by Rozsa Gaston
“. . . to train him for tilting.” she heard the tail end of the stable-manager’s words.
“I would if I could, but my foot is troubling me these days.”
“Is it age, then?”
“Aye, and that bitch of a mare that stomped on me in Agen. I’ve never been right since.”
Nicole sucked in her breath. Was this the king’s trainer Philippe had spoken of in jest? The one Philippe had replaced when he had come to break in Petard?
“Jeannot, you’ve got the training. No one else has your way to train a horse for tourneys.”
It was Jeannot, Philippe’s master back in Agen. Nicole did her best to catch every word.
“I like the honey in your words, but it’s not true,” Jeannot replied. “There is one. . .”
“And who might that be?”
“The lad who helps me in Agen.”
“A lad?” The stable-manager’s voice dripped disdain.
“He’s twenty now. Grown to manhood. He helped break in the stallion last year. Knows the horse and how to train animals for the jousting ring.”
“Aye, I know the one. Where is he now?”
“Back in Agen.”
“When does he come next?”
“He’s to be married there this summer, so he’ll be busy.”
Nicole stood rooted to the spot. Had she heard correctly?
“Aye, that’s busy work for a lad of twenty,” the stable-manager laughed.
An icy chill moved up her insides at the sound of the stable-manager’s crude laugh.
“Yes, and a good match for him. ’Tis a widow with a small dowry; she’s young, and some say fair.”
“What happened to her man?”
“He had an accident while out with the duke’s men, falconing.”
“A shame.”
“Yes, but a stroke of good luck for the lad. His parents are dead, and he had no prospects. The widow will saddle him.”
“Aye, and ride him well, I’ll wager.”
The men’s coarse laughter rang in her ears. She turned and ran back up the path, toward the chateau and the future she had been avoiding. What was the point? Fate would have its way with Philippe de Bois, too, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.
Just before the kitchen doorway, she turned into the storeroom where the barrels for ale and wine were kept. She sank to the floor and sobbed until her insides heaved.
In the weeks that followed, Anne of Brittany surprised not just Nicole, but the entire court. There were many who had feared for her life in the days immediately following the king’s death. But there was work to be done surrounding the passing of Charles VIII. No longer queen, her uncertain situation sharpened her focus. Anne of Brittany had been raised to rule, as well as to swim the uncertain tides of political change.
The death of yet another of her children had devastated her, but had not stripped her of political power. The death of her husband the king was another thing altogether. Her present status was uncertain. As astute as Louis d’Orléans, soon to be crowned the new king, Anne recognized the need to grasp the reins of whatever political power she had, in order to show her people she was still a force.
The former queen was still Duchess of Brittany. It was a role Charles VIII had not wished her to actively play. He had let her know at the outset of their marriage that he would be the one to manage the lands she had brought him as her marriage dowry.
But with Charles VIII’s death, Anne quickly stepped up to take the reins of leadership over her own inherited lands. Within a fortnight of her husband’s death, she had sent large bolts of black cloth to all of Brittany’s noble families, with instructions on how to mourn the death of the king of France. White had traditionally been the color of mourning, but Anne decided that deep purple or black would be the new colors to wear and to display to mourn the king properly. She had gotten the idea from reports her husband had given her on Milan, from whence came all the newest fashions and designs.
Charles VIII had overseen Brittany himself, but with him gone, and no infant nor children to occupy her time, Anne immediately took over administration of her own lands. In addition, she invited the top Breton noblemen to attend the service she organized to memorialize the dead king on May 15, in Amboise.
The morning of the ceremony dawned glorious and fair. Nicole’s father and uncle had arrived, and the court was abuzz with what looked to be amicable relations between the former queen and Louis, Duke d’Orléans, in line to become next king of France. It was rumored that Anne of Brittany would leave for Paris the following day, there to stay for the remainder of the spring and part of the summer, mourning her dead husband and planning her next steps. Charles VIII had left her a large house there, known as the Hotel d’Etampes, a residence traditionally set aside for widowed queens of France. Now it would prove a strategic spot from where she could chart her future.
Nicole had heard from her father that wedding plans were to be delayed. But with Philippe to be married, what difference did it make? Whoever and whenever she married, she would not marry the one she loved, but the one her family thought the best match to further their political and social interests.
Scanning the crowd, Nicole prayed that Gilles de St. Bonnet was not in attendance. Instead, she looked for a blondish-brown-haired head attached to a young slim body. If only she could see those mutable gray-green eyes again, eyes that had sparked blue then sometime gold in the sunlight when they gazed at her a certain way.
Fortunately Madame de Laval was busy: first with the memorial service, then with preparations for the former queen’s trip to Paris the following day. She would accompany her, along with other senior members of the court. Nicole and Marie de Volonté would stay behind, lightly chaperoned. Already she looked forward to it. The only dark spot on the horizon was the thought of Philippe being married off. She wished desperately she could see him again before he disappeared forever from her life.
As Anne of Brittany passed, Nicole craned her neck to see her noble employer. She had barely seen her since the day of the king’s accident. Petite and erect, Anne slowly walked the length of the courtyard from her chambers to the chapel, where the memorial service would be held. Behind her, the tall form of Louis d’Orléans matched her pace, his eyes riveted on the former queen ahead. From what she could see, the future king of France, with his longish aristocratic nose and soulful blue-gray eyes, wasn’t bad-looking.
“Where is the wife of the Duke d’Orléans?” Nicole asked her father beside her.
“That hunchback? They live apart. I’m sure Louis wants her out of the way,” Michel St. Sylvain said, looking over Nicole’s head at his brother on her other side.
“Especially now,” her uncle agreed.
“Why especially now?” Nicole asked, curious.
“Worry about your own future, not the queen’s, ma petite,” her uncle dismissed her.
“Not the queen anymore, is right. But not for long, if she plays her cards right,” Michel St. Sylvain joked.
“Papa, she is mourning, not thinking of playing cards! How can you say that?” Nicole cried, indignant.
“Daughter, do you think Anne of Brittany is so beside herself that she hasn’t considered her own future?” He shook his head, looking at her affectionately. “Think again, dear one. The woman who brought you to court is no ninny. She will not relinquish the Crown of France easily.”
“Not if there is any other way to keep it on her head,” Benoit St. Sylvain added, eyeing Louis d’Orléans behind the former queen, his eyes glued to the tiny female figure he followed. “Who is that man behind d’Orléans?” He pointed toward the procession.
Michel St. Sylvain strained his neck to see who his brother spoke of. “You mean behind the new king,” he corrected him.
“Yes, the one wearing the crest of Orléans.”
“That’s Gerard d’Orléans,” Nicole’s father replied. “the duke’s cousin, I believe.”
“You mean the cousin o
f the new king, as you pointed out.” Benoit St. Sylvain specified, looking meaningfully at his brother.
“Yes. That would be him.” Michel St. Sylvain returned his brother’s look with one of his own.
“Is he not the one whose wife died in childbirth last year?” Benoit continued.
Nicole’s father shrugged. “He may be. I heard talk of it. Why?”
Benoit’s voice became lower, “He has not yet remarried, I believe.”
“No?” Nicole’s father lowered his voice to match his brother’s. “Is he betrothed then?”
“Let’s find out,” Benoit breathed back. Both men glanced at Nicole in the same instant.
“What are you thinking, Uncle Benoit?” Nicole asked, alarmed.
“Shhh, ma chére. We think of your future, of what is best for you.”
“You think of what is best for our family, not what is best for me,” Nicole railed.
Her father’s eyes sparked with anger then became icy. “My daughter, what argument do you make? What is best for your family is what is best for you.”
“Papa, I am not a horse to be paired off with the most highly-bred stallion,” she objected.
“No. You are my daughter, to be paired off with a husband who is most closely allied with your sovereign,” Michel St. Sylvain’s tone was clipped, as if laying down the law.
But which law was it: the one of the old regime or the one of the new? Nicole wondered. Everything seemed to be changing around her. The only thing that didn’t change was that Michel St. Sylvain would always be her father, and her duty would always be to obey him.
“But the man you chose for me is closely allied to the king,” Nicole began then paused. “I mean the old king.”
“Precisely,” her father agreed.
“Precisely,” her uncle echoed. He shot his brother another look and as Nicole took it in, a sudden breeze gusted past, lifting the ends of the black silk cape she wore over her shoulders. Change was in the air.
Within the next two months, it became apparent that Anne of Brittany couldn’t imagine herself as anything less than what she had been already. She was no longer technically queen of France, but she remained the queen of people’s hearts. More importantly, she remained queen in her own heart. The household at Amboise received regular reports from Paris that the bereaved widow was being comforted with almost-daily visits from the new king, Louis XII of France.
At the beginning of August, a messenger clattered into the courtyard with news that the king had asked for an annulment from Rome for his marriage to Jeanne of France, his hunchbacked wife for over twenty years.
Everyone knew what that request meant. Louis XII was clearing the way to marry the former queen.
“A message, too, for the young lady Nicole from Michel St. Sylvain,” the messenger announced.
“A message from my father?” Nicole asked, half excited, half alarmed. “What is it?” She rushed down the stairs to the courtyard, forgetting to glide for the moment.
“I am to tell you that your father wishes you to know of the successful outcome of recent negotiations. . .”
“What negotiations?” Nicole interrupted him.
The messenger looked blank. “I do not know, my lady. I am just to give you the message.”
“Yes. Continue, please.” What plans were her father and uncle hatching for her now?
“He bids you to await the arrival of your betrothed in the final week of September, and to prepare for your wedding shortly thereafter.”
“Of my betrothed?” Nicole asked. “Do you mean Monsieur de St. Bonnet?”
“Monsieur de St. Bonnet?” the messenger repeated, looking confused.
“Yes. Is that who you mean?”
“I do not know what I mean, my lady. I mean, I am charged with delivering you this message but I know not what the meaning of it is.” The messenger looked at her blankly, at a loss for further words.
“Do you know of whom my father spoke?” she asked impatiently.
“Do you mean the man in question for your hand?”
“Yes! Of course I mean the man in question. Do you speak of Gilles de St. Bonnet?”
“My lady, I am sorry, but I do not mean this Monsieur de St. Bonnet,” the messenger stammered.
“Don’t be sorry. I don’t care!” Nicole caught herself as laughter trilled on the stairway behind her, most probably from Marie de Volonté, who knew well that Nicole was reluctant to be married off to a stranger. “I mean, I do care. I would like to know who the man in question is.” She straightened her gown, thinking how ridiculous it was to receive such an important message and not know who her intended was.
“My lady, your father mentioned his name, but it escapes me.” The messenger looked helpless as well as fatigued.
“What do you mean, his name escapes you? I would like very much if you could recall it, so that I may know who I prepare for,” she scolded him.
“I cannot remember if your father mentioned a name. No, I don’t think he did.”
He paused, looking blank, but then caught himself. “Oh, yes. He gave me something for you.” Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled out a small package.
“Thank you.” Hastily, Nicole ripped open the package and found a small locket within. Holding it up to the light, she saw the crest of a porcupine on it. It was the device of the House of Orléans, the family of Louis XII, of the lesser Valois line. The greater Valois line was now extinct, with the death of the son-less Charles VIII. Even more reason for the new king to quickly secure his claim to the throne before someone else challenged it.
Oohs and ahhs from those close to her in the courtyard resounded. Was nothing ever private amongst the courtiers and staff of the household of Amboise?
“’Tis the device of the king,” Marie de Volonté breathed out, peering over Nicole’s shoulder. The younger girl’s envy was as palpable as a cold rain shower.
“’Tis indeed,” Nicole sighed. The meaning was clear. She was to wed the one from the House of Orléans, the man her father and uncle had noticed at Charles VIII’s funeral. The locket must be from the king directly, as only the king had permission to use the image of the porcupine. But it signified that it was Louis XII himself who approved the marriage. Her father and uncle must have made a very good negotiation this time. Out with Gilles de St. Bonnet, and in with Gerard d’Orléans. Either way, it was all the same to her.
She fled up the stairs and ran toward the kitchen, her haven and refuge. Her upcoming marriage was more than just a possibility. With the new king’s seal of approval upon it, it would come to pass. How strange to feel that it made no difference who her husband was to be, since her heart had no part in either man.
Angrily, she kicked at a heap of sacks piled outside the kitchen doorway. She would not disappear into married life without any exercise whatsoever of her own will. She would find a way to her heart’s desire.
“Will the pope grant an annulment because the king’s wife is too ugly to bed?” Nicole asked Cook in the kitchen, her source of news untrammeled and unvarnished by courtiers’ flattery.
“Bah—’tis not her looks, ’tis the fact that they live apart, with no children to show for twenty-two years of marriage. She will give him up because she knows she does not have the love of the people,” the Cook opined, a wellspring of information as usual.
“And does he?” Nicole asked. She knew next to nothing about the new king or his family. She wondered if she would be finding out more soon.
“He will if he marries your queen,” Cook said, her eyes shining. “She is such a one who knows how to gain the people’s hearts. Is she not?”
“She is indeed!” Nicole agreed. “She taught me how to glide when I walk.” Nicole jumped up to demonstrate, sailing across the kitchen like a swan.
“Aye, she knows all manners of tricks to appear as one born to rule,” Cook observed, rolling her eyes. She slid a tankard to Nicole as she sat at the large kitchen table.
“Do you call
them tricks? I call them social graces,” Nicole lifted her chin to remind Cook of her rank. Nicole had a position to uphold. Every once in a while it seemed that Cook needed reminding.
“Yes, whatever you might call them, they do the job they are meant to do.”
Nicole nodded. She couldn’t wait for her queen to become wife of the new king so she could resume her school for her maids of honor. Then she remembered. She would not be a maid of honor for much longer, but a married lady of honor. She wished there was someone like her mother or Madame de Laval to help her navigate the changes going on around her. At least there was Cook.
“The queen is clever. She is not going to give up being queen if she can help it,” Cook continued.
“But she also cares for Louis d’Orléans — I mean, the new king — does she not?”
“Oh, indeed. When she was a little girl, I worked in her household in Nantes. Louis d’Orléans came there as a young man, when she was about seven years old. My, she had a crush on him! And he admired the little duchess most strongly.”
“Then why weren’t they betrothed then?” Nicole had forgotten Cook was a Breton. She had come to Amboise from Nantes, far to the west in Brittany, soon after Anne had married Charles in 1492.
“’Twas sad. The young man had been married off by his father to the hunchback when he was barely more than a child. She was daughter to Louis XI, King of France. ’Tis said the boy’s father threatened to lock him up in a monastery if he didn’t go along with the plan.”
“How old was he?” So she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t wanted to wed the one chosen for her by others. Even the king of France had found himself in such a helpless position.
“I think about fourteen.”
“That’s younger than I am!”
“’Tis a good age for a woman to find a match. But for a man, ’tis young.” Cook scowled and shook her head. “He had no say in the matter at all.”
