Sense of Touch: Love and Duty at Anne of Brittany's Court

by Rozsa Gaston

  “But I don’t even know this man!”

  “Besides, she has offered to host your wedding here at Amboise this summer, the last Saturday in June,” he continued. “Gilles’ brother, Hubert, arranged with the king to have a word with her.”

  “But I don’t love this Monsieur de St. Bonnet. I don’t even know him!” So his name was Gilles. How strange to learn the name of the man she was meant to marry after being told her wedding date. Inside, she burned. She wasn’t ready; she never would be. But what did it matter? She had no choice but to follow the path laid out for her. No one did.

  “My daughter, you will come to love him. As did your mother and I. As did our king and queen. You will represent your family well and you will do your duty.” He pounded the table with his fist, then gruffly stood, towering over her.

  She was not afraid of her father; she knew him too well not to know he loved her. But of the future he had laid out for her, she had misgivings. Especially at the thought of children by a man she didn’t love. Would she love them? And if she did, then came to lose them, what would she have left?

  At least the queen loved the king. And now a royal babe was on the way, due in late spring. The court was guardedly hopeful. It was the queen’s seventh pregnancy. With no living child to show for the previous six, one could only hope and pray.

  Nicole clasped her hands together and held them out to her father.

  “Papa, I have something to speak to you about.” Duty called; she had no choice but to submit to it. But she wanted her father to know what was in her heart. Then, she told herself, she would bury it forever.

  Michel St. Sylvain’s eyebrows raised in alarm.

  “You have not brought disgrace upon your family, have you, daughter? Not upon the good name of your mother?”

  “No, Papa. I would never. Not that at all.” I would have gladly if only Philippe had consented. She shuddered to think of the consequences of her own rash moments with him over the past few months. He had pushed her away, valuing her own future more than she herself had. For that, she loved him even more.

  “What is it, Nicole? Our guests arrive at any moment.”

  “I—it’s—” How to begin? And how much should she say?

  The door to the chamber opened and a courtier entered. “Monsieur?”

  “Yes?” Nicole’s father turned, his voice short.

  “Sir Hubert de St. Bonnet wishes a word with you, Monsieur. He is here with another gentleman—”

  “What other man?” Michel St. Sylvain asked sharply.

  “I do not know, Monsieur.”

  Nicole’s father looked at her. “You will put foolish thoughts out of your head now.” His tone softened as he put his face down to hers. “Your duty, daughter, do your duty.” He reached out and twitched her headdress, affection seasoning the sternness of his gaze.

  “Send them in,” he barked.

  How she wished her mother was alive. She needed her so desperately at that moment. Yet she knew what Blanche St. Sylvain would direct her to do. As much as her parents came from different social backgrounds, their interests had been aligned when it came to securing the futures and fortunes of their children. Now she was the only one of them left alive. How could she throw away her parents’ hopes for her and their future grandchildren? Even worse, how could she shame her queen?

  Taking a deep breath, she willed her heart to be still as she straightened her back, and waited.

  The door opened, and the scent of male bodies underneath eau de cologne overpowered her for a second. Looking up, she saw the king’s valet, Hubert de St. Bonnet, a tight smile on his face. He looked strained. Behind him, a second man stood, obscured by Hubert.

  Nicole lowered her eyes and fixed them on the floor in front of her. The scent of power and maturity filled the room. It wasn’t unpleasant, but neither did it ignite her heart the way Philippe’s scent did.

  When she looked up, she would meet the eyes of a man, not a youth. Was she ready? Taking another deep breath, she thought of Philippe de Bois and wished him Godspeed to fulfill the duties life had given him, as she was about to fulfill hers.

  She looked up, ready to meet her future.

  Instead, her eyes met the eyes of her uncle, Benoit St. Sylvain. Gilles de St. Bonnet was nowhere to be seen. Her heart flopped, relieved.

  Uncle Benoit’s eyes flickered over her, then turned to her father.

  “Where is he?” Michel St. Sylvain asked, sounding annoyed.

  “He couldn’t come,” Hubert de St. Bonnet began. “He sends his deepest apologies to you both.” He turned to Nicole. “And his very best regards to Mademoiselle.”

  “What do you mean, he couldn’t come?” Michel St. Sylvain snapped, his tone as sharp as it had been with Nicole a moment earlier. He addressed Hubert de St. Bonnet, but his eyes sought his brother’s as if to ask, “‘What is the meaning of this?’”

  “He had a transaction to finish in Paris,” Hubert de St. Bonnet explained. “There was a delivery delay.”

  Michel and Benoit St. Sylvain exchanged looks. This was language they spoke. It was not what they had wanted to hear, but at least it was understandable.

  “Are we to expect other delays, then? With plans we have discussed?” Nicole’s father asked. His fingers drummed the table in front of him. He was not happy.

  “Absolutely not, Monsieur. My cousin Gilles anticipates with rapture the summer nuptials with your estimable daughter.” Hubert de St. Bonnet had lapsed into courtier language.

  It was hard to know what to believe and what not to, but Nicole had spent enough time at court to discount the flowery openings and closings and listen instead for the hard facts in between. The wedding was to take place as planned. Her heart fell.

  “This is unexpected, Hubert.” Michel’s tone was icy. “My daughter is not a horse to be handed over to her new owner on her wedding day. We expected to introduce her to Gilles today so they could get to know each other before the ceremony.”

  Thank you, Papa. You do love me after all. Nicole’s heart warmed at her father’s defense of her feelings. But she knew him too well to think that was all it was. Michel St. Sylvain would use this breach of etiquette as a bargaining tool, should he need one. It was yet another business maneuver he had touched upon with Nicole on their long walks together: Always insert an opt-out clause. You may need it in the event of an unexpected turn. From what Nicole had experienced of life, there were many unexpected turns. How she longed for another leisurely walk and talk with him.

  “Understood, Michel. But you know how it is. Business calls, and the Baron de St. Bonnet’s business is very successful. He will provide well for your daughter, especially with the successful conclusion of this particular transaction.” Hubert de St. Bonnet ably defended his cousin’s absence, reminding the brothers of his wealth and rank in a single deft statement.

  “Hmph.” Michel St. Sylvain’s eyes sought his brother’s. Displeasure flickered in them.

  Nicole watched as Benoit St. Sylvain’s eyes lit up with curiosity. She knew what lay there. He was bursting to learn the details of whatever business had prevented Gilles de St. Bonnet from meeting his future bride. Perhaps he himself could get a piece of it as a soon-to-be in-law.

  “I have an idea,” Nicole broke in to ease the strained silence.

  All three men gazed at her with dismayed expressions. Fifteen-year-old maidens were not encouraged to have ideas; certainly not to voice them to their elders.

  “Uncle, I would like to spend some time alone with my father before he leaves. Why don’t you have Monsieur de St. Bonnet tell you about my future husband’s business in Paris while I catch up with my dear papa?”

  She looked at her father. His sour expression had disappeared and a small smile had broken out on his face.

  “What do you need from me, daughter?” he asked, his words harsher than his gaze. He looked relieved that she was suggesting a way for him to escape present company so he could regroup after the unexpected
change in plans.

  “A small favor.” She prayed he would be receptive.

  “And that is?” Michel St. Sylvain’s face lit up as she reached up on tiptoe and put her mouth to his ear.

  “A walk, Papa. Let’s take one of our walks,” she whispered, so that neither of the two other men could hear. She knew her father. Careful and methodical, he sought immediate retreat when confronted with unexpected events. He was not a rash man, but a considered one.

  He nodded and straightened up, turning to the men. “Gentlemen, my daughter and I have business together. I will join you at dinner.”

  Taking Nicole’s arm, he led her from the room. Behind them, she did not see the amused smiles exchanged between her uncle and Hubert de St. Bonnet. Cordial relations had been saved, everyone had gotten what they wanted, and a woman had arranged it all. What could be more natural?

  The herb garden was empty, a perfect place to speak quietly. Father and daughter strolled in silence for a companionable moment. They walked to the gate at the end; there they paused, looking out over the hills beyond. She sensed her father’s equanimity restored after his tense conversation with Hubert de St. Bonnet. It was time to speak before she lost her courage.

  “I have thoughts of another, Papa.” She squeezed his arm lovingly. “What should I do?” Always toss the ball into the other court was one of her father’s dictums. It bought her time, and her father was a natural problem solver. As a merchant, it was his specialty.

  “Daughter, your uncle and I have worked long months on this proposal. What other man can a fifteen-year-old girl know of who could bring our family more fortune?”

  “I—he is—we are . . .” Philippe de Bois was in no position to bring more fortune to the St. Sylvain family. Of that, Nicole was sure.

  “Is this man of noble birth?” her father demanded, his back straightening, as if he could will himself to ascend a few notches on the social scale. By straighter posture, he could not; by his daughter’s good marriage, he could.

  “He—”She fingered the ends of the corded belt she wore. The queen had given it to her after Nicole had been at court for a year to formally recognize her as a member of the Order of the Cord she had created for her maids of honor. Nicole’s heart sank. How could she dishonor her queen by marrying beneath her rank?

  “Who introduced you? Who is this man?” her father pressed.

  She thought fast. Philippe was a horse-trainer. If she disclosed his name to her father, she could count on never seeing him again. Michel St. Sylvain would make sure of that.

  “He is not of noble birth,” she confessed.

  “Then why speak of him?” her father thundered. “Have you lost your mind, child?”

  “No, Papa! Not my mind, but my heart,” she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Don’t speak to me of your heart, daughter. You are too young to give your heart away. Your duty is to guard your heart until the day of your marriage to the man I have chosen for you.” He did not mention Gilles de St. Bonnet by name. Had his absence that day given Michel St. Sylvain pause for thought?

  “Yes, Papa.” Her hands pulled at the knot of her corded belt. If she undid it, it would fall off and no longer serve its purpose. There was nothing else to be done but to keep it knotted, serving its purpose, as all things and creatures were made to do; just as she must remain in her designated place in the design of her life chosen for her by others. Who chose their own design? No one.

  “Who is this man? Give me his name,” her father’s voice was a knife slicing her thoughts into bits, as well as her dreams.

  She froze. Whatever name she gave him, he would make sure she never laid eyes on him again. It was no use. She wouldn’t disclose Philippe’s name. It must remain sacred and secret, hidden away in her heart.

  “Papa, it is as you said. My heart must go where duty directs it. You are right,” she answered. She batted her eyelashes then focused on a spot on the wall behind her father’s gray head. Perhaps if she acted dutiful, her heart would follow. Perhaps not.

  “The name of the man. Give it to me,” Michel St. Sylvain demanded.

  “I cannot, Papa. It would serve no purpose.”

  “Then why did you speak of this?”

  “Because my heart is full,” she blurted out, throwing herself at him.

  Her father’s arms closed around her, holding her tight. The sigh that escaped him, over her head, was deep.

  “My daughter, what do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice more tender than it had been a moment before.

  “I want you to know that my heart is already occupied. And I want no other man there.”

  “Daughter, let’s sit down.” Carefully, Michel St. Sylvain directed Nicole to a stone bench.

  They sat, and Nicole felt her father’s arm come around her back. He hugged her to him.

  “You are your mother’s daughter, no question,” he remarked.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of your heart, as well as your beauty.”

  “My heart?”

  “You hold someone in high regard in your heart.”

  “I do.” She warmed at the thought of the one she held in high regard. She had held him in her arms, too. Of that she would not speak.

  “So did your mother.”

  “So did my mother?” She looked at him, startled. “It was you, no?”

  “No.” He shook his head gently, not without love and admiration in his eyes.

  “What?” It was unimaginable to her that her mother had loved another man, one who was not her father.

  “I loved her on first sight, and she came to love me.” Michel St. Sylvain let out a sigh and looked into the distance.

  “Not at first?” Nicole was shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, your mother was a mystery to me. And part of that mystery was what she held in her heart when she came to our marriage.”

  “Do you mean she loved another?” She couldn’t believe it.

  “She never spoke of it. But I heard.”

  “And what did you do?” Nicole stared into her father’s eyes. Instead of anger, she saw nothing but love and forgiveness there.

  “I loved her. That’s all I could do,” he replied quietly.

  “But she loved you, too, didn’t she?” She had to. Nicole couldn’t bear it to be any other way.

  “I became her husband; I gave her my heart, and, when you were born, she gave me hers.” He smiled faintly, his thoughts far away.

  “She didn’t love you until after I was born?” Nicole asked, having trouble imagining her quiet and elegant mother as anything but devoted to her father.

  “No. But then she did. And do you know what?”

  “What, Papa?” She felt her eyes widen as her father brought his face close to hers.

  “It was enough.” He reached up and caressed her cheek. “It will be enough for you, too.”

  “What if it isn’t?” Nicole couldn’t help asking, her voice a whisper.

  “You are my daughter, too, Nicole. You will make sure it is.” “I will?”

  “You will.” Michel St. Sylvain pulled her to him and kissed her gently on the forehead.

  Together they held each other on the stone bench in the garden as her father’s words sank in. It would be enough because she loved both her father and her queen. And beyond them both, she loved her mother’s secret wild heart. Her duty and her desire were to make all three of them proud. She would walk the path of duty, and only she would hear the bubbling burble of the brook of her secret love, pulsing along beside.

  “Can you come?” Marie de Volonté whispered. “The queen would see you.”

  “Of course.” Nicole jumped up and hurriedly glided toward the queen’s rooms. Gliding, not bouncing, when she walked was one of the many skills she had learned at court over the past three years.

  As the year progressed, so did the size of the queen’s belly. With Philippe gone and her marriage far off in the summer a
head, Nicole’s thoughts revolved around her queen’s comfort. As usual with women, what appeared on the surface of Queen Anne’s face masked something entirely different going on inside her. By Lenten season, the queen was halfway through her pregnancy. She had held up well through the holidays, but now she tired easily, her face strained and worried. Nicole hoped her sovereign’s weariness in the final months of waiting could be chalked up to Madame de Laval’s counsel: miserable pregnancy, healthy child.

  Nicole knew that the queen wished for a large family, especially another boy or two to cement the succession to not only the throne of France, but the Duchy of Brittany which she had brought to her marriage.

  As Nicole had heard the ladies of the court say, “She did what she had to do, and she made it work for her.” The marriage between the Duchess of Brittany and the King of France, begun as a way for the duchess, now queen, to save her duchy, had turned into a loving one.

  The more Nicole learned of her queen, the more she admired her. A woman who had ascended to power at age eleven, becoming Duchess of Brittany upon her father Duke Francis’s death, her prowess as a ruler and patron of the arts was nothing less than astounding. She had brought over five hundred books to her marriage from the library in Nantes her father had left to her. Since then, she had commissioned many more, engaging countless scribes and illuminators to add to the library at Chateau d’Amboise, which had been all but empty during Charles VIII’s twenty one years there before wedding his well-educated wife. In their seven years together, she and the king had overseen the complete renovation and expansion of Chateau d’Amboise, hiring builders, craftsmen, goldsmiths, and artists to transform the French royal court into one of Europe’s finest. In addition, she oversaw the education of dozens of young noblewomen she had personally invited to court to serve as her maids of honor. If only her skill at bringing a child into the world and then keeping it alive could keep match with her accomplishments.

  Nicole felt herself pulled back to the moment as she rounded the last corner to the queen’s bedchamber. At the entrance, she stopped, taken aback by the scene before her.