by Rozsa Gaston
“I’ve had other things to do,” Nicole hedged. She had stopped riding Petard in November, at the first sign.
Then, in December, after a messenger had arrived with news that the king’s annulment had been granted by Rome, on her way to tell Cook in the kitchen, she had realized she could no longer run, even with the special glide her queen had taught her.
“The king has gotten his wish from the Pope. He will marry our queen next month, they say,” she had panted out as she leaned on the doorway to catch her breath.
“Good news indeed.” Cook eyeballed Nicole thoughtfully. “And more on the way, I’d wager.”
“What do you mean?” Nicole asked, feeling her face flush even more than it already had from the exertion of running down the hallway.
“Are you staying off that horse?” Cook’s eyes swept her figure then returned to her face.
“Yes, Cook.” Cook knew how fond Nicole was of the horses, especially Petard.
“Still no courses?”
“No.” Then she clapped her hand to her mouth. She had told nothing to Cook of her courses not coming over the past few months. Cook had trapped her in the same way she herself had trapped Marie de Volonté the summer before.
“Then something is on the way,” Cook’s face rounded into a smile as she put an experienced hand on Nicole’s belly. “You must guard your secrets, little one,” the older woman added in a lower voice.
“I know, Cook. You are the one who taught me that.”
“’Tis a blessing the queen’s away; she will not wish to see your joy until she can share in it herself,” the older woman continued.
“There’s nothing to see, is there? I can’t eat, and my bodice fits the same.”
“Little one, the news is written on your face, but not yet on your body. You are glowing. How happy your lord must be.”
“I haven’t—I haven’t said anything yet.”
Cook looked closely at Nicole, a sly smile playing at her lips.
“Are you waiting for Christmas to gift him with such news?”
“I’m waiting until—I can be certain.” I’m waiting because I cannot be sure of certain things.
“Focus on what you can be certain of: that your lord will be pleased.” Cook’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You must let him know, so he will share in your joy.”
Whatever Cook knew or guessed, Nicole was sure that the woman who had taught her so much about herbs and healing knew how to keep secrets. Women healers always did.
“I’ll bring some apples to Petard,” she said, moving toward the storeroom. She wanted to get away before the older woman asked any more questions. Reaching clumsily into a basket in the cool room off the kitchen, she pulled out two dried apples left over from the fall harvest. She couldn’t bear to bite into one herself; she would offer both to Petard.
“Don’t go inside his paddock,” Cook told her. “You are guarding a life now. Protect it with your own.”
“I will, Cook. I surely will.”
Heeding Cook’s words, she had taken care over the Advent season not to run or jump, anchoring herself to the ground beneath her, just as the babe was anchored inside. Gerard had left for the wedding the first week of January and was still gone when February arrived, and with it the first intimations of spring.
She watched Philippe as he awkwardly tried to climb onto Petard’s back. He had grown in the five months since she had last seen him. The fine muscles in his thighs had thickened. They flexed and danced under the rough material of his leggings as he clumsily tried to mount the horse. Finally, he succeeded in getting one leg over, fully seating himself.
Petard tossed his head back as Philippe squeezed the stallion’s flanks. The horse seemed happy to be ridden and soon broke into a canter. After a moment, Philippe pulled the reins to circle back to Nicole, and Petard whinnied; whether in protest or for joy, she couldn’t tell.
She threw back her head and laughed loudly. Everything felt so good at that moment. She prayed that the next time she saw her queen, Anne of Brittany would feel a similar joy.
“My lady is happy, although full of secrets today,” Philippe observed.
“Yes. Both.” The secret she guarded was one that she herself didn’t know the answer to. Fortunately she had enough to focus on with the secret she had that she did know of. Soon enough, it would no longer be a secret to anyone with eyes to see.
“I am happy to see your roses.” Philippe slowed Petard to a walk and sidled up to the fence on the other side of Nicole.
“What roses?” She could feel even more heat than usual spring to her face. Over the past few months, she had felt like a small oven warmed her from within. And so it did, with something precious growing inside.
Philippe leaned down and put his head near Nicole’s. His scent was intoxicating, a heady, bracing aroma that made her senses dance. She felt dizzy.
“The roses in your cheeks,” he whispered, looking intently into her eyes.
At that moment, the babe leapt in Nicole’s stomach. Startled, she stumbled sideways. In a flash, Philippe was off the horse and at her side, steadying her with his arm. “Come. Sit down. I will get you some water,” he said gently.
In a daze, Nicole waited for the slight internal movement to happen again. Now, she understood what the flutter had been the moment before when Petard had snorted and exhaled his warm breath onto her stomach. The babe had kicked. The moment of quickening had come: in Philippe’s presence, not Gerard’s. Thinking back to Cook’s words, she realized the older woman had counseled her to guard her secrets, not just one. Had she known Nicole had more than one secret, or did she simply know that every woman did?
Philippe returned with a leather skin of water, and crouched beside her.
She took it and drank thirstily.
“Did you feel faint?”
“I felt something, but not faint.” she told him.
“What did you feel?”
“What I felt, I cannot share with you. But it was a good thing. Do you understand?”
“A happy secret?’
“Yes.”
“Then I am happy, too.”
“Even though your happiness belongs to your future wife?” she couldn’t help asking. She hoped she didn’t sound bitter.
“About that—”
“Tell me nothing about that,” she said sharply, cutting him off. She reached up and touched a finger to his mouth. “I don’t want to know.” She wished to hear nothing that might pain her. Not for her sake, but for the one on the way.
“Then let me tell you your laugh is my happiness. The roses in your cheeks are my happiness. You are—”
“Enough, Philippe. Now is the time for you to keep such thoughts as your own secrets. You must put them out of your mind.”
“I cannot, my lady.” His green eyes blazed; he seemed almost angry. “They are my thoughts, and mine to do with what I please.”
“Then you mustn’t share them with me.” He felt exactly the way she did, she now knew. Her thoughts were a verdant field, alive with memories of the summer before and the autumn before that.
“You are the cause of them,” he told her.
“You are the cause of some of my secret thoughts, too,” Nicole confessed. The scent of him so near jumbled her senses.
“Really?” His face lit up, eager and open.
The babe kicked again. In protest at Nicole’s words or in celebration? She couldn’t tell, but the slight flutter elated her. She couldn’t share either the news or the sensation with the man who stood before her, but she could treasure it in her heart. Instantly, she knew that Cook had spoken of all women when she had told Nicole to guard her secrets. Women had many, if they were lucky. Nicole was beginning to feel fortunate indeed.
“Listen to me,” she whispered to Philippe.
“I do. Even when you are not near, I hear you in my thoughts,” he breathed back, his breath warm on her face.
“You must guard all these thoughts and whatever oth
er ones you have, and put them in a secret place,” she told him sternly. She would faint in a minute, dissolved by his scent and breath.
“Only if you promise to do the same.”
“I do, Philippe. I truly do.” She spoke sincerely. She had kept her thoughts of Philippe secret ever since they had first met.
“And the other thoughts, too. You have them?”
“Many.”
“Many more than the ones I know?’
“Many more.” She smiled as the tiny flutter inside began again. Was the babe warning her or cheering her on?
“Then, when I ask you where you put them many years from now, you will have them carefully hidden away but not forgotten?”
“Many years from now, Philippe?”
“Yes. God willing.” He looked earnestly into her eyes.
“I will be an old woman many years from now.” Was he implying the time they both knew would come sooner rather than later, when her present husband no longer walked the Earth? Who knew if she would be alive by then? Especially after childbirth. She shuddered to think of how many women she knew whose lives had ended with that experience, her mother among them.
“And I an old man.”
“I will not be alone, God willing,” she spelled out. Hopefully, the babe in her womb would live, if God could forgive her for seizing her own happiness.
“Then I will take what comes with my heart’s love,” Philippe promised.
“You speak of that which we have no power to control. But if ever such a time comes . . .”
“You will not forget me?” His eyes searched hers, the green of them flecked with gold.
“I will not forget you.” The weight of Cook’s counsel cloaked her like a mantle. What transpired now between Philippe and her had no place in the present moment. Yet their feelings were as real as the fluttering she had just felt inside. For that reason, their conversation must remain secret, known and remembered only by them. It was good counsel to guard her secrets. Now she realized not only women had them.
“Good,” he breathed.
“Good, my foolish one,” she told him to lighten the moment. “Now, get back on that horse, and ride him like I would if I could.” She needed to recover herself before she fainted from emotion. Either that, or from the flutter of the babe inside, reminding her that the deepest of all of her secrets would forever remain a secret, even to herself.
CHAPTER TEN
A Ma Vie
(To My Life)
Her face was serene, a marble mask. She seemed taller than before leaving for Paris the previous spring.
As the queen strolled through the castle garden, Nicole and the other ladies of honor in tow, Nicole saw that she also looked more rosy than the last time she had seen her. Marriage to the new king apparently agreed with her.
In her loose pale yellow gown, Anne of Brittany flowed as she walked. As she turned the corner of the rectangular formal garden, Nicole saw that she was less slim in profile than she had been in May, at the late king’s memorial service. Was it because she had worn black for the entire season when last Nicole last saw her, and black made every woman look slimmer? Or was it something else?
Nicole dug her elbow into Marie de Volonté’s side. “What do you think? Is the queen looking fuller now, or am I imagining things since I am a round ball myself?”
“Madame de Laval says the queen has been blessed again,” Marie de Volonté said, looking down at Nicole’s large tummy then up again. “Soon, she will bring another dauphin into the world to make her smile and laugh again.” Her mouth wavered, as if she wasn’t quite convinced.
“Pray God his smiles and laughter continue to his adulthood this time.” Nicole replied, crossing herself. Marie de Volonté followed suit.
“And may yours, too,” Marie added. “When did you say it will come?” The look she gave Nicole was as blank as her face was sweet.
Nicole stared at her a moment. “Toward the end of spring. Why?”
The younger girl giggled. “You are so big, I thought maybe sooner.” Eyes half-lidded, she glanced again at Nicole’s midsection then looked quickly away.
“Nicole, come,” the queen’s fluid, yet authoritative, voice floated toward her, cutting through the spring air like a crisp tuft of wind.
Nicole hurried to her side. “Your Majesty,” she curtsied clumsily, as she did everything else these days. Fearing to look into the queen’s eyes, she kept hers downcast.
“I see you have been busy since your marriage,” the queen teased, her eyes on Nicole’s enormous egg-shaped tummy.
“My lady, I have not wished to—to—”
“To flaunt your belly in front of me when mine is flat?” the queen asked levelly.
“I—yes, my lady.” Her queen didn’t lack for courage. She knew how to call a spade a spade.
“Do you see me in my black gown now?” Anne’s tone was teasing.
“No, my lady. I am happy to see you in this pretty yellow one,” Nicole replied uncertainly.
“It was time for a new one,” the queen commented. “Besides, my black one no longer fits.”
Nicole looked questioningly into the queen’s eyes. Joy danced there.
“Your Majesty?” It wasn’t for her to speculate as to what the queen was implying. She would wait for her monarch to lead. If she didn’t care to share whatever news she had, Nicole would find out soon enough from the other ladies before they left for Blois, where the king and queen would make their home.
Anne of Brittany laughed aloud, the first laugh Nicole had heard from her lips since the winter before, when King Charles had been alive and his child on the way. At the queen’s gay humor, the other ladies began to laugh, too, brightening the spring day. Did their sovereign have good news?
“I am happy to hear you laugh, Your Majesty,” Nicole confided, recovering herself.
“And what about your babe? Does he kick at our pleasure?” the queen put a hand on Nicole’s belly and felt it carefully. Sure enough, the little one inside kicked in response, evoking a giggle from the queen.
“It seems he does, my lady!” Nicole cried. She could faint from happiness at the sound of her liege lady’s laugh. It had been a long winter.
“And what about mine? Are you an expert now on feeling the flutter of a soul within?” As she spoke, the queen took Nicole’s hand and put it on her own belly.
A murmur went up from the ladies around them.
“Your Majesty?” Nicole stammered.
“Is it true?” one of the more bold amongst the court ladies asked.
“May we congratulate you on your happiness?” another chimed.
“My happiness lies inside, yes. You may pray for me that this one enters the world safely, and stays longer than my Charles Orland,” the queen said bravely. Her face neither flinched nor changed color as she spoke the name of her dead son.
Nicole’s heart swelled. Royal down to her fingertips, Anne of Brittany had been trained from childhood to mask weakness. How well she demonstrated the courtly virtue of self-control.
Joyous cries rippled through the soft spring air at the queen’s news. Her maids of honor crowded around her, smiling and chattering. Little Marie de Volonté’s face beamed as tears of joy streamed down it. She had seen much at court already at the tender age of fifteen.
“Ma chère, do not cry. This is the time for joy. You must amuse me and keep our little dauphin entertained until he is ready to join us. Wipe your tears,” the queen commanded.
Nicole felt tears spring to her own eyes. Quickly, she turned away so the queen wouldn’t see them. Never in her life had she met any other woman as brave as her sovereign. She had lost seven children, then her husband the king. God grant that the babe she now harbored, planted there by Louis XII, would live to adulthood.
“Why do you cry, Nicole? Especially you, favored among others?” the queen asked.
“Because you are so brave, my lady.” Nicole could barely get the words out. “So brave and strong. N
o one who has ever ruled a kingdom is above you in courage and grace.”
“My little one,” the queen murmured, putting a dainty hand on Nicole’s shoulder. Some of the ladies tittered. Nicole was as large as a giant eggplant, the birth of her child looming only a month away. She had prayed for many months that her own babe would be a girl, so that the queen would not feel downcast at the arrival of another woman’s son after losing all of her own. But if the queen was expecting her own son, it wouldn’t matter. If he survived. She shuddered. Of four live children Anne had borne, all four were dead. Then there were the three others that had been born dead. The odds were horrendous. Best not to think of them at all.
Instead, Nicole considered the possibility that it might be a boy inside her. Still, she clung to the idea that it was a daughter to keep her company night and day. Gerard had returned to Amboise from Nantes in February, but then had been sent off to Blois in March to prepare the castle for the king and queen’s arrival. Philippe was gone, too, back to Agen. For now, however, she didn’t much care; with the final months of pregnancy upon her, she had low appetite for male company. All of her thoughts and actions wrapped themselves around the life inside her, protecting the little soul and talking to it in countless inner conversations.
“I was trained to lead my country from the moment I began to walk,” the queen spoke, cutting into Nicole’s thoughts. Anne of Brittany’s tone was suddenly serious.
The ladies grew silent around her. “At age eleven, my parents were dead and I became Duchess of Brittany. The following year, I lost my sister, Isabeau, and two years after that, almost my country.”
The ladies moved closer, eager to hear her words.
“In the years that followed, as all of France knows, I lost every one of my children and then my husband,” she continued.
The garden had become so still, even the birds had stopped twittering.
“But now I have moved through my season of loss, and spring is here.” She paused, her face radiant, proud. “Yet none of us know what lies ahead. For any of us. For our lords in war and for us in childbirth.”
Nicole’s heart stood still. Her time would be upon her soon, within weeks. She prayed to God and to her mother’s soul to send a quick labor and safe delivery. Guilt twinged her as she considered that she asked for an easier hand than her queen had been dealt. Silently, she crossed herself, as did every woman present.
