The Lady and the Unicorn (18 page)

When I got back to my chamber I sent for Béatrice again. She appeared in a yellow brocade, which I thought too bright, but at least the artist's blood was not staining it.

‘Pack Claude's things,’ I said. ‘Only her simplest clothes, and no jewels. I am taking you both on a journey.’

‘Where to, Madame?’Béatrice sounded fearful, as well she might. Nine months in the convent would be punishment for her too. Yet I was still fond of her. ‘Don't worry,’ I said. ‘Look after Claude well and you will yet have your reward.’

I sent for a groom and told him to make ready my carriage, as well as to send a messenger ahead with news of our visit. Then I sent Claude to her father. I sorely wanted to creep outside his door and listen, but it would not be dignif Ied, and I busied myself instead with my own preparations — changing out of the brocade I had worn for Jean and into the simple dark wool I had worn on Good Friday, removing the jewels from my hair, changing my jewelled cross for a wood one.

There was a knock on the door and Claude entered. Her eyes were red and I wondered what Jean had said to her. I'd asked him not to tell her where she was going, so she couldn't be crying over that. She came straight to me and knelt. ‘I'm sorry, Maman. I will do whatever you ask of me.’ I heard fear in her voice, and some obedience, yet underneath it there was still defiance. Instead of keeping her eyes lowered in respect, she looked at me sideways the way I have seen birds do when under a cat's paw, searching for a way of escaping.

The nuns would have their hands full with her.

I accompanied them in the carriage. They were both surprised to see it — they had been expecting to ride, probably thinking we were going to my mother's in Nanterre. We did not go that way, though — once we crossed the Seine over the Pont de Notre Dame we turned east and drove out of Paris past the Bastille. Claude sat far from me, with Béatrice squeezed between us. We spoke little. My carriage is not made for long journeys, but for simple jaunts across the city. We were jolted often, and at times I wondered if the wheels would fall off. I could not sleep, though Claude and Béatrice managed a little once it was dark and they couldn't watch the passing fields.

When we arrived at the town walls it was almost daybreak. Lauds would soon be said. Claude had never been to Chelles, and didn't react when we stopped outside the small door set in the high wall. Béatrice recognized it at once, though, and sat up, her face wrinkled with concern as I climbed out and rang the bell next to the door. ‘Madame —’ she began, but I waved her to silence.

Only when a woman opened the door and Claude saw the white cloth framing her face in the torchlight did she suddenly understand. ‘No!’ she cried, pushing herself into the corner of the carriage. I ignored her and spoke in a low voice to the nun.

Then I heard a noise, and Béatrice cried, ‘Madame, she has run off!’

‘Go and get her,’ I said in a low voice to the grooms, who were wiping down the horses. One of them dropped his cloth and ran down the road into the darkness beyond the torch. This was why I had brought Claude in a carriage — if we had gone on horses she could have ridden away. In a few minutes he was back, carrying Claude in his arms. She had gone limp like a sack of rye and would not stand when he tried to put her down by me. ‘Carry her inside,’ I said. With the nun holding high her torch, we made our sorry entrance into the convent.

They took Claude away, Béatrice trailing behind like a chick that has lost its mother. I joined the nuns in the chapel for Lauds, sinking to my knees with a lightness I had not felt for some time. Afterwards I joined the Abbess for a glass of wine before having a short sleep. I slept better on the narrow straw pallet than I ever do at the rue du Four in my big bed with my ladies close by.

I did not see Claude again before I left. I did send for Béatrice, though, who looked worn and subdued. Her curtsy was less brisk than usual, and she'd had trouble dressing her hair — normally my ladies take turns fixing each other's hair, and there are no mirrors at Chelles. I was glad to see that she'd changed from the yellow brocade to something more sober. We walked around the cloisters and then into the central garden, where nuns were at work planting and weeding, digging and tying. I am no gardener but I can appreciate the simple pleasure of a flower's colours and scent. There were still some daffodils in flower, and hyacinth, some violets beginning to bloom, and periwinkle. Sprigs of lavender, rosemary and thyme were poking out from their bushes, and new mint was growing in clumps. Standing in that peaceful garden in the morning sun, with nuns quietly busy around me and the bell soon to ring for Terce, I felt a stab of envy that Claude would stay here when I couldn't. I'd thought of this place as a punishment for her as well as a protection and an education. But it was a punishment for me too, to know that she would have what I could not.

‘Look at this garden, Béatrice,’ I said, pushing away my thoughts. ‘It's like Paradise. Like Heaven on Earth.’

Béatrice did not respond.

‘Where were you at Lauds? I know it was early, but you will get used to that.’

‘I was attending Mademoiselle.’

‘How is she?’

Béatrice shrugged. She wouldn't normally use such a rude gesture. She was angry at me, though of course she couldn't say so. ‘She hasn't spoken since she arrived. Nor has she eaten — not that she missed much.’

It is true that the gruel here is thin, the bread hard. ‘She will get used to it in time,’ I said gently. ‘This is the best place for her, you know. She'll be the better for it.’

‘I hope you're right, Madame.’

I drew myself up. ‘Are you questioning my decision to bring her here?’

Béatrice bowed her head. ‘No, Madame.’

‘She'll be much happier by Candlemas.’

Béatrice jerked her head. ‘Candlemas? Candlemas is long past.’

‘I mean next Candlemas.’

‘We're to stay here until then?’ Béatrice's voice rose.

I smiled. ‘It will go by faster than you think. And if you are both good and behave yourselves — both of you,’ I repeated so that she would understand, ‘I will arrange a marriage for you at the end of it, if you wish.’

Poor Béatrice had a split face — a sad mouth but hopeful eyes.

‘You know that you will be well looked after here,’ I said. ‘Be cheerful with Claude, obey the Abbess, and all will be well.’

With that I left her in the lovely garden, tearing myself away to get in my carriage for the long journey back to the rue du Four. I confess I cried a little as I watched the fields pass, and again when we reached the Paris gates. I did not want to go back to the rue du Four. But I must.

At the house I stopped the grooms before they took the horses away, and paid them handsomely to keep their mouths shut about where we had been. No one but they and Jean knew where Claude was — I had not told even my ladies where we were going. I didn't want Nicolas finding out and pestering the nuns there. I had been careful but I was still uneasy, and wished that Nicolas were far away. I didn't trust him. I saw the way he looked at my daughter as he lay bloodied on the ground — a look I never had from Jean. It made my gut turn from jealousy.

As I stepped across the courtyard I had an idea, and hurried back to the stables. ‘I'm going back out,’ I said to the surprised grooms. ‘Take me to the rue des Rosiers.’

Léon Le Vieux was also surprised — it is rare for a noblewoman to visit him, and alone. However, he was very gracious, making me comfortable by the fire. He has done well for himself — it is a fine house, filled with rugs and carved chests and silver plates. I counted two servants, though his wife herself brought us sweet wine and made me a deep curtsy. She looked happy enough, and there was silk woven into the wool of her dress.

‘How do you fare, Dame Geneviève?’ he asked as we sat. ‘And Claude? And Jeanne and Petite Geneviève?’ Léon never forgets to ask after each of my daughters. I have always liked him, though I fear for his soul. His family has been converted to the Church, yet still he is not like us. I looked around for signs of this, but saw only a crucif Ix on the wall.

‘I need your help, Léon,’ I said, sipping my wine. ‘Have you heard from my husband?’

‘About the tapestries? Yes, this morning. I was just arranging how I might go to Brussels when you arrived.’

‘I would ask something of you. It may be in your favour as well. Send that Nicolas des Innocents to Brussels instead.’

Léon paused, his glass half-raised to his lips. ‘That is an unexpected request. May I ask why, Dame Geneviève?’

I wanted to tell someone. Léon is a discreet man — I could talk to him without it becoming the next day's gossip. So I told him everything I had kept from Jean — how Claude and Nicolas met the first time in Jean's chamber, all I had done to keep them apart since, and the meeting at the rue des Cordeliers. ‘I've taken her to Chelles,’ I finished, ‘where she'll stay until her betrothal. No one knows she's there but you and me and Jean. That's why we've moved the betrothal back to just before Lent rather than after Easter. But I don't trust Nicolas. I want him out of Paris for a time until it's certain he won't find her. You have dealings with him — tell him to go to Brussels in your stead.’

Léon Le Vieux listened impassively. When I was done he shook his head. ‘I should not have left them together,’ he muttered.

‘Who?’

‘Nothing, Dame Geneviève. I will do as you ask. It suits me as well — a trip to Brussels now is not so convenient for me.’ He grunted. ‘These tapestries seem to be causing trouble,
non
?’

I sighed and looked at the fire. ‘Indeed — more than any tapestry is worth!’

CLAUDE LE VISTE

At first I would not leave my room, nor eat, nor speak to anyone except Béatrice — and very little to her either, once I'd looked in my bags. She had packed my plainest dresses — no silk, no brocade, no velvet. There were no jewels for my hair or throat, no head-dresses but simple scarves, nothing to paint my lips with, and only a wood comb. When I accused her of knowing where we were going and not telling me, she denied it. I do not believe her.

It was easy enough not to eat — the food they gave me wasn't fit for pigs. The room, though, was so small and plain that after only a day I longed to be free of it. There was room only for a straw pallet and a chamberpot, and the stone walls were bare except for a small wooden crucif Ix. Béatrice couldn't fit her pallet in there — she slept outside my door. I've never slept on straw before. It is prickly and noisy and I miss my soft feathers at home. Papa would be so angry if he could see his daughter sleeping on straw.

Béatrice had brought paper and a quill and ink, and I thought of sending word to Papa to come and get me. He'd said nothing about convents when he spoke to me in his chamber, but only reminded me that I carried his name and that I was to obey Maman in everything. That may be true but I don't think he meant I was to be shut up in a convent, sleeping on straw and breaking my teeth on bread as hard as stone.

I've never been able to talk freely with Papa. I wanted to tell him that his steward is not to be trusted — that I had seen him beating Nicolas at the rue des Cordeliers. But of course I could not mention Nicolas, so I had to say nothing, but listen to him go on about the husband I am to marry one day, and how important it is for me to remain chaste and pious in honour of the family name. Afterwards I cried from frustration. I have not cried since, but I am still angry with everyone — Papa, Maman, Béatrice, even Nicolas for playing a part in trapping me here, even if he doesn't know it.

By the fourth morning I was so bored with my room that I broke my silence with Béatrice and begged her to find a messenger. She came back later and told me the Abbess said I am neither to send nor receive messages. So I truly am imprisoned.

I sent Béatrice away, then came out of my room with a note I had written my father. I tied it to a stone and tried to throw it over the wall, hoping some nobleman on the other side would find it, take pity on me and somehow get it to Papa. I tried again and again but the note kept fluttering off the stone, and besides I was too weak to get it over that high wall.

I did cry then, very bitter tears. I didn't go back inside, though. It was sunny out, and there was a garden in the middle of the cloisters to sit in that was much preferable to my tiny room. I sat on one of the stone benches set around the sides of the cloisters, not caring if the sun burned me. A few nuns were working in the garden, and gave me curious looks. I ignored them. In front of me a bed of roses was just beginning to bloom and the bush nearest me was dotted with tight white buds. I looked at them, then reached over and squeezed a thorn into the flesh of my thumb. A drop of blood appeared, and I held it up and let it drip down my hand.

Then I heard a noise I had not expected ever to hear in a convent. From somewhere inside a child laughed. After a moment little pattering steps came from the door nearest me, and a tiny girl appeared in the archway. She was wearing a grey dress and a white cap, and reminded me of Petite Geneviève when she was much younger. She was really still a baby, and lurched along with uneven steps, any moment about to fall and break open her head. She had a funny little face, very determined and serious, as if walking were a game of chess she must win. I couldn't say if she would be fair when she grew older — her face was like an old woman's, and that is not always pleasant in a baby. She had fat cheeks and a low brow that jutted over pinched brown eyes — eyes that could do with being lighter than they were. But her hair was lovely, a dark red like chestnuts, in big tangled ringlets.

‘Come here,
ma petite
,’ I called, wiping my bloody hand on my dress. ‘Come here and sit with me.’

Behind the girl a nun appeared in her long white habit. They wear white here at Chelles. At least I'm not surrounded by black — black does not suit a woman's face. ‘There you are, you naughty thing,’ the nun scolded. ‘Come here.’ She might as well have been talking to a goat, for the girl paid no attention. She tottered out the door and tripped down the step, sprawling into the cloisters, her arms before her. ‘Oh!’ I cried, and jumped up to run over to her. I needn't have bothered, though — the girl hopped up as if nothing had happened and ran along one side of the cloisters square.

The nun did not follow but stood looking me up and down. ‘So you've come out now,’ she said sourly.

‘I won't be here for long,’ I said quickly. ‘I'll be going home soon.’

The nun did not respond but kept looking at me. She seemed very taken with my dull dress. But then, mine was not so dull when compared to hers — coarse white wool that hung like a sack. Mine may have been brown, but the wool was fine, and there was tiny yellow and white embroidery on the bodice. She was staring at this, so I said, ‘One of our servants did that. She is — was — very good with her needle.’

The nun gave me a funny look, then gazed after the girl, who had tottered along two lengths of the square and was rounding the third corner. ‘
Attention, mon petit chou!
’ the nun called. ‘Watch where you run!’

Her words seemed to do just what they were meant to prevent. The girl fell again, and this time lay still and began to cry. The nun ran around the square, her dress dragging behind her. When she got to the girl she stood over her and began to scold. Clearly she was not used to children. I strode over to them, then knelt and put my arms around the girl, lifting her onto my lap as I had done with Petite Geneviève many times. ‘There now,’ I said, patting her arms and knees, and brushing off her little dress. ‘There now, that must have hurt. Where does it hurt? Your hands? Your knees?’

The girl kept crying, and I wrapped my arms tight around her and rocked her back and forth until she was quiet. The nun went on scolding, though of course the baby could scarcely understand a word. ‘Really you have been very silly, running so fast when you shouldn't. This wouldn't have happened if you had obeyed me the first time. You'll be on your knees doing penance during Sext.’

I snorted at the thought of trying to get such a small girl to pray for forgiveness. She could scarcely say ‘Maman’, much less ‘
Notre père, qui est aux cieux …’
We didn't take Petite Geneviève to Mass until she was three and even then she was a noisy thing who would not sit still for more than a moment. This girl didn't look much older than a year. She was like a little doll folded into my lap.

‘Are you sorry now, Claude? Are you sorry?’

I glared up at the nun. ‘You're to call me Mademoiselle. And I have nothing to be sorry for — I've done nothing wrong, whatever Maman has said! It's an insult for you to say such a thing to me. I shall tell the Abbess.’

The baby began to cry again when she heard my angry voice. ‘Shush-shush,’ I whispered, turning my back on the nun. ‘Shush-shush.’ I began to sing a song Marie-Céleste had taught me.

I am so gay
so sweet, so pleasing,
such a young little maid
of not yet fifteen years.
My little breasts
are budding as they should.
I should be learning
about love
and amorous ways,
but I am
in prison.
May God curse the one
who put me there!

The nun tried to say something but I sang louder, rocking back and forth.

It was evil, villainy, and sin
to put this little maid
in a convent.
It was indeed,
by my faith.
In the convent
I live in great chagrin,
God, for I am such a young thing.
I feel the first sweet pangs beneath my little belt.
Cursed be the one who made me a nun!

The girl had stopped crying and made little noises in between her sniffles, as if she too were trying to sing but didn't know the words. It was very pleasant, rocking and singing taunting words that the nun could hear. The song might as well have been written for me.

I heard steps behind us and knew it was Béatrice, my gaoler. She was as bad as the nuns.

‘Don't sing that song!’ she hissed.

I ignored her. ‘Do you want to run again?’ I said to the girl. ‘Shall we run together? Come, let's run all around the cloisters as fast as we can.’ I set her on her feet, took her hand and began to pull her along, so that she was half running, half dangling from my hand. Her squeals and my shouts echoed in the arches of the cloisters. The convent had not heard so much noise since a pig escaped or a nun got ants running up her legs while she gardened. Nuns appeared in doorways and windows to stare at us. Even Abbess Catherine de Lignières came out and stood watching us with her arms crossed over her bosom. I caught the girl up in my arms and ran and ran, once — twice — five times around the cloisters, shouting all the way, and no one stopped us. Each time we passed Béatrice she looked more ashamed.

In the end it was not a person who stopped us but a bell. When it rang the nuns immediately disappeared. ‘Sext,’ the nun next to Béatrice announced as I ran by, before going off herself. Béatrice looked after the nun, then at me. I ran still faster, the girl jiggling in my arms. When I got all the way around the cloisters a sixth time Béatrice had gone too, and we were alone. I ran a few more steps and then stopped, as there was no longer any reason to run. I dropped onto a bench and set the girl down next to me. She immediately laid her head in my lap. Her ruddy face was flushed, and after a moment she was asleep. It's funny how fast a baby can fall asleep when she is tired.

‘That's why you were crying,
chérie,’
I whispered, stroking her ringlets. ‘You need sleep, not prayers. Those silly nuns don't know anything about little girls and what they need.’

At first I was glad to sit on the bench with her on my lap in the sun, left alone with a garden to look at. But soon my back began to ache with having to sit still and straight when there was nothing to lean against. It grew hot and as I wore no hat I worried the sun would bring out freckles on my face. I didn't want to look like a common woman out sowing in the fields. I began to wish someone would come along that I could hand the girl to, but there was no one — they were still at their prayers. There is nothing wrong with prayers but I don't see why they should say them eight times in a day.

I didn't know what else to do with the little thing, so I gathered her up and carried her to my room. She didn't wake when I laid her on my pallet. I searched in my bag for a bit of embroidery, then went back out and sat on another bench in the shade. I don't much like embroidery, but there was nothing else to do. There is no riding or dancing or singing here, no playing backgammon with Jeanne, or having my writing lessons, or flying falcons with Maman in the fields beyond Saint-Germain-des-Prés, or visiting my grandmother at Nanterre. There are no fairs or markets to go to, no jesters or
jongleurs
for entertainments. There are no feasts —
en fait
, there is no food at all that I can bear to eat. I will be nothing but bones by the time I leave — whenever that is. Béatrice won't tell me.

There are no men to look at, not even a stooped old gardener pushing a barrow. Not even a suspicious steward. I never thought I would welcome the sight of my father's mean-faced steward, but if he were to walk through the convent gate now I would smile at him and give him my hand to kiss, even if he did beat Nicolas.

Now there are only women to look at, and dull ones at that, their faces staring at me from oval frames of white, with no hair or jewels to soften them. They look rough and red, their cheeks and chins and noses sticking out like a jumble of parsnips, their eyes small as currants. But then, nuns are not meant to be fair.

Béatrice once told me that Maman has long wanted to join Chelles. I had never thought much of that until I was here. Now I can't picture Maman's delicate face made coarse by a habit, nor see her hoeing among the leeks and cabbages, nor scurrying to prayers eight times a day, nor living in a plain cell on straw. Maman thinks convent life is much like her visits here, when the Abbess pampers her, preparing lavish dishes from food the convent would normally sell at market. I expect there is a lovely room for her to stay in too, full of cushions and tapestries and gilded crosses. If Maman were to join and become a bride of Christ, the convent would receive a large dowry. And so the Abbess is very kind to Maman and other rich women who visit.

There are no cushions on my seats, no tapestries to warm the walls. Wooden crosses will have to satisfy me, rough wool and plain shoes, pottage without spices and bread made from coarse brown flour.

All this I had worked out for myself after only four days at the convent.