The Lady and the Unicorn

When Nicolas finished there was a silence, as if he expected my father to speak. But Papa said nothing. He often does that, keeping quiet to make people unsure of themselves. It worked this time too, for after a moment Nicolas began to speak again, sounding nervous.

‘You can see, Monseigneur, that throughout the unicorn is accompanied by the lion, who represents nobility, strength and courage as a complement to the unicorn’s purity and wildness. The lion is an example of noble savagery tamed.’

‘Of course the background will be filled with millefleurs, Monseigneur,’ Léon added. ‘The Brussels weavers will design that themselves – that is their speciality. Nicolas has only hinted at it here.’

There was another pause. I found I was holding my breath, waiting to see if Papa would remark on the drawings of Maman and me. ‘There are not enough coats of arms,’ he said at last.

‘The unicorn and lion hold Le Viste banners and standards throughout,’ Nicolas said. He sounded annoyed. I reached over and nudged his leg to remind him not to use such a tone with my father. Nicolas shuffled his feet.

‘In two of the drawings there is only a banner,’ Papa said.

‘I could add shields for the lion and unicorn to carry, Monseigneur.’ Nicolas must have taken my hint, for he sounded calmer. I began to stroke his calf.

‘The standard and banner poles should be spiked,’ Papa declared. ‘Not the round ends you have drawn.’

‘But – spikes are for battles, Monseigneur.’ Nicolas spoke as if someone were strangling him. I giggled and moved my hand up to his thigh.

‘I want spikes on the poles,’ Papa repeated. ‘There are too many women and flowers in these tapestries. There should be battle poles, and something else to remind us of war. What happens to the unicorn when the Lady has caught him?’

Luckily Nicolas didn’t have to answer, as he couldn’t have spoken. I had placed my hand on his bulge, which was as hard as a tree branch. I had never touched one before. ‘Doesn’t the Lady lead him to the hunter who kills him?’ Papa continued. He likes to answer his own questions. ‘You should add another tapestry to complete the story.’

‘I believe there is no room in the Grande Salle for another tapestry,’ Oncle Léon said.

‘Then replace one of these women. The one with the carnations, or the one feeding the bird.’

I dropped my hand.

‘That is a very good idea, Monseigneur,’ Oncle Léon said. I gasped. Luckily Nicolas made a noise too, so I don’t think Papa heard me.

Then Oncle Léon showed just why he is so good at business. ‘It is a fine idea,’ he repeated. ‘Of course the boldness of the kill will contrast well with the more subtle hints of the battle poles. One would not want to be too cunning at the end, would one?’

‘What do you mean, too cunning?’

‘Well, for instance, one might simply imply the hunt – or the battle, if you like – with the spiked poles (a fine touch, Monseigneur, I must say), the battle shields Nicolas has suggested adding, and perhaps something else. Let me think. What about a tent – the kind set up in battles for the King? That would also remind one of the King as well as the battle. But then again, perhaps that would be too subtle. Perhaps a hunter killing the unicorn would be better.’

‘No, I want the King’s tent.’

I sat back on my heels in wonder at Oncle Léon. He had hooked Papa like a fish, without Papa even noticing, and brought him to land just where he pleased.

‘The tent would be quite large and so should go on one of the larger tapestries,’ Léon said briskly, to keep Papa from changing his mind. ‘The Lady with the jewels or the Lady with the parakeet. Which would you prefer, Monseigneur?’

Nicolas began to speak but Papa interrupted. ‘The jewels – she is more regal than the other.’

Before I could cry out again, Nicolas reached under the table with his foot and pressed my own foot. I kept quiet and he left his foot there, tapping mine.

‘All right, Nicolas, add a tent to this one,’ Oncle Léon said.

‘Of course, Monseigneur. Would Monseigneur like a special design on the tent?’

‘A coat of arms.’

‘That goes without saying, Monseigneur. But I was thinking more of a motto for a battle. Something to indicate that it is a battle for love.’

‘I know nothing of love,’ Papa growled. ‘What would you have? I suspect you are familiar with it.’

I had an idea, and tapped Nicolas’ leg. After a moment one of the drawings floated to the floor. ‘Oh! Pardon, Monseigneur. I am so clumsy.’ Nicolas crouched down to retrieve the drawing. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘C’est mon seul désir.’ Then I bit him.

Nicolas stood up.

‘Is your ear bleeding?’ Papa said.

‘Pardon, Monseigneur. I knocked it against the table leg. But I have had a thought. What about “À mon seul désir”? It means—’

‘That will do,’ Papa cut him off. I knew that tone – it meant that the meeting had gone on for too long. ‘Show your changes to Léon and bring the finished paintings here a fortnight after May Day. No later, as we leave for Château d’Arcy by Ascension Day.’

‘Yes, Monseigneur.’

Papa’s legs moved away from the table. ‘Léon, come with me – I have things to discuss with you. You can accompany me as far as the Conciergerie.’

Léon’s robes swayed as he began to move, then stopped. ‘Perhaps we should remain here, Monseigneur. It’s more comfortable for discussing business. And Nicolas is just going, aren’t you, Nicolas?’

‘Yes, certainly, as soon as I collect the drawings, Monseigneur.’

‘No, I’m in a hurry. Come along.’ And Papa was gone.

Oncle Léon still hesitated. He didn’t want to leave me alone with Nicolas.

‘Go,’ I hissed.

He went.

I did not come out from under the table, but remained there on my knees. After a moment Nicolas climbed in to me. We gazed at each other. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ he said.

I smiled. He was nothing like the kind of man my parents intended for me. I was glad. ‘Are you going to kiss me, then?’

He had me on my back and was on top of me before I could think. Then his tongue was deep in my mouth and his hands were squeezing my breasts. It was a strange thing. I had been dreaming of this moment ever since meeting him, but now that there was a body on top of me, a bulge grinding hard into my belly, a wet tongue in my ear, I was surprised by how different it felt from what I had dreamed.

Part of me liked it – wanted the bulge to push even harder, and not through so many layers of clothes. My hands wanted to touch every part of him – squeeze his cherry bum and measure his broad back. My mouth met his as if it were biting into a fig.

But it was a shock to have someone’s wet, thrusting tongue in my mouth, to have so much weight squeezing the breath from me, to have his hands touch parts of me no man had ever touched. And I had not expected to think so much when a man was with me. With Nicolas I found words accompanying everything we did – ‘Why is he doing that? His tongue is so wet in my ear,’ and ‘His belt is jabbing into my side,’ and ‘Does that feel good?’

I was thinking too of my father – of being under the table in his chamber, and of the value he placed on my maidenhead. Could I really throw it away in a moment, as someone like Marie-Céleste had? Perhaps that more than anything stopped me from truly enjoying myself. ‘Should we be doing this?’ I whispered when Nicolas had begun biting my breasts through the cloth of my dress.

‘I know, we’re mad. But we may never have another chance.’ Nicolas began pulling at my skirt. ‘They never leave you alone – not the daughter of Jean Le Viste with a mere painter.’ He lifted up my skirt and underdress and ran his hand up my thigh. ‘Now this, beauty, this is mon seul désir.’ With that he touched my maidenhead, and the surge of pleasure I felt was so strong that I was ready to give it up to him.

‘Claude!’

I looked behind me and saw Béatrice’s face upside down, glaring at us.

Nicolas pulled his hand from under my skirt, but he did not immediately jump off me. That pleased me. He looked at Béatrice, and then he kissed me deeply before slowly sitting back on his knees.

‘For this,’ Béatrice said, ‘I really will marry you, Nicolas des Innocents. I swear I will!’

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?’