by Rozsa Gaston
Marie shrugged. “No.”
“What did you see?” Nicole asked, trying to sound unconcerned.
“Nothing, my lady. Your eyes are as full of magic as your healing hands,” Marie answered blithely as she sauntered up the path.
“What does that mean, pray tell?” Nicole demanded. Unused to being on the defensive, she didn’t like it. She would switch positions as soon as she found a way.
“Lucky the one they touch, that is all,” Marie replied mysteriously.
“What one do you speak of?”
“I will not say,” the younger girl giggled, then put her finger to her lips in an identical manner to the way Nicole had just done with Philippe.
There was nothing more Nicole could do than swallow the next thing she wished to say. It wouldn’t do her any good to blurt it out; it would just incriminate her further. Biting her tongue, she joined Marie in laughter, praying that the younger girl would keep a secret. Besides, Nicole felt like laughing too. Her heart danced for joy at the memory of Philippe’s touch.
“Going to the stables this morning?” Marie asked the following day.
“Yes. I need to check on Petard. He was better yesterday; let us hope he continues to heal,” Nicole said.
“Are you using any more of that smelly stuff you were making?” Marie asked curiously.
“I’m all out.”
“Used it up last night, did you?”
“Yesterday, three times. That was it. Say a prayer for me for Petard’s sake, will you?”
“I will say a prayer for you for your sake, too. And someone else’s,” Marie added slyly.
Nicole sensed it was time to adjust the balance of power before it shifted against her. She needed to act quickly if she wanted to keep Marie under control. Stepping closer, she took hold of Marie’s arms and firmly backed her up against the garden wall. Then, she put her index finger under the tip of Marie’s chin, and pushed it up, forcing the girl to look straight into her eyes.
“Stop!” Marie protested.
“Do you know what?” Nicole asked, her voice low.
“No. What?” The younger girl looked startled, but also curious. She squirmed under Nicole’s touch.
“I know you know more than you’re telling me, and that’s fine because so do I.” She tightened her grip on Marie’s arms, careful not to dig in her nails. She didn’t want to hurt the girl, only to scare her a little until she figured out a more effective way to get her to keep quiet about whatever she had seen.
“All right,” Marie whispered back.
“What do you mean ‘all right’?” Nicole demanded.
“I mean I understand.”
“And will you keep it secret?”
“Will I keep what secret?” Marie’s eyes slid sideways, indicating that the secret between them had a very short chance of remaining so for long. At court nothing remained a secret forever.
“Whatever it is that you’ve seen.”
“Why should I?” The younger girl grasped Nicole’s hand with her own and pushed it off her chin. Her expression was defiant.
“Because I will make it worth your while,” Nicole whispered.
“How?” Marie whispered back.
“By not mentioning anything about you and Dom.”
“But there isn’t anything about me and Dom!” Marie’s eyes darted from side to side. Something was there.
“Let me know if you need me to cover,” Nicole told her, relying on intuition in place of actual facts.
“Cover what?”
“Whatever it is you’re doing with Dom.” Nicole didn’t know what exactly, but it was enough just to know there was something.
“I’m not doing anything with Dom!” Marie cried.
“Well when you are, you can use me to help you,” Nicole said, pressing her fingers into the girl’s arm. “That is, if you don’t say anything more about whatever it was you thought you saw.”
Marie stared at her a moment, her eyes narrowing to slits. Finally, she spoke. “Now that I think of it, I saw nothing.”
“Then you may ask me for a favor when you need one, ma belle,” Nicole offered, releasing her.
“I will remember.” Marie smiled a small, secret smile that told Nicole she would be asking for one soon. Then she shoved Nicole back, to even up the score.
Nicole caught herself, then turned and ran down the path toward the stables. Behind her, Marie’s laugh trilled through the air.
CHAPTER FOUR
Awakenings
Autumn flew by, and Nicole’s awakening to womanhood ripened like the harvest. Philippe was her heart’s desire, but time was short. Her father was due to visit at Christmastime. With him would come news of whatever plans for her future he and her uncle were negotiating.
She prayed plans had fallen through with the man who had accompanied them at her sitting in Paris, but if they hadn’t, she hoped they could be pushed back until the following year. She was not keen to marry at age fifteen. Her queen had done so at fourteen, and had been pregnant every year of her married life thus far. With three stillbirths, the tragic loss of the little dauphin Charles Orland, then two more sons dead within weeks after birth, her queen knew more than her share of loss at age twenty.
Nicole and Philippe exercised Petard, who had fully recovered, and broke in another horse, this one a mare named Fleur, who had been brought to breed with the stallion if all went well.
All went well indeed. It was an inspirational sight to catch moments when Petard frolicked with the mare in the far corners of the pasture on early evenings, as well as early mornings when the dew was fresh upon the grass and instinct welled high in both man and beast.
Nicole’s own instincts that autumn were not overly ruled by reason. She felt no urge to resist the new feelings Philippe elicited in her. It appeared they were reciprocated. However, a measure of restraint seemed to season his wild desire for her. It was he, not she, who slowed down at moments, cautiously reminding her that she must not ruin her prospects, although he himself felt ruined because he was not one of them.
“And why can you not be?” Nicole teased one evening as they lay on the gently sloping hill that overlooked the stables. She fingered the laces of his over-shirt, loosening them so she could run her hand inside, over the light down of hair that was beginning to sprout on his chest.
“You have laid it out to me yourself. Your father is a St. Sylvain. You know as well as I that he wants the best for you, to ensure once and for all that you escape the class of merchants he comes from. He wants you fully a noblewoman. If I were him, I would want that for you, too.”
“But I am a noblewoman from my mother’s side,” Nicole protested. “If I was not, I wouldn’t be here at court.” Queen Anne invited only young ladies from noble families to join her at court as maids of honor. She paid their expenses and arranged their dowries, as well as most of their marriage matches.
“That is even more reason that they will never allow you to marry beneath your class,” he whispered, tracing his fingers down the side of her torso as they lay on their backs studying the clouds dotting the brilliant blue sky overhead.
The autumn had been unusually warm. The grass was long and a large rock outcropping below shielded them from the gaze of anyone in the stable-yards. From the outer ramparts of the chateau, Nicole was not so sure. Much could be viewed from there for miles around. Soon enough, her father’s retinue would appear on the road leading to the castle, and she would need to rush to prepare herself. Her heart sank to think of it.
“Your father wishes to secure his position. Of his own blood, he has none, other than wealth. Your mother’s blood was noble, but she is dead, so it is you alone who can bring to your father’s house the titled stamp he seeks. If you marry a nobleman, your children will be titled. If you marry a merchant, your family will go back to middle-class status. It is the way of the world, little one.” He stroked the underside of her chin tenderly then traveled down her throat to her breast, circling
then cupping it.
“I’m not so little.” She shivered, feeling her breast swell beneath his touch. Then she took his wandering hand and guided it over her heart.
“I see,” he murmured, leaning over her and grazing her lips with his, his kiss igniting her.
In a flash, her emotions ran from mild arousal to fiery-hot feeling. Nobility and noble alliances be damned.
“I want all of you. All.” She traced her hand down to the well where his belly button lay and circled around it. Below that area, she felt his loins spring to life, straining to escape the confines of his leggings. It was impossible to ignore. Slowly, she moved her hand farther down.
“Ahhh,” he exhaled, grasping her wrist and pushing her hand hard upon him. He was a swollen raging dam about to break.
“I want to be with you always,” Nicole whispered, her lips tasting the salt on his earlobe.
“I as well,” he groaned, pushing her hand away after he had practically broken it at the wrist, pressing it into him.
Men were confusing. She knew it had something to do with whatever beast that raged within their bodies once they matured. She wouldn’t try to understand Philippe. It was enough just to love him. Strangely, she knew that he loved her, too, because he was pushing her away.
Two weeks later, a courier burst into the room, shouting that a convoy of men was riding to the castle, a red banner heralding their arrival.
At the news, Nicole ran up the four sets of steps that led to the castle ramparts. Scanning the winding road that led to the Chateau d’Amboise, she strained to make out the design on the red banner fluttering in the breeze on the early December day. Sure enough, a diagonal blue line bisected the banner. It was the banner of the St. Sylvain house that only her uncle bore the right to display.
Not exactly a coat of arms, it was nevertheless a concession the king had granted him in return for his help in financing his last campaign in Milan; it meant Uncle Benoit accompanied her father. She shivered, praying the man from the house of St. Bonnet was not also amongst them.
Whoever was in the party, she knew her future crowded in upon her. Running back down the stairs, she rushed toward the stables to tell Philippe.
“Where are you going, Nicole?” Madame de Laval called out, catching her arm as she passed.
“I—to—to see Petard. I need to make sure he—”
“No, my dear. Your Petard is fine, and your stable-boy is gone.”
“What? What do you mean? He’s gone? I mean—who’s gone? Where?” Nicole burst out.
“You know very well who.” Madame de Laval’s look was stern. “He was sent back to Agen early this morning.”
“What? Madame, why?” She struggled to conceal her shock.
“Do you want to know the real reason or the reason that was given?”
“Both!” Nicole ached to think Philippe was gone before she had had a chance to bid him farewell.
“The reason given was that Jeannot, his old master in Agen, is ill, and asked for him.”
“And the real reason?” Nicole’s blood quickened, her temper rising. She knew before Madame de Laval’s mouth opened what it would be.
“You know the real reason, ma chère. Your future arrives now at the castle. The queen was told of your father’s and uncle’s visit a few weeks ago. Perhaps your future husband is with them.”
“Why was I not told of this?” Nicole’s heart thumped wildly. She couldn’t bear either piece of news, especially that Philippe was gone.
“Because your rash behavior has been noted. We feared it would become even more rash if you knew your final days together were upon you.”
“But, Madame, I would have liked to say goodbye.” Nicole felt as if the blood had drained from her body. It was impossible to think that never again would she feel Philippe’s strong, warm arms around her.
“My dear, you both knew your paths were soon to separate, and you had your goodbyes all fall. The queen allowed you your moment. She was once a girl, too, you know.”
“But she married the man chosen for her, not the one she chose with her heart!” Nicole blurted out angrily. She didn’t mean to speak out against her sovereign, but her heart was breaking.
“Your queen has made many sacrifices for the good of our country. She asks that you make a sacrifice for the good of your family and the children you will one day bear.”
“But was she in love?”
“She has come to love her husband, as we all see.” Madame de Laval smiled. It was true that anyone at court could see that the king and the queen were close. When he was home from campaigns, they would spend hours walking over the grounds together, discussing architectural projects fueled by new works and techniques he had seen in Milan and Naples. Luxurious tapestries, paintings, and gold-work pieces arrived constantly at the queen’s request. Most glorious of all was the new garden the king was having made for the queen by the Neapolitan garden designer, Dom Pacello.
“But how can I take on the yoke of wife to another man when my heart is wifed to another?” Nicole cried.
“My dear, it was out of the question on all levels.” Madame de Laval shook her head. “You had a first love. It was sweet to see, and the queen did not wish to deny you your moments. But those moments, when enjoyed too closely, end in danger for a young woman. You know that, do you not?” Madame de Laval frowned at Nicole as if to say ‘you would be a fool if you didn’t.’
“Yes, Madame. Of course.” Nicole blushed. Who had noted them? Had Marie said something? Had it been the stable-boy or Dom Pacello the Younger? “But the queen cannot possibly know what agony this is.”
“Your queen can and does know. She herself was fond of her cousin the Duke d’Orléans as a young girl. But he was married to Jeanne of France, so a match was out of the question. When the time came for her to marry the king, it was the duke himself who brokered the nuptial agreement. He ensured that the queen retained her sovereign rights over her lands and came to the union as ruler of Brittany rather than a hostage.”
“A hostage? What do you mean?” Her regal sovereign wasn’t the type to be anyone’s hostage. It was unthinkable.
“The king wanted Brittany for France. His army laid siege to Rennes until its people were starving, our queen as Duchess of Brittany had no more money to pay her mercenaries, and they were turning on her own people within the city walls, fighting for food. With her father dead, and Maximilian not coming to her aid, she had no choice but to come to terms.”
“Do you mean Maximilian of Austria?” She couldn’t imagine her queen married to the dumpy Archduke of Austria, emperor-elect to the Holy Roman Empire. She had heard his long nose had not just one but two bumps in it. The rest of his description had been equally unattractive.
“Yes. The very one. He did nothing to save the country of his intended bride. Brittany was at risk of being swallowed up by France.”
“Why did he not send troops to save her?’
“Why not, indeed?” The older woman sniffed. “To begin with, he had never met her. They had been betrothed by proxy. Plus, his own army was fighting in Hungary.”
“Mon Dieu. What did she do, our queen?” She had heard the story before, but never from Madame de Laval’s lips.
“Our clever queen allowed the Duke d’Orléans to negotiate on her behalf, when she saw there was no way out. He sized up the situation and realized her greatest defense was her own charms. He set up the meeting between the king and the duchess, where it was King Charles who became hostage to our queen’s beauty and wit.”
“So the Duke d’Orléans encouraged the union, even though he loved the duchess himself?” Nicole’s heart turned over at the thought. She would never encourage Philippe to marry another woman. He was hers already. And she was his. How could she go through with her father’s and uncle’s plans for her? Yet, how could she not?
“Yes. He was already married, so he looked out for the duchess when he saw that the king was taken with her. Because he loved her, he di
d his best by her, with no recompense to himself other than admiring her from afar.”
“So his love was sacrificial,” Nicole observed. She felt like a wild horse about to be saddled.
“Wise words, my dear. True love is indeed sacrifice. The queen knows this kind of love above all: the true love that places duty above pleasure.”
“But love must be felt to begin with!” Nicole protested.
“My darling, your queen had not known King Charles for more than two weeks when she married him. Charles Orland was born eleven months after their wedding day. If a match is well made, it does not take long for feelings to grow. You will learn to love your husband, Nicole. Your father and uncle have chosen wisely for you.”
“My heart is with Philippe, Madame. What can I do?”
“You must follow the example of your queen, who did what she needed to do. Your Philippe is no longer here, and your future husband is about to arrive. Think of your queen, and do your duty.”
“Yes, Madame,” Nicole answered quietly, her eyes downcast as she tried to hide her agony.
“Let me share a secret with you,” Madame de Laval said, lowering her voice.
“What is it?”
“Doing one’s duty can be extremely pleasurable at times,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“You will find out soon enough.” The older woman’s hand shot out and caught Nicole’s pointed chin. She winked as she tweaked it, then hurried off.
CHAPTER FIVE
Winter of Worry
“Papa, I am not ready to marry.” Even as the words spilled out, she knew they held no weight. Girls were considered ready for marriage from the moment they matured, regardless of their personal feelings.
“Nonsense. Our queen was married at age fourteen,” Michel St. Sylvain’s voice was curt, but not unkind. He reached out and took Nicole’s hand in both of his, trapping it in his grip.
And look what has happened to her, Nicole thought. Six pregnancies in six years of marriage and not a single child alive. The queen was only twenty, yet already she carried more grief in her heart than Nicole ever wished to know.
