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

by Rozsa Gaston

  Mornings were spent learning from Cook in the herb garden. There was weeding and watering to be done; also pulling herbs for meals as well as flowers to grind and store in the storeroom, ready to be made into tinctures and potions.

  Afternoons, once the household had risen from their naps and Nicole had returned from meeting Philippe, Cook spent time explaining formulas for potions to Nicole. Some were for reducing fevers and healing infections, but the vast majority seemed to be for women’s ailments.

  “This one here is meant to flush out poisons and whatever else from a woman’s womb,” Cook explained one afternoon as she pulled out a handful of small purple wildflowers from the back of the shelf in the storeroom.

  Nicole recognized them as the ones Cook had snatched away from Marie in the herb garden the year before. “Whatever else?” she asked. Usually Cook was straight to the point. This time, not.

  “Whatever else shouldn’t be in there for whatever reasons,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Nicole.

  “Do you mean the result of a flux that hasn’t fully washed out?” Nicole guessed.

  “That, perhaps, and also its opposite.” Cook looked carefully at Nicole. “Do you understand?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “I think so, too, my lady, but, just to be sure, I mean washing out whatever shouldn’t be inside.”

  “What are they called again?” Nicole stared at the scraggly little purple flowers thoughtfully. She wanted to be a healer. As a woman, she knew there were situations that women found themselves in frequently that weren’t practical. What was a healer’s responsibility to a woman in need who came to her?

  “They’re called pennyroyal. You grind them into a tea and give whoever needs it two cups daily, then watch for results.” Cook gave her a long look, then took her arm and led her out into the garden. They walked to the far end of the enclosed area, where Cook sat down on a bench under a fruit tree and patted the spot next to her for Nicole to sit.

  “How old are you, my lady?” she asked.

  “I’ve just turned sixteen,” Nicole told her.

  “A good time to learn the facts of a woman’s life.”

  “I know the facts, Cook! I’ve had my courses for almost two years now,” Nicole exclaimed.

  “And what happens when those courses stop coming?” Cook asked.

  “Then something else comes instead,” Nicole replied.

  “And what if that something else should not be on the way? Say, if there is no father to provide for it?”

  Nicole stared at her, open-mouthed. Finally, she spoke.

  “But the law, Cook; the law forbids stopping a babe from coming.”

  “And the law has never stopped a woman from doing what she has to do, should she find herself in a situation that cannot be.” Cook crossed her arms and gave Nicole a level look.

  Nicole continued to stare. She knew, of course, that there were herbs and potions to flush out the womb, usually not written down, but shared between women privately.

  “But what if it is discovered that a woman has taken something to end an—an unwanted situation? Will she not be charged with a crime?”

  “Let me ask you something. How often do you hear of such a thing happening?” Cook asked.

  Nicole searched her mind. “I—I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.” She couldn’t think of any story she’d heard where a woman was charged with ending a pregnancy. Yet she knew women sometimes took a part in not bringing to the light of day what had no welcoming home there.

  “Steps are taken in such cases,” Cook observed vaguely.

  “I know, Cook. You’ve shown me a few.” She remembered potions her mother had had on hand for women’s ailments. There had been many different concoctions, always to remedy problems referred to in the vaguest of terms.

  “It’s not just about potions. There are other things that might take place, too, to ensure no woman ever gets pulled before a magistrate to explain herself in such a situation.” Cook nodded, her face full of mystery.

  “Such as?” Nicole was unused to Cook beating about the bush. Usually she was the most direct of souls. Clearly the mysteries she spoke of were mysteries indeed, if even Cook was unable to speak of them directly.

  “Many events can cause a seed planted not to take root and grow,” Cook explained. “Most of them befall women without them even knowing what it was or why. ’Tis a great mystery.”

  “Yes.” Well Nicole knew. Everyone at Chateau d’Amboise was aware of the great mystery of the queen’s repeated pregnancies, all ending so tragically.

  “But if the woman knows very well why the pregnancy has stopped, she can take measures to ensure that no one will ever question the reasons why.”

  “And what would those measures be?” Nicole asked.

  “A fall, say, down the stairs or from a horse; maybe just tripping on a loose paving stone.”

  “Anything else?” Judging by the ripe look on Cook’s face, there was more.

  “Too much travel. A coach a woman’s riding in going over a heavy bump in the road.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No.” Cook looked thoughtful. Nicole had never seen her act so indirect.

  “Then what?”

  “A husband hitting his wife.”

  “But what if he is not of a mind to hit her?”

  “Then she can put him in a mind to do the job.”

  “How so?”

  “Talk too much. Damage his most prized possession. It doesn’t take much for a woman to irritate a man.”

  “Truth indeed,” Nicole agreed. She thought of her father. It hadn’t taken much to irritate Michel St. Sylvain. The last time they had conversed, he had wanted his way, and she had wanted hers. It seemed that was largely the case in relations between men and women.

  “There are ways to make sure that whatever ways and means have already been taken are never discovered or discussed.”

  “But ’tis a crime, no?”

  “Is it a crime for a woman to manage her own body?” Cook’s look was sharp.

  Nicole said nothing. Searching inside herself, she remembered her mother helping women from her household or the fields of their estate who came to her for help with women’s problems. At times, Blanche St. Sylvain had spoken to them in front of Nicole. Other times, she had ushered them into a private room and shut the door. Nicole knew her mother helped any and all in her household who came to her in need. She would never know if any of those women had needed to end a pregnancy, but she knew beyond a doubt that her mother would never have turned away any woman with such a story. Any one of her sex could be in a similar situation.

  Carefully, Nicole got up from the bench and followed Cook back to the kitchen. She had much to think about, and not just as it might apply to other women. She was fast on her way to having her own secrets. Already she could see that a woman’s life was full of them.

  That evening, she met Philippe on the hillside after supping. Together they watched the sun disappear behind the horizon in a great ball of fiery red.

  “’Tis said when the sun’s red at night, it will be a fine day on the morrow,” Philippe remarked.

  “And a warm night, too, I suppose.”

  “Warm enough to sleep outdoors, I’d say,” Philippe remarked, his hand finding hers as they sat shoulder to shoulder, their backs against the widest tree in the copse.

  “Yes, and probably more comfortable,” Nicole agreed. The small room she slept in off the kitchen was hot those August days; partially from the summer heat and partially from the kitchen’s hearth being so nearby.

  “A full moon tonight too,” Philippe continued.

  Nicole glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “So the calendar says.” She watched as Philippe’s features grew taut. His eyes gleamed green-gold in the setting sun.

  He leaned toward her. “What say you we meet back here an hour before midnight?” he asked, lacing his fingers in hers. He squeezed them, then released.


  Nicole breathed deeply. Have courage and be bold. “But what if someone finds out we’re not in our rooms?”

  “Easy for me,” Philippe shrugged. “My room is wherever I make my bed in the stables. No one cares where I sleep.”

  “I care where you sleep,” Nicole remarked, pulling her hand from his and leaning back to gaze at him.

  “I would sleep in your arms, if I could,” Philippe murmured, taking her hand again.

  “But we fall asleep here at times. Is it not pleasant?”

  “Very, my lady. But ’tis stolen moments. I long to spend a night with you in my arms.”

  “But what if someone finds I’m not in my bed?”

  “Do what your little friend does. Shape a blanket into a long lump and stuff it under your bed sheet.”

  “My little friend?” Nicole asked, confused.

  “Little Marie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she has a friend she visits at night.”

  So even Philippe knew. “Who is he?” she asked, wondering if he would name the garden designer’s son from Naples.

  “My lady, it is not for me to tell tales.”

  “It sounds like this is more than a tale.”

  “Let me keep the secret I have promised to keep. You would not want me to do less, would you?”

  “Of course not.” It was good to know. Useful.

  “I will bring a blanket from the stables for later,” Philippe said. He reached under her hair and stroked the back of her neck. “You will come?” he asked. The gleam of his eyes held a yearning urgency. They were more blue than green now.

  She gazed at him as she held her breath. Exhaling slowly, she felt her mouth form itself into a teasing smile.

  “You will have to wait to find out.”

  “I shall wait all night if I must,” Philippe said, his mouth forming into a similar smile.

  Nicole turned and made her way down the hill toward the chateau. She would be circumspect, as careful as she could be until she reached her heart’s desire that night. Then she would abandon all caution to the wind, along with her reason.

  The moon was halfway to its zenith when Nicole made her move. It shone as bright as a lantern; she would need to stay in the shadows as she made her way from the chateau. If Marie de Volonté’s night-time movements hadn’t gone unnoticed, then she herself would have to be extra careful not to be discovered herself.

  Instead of wearing her nightdress, she put on the dark purple gown Madame de Laval had given her to wear while the court observed the mourning period for the late king. Choosing a dark shawl to put over it, she covered her hair with the black veil the queen had had made for her maids of honor to wear. Nicole silently blessed her for choosing such new mourning colors, instead of the traditional white. Perhaps it was a sign the queen was on her side.

  She bunched up her night dress along with an extra straw pillow she had found in the chest where the items for her trousseau were stored. It was not yet full, since Nicole’s wedding plans had taken a backseat to the queen’s more urgent agenda of securing her place on the throne of France again as soon as possible.

  Satisfied that she had fashioned the lump under her blanket to look like a human form, Nicole slipped out the door.

  The night was balmy, the moon brilliant. Flattening herself against the stone of the chateau walls, she hugged them till she reached the wall enclosing the herb garden. Only one small patch right before the garden gate was bathed in moonlight. The rest stood hidden in the dark.

  She crept along the wall until reaching the moonlit patch. Then she got down on her hands and knees and pressing the blanket to the front of her gown to keep it clean, slid along the ground to the darkness on the other side, where the gate was located. Quickly she lifted the latch and let herself out, closing it carefully behind her.

  The click was louder than she had expected. Immediately, a dog barked from the direction of the kitchen.

  Nicole darted to the nearest copse of trees and hid behind the broadest one.

  The dog continued to bark then suddenly yelped. Someone had stopped it. Who? And was that person now coming to see what the dog had been barking at?

  Her heart sank to her feet. Hugging the tree for comfort, she prayed that whoever had silenced the dog had gone back to resume his or her sleep. Still as stone, she waited another few minutes then crept out from behind the tree.

  No further barking broke the night’s silence. Nothing at all moved in the moonlit night except the flutter of the breeze and Nicole’s silent form.

  As she climbed the hill, she scanned the trees ahead for Philippe. Listening for the dog or worse, her senses sharpened until she realized the night air was filled with the croaking sounds of the cicadas. Their ceaseless whirring would provide good cover for them. Her heart beat faster as she thought about what might unfold ahead.

  At last she arrived at the tree where they usually sat. No one was about. Sitting down, with her back against it, she breathed deeply.

  Before she had time to wonder where Philippe was or when he would arrive, two hands covered her eyes. The heart-stopping scent of him filled her nostrils.

  “You!” she whispered, stifling a laugh.

  “No, you, my lady!”

  “No, you, my lord!”

  “If only it could be so, my lady!”

  “’Tis so, but if only the world could know.”

  “Aye, but ’tis our secret to guard forever,” Philippe said, suddenly serious.

  Nicole drew back. “And not just this night?”

  “Lady, what do you think? Could I forget you ever?”

  “Did you not forget me when your widow showed up?” she challenged him.

  “I have not yet laid eyes upon her,” he told her, his eyes grave.

  “No!” Nicole exclaimed.

  “Yes. First I heard of her was after the falconer’s death.”

  “But you met her, surely!” Nicole cried.

  “I saw her from a distance a few times in early spring. But she was in mourning, all covered in veils. Like this one.” He lifted the material of Nicole’s veil, now lying in a crumpled heap next to the tree.

  “But haven’t you seen her more recently? Over the summer?”

  “She works in the Lady of Agen’s household, and they have gone to the sea for the summer. I haven’t seen her since the summer solstice.”

  “How could you marry someone whose face you’ve never seen?” Nicole asked, incredulous. Yet the news made her happy. Better to be with Philippe knowing he had not been near the woman who would soon take him from her. As Gerard d’Orléans would do the same with her. Their positions were reasonably the same, yet she felt anything but reasonable about it. How dare he take a wife if it couldn’t be her?

  “They say she’s fair, and that’s all I know. Jeannot told me he wished to be a father to me and that he had a good plan for my life. What does it matter, since she’s not the one I want?”

  “And who is, then?” How dare he mention she was fair? Nicole curled her fingers into her palm.

  “You know, my lady.” His hand sought hers, uncurling it. “You know who you are.”

  “It’s me you would marry if you could?”

  “Of course it is, my lady. It is and always will be.”

  “Philippe, why can’t we have what we want in this life?” she cried. She felt like a bleating lamb, vulnerable and incapable of reason.

  “Shhh, my love. Let’s not ask questions with answers that don’t please us, when so much that does please us is right here, now.”

  “You are here and you are the only one who matters.”

  “Now you speak to my heart.”

  “Philippe?’

  “What, love?”

  “Don’t push me away this time.” She looked at him carefully, to discern if he caught her meaning.

  His eyes locked onto hers, letting her know he did. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low.

  She nodded. “I am.�
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  “My love, I want what’s best for you.”

  “Then let me decide what that is.”

  “And have you?” His voice was hoarse, his eyes lit with gold.

  “I have.” She reached up and pulled his mouth to hers. The memory of what they were to share would have to last a lifetime.

  Their wonder-filled nights continued over the next few weeks. Nicole had not expected many of the aspects of what went on between a man and a woman. She had guessed at the messiness, heard about the initial painfulness from other women, but had had no idea of the exquisite pleasure that took her over once her body had gotten its bearings. She was beginning to understand why women didn’t always use their heads when it came to men. She had known that long before about men, but had thought her own sex was more sensible.

  Philippe was considerate. He had not been content to take his pleasure without introducing Nicole to hers.

  “I wish you to be mistress of your own bliss,” he whispered to her on the third night they spent together.

  “What do you mean? Am I not?” Mistress of what? Whatever he meant, the idea of it rang agreeably in her ears.

  “I mean you must know what it is and how to find it,” he told her.

  “But have I not? You are here with me now; that’s all I need.”

  “My lady, we will not be with each other forever. You do not need my presence to find your own pathway to heaven.”

  “Philippe, what are you saying?” Was he getting at the same thing Madame de Laval had alluded to when she had spoken of extreme pleasures?

  “I am telling you these things, because I want to give you something that is yours forever, if it cannot be me.”

  “Do I not have your love?” she asked.

  “You have my love.” He spoke gravely, “Now I want you to have your bliss.” His mouth twitched slightly.

  “My bliss is to be with you, Philippe.”

  “No, ma chère, your bliss is yours alone, and I wish to lead you to it so that when I’m gone you will have the key to unlocking your own body.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Truly, she didn’t. Was he telling her there was something she needed to know that she didn’t yet?