Freshly impassioned, Jean drove himself into me. I let go a throaty shout. “Jean!”

With his head tilted back, my husband growled a low growl that mimicked my own. Our breath accented each other in the night’s stillness as we breathed together, harder. Faster. Deeper.

With my back arched impossibly high, I took my husband into the deepest recesses of my body again and again as we rocked together in our sensual dance until the peaks of passion were again at our mercy.

†††

“Are you asleep?” I was careful to keep my voice at a whisper, in case he was.

Jean squeezed me closer to him in our nest of fine French blankets. “No.”

I’d been tracing the lines of his chest with my fingers since we’d collapsed into the sheets, both cloaked a sheen of sweat and heavy with exhaustion. Despite sleep tugging at my eyelids, restful slumber continued to elude me.

“Tell me why things were so lengthy with Francis. And so secretive.”

The words rolled off Jean’s tongue and sounded more French than Welsh. “King Francis is a shrewd host, Bridget. A stupid man he is not, and he will, like Henry, use everything around him to his advantage. And his personal gain.”

Jean paused a moment. In the bright white offered by the moon as it emerged from behind a black cloud, I saw him turn his face away. “In exchange for our safe lodging in France, I must lead the French Army on a surprise invasion of England. And perhaps even an attack on King Henry himself.”

I swallowed hard, but the lumps that appeared with Jean’s words still threatened to choke me. Every woman I’d ever known who loved a soldier did so in vain, because when a husband went away to war, he never returned. “A surprise invasion?”

“Yes.” He turned back to me and let his arm fall across my middle. “I’m sure you know that you mustn’t breathe a word of this outside this room. On pain of death. My death.”

I nodded and fought the tremble in my lip. “When, Jean? When shall this take place?”

“Therein lies the torture. I will not know until the day comes to depart for England. I must be ready at a moment’s notice.”

A lone tear tracked from the corner of my eye.

“My love, why do you cry? This is but a small and worthy price to pay to secure your safety, and mine, far from the wrath of Henry.”

Somewhere in his words, hid a kernel of truth about our safety being most far from King Henry, I was certain of it. However, it remained elusive to me as I finally lost the battle to my exhaustion and drifted off to sleep.

A New Home

Pas-de-Calais, France—April 1542

T

he fire from the hearth lit the kitchen of our little home to a warm glow as I set the baguette on the table. The sun would be making its appearance shortly, and Jean was probably walking back from his morning wash in the creek. Despite feeling sour in the stomach, I wanted to have a fine breakfast set out for him before he left for the day.

As King Francis promised, The Crown had provided us simple accommodations in the heart of Calais. Our one-room cottage was nestled between a bakery and a candlestick maker. The smells had been delicious and savory when we moved in, however lately, everything turned my stomach on end.

As the first golden rays of sun stretched their fiery fingers into the dark sky, I dished a ladleful of last night’s warmed pottage into Jean’s bowl and garnished the stew with a handful of nuts. A hunk of cheese next to his baguette along with a fresh carrot, plucked from the garden that grew behind this cottage long before we arrived, completed my husband’s breakfast.

I sank down upon the chair opposite Jean’s breakfast, wrapped my hands around my cup of tea, and let my eyes close. A moment later, the door opened, and Jean’s cheerful whistle met my ears. He kissed the top of my head and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Good morning, beautiful wife,” he purred.

Despite the rolling nausea that had become a daily occurrence, I smiled. “Good day to my handsome husband. How was the water this morning?”

“Springtime in France promises cold water.” Jean took his place across from me. “The wildflowers are a sight to behold though. Perhaps when I get back from the castle tonight, you and I can take a walk together and admire them.”

“I would love that.” I watched as he picked up his spoon and dove into his meal.

Jean nodded and swallowed. “If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

“I’m sure I will be. I tend to feel better in the afternoons.” I paused a moment. “What do you do when you go to the castle every day, Jean?”

The thought of royal mistresses, their chests falling out of their tight bodices and lust brightening their cunning eyes, had given me a great deal to worry about since coming to France. Especially since Jean had grown so closed-mouthed about his daily trips to the castle. “Please tell me?”

Jean paused in his eating and stared at me. “My darling, do you not trust me?”

“I do—” I began, but a cascade of tears made it impossible to continue.

When I dared look at him again, I discovered he was staring at me with the same piercing stare that had captured my heart when we first met. “I’m so sorry—”

He cut me off. “Bridget. I haven’t told you of the goings on at the castle because I haven’t wanted to worry you. Life in France hasn’t seemed to agree with you, and I was certain my telling you of such things would bring you nothing but heartache.”

I sniffled. “Heartache? I don’t understand.”

Jean abandoned his breakfast and moved around to kneel before me. “Darling. There is talk of nothing but war. I spend my days preparing for the coming invasion, the day that I return to England is drawing near; I can feel it when I am within the castle walls. A tension hangs over the French Court.” He swept a wayward lock of hair out of my eyelashes and flickered a smile. “But we are safe, you and I. We are together. We can face anything, can we not?”

I nodded. “At the bakery yesterday, there was talk of the same thing. A rumor that The Holy Roman Emperor and King Henry have joined forces to invade France.”

“Ahh, so word has already spread to the town.” Jean’s gaze softened as he brushed my cheek with his thumb. “It’s no wonder that my love is so out of sorts with worry.”

The sun’s rays burst through our small window. Jean stood. I knew it was time for him to be on his way. “Will you be all right alone today, Bridget?”

“Yes. Yes I will.”

“Oui.” He bent and planted an impassioned kiss on my quivering lips. “I will see you tonight, my love.”

I watched from my chair as he plucked up his uneaten carrot and stuffed it into his pocket. “Be safe, Jean St. Bromaine.”

“As you wish, Mrs. St. Bromaine.”

I smiled despite my turbulent emotions as the love of my life trotted out of our cottage and down the road to the French castle.

†††

As I picked up Jean’s breakfast dishes, an overwhelming sense of guilt surged within me. Why were you so ridiculous this morning, Bridget? You didn’t even allow your husband to finish his breakfast before accosting him with your groundless worries.

I scrubbed the bowl so hard that the gray water splashed out onto my simple brown dress. I’d never been very adept at sewing and this poor garment was proof of that. I tossed the innocent bowl into the cupboard and snatched up the water bucket, no longer caring if it splashed on me. After hefting it to the backdoor, I gave the bucket, water and all, a hearty fling.

Of course, it didn’t go far. But I felt somewhat better as I watched it fly through the air and meet the ground of the garden with a satisfying splat. Thankfully, the bucket didn’t burst.

†††

I strode through the streets of Calais and tried to forget the fit I’d pitched at home. Tonight’s bread, a barley loaf, was nestled into my damp apron as I took in the sights and smells of my new, French home.