by Rozsa Gaston
“Monsieur, take your rest. The horses rest, too.” She looked toward the paddock where the new mare grazed under a large, shady tree. “Time enough to begin work later.”
“Aye, well said,” grunted the other man, holding out his tankard for a second refill.
Holding in a smile, Nicole filled both their vessels then put the skin of ale down next to the tree.
“I will leave this here for you to finish,” she instructed. There would be no uncertainty if the men took a nap or not. She would see to it that they did.
Turning to go back to the house, she didn’t make eye contact with Philippe. But as she passed him, his scent filled her nostrils once again, and she knew she would find her way to the copse of trees on the hill behind the pasture in an hour’s time. She wanted to know all that had happened to him in the eight months they had been apart. If congratulations on his recent marriage were in order, she would try to offer them. Her own nuptials were coming soon enough, to a stranger she knew even less about than the one her father and uncle had chosen for her before. She would look into Philippe’s eyes again and guess what memories swam there. It was all they had left to their story, she told herself.
It would not be enough. She straightened the corded belt on her gown as if to yank out the unruly thought passing through her head: She knew as surely as she knew the queen would get her way and be queen once more. Did Anne of Brittany not pursue what she wanted? Then so would she. Her father had arranged one match for her, but then flung it away when a better one presented itself. She felt no bond with the man who would be her husband, nor did she have any certainty that she ever would. All she had was total certainty of her feelings for the youth who had just asked her to meet him in an hour. She prayed he was yet unmarried.
An hour later, she crept out of the house. In the early August afternoon, everyone had found a place to rest after the noonday meal. Cook had gone to her room behind the kitchen to lie down, and no one at all was about the courtyard, save for a gray and white cat licking its paws in the shade of the staircase. It hadn’t been hard to steal away.
As she spotted Philippe on the hill above her, she put her hand to her throat. Sweat trickled down between her breasts from the exertion of climbing under the hot sun. He would scent her once she was near. It would stir him, she knew. The autumn before, they had both tried to quench the flames they had fanned together. This time, she would see. To begin with, was he married? And if not, would she feel the same way about him as she had eight months earlier?
Her head bursting with thoughts, her senses on fire, in a minute she reached the small copse of trees on the hill. She walked to the other side of the widest tree, out of sight from the paddock.
Suddenly, there he was: taller, more manly, yet the same; only more grown up, as was she. The sight of him made her heart throb.
“How have you been, my lady?” Philippe asked as he took in Nicole’s face, his green eyes scrutinizing hers.
“I have been well. And you?” She kept her face composed, her tone neutral.
“Well, indeed.” He lowered his voice, “But missing you.”
“I heard news of you in April after the king’s accident.” She would cut to the chase. No point keeping him in the dark as to what she knew.
“What news was that?” Was she mistaken, or had Philippe’s face colored slightly?
“News of a widow you were to wed.” She looked straight at him, curious to see what color his eyes would turn with mention of the other woman.
The roses in Philippe’s cheeks deepened. But his eyes stayed the same, clear and gray-green as he held her gaze.
“My lady, ’tis not what you think.”
“What do you know of what I think?”
“I think you missed me. As I missed you,” he breathed out to her as he leaned near and reached for her waist.
She stepped back.
“What difference does it make if you missed me, if you are a married man?”
“I am not . . . ”
“You are not?” Nicole was confused. What did he mean?
“Not now.”
“Not now?”
“Not yet.” He breathed out heavily, then looked away.
“So you will be, then.” Best to state the facts. They would have less power over her if she gave voice to them.
“It looks to be that way,” he mumbled, looking at the ground.
“And are you not pleased? Your Jeannot said it was a good match for you, one that will raise your position.”
“Aye. All of that. ’Tis a way to gain a higher place in Agen, and Jeannot has arranged it for me.”
“He was ill last year?”
“Aye, he was ill, but he recovered. I tended him with the same kind of poultice you healed Petard with.”
“The moldy bread?”
“Aye, lady. Your remedy did its job. When he got better, he told me I had saved his life and he wanted to better mine. He made me promise to let him arrange for my future.”
“And so it is my poultice that leads you to another woman now?” Her heart panged to think of it. How strange life was.
“Not now, lady. Soon.”
“And when is this to take place?”
“I will tell you, but first news of you.” He searched her eyes as his hands sprang to either side of her waist. “How have you fared these months?”
“Many changes have taken place.” This time she didn’t shy away from his touch. How could she? So little time was left before they would never be able to touch each other again.
“And you? Have you changed?” He searched her face.
“In what sense?”
“Has your father married you off then?”
Nicole turned her head away. “Not yet.”
“But you are promised?”
“Yes.”
“And when is this to take place?” Philippe’s words were teasing, echoing hers. Both shared the same fate, one assigned them by duty.
“Toward the end of September, my father has told me.” Nicole tried to brush away the thought. But the day was approaching soon.
“And are you happy?” He peered at her closely, his eyes boring into hers.
“About what?” To have him near her again, within reach, made her deliriously happy. Everything else, she wished she could push away forever.
“About upcoming plans . . .” His words sounded brittle, as unnatural as the plans themselves seemed to Nicole’s unwilling heart. Both his plans and hers.
She stared at him, anger rising inside like a sudden gale wind. What did he think? Then anger turned to frustration as she thought of how unfair it was to be with the one she loved, to know they both would soon be bound to others. Hot tears welled up behind her eyes at the thought.
“My fair one. Do you cry?” Philippe’s hand shot out, touching her face and wiping the tear from her cheek.
Nicole shook her head silently, helpless to prevent the tears from welling afresh. They came as insistently as the end of September would come, as the day Philippe would be bound to the widow in Agen. Fate was a voracious wolf, too big to fight against, too powerful to resist.
Philippe pulled her into his arms, “Nicole,” he breathed out, “don’t cry.” He reached under her headdress, stroking her hair down the back of her head and digging his fingers into her neck as he did.
She melted against him. All the long months of his absence, the queen’s babe’s long-awaited arrival then sudden death, the king’s freakish accident, and her queen’s departure welled up inside her and came pouring out in tears of frustration and lost hopes. There was nothing she could do to stop fate’s drumbeat. It was coming for her next, as soon as the end of the following month. All she had now was this moment with her true love’s arms around her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Summer of Love
Philippe was to stay for a month, more or less, until Petard was fully trained as a jousting steed. There was also a new horse that needed to be broken and saddle
d, a condolence gift sent to the queen in July from her Breton nobles. The mare’s name was Châtillonne. Fiery and spirited, she had a reddish-brown coat that blazed red in the sunlight.
Nicole longed to help Philippe with both horses, but she knew from the queen’s and Madame de Laval’s comments that they had been indiscreet the autumn before. She would not make the same mistake again. Fortunately, Madame de Laval was attending the queen in Paris for the summer. Rumor had it she would not be back for a while, at least until the new king got his answer from the Pope. All Nicole needed to do was keep Marie de Volonté away from the stables and distracted from asking questions at the end of the day when they retired.
That night, she spoke to the younger girl as they prepared for bed.
“Cook needs me up early to tend the herb garden, so I’m to sleep in the room next to hers starting tomorrow night.” She chose her words carefully, leaving it vague as to whose orders these were.
“Until when?” Marie stared at her with big eyes filled with interest at this news.
Nicole’s heart sank. Had Marie heard that Philippe was back? If the younger girl caught wind he was at Amboise, she would watch Nicole like a hawk.
“Until the weather turns. Till next month sometime.” Until my love leaves and my heart goes with him. Nicole busied herself with plumping up her pillow.
“Why do you do that dirty work?” Marie sniffed. “’Tis not a lady’s job to scrabble in the dirt and labor under a hot sun on hands and knees.”
“What do you know?” Nicole shot back. “My mother used herbs to heal ailments, ’tis a skill she would have wanted me to bring to my own household and Cook knows such arts.” Nicole crossed herself for good measure.
“We are meant to learn how to manage our future servants, not work beside them,” Marie scoffed.
“Cook is a good woman, and she is from the queen’s own lands.”
“From Brittany?’
“Yes, from the queen’s childhood home in Nantes.”
Marie de Volonté looked disdainful, saying nothing.
“I hope you won’t be lonely,” Nicole added. “Shall I ask Clotilde if she’d like to share your chamber with you?”
“No! I’ll be fine,” Marie said quickly. She looked down, her eyes fluttering.
Nicole studied her. Something in Marie’s face told her she had plans of her own that might be affected by the new sleeping arrangements. Had her friendship with the youth from Naples progressed? Or was there someone else? Her eyes swept over her bedmate’s form, noting Marie’s new curves. Her breasts were evident now. Her hips and waist had curved in opposite directions since the year before.
“Oh, good. Well, you’ll have plenty of space. I’ll stay near the gardens until the weather changes next month,” Nicole tossed out, her tone casual.
Marie’s eyes flitted ever so restlessly to the side, as if to say that Nicole’s change of sleeping arrangements worked perfectly for her.
Back-channels, Cook’s words echoed in Nicole’s head. Work the back-channels. “So, your beau will be happy to hear of these new arrangements?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at Marie.
“My beau? Which beau?” Marie’s face colored red, confirming Nicole’s hunch.
“You know.” What luck. Not only had she guessed right, but it sounded as if there was indeed more than one. In that case, one would be taller. “The taller one,” Nicole ad-libbed. Marie was a dark-haired beauty of fifteen, so the possibility did not surprise her.
Marie narrowed her eyes back at Nicole. “What do you know of him?”
“I know this is a good time to spend with him, before the queen’s ladies return.” She raised her eyebrows to drive home her point.
“Do you know when that will be?” Marie looked hungry for information.
“No.” Nicole leaned toward her and smiled. “But now is your moment,” she said in a low voice. “Take it, and don’t delay.”
“Why do you say such a thing?” Marie asked, flushing red again.
“Because with your looks and the queen’s planning skills, you’ll soon be married off.”
“To the one I love?” Marie looked hopeful.
“What do you think, little one?” Nicole put out her hand and stroked Marie’s lush, dark hair. At the unexpected turn their conversation had taken, she felt a poignant kinship with the younger girl. Fate had befriended them both for the moment; but the moment was short.
Marie shook her head, looking downcast. It seemed that she, too, knew that her path ahead was not aligned with her heart’s desire.
“Heed my words, and seize your moment,” Nicole whispered to her.
“Promise not to say anything?” Marie de Volonté held up her pinkie finger.
“Promise.” Nicole hooked her own pinkie finger with Marie’s. “Not a word.”
The next day, Nicole met Philippe in the early afternoon on the hill above the stables. Neither had made the appointment. Both just found themselves there.
“My lady, how fare you today?”
“I am well. And you?”
“I am happy to see your bright eyes.” His expression was keen, like a hunting dog at the start of a fine day of hunt.
“As am I to see yours.” She couldn’t help but smile at his compliment. She hadn’t felt such joy since the autumn before.
Philippe’s hand came up to push a strand of hair back from her face that had escaped her headdress.
“A request,” he murmured, his other hand coming to rest upon her waist. Instantly, they were back to where they had left off the December before.
She quivered under the warmth and firmness of his touch. It felt sure of itself, sure of its rightfulness in seeking her waist. She was sure, too. No longer was she the tentative young girl she had been the year earlier.
“A favor for a favor,” she said.
It was his turn to smile. “Very well,” he replied, the flash of his eyes lending seasoning to their exchange. “You first, my lady.”
She paused then summoned her courage. Time had run out. If they were to deepen their story, the moment to act was now. He had handed her the key to their next steps, a courtly gesture. She had it to do with what she wished.
“No, you. You spoke first.” She would hand it back to him. In any case, she wanted to know his request before coloring it with her own. “What do you ask of me?”
“Would you take off your headdress?” he asked. His face was expectant, hopeful. But his eyes glittered in the brilliant August sun, as keen as his tone was soft.
Nicole smiled with relief. Not difficult at all. With pleasure, she complied.
“Now what favor do you ask of me?” Philippe continued as his fingers stroked through the silken locks of her long hair.
She thought fast before thought left her altogether under the touch of his hands on the back of her neck. It was the secret spot he had discovered on her the autumn before. How quickly he had found it again.
“Could you take off your jerkin?” she asked, wondering if the outlines of his chest under his shirt would have broadened since last she had seen him.
“I can do better than that,” Philippe replied. He loosened the leather strings of his jerkin, then pulled it over his head along with the shirt underneath.
Nicole sucked in her breath. Philippe’s chest was a thing of beauty, well-defined, sprinkled with a golden down that reminded her of the wheat fields ready for harvest. She stared as the muscles that defined his slim shape flexed beneath her gaze. She had never seen him without his shirt on before. He seemed more manly without clothes.
She put up her hand to cover her mouth.
With gentle authority, Philippe pulled it from her lips and put it on his chest.
In the days that followed Nicole and Philippe met most early afternoons on the hill above the stables. Then, again at dusk at times they would meet, sitting in the shadows and watching the sun disappear over the horizon in the direction of Nantes and the great sea beyond. Nicole had never seen it, b
ut Philippe had been there.
“What is it like? Is it a kind of large lake?” she asked, trying to imagine the sea she had heard about, the one that had carried the Genoese Christophe Colomb to the land that he had returned to report on to the king and queen of Spain.
“It is as unlike a lake as you are to your friend with the dark hair.”
“Do you mean Marie?” Nicole asked, a twinge of jealousy shooting through her.
“If that is the one who saw us at the stables together last year, then yes.”
“What do you mean about her?”
“I mean nothing about her. Well, there is a little something, but no matter. What I mean about you and her is that you are both women, yet as unalike as night and day. That is the difference between the sea and a lake.”
“How so?” Nicole’s curiosity was piqued.
“I mean one is quiet, calm, placid.”
“You mean me?” Nicole gathered her hair and draped it over one shoulder. She hoped she looked demure.
Philippe chuckled, then threw back his head and laughed loudly.
“No, I do not. You are the sea, my lady.”
“I am the sea? And what is that to mean?” Indignantly, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“I mean you are always changing: planning, moving, thinking.” He leaned toward her and pulled a lock of her hair.
“Or not,” she reached out a hand and traced the line of muscle firmly outlined from the center of his chest to one shoulder. Over the past few days she had indeed been planning and thinking; all to do with how they could steal some moments together without the eyes of others upon them.
“You are the sea, ma chère. Believe me. Always changing before my eyes.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. It’s your eyes themselves that are always changing. From green to gray to blue, then sometimes with gold in them . . .”
“We’re brother and sister then,” Philippe jested.
“No, we are not,” Nicole corrected him.
“Aye, most certainly we are not,” he echoed, this time his voice low as he moved her hand down his chest, to areas below as changeable as the sea he had spoken of.