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Sitting at the small table in her bedchamber, Anne lifted the tankard of small beer. As she brought it to her mouth, she gagged at its malty odour. Her lips clamped tightly, she turned her head this way and that, searching frantically for a bowl. Her maid realized her need and grabbed an empty chamber pot. Just in time. By then Mme Catherine, her lady-in-waiting that morning, knelt beside her.
When Mme Catherine handed her a wet handkerchief, Anne wiped her face, and croaked, “Watered wine.”
The maid offered a goblet, carafe, and a spitting bowl. After Anne had rinsed her mouth, she wiped her lips again.
“Might it be something you consumed?” Mme Catherine looked worried. “Should you stay abed?”
With a grimace, Anne glanced at her unfinished breakfast and pushed it away.
“To what end?” she asked. “I doubt this sickness will pass for many weeks. I shall hope it affects me only in the mornings. It is not the first time I have felt ill. It is simply the first morning I cannot control it.”
When Anne saw comprehension flit across Mme Catherine’s face, she nodded.
“Shall I bring your doctor? There has been whispering . . .”
Anne frowned. “There are no secrets at court.” It irritated her that eyes watched everything, even her laundry, and then resigned herself, wondering if she could delay a few more days. Then she shuddered, recalling the disaster of the last time. If there was already gossip, her vomiting that morning would be common knowledge within one turn of the hourglass.
“Yes, fetch him. And the midwife.”
She had known from the moment she realized she was increasing that Charles would never permit her to travel to Italy. It was the reason she had clung to her secret, hoping they would have begun the journey before she must reveal her condition. But preparations dragged on. Now she had missed two months of her courses. If she hid her situation longer, Charles would be furious and after losing her last child, she feared for herself, too.
* * *
WHEN THE DOCTOR CONFIRMED her suspicions, she asked him to allow her to inform Charles herself. He promised, but before her chamberlain had returned from the king’s court with a reply from her husband to her request for a visit, she heard the rise and fall of voices and the muffled thud of many feet in her courtyard. The sounds grew louder as they approached her suite.
Her gentleman usher opened the door to her presence chamber and announced the king and his retinue. His entire body radiating delight, Charles entered beaming, followed by Madame la Grande and Duke Pierre, and his throng of courtiers.
He rushed to Anne and kissed her lips. “Madame Wife, you have given us our heart’s desire. Another child.” Charles pulled her to her feet and crushed her in his arms before his courtiers and hers. That he had interrupted his day to come to her when often she saw him only at meals—and many times not even then—told her how delighted he was.
He turned, holding her arm. “Sir Page, come forward.”
A youth, son of one of his favourites, stepped forward carrying a purple pillow. From it, Charles lifted a jewelled rosary, one she knew was precious to him. He carried it with him always and hung it from his prie-dieu wherever he went. For a moment he held it, his eyes glistening. Blinking, he kissed the crystal reliquary that enclosed the toenail of Saint Joseph that depended from the delicate golden chain strung with pearls and sapphires.
“You know it was my mother’s,” he said, placing it between her hands, and lifting them to his lips to kiss them.
On an indrawn breath, Anne whispered, “That you gift it to me, makes it precious beyond words to me.” She kissed his lips and then the crystal reliquary and its pearl-encrusted cross. “You could have given me nothing I would treasure more.”
Tears clung to her eyelashes. Charles knew her tastes and the gifts that would best please her. But she wished he had come alone to celebrate this moment in private. They could have shared an intimate moment, and she might have become happy about the child, instead of dutiful. He might have immediately granted her the favour she hoped he would accord her to replace the lost happiness of accompanying him to Italy.
“Of course, you will not go to Italy now,” he said, stopping to look her in the eye. How quick he was to ensure she had no illusions that he would permit anything so foolish! She was certain that it had been his second thought after praying she would bear a son.
“Of course not,” she agreed, a smile glued to her lips. She had accepted it would be so from the moment the doctor confirmed her pregnancy, but the relief on his face hurt.
* * *
SINCE CHARLES FORBADE her to go to Italy, and gave the regency to his sister, Anne wanted to return to Amboise and her son. Each day when she wrote to him, she missed him more. The days that she did not receive a letter from Mme de Bussières, she imagined the worst. On days she learned he was ill, she must keep busy: visiting the poor, or ordering changes in the gardens, or debating new planting methods on her French estates, or giving advice to her ladies, for she could not keep still. A constant itch of worry prickled that she could not salve even with prayer the moment she stopped for she knew the outcome had already occurred, yet she did not know what it was. And her son had suffered, perhaps had died, calling for her, and she had not been there. The images squeezed her heart until she found it hard to breathe.
Yet when she thought to beg Charles to allow her to return to Amboise, she feared being far from him. What if he were to fall ill, be injured, or suffer some other harm? She would be just as far from such news at Amboise and felt pulled apart, like a prisoner tugged between two ropes. It would be best to leave only when Charles departed for Italy, she decided, for then he would be so far away that a few more days would make little difference to how much she worried and being with her son would bring her solace.
Despite the many demands on his time, she saw more of him now that she was increasing. He came to her bedchamber more often these nights, but many times he stayed only for a glass of wine. Each time she saw him, the circles under his eyes grew darker, and he had thinned. He was living on his nerves. She ordered bread, meat, and cheese brought to her rooms each evening and entertained him with stories about Fanchon’s antics and the gossip in her court or asked him about his days. But what would she do when he left? He was a hopeless correspondent. How would she know how he was—and who was sharing his bed? The problem preyed on her.
* * *
ANNE STOPPED AT THE front doors of Saint Jean Cathedral after early morning mass, her ladies-in-waiting crowding behind her. Her Breton guards stood at the steps waiting to escort them around the block to the entrance to the archbishop’s palace. She hesitated only a moment.
“No, I need some time alone to pray.” She called to the Captain of the Guard standing nearby. “Captain, escort my ladies back to the palace. Then return. I shall remain.”
When she spoke in that tone, no one argued. As they set off, she turned back and plodded down the left side-aisle ambulatory that led behind the high altar. There she entered the Lady Chapel to pray before the image of the Holy Virgin. The sacred space was illuminated softly by the candles placed before a painting of the Annunciation. Mary gazed upward at a white dove that glowed in golden light from the window, her blue eyes filled with wonder, fear and dawning hope as an angel knelt before her. Her golden halo glowed.
Anne stepped forward to kneel at the altar rail. It was then she noticed another penitent kneeling at the far end of the rail, anonymous in a dark cape and hood, head and shoulders bowed. Anne hesitated. She had hoped to be alone in this private space, for the hour was still early. Yet there was comfort in shared silent prayer, so she sank to her knees. The thick rich stillness, that was neither silence nor sound, but was the quality of the sacred inherent in the space, soothed her. Lifting the precious rosary that Charles had so recently bestowed upon her, she prayed. After a time, she noticed an irregular hitching sigh, with an added click, sometimes a gulp or squeak intermingled—a forlorn sound. She raised her head and looked about her.
Her eyes were accustomed to the dusky shadows now. Anne examined the heavily shrouded woman nearby. The robes over her shoulders shook and Anne was sure her unknown companion was smothering sobs. Undecided, Anne did not move from where she was. Many times, when she herself was grieving, she had not wanted consolation, but solitude. To find a private place and time was well-nigh impossible. This woman had probably sought this quiet sanctuary to be alone. Perhaps the kindest thing would be to tiptoe away, leaving her undisturbed.
Anne rose, preparing to leave. Instead, her feet took her to the woman’s side. She placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shaking shoulders.
“Your grief touches me,” she said, her voice soft. “I would not impose upon your solitude, but a sorrow shared is a step toward healing. If you allow it, I would be honoured to hear your troubles.”
At her first words, the woman froze. When Anne finished speaking, she lifted her face to Anne’s, her eyes swollen almost shut and tears streaming down her face.
“Madame la Reine, I have been so wicked, and you are so good. I can never tell you and you will never be able to forgive me.” She bent forward, crouching over her knees until her nose almost touched the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her sobs, now loud and wild, rose into the silence of the cathedral.
Of all the women she could imagine encountering, she had not once thought to discover Catherine de Brézé. She put an arm around the woman’s shaking body as she adjusted her thoughts. “You must calm yourself, Mme Catherine, for you will make yourself ill,” she said, pulling a cloth from inside her sleeve and handing it to the girl. “Mop you face and blow you nose and tell me your troubles. No matter what they are, I shall help you, for you are one of my ladies.”
At these words, Catherine’s wails, which had begun to calm, increased in volume again.
“Enough.” Anne sharpened her voice. “If you keep up this clamour, I shall have to slap you. We are in a holy place. Now compose yourself. And breathe.”
She rubbed the distraught woman’s back until Catherine had managed a level of control, although her breath still hitched.
Anne said, “That is much better.” She patted the young women’s shoulder. “You say you have injured me in some dreadful manner. Have you betrayed my trust?”
Catherine nodded, and another loud sob erupted.
“No more of that.” Anne’s voice was stern. She sighed. “You are not the first, nor will you be the last. Tell me what you have done and why. Then we shall repair the damage.” She allowed a small smile to curve her lips, “For I see you are not happy about your part in it.”
She winced as she moved a knee and added, “But before we say more, perhaps we could move from here. This floor is distinctly hard even with the layers of cloth under my knees.”
Mme Catherine gasped and tried to leap to her feet to support the queen as she rose. But she, too, had been on her knees so long they had numbed and refused to obey her. They stumbled against each other like old ladies as they struggled to their feet. They could not help laughing, which breached Catherine’s tragic mood. Moments later, when they found a narrow stone bench in the shadows, Catherine could speak without sobbing.
“Tell me now,” Anne invited.
Catherine hung her head. “I-I have been spying . . . and writing about what happens in your court, but I do not want to any m-m-ore. I n-never wanted to. I am so s-s-orry, Madame la Reine.” Catherine’s pace speeded up. “But I was afraid n-not to, for she said she would tell everyone and—"
“Stop.” Anne seized Catherine’s arm.
Catherine jerked and obeyed.
“You have started well. Now, to whom have you been writing?”
“Mme the Countess d’Angoulême.”
Anne took a deep breath. Somehow, the revelation did not surprise her, although she still could not fathom what the countess hoped to gain from it. “What kinds of information did she want?”
“Who came to see you? What was happening with the war? Who was being appointed to what positions? Who you wanted appointed and whether they were? How your health was and the health of the dauphin? If you were increasing and when you were due? The same about Madame la Grande and Mme the Duchess d’Orléans. In sooth, I had little knowledge about any of those things. So, I could not reveal much, although I felt terrible. You must believe me.” The young woman grabbed Anne’s hands, “Until today. . .” She shook her head and swallowed hard.
“But today?”
“Well, today we learned you are carrying a child. And I do not want to write to tell her. For I do not know why she wants to know. But I do know,” Anne saw that Catherine’s hands were shaking, “that she casts spells, for she did so when she hoped to fall with child herself. She talked of it.”
For a moment Anne froze, if an icy hand clutched her heart and was squeezing it until she could hardly breathe. It was heretical to cast spells. If she had certain knowledge of it, she must inform her spiritual director, for it was a mortal sin. Did she dare allow Louise near her again? Could the countess harm a child of France from so far away? Would Louise dare to risk her immortal soul? Surely not. And why would she take such a risk as to speak about her sin?
Yet she must reassure Catherine that she had done right to confide in her. Gathering every bit of her determination, she forced herself to say, “You have done well to tell me these things, Mme Catherine. It is true that you did wrong to fall into this trap and hide Mme Louise’s wicked demand. But unless you have done more than you have said—?” Her voice turned stern.
Catherine blanched. “No, no, Madame la Reine. I have not, I swear,” she pulled up her rosary and kissed the cross, “I swear on the cross and my hope of salvation.”
“Well, then. We shall turn this situation to our advantage. You shall write. But you shall write as we choose and inform her of what we decide she should learn. What do you say to that?”
Catherine did not look happy. “If you say I must, Madame la Reine.”
Anne said, “Well, for the time being, I say you must. It shall be your penance. But you shall tell me how she intimidated you into this action that goes against your nature. For such is the case, is it not?”
Catherine told Anne the entire story of Louise’s threat to shame her before the court with the story of her mother’s adultery, her father’s murder of her mother and his years in prison. “She said I would never marry after it became known,” Catherine finished, close to tears.
As Catherine had recounted the sad tale, Anne’s plans had solidified like clay drying in the hot sun. “We shall take care of several birds at once here,” she said. “You shall continue writing to the countess, for it is better for you that she does not learn her plot is uncovered. Today you shall inform her that the king and I have announced we are having another child. Then you shall say I had been dreading the trip to Italy and am much relieved that I will remain in France and have not yet decided where I shall stay.
“Tell her the king has made a special donation of 50 écus d’or to the Grand Almoner for special prayers in my chapel and his at every office for the duration of my time, for my health and the wellbeing of the child I carry. That should stop her wasting her time on spells, do you not think?”
Catherine nodded, but she did not look reassured.
“This is not all, my dear. I will have no one threatening anyone under my protection. I promise I will arrange an excellent marriage for you far from the countess before she discovers you informed me of her threats.” Poor Catherine would have to marry far from her family to place her outside the long reach of Louise’s connections. Anne’s animosity towards the countess deepened.
Catherine lifted Anne’s hands to her lips, tears she could not hold back brimming over. “You are too good, Madame la Reine. I do not deserve that you should treat me so kindly when I merit dismissal for my betrayal.”
Anne removed her hands. “No more tears, Mme Catherine. You will find writing to Mme Louise punishment enough. Come, let us leave or the captain of my guard will come looking for me.”
* * *
EACH DAY, AS SHE SAT to write to Charles-Orland, Anne brooded about how to persuade Charles to write to her when he was in Italy. Different ways to encourage him occurred to her, but she could think of nothing he would value enough to pick up a pen daily—or even every second or third day. Besides, he would never tell her about what she really wanted to know—how his health was, what he was eating, whether he had injured himself, and most important, what women he was dallying with and if he slept alone. Remembering her strategy with Charles-Orland, she thought about preparing letters herself, leaving places blank for him to add the information she most wanted to know. One day, when she received a letter from Mme de Bussières that included a scribble from Charles-Orland, she realized she had been thinking about her problem entirely the wrong way.
Why try to make Charles write to her? Really, he was no more capable of it than was his son. His father had not wanted him to “waste his time” with books and letters. Charles could read and write, but he had never learned to enjoy doing either. Rather than bemoan the fact, she would find someone to write to her for him. She turned the idea over in her mind for a couple of days. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it.
Naturally, she would have to choose the right person—someone she could trust to tell her the truth. Someone who would write daily. Someone Charles trusted to keep his secrets. Also, Charles would have to agree, otherwise, he might think she was spying on him and that would be a disaster. She had found exactly the right candidate, but she needed someone he trusted to suggest it. Although only eighteen, she had been married to Charles for three years, so she well understood his suspicious nature.
When the answer came to her in the middle of the night, it was blindingly obvious. Guillaume Briçonnet, Bishop de Saint Malo, and Charles’s Chief of Finance for the Italian Expedition, would be perfect. He was both clever and obsequious. Lying awake, she pictured him: a man of middle height, as round as an egg and shaped like one too, with shoulders much narrower than his paunch. He had so many chins that he did not seem to have a neck. His head was fitted with a black cap that came down almost to his eyebrows. At the back of his neck, it reached to the top of the first roll of fat. It had ear flaps on either side that reminded her of mouse ears. Although she was still annoyed that he had been named Bishop of Saint Malo, she could be pragmatic when necessary. This was one of those times.
Since he was always flattered when she invited him to visit her, she expected to have little difficulty persuading him to accept her choice. She rose when he arrived. When he sat, she poured his goblet of wine with her own hands. Then she begged him to bless their wine and biscuits.
“Bishop, I am hoping you will be able to help me with a delicate matter. You are the only man I can trust.”
He preened. “Anything to be of service, Madame la Reine.”
“I know well that both you and my beloved husband will be occupied with the responsibilities of leadership for this expedition and will not have time to write me as often as I would wish. Yet you know how I rely on daily letters from someone in the king’s confidence to know how he goes on. I have a cleric of great renown who is eager to accompany your glorious campaign to write its history. He would agree to write me daily, if you could persuade the king to bring him to write a history of this great undertaking.”
Cardinal Briçonnet clapped his hands. “Madame la Reine, your proposal is inspired. And who is the cleric you propose?”
“He has been a member of my circle for some time. Père André de la Vigne.”
Only Père André did she trust enough to explain what she really wanted to know. But she told the bishop she wanted to experience the life that Charles lived daily; to know what and whom he saw, where he went, how he was received, what he ate, his health; the details of his progress day by day. These would be things Charles would not want to write, for he would think them dull or not fit for her ears. She wanted to hear it all, for ignorance of his experiences would separate them more than distance. “For we shall be apart for a long time. . .” she had ended.
Cardinal Briçonnet said, “Ah yes, Père André, a good man. I shall recommend him to the king as his personal secretary. He will work and ride beside your husband every day since it will be necessary so he can make notes and observations. He will be well placed to report daily on the king’s health and . . . and so on. And I shall write myself when I can, Madame la Reine.
“You are too good,” said Anne. She knelt and kissed his ring. When he rose to leave, she walked him to the door. After he left, she nodded to herself. There was no more she could do. God willing, it would be sufficient.