They drape themselves with silks and satins of every shade, furs around their shoulders, gazzars of the finest spun gold thread, as they swirl about in front of a large looking glass forgetting themselves and poor Jacques completely.
‘Mesdames, my two dear queens, I fear it may be cooler in Paris, certainly by mid November,’ he tries to intervene and make some sense out of their pirouetting, ‘and there will be much waiting about on your litters before the ceremony. And despite the many candles, the cathedral is just as cold inside as out.’ With that, they drop the lovely sables and other dark furs as he hands them white minks and ermines, and white fox pelts. ‘I do hope you agree – I think white is the most appropriate colour for queens,’ he suggests with a low bow.
As Yolande catches Marie’s eye they have to turn their heads away so as not to let him see them smile. ‘Maman, what do you think of this,’ as Marie spreads a ravishing blue brocade with ermine, ‘or this,’ and a burgundy brocade is wrapped with white fox. They both sigh at one another and gaze with gratitude at Jacques Coeur, who sits in the middle of this delicious chaos with a satisfied smile. His lady queens are having fun. Finally they make their choices from an irresistible array of materials for their formal state gowns and their cloaks. As if this was not enough, Jacques then brings out more exquisite pieces – fans of pheasant feathers to go with Yolande’s green and gold brocade, and emeralds for her neck and ears to further enhance her ensemble. ‘Dear Jacquet, as they have taken to calling him – I do have my late husband’s emeralds, and should not take yours . . . but they are so beautiful . . . perhaps just for the one occasion?’
Yolande cannot recall a happier afternoon shared with her sweet daughter – their lives are so serious, and this is sheer, frivolous, delicious folly. They both know that with such exquisite, luxurious fabrics and furs, they will really appear as the queens they are on that important day, and they are grateful to Jacques Coeur for it.
The great event of the king’s entry into Paris takes place on 12 November 1437, some nineteen years since he left the city in such dramatic circumstances and in just his night shirt. At last, Paris is his city, the capital of his kingdom.
Stands have been erected all along the official route, the place reserved for the two queens upholstered in pale blue velvet, stitched with gold fleur-de-lis, with gold fringe on the awning above to shade them from the late autumn sun. They can feel the festive atmosphere welling up from the crowd below, and the joyful mood lifts their spirits. Flower petals are caught and spun by the breeze as people toss them from open windows lining the route. The air is chilly but fresh and the sky blue. Marie and Yolande both wear their fur capes, Jacques Coeur’s wise suggestion. Yolande’s is white mink and Marie’s cape of blue and gold brocade is lined and faced with ermine. She is the Queen of France after all, and her mother feels she should wear the royal fur Jacques Coeur has produced. They have added collars and cuffs of white fox. Marie is wearing the sapphires Louis and Yolande gave her for her wedding and looks very much the queen. On her head she has placed a small crown of diamonds, pearls and sapphires – another treasure from Jacques Coeur’s Aladdin’s cave, which may have to be returned, her mother warns her, unless they can persuade Charles – or Jacques Coeur himself. Yolande wears her crown as the Dowager Queen of Sicily.
The parade begins with brightly dressed foot soldiers and fearsome-looking pikemen. Next come the knights, most extravagantly attired, wearing parade armour, with tall ostrich feathers in many colours on their helmets. Some hold banners proclaiming their allegiance to a particular duke; others prefer to wear the current fashion of short, tight jackets and hose, and wide-brimmed hats with feathers, often attached with a glittering brooch. Finally, to loud cheers, the king appears, preceded by flower girls casting lavender and other herbs in the path of his prancing horse. Charles rides a snow-white charger, a stallion he particularly likes, which arches its neck and snorts to the appreciation of the crowds, sidestepping daintily despite its size. Named Abélard after the philosopher, it is caparisoned to the ground in quilted pale blue velvet stitched with golden fleur-de-lis, and from its gilded leather headband tall white ostrich feathers bob along with its bowed head and prancing steps.
As the crowd roars at the sight of its king, ‘Maman,’ whispers Marie with a wicked smile, ‘does Abélard have an Héloïse?’ and Yolande has to suppress a giggle.
‘Many, darling, many – he has more children than anyone we know! But none of his wives is called Héloïse!’
Yolande cannot deny swelling with pride to see Charles as their king. He is wearing a full suit of parade armour, decorated with finely inlaid gold scrolling patterns, glistening in the winter sunshine; his head is bare for the people to see him better, and he is escorted by his Scottish archers on foot.
‘How tall those archers are in comparison to some of ours,’ marvels Marie. Behind Charles rides the first esquire of the stable with the king’s crowned helm on a cushion, and another mounted steward carries the sword of state.
‘Oh, look there.’ Yolande points at a building opposite as she notices that jesters have climbed up on to a balcony and are somehow juggling balls while standing on the ledge.
Charles knows of their viewing position and makes a point of turning his horse and bowing gracefully to his queen and his bonne mère. His trumpeters notice too and give them a royal salvo, and the crowd responds with shouts of ‘Vive le roi, vive la reine, vive la reine de Sicile’, over and over.
After a short gap, next in the parade rides Yolande’s fourteen-year-old grandson, the Dauphin Louis, on a fine black gelding, followed at a little distance by other princes and nobles. She can sense Marie’s motherly pride as she watches her only son; how she would have loved to have more, poor darling.
Then her heart fills with joy as she sees her René appear directly behind the dauphin among the dukes, her younger son Charles by his side. How René enjoys himself, turning to left and right with a huge smile, acknowledging salutations with much doffing of his feathered hat. He is dressed quite outrageously in mustard yellow with green facings and trimmings, with a large emerald holding the ostrich feathers on his hat and another at his neck. Young Charles is far more soberly dressed, but also elegant in burgundy velvet and a matching hat with a long white feather. Marie and Yolande exchange glances and smile tenderly at one another. But do I imagine a shadow in my daughter’s eyes? wonders Yolande.
Marie’s son Louis has always been something of an enigma – almost a split personality. Charming one moment and snarling the next, and for no apparent reason; intelligent, and yet Yolande recalls his tutors telling her he wasted his good brain on the rubbish he learnt from disaffected and conniving companions outside the court. Marie has lost so many children; who can know if she will produce another healthy son, and should this one become the only heir, her mother fears she will have no peace.
With René’s help, Pierre de Brézé has recently been appointed Grand Seneschal of Poitou and Anjou. How dashing he looks in his armour and black velvet cloak, a great shining jewel holding it on one shoulder and the gold chain of his new office around his neck. Everyone agrees that Pierre is still the handsomest man in France! Marie sighs in appreciation as he bows with raised eyes and a wave, smiling broadly at them as he passes on his high-stepping black Friesian stallion. How the crowd appreciates both rider and horse! Where did Pierre find such a creature? wonders Yolande, but not for long – it could only have been through that magician Jacques Coeur.
The army marches at the rear of the procession, with a noticeable bounce in their step, and stop when they reach the city gates. Trumpets blow, cheers ring out and the two queens have an excellent view as the mayor presents to King Charles the keys of Paris with great solemnity, followed by more clarion calls of the trumpets.
The traditional blue canopy dotted with golden fleur-de-lis is brought forward, supported at its four corners on gilded poles held by four favoured courtiers, all expertly controlling their horses at the
same time. To the slow beat of a large drum, King Charles VII makes his official entry into Paris with deafening salvos and the traditional exclamations from his people of ‘Noël’, ‘Vive le Roi’ and ‘Montjoie’.
Marie and her mother exchange kisses and embrace, tears of joy in their eyes. It gives Yolande deep satisfaction that she has helped to heal the open wound between the Duke of Burgundy and his cousin, her son-in-law the king – as well as the rift between Burgundy and Anjou. She vows that in honour of this day she will retract her earlier pledge of enmity towards Philippe of Burgundy. When he passes them in the procession their eyes meet for a moment as he looks up; and he removes his hat and bows, while Yolande inclines her head. Oh, when I think of the pain this man has caused me! But today is a glorious occasion of unity and reconciliation. She squeezes Marie’s hand and her returning pressure reassures her mother that she understands. Henceforth, all past grievances will be forgiven and forgotten between the royal houses of Burgundy and Anjou, for the sake of king, country and peace.
All about them they see the people continuing to cheer and celebrate the king’s entry into his capital. The knights’ horses, sensing the excitement of the crowds, prance and fret, whinny and jingle, their metal shoes stamping on the strewing herbs scattered by young girls who curtsey as the king, the dauphin and his lords pass by along the route to the cathedral.
Having arrived early to watch Charles’s entry into the city from their specially built stand, once he and the main courtiers have passed, Marie and Yolande descend and settle together on their own litter.
With the delicious aroma of the fields of Provence wafting up from the lavender being crushed under their horses’ hooves, the procession winds its way through the thronged, joyous streets of Paris, past a number of tableaux vivants in progress. There is music and the sound of excited, happy citizens all around them. Coloured ribbons unfurl from balconies, banners curl lazily in the breeze, and petals drift down on the parade from the windows above.
When they reach the cathedral, their litter is lowered and they are ushered into their places of honour to await the arrival of the king and the rest of the procession. When all are settled in the nave, a Te Deum of thanksgiving rings out with all the verve, pomp and formality that can be imagined: choirs and silver trumpets, glittering vestments, incense and candles flickering so brightly they light even that cavernous dark space. Their places are near the king in the front and they listen as the Archbishop of Paris begins his address. Yolande’s mind wanders as she looks around at a sight she feared she might never see, of nobles from both sides coming together to rejoice in their sovereign and give thanks to God. At last, a united France; no more factions, no more internecine war. How both of her Louis would have rejoiced – and are, she is sure, in heaven above. But she is pulled out of her happy reverie by the loud ringing of the cathedral’s bells, the signal for all the bells of Paris to begin tolling as they follow the king outside, the choir competing with the clarion of the silver trumpets.
The whole occasion has been a triumph for Paris – for the king, his queen and their family and friends. A memorable, magnificent day!
Chapter Seven
In spring, to his mother’s joy, René visits her again at Saumur. Now that he has been with his eldest son Jean in Nancy and sorted out the administration of Lorraine and Bar, he finds he has more time to spend with her and with his youngest daughter Marguerite. René has so much to tell Yolande about his son’s successful work in Lorraine and Bar, and his pride in him gives her great satisfaction. They walk arm in arm in her garden under the blossom trees, chatting about nothing in particular, until he says with forced joviality, ‘Madame, my dear mother.’ She always knows when he begins this way that he has difficult news to impart. She cannot deny she has been expecting it, and she does her best to understand, hiding her dread.
‘You have no need to speak, my beloved son; I know your plans in my heart. Like all the eldest sons of Anjou, you crave your kingdom of Naples, as much as you want to be with your wife and children.’
He turns at once and embraces her, and she can see tears in his eyes which he wipes away quickly, almost in annoyance with himself. He stutters and swallows hard.
‘Dearest and most perceptive of mothers, how well you understand me. I know you can sense my longing – especially for Isabelle, who has done all and more a wife should ever be expected to do. How I have missed her! Each night when I have prayed in my tower, her face has appeared in my mind’s eye. As did yours, darling Maman, and those of my other children just as I last saw them. I want to know them too – as I have loved getting to know our youngest, Marguerite, with you here. But the others do not know me, and I do not know my kingdom. Maman, can you understand?’ he asks so plaintively, his eyes wide with anxiety at her sorrow over losing him again.
‘I know, I know, my darling boy – you have no need to explain. The time has come for you to leave,’ she manages to say, keeping her voice even. ‘So go with my blessing, and all I ask is that you come back to me before I die.’
They embrace and she can feel the tears on his dear face, and he wipes away hers. Then he turns, and her treasured René, light of her heart, leaves for Marseilles, and on to fulfil his destiny in Naples. Will I see him again? She stands outside the entrance to Saumur, unable to move or even to cry out. How like his father and brother – ‘never turn back or you will not be able to leave’ was always in the thoughts of these, her beloved men, as they set out. Her beloved men, whose lives were taken by their quest for that cursed kingdom. The desire for this illusion of a kingdom has taken from her both her husband and her eldest son, and now she must fear for her delightful, jovial René.
He has laid claim to his throne of Naples, and Isabelle, crowned by the ambassadors in his stead, has held it for him during the six years he languished in Burgundy’s prison. This brave young Queen of Sicily has even defeated their cousin Alfonso when he dared dispute their title. Yolande’s only consolation is that René has agreed to leave Marguerite behind with her. As he rightly said, ‘She has a greater chance in France to make the kind of match she deserves since you have brought her up splendidly, and she would do even a king or an emperor proud.’ Yolande loves this granddaughter who has much of her father in her character although, happily, she looks more like Isabelle and, she is often told, like Yolande’s younger self – although she doubts she was ever as beautiful.
The next she hears of René, he is docking in Naples after a trouble-free journey, reunited with his beloved Isabelle and with his children. ‘Not a very kingly scene, I grant you,’ he writes, describing his wife’s sparkling eyes and the tears that no one held back, ‘but even the crowds who came to the port to see their king for the first time were wiping their eyes, and they do not even know me yet – what a credit to my regent.’
Letters follow this almost daily, asking her to join them, telling of the wonders Isabelle has carried out, how her little court is a byword for culture, charm and elegance – and in truth, Yolande has heard this from many a traveller friend who has been to Naples. All have told her that the palace is enchanting and the gardens a beautiful haven of peace and tranquillity. And yes, there is a part of her that is aching to join them all there, but she fears that her son Charles, her youngest, still has some maturing to do before she burdens him with the responsibilities of ruling Anjou and Provence. Since she is no longer with the court, it is important that one of the Anjou family is there to remind the king with his presence of her many sacrifices on his behalf.
René’s descriptions of his explorations of his kingdom give her hours of happy reading, especially his amazed delight that wherever he goes he is welcomed sincerely and spontaneously. Since he took the trouble to learn the language while in prison, he communicates easily with his subjects from nobility to peasants. There is much to see as the kingdom is large, covering the lower half of the Italian peninsula. He writes with such excitement: ‘Among the first things I have done is to climb Mount Vesuvius
, the crown of my great bay of Naples, and what a view from there. I enclose some sketches to give you an idea. How I would love you to come here and see it all with me. Do come, Maman?’ And how tempted she feels.
Joining René in Naples is a daydream she enjoys now and then, especially when he sends her pretty little sketches of Isabelle and the children playing with Vitesse, their pet cheetah, their surroundings, the bay, the palace and the dogs. What a strange and wonderful gift of Jacques Coeur’s that was: a tame cheetah which still manages to terrify the servants. Their life sounds completely enchanted, but she knows from her own experience how fleeting Paradise can be, and her cousin Alfonso d’Aragon has the devil in him somewhere. She would like to take Marguerite to Naples so they can both appreciate some of its magic, but with Alfonso making threats again on the Peninsular, they must enjoy the life available to them in Anjou.
When in the throes of great happiness, sadness often walks alongside, as Yolande has always taught her children. In the spring of 1440, her darling namesake daughter dies at the age of twenty-eight of childbed. She is the second of Yolande’s grown children to die, and it grieves her mother deeply. She was always a good child, gentle like Marie, and uncomplaining. Yolande tries to console herself with the thought that at least her marriage to the Duke of Brittany’s eldest son, a compromise to cover their shame at Louis’ cancelled union with his daughter, turned out to be surprisingly successful. But even that cannot make up for the fact that now, suddenly, she is gone, leaving a void in her mother’s heart.
Her only consolation is in knowing René has found happiness in Naples. He continues to send her letters brimming with the excitement of the ebullient child he has always remained inside – and has become again – through discovering his playground kingdom. His enthusiastic sketches give his mother an even clearer vision of his surroundings. With Isabelle and the children he rides to the vineyards; watches the harvesting; the festivals; the ships coming into harbour with visitors and traders from all over the Mediterranean, the Levant, Near East or even further. Isabelle’s young ladies are elegant and entertaining, know many amusing games and dances, and although she keeps them closely protected, they are a delight at her court as many of their visitors inform the Old Queen on their return from Naples. Most of all, she treasures René’s sketches of the children as the only record she has of how they grow and change.
Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The Page 33