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

by Rozsa Gaston

  “It is my pleasure to show you, my lady, if you will let me.”

  “Show me what?”

  “Don’t talk, just feel,” he urged.

  “Feel what?”

  “Your bliss,” he whispered, his hand moving down her torso.

  She lay back and surrendered to his hands and tongue moving over her secret parts. As she did, an exquisitely full feeling began to overtake her, specific and localized. It was different from the feelings she had experienced up to that moment with him. The new sensations were more acute, with a driving rhythm of stop and start to them.

  “Don’t try to understand,” he murmured. “Just let your feelings overtake you. Don’t think. Respond. Then rest.”

  She lay back. Was this the path that led to extreme pleasure? If so, she had no idea how to proceed. Soon, she was writhing and trying as hard as she could to escape his insistent touch.

  “No, my love,” he counseled, his eyes gleaming, a hint of merriment dancing at his mouth. “No escape. Surrender. Give in to sensation.”

  “But my love, I do not know what is happening. It is as if my body is on fire.”

  “Exactly as it should be. You are safe with me,” he calmed her. “You are safe, but fearful, no?”

  “Yes. Exactly!” She stared at him, wondering why he wouldn’t release her. After a few more seconds, the full feeling inside began to prickle, then burn. “My love, let me go!” she cried out.

  “You will not get to where you need to go, if I do.”

  “But I do not know where that is! I’m afraid!”

  “Ma chère, sometimes it is good to be afraid. In the horse being broken in. And in love.”

  Telling herself it was her true love who was leading her to unknown places, she gave herself over to his hands. Underneath them, she felt herself drawn taut then released, not once but twice. The third time, after the most pregnant pause, he touched her once again and wouldn’t relent.

  “Ahhh,” she screamed out as she hurtled over the edge of control and into a world beyond any she had known before. There, she shattered into a million shards of glass.

  “Ahhh,” Philippe responded in a different tone, one that bespoke of witnessing his beloved’s pleasure. His eyes gleamed with what appeared to be a mix of admiration and pride.

  She rested; then his hand was upon her and she shattered again. Then again. The fourth and final time it was as if she had traveled beyond oblivion.

  She fell back, spent, as a languor unlike anything she had ever felt before infused her entire body. So this was le petit mort, the little death the married ladies at court whispered about. She had never understood what they meant when they had used the phrase in hushed tones and discreet giggles.

  Now she knew what Madame de Laval had referred to as extreme pleasure. Philippe had called it the pleasure of being oblivious to all else. The driving urgency she had felt only seconds earlier fell away from her, replaced by a divine serenity, a sense of being fully alive and floating in the moment.

  “Good,” Philippe murmured then fell into a deep sleep. Nicole was too excited to join him. She marveled as she watched the moon above illuminate their bodies like white marble. What she had just experienced was beyond anything that had ever happened to her before. Never again would she be the same.

  When thought finally returned, with it came the image of Châtillonne. She was a fine, noble animal. Now she knew that she was more like her than she had thought. Perhaps the new mare was as terrified of being forced into a bridle as she had been moments earlier of being forced toward an unknown destination.

  The queen’s new chestnut mare had never been ridden before. Nicole had never been shattered by ecstasy before. Now that she had experienced it, she knew she would long for the feeling again. Would Châtillonne long for the right rider one day? She would help the men with training her, she vowed. If they couldn’t do the job, she would use a few of the techniques Philippe had just shown her. She would offer safe, tight, unrelenting control. She smiled, thinking of how she had fought Philippe’s hand on her, the same way Châtillonne had resisted bridling. Who could blame the mare? Everyone longed for the right sense of touch upon them; humans and horses alike.

  Nicole’s gaze lingered on Philippe’s inert form, one strong hand relaxed and resting on a marble-muscled thigh. How had he known so much about how to awaken her? Did all men know such secrets about a woman’s body? Whatever the answer, one thing she knew: no one could ever take away from her the knowledge of herself that Philippe de Bois had just given her.

  In a state of bliss beyond any she had ever known, she fell asleep and dreamt that she slept next to the stallion Petard and the mare Châtillonne, deep in the forest while Philippe stood nearby, gazing at her with gold-shot hazel eyes. A voice that was hers said, “I wish this gift was for us only to share,” to which Philippe put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

  “No, Nicole. The gift is for you to know your own pleasure wherever you go. Remember that I showed you the way.”

  “You are my love, Philippe. My first and forever love,” she told him.

  “As you are mine. Always.” He put his hand on his heart and turned, vanishing into the woods.

  Nights, neither of them could stay away from each other. During the day, they would catch sight of each other near the stables, or when Nicole was asked to deliver provisions to the stable-hands. For the most part, they stayed far from each other when others were about.

  But the sensations of the past few weeks she had experienced with Philippe had washed away some of her discretion, along with most of her reason. Fortunately, she was able to keep a level head when stealing away then back again under cover of night. Her motivation ran deeper than just to remain undiscovered for the sake of her upcoming marriage. More importantly, she wanted what Philippe and she had together as hidden from others’ knowledge as they themselves remained hidden from sight as they explored each other through the hours of deepest, darkest night. She couldn’t bear to think of their story discussed by others in coarse talk.

  “My lady, are you satisfied?” Philippe asked one moonless night about a month after they had first come together. In that time, he had learned about her body, patiently, with skill and zeal.

  She had not sought her own bliss that time, but had reveled in his.

  “I am more than satisfied, my love. Why do you ask?” she asked, reaching up to touch his face, invisible above her in the ink-black night.

  “I want you to feel what I do,” Philippe said, his hand smoothing her hair back from her temple.

  “I am different from you, dear one. As a woman is different from a man,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She wanted to give an answer that was true, not just one to please him. No longer a courtier in his arms, unobligated by any bonds of marriage or duty, she could tell him the truth.

  “Tell me what you mean by such words,” he breathed out, heavy against her chest.

  “I mean there are times I seek my own pleasure, and other times my deepest pleasure is to enjoy yours.”

  “Well spoken, my lady. ’Tis the same with me.”

  Already, she knew that. There was something selfless about Philippe. He made her feel as if she was his entire world.

  “At times I don’t care whether my tide crests or not. I just wish to see yours roll over and drown you in pleasure,” he told her, stroking her cheek.

  “Your words are strange to me, Philippe. I know not of what you speak.”

  “The sea, my lady. I speak of the sea. It is like you and you, like it: changing and mutable; different every time in your requirements, your satisfaction.”

  “Then I must visit this sea one day, for I know not of what it looks like, but I know well of what you speak. Never try to understand my pleasure the way you understand your own.”

  “Aye, my lady love. Well spoken. But one thing I insist to you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That you seek your own pleasure and refus
e to rest until you have found it.”

  “Shall I tell my future husband that?”

  “You shall teach your future husband the way to satisfy you. And if he doesn’t, promise you will come and find me.”

  Nicole pulled him closer to her, her hand circling the broad ribbons of muscle on his back.

  “I will teach him the way to find me,” she replied. “But I won’t come find you if he doesn’t,” she added.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you will belong to another woman, and if I were that woman I wouldn’t want that.” Already, she felt jealous of this widow whose face Philippe had not yet fully seen. Yet the widow was a woman like herself. Life was hard enough for her own sex. Did they not pay for their pleasure with the labor of birth, and sometimes death thereafter? She shuddered to think what the consequences of childbearing had been for the two women dearest to her: her mother and the queen.

  “I understand.” Philippe nodded gravely.

  “I will just think of you in my mind.”

  “How often?” he asked teasingly.

  “When the moon is full and the weather fair,” she told him.

  “That is when I, too, will think of you.”

  Nicole closed her eyes and pulled him down to her. She would think of Philippe far more times than just when the moon was full and the weather fair. But no need to mention it. He would be thinking of her, too, she knew. It would have to be enough. The memories they were building now would make it enough. Because, likely, memories would be all they had of each other to hold onto forever. Her heart panged to think of it, so she clung to him until his ardent response chased all thoughts from her head.

  Just before dawn they slipped down the hillside together, emboldened by the moonless night. No dog barked as they rounded the corner of the stables into the yard where they had first met. Even the cicadas had ceased their whirring. It was as if every living being at the Chateau d’Amboise was sunk in the deepest of sleep. Indeed, every living creature or being was, save for one whose form slipped silently behind the horse shed as Nicole and Philippe embraced one final time.

  PART II

  1499-1500

  CHAPTER NINE

  Married Life

  It wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. As much as she hadn’t wanted to bind herself to Gerard d’Orléans, the wedding had taken place as planned in late September. Her father and uncle had come for the ceremony then left two days later. Gerard had stayed on at Amboise through the Christmas season. Just before Christmas, news came that the Pope had granted Louis XII his annulment. In return, the king was to provide the Pope’s illegitimate son, the infamous Caesar Borgia, with a pension, a Duchy of France, and promise of a French princess’s hand in marriage. It was outrageous, but Louis XII understood the cost of doing business. He complied eagerly with all of the Pope’s requirements in order to marry Anne of Brittany, the duchess who had captured his heart as a young girl.

  They were wed in Nantes, in early January 1499. Gerard had asked Nicole if she wished to attend the ceremony, but she had said no. She would see the queen when she passed through Amboise on her way to Blois, the king’s royal residence, and soon to be her new home.

  There were reasons that she didn’t wish to make the trip.

  There were reasons that she didn’t wish to see the queen.

  There were reasons that she was content to remain behind when Gerard left for Nantes to attend the wedding and offer his services to the combined new court of Louis XII and Anne of Brittany, again Queen of France.

  The conversation with Gerard had been brief.

  “Would you like to go to the wedding?” Gerard asked one night, in the week between Christmas and the New Year as they prepared for bed.

  “No, my lord. I don’t care to travel at this time.” Nicole busied herself turning down the bedclothes and arranging the fur coverlet on their canopied bed. It was a wedding gift sent from the queen, trimmed with the tails of ermines, the device of Brittany that Anne had taken as her own on her coat of arms.

  “But you will wish to see your queen on her wedding day, no? You speak of her highly, and she is your patron.”

  “Yes, Gerard, but I don’t think it’s wise to travel right now,” Nicole said carefully. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed him to realize her meaning.

  “Do you mean the roads?”

  “No.” She sucked in her breath, then looked straight at him. “I don’t.” It was time to share her news. She had hoped he would guess. If Jeanne de Laval and the queen had been back they would have figured it out months earlier.

  “You mean . . .?” Gerard d’Orléans looked down his long nose at Nicole, his gaze uncertain, as if out of his element. He was an athlete, a horseman, and one of the best jousters in the tourneys it was said, although Nicole hadn’t seen him in any yet. Women’s affairs were not his strong suit.

  “I mean . . .” She looked down and crossed her hands below her stomach, holding them close against her body. She was no longer the slim sylph she had been the summer before.

  “Are you . . .?” Gerard asked, coming closer and putting his hand on Nicole’s shoulder.

  “I am, my lord.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she couldn’t help but smile. Private thoughts flooded her, along with a feeling of inexplicable contentment that was her constant companion these days. She bottled them up and returned to the present moment.

  Opening her eyes, she shared her smile with her husband. She knew whatever appeared on her face he would mirror on his own. In just three months of marriage, she had learned that Gerard was privately as malleable as he was rigidly unyielding on the sports field. It wasn’t a bad combination of qualities for a husband to possess.

  Gerard stared at her a second then broke into a smile. “Fast work, my lady,” he grunted, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Fast work, my lord,” she agreed. Whose fast work it had been, she would not specify, nor could she with any certainty. She was a married noblewoman with a babe on the way. It was as it should be, and she was happy to share such good news with her husband so soon into their marriage.

  For the next ten days, Gerard d’Orléans was extremely considerate, offering her the choicest morsels of meat at meals they shared and showing restraint at night. By the third of January, he had ridden off in the direction of Nantes to attend the royal wedding. Nicole didn’t doubt he would mention her news to those he met there. She only hoped that when she next saw her queen, Anne of Brittany, again queen of France, would be in a similar condition.

  “You seem distracted, my lady. Is everything well?”

  “Don’t be silly, Philippe. I am fine. It is women’s secrets, that’s all.” She was overjoyed to see him again. Since five months earlier, so much had happened, so much had changed.

  “An extra secret these days? Or the usual ones?”

  How could a half-grown man be so perceptive? He was twenty-one going on thirty-two. She couldn’t keep him from guessing what most men were blind to until confronted by obvious evidence. But Philippe wasn’t like most men. He was more sensitive. Or was it just that he was more sensitive to her?

  “You have the third eye, Philippe. A woman’s gift, usually, but you are lucky to have it as a man,” she told him.

  “So there is something.” He eyed her carefully, his eyes roving over her face and hair, then down.

  “There is nothing I have to tell you, cheeky boy. And what about you? Any news you have to tell me?” She felt her face flame as she thought of the widow in Agen. Was she now Philippe’s wife?

  “There is something, and it’s thanks to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Remember the poultices you made for Petard when he hurt his hoof?”

  “So what?’

  “Word of it got back to Jeannot in Agen.”

  “And?”

  “They asked me to help with the horses there when they got injured.”

  “And you healed them, didn’t you?”<
br />
  “Mostly, yes, thanks to your moldy bread and spider web ideas.”

  “Bravo, then!”

  “That’s not all.”

  “Yes?” She hoped none of his news led to the widow. She knew she was being unfair, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “I’m going to Milan to join the king’s army there, as assistant horse master.”

  “And not back to Agen to your wife?” she asked, surprised.

  He shook his head. “I am not yet wed. I go as soon as I’m done here.”

  “’Tis a good step up for you, Philippe. I’m happy to hear of it,” she said, happy to hear he would be nowhere near his future intended bride.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he replied, his eyes wandering down to her swelling stomach.

  “Let’s get back to Petard,” she told him. There was nothing she could do if Philippe guessed her secret, other than to not confirm it. But how could she keep such momentous news from the one who shared her heart?

  She tried to ignore Philippe’s scrutinizing gaze, but her hands instinctively crossed in front of her belly. Turning from him, she pretended not to see the knowing smile that lit up his face at her gesture.

  “Petard! Come here, boy,” Nicole called to the queen’s stallion. It was a warm day for February, but still chilly. The handsome black horse had filled out from the summer before, his muscularity more evident under the sleek shine of his coat. Happily, he trotted toward Nicole then tried to nuzzle her under the shoulder. Ever so gently, she pushed him away, then reached up and scratched his ears. The horse snorted gently in response, his warm breath tickling Nicole’s belly. She felt a slight flutter, most likely the vibration of the horse’s breath on her mid-section.

  “Will you ride him today?” Philippe asked.

  “You ride him,” she told him. “He must get used to you again since you’ve been gone so long.” Philippe had returned to Agen the first week of the September before.

  “Have you been riding him regularly?” he asked.