‘Ah, yes, the threat from England – I do not see this as being quite so serious as my cousins seem to,’ he replies nonchalantly with a raised eyebrow. ‘Why, dear cousin Yolande, do you feel threatened by England?’ he almost smirks.
‘No, I suppose we of Anjou do not as yet,’ she answers, ‘but then you have much in common with English interests in Flanders, I understand,’ and moves away at once as she catches his sharp intake of breath. Am I accusing him of treason? Not yet . . .
When the king is in his right mind, he is a most engaging man. Whenever Yolande attends the court, he seeks her out and places her beside him at meals. What she can see is a lonely man, as those who were close to him, even the queen, are afraid to be near him now in case his madness suddenly descends and he turns violent. Their eyes show their apprehension, which he too must see – and Yolande does her utmost to ensure that hers do not. His own eyes light up whenever he sees her, and he beckons her to go to him. ‘Welcome, beautiful cousin Yolande! I see you wear my ring. Does it please you?’
‘Indeed, sire, it does, as much as the splendid white stallion you sent me as a wedding gift.’
‘My dear, the horse was indeed a wedding gift; the ring was not. It is your pass key to me and I want you to use it. Now tell me about your children – you have two, do you not? A boy and a girl? We must find marriage partners for them among my own or our cousins’ offspring. I have so many children I cannot keep count any more. Dear Isabeau comes from good Bavarian breeding stock!’ he says with a laugh, not unkindly.
But Yolande finds a poignancy in his words, for in some of their personal audiences together, Isabeau has brought her memories of her beloved homeland to life. How in the summer months she would wander in the beautiful mountain valleys, the cows munching grass with their great brass bells around their necks tolling gently to tell the herdsmen where they were. The mountain flowers – edelweiss and blue gentians; the food – a simple meal of sausage and dark bread in a mountain hut – and then the walk down at sunset before the nights became cold. It is clear she was very happy as a girl. Isabeau becomes quite animated during these conversations and Yolande catches a glimpse of the pretty girl she must once have been. ‘I think hills and mountains are my natural element – not a French court,’ she says bitterly.
They do not, perhaps, quite become friends, but they are friendly. So it is not such a surprise when, on a visit to the court, Isabeau seeks her out by royal messenger. The queen, it soon becomes clear, is troubled, and needs to unburden herself.
‘Dearest Yolande, forgive me sending for you like that, but I do need to confide in you. You see, I feel able to trust you because of our similar backgrounds and you are the only one who will understand what I want to say.’ She stops and looks around furtively, then shifts her great bulk nearer to Yolande on the sofa and takes her slender hand between her own two pudgy ones. ‘I . . . it is hard to say . . . I don’t know what to do . . . but I can no longer be . . . a real wife . . . to the king. You must have heard how he behaves when his fits are upon him? His dirty habits, his filthy language and swearing and his violence frighten me – everyone else too.
‘My priest says that I must continue to lie with my husband if he wants, but I cannot. Believe me, I have tried, I have tried.’ She is weeping now. ‘I loved him so much and now he repels me.’
Yolande puts her arm around the queen to comfort her, and Isabeau wipes her eyes. ‘Please, dearest Yolande, give me your support to help me arrange separate quarters in our palaces.’ She looks lost and desperate and clutches at Yolande’s hands. ‘What is your advice, my dear? How can I go on? I have no one of my station but you to ask something so delicate. I would . . . I would welcome your thoughts,’ and Yolande can see the wild desperation in her eyes.
‘Madame, my dear Isabeau, I understand. Yes, I do . . . Allow me a little time to think on this difficulty of yours – which I assure you I will keep between us.’ The relief in the queen’s face is pitiful, and by the time they part, with a smile of gratitude from Isabeau, and warm embraces, Yolande has decided to help her. Nor does it escape her that a grateful Isabeau could be a good ally. The more Louis trusts her with his affairs, the more Yolande is realizing her own ability to manoeuvre. Yes, she must think on this conversation with the queen.
Isabeau’s problem has been exercising Yolande for some days while she stays at their manor by the Seine. Louis is at the King’s Council when she has an idea. One of her husband’s growing concerns has been the way in which the balance at court leans heavily towards the Burgundian faction, with two of the king and queen’s children married into that family. For some time Yolande has been thinking how she can attempt to redress this problem and also find a way of calming the king and improving his state of mind.
It is clear that Isabeau can take no more of the king’s abuse. And yet the priest is right – the king does need someone to console him, comfort and guide him, in particular when he is sane. He is a young man, after all, and must at times have need of a woman to share his bed as well as his table. He listens to Yolande, but she is not there at all times, and he needs more than she can give him.
During several of her attendances at court, and after some time spent pondering this problem, Yolande has observed the queen’s ladies and demoiselles carefully. They are all of good family – minor nobility – and most of them are really quite pleasing in appearance. She notices that they are also rather flirtatious with the young courtiers, and rightly surmises that the queen’s court is not as amusing as that of Louis d’Orléans or Jean of Burgundy.
The question occupying Yolande is who from the court could or would be a substitute for the queen. Isabeau has no lady-in-waiting of real character or imagination, or of sufficient devotion to try to fulfil the poor king’s desires. Without a word to Louis, Yolande decides to take on the task of finding a companion for the king, for the sake of France. Among the queen’s demoiselles she has been watching a young girl named Odette de Champdivers. She is intelligent, good-looking, gentle, caring, and clearly devoted to her king. Moreover, Yolande has not seen her flirting with the young gentlemen of the court like most of the others – she just seems to get on with whatever is required, in a quiet, gentle way.
Yolande has weighed the options carefully. If she is to fulfil her husband’s directions for the future of the monarchy, then there is, she believes, only this solution. Still, it is the first time she will be acting on her own initiative – and without discussing her intentions with Louis first. How could she? As a man he would never see the logic or the necessity – or even the benefit. And yet. . . .
Her mind made up, she sends for the girl to come to her chambers. When she enters, Yolande is pleased to see she is not afraid, but stands confidently by the table where the Duchess d’Anjou is sitting.
‘Odette, my dear, sit down,’ Yolande begins gently. ‘I have observed your amiable manner with everyone at court, from the highest to the lowest, and this has impressed me.’ The girl blushes – good: she is modest. ‘I have been wondering about your aspirations, my dear. What do you hope to achieve here in royal service?’ Odette looks confused. Yolande continues, sweetly and full of concern: ‘Are you, perhaps, hoping to find a husband?’
Odette studies her hands, folded in her lap. Then she looks directly up at her duchess: ‘Madame, I fear I am not sufficiently well-born, nor do I have a dowry that would attract a member of the court. No, I see my role as making myself as useful as possible and serving the king and queen in any way they require.’
Yolande likes her honest answer, and after spending some more time alone with her, she is convinced that her only interest is the genuine well-being of her king and queen. Confident that she has made the right choice, she says, very gently:
‘Odette, my dear, do you know how lonely and sad your king is at times? How much he needs a kind word, a kind touch?’ Odette nods. ‘He is not always out of his mind, you know, and when he is sane, he longs for a gentle word from a pretty young
lady like yourself.’ Odette looks slightly confused, and Yolande realizes that she needs to be clearer. ‘My dear girl, I am asking something of you that is of great importance to the kingdom, as well as to the king. He needs someone like you, someone who really cares for him, to spend time with him – even to the extent of spending the nights as well as the days by his side.’
To Yolande’s surprise, Odette looks up at her, into her eyes, and with her open, frank face says, ‘Madame, I have not thought of that. Forgive me; I do not know what to say. I have seen the king when his illness is upon him and he can be . . . difficult.’ Yolande can see she is anxious, and with reason. This will need a different approach.
‘Odette, listen to me – please. Do you see me as the Mother of Anjou, your home territory – the person who has the well-being of all the people there at heart?’
‘Oh yes, madame, you are almost worshipped in Anjou for your care of the young, the old, the sick – everyone.’
‘Well then, could you imagine my asking you to do something that was in some way against the well-being of your king or the kingdom?’
‘Oh no, madame.’
‘Good. What I am asking of you is something that is extremely difficult, I know, but I am asking for the kingdom, to preserve the country that we love. France must have a king who, although he is not always like others, is comforted and content when he is like others.’
Odette is silent for some minutes. Yolande can tell from her expression that she is weighing her options.
‘My dear Odette, I give you my word that if ever there is a problem, you can count on me, your Duchess of Anjou. Send me a messenger at once, and I will have you placed in comfort and safety. Naturally, I shall also be financially responsible for the children should anything happen to the king, or to you.’ She expects Odette to recoil in shock at the meaning of her words, but she does not. No, she is mulling over in her mind the advantages and disadvantages of Yolande’s proposition. After all, what are her choices? To remain at court and become an old maid, or to help her country and perhaps even have children with the king whom she can bring up herself and be independent.
‘Madame, I understand now what it is you are asking of me. I give you my word: I will not fail you, the king or France. It is true, I have observed the king’s sadness and his need of comforting. He is a good man who suffers terribly when his demons descend. I will give him that comfort, by day and even at night should he so wish.’
It is settled, and Yolande assures her again that she will be available should she ever need help. Although she is aware that most of Odette’s family are in the Burgundian camp, her devotion to her king is solid and she understands what it is she has to do.
With the use of the king’s sapphire ring with his crest, it is not difficult to arrange for Odette to be introduced into the private chambers of Charles VI, and it is also the first time that Yolande gains access to them by using the ring. Every door opens, and while Yolande goes to tell the king she has brought a young friend from Anjou to read to him and sing should he require, she leaves Odette waiting for him.
‘Sire, her name is Odette, and she awaits your pleasure in your apartment to which I gained access using your ring.’ The king smiles at Yolande and embraces her – but she is not sure if he has understood.
Not long afterwards, Isabeau lets Yolande know of her relief at Odette’s existence and of her gratitude. Whether or not the queen realizes that it is Yolande who procured the girl is not clear. Yolande hears stories of Odette wearing Isabeau’s clothes in bed so that the mad king does not notice the difference, but she puts such tales down to the usual slander aimed at a disinterested, authentic spirit such as she has encountered in Odette. She corresponds regularly with her, and promises again that she will arrange a dowry for any child she bears the king. The girl will serve all their purposes: the king’s, the queen’s, the country’s – and Yolande’s, by easing her dear husband’s concerns.
Have I done wrong in procuring Odette de Champdivers for the king? No, I have no qualms whatsoever about doing what is right for the kingdom of France. Louis has made me understand that that is my role in life, and I intend to fulfil it.
Chapter Ten
Late one night in November 1407, Louis and Yolande are at their town palace in Paris when they hear a commotion in the street, the loud slap of shutters flying open nearby and the alarm being raised. Accompanied by his guards, Louis races out into the night, while Yolande remains on their first-floor balcony, leaning out, watching flares being brought and a confusion of people running to and fro, shouting. She cannot imagine what is happening and is greatly afraid that her husband might be rushing into danger.
But when he returns, the news is far worse than either of them could have imagined. His face white, his mobile features rigid and shocked, Louis is almost unable to tell her what has happened. The story comes out in short bursts – how Louis d’Orléans left the queen’s court this evening in good spirits for the short ride to his own residence. Entering the narrow, high-walled lane that separates their respective palaces, he and his small escort were set upon from above by some fifteen masked men and brutally attacked. When Louis raised his left hand to shield his face, a savage sword-slash cut it off at the wrist, before an axe cleaved his skull, spilling his brains on to the cobbles.
Aghast, Louis and Yolande gaze at each other. There is no time to absorb this horror. Within minutes, their own house becomes a maelstrom of noise and movement. There is much that needs to be done. The Anjous’ palace is the nearest to the murder scene, and Louis sends messengers at once to the Provost of Paris and the other royal dukes – Burgundy, Berry and Bourbon – summoning them to convene at his house at once and plan how to capture the assassins.
The atmosphere is strained as the dukes – though not Burgundy – meet with several of the suite of the murdered Louis. And at the centre of this terrible whirlwind of activity, there is a still, silent, dreadful presence. The body of Louis d’Orléans himself has been brought here. His horribly distorted, bleeding body lies on a table in the hall, covered with a thick velvet curtain. Yolande is in shock. Their beautiful, gallant cousin, he who embodied all the qualities a prince should possess – courage, courtesy, high ideals – lies murdered in their house. She is too angry to cry, too full of rage at the injustice of it all.
And through her shock, and that of all present, a dreadful knowledge is forming. Everyone’s finger is silently pointing at the dreaded Jean of Burgundy. Yolande is in no doubt – there is no one else who refused to see Louis d’Orléans for the patriot he was.
In the presence of the dead prince’s body, the men confer hurriedly; messengers are being sent in every direction as the Duchess d’Anjou silently offers strong wine to each of the group as if in a daze. She will not break down in front of them. She will keep her sorrow to mourn him in the quiet of her room, alone. Louis d’Orléans, together with her husband, was the best of this family. Poor darling Valentina and her children – and poor France.
With each goblet she fills, a terrible sense of foreboding grows in her – this can only be the beginning of more outrage to follow. By now, no one doubts the guilt of Burgundy’s men – a number were recognized despite their hoods while they fled. As she brings another flask of wine to the gathering, Yolande dares to ask: ‘Have the Provost’s men gone to arrest the Duke of Burgundy?’
No one replies. What ails them? She asks again:
‘Have men been sent to summon the Duke of Burgundy. Who will enquire into the outrage committed by his men?’ And again no one speaks; they only shake their heads. She understands. No one dares move against the powerful Jean-sans-Peur!
She walks away from them and retires to her rooms – what else can she do? She is new to this family and they have their own rules. But she knows what she would do were she in their place! Louis thinks her rash, and he may be right, but to stand by and watch such blatant aggression – and now the murder of a loved family member – is beyond her comprehen
sion. Have they milk instead of fire in their bellies? She feels her Spanish blood rising, and a part of her curls her lip at their judiciousness, their diplomatic caution. Surely this terrible deed will be reason enough to cancel the betrothal of their heir with Burgundy’s daughter. They can never join their blood with his after this horrible murder.
Yolande spends the next day at home while Louis is leading the service for his beloved dead cousin in the absence of the king, who is sick and cannot attend. He returns, ashen-faced with barely controlled rage.
‘You will not believe it – all three royal dukes, Berry, Bourbon and Burgundy, joined me in the church. We each held one of the four poles supporting the golden awning over the catafalque.’
She is stunned. ‘How is it possible that Burgundy dared to appear? How did you and the others allow it? You all know it was his men who murdered our dear cousin.’ She stares at him, wide-eyed with disbelief.
‘Can you imagine it?’ he gasps. ‘And what is more, that gross Burgundy was the only one of us correctly dressed in the black robes of royal mourning!’
‘Of course,’ she almost hisses. ‘Only he would have known they would be needed today!’ And she spits out her words with all the venom in her heart.
But there is worse to come. Following the funeral, Louis has invited all the major mourners to come to their palace and, to Yolande’s breathless astonishment, Burgundy dares to appear! Anxiously she looks about for Louis among the company, and cannot see him. How can I receive this monster? She has no choice but to move towards him as protocol demands.
‘Ah, my beautiful cousin Yolande,’ he says, taking her hand – which she has not offered – and kissing it in a way that draws attention. ‘What a sad day indeed.’
Yolande’s face is frozen, lips shut tight, and she scans his face with cold eyes, chafing at the protocols which prevent her from accusing him outright. Not a shadow, not the slightest hint of any emotion – no, he has applied an actor’s mask expression of sorrow, the corners of his mouth turned down. She is so shocked at his presence that, despite her training, she is completely lost for words, certainly of welcome, and just stands looking at him.
Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The Page 9