The Lady and the Unicorn (4 page)

The steward grunted. As I turned to go, he muttered, ‘You watch your back, pisspot.’

I found a pole in the stables and was carrying it across the courtyard when Jean Le Viste himself came striding out of the house. He swept by without even looking at me — he must have thought I was just another servant — and I called out, ‘Monseigneur! A moment, please!’ If I didn't say something now I might never get another chance alone with him.

Jean Le Viste turned to see who was calling, then grunted and kept walking. I ran to catch up with him. ‘Please, Monseigneur, I would like to discuss the tapestries further.’

‘You should talk to Léon, not me.’

‘Yes, Monseigneur, but I felt that for something as important as these tapestries you should be consulted directly.’ As I hurried after him, the end of the pole dipped and caught on a stone, tumbling from my hands and clattering to the ground. The whole courtyard rang with the sound. Jean Le Viste stopped and glared at me.

‘I am concerned, Monseigneur,’ I said hastily. ‘Concerned that you should have hung on your walls what others would expect from such a prominent member of Court. From a President of the Cour des Aides, no less.’ I was making up words as I went along.

‘What's your point? I am busy here.’

‘I have seen designs for a number of tapestries this past year commissioned by noble families from my fellow artists. All of these tapestries have one thing in common — a
millefleur
background.’ This much was true — backgrounds of a dense pattern of flowers were popular now, particularly as weavers in the north perfected the technique.

‘Flowers?’ Jean Le Viste repeated, looking down at his feet as if he had just trampled upon some.

‘Yes, Monseigneur.’

‘There are no flowers in battles.’

‘No, Monseigneur. They have not been weaving battles. Several of my colleagues have designed scenes with — with unicorns in them, Monseigneur.’

‘Unicorns?’

‘Yes, Monseigneur.’

Jean Le Viste looked so sceptical that I quickly added another lie that I could only hope he wouldn't discover. ‘Several noble families are having them made — Jean d'Alençon, Charles de St Émilion, Philippe de Chartres.’ I tried to name families Jean Le Viste was unlikely to visit — they either lived too far away, or were too noble for the Le Vistes, or not noble enough.

‘They are not having battles made,’ Jean Le Viste repeated.

‘No, Monseigneur.’

‘Unicorns.’

‘Yes, Monseigneur. They are
à la mode
now. And it did occur to me that a unicorn might be appropriate for your family.’ I described Béatrice's pun.

Jean Le Viste didn't change expression, but he nodded, and that was enough. ‘Do you know what to have this unicorn do?’

‘Yes, Monseigneur, I do.’

‘All right, then. Tell Léon. And bring me the drawings before Easter.’ Jean Le Viste turned to cross the courtyard. I bowed to his back.

It hadn't been so hard to convince him as I'd thought. I had been right that Jean Le Viste would want what he thought everyone else had. But then, that is nobility without the generations of blood behind it — they imitate rather than invent. It didn't occur to Jean Le Viste that he might gain more respect by commissioning battle tapestries when no one else had. As sure of himself as he seemed, he wouldn't strike out on his own. As long as he didn't find out that there were no other unicorn tapestries, I would be safe. Of course I would have to design the finest tapestries possible — tapestries that would make other families want their own, and make Jean Le Viste proud to have been the first to own such a thing.

It wasn't just him I wanted to please, though, but his wife and daughter too. I wasn't sure which mattered more to me — Claude's lovely face or Geneviève's sad one. Perhaps there was room for both in the unicorn's wood.

That night I drank at Le Coq d'Or to celebrate the commission, and afterwards slept poorly. I dreamt of unicorns and ladies surrounded by flowers, a girl chewing on a clove, another gazing at herself in a well, a lady holding jewels by a small casket, a girl feeding a falcon. It was all in a jumble that I could not set straight. It was not a nightmare, though, but a longing.

When I woke the next morning, my head was clear and I was ready to make the dreams real.

CLAUDE LE VISTE

Maman asked Papa about the tapestries after Mass on Easter Sunday, and that was when I heard the artist was coming back. We were all walking back to the rue du Four, and Jeanne and Petite Geneviève wanted me to run ahead with them and jump over puddles, but I stayed back to listen. I am good at listening when I'm not meant to.

Maman is always careful not to bother Papa, but he seemed to be in good spirits — probably glad like me to be out in the sun after such a long Mass! When she asked he said that he already had the drawings and that Nicolas des Innocents would be coming soon to discuss them. Until now he has said little about the tapestries. Even admitting that much seemed to irritate him. I think he regrets changing the battle into a unicorn — Papa loves his battles and his King. He left us abruptly then, saying he had to speak to the steward. I caught Béatrice's eye and we both giggled, making Maman frown at us.

Thank Heaven for Béatrice! She has told me everything — the switch from battle to unicorn, her own clever pun on
Viste
, and best of all, Nicolas' name. Maman would never tell me any of it, and the door of her room is too thick — I couldn't hear a thing when he was in with her, except for Béatrice's laugh. Luckily Béatrice tells me things — soon I will have her for my own lady-in-waiting. Maman can spare her, and she would much rather be with me — she will have much more fun.

Maman is so tedious these days — all she wants to do is to pray. She insists on going to Mass twice a day now. Sometimes I have dancing lessons during Terce or Sext, but she does take me to Vespers for the music, and I get so restless I want to scream. When I sit in Saint-Germain-des-Prés my foot starts to jiggle and the women on my pew can feel it but don't know where it's from — except for Béatrice, who places her hand on my leg to calm me. The first time she did that I jumped and shrieked, I was so surprised. Maman leaned over and glared at me, and the priest turned around too. I had to stuff my sleeve in my mouth to keep from laughing.

I seem to irritate Maman now, though I don't know what bothers her so. She irritates me too — she's always telling me I'm laughing too much or walking too fast, or that my dress is dusty or my head-dress is not straight. She treats me like a girl yet expects me to be a woman too. She won't let me go out when I want — she says I'm too old to play at the Fair at Saint-Germain-des-Prés during the day and too young for it at night. I'm not too young — other girls of fourteen go to the fair to see the
jongleurs
at night. Many are already betrothed. When I ask, Maman tells me I'm disrespectful and must wait for Papa to decide when and what man I shall marry. I grow so frustrated. If I am to be a woman, where is my man?

Yesterday I tried to listen to Maman's confession at Saint-Germain-des-Prés to find out if she felt bad about being so spiteful to me. I hid behind a pillar near the pew where she sat with the priest but her voice was so low that I had to creep quite close. All I heard was ‘
Ça c'est mon seul désir’
before one of the priests saw me and chased me away.
‘Mon seul désir,’
I murmured to myself. My one desire. The phrase is so bewitching that I repeat it to myself all day long.

Once I was sure that Nicolas would be coming I knew I had to see him.
C'est mon seul désir.
Hah! There is my man. I've thought about him every hour of every day since I met him. Of course I've said nothing to anyone, except for Béatrice, who to my surprise was not very kind about him. That is her one fault. I was describing his eyes — how they are brown as chestnuts and pinched at the corners so that he looks a little sad even when he clearly is not. ‘He's not worthy of you,’ Béatrice interrupted. ‘He's just an artist, and not trustworthy at that. You should be thinking of lords instead.’

‘If he were untrustworthy, my father would never have hired him,’ I retorted. ‘Oncle Léon wouldn't have allowed it.’ Léon is not really my uncle, but an old merchant who looks after my father's business. He treats me like a niece — until recently he chucked me under the chin and brought me sweetmeats, but now he tells me to stand straight and comb my hair. ‘Tell me what sort of husband you'd like and I'll see if there's one ripe at market,’ he likes to say. Wouldn't he be surprised if I described Nicolas! He doesn't think much of the artist, I'm sure — I overheard him with Papa, trying to undo Nicolas' unicorns, saying they wouldn't be right for the Grande Salle. Papa's door is not so thick, and if I put my ear right up to the keyhole I can hear him. Papa won't change his mind again, though. I could have told Léon that. To change once was bad enough, but to switch back now would be unthinkable.

Once I knew that Nicolas would be coming to the rue du Four, I went straight to the steward to find out exactly when. As usual, the steward was in the stores, counting things. He is always worried we are being robbed. He looked even more horrif Ied than Béatrice when I said Nicolas' name. ‘You don't want anything to do with that lot, Mademoiselle,’ he said.

‘I'm simply asking when he is coming.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘If you don't tell me I shall just have to go to Papa and say that you have not been helpful to me.’

The steward grimaced. ‘Thursday at Sext,’ he muttered. ‘Him and Léon too.’

‘You see, that wasn't so bad. You should always tell me what I want to know, and I'll be happy.’

The steward bowed but kept looking at me as I turned to go. It seemed he was about to say something, but then he didn't. That struck me as comical and I laughed as I ran away.

Thursday I was meant to go with Maman and my sisters to grandmother's at Nanterre for the night, but I pretended to have a bellyache so that I could stay at home. When Jeanne heard I wasn't going she wanted to pretend along with me, even though she didn't know why I was really staying behind. I couldn't tell her about Nicolas — she is too young to understand. She hung about until I had to say nasty things to her, which made her cry and run off. Afterwards I felt awful — I shouldn't treat my sister so. She and I have been close all our lives. Until recently we shared the same bed, and Jeanne cried then too when I said I wanted to begin sleeping alone. But I am so restless at night now. I kick off the covers and roll about, and even the thought of having another body in the bed — apart from Nicolas' — annoys me.

Now Jeanne has to be more with Petite Geneviève, who is sweet but only seven, and Jeanne has always preferred to be with older girls. Also Petite Geneviève is Maman's favourite, and that is irritating to Jeanne. Of course she has Maman's lovely name, while Jeanne and I have names that remind us we are not the boys Papa wanted.

Maman had Béatrice stay back to look after me, and she and my sisters finally left for Nanterre. I then sent Béatrice out to buy some honeyed orange peel I have a liking for, saying it would settle my stomach. I insisted that she go all the way to a stall near Notre Dame for it. She rolled her eyes at me but she went. When she was gone I let out a big sigh and ran to my room. My nipples were rubbing against my underdress and I lay on my bed and pushed a pillow between my legs, longing for an answer to my body's question. I felt like a prayer sung at Mass that is interrupted and left unfinished.

Finally I got up, straightened my clothes and head-dress, and ran to my father's private chamber. The door was open and I peeked in. Only Marie-Céleste was there, crouching at the hearth to light the fire. When I was younger and we were at the Château d'Arcy for the summer, Marie-Céleste used to take me and Jeanne and Petite Geneviève down to the river and sing us bawdy songs while she washed clothes. I wanted to tell her now about Nicolas des Innocents, about where I wanted his hands to go and what I would do with my tongue. After all, it had been her songs and stories that taught me about such things. But something stopped me. She had been my friend when I was a girl, but now I am growing up, soon to have a lady-in-waiting and prepare for a husband, and it was not right to speak of such things with her.

‘Why are you lighting the fire, Marie-Céleste?’ I asked instead, even though I knew already.

She looked up at me. There was a smudge of ash on her forehead, as if it were still Ash Wednesday. She always was a messy girl. ‘Visitors coming, Mademoiselle,’ she answered. ‘For your father.’

The wood was beginning to smoke, with flames licking here and there. Marie-Céleste grabbed onto a chair and hauled herself to her feet with a grunt. Her face looked fatter than before. In fact — I gazed at her body in growing horror. ‘Marie-Céleste, are you with child?’

The girl hung her head. It was strange — all those songs she had sung about maids getting caught, and she must never have thought it would happen to her. Of course every woman wants a child, but not like that, with no husband.

‘You silly thing!’ I scolded. ‘Who is he?’

Marie-Céleste waved her hand as if batting away the question.

‘Does he work here?’

She shook her head.

‘
Alors
, will he marry you?’

Marie-Céleste scowled. ‘No.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘Don't know, Mademoiselle.’

‘Maman will be furious. Has she seen you?’

‘I keep away from her, Mademoiselle.’

‘She'll find out soon enough. You should wear a cloak at least to hide it.’

‘Maids don't wear cloaks, Mademoiselle — can't work in a cloak.’

‘You won't be able to work soon anyway, by the look of you. You'll have to go back to your family.
Attends
, you must tell Maman something. I know — tell her your mother's ill and you must tend to her. Then you can come back after the baby's born.’

‘Can't go to the mistress looking like this, Mademoiselle — she'll know straight away what's wrong.’

‘I'll tell her, then, when she comes back from Nanterre.’ I did feel sorry for Marie-Céleste and wanted to help her.

Marie-Célestebrightened. ‘Oh, thankyou, Mademoiselle. That is good of you!’

‘You'd best be off as soon as you can.’

‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. Thank you. I'll see you when I come back.’ She turned to go, then turned back again. ‘If it's a girl I'll name her after you.’

‘That would be nice. If it's a boy will you name it after the father?’

Marie-Céleste narrowed her eyes. ‘Never,’ she sneered. ‘He don't want nothing to do with it, so I don't want nothing to do with him!’

After she left I had a look around Papa's chamber. It is not a comfortable room. The oak chairs have no cushions on them, and they creak when you shift about. I think Papa has them made like that so no one will meet with him for long. I've noticed that Oncle Léon always stands when he comes to see Papa. The walls are lined with maps of his properties — the Château d'Arcy, our house on the rue du Four, the Le Viste family house in Lyons — as well as maps of disputes Papa is working on for the King. The books he owns are kept here in a locked case.

There are two tables in the room — one that Papa writes at, and a bigger one where he spreads maps and papers for meetings. Usually that table is bare, but today some large sheets of paper had been left there. I looked down at the top one and stepped back in surprise. It was a drawing, and it was of me. I was standing between a lion and a unicorn, holding a parakeet on my gloved finger. I was wearing a beautiful dress and necklace, with a simple headscarf that left my hair loose. I was glancing sideways at the unicorn and smiling as if I were thinking of a secret. The unicorn was handsome, plump and white and rearing up on his hind legs, with a long spiralling horn. He had turned his head from me, as if trying not to become spellbound by my beauty. He was wearing a little cloak with the Le Viste arms on it, and the wind seem to whip through the drawing, blowing out his cloak and the roaring lion's as well, and my headscarf and the Le Viste standard held by the lion.

I gazed at the drawing for a long time. I couldn't take my eyes from it or move it to see the drawings underneath. He had drawn me. He was thinking of me as I was of him. My breasts tingled.
Mon seul désir.

Then I heard voices in the hall. The door swung open and all I could think to do was drop to the floor and scramble under the table. It was dark under there, and strange to be on the cold stone floor alone. Normally I would hide in such a place with my sisters, and we would giggle so much we would be found out immediately. I sat with my arms wrapped round my knees, praying that I couldn't be seen.

Two men entered and came straight over to the table. One wore the long brown robes of a merchant, and must be Oncle Léon. The other wore a grey tunic to his knees and dark blue hose. His calves were shapely, and I knew even before he spoke that it was Nicolas. I had not just spent so many days thinking of him for naught. All of my thoughts had filled in the details of him — the width of his shoulders, the curls of his hair brushing his neck, his bottom like two cherries, and the taut line of his calves.

My thoughts would have to fill in more details now, for as the men began to speak I could see nothing of them but their legs. I could only imagine the looks on Nicolas' face — his smooth brow crinkling, his pinched eyes staring at me in the drawing, his long fingers tracing the rough drawing paper. All this I filled in as I sat in near-darkness, listening to them.