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

by Rozsa Gaston

  With a final swipe of the queen’s sweat-drenched face with a wet cloth, Nicole left the room and went into the next.

  “Come now. The child is born. A girl,” she said to the back of the man in the black cape.

  He turned. “Good news, indeed.”

  A melting warmth came over Nicole, as if spring had gotten mixed up and arrived in late fall. Someone else’s voice had sounded like that when her heart had first awakened from girlish slumber to womanly joys.

  “I’ve always preferred girls,” the man continued, his cape brushing her gown as he passed.

  Her senses sharpening, she breathed in. “You are among the few,” she replied, thinking she did too, with one exception. The man’s face was partially hidden by his wide-brimmed hat. But his scent enveloped her, filling every pore of her being with aching familiarity.

  “One in particular,” he added, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder.

  Again, she inhaled, feeling dizzy. Could it be?

  Quickly, she re-entered the room and busied herself with tidying up the queen. When her eyes fluttered open, Nicole greeted her. “Your Majesty, well done. Your daughter lives.”

  “My daughter lives,” the queen repeated tonelessly.

  Nicole watched as her monarch adjusted her face. What fortitude it took to be queen. The woman had just missed yet another chance to give the Kingdom of France a dauphin. Louise de Savoy would be lighting a candle to whichever saint she had prayed to to deny the queen a son and heir to the throne yet again. Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, needed to face the outcome with fortitude and resolve.

  Nicole knew her queen well enough to know that both the king and the queen were determined that one of their children would succeed them, either by direct succession in the case of a son, or by marriage of a daughter to the male member of the king’s family in line to succeed him, in the event that no son was forthcoming. The birth of a daughter meant the only way to get their child on the throne of France was to marry her to the four-year-old son of their host, Louise de Savoy. The queen had no alternative but to resolve herself to this outcome, although it most likely meant that her beloved Brittany would become part of the Kingdom of France, something Nicole knew the queen did not wish to come to pass. It would be interesting to see if her sovereign found a way around this problem. Nicole had no doubt she would use all her powers to try.

  “Madame, may I get you something? Something to eat or drink?” Nicole knew that Queen Anne would get over whatever sacrifices she must make to accomplish her overall objective: to secure the throne of France for one of her children. She was too politically astute not to do whatever needed to be done to achieve that goal.

  “Find out if the babe is healthy,” the queen commanded her. “And don’t leave my husband’s cousin or that doctor alone with her. Check her yourself.”

  “Yes, Madame.” Nicole made her way to the other room, her heart beating fast. Not for the queen’s sake, but for the sake of meeting face to face with the man in the black cape. I’m a married woman; my husband awaits me in Blois.

  “Her Majesty asks after her daughter. How is she?” Nicole addressed him, her face composed in a serene mask. All of her senses were afire. Was this the man she thought it was?

  “She is completely healthy. She has all her fingers and toes. A good strong heartbeat and lungs. Tell her that she has given birth to a beautiful, strong babe.” Under the brim of his hat, his eyes searched hers as he spoke. His gaze was far too forward to belong to a stranger.

  Everything inside Nicole tingled. Sensations that had lain dormant for so long she had forgotten she possessed them began to vibrate. Surrounded by others, nothing could be said for the moment.

  “How is she?” Madame de Laval inquired, coming up to them.

  “She is perfect in every way, Madame. Perfectly formed, perfectly shaped,” the doctor announced.

  The newborn princess let out a wail. Nicole smiled at how loud and lusty it was. It sounded the way she felt inside. She wanted to fling her arms around the neck of the man in front of her.

  The king arrives,” a courtier boomed at the door.

  “Go to the queen and give her the news of her healthy babe, so the king hears it from her lips first,” Madame de Laval commanded Nicole.

  Her heart beating as fast as the queen’s new daughter’s, she rushed to the spent woman’s side. Nicole was sure of it. Philippe de Bois was no longer a horse-trainer.

  “The doctor says she’s perfect,” she exclaimed. “He said to tell you your babe is both beautiful and strong, Your Majesty!” Nicole’s joy swam in her eyes, blurring her vision.

  “We will call her Claude,” the queen replied matter-of-factly, “after St. Claudius de Besançon. I prayed to him for a safe delivery.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but her thoughts were her own. A born ruler, she had spent a lifetime practicing the discipline of keeping her troubles to herself.

  “Your Majesty, are you not happy? You have delivered a princess to France,” Nicole exclaimed, full of fresh awakenings, of love thought lost now found.

  “I am queen; it doesn’t matter whatever else I am. All that counts is that I am queen.” Anne of Brittany looked as composed as she had looked like a madwoman only minutes earlier.

  “But I want you to be happy, too, Your Majesty.” She caught herself. It was not her place to speak of her own wishes for her sovereign. It was her duty to simply carry out whatever charges the queen gave her. Perhaps the queen wanted power more than happiness. Or perhaps the attainment of power was her happiness.

  “Yes, silly goose. I am happy.” The queen’s smile was small, but her eyes shone, putting Nicole’s heart at ease.

  Because her queen was happy, she gave herself permission to feel the full extent of her own joy. Inside, the dam broke; cool, rushing water flowed over it. Philippe de Bois was alive and in the other room. Everything else seemed immaterial. She hoped, unreasonably, that he was yet unmarried. But even if he wasn’t, to have the one who had fired her youth so close by was a joy beyond measure. The feelings he awakened in her were feelings she had never held for Gerard. Of course she loved her husband; she was bound to him. But the history she shared with the man in the other room was something she would never share with any other man. It was as if her feelings ran on parallel tracks: one for the world to see, the second for only her and one other human being to remember and savor at secret moments.

  “Leave me now. I need to rest, and you are much too excited. It’s me who has a new babe, not you.” The queen peered at Nicole. “Why are you so beside yourself?”

  “My queen, your joy is mine. Thank you for giving us all this healthy princess!” Nicole enthused, masking the real source of her happiness. She enjoyed it even more because it was so exquisitely and privately her own. The only other being who shared it stood in the adjoining room, making small talk as he awaited the king’s arrival. Steeling herself, she told herself she was a married woman. Of course she was. Happily married, too. Still, could she not allow herself the joy of knowing that the one with whom she had tasted bliss beyond words was so close at hand? It was enough, she told herself. It had to be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Secret Garden

  Marie de Volonté had not accompanied them to Romorantin. Further plague cases had stopped in Blois and, after it was clear the queen’s newborn was healthy, plans were made to return.

  The first week of February, the royal entourage rode into the courtyard of Blois Castle. Nicole accompanied the queen to her chambers, then got her own daughter settled into her rooms. Gerard was away, summoned to join the king in Milan, where he had returned after Princess Claude’s baptism in the chapel of Romorantin.

  The following day, Nicole went down to the kitchen to help Cook put away the supplies they had packed for Romorantin. They had not needed most of them, since the household there had been healthy. Louise de Savoy was a controlling woman, but in times of pestilence or pox, her strict oversight proved
helpful in keeping her household safe.

  The queen had complained of her non-stop in their carriage ride home to Blois, but Nicole had silently blessed God that Louise de Savoy had opened her home to them for the safe arrival of the royal princess. If they hadn’t gone to Romorantin, the king would not have sent Philippe de Bois to attend to Claude after her birth. Nicole didn’t doubt Louis had sent him not so much for his newly-acquired medical skills, but so as to have someone he could trust watch over his newborn child in his cousin’s home. In the event that Claude had been a boy, Louise de Savoy’s son Francis would no longer be next in line to the throne of France, something that would have displeased the strong-minded woman. Whether she would have schemed for the infant to fall ill or fail to thrive, no one knew, but better to be safe than sorry.

  Seeing Philippe again had been the sweetest of shocks; one Nicole had tried to manage delicately, as a married woman and mother. It had been easier to see him away from Blois, where Gerard had stayed while she accompanied the queen to Romorantin. At least Nicole had not had to cope with the stress of hiding her joy from her husband, as well as her sorrow when Philippe had returned to Milan shortly after the princess’s birth.

  They had not shared a single private moment. She had not sought one and he had followed her cues, as he had always known so well how to do. Duty held her in its grip and she was not unhappy to be bound by it. She had not been able to bear the thought of spending time with him in private conversation while her eyes swam in the deep waters of his gray-green gaze, then meeting the eyes of her husband upon her return. The secrets she already had were enough to fill a lifetime.

  Still, the morning Philippe was due to leave, she had stood at the window and watched as he lifted his eyes to the rooms where the queen and her attending ladies were quartered. When, finally, he spotted her, she felt as if time stopped. Then she remembered all that awaited her back in Blois and raised her hand in farewell. Hot tears welled in her eyes as she saw Philippe put his own hand over his heart, staring up at her for a long moment. Then he had turned his horse and spurred it from the courtyard, and the tears had spilled down her cheeks.

  With rich food for thought, she carefully unpacked the bundles they had brought back. As she did, she glanced over Cook’s shoulder into the storeroom. Surprised, she caught sight of Marie de Volonté. Her friend and sometimes-rival was reaching up for something on the shelf, near where Cook and Nicole kept the more poisonous herbs: pennyroyal, cowbane, and other herbs for women’s ailments. Her profile bulged slightly below her bodice: she was not as slender as she had been five months earlier.

  “Is that you, Marie?” Nicole called out. She sidled toward the storeroom to see what her friend was doing, but Cook blocked her way before she could enter.

  Peering over Cook’s shoulder, she took in Marie’s silhouette as she clumsily stepped down from the stool she had used to reach to the top shelves. The outline of her form under her gown told Nicole that Marie had been busy in her absence. Her friend’s belly was rounded, her face puffy and red.

  “Good news?” Nicole exclaimed delightedly.

  Marie’s face blanched from red to white. She frowned at Nicole, saying nothing.

  “Don’t you need to take this up to the queen’s chambers?” Cook asked, stepping directly into Nicole’s sight line. She thrust a bunch of dried sage into Nicole’s hands.

  “I can do it later,” Nicole protested. She wanted to know Marie’s news.

  “Best do it now, before visitors come.” Cook gave her a push in the direction of the door. “Let’s take no chances on anyone giving the queen an illness.”

  “But—”

  “Go now, my lady. It’s best for all concerned.” Cook was being cryptic, protecting Marie.

  Quickly, Nicole took the sage and hurried from the kitchen. But not before one last glance into the storeroom. The young noblewoman’s face was peaked, her expression alarmed. Either pregnancy wasn’t agreeing with her, or she wasn’t agreeing to this pregnancy. Nicole would learn more later. For the moment, she would not further ruffle her friend’s composure. If a babe was indeed on the way, she didn’t wish to upset Marie in any way.

  As she glided to the queen’s chambers, she ruminated on what she had just seen. Marie’s hand had been on the highest shelf where Cook kept the more poisonous herbs, the ones that were sometimes used to quietly end unwanted situations. What need would Marie have of such powerful poison, if she were protecting life inside? Unless . . . the life inside wasn’t supposed to be there.

  “What was Marie doing in the storeroom, Cook?” Nicole asked later that day, back in the kitchen. She had already checked the storeroom, noting that the pot that contained the pennyroyal was no longer there.

  “My lady, you have your job and I have mine. Your job is to nose about in other people’s business, and mine is to help keep people’s business to themselves. You do yours, and I’ll do mine,” Cook told her bluntly, ending the conversation.

  She couldn’t be angry with Cook for such an honest answer. She had heard such a one from the discreet Breton woman before. She knew how to keep her mouth shut. Nicole could hardly fault her for possessing such a rare quality at court. She had her own secrets that needed to remain so; she could count on Cook to keep them hidden away where they belonged. It was strange to think Marie de Volonté had a few of her own secrets, too.

  Nicole got a chance to speak with her friend later that evening.

  “Have you some news to share?” she asked, trying to broach her subject delicately.

  “Not particularly,” Marie snapped. “Why do you ask?”

  “I—it . . . it’s just that I haven’t seen you for months and you look different,” Nicole tried to be diplomatic.

  “How so?” Marie’s eyes narrowed. She was hiding something more than the obvious, which wasn’t going to stay hidden too much longer, if it progressed.

  “I mean you are rounder, more womanly,” Nicole began. Frankly, her friend looked bloomingly rosy and luscious, except for the sour expression on her face.

  “I’m married now.” Marie’s voice was neutral.

  “That’s wonderful! Who is he?” Nicole was surprised. She hadn’t heard of any betrothal in the works before she had left for Romorantin.

  “Guillaume de Montforet, the old king’s keeper of the dogs.” Marie’s tone did not overly brim with the sweet enthusiasm of a newlywed.

  “I’m so happy for you. He must be thrilled with your news,” Nicole exclaimed, her eyes lighting on Marie’s gently-rounded midsection.

  “He does not know the news.” Marie’s face colored. “I mean, there is no news.”

  “Are you sure, dear friend?”

  “As sure as you were when you married your Gerard,” Marie commented, wrenching the conversation in an unexpected direction.

  It was Nicole this time who colored.

  “What do you mean by that?” she stammered.

  “I mean those of us with eyes in our heads and ears to hear followed your doings closely the summer after our late king’s death.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Nicole asked, her stomach twisting at Marie’s jab. Men were not the only ones at court who learned the art of jousting. Women did, too, only verbally.

  “It means that those of us who cared about your welfare were happy to see your life events unfold with such perfect timing.” Her friend knew how to get her point across without actually stating it. She would follow her lead and do the same.

  “Marie, you are among those who care about my welfare, are you not?” she probed gently.

  “I might be,” Marie answered judiciously. She had become an adept courtier in her five years as one of the queen’s maids then ladies of honor. She owed the queen her good fortune; she had been smart enough to recognize that the man the queen had chosen for her to marry was part of that good fortune.

  “As I am one who cares about your welfare, dear friend.” Nicole reached out and stroked one long tress of Marie’s
dark brown hair. It was even thicker and more lustrous than usual.

  “Do you?” Marie eyed her.

  “And I would not see you denied one shred of happiness,” Nicole continued.

  “What meaning do you take, then?” the younger girl asked, looking suspicious yet in need of counsel at the same time.

  “I mean that the arrival of a babe means happiness for all in one’s household.”

  “Does it really?” The younger noblewoman looked doubtful.

  “I know it.”

  “And if there is something not quite the way it usually is in its coming to be?” Marie asked hesitantly.

  “Then that is in the past, and the past belongs to the past,” Nicole told her firmly.

  “You should know,” Marie commented, somewhat less judiciously than the moment before.

  “My happiness is deep, and it continues.” Nicole clenched her hands at her sides. Now was not the time to blurt out words in haste that she would regret later. “I want you to have the same happiness. A babe is forever. The way of its coming about is but a moment in time. Which do you think is more important?”

  “I—I’ve never had a child of my own. All I’ve had is something else of my own. And now that something else is gone.” The light drained from Marie’s eyes, and she looked away.

  Nicole’s heart ached. She knew of what her friend spoke, all too poignantly. She knew of whom, too. Best not to mention him, so that her own secrets would stay where they belonged.

  “Dear one, that moment is gone. But if a child comes, it gives you joy for however many years it is with you,” she counseled the younger woman.

  Marie looked questioningly at Nicole. Her hand went to her stomach, her gesture clear.

  “My friend, if you stop what has already begun, you might never again have a chance to bring life into the world.”

  “Why would I not?” Marie looked defensive. “I am married, after all.”