by Rozsa Gaston
“Our queen is married, too, for many years, yet the princess is her only issue,” Nicole pointed out. “Accidents happen, sickness comes instead of babes, herbs don’t work, or they work too well.” She shuddered, praying Marie had not yet touched the pennyroyal. If made into a tea, and taken, it could induce contractions. If she didn’t know how to handle it, she could easily kill herself along with an unborn babe. “If you were never again given the chance to be a mother, wouldn’t you choose to be a mother now even if the situation isn’t one you would have favored?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been a mother,” Marie observed accurately, her tone glum.
“Are you not glad that your mother brought you into this world?”
“Yes, of course!” Marie looked startled, as if she’d never thought of such a parallel.
“Then bring this babe into the world and give it its own chance at happiness,” Nicole counseled.
“Even if there are questions?” the younger woman’s voice brushed the air, almost inaudible.
“There will always be questions. As long as there are whispering gossips, there are questions. Who cares?”
“Do you?” Another sting. Marie had learned much at court in five years.
Nicole drew herself up. “No. I don’t. But neither do I wish for my child to be hurt by slanderous tongues.” She waited for whatever further barb Marie might send her way.
“Your daughter . . .” Marie began, her voice trailing off along with her eyes.
“Do you have something to say about her?” Nicole pushed back.
“No. I do not,” Marie replied.
“And do you have something to say about her mother?” Take the counteroffensive. It’s your best defense. Michel St. Sylvain’s words echoed in Nicole’s mind. Her father was gone, but his practical counsel remained to guide her.
A long moment ensued as Marie studied the ground then brought her eyes up to Nicole. “Only that she is my friend.” Her smile was faint but sincere.
Nicole’s heart thumped with both joy and relief. “So let us be friends forever and guard each other’s secrets, whatever they may be,” she offered. She put out her hand to Marie, palm up.
“So may we.” Marie put her hand in Nicole’s.
The kiss on each cheek that Nicole gave her sweet, dark-haired friend was returned in kind. Marie stared into her eyes until her face broke into a wide smile.
“Friends forever?” Nicole asked, returning the smile.
“Friends forever,” Marie answered.
“Secrets forever?” Nicole asked.
“Forever secret,” Marie replied.
They fell into each other’s arms, and laughed until tears streamed down their faces.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Unexpected
Events
She enjoyed watching her husband joust. A year and a half into their marriage, Gerard d’Orléans was forty-seven, as fit as the day she’d first lain eyes on him, but a tad more filled out, with broad bands of muscle running across his chest. She loved the spectacle of the jousting tournaments, with the prancing, finely-muscled horses and the gaily-dressed ladies in the stands, waving and tossing their scarves to their favorite competitors. She reveled in the queen’s good mood on tourney days, her eyes sparkling to match her jewels, as she reviewed the competitors riding their destriers down the lists, and then stopping before her and the king, to pay homage. But most of all, Nicole enjoyed watching her husband in his element. If she couldn’t love him in the deepest possible way, at least she could admire him.
One day he would put away his lance and leave the competitions to those younger and more rash. For the moment, Gerard d’Orléans was still in fine form, and no one could deny that, for a man on the threshold of old age, he was in exceptional shape. The ladies of honor at court frequently congratulated her on the fine catch she had made. Only she knew in her heart of hearts that the prize she had truly wanted had slipped away.
As she dressed for the tournament, she glanced out the window and spotted her eleven-month-old daughter outside in the garden. She waved to Blanche, who was on her nurse’s lap, holding tight to the small stuffed pony her father had given her. Already her daughter seemed as horse-obsessed as she herself had been as a girl.
At her daughter’s wave back, Nicole’s heart leapt for joy. Fastening the heavy gold necklace inlaid with precious red stones that Gerard had presented her with after Blanche’s birth, she readied herself to attend the queen at the afternoon’s games. She put on the red and yellow gown with black trim that Anne of Brittany had instituted as colors of the royal court upon her marriage to Louis XII, and attached her yellow scarf to her arm. Gerard on his horse would stop before the royal stand where Nicole sat and request it from her at the start of his match. She would place the scarf on the end of his spear, then watch as he raised it in homage to her, letting the scarf slip down then tucking it into his hauberk. There weren’t many surprises in their marriage, but fate sprang so many on hapless souls, that perhaps it was a blessing.
Hurrying from her room, she took the fast route through the cellars to the tourney grounds. As she passed under a particularly low doorway, she slowed down, careful not to catch her headdress on the frame. It had been on the support lintel of one of the doorways in the same passageway that King Charles had hit his head two years earlier that same month.
She had never asked which doorway it had been. It had seemed bad luck to know such details, but she knew the accident had taken place somewhere in the passageway she was now in. Carefully, she made her way to the end and saw the light of day, thanking God He had made her short, and not at risk for hitting her head on doorway beams. Yet the former king had been short, too; shorter than the new king was. Strange, the twists and turns of a man’s or woman’s fate. All that could be counted on was that one’s days were usually less than one hoped for, rather than more.
Thankfully, the queen’s daughter by King Louis was thriving. The Princess Claude was in good health, a lively and bright six-month-old who squealed with delight when Blanche made funny faces at her. Life itself was something to be grateful for, and Nicole thanked God for the health of both her daughter and her queen’s.
“There you are. Hurry, they are starting,” Marie de Volonté called out to her. On the threshold of eighteen, the younger woman had grown into a beauty with her long, curly dark brown hair and almond-shaped dark eyes. Her new husband had brought two sons to their marriage, their mother dead in childbirth, delivering a third who hadn’t survived. The queen had convinced King Louis to make a place for Guillaume de Montforet as master of his hunting dogs at Blois, so that she could keep Marie amongst her attendants at her new court there.
Marie’s eldest stepson, Antoine, was learning chivalric skills under the tutelage of Nicole’s husband. Guillaume de Montforet was in the tournament, too, but boys never trained under their own fathers. They were apprenticed to other knights, to strengthen bonds of fealty between families. Anyone knew that fathers would be too likely to go easy on their own sons, fearing for their safety. That afternoon, Antoine would assist at the games as Gerard’s second squire, helping with his horse, and looking after his armor and weaponry. For a lad of twelve, it was a big responsibility.
Nicole hurried after Marie, marveling at the interplay of colors and light on the early spring day. May and June were magnificent months. September and October weren’t bad either; but April was the most delicately beautiful of them all. It was a changeable month; the color of the leaves was the most translucent shade of green she had ever seen.
Admiring the pale pink and purplish blossoms that were coming out on the trees, Nicole marveled at the subtlety of their colors, the opposite of Gerard’s clear-cut manly style. There was little nuance to her husband’s preferences and dislikes, but perhaps it was a good thing. He was a perfect specimen to carry the royal colors of scarlet and gold with black trim; bold and not to be missed half a league away.
Glancing down at her go
wn, she saw she was wearing the same colors and laughed. Once there had been someone who had understood her lilac-shaded personality; someone who had vanished from her life, but whose memory lingered. How poignant it had been to see him so briefly the October before, at the birth of the young princess. Their meeting had been like a butterfly alighting on a flower: breathtaking for a fleeting moment, then gone. She shook her head to clear thoughts that had no place in her full life.
Arriving at the playing field, she climbed the steps of the queen’s raised dais and seated herself a row behind, just to her right. The queen sat directly at center field, Madame de Laval next to her. She was now a graceful and dignified lady of older years, almost forty, some said more. Still the Duke d’Agincourt visited her with great regularity, their long disappearances together clucked about amongst the court ladies, not without admiration for the great lady who apparently had not let age diminish her enjoyment of life’s pleasures.
“What’s that barrier doing there?” a young woman who had just come to court asked Nicole, pointing to the middle of the field.
Nicole shrugged. She didn’t care for sports other than enjoying the smell and muscularity of the horses, or the way Gerard behaved after a successful athletic competition or hunting outing. He would be ruddy, rosy, and full of confidence. On those nights, he would forget to ask how he was doing, to her great relief. It was strange that one of her cardinal rules for men was consideration, especially in a knight, but, in the case of Gerard, his consideration irritated her. Perhaps it was because she wished him to be as sure of himself in the private arena as he was in the public one; especially on the jousting field where he truly shone.
“Do you know what that is, in the middle there?” she asked Marie, pointing to the field. The low fence-like structure was gaily-decorated, with red, gold, green, blue, and purple fabrics covering its sides.
“It’s a new device; a tilt barrier so that the horses will know where to stop,” Marie replied.
“Do you think it will spook them?” Nicole asked. She had never seen such a structure before.
“Oh no, Antoine says they have been practicing with it these past two weeks now. The horses are accustomed, and the knights will better be able to aim their lances if the horses know where to stop.”
“Who decorated this device?” Nicole continued.
“I heard it was the queen’s favorite craftsman, the handsome one from Milan who came back with the king the last time. He must have done it last evening, because I was here yesterday morning to get Antoine, and it was just bare wood then.”
Nicole said nothing. Her experience with horses told her they were highly sensitive to new or unexpected stimuli. This was especially true of destriers trained for tilting tournaments. They were the most high-strung of all and needed to be carefully handled so as not to unseat their riders. In any case, she had no fears for Gerard. His jousting horse was as steady and dependable as he was.
She sighed.
The hum of the crowd swelled in volume as the first knight approached the queen’s dais. He wore black and white, the colors of the queen’s own lands, representing the black tip of ermine tails against a white background, the traditional emblem of the dukes of Brittany. The queen rose and gave the chevalier her blessing, as well as her own scarlet and gold coudière.
Gerard appeared next. He was magnificent on his horse, regal and erect, at one with his favorite chestnut stallion. Nicole couldn’t decide which looked more glorious: the horse or her husband. Her heart swelled with pride at the sight of the man she had married. His athletic posture belied his years. She thanked God the old man her father had first chosen for her had died. Then she offered a blessing for the family of the second one. She had heard that Gilles de St. Bonnet had married a wealthy widow in Paris a short time after being thrown over by her father. She said a prayer for a third man, too, one with translucent gray-green eyes whose memory she didn’t dare linger on overlong.
“Why is your husband not on his white stallion?” she asked Marie, as Guillaume de Montforet came into view.
“His horse trod on a sharp rock on his run this morning. They had to find another mount,” her friend told her.
“Really? Where did that one come from?” Nicole eyed the medium-sized, white and brown-dappled horse upon which Marie’s husband was seated. It danced sideways as its rider tried to steady it. Was she just imagining it, or was the horse particularly high-strung?
Marie shrugged. “I don’t know; Guillaume said he is highly trained.”
Nicole raised her hand to Gerard as he rode past the dais then stopped below where she sat. He returned her greeting in the same manner then carefully lowered his spear toward her. She undid her yellow coudière and stood. Leaning forward, she loosely tied it over the end of his spear. She sat back down and watched as he raised his spear to her, causing the scarf to slip down its length. At the handle, he undid it and carefully tucked it into his hauberk.
Watching him, she felt proud that her husband still sought her scarf at the start of such events, even after a year and a half of marriage. Gerard remained in need of her approval, something Nicole felt guilty about at times. She had come to their marriage with her heart already engaged, and as much as she responded to her husband’s open and boyish nature, at times it annoyed her. She hoped this might be one of his final tournaments at age forty-seven. There was no point in tempting fate, and she wanted another child, perhaps a son, especially if the queen managed to have one.
“I will make an herb poultice for your husband to put on his horse’s hoof tonight,” Nicole told Marie, resuming their conversation. “He should be better by morning.” If infection set in, the consequences would be rapid. She had seen it happen many times with the children of the castle household. One minute happily playing, a small accident resulting in a cut or gash, infection setting in, then two days later—dead.
“He will be happy to have it,” Marie said graciously. They both loved horses, especially fine destriers trained for tilting.
As the first course commenced, they watched with excitement for a few moments. Then, satisfied that the rounds were proceeding as usual, with much speed, power, and clashing of lances on shields, they lapsed into conversation, their eyes no longer on the field. Neither Marie nor Nicole was wholly focused upon jousting tournaments or any other athletic events. Giving birth then keeping one’s children alive was enough of a feat for a woman, as far as either of them was concerned.
Languorously, Nicole turned up her face to bask in the warm April sun. She enjoyed quiet pleasures, unlike her husband who preferred moving with great speed most of the time. They were as unalike as night and day. Nicole didn’t mind, as Gerard gave her the space she needed in which to savor her private thoughts, of which she had many.
“Look, there goes the Breton!” Marie cried as the knight with the black and white caparisoned horse charged down the field toward Gerard.
Nicole watched as her husband’s horse skidded sharply to a halt before the tilt barrier. Gerard lurched forward in the saddle and engaged the Breton. Neither side prevailed, and the round ended in a tie.
Jauntily, both riders turned and rode their horses down the lists, back to their respective ends of the playing field. Nicole sensed Gerard lived for those moments between engagements, after proving himself before the crowd. She could almost feel the lazy flexing of her husband’s muscles, successfully warmed up, engaged, and now in resting state, twitching in anticipation of the next round. She watched closely as he prepared for the second run.
At the trumpet’s blare, Gerard galloped down the field. His horse obediently stopped at the gaily-decorated barrier. Gerard charged his opponent. This time he unseated the Breton. A roar went up from the crowd. Nicole’s heart swelled.
The round was over. Next up was Marie’s husband against a knight from Champagne.
“Do you think his horse is nervous?” Nicole asked Marie. The dappled horse’s head was nodding from side to side. He seemed to
be objecting to his rider trying to turn him around.
“No. It’s probably just not used to being ridden by Guillaume,” Marie said, looking unconcerned as she smoothed the voluminous folds of her dark green gown over her lap. Married life appeared to agree with her. She was unusually serene these days, wearing flowing dresses that concealed her figure and smiling enigmatically but saying nothing when Nicole at times glanced at her belly and raised a questioning brow. The pennyroyal jar had reappeared on the storeroom shelf the day after Nicole and Marie had sworn to be friends forever. Nicole didn’t seek to coax any news out of Marie that her friend wasn’t ready to share. The passage of time alone would tell the tale.
“Hmmm.” Nicole shielded her eyes from the sun and followed the next round, then the next, in which Guillaume scored two blows of his lance to his opponent. He failed to unseat him, but it was a point in his favor. After applauding each time, she settled back into conversation with Marie. Nicole was glad to have her friendship through the years. Both of them held secrets in their hearts and both took comfort in knowing they were not alone in having them.
With the sun warming Nicole’s head and shoulders, the memory of one with eyes as mutable as the month of April stole over her. She chased it away with thoughts of her daughter. Still, its sweetness lingered in the soft spring air.
A gasp went up from the crowd.
Straining to see, Nicole half rose in her seat and peered over the heads of those in front of her.
“He’s down!” someone shouted below her.
“The horse is on him!” another voice rang out.
“Can you see what happened?” cried Nicole.
“Oh, God,” Marie gasped.
“Oh, God,” Nicole echoed. Guillaume de Montforet was down. Racing off the dais, she ran after Marie to the entrance to the field, where two knights of the court barred them from entering.
“My husband!” Marie cried.
“My lady, they are securing his steed now.” One of the squires blocked her way through the lists. “ It’s too dangerous for you to go on the field.”
