The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  Jeanne du Mesnil smiled. “Monsieur le Comte, Madame la Princesse, are you ready to visit His Grace the King?”

  “Is he quite well?” asked Catherine anxiously, her slanting brows meeting in a sudden frown.

  “Much recovered,” Jeanne replied soothingly, and put out her hand to Charles, who hung back, shivering despite the small fur-lined mantle he was wearing.

  “What is it, mon cher? Are you cold?”

  The four-year-old shook his head. “No. It is just that His Majesty my father makes me so nervous.”

  Lady du Mesnil compromised between her duty as governess and saying what she actually thought.

  “It will tire His Grace if you stay long so this need only be a short visit, Monsieur. Simply congratulate the King on his return to health and pay him your respects.”

  “Will you be there?” Charles continued in the same vein. “I shall remain in the antechamber, not far away. Now come along.”

  But it was with reluctant steps that the two royal children made their way out of the courtyard, through the gallery that ran the length of the menagerie where the big cats stirred fitfully, past the round tower and finally into the King’s great hall, deserted except for two young gentlemen who crouched over the fire warming their hands.

  The couple looked up as the three people entered, and made slight, somehow mocking, bows. Lady du Mesnil inclined her head grandly and stalked past with her charges, Charles turning to look back over his shoulder.

  “Who are those men, Masher?” he whispered, using his own special nickname for her, a name as near as he had been able to get to Madame Cherie when he had first learned to speak.

  “The taller is your brother-in-law the Duke of Brittany’s brother. He is an Earl — but an English one. The other is his aide.”

  “An English Earl?” repeated Charles in surprise. “How?”

  “In a complicated way,” answered Lady du Mesnil. “Now come along, you cannot keep the King your father waiting.” But Charles hesitated a further moment, staring at the young lordling, wishing that he could be even a quarter as handsome as the elegant creature that now sprawled in its chair, holding its pointed shoes to the fire, and winking a careless eye at the small child regarding it.

  “What is his name?” Charles breathed noisily.

  “Arthur de Richemont, which is pronounced Richmond in English. Can you say that word?”

  “Reechmoond,” answered the Count of Ponthieu, not concentrating.

  The Earl, hearing him, rose and bowed again. “Greetings, my Prince,” he said, grinning broadly.

  The poor child, aware of its ugliness, flushed unbecomingly, unable to take his saucer eyes from Richemont’s beautifully proportioned face, seemingly moulded around the cheek bones; a face above which grew a shining crop of hair dark as night, yet with lights in it, lights the shade of mulled wine, of log fires and winter sunsets. This same hair, cut straight round his head, the very height of fashion, would have curled had it been allowed to grow but one inch longer.

  Lady du Mesnil swept a curtsy. “Monsieur le Comte is already late for an appointment to see the King, Monsieur.”

  Richemont bowed elegantly, once more winking a glittering blue eye as his head came down level with that of the little boy’s. “Indeed? Let me not keep him, Madame.”

  Then he smiled and Charles saw the Earl’s pupils deepen in colour, changing from ice to jewel blue, while a distant rose bloomed and died in Madame du Mesnil’s cheeks.

  “Au revoir, Monsieur,” the child said cautiously.

  “Au revoir, my Prince,” answered Arthur de Richemont as he turned and sauntered casually back to his chair, thus showing that the sons of the late Duke of Brittany considered themselves almost on an equal footing with those of His Majesty the King.

  ‘And this day,’ thought Charles, as his small feet carried him, quaking, across the stone floor of the King’s private chamber, ‘mon père is majestic.’

  For the King sat still in his high chair, observing the world through his pale mad eyes, which at the moment showed no hint of the unrestrained behaviour that could suddenly grip him during one of his more rational phases.

  “Well, well,” he said as they drew nearer, “if it isn’t my pretty Catherine with her lovely face. Come kiss your papa, chérie,” and he held out his hands to her.

  The girl obeyed, trembling violently as she approached the royal seat, but her father merely bent low and kissed his daughter on both cheeks, not looking frightening at all.

  “I’m here too, Sire,” ventured Charles in a nervous voice.

  The King ignored him, pulling Catherine onto his lap, twisting her golden locks round his fingers and dropping innumerable kisses onto her head and brow. Charles had a brief glimpse of his sister’s terrified face before it was hidden by a veil of their father’s white hair.

  “I’m here, Sire,” he tried again.

  The King paused in mid-kiss, peering round suspiciously, his eyes suddenly narrowing.

  “Who are you?” he said, for the first time looking directly at the child.

  “Charles, Sire. Your youngest son.”

  The monarch’s eyes narrowed even further. “Ah, the bastard! Come closer. Let me have a look at you.”

  Very alarmed, the boy managed a few more nervous steps towards the high chair.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the King, starting back in surprise. “What a terrible face. She should have kept her eyes away from gargoyles when she carried you. Which of her freaks was your father I wonder.”

  Charles gulped miserably, unable to answer.

  “You see, they think I don’t know,” Charles VI continued to the room in general. “They think I don’t know what goes on — but nothing escapes me, my little damsels of the night make sure of that.”

  The child stared at him uncomprehendingly while somewhere in the background one of the Monarch’s Gentlemen cleared his throat noisily.

  “For she’s a great and terrible whore,” roared the King suddenly, simultaneously standing up, so that Catherine went crashing to the floor, where she lay for a moment, stunned. “She fornicates with them all; dwarves, pimps, astrologers, pretty boys — all of them have known her. And my brother too. Didn’t you realise, you little bastards, that your uncle is sharing your mother’s bed?”

  Startled by the sudden noise, Catherine burst into floods of tears, crawling to where her brother stood trembling, a small cowed figure, and throwing her arms round him, then remaining unnaturally still.

  “And now there’s another member of her filthy brood,” the King screamed, stepping down from his dais, the saliva which flecked his lips spraying as he spoke. “She had a baby twelve days ago and thought she’d keep it secret by giving birth in her love nest. But she didn’t fool me. My pretty doxies told me all about it. It was another boy but it died soon after it was born. And the silly trollop thinks I don’t know. What a joke!”

  And with that the King began to rock with uncontrollable laughter, clutching his sides and bunching his cheeks, looking almost jolly as a result.

  Charles stood stricken, aware of his sister’s ice-cold body, of his own stabbing fear, of the fact that the King’s Principal Gentleman had left the group of male courtiers and was now advancing towards his sovereign.

  “Sire,” he was saying soothingly as he approached, “Sire, do not distress yourself. Let me accompany you to your chamber. Why don’t you rest for a while? Or perhaps take some refreshment? Shall I send for Lady dii Mesnil to remove the Count of Ponthieu and the Princess?”

  “No,” snarled the monarch, turning like a whip. “No, no, no. I’m having a good time.” And with that he snatched from its scabbard the jewelled dress sword which the Gentleman wore buckled round his waist, and whirled it over his head.

  “Help!” shrieked Catherine, coming out of her frozen state, and, scrambling to her feet, dragged Charles to the furthest comer of the room where they stood huddled.

  “So you want to play, my pretty bastard?�
� shrieked the King in a ghastly parody of fatherly love and, continuing to slash the sword through the air, charged to where the two children had pressed themselves against the stone wall.

  “Ah, it’s the hobgoblin,” he exclaimed, stopping short before Charles and crouching down to stare into the child’s face. “I swear I have never seen anything like it. It’s not human, this changeling. I wonder, might it look better if I cut off its ears?”

  In the distance Charles heard the whole group of male courtiers start to move cautiously forward.

  “What do you say?” the King persisted. “Shall I improve you, gargoyle?”

  “No, Sire, please,” answered the boy in stark terror and then, to his shame, began to scream at the top of his voice.

  Without turning to look at the party of people creeping up on him, the King suddenly hissed, “If one of you comes near I shall kill the Queen’s spawn now,” and he put the point of his sword to Charles’s throat.

  The boy was dimly conscious that his sister had lost all colour and was slumped against the wall like a lifeless doll, that Madame du Mesnil’s frantic face had appeared in the doorway, that beside her stood young Richemont and his companion. Then he closed his eyes, thinking he had arrived at the moment of death.

  “Catch,” called a sudden cheery voice, and peeping through almost closed lids Charles saw that the Earl had rushed into the room and was throwing a ball to his companion even while they darted about.

  “Catch yourself,” said the other, sending it back.

  “Catch as catch can,” replied Richemont nonsensically, and with that cavorted to where the King stood, still holding the hapless boy at bay.

  “A turn?” asked Richemont pleasantly, showing the King the ball.

  “Out!” screamed the monarch. “Get out!” and he started forward, menacing the Earl with the swishing sword. What Charles saw next was so quick that he was never quite sure afterwards that it had actually happened. A toe of one of Richemont’s fashionable pointed shoes was momentarily in the King’s path and there was a crash as Charles VI went flying, hitting the ground heavily then lying where he fell, eyeing the world malevolently. In a second his Gentlemen had surrounded him and those who lifted him up were also those who were strong enough to hold his arms by his sides and wrest the sword away.

  “Quick,” said Richemont. “It’s time for you to go,” and he snatched up the Count of Ponthieu, swinging the child off his feet, then turned to Catherine. “Give me your hand, Madame, and let’s be on our way.”

  Relief, gratitude, sudden end to danger, made Charles turn his sad little face into the Earl’s youthful shoulder and weep harder than ever.

  “Stop at once, Monsieur,” said Richemont briskly. “These clothes were a present from the English King, my stepfather, and I don’t want them ruined by your snot.”

  “Thank you for saving me,” whispered Charles. “You were so brave.”

  “Brave, nothing,” came the nonchalant reply. “I simply felt like playing ball.”

  “And that was all?”

  “All,” said Richemont as he handed the boy over to his governess.

  “My grateful thanks, Monsieur,” said Lady du Mesnil as she took her charges from the young man’s care. “I trust we will be seeing more of you at court now that you have returned from England. Perhaps then we can give you some token of our appreciation.”

  “Who knows?” answered Richemont casually. “I have no plans at present. I might stay and then again I might not.”

  “Well, God speed you whatever you decide.”

  “Au revoir,” said Charles to the departing figure.

  “A ton service,” replied the Earl, then smiled and was gone.

  In contrast to the Hotel St. Pol the Hotel Barbette was small, but it was here, amongst its gracious reception rooms and light airy towers that Isabeau of Bavaria — Queen Venus —had chosen to dwell, rarely visiting her husband’s palace and, when she did so, only with reluctance.

  It was also here that thirteen nights earlier, on 10th November 1407, she had given birth to her twelfth child, a boy, Philippe, who had lived only a day. If people conjectured about the paternity of her other children, particularly Charles, about this latest there could be no doubt. Her blatant affair with the Duke of Orleans was public knowledge, the couple appearing to glory in their flagrant liaison. But then, of course, for the charming Duke adultery was nothing new.

  It had been his pleasure in the past to have the walls of the gaming rooms in his various chateaux hung with portraits of his many mistresses, then invite their husbands to dine with him and admire the works of art.

  High-born ladies, clad only in their nether garments, were often seen being bundled from bedrooms when fathers and husbands had come unexpectedly to call. Wives of others suddenly became suspiciously pregnant, particularly the noble Yolande d’Enghien, whose son Jean was presently being brought up in the Duke’s household, publicly known as the Bastard of Orleans. And now the fantastic prince had formed a dissolute passion for his sister-in-law, a passion which she returned in full.

  Seeing Isabeau lying on a decorated couch, her black hair loose about her shoulders, a fortune in emeralds glittering at her white throat, Louis d’Orleans felt a thrill of lust as he bent to kiss her and caught a momentary glimpse of her tremendous breasts, supported on their ivory busks, the biggest and firmest he had ever come across in all his years as a womaniser.

  “You are beautiful, ma chérie,” he whispered.

  “But not yet churched,” she answered warningly, referring to the ceremony of ritual cleansing by priest after childbirth.

  “More’s the pity,” said Louis with a cynical smile that always made his mouth disconcertingly crooked.

  “Indeed,” she replied, a voluptuary to her fingertips and as eager as he was to share his bed once more. “But the birth was bad and the child weak. I must recover my strength.”

  “Certainly you shall,” said the Duke, pouring himself a goblet of wine. “So now let us consider other delights. Are we to dine privately?”

  “We are.”

  “Thank God,” he answered, slipping off his long-toed shoes. “This has been a difficult week. I’m in no mood for company.”

  “There will be a few friends present, my brother for one.”

  Louis raised a fine eyebrow. “Give him enough food and drink and he’ll ask for nothing more. As for anyone else, I shall ignore them.”

  “How churlish!” remonstrated Isabeau, but she was laughing, totally enamoured with this cultured and intelligent man who delighted as much as she did in every pleasure of the flesh. “Tell me why?”

  “Burgundy,” replied Louis shortly.

  “You have seen him?”

  “Worse! I had to kiss him! That terrible cold snake’s skin lay beneath my lips for a second. Mon Dieu, I thought I would vomit where I stood.”

  The Queen frowned slightly. “And that is all which has made you out of spirits?”

  Louis hesitated for a second, thinking, then said, “No, ma Reine. The death of our son has, of course, cut me to the quick.”

  “He was very small,” Isabeau answered quietly. “Poor tiny child.”

  The Duke d’Orleans nodded. “A tragedy.”

  But somehow it was hard to believe that the elegant rake who had scattered his seed so widely could find it in him to mourn a dead infant he had not even seen. Nor did Isabeau labour the point, afraid that he might ask her about Charles, the secret of whose paternity was not known even to her. For she had, by her own judgement, been even more naughty than usual at the time of his conception, drinking too much and allowing familiarities with those she would normally have spumed. Even the King had lain with her once at the relevant time, the final coupling they had shared, so that now whenever she looked at the hideous child, she felt a guilty hatred, furious that he had come along to torment her with memories of the past.

  As if he was reading her mind Louis said in a whisper, “But we have Charles.”
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  Isabeau hid her face in her wine cup. “Yes. Now tell me more of Burgundy.”

  D’Orleans looked dour. “My beloved cousin? He is as repellent as ever.”

  “But has good reason to hate you.”

  “He is jealous of me if that is what you mean.”

  “He covets your lands and your power most certainly. But obviously he did not take kindly to your ravishing his wife behind a tapestry, particularly at such a great reception.”

  The Duke smiled wickedly. “What a marvellous sensation that was. All those people assembled, the noise and the heat, and myself like a satyr, lunging at her for all I was worth just out of sight.”

  “You’re depraved,” said Isabeau.

  “Yes, so I am,” replied Louis, and they laughed together, at one in their love of sexual excess.

  “And she was always considered such a good little woman,” the Duke added when he had calmed somewhat. “Such a modest, well-behaved creature. I wish you could have seen Jean’s face when he found out. When he came calling on me and saw her portrait in my collection.”

  Just for a moment Isabeau looked serious. “But it brought about a blood feud, that little fornication of yours.”

  The Duke winked a glittering eye. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

  And it was true. Though Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, had envied his cousin’s wealth, territories, and position as unofficial Regent of France, it had taken his wife’s infidelity to push him over the edge into open warfare against the Duke of Orleans.

  “It was worth it though,” added that most dissolute of men. “It was so exciting.”

  “You obviously preferred coupling with her to our diversions,” snapped Isabeau, angry now.

  “Not at all,” answered Duke Louis earnestly. “The woman has such meagre dugs.”

  And that pleased Queen Venus, inordinately proud of her vast bosom, aware that the young fops of her court laid wagers as to whether it was the largest in all France.