The Lady and the Unicorn

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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.