Kitabı oku: «The Lady and the Unicorn», sayfa 4

GENEVIÈVE DE NANTERRE

Béatrice has told me the bodices of my dresses have become too loose. ‘Either you eat more, Madame, or we must call in the tailor.’

‘Send for the tailor.’

That was not the answer she wanted, and she kept her big dog-brown eyes on me until I turned from her and began playing with my rosary. I’d had the same look from my mother – though her eyes are shrewder than Béatrice’s – when I took the girls to visit her at Nanterre. I told her that Claude did not come with us because of a stomach ache that I suffered from as well. She didn’t believe me, just as I hadn’t believed Claude when she made her excuses to me. Perhaps it is always thus, that daughters lie to their mothers and their mothers let them.

I was just as glad that Claude didn’t go with us, though the girls begged her to. Claude and I are like two cats around each other, our fur always ruffled. She is sullen with me, and her sideways looks are critical. I know she is comparing herself to me and thinking that she does not want to be like me.

I do not want her to be like me either.

I went to see Père Hugo after I got back from Nanterre. As I sat down on a pew next to him he said, ‘Vraiment, mon enfant, you cannot have sinned so much in three days that you need to confess again already.’ Though his words were kind his tone was sour. In truth he despairs of me, as I despair of myself.

I repeated the words I had used the other morning, staring at the scratched pew in front of us. ‘It is my one desire to join the convent at Chelles,’ I said. ‘Mon seul désir. My grandmother joined before she died, and my mother is sure to as well.’

‘You are not about to die, mon enfant. Nor is your husband. Your grandmother was a widow when she took the veil.’

‘Do you think my faith is not strong enough? Shall I prove it to you?’

‘It is not your faith that is so strong, but your desire to be rid of your life that is. It troubles me. I am sure enough of your faith, but you need to want to surrender yourself to Christ—’

‘But I do!’

‘—surrender yourself to Christ without thought of yourself and your worldly life. The world of the convent should not be an escape from a life you hate—’

‘A life I detest!’ I bit my tongue.

Père Hugo waited a moment, then said, ‘The best nuns are often those who have been happy outside, and are happy inside.’

I sat silent, my head bowed. I knew now that I had been wrong to speak like this. I should have been more patient – taken months, a year, two years to plant the seed with Père Hugo, soften him, make him agreeable. Instead I’d spoken to the priest suddenly and desperately. Of course, Père Hugo did not decide who entered Chelles – only the Abbess Catherine de Lignières had that power. But I would need my husband’s consent to become a nun, and must get powerful men to argue on my behalf. Père Hugo was one of those men.

There was one thing that might still sway Père Hugo. I smoothed my skirt and cleared my throat. ‘My dowry was substantial,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I’m sure that if I became a bride of Christ I would be able to give a portion of it to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, in thanks for the succour it has given me. If only you would speak to my husband …’ I let my voice trail away.

It was Père Hugo’s turn to be silent. While I waited I ran my finger along one of the scratches on the pew. When he spoke at last there was true regret in his voice – but whether for what he said or for the money just out of his grasp was not clear. ‘Geneviève, you know Jean Le Viste will never give his consent for you to enter a convent. He wants a wife, not a nun.’

‘You could talk to him, tell him how it would suit me to enter Chelles.’

‘Have you talked to him yourself, as I suggested the other day?’

‘No, because he doesn’t listen to me. But he would to you, I’m sure of it. What you think matters to him.’

Père Hugo snorted. ‘Your slate is clean at the moment, mon enfant. Don’t go telling lies now.’

‘He does care about the Church!’

‘The Church has not had as much influence on him as you and I might wish,’ Père Hugo said carefully. I was silent, chastened by my husband’s indifference. Would he burn in Hell for it?

‘Go home, Geneviève,’ Père Hugo said then, and did sound kind. ‘You have three lovely daughters, a fine house and a husband who is close to the King. These are blessings many women would be content with. Be a wife and mother, say your prayers, and may Our Lady smile down on you.’

‘And on my cold bed – will She smile on that as well?’

‘Go in peace, mon enfant.’ Père Hugo was already getting to his feet.

I didn’t leave immediately. I didn’t want to go back to the rue du Four, to Claude’s judging eyes or Jean’s that would not meet mine. Better to stay in the church that had become my shelter.

Saint-Germain-des-Prés is the oldest church in Paris, and I was glad when we moved so close. Its cloisters are beautiful and quiet, and the view from the church is very fine – when you stand outside it on the river side you can see straight across to the Louvre. Before the rue du Four we lived nearer to Notre Dame de Paris, but that place is too big for me – it makes me dizzy to look up. Of course Jean liked it, as he would any place grand where the King is likely to come. Now, though, we live so close to Saint-Germain-des-Prés that I don’t even need a groom to escort me to it.

My favourite place in the church is the Chapel of Sainte Geneviève, patron of Paris, who came from Nanterre and whom I am named after. It is off the apse and I went there now, after my confession to Père Hugo, telling my ladies as I knelt to leave me alone. They sat on the low step leading up to the chapel, a little way from me, and kept whispering until I turned and said, ‘You would do well to remember that this is God’s house, not a corner for gossip. Either pray or go.’ They all ducked their heads, though Béatrice fixed me with those brown eyes for a moment. I stared at her until she too bowed her head and closed her eyes. When I saw her lips move at last to form a prayer I turned back around.

I myself did not pray, but looked up at the two windows of stained glass with their scenes from the life of the Virgin. I don’t see as well as I once did, and couldn’t make out the figures but saw only the colours, the blues and reds and greens and browns. I found myself counting the yellow flowers that lined the edge of the glass and wondering what they were.

Jean has not come to my bed for months. He has always been formal with me in front of others, as befits our status. But he was once warm in bed. After Petite Geneviève was born he began to visit even more frequently, looking at last to make a son and heir. I was with child a few times but lost it early on. These last two years there has been no sign of a baby. Indeed my courses ran dry, though I did not tell him. He found out somehow, from Marie-Céleste or one of my ladies – maybe even Béatrice. No one knows what loyalty is in this house. He came to see me one night with this new knowledge, saying I had failed in the one thing expected of a wife and that he wouldn’t touch me again.

He was right. I had failed. I could see it in the faces of others – in Béatrice and my ladies, in my mother, in the people we entertained, even in Claude who is part of the failing. I remember that when she was seven years old, she came into my room after I had given birth to Petite Geneviève. She gazed down at the swaddled baby in my arms, and when she heard it wasn’t a boy she sniffed and turned on her heel. Of course she loves Petite Geneviève now but she would prefer a brother and a satisfied father.

I feel like a bird who has been wounded with an arrow and now cannot fly.

It would be a mercy to let me enter a convent. But Jean is not a merciful man. And he still needs me. Even if he despises me, he wants me next to him when he dines at home, and when we entertain or go to Court to attend the King. It would not look right for the place next to him to be empty. Besides, they would laugh at him at Court – the man whose wife runs off to a nunnery. No, I knew Père Hugo was right – Jean might not want me, but he would have me at his side still. Most men would be like that – older women joining convents are usually widows, not wives. Only a few husbands will let them go, no matter their sins.

Sometimes when I walk over to the Seine to look across at the Louvre, I think about throwing myself in. That is why the ladies keep close to me. They know. I heard one of them just now, huffing behind me from boredom. For a moment I felt sorry for them, stuck with me.

On the other hand, they have fine dresses and food and a good fire in the evenings because they are with me. Their cakes have more sugar in them, and the cook is generous with the spices – the cinnamon and nutmeg and mace and ginger – because he is cooking for nobles.

I let my rosary drop to the floor. ‘Béatrice,’ I called, ‘pick up my beads.’

Two ladies helped me to my feet as Béatrice knelt to fetch the rosary. ‘I would have a word with you, Madame,’ she said in a low voice as she handed them back to me. ‘Alone.’

It was probably something about Claude. She no longer needed a nurse to look after her like Jeanne and Petite Geneviève, but a proper lady-in-waiting. I had been lending her Béatrice to see how they got on. And I could spare her – my needs were simpler now. A woman at the start of her life has far more need of a good lady like Béatrice than I do. Béatrice still told me everything about Claude, to help me prepare her for womanhood and keep her from mischief. But one day Béatrice would go over to her new mistress and not come back.

I waited until we had gone outside and around to the great door of the monastery. As we passed through the gate and out into the street I said, ‘I fancy a stroll down to the river. Béatrice, come with me – you others may go back. If you see my daughters tell them to come to my chamber after. I want to speak to them.’

Before the ladies could say more I pulled Béatrice by the arm and turned left down the road leading to the river. The ladies had to turn right to go home. Though they tutted a bit, they must have obeyed because I didn’t hear them follow.

Passers-by on the rue de Seine stared to see a noblewoman without her entourage. For me it was a relief not to have my ladies flapping about me like a flock of magpies. They can be noisy and tiresome at times, especially when I’m looking for peace. They wouldn’t last a day in a convent. I never take them when I visit Chelles – except Béatrice, of course.

A man passing along the other side with his scribe bowed so low when he saw me that I could not guess who he was by the crown of his hat. Only when he straightened did I recognize him as Michel d’Orléans, who knows Jean at Court and has dined with us. ‘Dame Geneviève, I am at your command,’ he said now. ‘Tell me where I may escort you. I would never forgive myself for allowing you to walk the streets of Paris on your own. What would Jean Le Viste think of me if I were to do such a thing?’ He gazed into my eyes for as long as he dared. At one time he had made it clear that we might be lovers if I wished it. I did not, but on the rare occasions when we meet his eyes still hold that question.

I have never taken a lover, though many women do. I don’t want to give Jean a stick to beat me with. If I were to commit adultery he could choose to marry someone else, to try for a son. I’m not so desperate for company in my bed that I would throw away my title.

‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I said, smiling kindly, ‘but I’m not alone – I have my woman here to walk with me to the river. We like to look at the boats.’

‘Then I will come with you.’

‘No, no, you’re too kind. With your scribe with you, you’re clearly on your way to important business. I would not keep you.’

‘Dame Geneviève, nothing is more important than being at your side.’

Once again I smiled, though more firmly and less kindly. ‘Monsieur, if my husband were to find that you neglected work for King and Court in order to walk with me, he would be very displeased with me. I’m sure you don’t want him to be angry with me?’

At this thought Michel d’Orléans stepped back, crestfallen. When he had apologized several times and gone on his way, Béatrice and I began to giggle. We hadn’t laughed like that in some time, and I was reminded of how she and I used to laugh all the time when we were both younger. I would miss her when she became Claude’s lady. She would go to her and remain, unless Claude allowed her to marry and leave service.

The river was busy with boats moving up and down it. Men were unloading sacks of flour on the opposite bank, destined for the Louvre’s many kitchens. We watched them for a time. I have always liked to look at the Seine – it holds out the promise of escape.

‘I have something to tell you about Claude,’ Béatrice said then. ‘She’s been very foolish.’

I sighed. I didn’t want to know, but I was her mother and was meant to. ‘What did she do?’

‘Do you remember that artist – Nicolas des Innocents – who is designing the tapestries for the Grande Salle?’

I kept my eyes on a little patch of sunlight on the water. ‘I remember him.’

‘While you were away she was with him, alone, under a table!’

‘Under a table? Where?’

She hesitated, her big eyes fearful. Béatrice dresses well, as do all of my ladies. But even fine silk woven with gilt thread and dotted with jewels can’t make her face anything but plain. Her eyes may be lively, but she has hollow cheeks, a snub nose, and skin that goes red at the slightest upset. She was red now.

‘In her chamber?’ I suggested.

‘No.’

‘In the Grande Salle?’

‘No.’ My suggestions were annoying her, even as her hesitation annoyed me. I turned and looked at the river again, stifling my desire to shout at her. It’s always better to be patient with Béatrice.

Two men were fishing in a boat not far from us. Their lines were slack but they didn’t seem bothered – they were chatting and laughing about something. They hadn’t seen us and I was glad, for they would have bowed and moved away if they had known we were there. There is something cheering about seeing an ordinary man happy.

‘It was in your husband’s chamber,’ Béatrice whispered, even though there was no one to hear but me.

‘Sainte Vierge!’ I crossed myself. ‘How long was she alone with him?’

‘I don’t know. Just a few minutes, I think. But they were—’ Béatrice stopped. I really did want to shake her.

‘They were?’

‘Not quite—’

‘Where in Heaven’s name were you? You were meant to be keeping an eye on her!’ I had left Béatrice behind with Claude to keep her out of such mischief.

‘I was! She gave me the slip, the silly thing. She asked me to fetch her—’ Béatrice rattled her rosary ‘—oh, it doesn’t matter. But she didn’t lose her maidenhead, Madame.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. He was not – not yet undressed.’

‘But she was?’

‘Only partly.’

As angry as I was, part of me wanted to laugh at Claude’s brazenness. If Jean had caught them – I couldn’t bear to think of it. ‘What did you do?’

‘I sent him running! I did.’

She hadn’t – I could see it in her face. Nicolas des Innocents had probably laughed at Béatrice and taken his time leaving.

‘What are you going to do, Madame?’ Béatrice said.

‘What did you do when he left? What did you say to Claude?’

‘I told her you would be sure to speak to her about it.’

‘Did she beg you not to tell me?’

Béatrice frowned. ‘No. She laughed in my face and ran off.’

I gritted my teeth. Claude knows only too well how valuable her maidenhead is to the Le Vistes – she must be intact for a worthy man to marry her. Her husband will inherit the Le Viste wealth one day, if not the name. The house on the rue du Four, the Château d’Arcy, the furniture, the jewels, even the tapestries Jean is having made – all will go to Claude’s husband. Jean will have chosen him carefully, and the husband in turn will expect Claude to be pious, respectful, admired, and a virgin, of course. If her father had caught her – I shivered.

‘I will speak to her,’ I said, no longer angry at Béatrice but furious at Claude for risking so much for so little. ‘I will speak to her now.’

The ladies had already gathered my daughters in my chamber when Béatrice and I returned. Petite Geneviève and Jeanne ran to greet me as I came in, but Claude sat at the window playing with a little dog in her lap and would not look at me.

I had forgotten why I’d had the other girls called to my chamber. But the two of them – especially Petite Geneviève – were so eager to see me that I had to make up something quickly.

‘Girls, you know that the roads will soon be clear of mud and we’ll go down to Château d’Arcy for the summer.’

Jeanne clapped her hands. Of the three she most liked our stay each year at the château. She ran wild there with children from the nearby farms, and hardly wore shoes the whole summer.

Claude sighed heavily as she cupped the lapdog’s face in her hands. ‘I want to stay in Paris,’ she muttered.

‘I have decided that we will have a May Day feast before we go,’ I continued. ‘You may wear your new dresses.’ I always had new dresses made for the girls and my ladies at Easter.

The ladies began chattering at once, except for Béatrice.

‘Now, Claude, come with me – I want to look at your dress. I’m not sure of the neckline.’ I walked to the door and turned to wait for her. ‘Just us,’ I added as the ladies began to stir. ‘We won’t be long.’

Claude pursed her lips and didn’t move, but continued to play with her dog, flopping its ears back and forth.

‘You will come with me or I’ll rip that dress apart with my own hands,’ I said sharply.

The ladies all murmured. Béatrice stared at me. ‘Maman!’ Jeanne cried.

Claude’s eyes widened and a look of fury crossed her face. Then she got up, pushing the dog from her lap so roughly that it yelped. She walked past me and through the door without a glance. I followed her rigid back through the rooms separating hers from mine.

Her room is smaller than mine, with less furniture. Of course she doesn’t have five ladies with her for much of the day. My ladies need chairs and a table. They need cushions and footstools and fires, tapestries on the walls and jugs of wine. Claude’s room simply has a bed dressed in red and yellow silk, a chair and small table, and a chest for her dresses. Her window looks onto the courtyard rather than towards the church as mine does.

Claude went straight to her chest, pulled out the new dress, then threw it on the bed. For a moment we both gazed on it. It was a lovely thing, made of black and yellow silk in a pomegranate pattern, with a pale yellow overdress. My new dress used the same pattern, though as the underdress, with a deep red silk covering it. We would look striking together at the feast – though now that I thought on it, I wished we would be wearing completely different dresses so that there would be no comparisons.

‘There’s nothing wrong with this neckline,’ I said. ‘That’s not what I want to speak to you about.’

‘What, then?’ Claude went and stood by the window.

‘If you continue to be rude I’ll send you to live with your grandmother,’ I said. ‘She’ll soon remind you to respect your mother.’ My mother would not hesitate to take the whip to Claude, heiress to Jean Le Viste or no.

After a moment Claude muttered, ‘Pardon, Maman.’

‘Look at me, Claude.’

She did at last, her green eyes more confused than angry.

‘Béatrice told me what happened with the artist.’

Claude rolled her eyes. ‘Béatrice is disloyal.’

‘Au contraire, she did exactly as she should. She is still my woman, and her loyalty is to me. But never mind about her. What ever were you thinking? And in your father’s chamber?’

‘I want him, Maman.’ Claude’s face cleared as if there had been a storm there and now the clouds had been blown away.

I snorted. ‘Don’t be absurd. Of course you don’t. You don’t even know what that means.’

The storm returned. ‘What do you know of me?’

‘I know that you’re not to mix with the likes of him. An artist is little better than a peasant!’

‘That’s not true!’

‘You know too well that you will marry the man your father chooses. A noble match for a nobleman’s daughter. You aren’t to go ruining that with an artist, or with anyone.’

Claude glared at me, her face full of spite. ‘Just because you and Papa don’t share a bed doesn’t mean I too must be dry and hard as a shrivelled old pear!’

For a moment I thought I would hit her across her plump red mouth so that it bled. I took a deep breath. ‘Ma fille, it’s clearly you who knows nothing of me.’ I opened the door. ‘Béatrice!’ I bellowed so loudly it carried throughout the house. The steward must have heard it in his storerooms, the cook in his kitchen, the grooms in the stables, the maids on the stairs. If Jean were in he would certainly hear it in his chamber.

There was a short silence, like the pause between the lightning and the thunder. Then the door to the next room burst open and Béatrice came running through, the ladies behind her. She slowed when she saw me standing in the doorway. The ladies stopped at intervals in the room, like pearls on a string. Jeanne and Petite Geneviève remained in the doorway to my chamber, peeking out.

I reached for Claude’s arm and pulled her roughly to the door so that she was facing Béatrice. ‘Béatrice, you are now my daughter’s lady-in-waiting. You are to remain with her at all hours of the day and night. You will go with her to Mass, to market, to visits, to the tailor’s, to her dancing lessons. You will eat with her, ride with her, sleep with her – not in the closet nearby but in her bed. You will never leave her side. You will stand by her when she pisses in the pot.’ One of the ladies gasped. ‘If she sneezes, you will know it. If she belches or farts, you will smell it.’ Claude was crying now. ‘You will know when her hair needs combing, when her courses run, when she cries.

‘At the May Day feast it will be your task, Béatrice, and all my ladies, to see that Claude comes close to no man there, either to speak to him or dance with him or even to stand next to him, for she cannot be trusted. Let her have a miserable evening.

‘First, though, the most important lesson my daughter must learn is respect for her parents. To that end you are to take her immediately to my mother’s at Nanterre for a week – I will send a messenger to tell her she may be quick with the whip if she needs to.’

‘Maman,’ Claude whispered, ‘please don’t—’

‘Quiet!’ I looked hard at Béatrice. ‘Béatrice, come in and get her packed.’

Béatrice bit her lips. ‘Yes, Madame,’ she said, lowering her eyes. ‘Bien sûr.’ She slipped between me and Claude and went over to the chest full of dresses.

I stepped from Claude’s room and strode towards my chamber. As I passed each lady she fell in line behind me until I was like a mother duck leading her four ducklings. When I reached my door my other daughters were standing together, heads bowed. They too followed me when I passed. One of the ladies shut the door. I turned around. ‘Let us pray that Claude’s soul may yet be saved,’ I said to their solemn faces. We knelt.