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

by Rozsa Gaston

  “It was—it was noisy and dirty. It was wonderful too, but I hardly got to see any of it.” Thank God, Marie had meant Paris and not what she had just been up to with Philippe. Slowly, the pounding of her heart subsided.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Madame wouldn’t let me go anywhere other than straight to the artist’s studio. Then I had to stand for hours while he painted,” Nicole described, hugging the linens to her chest.

  “What was that like?’” Marie asked, following Nicole out of the kitchen.

  “Like a statue on display, being sold off to the highest bidder.” Nicole made a face. “Let me take these upstairs and I’ll tell you about it in the garden when I come back down.” She turned around on the stairs to block Marie from following.

  “You’d better change your bodice while you’re at it. It’s all wet, and now you’ve got the linens wet too,” the younger girl accurately observed.

  Nicole looked down at them to hide her reddening face.

  “I was looking after the stallion down at the stables.”

  “I know,” Marie said.

  “How did you know?” Nicole tried to sound unconcerned.

  “One of the workmen told me.”

  “Which workman?” She prayed it wasn’t Philippe she meant.

  This time it was Marie’s face that reddened. “How would I know?” she asked.

  “You don’t know the name of the man you were talking to?”

  “I wasn’t talking to a man!” Marie sounded indignant. “Just a boy working on the new garden.”

  “A boy working on the garden?” Nicole knew children were kept away from the worksites, which were dangerous places for them to play.

  “A youth, I mean.”

  Nicole had guessed it might be. Marie was almost as old as she. It stood to reason she would be noticed by the many workers on the castle grounds that the king had brought back from the other side of the Alps, where he had discovered wondrous works of art and craftsmanship on his military campaigns.

  “Then what were you doing with him?” Take the counteroffensive when cornered. It was something her father had taught her years earlier. She had treasured their time together in the weeks after her mother and infant brother had died. Michel St. Sylvain hadn’t had any idea of what to talk to his young daughter about when she had suddenly been thrust into his care. They had taken long walks while he had spoken of what he knew best: his business. Nicole hadn’t fully understood, but she had treasured those rare moments alone with her father.

  Within weeks, he had arranged a place at court for his daughter then resumed his trips abroad, importing cloth from Flanders with which to supply his wealthy clients. On his infrequent visits to court to see her, they would resume their conversational walks. It had been their special time together. He would be proud to know she was finding ways to apply some of the principles he had taught her.

  “I wasn’t doing anything with him!” Marie protested. “He was in the kitchen, picking up dinner for the workmen, and mentioned he saw you go down to the stables.”

  “And that’s all?” Nicole kept her tone stern.

  “Yes, that was all. Why?” The roses in Marie’s cheeks were so vivid that Nicole knew she had stumbled onto something. She would fan the flame of Marie’s guilt for whatever it was, to put her further on the defensive. It might come in handy at some point. That had been another of the principles her father had touched upon. Gather information about those around you. Then, if they accuse you of something, you have something with which to gain their silence.

  “Oh, just because he asked me about you when I was on my way back to the house,” Nicole improvised.

  “Dom asked you about me?” Marie’s pretty face looked shocked.

  “Yes. He wanted to know if you are promised to someone.” So it was Dom Pacello’s son she had been talking to. His father was the gardener the king had brought back from Naples a few years earlier to design the queen’s new gardens. His boy, a clever youth of not twenty, bore the same name. Handsome, with a full head of black hair, he divided his time between helping his father and doing odd jobs at the stables. Had he seen her washing Philippe’s hair? She hoped not. Whatever he had seen, she would keep Marie quiet about it by focusing on the young woman’s apparent interest in him. It was as forbidden as hers was in Philippe, she reminded herself.

  “He didn’t!” Marie’s expression shifted; slightly pleased chased pleasantly surprised across her face.

  “Are you?” Nicole kept the pressure on.

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you promised to someone?”

  “No, I am not!” Marie looked indignant.

  Nicole leaned down to the younger girl and whispered close to her ear. “Then make the most of it before you are.” She turned and ran upstairs.

  “What do you mean?” the younger girl called out. Her voice sounded excited. No doubt she was discovering new feelings similar to the ones Nicole was.

  “Meet you in a minute,” Nicole called over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be in the garden,” Marie called back.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Nicole hurried to her room to change out of her wet things. For the moment, her counteroffensive had worked, throwing Marie into relief and herself into the background. It was delicious to think of having something on the younger girl; almost as delightful as the thought of meeting Philippe later to check on Petard.

  Changing her bodice quickly, she went back downstairs and out to the herb garden next to the kitchen.

  Marie de Volonté sat on a bench, twirling a purplish-white flower. It didn’t look like one from the flower beds.

  “Where did you pick that?” Nicole asked.

  “I didn’t pick it. It was in the basket over there.” Marie motioned to the kitchen door. A large basket sat next to it on the ground.

  “That’s Cook’s bunch of wildflowers for her potions,” Nicole pointed out.

  “So?” Marie put the flower up to her face and inhaled deeply. She seemed to be in a playful mood. Had Dom Pacello the Younger put her there?

  “Shouldn’t you stay away from those? “ Nicole asked. “Cook doesn’t like anyone nosing through her things.”

  As if she had heard, Cook emerged from the kitchen and picked up the basket Marie had pointed to. Scowling, she peered across the garden at the girls.

  “What’s that you’ve got there, my lady?” she asked Marie.

  “Just a flower from the basket,” Marie replied.

  “Put that down, my lady.” Cook was a large woman, but before Marie could respond, she was at her side. She snatched the wildflower from her hand. “Highly poisonous,” she breathed out, panting from exertion.

  “What is it, Cook? What kind of flower?” Marie asked curiously.

  “Tis pennyroyal, my lady. Stay away from it.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Never mind what it does. You didn’t put any of it in your mouth, did you?” Cook’s brows knit together.

  “No! I was just holding it.” Marie shrank into herself, looking frightened and thoroughly chastised; first by Nicole, then Cook.

  “Best go wash your hands, my lady,” Cook advised. “Scrub them and rinse three times.”

  “Three times?” Marie looked alarmed. She stared down at her hands as if afraid of them.

  “Wash them thoroughly, my lady; you don’t want any trace of the stem’s oils left on you.”

  Marie got up and hurried away.

  “I thought I’d taken that basket inside,” Cook muttered, looking angry with herself.

  “What do you use pennyroyal for?” Nicole asked once Marie was out of earshot.

  “My lady, best you don’t worry about such things. Leave me to my job and I’ll leave you to yours.” Cook’s mouth set in a tight line, as if nothing further would be pried from it anytime soon.

  “But, Cook, I helped my mother with healing the people of our household when I was a girl. She used such herbs and flowe
rs. I think I have seen this one before.” She studied the small undistinguished purplish-white flower that peeked out from Cook’s apron pocket.

  “My lady, when you marry, I will teach you of its uses. Until then, stick to healing horses. And don’t go near this flower, either in my storeroom or down by the river where it grows.”

  “But, Cook, I need to know what it’s used for. Maybe it will help with the horses,” Nicole pleaded.

  “For sure, it won’t. You will know its uses soon enough one day,” the large woman replied mysteriously. “But, for now, all you need to know is to stay away from it.”

  Cook turned and walked back to the kitchen, hugging the basket to her. Nicole heard her mumble, “God in Heaven I should have hidden that basket,” before she disappeared inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Nicole stood; she felt restless. She slipped to the end of the garden and into the cool interior of the chateau at the other end from the kitchen. She didn’t feel like talking to Marie about Paris, or teasing out any more information from her about what she had been up to with Dom Pacello. He would return to Naples when his father finished his work for the king and queen. It couldn’t go anywhere, so what did it matter?

  All she wanted was to be left alone with her thoughts. New and delicious sensations flooded through her when she sifted through what had transpired with Philippe that day. She decided to go find some old rags and rip them into bandage strips to use on Petard.

  She hummed happily as she found the rag pile in the laundry room and picked out one or two pieces to rip up. She couldn’t wait to treat the queen’s stallion again with Philippe in a few hours. What would happen, she wondered. And why did she sense so thoroughly that something would?

  A deadening thought struck her. The strange, exciting feelings Philippe had awakened in her had nowhere to go either. Just like Marie, she was one of the unmarried maids of honor of the court, being groomed by the queen to marry husbands of rank. Stable-boys and workmen were invisible. Consorting with them was unthinkable.

  Briskly, she ripped the cloth in half, as if to rip to shreds the tedious, grown-up thoughts that had come like thieves to steal her pleasure. She wouldn’t let them. At least not now. The future was far off. Meanwhile, the weather was warm, Petard was on the mend, and she was in no mood to quash the mystery that had begun between her and the youth with changeable eyes.

  That evening, the horse nuzzled Nicole as Philippe crouched low, examining him. All traces of his sadness of a few hours earlier were gone.

  “The wound looks better,” he remarked. “No more red around the gash. And look at him. Back to his old self!”

  “You tickle me, Petard,” Nicole giggled as the horse burrowed his large muzzle under her arm.

  Philippe looked up, his expression hard to read. The crackling energy she felt from him at times was back. Suddenly, he no longer seemed like a youth anymore, but a full-grown man.

  She watched as his eyes followed where the horse’s muzzle was on her body. Philippe’s every muscle seemed alert, alive.

  Digging into her further, the horse’s huge head knocked her off balance; she stumbled back.

  Philippe’s arm shot up to steady her, hugging her around her lower back. With his other arm, he grabbed her just below the soft curve of her backside. It was a place no one’s hands had touched since Nicole had matured the spring before.

  The sensation of him holding her so firmly, of his eyes locking onto hers, gripped her as tightly as his arms did. No longer in danger of falling, she felt as if she were. Slithering shards of energy traveled up and down her torso and legs. Petard had moved back, his head turning in the direction of a bird’s cry from behind where Philippe crouched.

  Returning Philippe’s gaze, she placed her hands on his shoulders. Underneath her fingers, she could feel the tautness of his muscles; even more so, the focused attention at which they stood, as if waiting to receive direction from her.

  Of course they were.

  She slipped down to his crouching position. His hands slid up over either side of her torso until they rested under her arms. His thumb-tips pressed lightly into her collarbones, then more firmly.

  Staring at him, she sensed a boundary present, a decision underway. It was hers to make, judging by the attentiveness with which he held her. Her time to reach for what she wanted was now, before she disappeared forever into the confines of married life.

  Have courage and be bold slipped into her mind. Her father would not be pleased to know how she planned to apply one of his favorite dictums. She vowed he would never find out.

  With one hand, she covered Philippe’s and pulled it out from under her arm, sliding it over her breast.

  Philippe’s sharp intake of breath told her he was cognizant of the forbidden territory they now travelled. Would she allow him to wander farther?

  Taking her hand off his, she waited to see what he would do. Slowly, he moved his hand over her other breast then back again and, finally, sure of its terrain, it proceeded to the middle of her chest and upward to the base of her throat, against her warm, bare skin.

  It was as if her heart had slowed down, along with time itself. Each beat seemed deeper, more resonant. She raised her head, waiting.

  With fingers splayed, Philippe’s broad hand traveled up, twisting as it went to fit the line of her jawbone. There it rested, his palm cupping her chin, his index and middle fingers on her cheekbone. His thumb rested on the side of her mouth.

  She opened it slightly and felt his thumb journey along her lower lip and back. Her entire body quivered.

  “Philippe,” she whispered.

  “My Nicole,” he murmured back.

  “Am I?” For the moment, she belonged to herself, but by the following summer she would be a married woman.

  “I wish you were,” he answered, then moved his face toward hers until their noses touched. “And you?” he asked, almost imperceptibly.

  “I wish I was,” she answered, closing her eyes and letting go of every conscious thought that could come between them. There were many, but at that moment there were none.

  His kiss was tender at first, then firm, heady. As it deepened, his hands came around her back, pressing her to him.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw that his own were wild, as if starlit, with an expression in them she had never seen before. A hint of danger glinted there, yet she knew him, didn’t she? Was he not still her Philippe, the youth whose hair she had washed?

  Reaching for him, she pulled him to her. This time, it was her lips that sought his, opening beneath his, feeling his tongue press into her mouth, tasting and probing. Not expecting such an intrusion, she pressed her teeth gently down on his tongue, bidding him stop till she was ready to proceed again.

  Soon enough, she was. This time, she put her own tongue into his mouth, dancing and rolling over his. They were like two lambs frolicking in a pasture. His taste was delicious, unlike anything she had savored before—fresh, young, and virile. Perhaps hers was, too, judging by the way he breathed so deeply.

  His breathing sped up, and he stood, lifting her to her feet with him. She flung her arms around his neck, receiving his kiss in the pink and purple rays of the setting sun. Never had she felt like this before, never did she want to let go of this moment.

  “Nicole! Are you there? Nicole!” a voice called. Great shuddering gasps came over her, whether from awe at what had just taken place, or shock at having it end so suddenly, she knew not.

  “I will be right there,” she called, quickly breaking away from him and smoothing her hands over her gown.

  “Where are you? I don’t see you!” Marie de Volonté exclaimed.

  Good. Nicole looked up at Philippe and put a finger to her lips.

  Catching his stunned expression, she giggled. Inside, her heart stirred, not her loins. But now, for the first time, she knew what it was to have her loins stir, too. She had never known before. It was a powerful sensation, as if an ancient call from the
wild was pulling and straining at her, rendering her reason senseless, her senses as tight as the string of a well-tuned lute.

  Putting her hands up to her hair, she smoothed it over her shoulder, checking with her fingers that no telltale hay or grass was caught in its long locks. Satisfied, she gave Philippe a small smile.

  “Tomorrow?” he murmured.

  “Tomorrow morning. Take care of my stallion,” she bade him.

  “Take care of my heart, and bring it back tomorrow,” he replied.

  Her own heart leaping for joy, she turned and ran toward Marie de Volonté, still searching for her on the far side of the paddock. “Here I am!” she sang out, finally ready to be discovered. As she caught up to the young noblewoman, she prayed Philippe had hidden himself.

  “Happy to be working with Petard again?” Marie asked. Her face was impish.

  “He’s better today. My poultice is working its magic,” Nicole told her.

  “Something is working its magic,” Marie replied, studying her closely. She reached over and plucked a stray piece of straw from Nicole’s hair.

  Nicole looked at her guiltily then caught herself. “How did you know I was here?” she asked sharply.

  “I didn’t. I asked Cook where you were and she said to go ask the stable-boy.”

  “Oh, you mean Dom.” Relief flooded her. She would use what she knew about Marie and him to keep her quiet.

  “No, not him,” Marie answered.

  “Then who?” Alarm rose in Nicole’s stomach.

  “The one over there.” The younger girl pointed toward the barn.

  “No one’s over there,” Nicole said, straining to see in the gloaming.

  Marie looked in the direction Nicole did. “Oh. Well, he was there a minute ago. I asked him, and he pointed over there,” Marie indicated where Nicole and Philippe had just been.

  “Do you know who it was?” Nicole asked, hoping it hadn’t been Philippe that Cook had meant. Besides Dom, there was another young stable-hand who mucked out the horses’ stalls. Had he seen them? If so, how much had he seen? Her heart thumped wildly at the thought. He was said to be slow-witted, but that didn’t mean he was mute. No one was at court.