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.
Jean and I had been here for months, but still I felt like an outsider. My negligible handle on the French language didn’t help, either. Delicious smells that wafted out of windows tickled my nose as I wound my way along the narrow rock streets. Friendly-faced strangers bid me good morning as I walked along. Despite the raging religious fanaticism that claimed Catholicism was the true religion one day before damning it as a tool of the devil the next, I again found myself at the door of a small Catholic chapel.
I’d made it a daily mission to visit this chapel since coming to live in Calais. Once, a band of angry Protestants had preceded me into the tucked-away walls of the tiny church. I walked in as they dumped Holy Water and attempted to desecrate what they could. The pungent aroma of wine hung around them like a storm cloud, and I ducked into the confessional, lest I be seen. As quick as they descended upon the quaint chapel, they were gone.
After waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, I stepped out and surveyed the damage. Aside from a river of Holy Water pooling between the stones, they’d broken off the outstretched hand of The Virgin Mary and made a general nuisance of themselves before going along their way. I discovered the hand beneath a kneeler and placed it at her feet.
“If only I could fix it, I would,” I prayed. “Fix you, fix mine and Jean’s predicament, and fix England and France.”
I pushed the fresh memory of the Protestant routers out of my mind and stepped into the small chapel. Thankfully, everything seemed to be in order, and Our Lady’s hand was back where it belonged. At least someone had the ability to fix it.
“Are you here for Confession, my child?”
My heart jumped into my throat. “Oh Father, forgive me. I thought I was alone.”
The old, weathered priest smiled a crooked smile. Remarkably, he appeared to still have all of his teeth. He reminded me of an ancient, gnarled oak tree, and his tufts of gray hair stuck up from his head like the fur of a mangy, angered cat.
“My child, those of us who walk with God are never alone.”
I found myself nodding along with him.
