Sense of Touch: Love and Duty at Anne of Brittany's Court
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Praise for
Sense of Touch
“An enchanting historical romance about a young woman who is determined to marry her one true love, despite the many obstacles in her path. The heroine’s quest for self-determination defies the rigid social structure of Medieval Europe as it gives way to the Renaissance. Set in the court of Anne of Brittany, we also learn much about the woman who was twice Queen consort of France and her struggle to produce a living heir for the throne . . .Well-paced with period detail.”
—The Westchester Guardian
“Readers who love their romantic fiction intertwined with real-life figures from history will find Sense of Touch a compelling read. The touching love story gives an interested glimpse into court life in France in the late 15th century. The fictional heroine is well drawn and a formidable counterpart to Anne of Brittany.”
—RT
“An exquisitely written piece that eloquently describes Queen Anne as the gracious, kind, yet shrewd monarch that she is, a woman before her time.”
—InD’tale Magazine
“The Horse Whisperer meets costume drama based on true events. Rozsa Gaston weaves fact and fiction, made-up characters and historical figures as effortlessly as the artist of the unicorn tapestry she describes in Sense of Touch.”
—Hilde van den Bergh, author of Hemmahoshilde Blog
“A fascinating look at a historical time when women fought to find their place in a man’s—and a king’s—world. Well written, too. Good pacing.”
—Jina Bacarr, author of Cleopatra’s Perfume
“A wonderful read filled with intrigue, adventures, passion and strength, Sense of Touch lets the world know more about the much forgotten Anne of Brittany.”
—Clarissa Devine, author of Quirky Lady Bookworm Blog
“One of the best historical romances I have ever read. Details of Anne of Brittany’s life intrigued me and the unfolding love story between two of her courtiers kept me turning the pages.”
—Dorothy Thompson
ALSO BY ROZSA GASTON
Paris Adieu: Part I of The Ava Series
Black is Not a Color: Part II of The Ava Series
Budapest Romance
Running from Love
Dog Sitters
Lyric
Sense of
Touch
LOVE AND DUTY AT ANNE OF BRITTANY’S COURT
ROZSA GASTON
Renaissance Editions
New York
Copyright © 2016 Rozsa Gaston
All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
Cover painting of Anne of Brittany by Jean Bourdichon, c.1503,
from The Grandes Heures of Anne of Brittany, courtesy of Bibliothèque
Nationale de France, Paris
Back cover photo by Rozsa Gaston of 15th century tapestry design,
courtesy of METRAX-CRAYE, Belgium
Back cover and interior images of coat of arms of Anne of Brittany,
courtesy of wikipedia.org
Published by
Renaissance Editions
New York
www.renaissanceeditions.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016901252
ISBN-13: 978-0-9847-9062-3 (pbk)
ISBN-10: 0-9847-9062-4 (pbk)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9847-9063-0 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 0-9847-9063-2 (ebook)
CONTENTS
PART I: 1497-1498
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER ONE
The Court of Anne of Brittany
CHAPTER TWO
Negotiations
CHAPTER THREE
Treating the Stallion
CHAPTER FOUR
Awakenings
CHAPTER FIVE
Winter of Worry
CHAPTER SIX
A Queen Like No Other
CHAPTER SEVEN
Summer of Uncertainty
CHAPTER EIGHT
Summer of Love
PART II: 1499-1500
CHAPTER NINE
Married Life
CHAPTER TEN
A Ma Vie (To My Life)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Queen’s Desire
CHAPTER TWELVE
Secret Garden
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Unexpected Events
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Princess Claude
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nicole’s Desire
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Spectacle of Us
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Love’s Tapestry
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Queen’s Decision
BIBLIOGRAPHY
BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
She is the spectacle of us; new tunes of joy and a mighty love
For Rachel and Celeste
who touch my heart
and for Anne of Brittany
may you rest in heaven, your babes at your side
15th century tapestry design, courtesy METRAX-CRAYE, Belgium
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Fiction
Nicole St. Sylvain serves at the court of Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, in 1497, at age fifteen. Working with horse trainer Philippe de Bois to heal the queen’s stallion, she shows an aptitude for diagnosing horses’ ailments through her sense of touch. Soon she has fallen in love, but not with the man her father has chosen for her. Duty pulls Nicole and Philippe in different directions and Nicole becomes a wife, mother, then widow while immersing herself in the healing arts. When Anne of Brittany begs her to save her infant daughter, Nicole works alongside a physician from the South whose reputation for healing began with his work with horses. Will Nicole succeed in saving the queen’s only child? And if she does, will the queen reward her with the greatest desire of her heart—marriage to the only man she has ever loved?
Fact
Anne of Brittany by Jean Bourdichon, c. 1503, courtesy gallica.bnf.fr
Anne of Brittany inherited the Duchy of Brittany at age eleven, upon her father’s death in 1488. Three years later, she married Charles VIII and became Queen consort of France. Instrumental in introducing new techniques of architecture and craftsmanship from Milan to France, Anne of Brittany ushered in the Italian Renaissance to France. By age twenty-one, she had buried her husband and all four of her children. Within nine months, she became wife of the new king, Louis XII. Pregnant fourteen times, seven times by each king, she raised two children to adulthood. Both were daughters.
She is known as the first female ruler of France to bring together young women of noble birth at court, where she educated and trained them, then arranged appropriate marriage matches. A ruler of influence, refinement, and resources, she rose above personal loss with dignity and grace, while espousing the cause of women’s advancement. Her story is for women everywhere.
The coat of arms of Anne of Brittany was devised of two parts: one representing the fleur-de-lis arms of the French crown; the second representing the ermine tails arms of the Duchy of Brittany, courtesy of wikipedia.org
PART I
1497-1498
CHAPTER ONE
The Court of
Anne of Brittany
“What do men know of what we endure?” Nicole raged as she hurried down the hallway from the queen’s bedchamber. Better to be angry than sad. The latest was beyond unbearable.
She slipped into the outer room of the king’s quarters, catching the eye of Hubert de St. Bonnet, the king’
s head chamber valet. Quickly she shook her head and glanced away.
He would understand. Silence spoke volumes. It always did at these moments.
Hubert hurried to Charles VIII at the far end of the room. Nicole watched as the men conferred, their backs to her. By the time her monarch turned to her she told herself he would be ready to receive whatever fortune had to deliver.
“The queen?”
“Fine, Sire. She is resting.” Nicole couldn’t bear to go on.
“And the dauphin Francis?” King Charles’ posture held erect. His fourth son had been born three hours earlier. He had briefly seen him and given him the name Francis for his wife’s father, Francis II, Duke of Brittany.
Nicole opened her mouth but nothing came out. The thought came to her that if she didn’t say the words, they wouldn’t be true. Finally, she spoke.
“The doctors would like a word with you if you can come.”
“Does my son live?” the king thundered.
Perhaps he was less ready for the answer than she had thought. He had had plenty of practice receiving similar news in times past, but who could be prepared to hear it yet again?
“He—I cannot say, Sire. The doctor has asked only that you come,” Nicole stammered. Better to let those more senior than she deliver the blow.
A tinge of gray passed over the young king’s face before he turned from Nicole to his valet. At the age of twenty-seven he had already sired four sons and two daughters. All rested under the Earth save the one who had just arrived.
Hubert de St. Bonnet nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I’m sure they are doing everything they can for—”
“Silence!” The king smashed both hands down on the wood table next to him. Then he overturned it. Courtiers scattered out of the way, the youngest running toward Nicole.
“Go now. The king will come when he is—when he is ready,” he whispered, giving her a small push toward the door. The contact was comforting.
“Of course.” She bowed her head but looked up through her eyelashes. For the briefest moment before Charles covered his long angular face with one large hand, she saw abject anguish there, a look of misery that made her heart drop. No such expression should cross the face of a man so hale, so fit and full of life as her monarch.
She backed out of the room, then turned and ran down the hallway to the queen’s rooms. She could only imagine how the queen felt if the king’s grief was that evident. Pray God Anne of Brittany was asleep, drugged with the sleeping draught the doctor had been preparing when Nicole had left. What comfort would the queen have when she woke up and found no small warm being snuggling at her side?
Oh God, how could You be so cruel? Nicole crossed herself.
Who knew what was in the mind of the Master Creator? What point for a woman to hope, to suffer, then finally to labor in unbearable pain at the end of the better part of a year only to deliver a child to die just hours after being born? No doubt God was a man with such faulty designs for womankind. She hoped one day she would get a chance to ask Him why he’d come up with this particular one. Catching herself, she crossed herself again and told herself to stop questioning what was beyond her ken.
The stallion had arrived the week before from one of the royal estates near Toulouse, in the region of Aquitaine in southwestern France. The queen was due to see the stunning new horse the king had gifted her with after the loss of their latest child. Six weeks had passed since the dauphin Francis had died and Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, had seemed on the road to recovery.
But over the past week the queen had been out of sorts. Nicole hoped the combination of the glorious early September weather and the arrival the day before of the groomsman from Agen who would train the new horse would put her in better spirits.
“I am not in the mood today. Someone must go in my place,” the queen said, looking sourly toward the cluster of maids of honor at her side. Her expression looked out of place on her young, fair face. Heart-shaped, with a charmingly pointed chin and rosy cheeks, such a face seemed ill-suited to wear such a world-weary expression. Losing six children by the age of twenty had had its effect.
Nicole discreetly scrutinized her royal employer. Her broad forehead glowed with health despite the downward curve of her mouth. Either all was not well or perhaps it was the best of all possible news. Whichever it was, she couldn’t bear sitting around trying to coax the queen out of her doldrums any longer.
“Your Majesty, I will go,” Nicole and Marie de Volonté offered simultaneously. Nicole looked at the younger girl next to her. The newest addition to the queen’s ladies, Marie’s head of lush, dark brown curls was beginning to be matched by the promise of an equally lush figure. At age fourteen, she would soon be a candidate for the queen’s considerable matchmaking skills, if she showed promise at court.
“Whoever.” The queen raised a limp hand, and let it drop again in her lap. She breathed deeply, then leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. One of her attending ladies stepped forward and held a vial of violet musk perfume under her delicately upturned nose. It was the queen’s favorite scent.
Nicole’s heart leapt. She had seen that bone-tired attitude before. She would wager it heralded the first weeks of a pregnancy; a time when no one dared breathe a word but when all of the court ladies included the queen in their evening prayers and petitioned God for the child to grasp hold of its mother’s womb and refuse to let go until the full time had come to enter the world. Later, the even harder work of keeping the newborn infant alive would begin.
Only once had the queen succeeded: she had given birth to Charles Orland almost five years earlier. The following year, Charles Orland’s brother Francis had been delivered prematurely, stillborn. Twice since, the queen had been pregnant, but delivered stillborn daughters. Then the worst had happened.
Just after his third birthday, the young dauphin, Charles Orland, had succumbed to measles. Almost nine months to the day after that terrible event, the queen had delivered a new dauphin, again named Charles. The boy lasted several weeks before a sudden high fever sent him back to Heaven. After that, the latest delivery; again a son, again named Francis like his stillborn brother. The new Francis lived a mere three hours.
Some wondered if perhaps the queen had begun breeding too early, producing Charles Orland just ten months after her marriage at age fourteen to the king. Most didn’t though, since it was common practice for royals to marry as soon as they reached puberty; especially if the marriage was one to cement an alliance for reasons of state. In Anne’s case, she had agreed to marry Charles VIII in order to retain her country’s independence after the Franco-Breton war of 1491. The best way for her to secure her position was to produce a dauphin for France. If only one of them had lived.
Nicole glanced at Marie, who glanced back. She was feisty, much the way Nicole had been when she first came to court to serve as one of Queen Anne’s maids of honor. Nicole was still feisty, but she had learned to hide it. Marie would learn, too. Nicole wasn’t the only older colleague of the court who would be all too happy to coach Marie on the essential qualities of demureness, submissive obedience, and tender concern for the queen’s needs above all.
If the younger girl was smart, she’d learn how to exhibit those qualities while getting exactly what she wanted at the same time. It was what all the most seasoned courtiers did, and it was the queen herself who set the example, beginning with her marriage to Charles VIII, King of France.
The king was away most of the time. At that moment, he was fighting a war in Milan. It had been a hardship for the queen not to have seen him for the past month, but perhaps another hardship had just begun that would happily distract her from her husband’s absence and make a wonderful present with which to welcome him home, no matter the war’s outcome. Most of his Milan campaigns had been undecided; everyone knew the king waged them as an excuse to soak up the latest architectural and artistic wonders there in order to introduce them in France.
“Cloti
lde, go get two marguerites from the garden. Make sure they’re different sizes but with similar heads,” Jeanne de Laval commanded. “Whoever draws the longest one will go.” Madame de Laval was the queen’s confidante and senior lady-in-waiting. She was wise, still beautiful at age thirty-six, and a mentor to them all, foremost among them the queen, who was now twenty.
Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, clapped her hands and rose, drawing Nicole’s eyes to the tapestry of her coat of arms on the wall behind her. On one side, the gold fleur-de-lis of France against a blue background depicted the coat of arms of France; on the other, the coat of arms of the Duchy of Brittany was depicted, black ermine tails against a white background. Nicole wondered how the queen managed her loyalties to both at the same time. It couldn’t be easy for her to weigh duty to France, as its queen, against her love for her homeland. As the Duchy’s hereditary ruler, her interest was to maintain its independence. Yet the Kingdom of France was eager to acquire Brittany’s rich lands for its own. From what Nicole had seen at court, being a monarch was a continual balancing act.
“Come, ladies, step up to the circle center and face each other.” The queen indicated the beautiful inlaid marble circle set in the center of the Chateau d’Amboise’s main receiving room. She had had it made based on a design the king had brought back with him from his last campaign in Milan. All the newest art came from there.
Nicole had heard one of the Milanese craftsmen tell the queen that some of the trim on the design for her new chapel could be done in gold leaf. She had immediately turned to the king and requested him to put in an order should the Genoese return with gold from his next voyage to the mysterious new lands to the west. He had promised the king and queen of Spain that much gold was there, but hadn’t brought any back yet.
Nicole’s heart swelled as she noted the queen’s beautiful but wan face, her expression serene, unflappable. Distraction from whatever might or might not be happening deep inside her body was exactly what she needed. What mysteries women were, even to themselves, Nicole mused. No wonder men seemed afraid of them, at times. She herself was afraid of what lay ahead for her as wife and mother, with the queen’s deliveries resulting in tragedy after tragedy. It was a miracle the queen kept on trying. But what choice did she have? It was her duty to produce an heir.