Chapter Eighteen
Troyes 1617
Both Isabeau and Bridgett encouraged her to change her name as it was obvious Anne could no longer be the Comtesse. That would be impossible. She considered it. Once she had been called Lucy but now, she could not see what else she had in her life beside her name. That was her. That was all. Anne de Breuil. She was born in France. If she took that away, who was she? Bridgett asked, which Breuil? Was it the Breuil near Vichy? No, said Anne, it was close to Rheims. Bridgett laughed, now that she came to think upon it, she had also known a trader who came from another Breuil near Bayeux! Anne was a common name, Breuil was a common place name, and enough travellers and traders came through Troyes to make a new face hardly unusual. They left her alone with her old name and Anne was able to relax once more. All she had was her name. She would never change it again.
During these times of debate and work, Bridgett continued with her normal life and, in these normal days, Anne discovered Bridgett was being courted. Isabeau was encouraging her mother to see more of Monsieur Allaire, recently widowed and, as a wealthy textile trader, regarded as something of an important man around the town. He was considering taking up the position of mayor in the next year, although this was not formal yet. He told Bridgett privately, hoping it would sway her decision to look upon him favourably. He was, by all accounts, kind and decent. And, Isabeau giggled and teased her mother, he was handsome. He was a catch.
Bridgett, Anne was intrigued to see, was embarrassed by the attention. She’d grown accustomed to looking after herself. She had a little money stored from her previous marriage and did not live lavishly. She said she was happy to see him occasionally, at market or at church, where she did not have to look after him or wash his stockings!
Anne began to walk around Troyes to increase her strength. She wore a veil and observed as much as she could while going unnoticed herself. She thought perhaps more people lived there than she’d seen in Lille or Bourges. Some merchants were open all year round and regular markets attracted people from afar. Many of the buildings were relatively recent, after a fire had destroyed much of the city centre a hundred years ago. If a house burned, a new house was erected in much the same way in the same place. Bridgett explained how new restrictions around chimney construction gave protection from ever-present fire danger. Anne walked, observed, and admired those tall, thin timber framed homes, pressed up close to their neighbours. Reminding her of the bigger buildings of Bourges, straight and fresh, many of the doorways and lintels sported carvings of animals, plants, and faces, some intricate, some ribald.
She walked to the Seine and thought of continuing into the river. Especially as her skirts, bodice, dress, and smock were all wool and, when wet, would weigh her down enough to keep her underwater. She stayed by the water, entranced by the voluminous flow, and thought about her life and wondered how she could have behaved differently. If only she’d not been branded. If only she’d stayed in the convent. If only she’d behaved more lovingly towards Olivier. If only she was more devout. She sent her prayers along in the swirl of the water to the Blessed Virgin Mary; please show her the way forward.
As she became stronger, Anne began to join Bridgett in her work at the market and finally met the famed, and indeed, handsome, Monsieur Allaire one day outside the church. Anne herself was veiled and bowed instead of talking. Bridgett introduced her as her cousin, recuperating after a long illness. Anne stayed in the background as Monsieur Allaire took Bridgett’s arm. She preferred to go home and rest while the couple walked to the park.
When Anne got home she went straight to bed. It was too warm but seeing Bridgett so contented had reinforced her feeling of loneliness. Olivier had really gone. Life made no sense. Where was her dream husband? The man who adored her? She wept and the black cat kneaded her thigh. She would not soften.
She struggled to get up and dressed the next day.
Bridgett told her, pain is like birth. A new thing eventuates. ‘Who will you be, Anne?’
But this remark, as well-meaning as it was, caused more heartache and tears, for Anne fell back into the loss of her baby. She felt her empty womb as a gulf of sorrow. If only she could have kept the baby, if only she had told him about the brand before they married, if only she was still a nun. She was responsible for killing her baby. Her breasts ached and her mind heard the baby crying far away. In her sleep those cries cut into her heart. She woke and rose from her bed. Her arms longed to hold her child. Where? The babe was too far for her to reach.
As she massaged Anne’s brand with soothing lotions, Bridgett remarked that she could teach her how to make men happy with her mouth; it was a way to avoid pregnancy. Anne was shocked! She would never have anything to do with men again. Bridgett just laughed and said she might find she had no choice in the matter. After a time of argument Anne reluctantly agreed, she would learn all she could from Bridgett’s experience, but she did report walking past the Abbey of Notre-Dame aux Nonnains more than once, with a view to entering that strictly cloistered nunnery and finding God once more.
Bridgett counselled Anne more time to heal before making her decision. There was no need to rush. Instead, a carrot provided amusing practice sessions. ‘Let us hope no customer calls just at this moment!’ Anne began to smile which caused Bridgett to frown. ‘No teeth, remember, Anne. No! Do not bite!’
Anne reported customer comments about the cat. A couple of old men, shopping for laurel leaves for their cooking pots, called him a witch’s familiar, and Bridgett thought she knew those people and laughed. ‘They still come to buy my herbs, do they not?’
Anne shivered when she heard them speak of Bridgett in this dangerous way. Rumours about witch trials in Spain, executions in Lorraine, and in Franch-Comté were too close. She did not join Bridgett in her laughter.
The summer found the women in the herb garden. There was pruning, weeding, and planting to be done. The women sold their bags of dried herbs and bunches of fresh for both culinary and medical purposes. It was nearly a year since the hanging and Bridgett gently encouraged Anne to think of her future in a sensible manner. Sometimes the encouragement was more forthright, ‘Think of those men who destroy women like you, out of hand, without a care, without worrying so much as if they had killed an insect. You were worth less to that Comte than a cow or a sheep. You didn’t even have food value. You must protect yourself. Yet, don’t give up men. There are safe men. Responsible men. Dutiful men.’
‘Good men?’
‘We hope so.’
‘Monsieur Allaire?’
‘Oh, him,’ Bridgett laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. He’s not so bad.’
Anne considered other men she’d known. She was no expert, it was true. She had known but a few. ‘François helped me. He helped me escape. If it weren’t for him I’d still be in that convent cell in Templemars, tormented by my mother. He’s a good man. He loved me as a sister.’
‘Only as a sister?’
‘That’s all he could do.’ And then, remembering the way he looked at Maurice, ‘Perhaps he was not put on the earth for women at all.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps there are good men,’ said Bridgett, ‘But in my experience you’re better off knowing how to kill than how to love. Though, both skills are useful.’
Anne regarded the older woman with some surprise.
Bridgett continued, ‘You’re my daughter now. I want you alive and strong. A survivor. I know your life is valuable. You must make it mean something. It’s up to you how you want to live. But you need to make it worthy, Anne.’
Anne did not know how to be worthy.
As the warmer weather came Anne tried to keep the little shop clean and speak politely to the customers. Once a girl asked for help in finding love, a recipe that Bridgett did not offer, one that stank of witchcraft.
Anne apologised. Although she wished to warn the innocent away from fooling with men at all, she explained Bridgett did not provide such mysterious materials and did not know of anything that would help, except perhaps a sunny disposition?
One evening after work, as they supped pea pottage and homemade corn bread, Bridgett asked if Anne wanted to look for Olivier? How would she feel about him? If she should meet him again?
‘If he were to find out I was alive?’
Bridgett nodded, waiting for the answer.
Anne thought of what she ought to say but could not help her wistful truth, ‘I should love him.’ Her eyes welled up and she brushed her face with her sleeve. She knew she had given the wrong answer, but it was the one she wanted to be true.
‘He would kill you all over again.’ Bridgett shook her head.
‘Don’t you think there might be a chance he’d be glad to see me?’
‘No, he wouldn’t. Don’t ever think that. He hates you because, once, you were a perfect angel to him. He needed to acquire you. You were beautiful. The idea of perfection some men need before they plant their progeny in a pure and ideal womb. But, like all women alive in the world, you weren’t perfect. You lied to him and disgraced him. You were probably laughing at him.’
‘But I wasn’t!’
‘He was not to know. There’s nothing for you there. You’re finished with the Comte de la Fère.’
‘He finished with me first.’
‘Exactly so.’ Bridgett drew in a breath and said, ‘Have you never thought of vengeance? That’s all he thought of.’
‘What if he changed his mind?’ Anne clung to her last shreds of hope. ‘What if he loved me once more?’ Anne stared at Bridgett’s wise face, almost as if she was wishing on a magic star.
‘Anne. His mind won’t change.’
‘But what if … ‘
‘What if he were to attack you again?’
‘Perhaps I would fight him.’
‘Could you contemplate that now?’
‘Once I practiced with a sword.’
‘A sword is too unwieldy for a woman in long skirts to carry safely, unless she is sure of her skills.’
‘A knife?’
‘You do need to protect yourself. But not with strength. Think differently.’
‘How so?’
‘Poison.’
Anne stared at her carer with shock. ‘I can’t.’
‘Anne. You’ve already seen death up close.’
‘All my knowledge is for healing.’
‘Even plants that heal are dangerous in excess.’
‘God is our final judge! How can I take a life so deliberately? With a sword there’s a chance on both sides.’ Anne remembered Olivier’s description of the hunt. Even if she tried to take down a wild animal it still stood the promise of survival and escape. She barely heard Bridgett’s next comment.
‘Well, then, marry. You need the protection of a man.’
‘Oh, Bridgett.’ Anne could not contemplate such an idea. ‘I know I need security. Could not that be with you?’
‘Of course. For as long as you wish. It could be. But a husband is … ‘
‘I’m already married!’
‘Then a common-law husband.’
Bridgett looked at her directly. She was serious. ‘You really don’t think he’ll remarry as fast as he can? Probably already has?’
This idea shook Anne to the core. Could Olivier love another as much as she? Could he smooth his hands over another woman? Could he bring another woman’s belly to his lips and whisper to the child within? She fell back on the path, away from the calendula bed she was weeding and rested her head on her knees. ‘I can’t bear it.’
Bridgett kept up her hoeing and weeding quietly for a while before saying, ‘You’re young. You must survive to live your life. So much happiness awaits you … ‘
Anne rose back to kneeling and began to pull the strangling weeds away. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because I was a young woman once; and look, I have my daughter to love. And you, now.’
‘But not a husband?’
‘I love what he left me. Find an old man. One who likes to look at a beautiful woman.’
Anne had heard that advice before, from a condemned criminal. She did not find it amusing.
Bridgett continued, ‘Then he’ll die, and you’ll be a widow.’
Anne looked at Bridgett, ‘Are you trying to convince yourself of Monsieur Allaire?’
‘It’s possible, Anne. After all, what defines a woman? A man. Women put men at the centre of their lives.’
Thinking of the nuns, Anne said, ‘Sometimes women put God in the place of man.’
‘There you have it. Women’s desires are always secondary. During courtship there’s an illusion that women have power in their choice. The part of life most represented in stories, to balance the rest of our lives which, I’m afraid, turns out to be marginality. The courtship is, as often as not, an illusion. That is, the woman must entrap the man to ensure herself a centre for her life. The rest is aging and regret. Until he dies, when the widow is free.’
‘But you feel you can live without a man?’
‘Gilo Allaire is a fair man. I like him. But I do not want to be his housewife.’
Late at night when the streets were quiet and the fire crackled, Bridgett introduced Anne to the uses of poisons. ‘In this room are stored two common plants.’ She looked across the shelves and took down a jar. ‘Belladonna, ‘beautiful lady’, which you know some women take in small doses to make their eyes glitter, is known also as Deadly Nightshade.’ Bridgett showed Anne the dried berries and explained the medicinal use, helping with problems of nerves and breathing system. ‘Make no mistake. Not much is needed to cause death.’
Bridgett sketched the common plant on a piece of paper, and described how best to crush the fruit, avoid touching it at any cost, and introduce a small amount secretly into drink best suited to disguise the taste. Once satisfied Anne had familiarised herself with the shapes, Bridgett threw the paper into the fire. She also took down a jar of dried hemlock, which, when growing looked like a giant carrot plant. The paralysed victim watched the vitality of his body shut down until the lungs could no longer function. Any part of the plant was dangerous, but a very weak tea might help with certain pains and worries. Again, Bridgett drew the leaves and flowers until Anne was sure she recognised the plant. Then Bridgett threw the paper into the flames again. ‘You’ll find these plants on our walks, you can identify them for me, then you’ll always have an escape route.’ Suddenly her voice changed, and she said abruptly, ‘Anne … ’
Anne looked up to meet her direct gaze. Bridgett said, ‘I don’t mean for you … ’
Anne understood at once. ‘Bridgett. You won’t regret this tutorial.’
‘Make sure of it, Anne. I couldn’t live with myself.’
‘It’ll take ten men to kill me.’
The two women stared into the fire, heating water for their wash and an evening infusion. The wood popped and hissed while Anne told Bridgett what had happened that day. She’d been pushed by a man in the street, strong enough to almost send her in the path of a horse and carriage. Given other people had witnessed his actions, she returned to face the man, expecting an apology, but the man said if she was living with Bridgett de Troyes, she probably predicted he was to push her and that was why she didn’t get run over! Perhaps she was a witch, too! People around him laughed. Their faces changed from joviality into stares of suspicion. She could see no friends. Straightaway Anne made her way back to the house instead of her normal walk beside the river.
It was time she thought of leaving this place.
But where could she go?