hoisted my simple dress and clambered onto the pile of rocks that stood the highest, overlooking the beach of Calais. Moisture pooled in my eyes and leaked in rivulets down my cheeks. Below, the French soldiers boarded the boats. The wind whipped my hair back as white capped waves washed up from the sea. I offered a small wave to the fleet.
Then, there he was. Jean. On the deck of the warship nearest me, standing at the railing. The White Cliffs of Dover back in England peeked up over the blue in the distance. He offered a small wave in return. From here, his icy blue eyes took on the hue of the water that had brought us to safety in France.
I pushed myself onto my tiptoes, both my arms sailing wildly about my head. A smile forced its way upon my dry lips, contrary to the heaviness in my heart. Dressed in a French soldier’s uniform, my prince blended in with the others. Still, I knew the curve of his shadowed face, just as I would always know it.
“Goodbye, Jean,” I called into the wind. “I love you!”
Jean kissed his fingers. He held them out in my direction before placing them over his own heart, while soldiers went about performing their duties behind him.
I kissed my fingers, held them out to him, and covered my heart just as Jean did. My words wisped from my throat. “Even an ocean couldn’t offer a safe escape for us, could it, my Jean?”
On deck, a trumpet blew, and the soldiers began pulling up the ramps that anchored them to the beach. Fresh tears hung from my lashes as I stared at the man who had unselfishly saved my life. And unwittingly captured my heart.
Our last conversation echoed in my mind to the tune of the crashing waves. Jean’s husky voice was sweet in my ears as though his words were real, and not simply a memory.
You are safe in France, my love. For so long as it please you to stay. But in trade for our asylum, I must lead the French Army in an invasion. An invasion of England against King Henry.
As if on an afterthought, Jean turned back to face me. High above his head, he held the rosary I’d pressed into his hand the night before when I was at my darkest.
I waved again, but slipped on the mossy rocks.
When I regained my footing, Jean was no longer at the railing.
“Goodbye my love,” I said to nobody. “And Godspeed.”
Alone
Calais, France—July, 1542
I
awoke early, covered in sweat. The humid summer morning had little to do with my frenzied emotional state. The nightmarish dreams had, instead of abating since Jean’s departure, had served only to get worse with each passing day. So much so that I dreaded going to sleep at night and found myself fighting to stay awake until absolute exhaustion overtook me in the oddest of places. Sitting in the sitting room chair. Perched at the dining table. Anywhere but laying in my empty bed. Alone.
Death. Dismemberment. Torture.
War. Hate. Pain. Mutilation.
Vendetta. Prisoner. Widow.
A sense of urgency propelled me out of the house and to the coastline. I strode down the beach where I’d said my goodbye to Jean only a month before.
Something is going to happen today. I feel it in my very bones.
A flash of movement caught my eye out over the water. A French flag!
“The warships,” I cried into the wind. “They’re coming home!”
I stood on the craggy rocks, barefoot, and waited. In seemingly no time at all, the French vessels began to pull into port. Slowly, the men began to file off, some limping, and others helping their comrades.
I searched their faces from my vantage point, looking for the piercing blue eyes that haunted my dreams, be them sleeping dreams or awake dreams. More and more men ambled off, but not one turned my way. The trail of disembarking men thinned to a trickle until there was nobody else aboard.
I sniffled and swiped the tears from my hopeful eyes and started down the rocks to find someone, anyone, from which to beg some information on the whereabouts of my husband.
Finally, I caught up with a soldier who sported a notable limp. “Monsieur, s’il vous plait, arret.”
I was out of breath and prayed he paused long enough to speak to me. Thankfully, he turned around gave me his full attention. “Madam.”
I gasped at his appearance. His sullen face was bedraggled and scarred, and his eyes, which were no doubt once vibrant and full of life, were hauntingly empty.
“Tell me. What news do you bring from England?”
The man set down his kit and stared through me. “They were ready for us. We were annihilated and withdrew.”
“Annihilated?”
“Out of the four ships of men who went, we are the only ones to return.”
Hysteria began to rise up within me like a living thing. “Jean. Jean St. Bromaine. You must know him. Please, tell me he is with you.” I bit my tongue to keep from screaming at the wounded Frenchman.
“I know him not, Madam. Please excuse me, the walk to home is long, and I am tired.”
“Oui, of course. Merci. Merci beaucoup.”
I watched as he picked up his kit and turned away from me. Before I could think it through, I found myself half-running, half-skipping over the sharp rocks that dotted the path from the coastline to the castle. I must speak with King Francis. He surely knows something!
†††
The plumed courtier, Jacques, met me at the castle gate. “Madam Bridget? Is that you? You look so very...” The fat man looked me up and down as though every manner he’d been taught had taken leave. “French.”
