I've begun preparing her for her new life — teaching her how to keep herself and wear her clothes, to handle servants and household matters, to entertain and dance. She is doing well in all of these things.’

  Jean did not speak but tapped a finger on the table. His silence often has the effect of making me use more words to try to fill it. Then he just looks at me, and all that I have said feels like the words of a jester in the market.

  I began to walk up and down. ‘There is one area, however, where she needs more guidance than I can give her. She has not yet truly absorbed the ways of the Church, of Our Lady and Our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  Jean flicked his hand. I know that impatient gesture, have seen it when men speak to him of things that matter little to him. Claude's indifference to the Church may well stem from her father's — he has always dismissed its importance to his soul, and has been concerned only for its power over his King. To him priests are simply men to make deals with, Mass a meeting place for Court business.

  ‘It's important for a noblewoman to have strong faith in the Church,’ I said firmly. ‘She must be spiritually as well as physically pure. Any true nobleman will expect that of her.’

  Jean scowled, and I wondered if I had gone too far. He does not like to be reminded that some don't think him truly noble. I remembered then the shock I had felt when my father told me I would be betrothed to Jean Le Viste. My mother had locked herself in her chamber and cried, but I was careful not to show how I felt at being linked to a man whose family bought its way into the nobility. My friends were kind to me but I knew that they laughed behind my back and pitied me — poor Geneviève, a pawn in her father's games with the Court. I never knew what Father won by giving me to Jean Le Viste. Certainly Jean won — the support of my father's family was the making of him. It was I who lost. I had been a happy girl, not so different from Claude at her age. But years with a cold man ground away my smiles.

  ‘Make your point,’ Jean said.

  ‘Claude is restless and can be difficult at times,’ I said. ‘I think it would do her good to stay in a convent until her betrothal.’

  ‘A convent? My daughter is no nun.’

  ‘Of course not. But a stay there will help her to know the value of Mass, of prayers, confession, communion. Now she mumbles her prayers, the priest says she makes up her confession, and I'm not sure she always swallows her communion — one of my ladies thought she saw Claude spitting it out in the cloisters after Mass.’

  Jean looked scornful, and I resorted to something closer to the truth. ‘There is a wildness in her that no husband will like to see. I fear it will bring her harm. The convent will settle her. There is one outside of Paris at Chelles where I'm sure the nuns can help her.’

  Jean shuddered. ‘I've never liked nuns. My sister became one.’

  ‘She won't become a nun. She'll be safe there and can get up to no mischief. The walls are very high.’

  I should not have added that last part. Jean sat up straight and knocked a piece of paper to the floor. ‘Has Claude been going out alone?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, reaching for the paper. He got to it before me, his knees cracking. ‘But I think she would like to. The sooner she's married the better.’

  ‘Why don't you keep a closer eye on her rather than imprison her with nuns?’

  ‘I do watch over her carefully. But there are distractions in a city like Paris. And this would be a way of completing her religious education as well.’

  Jean picked up a quill and made a mark on the paper. ‘People will think you can't control your daughter, or that there is something wrong with her if you have to hide her away.’

  He meant that she might be with child. ‘It is not wrong for a lady to stay in a convent before her betrothal. My grandmother did, and my mother too. And Claude may visit us occasionally, for some of the Holy Days — the Assumption of Our Lady, All Souls' Day, the Advent — so that people may see there's nothing wrong with her.’ I could not keep the scorn from my voice.

  Jean just looked at me.

  ‘Or we could bring the betrothal forward if you prefer,’ I said quickly, ‘if you have finished your talks with the man's family. Do it now rather than next spring. The feast may not be so grand with less time to prepare, but that doesn't matter.’

  ‘No. It won't look right to rush her marriage so. And the tapestries won't be done until next Easter.’

  Those tapestries again. I had to bite my lips to keep from spitting. ‘Is it really necessary for the tapestries to hang for the betrothal?’ I tried to sound offhand. ‘We could have it at Michaelmas when we've returned from d'Arcy, and give Claude the tapestries as a wedding gift later when they're ready.’

  ‘No.’ Jean threw down the quill and stood. ‘The tapestries are not a wedding gift — if they were they would have the husband's coat of arms in them as well. No, they are celebrating my position at Court. I want my new son-in-law to see the Le Viste coats of arms in them and be reminded of what family he is marrying. So he will never forget.’ He went over to the window and looked out. It had been sunny earlier but it was starting to rain now.

  I was silent. Jean glanced at my stony face. ‘We could bring the betrothal back a month or two,’ he said to placate me. ‘Isn't there a betrothal day in February?’

  ‘The Feast of St Valentine.’

  ‘Yes. We could have it then. Léon Le Vieux told me the other day that the Brussels workshop is a little behind in making the tapestries. I'll send him to chivvy them along by cutting off two months — that will get them working harder. I've never understood why tapestries take so long to make. It is just weaving, after all. Bits of thread wound in and out — even women can do that.’ He turned from the window. ‘Send Claude to me before you take her to the convent.’

  I curtsied. ‘Yes, my lord.’ When I straightened I looked him in the eye. ‘Thank you, Jean.’

  He nodded, and though he didn't smile a
t me, his face softened. He is a hard man, but he does listen to me sometimes.

  ‘Who will she marry, Monseigneur?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘That is my business and not for you to be concerned with. Worry about the bride instead.’

  ‘But — ’

  ‘Since you did not give me a son, I must choose one.’ He turned away then, and the tender moment was lost. He was punishing me for having only daughters. I could weep but I'd already used up my tears over that.

  When I got back to my chamber I sent for Béatrice again. She appeared in a yellow brocade, which I thought too bright, but at least the artist's blood was not staining it.

  ‘Pack Claude's things,’ I said. ‘Only her simplest clothes, and no jewels. I am taking you both on a journey.’

  ‘Where to, Madame?’Béatrice sounded fearful, as well she might. Nine months in the convent would be punishment for her too. Yet I was still fond of her. ‘Don't worry,’ I said. ‘Look after Claude well and you will yet have your reward.’

  I sent for a groom and told him to make ready my carriage, as well as to send a messenger ahead with news of our visit. Then I sent Claude to her father. I sorely wanted to creep outside his door and listen, but it would not be dignif Ied, and I busied myself instead with my own preparations — changing out of the brocade I had worn for Jean and into the simple dark wool I had worn on Good Friday, removing the jewels from my hair, changing my jewelled cross for a wood one.

  There was a knock on the door and Claude entered. Her eyes were red and I wondered what Jean had said to her. I'd asked him not to tell her where she was going, so she couldn't be crying over that. She came straight to me and knelt. ‘I'm sorry, Maman. I will do whatever you ask of me.’ I heard fear in her voice, and some obedience, yet underneath it there was still defiance. Instead of keeping her eyes lowered in respect, she looked at me sideways the way I have seen birds do when under a cat's paw, searching for a way of escaping.

  The nuns would have their hands full with her.