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

by Rozsa Gaston

  At the entrance to the kitchen, the midwife and the head cook sat to either side of the giant hearth, mugs in hand.

  “The queen has need of you,” Nicole breathed out, holding her side where she felt a stitch. If the stitch hurt, what did a contraction feel like?

  “Is she—”

  “She is laboring.” Nicole caught her chest with her hand. Out of breath from running, she couldn’t imagine the true meaning of the words she had just spoken.

  The midwife and cook jumped up, but not before Nicole caught the glance that passed between the two women.

  “Boil the water and have the sheets brought up,” the midwife instructed.

  “God bless her this time,” Cook said, shaking her head slightly as she turned to her task.

  “God bless her and the babe,” the midwife echoed, adjusting her headdress and following Nicole from the kitchen.

  Next, Nicole was sent to the king’s quarters.

  “The queen’s time has begun,” she breathlessly exclaimed to Hubert de St. Bonnet. Soon enough, he would be her brother-in-law. Strange to think of, but the new relationship would bind her family closer to the king’s men. Duty calls, she reminded herself. If the queen had to do her part, she could, too.

  Hubert’s brow knit together. Motioning her out of the room, he hurried after her.

  “Is it not too soon?” he asked quietly.

  Nicole looked up at him, willing her mouth not to quaver. She had heard the child was due at the end of spring, yet the vernal equinox had not yet come to pass. Spring began the next day. She nodded, saying nothing.

  “What signs have you?” he asked.

  “The queen’s water has broken,” she told him.

  “Ahh. Then it will come.”

  Again, Nicole nodded. It was good to know that Hubert knew something about women’s concerns. Perhaps one day he would be asking after her own birth pangs, and counseling his brother on how to help her. Shuddering, she shook off the thought.

  “I will tell the king,” he said. “Send someone for us at the stables when he is needed. He is down there now, inspecting a horse.”

  Nicole nodded and hurried back to the queen’s quarters. From far down the corridor, she heard the queen cry out again. She prayed the babe that was coming would make as lusty a sound, although not so heartrending.

  This time, the queen’s chambers were crowded. Attendants murmured, and rustled by, carrying linens, smoothing the queen’s bed sheets, preparing the place where the babe would rest, once born.

  “The king?” Madame de Laval asked.

  “He is down at the stables, Madame. Monsieur de St. Bonnet said to send someone there when he is needed.”

  “It will be a while yet,” Madame de Laval remarked.

  “What can I do?” Nicole asked.

  “Pray for your queen.”

  “The babe comes early, no?” Nicole whispered.

  Wordlessly, Madame de Laval shooed her away. What more could anyone say?

  Nicole returned to the kitchen, where it was warm and where most of the staff not attending the queen had congregated.

  “My young lady, what news have you?” Cook asked, handing her a steaming mug of mulled wine.

  “She labors now.” Nicole gulped, and rejoiced at the taste of the cloves and cinnamon in the wine that warmed her stomach. “But is this her time?” she asked, in a lower voice.

  Cook said nothing, but shook her head then went to the cupboard.

  “Bring this to Mistress Midwife.” She handed Nicole a vial containing a yellowish brown liquid.

  “What’s this?” Nicole asked.

  “Myrrh for the queen’s contractions. If she stops, this will stimulate them again. Mistress Midwife will know.”

  Nicole gulped down another mouthful of wine then set down the mug. How lucky she was to enjoy life’s simple pleasures at that moment. Meanwhile, her queen suffered agony. Even with a successful outcome, Anne of Brittany faced the uncertainty of not knowing if her child would live. Based on past experience, the chances were not good.

  Rushing back to the queen’s chambers, she thought about the future with Gilles de St. Bonnet. Would there be a bouncing infant on the lap of the queen to mark his arrival for their wedding in July? And what about the following summer? Would there be one on hers as well?

  “For Mistress Midwife, for the queen,” Nicole breathlessly exclaimed, handing the vial to the assistant midwife. Across the room, she caught sight of her laboring monarch sprawled across her birthing stool, while an attendant smoothed her hair back from her head. Then someone blocked Nicole’s sight line.

  “Aarghh” the queen screamed.

  “Shall I get some lavender?” Nicole asked, shaken to the core. Was this how life arrived? It sounded more like imminent death to her tender young ears.

  “Too late for lavender. Or for myrrh.” The assistant midwife shook her head. “The babe will come any minute. Tell the kitchen to send more hot water.”

  Nicole hurried back to the kitchen, relayed the order, and returned. She had never seen anyone give birth before. She doubted the senior ladies would allow her to witness the queen’s moment, but perhaps she could slip in next to one of them, unnoticed. Didn’t she need to know what would happen to her soon enough, once she was a married woman?

  Quietly she entered the room and made her way over to the queen. Never had she seen her sovereign look so out of control. Anne of Brittany’s hair and face were slick with sweat as she panted, her eyes shut. No wonder men were not allowed to attend births. No woman Nicole knew would want any man to see her in such a state.

  “Your Majesty, we will try for the next round,” the midwife was saying.

  The queen’s only response was an animal-like pant. One of her ladies put a cup of water to her mouth, and she drank, liquid dribbling down the side of her mouth.

  Nicole was shocked. Anne of Brittany was a fastidious woman, careful in dress and behavior. Was this what giving birth did to a woman?

  “Rest now and save yourself for the next—”

  “Shut your trap!” the queen roared. Nicole had never heard her sovereign utter anything so coarse. Half terrified, half impressed, Nicole tried to move toward the laboring woman to put her hand on her, but the assistant midwife blocked her way.

  “Go. This is not for you to see,” she hissed.

  “But I—”

  “Go!”

  “May I—”

  “Get out!”

  “Get it out!” the queen screamed, simultaneously with the assistant midwife’s command. Immediately, the older women closed in around the birthing stool as the queen’s next contraction began.

  Nicole tried to make her way back to her, but Madame de Laval took her by the shoulders and propelled her toward the door.

  “Go.”

  “But, Madame, I want to see what is happening,” Nicole protested.

  “No you don’t,” Madame de Laval said.

  “But I do,” Nicole replied.

  “You will never let your husband near you, if you do. Now go!” With a shove, the older woman pushed her from the room.

  Behind her, Nicole heard a long drawn-out scream, unlike any human voice she had ever heard. Shuddering, she felt the vibration from the doors slamming shut behind. Perhaps Madame de Laval was right—best not to witness such a sight if she were to go to her marriage bed willingly, which she would not. Already she was terrified to think of what lay ahead on the road of duty.

  Back in the kitchen, she had just taken another long draught from her mug when one of the queen’s attendants came in.

  “She is delivered,” the noblewoman announced curtly.

  “Praise God,” the head cook exclaimed as others in the kitchen crowded around, murmuring cautious thanks.

  “And the babe?” Cook asked.

  “Alive,” the noblewoman’s tone was flat, muted.

  “Thanks be to God!” the cry went out.

  “Is the babe well-formed?” someone inqu
ired carefully.

  “That is for the king to ask first, not for you,” the noblewoman barked. “I’m here to tell someone to get him.”

  “I’ll go!” Nicole volunteered. “I know where he is,” she added, not saying where, so that she alone would be sent.

  “Tell him his wife and new child await him.”

  The noblewoman’s careful language told Nicole all she needed to know. But before she could ask, someone else did.

  “And is it a dauphin who awaits him?”

  The queen’s lady-in-waiting glared at the owner of the voice. “It is not,” she replied sharply then turned and disappeared back down the corridor, but not before taking the mug of mulled wine held out to her.

  “Monsieur, the queen is delivered,” Nicole exclaimed to Hubert de St. Bonnet, who stood on the other side of the fence inside the paddock where she and Philippe had trained Petard. The king stood well inside the paddock, his hands resting on a new horse that had been sent up from the South.

  “Is it, is it a—?” Hubert stumbled.

  “The babe is alive, Monsieur.”

  “And is it—?”

  “It is a girl, sir.” Nicole shook her head but smiled. Who cared if it wasn’t a boy? What mattered was that the child lived. Certainly the queen was adept at becoming pregnant. She was young; she could try again for a boy.

  Hubert nodded his head, looking thoughtful. He was no doubt formulating how he would break the news to the king.

  “At least she lives,” Hubert remarked.

  “She lives, sir. And I am to tell you the queen and babe await the king.”

  “Go now. I will tell him.” Hubert waved Nicole away. Quietly, she made her way up the path a few steps, then turned to see if Hubert was watching.

  His back was toward her as he approached the king. Quickly, Nicole slipped behind a tree to see how Charles VIII would take the news.

  The king faced toward her, his eyes on Hubert. Whatever Hubert was saying to him, Charles VIII nodded, then beckoned to his other men. In a minute, a group of four was on its way up the path, the king leading. As they passed, she caught sight of his face. Her heart leapt as she saw it was lit with joy. Charles VIII was not the handsomest of men, with his long nose, but he looked attractive now. Perhaps it was the thought of a daughter that lit up his face.

  “This one I will name Anne, after the queen,” she heard him say to Hubert de St. Bonnet.

  “Nobly done, my lord,” Hubert replied.

  The king looked pleased. As he passed, he picked up his step, and the men following had to run to keep pace.

  Later that afternoon, as she sat in the kitchen watching Cook prepare a cake in honor of the new princess, Nicole overheard a conversation behind her.

  “When will they ring the bells?”

  “This evening, perhaps. They rang them too soon after the last one.”

  Nicole turned to see who was talking. Two kitchen maids conferred, their expressions guarded. The older one was shaking her head, fingering her rosary beads.

  “’Twas sad, the little Francis so quickly gone.”

  “’Twas worse the one before.”

  “You mean the second Charles? The one named for the king?”

  “Yes. That one lasted a few weeks. The queen was beginning to get about again. She looked happy, like her old self, before her sweet boy died. Then just before what would have been the dead prince’s fourth birthday, the new one caught cold and died.” The older woman sighed. “Imagine.”

  “God save the queen.” The younger kitchen worker crossed herself.

  “God keep the new babe alive.” The older woman followed suit.

  Nicole couldn’t bear to hear anymore. Hurrying from the kitchen, she made her way to the queen’s chambers to see if she could catch a glimpse of the new princess.

  This time she was in luck. The doors to the queen’s quarters were open, and attendants passed back and forth, the younger ones with joyful faces, the older ones more neutral. The corner where the queen lay was blocked by attendants, but when Madame de Laval turned and crossed the room, Nicole moved toward her.

  “How is the princess?” she asked.

  Madame de Laval gave her a guarded look.

  “She is small,” she said shortly.

  “But is she well-formed?”

  The noblewoman said nothing. Her silence spoke volumes.

  “May I see her?” Nicole asked, her throat closing.

  “Not now.”

  “Is there a risk of—of—?”

  “My child, the babe is here before her time. We will do all we can to keep her alive.”

  “How can I help then?”

  “Pray.” The older woman’s eyes flickered then looked away. “Now leave me; I must go to the queen.”

  As Nicole made to leave, she heard rustling behind her, then the scent of male bodies. Turning, she saw the king and Hubert de St. Bonnet coming from the small room off the queen’s chamber, where she knew the infant princess must be. The king’s face beamed, making Nicole’s heart jump for joy. Charles VIII did not look disappointed in the least that his queen had delivered a daughter.

  Nicole smiled and curtsied as he made his way past. When she rose, still smiling, she caught sight of Hubert de St. Bonnet, his face like stone. It was strange because Hubert was a good courtier, one of the best. As Nicole was learning fast, the best courtiers were the quickest and most adept at reading their sovereign’s expression, and then adopting a similar one. Perhaps he knew something the king didn’t. Nicole looked at him carefully. He wasn’t young, as Charles VIII was. Had age and experience taught him to guard his heart?

  She shrugged off her thoughts and tiptoed toward the room where the new princess lay. Could she not just pretend she had something from the kitchen for one of the attendants inside? She picked up a pitcher of water from the table she passed on her way to the small inner room, its door firmly shut.

  “You may not enter,” one of the senior ladies snapped.

  “The king has sent me. He would like a word with you,” Nicole ad-libbed.

  “The king was just here. What do you mean?” The woman eyed her suspiciously.

  “He thought of something more he wishes to know. He waits in the hall now.”

  “What does he wish to know? I cannot leave here. I am charged with not allowing anyone to enter this room.”

  “He didn’t tell me what he wanted; he just asked for you.”

  “For me? Personally? The senior noblewoman looked puzzled. But behind her frown, Nicole thought she detected a hint of pride at the thought that the king had asked for her personally.

  “Yes, Madame! You! I will guard the door while you go to him,” Nicole encouraged her.

  The woman hesitated, looking around for help. The other attendants were at the side of the queen’s bed, their backs turned to her and Nicole. “Promise you won’t let anyone inside?” she finally said.

  “Yes, on my heart.” Except for myself, of course.

  “Well, then, keep the door shut, will you?”

  “Of course; I will ensure it stays shut.” Because I’ll be on the other side, with my back against it.

  The noblewoman gave her one last look then hurried off.

  Quickly, Nicole opened the door and slipped into the room. Inside, it was warm and dark, with the same cloying scent she had smelled outside in the queen’s chambers. It was the aroma of blood, birth, and new life. She breathed in deeply to embrace it. One day soon, she would be scenting it in her own birthing chamber, if God was gracious.

  “No one is allowed in here. Get out!” the nurse barked.

  “The king sent me to check on the princess.” Nicole stood tall, her face a courtier’s mask.

  “The king was just here. Get out, you impertinent girl!”

  “He wishes to know if—if the princess—” What should she say? She just wanted to get a peek at the new princess, swaddled in linens and lying deep in the crib behind the nurse.

  “If the p
rincess, what?”

  Inspiration struck. “If the princess cried when she was delivered. . .”

  “Why would he send you to ask such a thing?” The nurse came toward her, as if she would push Nicole from the room herself.

  “Begging your pardon, Madame, but the king told Monsieur de St. Bonnet to ask a maiden to come to you.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I have no idea.” Truly, she didn’t. But banking on the bad luck that had befallen the queen before, she hoped the nurse would believe that the king might be feeling superstitious at that moment. Nicole had noted already at court that when her elders felt helpless in the hands of fate, they turned to symbols of purity and innocence to help them commune with the higher powers. Maidens, unicorns, and saints took center stage at such moments.

  “Then you can tell him the babe did not cry.” The nurse’s mouth pursed.

  “How wonderful,” Nicole breathed out. The babe had held herself like the royal child she was from the moment she arrived.

  “Wonderful it was not,” the nurse rebuffed her.

  “No?” Nicole tried not to show her ignorance. What did she know about newborns? Nothing.

  The nurse snorted. “When a babe just delivered doesn’t cry, it is never a good sign.” She glared at Nicole. “But say nothing to the king. Just tell him the babe didn’t cry.”

  “May I see the princess?”

  “You may not.” The nurse crossed her arms over her ample waist and moved to block Nicole from approaching the crib.

  Nicole summoned all of her powers of imagination. This would be her last chance.

  “The king has asked that I gaze on the princess’s face.”

  “What is it you need to know?” the nurse hissed.

  “I cannot say. He charged me with looking upon the princess’s face then reporting back to him.”

  The nurse looked doubtful.

  “For good luck,” Nicole murmured. “He wishes me to give her a maiden’s blessing.” She cast down her eyes, trying to look as maidenly as possible, opening her hands palms outward to the nurse in supplication.

  The nurse studied her for a moment, while Nicole held herself like a statue.