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

by Rozsa Gaston

  “Whatever lies ahead, it is my duty to be strong. Not just for myself, but for my people. For all of you, for all of Brittany, for all of France.” Her words swelled to a sweeping volume, precise and clear as a bell. At the mention of France, every woman present curtsied before her. Many wiped tears from their eyes as they rose.

  “Follow my example and be strong yourselves, my ladies. I ask you to help me to bring this babe I carry to life; and to survive, once born.”

  Every woman before her murmured their assent to the queen’s request. Nicole didn’t doubt that all of them harbored the same thought in their hearts: seven previous pregnancies, not a single child surviving beyond the age of three. The queen’s road ahead was not clear to see. What was clear was the fortitude and courage of the petite woman among them, who seemed the tallest of them all at that moment.

  “And for any of you who save this coming babe from harm or death, I will grant you one request that you ask, no matter what it is.” Queen Anne’s voice rang with promise, the promise of spring, the promise of a monarch’s authority.

  As the ladies weighed the queen’s words, Nicole drank in Anne of Brittany’s regal self-possession. She hoped she would remember every one of her queen’s qualities, and store them inside to use in the face of future storms. One thing life had already taught her was that there would be many, as surely as day turned to night.

  “But, Your Majesty, what if that one request is not to the liking of your husband the king?” Only Madame de Laval could have dared to ask the question that likely many of the ladies present were thinking.

  Anne of Brittany’s eyes sparkled as she turned to her close friend, first among her ladies of honor.

  “What do you think, Jeanne?” the queen challenged, looking down her short nose at Madame de Laval.

  “I think my sovereign queen will move her lord to grant whatever request she makes in light of her bearing him a child,” Madame de Laval answered in the same playful vein as the queen.

  “Exactly so,” the queen agreed, a smile playing at her lips.

  “Long live the queen!” a voice cried.

  “Long live the queen and her children!” another voice rang out.

  “Long live Queen Anne!” others joined in. The tone of the afternoon had turned as gay as the fair spring sky above.

  “To my life,” the queen agreed, to which the ladies’ cheers grew even louder. A ma vie was her motto, one that didn’t lack for confidence, as a woman born to rule would not.

  Queen Anne held up her hand. “Hush, now. Do not disturb my prince’s nap,” she chided the women playfully. She turned and continued her walk. “Nicole, stay by my side. You will bring me luck,” she bade her.

  Nicole kept pace with the queen, her heart bursting with love for the brave, regal woman next to her. Side by side, they strolled through the gardens, Nicole aware of the queen’s almost imperceptible limp. She admired her sovereign even more for so carefully concealing her defect. The April sun beamed down on them, blessing them both, as well as their precious charges within. Warm, sun-drenched days would follow black nights, and Nicole vowed to endure whatever nights came with the example the queen had set. Then a new day would come and they would laugh again. It was all they could ask for, Nicole told herself, trying not to ask for more.

  Nicole’s prayer was answered. At the end of May, she delivered a healthy daughter whom she named Blanche, after her own mother Blanche St. Sylvain.

  Gerard had been pleased. As was customary, he had stayed clear of the birthing chamber, coming to congratulate her after the child was born.

  Nicole’s labor had been hard, but mercifully short. After labors she had seen the queen endure, with no live issue as reward, Nicole counted herself blessed to have delivered a beautiful, rosy babe. She prayed the same would happen for the queen in the fall, although a dauphin would be preferable for the king and queen to cement the line of both Brittany and the house of Valois on the throne of France.

  Gerard proved a devoted father. His delight in his new daughter warmed Nicole’s heart, and his delight in his wife soon warmed her bed again.

  He wasn’t bad. He was energetic, enthusiastic and considerate. What he lacked was not his fault. Nicole looked to her infant daughter to fill in the gaps.

  Blanche’s every movement, every murmur, ravished her heart. A warm shower of love washed over her at moments when she watched her daughter kick her limbs in the morning sun or lock her eyes onto her mother’s. Nicole counted herself abundantly blessed. She thanked God for all she had been given, including rich memories of what had also been taken away.

  In June, the queen’s court moved to Blois, to the childhood home of her new husband, Louis XII. It was a much larger castle, with far more rooms than the Chateau d’Amboise.

  There, Nicole attended her sovereign almost as tenderly as she looked after Blanche. Daily, she massaged the queen’s hands and feet with the violet musk-perfumed oil she loved. At least twice a week the queen bathed; a practice previously unheard of at court. Nicole made sure to scent the water with a few drops of Rose de Provence each time.

  Two kitchen boys were on call at all times to prepare the fire for the queen’s frequent baths. Although some at court whispered at the lavish taste of the diminutive duchess from Brittany, most at Blois Castle felt proud to be part of what was becoming known as one of Europe’s most sophisticated royal courts.

  The king denied his new queen nothing, doting on her in a way Nicole hadn’t seen Charles VIII do, although he, too, had been a loving husband. Perhaps it was the age difference, with the queen almost fifteen years her new husband’s junior. More likely it was because Louis XII had admired the young duchess as a commanding seven-year-old at her father’s court in Nantes. She had been trained to rule from birth, a fact that showed in her firm decision-making skills, her opulent tastes, and her supreme self-assurance. For understandable reasons, the king appeared besotted with his new, young wife.

  Nicole knew well how childhood bonds sometimes tightened with age rather than loosened. Similar cords of affection had tightened around her own heart, although she told herself she had everything she could desire.

  On languid summer days when she nursed Blanche in the garden, she would wait for her daughter’s mouth to move off her breast, her eyes suffuse with satiety then shut, and her small head drop back into a deep contented sleep. While Blanche napped, Nicole reveled in her own thoughts. To others, both mother and daughter looked fast asleep, but Nicole’s head swam with memories of the summer before when she had behaved as her own mother’s daughter, giving herself up to the one who had not been chosen for her.

  She had chosen him herself, as he had chosen her. Time with him counted among her most treasured and sacred memories, although she wasn’t sure what a priest would make of such thoughts. God knew plenty of men of the cloth, from the Pope on down, had given themselves over to similar pleasures while in the line of sacred duty.

  Nicole treasured her naps with Blanche after nursing her. To others, she looked the paragon of motherhood, a noble lady too besotted with her child to allow a wet nurse to do the job, as most did.

  It was all that and more. Those quiet moments were the one time she could count on not being disturbed, neither by Gerard nor any of the ladies of the court who thought it rather common of her to nurse her own child. Perhaps it was, but she delighted in her time alone with her babe as well as her memories.

  Cook had told her she would not get with child again until she gave up giving the breast to her. That was fine by Nicole. She didn’t want to be rushed along the tidal river of fate that had brought her to Gerard d’Orléans’ marriage bed. It was pleasant, agreeable. But it lacked what another bed had offered. A bed of her own making, on a blanket laid on a grassy hill, where sensation and emotion had melded together in rapturous waves of bliss she had never felt since.

  She had had her moment before duty swallowed her up. And she had seized it, just as her own mother had. “To my life,”
had become her own motto.

  Looking down at Blanche’s sweet face, Nicole’s heart swelled. It was too soon to know the true color of her daughter’s eyes. They changed every time she opened them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Queen’s

  Desire

  By late summer, the rumor of plague coming to Blois had been confirmed, with several cases in the village, but none as yet at the castle. Word of it was sent to the king in Milan. His return was swift, his directives firm.

  “I am taking you to Romorantin where my cousin will care for you until the child is delivered,” the king told the queen. Chateau Romorantin, the home of Louis XII’s cousin, Louise de Savoy, was a two-hour journey from Blois, to the southeast.

  Nicole and Madame de Laval had escorted the king to the queen’s chambers, where they had plastered themselves to the other side of the door, their ears to the narrow gap between hinge and wall as soon as he had shut it behind him.

  “I do not want my child born in that woman’s home,” the queen’s voice was shrill.

  “No signs of plague are at Romorantin, and Louise will see to it no one visits from any towns touched by pox while you await your time,” the king counseled.

  “I hate that woman,” the queen wailed.” She wants my sons to die, so she can put her own son on the throne.” She referred to Louise’s son by her late husband, Charles, Count of Angoulême. Francis, Duke de Valois, was a child of four, who was next in line to the throne of France should the king and queen produce no male heirs.

  “You know how strict she is. She will see to it that no plague enters her home to protect her boy,” the king argued. “Do you not see that her interests are aligned with ours?”

  “She is as fierce as a mother hawk about that boy. Do you know she calls him her little César?” the queen snorted in disgust.

  “That is precisely why you will be in the best hands, far from Blois, under her protection. Her only goal in life is to safeguard her son. She will guard him and everyone else in her household better than anyone can here, where pox already lurks.”

  “What if she tries to kill our son, if I have one? She will not be pleased.”

  “My lady, I am sending a doctor to you as soon as I receive word your time has come. He trained in Milan. I’ve charged him with watching over the health of the babe once it’s born.”

  “I don’t want any of that lot near me,” the queen railed.

  “He will attend to the babe, not you, my lady. And he is from my personal staff, so I trust him.”

  “What good have any of them done for any of my children?” the queen cried.

  “My lady, this one has skills I saw myself. He is young; he has new ideas.”

  “What good are the ideas of men for the mysteries of women?”

  Nicole and Madame de Laval exchanged glances; the queen’s question was apt.

  “My lady, you ask a question to which I have no answer,” the king replied judiciously. “But our child will be attended by this man who served under me, and is loyal to our house. You may also bring some of your ladies to attend you, so long as they are healthy.”

  “I want Nicole to assist,” the queen told him.

  On the other side of the door, Nicole felt herself blush with love and pride.

  “The wife of Gerard, you mean?” The king had been away in Milan the past few months and was only now getting to know the inner circle of his wife’s court.

  “Yes. She has a sense of touch. I want her to be with the babe after it’s born. She will know what to do, not like those charlatans with their mumbo jumbo.”

  “Then I will see to it that she also assists the man I am sending.”

  “A pox on your doctors!” the queen’s voice rose.

  “This one is different. He comes from an unusual background,” the king replied. “I trust him and you must trust me.”

  “What do you mean?” the queen demanded.

  “You will feel safer having your babe attended to by the man I send than by a doctor from my cousin’s household,” the king said.

  “Truth to that, husband,” the queen’s voice was calmer. Louis XII had reached out to her and she had accepted his peace token.

  “Now rest, my lady,” the king’s tone softened. “You will need your strength for the battle which only women are given to do.”

  “Shut up and bring me one of those Venetian treats, if you brought any back this time.”

  “You read my mind, my lady love. I have some here that I saved for you.”

  Holding back a giggle, Nicole smiled at Madame de Laval. The king and queen’s relations were wonderfully informal. It was a good sign, boding a loving alliance, one that a child together would cement.

  Madame de Laval smiled in return, and silently they slipped away from the door.

  As expected, Nicole was chosen to be part of the attending team. Two midwives would assist at the queen’s delivery; the new physician would attend to the health of the infant. The king had returned to Milan, but would come as soon as he received word that the queen’s pains had begun.

  Louise de Savoy’s welcome was surprisingly warm. She stood in the courtyard of the Chateau de Romorantin, personally greeting each member of the queen’s escort, bowing dutifully as Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, was helped out of her litter. Louise de Savoy was an efficient manager of her household as well as her son’s safekeeping. Every one of the attendants who accompanied the queen to Romorantin had been checked carefully for sickness by Louise’s own doctors, before being admitted across the bridge over the moat surrounding the chateau.

  Cook numbered among the women the queen had brought from Blois. The wise woman had packed large bags of clove heads, cinnamon, orange and lemon peels, and sage and lavender, meant to safeguard from plague. No one was more expert than Cook on how to ward off illness. Plus she was a Breton, someone the queen trusted, from her own childhood home in Nantes.

  On the evening of October twenty-fourth, after a sumptuous supper with Louise de Savoy, the queen’s pains began. Quickly, her team of attendants and midwives prepared her for the birth. A messenger was dispatched to the king on the fleetest horse in the Chateau de Romorantin’s stables. Louise de Savoy kissed the queen, wishing her a safe delivery, and retired to her own quarters per instructions from her cousin the king. The queen had told him, under no conditions did she want Louise anywhere near her during labor and delivery, and Louis XII had relayed the message, rephrased in more diplomatic terms, saying that his wife would be more at ease to have her own women attend her when her time came.

  By early the next morning, the queen entered hard labor.

  “Get the physician sent from the king,” Madame de Laval snapped to one of the attendants standing behind Nicole.

  “Yes, my lady.” The woman rushed from the queen’s chamber to the hall outside. Nicole could hear her ordering the guard to summon the doctor.

  In a minute, heavy steps were heard in the hall outside, and the attendant appeared in the doorway.

  “The doctor is here, my lady.”

  A tall man in a black cape and traveling hat stood behind her, his face in shadows. Just beyond him, the first rays of breaking day filtered through the windows.

  Madame de Laval put up her hand. “Tell them to stop there. We will be done in a few minutes, and when the babe has arrived, the doctor can check him.”

  Him. It was doubtful, but one could hope. Nicole leaned over the queen, then clutched the laboring woman’s forearm firmly to help her through the final agonies of the birth passage.

  “Breathe, Your Majesty. Breathe in now,” the first midwife urged the queen, who half stood, half sat on the birthing throne.

  “Shut up!” Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, screamed in anguish.

  “Hold her up,” the second midwife instructed Nicole and the woman who clutched the queen’s other arm. Firmly, Nicole grasped the queen’s arm with one hand and slipped her other arm around her back, forcing her more upright
.

  “Get it out!” the queen shrieked.

  “Yes, Madame. He is coming now. He is almost here. Don’t push yet; wait until I tell you,” the midwife instructed.

  Nicole dipped a linen in the basin of rose water next to the birthing stool then wiped her sovereign’s glistening face. She smiled at her, but the queen noticed nothing. She was in another world, one Nicole had been in herself. As with all mothers everywhere, she knew how desperately the laboring woman wanted to escape it as soon as possible.

  “Now, Your Majesty. Push now!” the midwife ordered.

  “Ahhh!” the queen moaned.

  “He is coming, Madame. Keep pushing.”

  “Damn you to hell!”

  “Very good, Madame, his head is showing.”

  “Arghhhh!”

  “Push, Your Majesty. Push out your babe,” Nicole cried, urging her on.

  The queen exhaled again, a mighty groan escaping her, and, with it, the child. Expertly, the midwife caught the babe. The second midwife moved in to cut the cord. Nicole wiped the queen’s face again, and watched as Anne of Brittany’s eyes came back into focus and sought the being she had just delivered.

  Silence blanketed the room. The child began to cry: a loud hardy wail.

  “Bless God,” Nicole said, although she knew what the silence meant.

  “The babe is alive, bless God.” Murmurs echoed all around the room. Every remark was positive, except for the one not stated. Nicole knew what the absence of that one remark was.

  The queen’s eyes closed then fluttered open.

  “What have I?” she asked weakly.

  “Your Majesty, your daughter is born,” the midwife announced. A cheer went up around the room.

  “Get the doctor,” Madame de Laval ordered Nicole. Her face revealed nothing, neither joy nor sorrow. How well all of the queen’s attendants knew the tenuousness of their sovereign’s infants’ grip on life.