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On her wedding day, Duchess Claude sat up in Michelle’s bed and pushed open the heavy curtains surrounding them just as dawn painted the horizon with streaks of apricot light. A draft of cooling air entered.
“What will it be like?” she whispered.
“Your wedding night, you mean?” Michelle was surprised the duchess would ask her. “You have not spoken about it with one of your cousins or with Duchess Marguerite?”
“They are too old.” Her cheeks were rosier than the morning sky.
“And I am not?” Michelle could not keep the amusement from her voice. She had been her mother’s friend; the others were closer to Duchess Claude’s age.
Mme Claude gave Michelle’s shoulder a little shake. “You know what I mean. You are like a mother... or an aunt. Someone who will not make fun of me in my absence. And will keep my question private.” She kneaded her hands together.
It had been years since she had reassured a young bride. Claude’s mother had not needed reassurance, for when Queen Anne married King Louis it had been her second marriage. “Your question takes me back to my first marriage a long time ago, when I was a young girl about to marry my cousin, whom I scarcely knew.” Michelle pushed back the coverlet from under her chin. She lay on her back, listening to the susurration of the wind in the trees outside their window. It reminded her of her girlhood in Brittany and the sound of the sea breaking at the base of the cliffs when she woke.
“I did not know you had been married twice.” Duchess Claude’s voice dragged Michelle back to the present.
“Yes. My first husband died campaigning in Italy at the battle of Fornovo. I was with your Maman in Lyon awaiting his return. She retained the widows of all her Breton soldiers in her service. Most remarried, but I refused.”
“Did you care for him so much then?”
“No, dear one.” Michelle did not wish to discourage her on her wedding day, and, in truth, she had not disliked him, but nothing about the marriage had made her wish for another. She wed in haste, because her betrothed was eager to join up when the Duchess Anne’s new husband called a levy from her estates. He had obtained places for her and her mother in the duchess-queen’s court so they could accompany him. Michelle would never forget her ignorance and his hurried groping under her night rail that wedding night. She would not wish upon any young girl the dry thrust and sharp pain that was her first experience of the marital act.
“I simply enjoyed the freedom of living as a widow in your mother’s household more than I did life as a married woman.”
Resolutely, she turned her attention to the duchess’s situation. “Your husband is experienced, which is not news to you. Although you may have found this hurtful,” Michelle checked Claude’s expression, but Claude was keeping close guard on it, “It will stand you in good stead tonight, for he will probably be gentle.” She paused a moment. Her virginity was likely Claude’s strongest appeal to him. “If he is not — if he is hurting you or being hasty — ask him to go slowly and remind him you are inexperienced... and innocent.”
Michelle reflected a moment before her next comment. Deciding it was suitable, she added, “We will prepare you well. You will wear a silk gown; your lovely long chestnut hair will be loose, and your clean, fresh scent will arouse him.”
Duchess Claude wrapped her arms about her sheet-covered knees and leaned her face against them, hiding it from Michelle’s view. She winced and shifted. Her weak left hip, the source of her problem, must ache, Michelle deduced. It made her left leg a little shorter than the right.
“Say that you want to please him and that you need him to teach you what he likes. That should persuade him to take his time. Can you do that?”
Claude was quiet and Michelle wondered if she would answer.
Without lifting her face, she finally said, “Yes.”
“Good.” Michelle was not sure what to say next. She decided to be direct. “Do you know what is going to happen?”
“I have seen horses and dogs rutting.”
It was hard not to chuckle, but she managed. “Men are somewhat different from animals.... He will expect you to lie on your back. Likely, he will lift your night rail rather than remove it, although he may take it off or ask you to. If he does, encourage him to remove his nightclothes as well. Remember, he is your husband, and your duty is to obey, so you must do as he requires.”
Obedience was the first duty taught to girls, Michelle knew, but Claude was a wealthy princess who brought him great riches and power. She deserved the best in this marriage. “Never forget, you are his wife, and you may encourage him to enjoy the experience with you. To get you with an heir, he must come to your bed often.... Are you listening?”
Claude nodded, her head still resting on her sheet-draped knees.
Did she feel frightened or excited, or some of both? “Do you feel any stirrings?”
Duchess Claude did not answer.
“It is good if you do,” Michelle said, “and it is quite normal to picture yourself and him naked together.”
The girl said nothing, though her breathing quickened.
“Before you climb into bed, I will give you an ointment that you may rub on your private parts. Once on your back, you must spread your legs wide so he is able to penetrate you. He will show you how and where. The ointment should ease his ability to do so. He may use his fingers to help. All is permitted between a husband and wife, so if you can relax and enjoy the sensations, do so. Ask him what you can do to make the experience pleasurable for him. He may show you... or not. He may talk... or not. Are you following so far?”
Another rustle and a hand crept into Michelle’s. “Yes.”
“We are almost done. He will lie on top of you and ride you, and you will probably find it somewhat painful the first time or two. Do not worry. It rarely lasts long. Once he has finished, he will probably make some sort of noise, a groan or gasping, and relax onto you. He may ask if you liked it. Always say ‘yes.’ After that he should fall asleep fairly quickly.” Michelle fell silent.
Duchess Claude sat beside her, saying nothing. After a prolonged silence, Michelle said, “What? No questions?”
“No, I do not think so.” Duchess Claude’s voice sounded strangled as she choked out her words. “You have explained it clearly, dear Mme Michelle.” Running her fingers under her nightcap, she added, “I am not so afraid now. It does not sound terribly difficult.”
Michelle restrained a chuckle. Poor sweetie. “No, Duchess, it is not difficult.” Reluctantly, she came to the part she least wanted to mention, for she expected the duchess would find it embarrassing. It was not something she had needed to face, but royalty must. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I must remind you of one more thing you may have forgotten. You are a royal princess, and he is the dauphin. This marriage is important to France and to your father as king. There will be witnesses to the consummation in your room.”
Duchess Claude made a small hissing noise. “No... you are right, I had forgotten.” Then she surprised Michelle. “You are correct, it is normal for royal women.” Still, her voice trembled.
Her voice gentle, Michelle said, “It will not be as bad as you may fear. Madame, your mother, told me she forgot about them once the bed curtains closed and her husband put his arms around her. She did not even see them, for they were behind screens — as they will be in your case — and the chamber is enormous.”
Duchess Claude’s hand squeezed Michelle’s and released it. “Thank you. Already I feel better.”
Glad she had spoken, Michelle put an arm around her. “Insist that François treat you gently. You deserve it. You are a precious prize. A sweet, generous, good, gentle person who brings him an enormous dowry. He should fall at your feet in gratitude and make sure you enjoy every minute of your night.”
At that, the duchess laughed and hugged her. “No wonder Maman loved you and that Renée does too. So do I. Let’s get up now.”
* * *
SINCE COUNTESS LOUISE had chosen not to attend her son’s wedding, Duchess Claude asked Michelle to join her as she dressed. Princess Renée and she fussed over Duchess Claude as the maids bathed her, arranged her hair, and dressed her. They took turns brushing her shining chestnut hair until it glowed like burnished autumn leaves. Then they watched as her dresser wove strings of pearls into the tresses that fell loose to her hips. Next, they convinced her to display the delicate white lace of her sheer linen chemise, to brighten her black gown with its white satin underskirt, and to twist strands of her mother’s famous pearls around her neck. They pinned her mother’s precious rosary to her overskirt. In her hands she carried the treasured Book of Prayers her mother had given her as a child.
Michelle embellished Princess Renée’s overskirt with opals, pinned nosegays of colored ribbons to her bodice, hung the pearl rosary that was her mother’s gift at her neck, and added a string of pearls to her somber French hood. Their maids added touches of cinnabar to their pale cheeks and kohl to their eyebrows and lashes. Adorning Claude and primping took their minds off the significance of their black clothing.
Just before Nones, the king and Princess Claude led the procession from the château to its small private church. A light breeze sweetened the scents of the lilac bushes, lilies of the valley, forget-me-nots, and bright red poppies that bloomed along the well-traveled gravel path. But King Louis, who was attired in unrelieved black, insisted that everyone at court, including the servitors, match his dress. As the somber wedding party wound its way to meet the soberly clad bridegroom and his small party of groomsmen, Michelle speculated once again on the d’Angoulême family’s reasons for persisting with the wedding despite the shabby arrangements and the bride’s obvious reluctance. Their finances must be in dire straits.
A small group of courtiers clumped at the church doors. They clearly had not dared refurbish the clothing they had worn at the late queen's funeral. After the couple made their vows in subdued voices, everyone entered to hear the wedding mass. The king had forbidden removal of the black bunting and banners in the church or the banqueting hall. Despite her absence, however, Mme Louise had found a way to elude his bleak decree. She had ordered the church wreathed with May flowers, tactfully chosen of royal mourning colors. Even King Louis could not disapprove since they came from the château gardens. The fragrance of violets, lilacs, and lilies lifted their spirits. Michelle felt a rare moment of appreciation for the absent countess when she saw smiles tilting the lips of the bride and groom. Once the simple mass had concluded, the company repaired to the similarly bedecked great hall for the wedding meal, the only festivity to celebrate the couple’s wedding.
The king had refused the newly married couple the traditional days or weeks of celebration. Like Louise, Michelle agreed with her uncharitable opinion that his prohibition resulted less from grief than from parsimony. He probably begrudged the cost of feasting and jousting for the hordes of their relatives because he envied François’s youth. Besides, the expense of a wedding coming so soon after the extravagance of his late wife’s funeral must be too much for his penny-pinching ways. Since becoming king, he had prided himself on his thrift and boasted regularly that his many wars had enriched rather than impoverished his countrymen and had inflicted no damage on French territories. Or so it had been until two years ago. Then God had punished his pride. Michelle believed he felt worse about the damage to his treasury than the lost battles inside France. His delight at the death of Pope Julius had been positively sacrilegious.
She herself was most distressed about the invasions from England into Brittany. In a naval battle off Brest, the English sank their greatest ship. Then the French lost the battles of Guinegate and Therouannes to England and the Holy Roman Emperor. Michelle had heard rumors that ever since the queen’s funeral Louis’s ambassadors at the English court had been negotiating with England, Grâce à Dieu. She shook her head to stop her speculation and returned her thoughts to the present.
Duke François — hailed as Duke de Bretagne — led his bride, now Duchess of Valois and Angoulême as well as of Brittany, to the head table. He sat on King Louis’s right and placed his new wife on her father’s left. When Duchess Marguerite came to sit beside the bride, Princess Renée refused to move and insisted Michelle stay beside her. With Renée threatening a tantrum, Duchess Claude ignored her new husband’s glower. Placing Duchess Marguerite beside François, she said, “I prefer to keep my sister happy and, as it is my wedding day, I shall have one thing as I please.” Her words created an awkward silence among those who heard her.
* * *
CLAUDE LAY WIDE AWAKE in the semi-gloom, listening to the intimate snuffles and rustlings of the large man beside her. They reminded her of the sounds her puppies made as they slept stretched out in her bed. A warm sensation invaded her, and she had an urge to cuddle him as she did them, but she was uncertain he would welcome it. But she could not resist running her fingers through his thick hair. Murmuring softly in his sleep, he rubbed his head against her hand, stirring a frisson in her heart and loins. Resting her fingers in his soft curls, she stilled. Moments later he rolled away, wrapping himself in their silk coverlet. Like the silk tester overhead that created a warm nest, it was embroidered with their combined coats of arms: hers a white swan and an ermine with a ducal crown and his, a crowned salamander. Their coats of arms were quartered with their combined duchies of Valois, Angoulême, Brittany, Burgundy, and Milan. The five huge territories seemed weighty responsibilities, and she wondered idly how many they would be allowed to govern now they were married.
She lifted her naked body to cover herself with the linen sheet and woolen blanket. A smile flitted across her lips. François had insisted on removing her night rail. Mme Michelle had been right; she had not minded her deflowering. François — she blushed thinking his name, but she had the right to call him that now — had been gentle and taken his time, and she had almost enjoyed the experience. Crossing herself, she prayed fervently he had, too. By the time they coupled the first time, she had forgotten the witnesses in the chamber. They had coupled three times more, and so, yes, François must have liked it very much.
The beautiful man beside her shifted, stretching a leg. She turned her head towards him, desiring to slide a hand down his arm and feel the silky hair. Her hand hovered, sensing his warmth. Still, she chose not to disturb his sleep, even though she wanted to see whether the sheets were properly stained. She also wanted to clean her private parts and use the close stool. To distract herself, she reached for the beads she’d hidden deep under the pillows and began a rosary, begging the Virgin for a son.
The distant clatter of footsteps in the stone corridor reached her ears. They neared, a mixture of armored footwear and leather boots. Claude was struggling to decide whether she should rouse her husband when he jerked awake.
“What? Oh, yes, you... Good morning, Wife.” He leaned over and kissed her mouth.
How truly surprising! How lovely. Was this what married people did? Before she had more time to reflect, a sharp knock rattled their wooden door. She heard it creak open as they stared at each other.
“Cover yourself well, Wife.” François grinned. “You have no time for more.” Sitting, he pulled the sheet over his naked groin.
From the noise on the other side of their bed hangings, it sounded to Claude as if a delegation were shuffling into their room. Then a hand flung open the bed curtains and King Louis’s face appeared. Claude shrank into the pillows and wished she could pull the sheet over her head.
Her father laughed. It sounded crude to her ears. “I see your blush, Daughter. All is well. I did not leave the room last night until I was certain this young man had done his duty.” He clapped François on his naked shoulder. “I believe you pleased my daughter. I am proud of you, Son.” He emphasized the last word for everyone to hear.
Claude glimpsed her husband’s eyes narrow the way they did when he was making an abrupt decision — the kind of decision Maman Louise would call rash. Before she could say a word, François threw back the sheet and leaped from their marital bed displaying his splendid, naked body. A chorus of gasps and clapping covered the bawdy comments that rang out. François towered over his liege lord, his superb physique emphasizing the king’s scrawny stoop.
He grabbed Louis’s hand, dropping to one knee. “My liege, a boon.”
King Louis, although at a disadvantage, did not lose his composure. “Ask. Then we shall consider.”
“As stipulated in our marriage contract, I am Duke Consort de Bretagne, while Claude is Duchess in her own right. But you have retained management of the duchy since the death of your late wife.”
Her father became rigid, always a bad sign. Why was François doing this? Several times during their short betrothal she had warned him it was unwise to press Louis. She knew her father well. When the time was right, she would talk to her father herself. He could be generous, but he was François’s opposite. He would rather wear old clothes and invest in merchant ships than sport the latest fashions and owe his patrimony to moneylenders. This public confrontation would infuriate him. She clamped her eyes onto her new husband’s bold, beloved face, trying to send him a frantic message. Her father would release the income from Brittany to them, but he needed time.
“Sire, perhaps you believe Claude is too young to rule alone. I am older and will rule with her. Naturally,” François added, waving one naked arm grandly as if this resolved everything, “the rights to the Duchy will revert to her sister if the Lord fails to bless us with heirs. After you order the Estates and Parlement1 de Bretagne to invest us, we shall immediately go to Brittany for a joint coronation.” He remained on his knee.
Claude’s eyes flew to her father’s face. They had all signed their marriage contract only the day before. Did François believe her father would alter its terms after only one night? If he believed this bedding so precious that Papa would relinquish control of Brittany, he understood nothing of his uncle’s frugality. She closed her eyes.
“Son, this is neither the moment nor the... apparel,” Louis guffawed, though his eyes glittered as he raked them over his son-in-law’s nakedness, stopping at François’s shriveled pintle, “in which to present such a request. Since you have, my answer must be not at this time. We are pleased to greet you and leave you until you have attired yourself more... shall we say adequately. Good morrow to you both.” He pulled his hand from the young man’s and strode from the chamber.
His chattering entourage scrambled behind, voices rising and heads craning to gawk at the red-faced duke, who turned his pale buttocks to the crowd. His valet hurried to offer a brocade robe, blocking his master from prying eyes while Claude’s two maidservants scurried into the bedchamber.
François glared at Claude, who huddled under the thin sheet. “You promised me that your father would give me Brittany! You said it was just a matter of our marriage. You lied to me!” He clenched his fists, his eyes slits. In a daze, Claude watched his chest heave, wondering what he would do, her wits numbed.
Screwing up his mouth, he spat at her. “You promise me just to hasten this marriage! You repellent, lying cripple! Do you think I would have married you one minute before I must, if not for Brittany? Scheming—!” He pinched his lips together, and then stormed from the room, fumbling with the belt at his waist. The duke’s valet scrambled after him. Her maids backed away from the bed, carefully avoiding her eyes.
Claude was shocked mute, her ears ringing with his terrible words. Wiping her face with the sheet, she heard her own voice speaking as if it came from far away. “Leave me, please. I shall rest longer.”
Tugging at the tester curtains, she tried to pull them closed and gave up. Rolling over, she pulled a pillow over her head, but could not block the echo of François’s cruel words. Clutching her mother’s rosary, biting her lips to smother her sobs, she hugged the pillow as if it were her only friend. She stayed there until her tears subsided.
Eventually she pushed away the pillow, struggled to a sitting position, wiped her eyes with the sheet, and sniffled. She was a married woman now, and so she must pull herself together. This was not a tragedy. Her husband had made an unreasonable request of his liege lord and blamed her when he was refused. Though he had wounded her with cruel words, he had not beaten her. In her mother’s rooms growing up, she had heard married ladies whisper similar stories every week. Only, she had not thought to face it so soon. She was a royal princess. She would not shame herself by giving way or showing reddened eyes in public.
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1 Parlement — of which the most powerful was the Parlement of Paris — were judicial organizations consisting of a dozen or more appellate judges. They were the court of final appeal of the judicial system, and typically wielded much power over a wide range of subjects, particularly taxation. Laws and edicts issued by the Crown were not official in their respective jurisdictions until the parlements gave their assent by publishing them. The members were aristocrats called nobles of the robe who had bought or inherited their offices and were independent of the King. However, the king could force the Parlement to publish any law by arriving in person to hold a ‘lit de justice.’