The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  “But, Madame, surely…”

  “Do it!” answered the Queen through gritted teeth.

  The captain knew that tone, knew that it was more than his future was worth to protest further. Staying on horseback, he directed his mount through the crowd to where the charlatan was selling bottles as quickly as he could pass them over.

  Watching from her hiding-place, Isabeau saw every stage of the bargaining and smiled in triumph when the man, having gasped at the sheer size and quality of the ring, nodded his head in agreement. A few minutes later, having assured himself that the last of his customers had straggled from the square, the mountebank produced the hunchback from under the table, cuffing the poor wretch about the head as he did so.

  “But I can’t leave my brother,” the child was sobbing. “Please don’t send me away.”

  “Shut up, you little monster. A rich lady has bought you and you should be grateful. You are to serve her well, do you hear?”

  The healthy twin, alarmed by the commotion, hurried over and also started to cry, the noise becoming so unbearable that Isabeau was forced to put her hands over her ears.

  “Tell them to stop that terrible din,” she shouted from within her litter. “Say that I will go now, the bargain unstruck, if they are not silent at once.”

  “Do you hear that, snivellers?” said the mountebank, knocking the boys’ heads painfully together.

  They nodded and began to weep silently, a more pathetic sight unbelievable.

  “I’ll take them both,” Isabeau announced by way of putting an end to it. “The strong one will make a useful servant. And I want no argument from you, charlatan. That ring was more than enough for the pair of them. So hand them to my captain at once. He will go with them to the Hotel Barbette and see that they are fumigated.”

  “The Hotel Barbette?” said the mountebank, slipping down on one knee. “Oh, Majesty, what an honour.”

  “Rubbish!” snorted Isabeau. “Now, for the love of God let us be off. I have wasted enough time on this escapade as it is.”

  And with that her bright little cavalcade made haste over the cobbles leaving the two dirty urchins staring tremulously in the direction in which the Queen had gone.

  It was a brave sight as the army of Charles, Duke of Orleans, marched out from his capital city and headed eastward, following the line of the great river Loire. Beside Charles rode his fearsome father-in-law. Short, squat, his hair cut so close to his head that it was a mass of bristles, his small eyes regarding the world ferociously, Count Bernard d’Armagnac was a creature whose very look rung the knell of doom for civilisation. And it was not revenge for the murder of his friend Louis d’Orleans that was really the nub of this matter but something far less honourable and fine. The truth was that Bernard wanted power, wanted to seize the sword of state for himself and would fight to the very feet of the mad King’s throne in order to get it, aware as he was that if he did not make a move first, Jean the Fearless of Burgundy would surely do so.

  As far as these two mighty magnates were concerned this war was really a show of strength, winner taking all, including the realm of France. For the rightful King, that wreck of humanity who simply refused to die, they had no feelings other than to wish him swiftly gone, his sons with him. So it was with these terrible ideals, the leaders of both sides lusting for riches and supremacy, that the civil war which was almost to ruin France began. And what hope was there for a country the reins of whose government lay within the terrible grasp of a lunatic and a libertine?

  The Armagnacs had white for their favours, and white ribbons tied upon their escutcheons and standards which bore the slogan, ‘This is Justice!”, a hollow cry indeed. But as they passed through the villages of Sully and Gien, each built round the foot of its formidable chateau, the peasants turned out to stare at the jingling cavalcade, white pennants fluttering in the brisk breeze blowing from the river. Some gave a cheer, little knowing that they were about to be plunged into a conflict so dark that it would take years for them and their poor country to recover from its savagery.

  In the council meeting of the Duchy of Anjou, the news that the Duke of Orleans had finally mobilised was received in silence, nobody stirring for several minutes as the fact sank in. Then it was the Seneschal, big and gruff and forceful, who rose to his feet and said, “Majesty, my Lords, gentlemen, this situation is potentially dangerous to the province. I propose that we send extra men to our borders.”

  “But at the moment there is no direct threat,” answered Yolande from her high chair.

  “Indeed, ma Reine. At the moment there is none. But civil war is exactly what it says. Bands of soldiers can very soon be reduced to bands of brigands, terrorising the countryside. It is my view that the Seigneurs of Burgundy and Armagnac are capable of fighting anywhere the fancy takes them and a poorly protected border will be considered as an open invitation to maraud.”

  The Duchess nodded, saying nothing, and the Seneschal sat down, watching her as she contemplated her reply. He thought that she had got very thin since the spring, the bones in her face almost visible and the skin over them stretched tightly, giving her a delicate transparent look.

  ‘In fact,’ considered the Seneschal, ‘Madame Yolande looks far from well. She is doing too much.’

  But the Regent’s voice when she finally spoke was as confident and in control as ever. “My Lords, it is my view that the Seneschal is right. I suggest that archers are sent to all our vulnerable posts for there is no way in which we can tolerate an invasion of our territory, nor can we allow Anjou to participate in the battle between the Dukes of Burgundy and Orleans.”

  The Chancellor, Robert le Maçon, gave a dry laugh and called out, “For Orleans read Armagnac. Young Charles would never have issued a challenge if his father-in-law hadn’t worn him down like a stone.”

  Yolande permitted the interruption, fond of her Chestnut Chancellor as she thought of him, everything about le Maçon being that colour, from his cropped hair to his large and elegant shoes.

  “Be that as it may, my Lord, the challenge has been issued and accepted, the war has begun. And in the case of civil strife other parties can easily get drawn in as you well know. Yet let me state clearly it is not my wish to see Anjou taking sides.”

  “Fine words, my lady, fine words,” whispered Robert. “But just you wait till one or other of them upsets you, then we’ll see.”

  “Did you say something?” Yolande enquired politely.

  “No, Madame, I was simply clearing my throat,” answered the Chancellor, and bowed from the waist to where she sat in the chair of state.

  “Then in that case I would ask you, Chancellor, Seneschal, gentlemen, to listen to my messenger, Pierre de Giac, who has recently returned from Paris and can apprise us of the latest situation there.”

  From a seat at the back of the hall de Giac rose, taking in the assembly with a single sweeping look.

  “My Lords, first of all may I give you greeting from the sovereign lady of France, Queen Isabeau.”

  From out of sight, somebody gave a hearty chortle and the Seneschal, who once again was observing the Duchess, saw her lips twitch at the comers.

  “That gracious Queen,” de Giac went on, his piercing eyes

  angrily raking the crowd, trying to identify the offender, “fears for the future of France and has striven to maintain peace between the two sides in this conflict.”

  “Can’t make up her mind which would be the better bet, eh?” replied the same hidden voice.

  “Gentlemen, please!” Yolande interrupted sharply, raising her eyebrows and looking round.

  “Shall I continue, Majesty?” De Giac was staring directly at her.

  “Please do. Let the man have a hearing in peace, my Lords.”

  “There will never be peace for a Satanist,” the unknown speaker countered.

  “That’s enough,” roared de Giac, “come from your hiding place, you son of a whore, and let me thrash the liver out of you.”


  Yolande, unusually pale to start with, went the colour of a lily, wondering if there could be any truth in the accusation of devil worship. “This behaviour is unforgivable,” she said in a terrifying whisper that was far more effective than a shout. “Seneschal, clear the assembly. And let those who make mock of the Ducal Council by using it to slander and threaten be warned.”

  Only de Giac looked unperturbed as the Lord de Beauvau growled, “Out with you now,” and lumbered to the doorway where he remained standing until everyone had filed out, everyone that is except for Pierre. Standing up, proudly displaying an extremely short tunic with long trailing sleeves which he had obtained in Paris, so short indeed that it barely concealed a formidable black codpiece, de Giac sauntered casually in the direction of the chair of state. Hardly moving his head, the Seneschal glanced over to Yolande, brows raised in a secret signal, and she nodded imperceptibly.

  “No further,” said de Beauvau. “You are dismissed too. Off you go, Monsieur.”

  “But I must speak with the Duchess.”

  “She will see you tomorrow. Goodbye, Monsieur de Giac.”

  It was useless to protest, the Seneschal was almost as broad as he was long and his resemblance to a bear did not end with his massive frame and mane of brown hair. For now his lips drew back from his strong, rather yellowish teeth, in a smile which somehow resembled a snarl.

  “At what time shall I attend her?” asked Pierre as insolently as he dared.

  “One of Madame’s ladies will let you know.”

  “Then I’d best say au revoir,” de Giac called to the silent figure in the high chair, and made a fulsome bow.

  Yolande nodded by way of acknowledgement but did not say a word and there was nothing left for him to do but leave the great hall and head for the Guests’ Lodging, which is what Pierre reluctantly did.

  “Tell me, Lord de Beauvau,” said Yolande softly as the fashionably dressed young man disappeared from view, “does he truly celebrate Black Mass?”

  “I’m afraid so,” answered the Seneschal, approaching the chair of state and helping the Regent down. “Come, Madame, you look tired. Let me escort you to your Lodging,” and he gave her his arm.

  She smiled gratefully and as they emerged into the daylight de Beauvau was struck afresh by the Duchess’s fragility and the whiteness of her skin.

  “Excuse me, ma Reine, but I believe I know you well enough to ask if you are presently in good health,” he said gently.

  Yolande looked nervous, the first time that the Seneschal had ever seen such a thing, but answered, “I am, yes. But I must admit to being exhausted. I have been sleeping badly this last week or two.”

  “Then get to bed now, have an early night, please rest. Madame, you are very precious to us all, you know.”

  “How good you are, Lord Seneschal,” the Duchess replied, but de Beauvau had the oddest feeling that the Suzeraine was thinking of something else.

  They had been crossing Nobles’ Court while they spoke and now had reached the doorway leading to the King’s apartments.

  “Goodnight, ma Reine,” said the Seneschal, kissing her hand.

  “Goodnight, my Lord,” she answered, then smiled and hurried in through the arched doorway. But once inside and hidden from view Yolande’s entire aspect changed. Her hand flew to her throat, her lips trembled, her eyes glassed over as tears welled down her colourless cheeks.

  “Oh, mon Dieu, what shall I do?” she muttered, trembling as she unsteadily climbed the spiral staircase that led to her private apartments. “What will become of me? How can I emerge from this with any honour left?”

  For the fact was, and there was no escaping it, that there had been no monthly flux from her body since the night she and Richemont had spent together. And there were other signs too: her breasts were tender, the smell of certain food gave her a feeling of nausea, in fact everything pointed to her having conceived the Earl’s child during those ardent hours they had spent together.

  In other circumstances Yolande would have been proud to have borne a baby created in such ecstasy, would have faced the world boldly and without shame. But she was no ordinary woman, no peasant girl who could bring up a love child in the security of her family. She was the Queen of Sicily whose husband had been away fighting to regain his lands, and so could not possibly be the father of that fragile thing growing within. A royal husband, too, who would be humiliated beyond measure to learn that his wife had spent the night with a boy of seventeen who had succeeded in making her pregnant.

  The situation was desperate in its terrible implications, yet despite it all Yolande knew for certain that she could never drink those evil substances made to procure an abortion, would rather leave Anjou for ever than damage Richemont’s child. Weeping pitifully, the Duchess blindly made her way to her bedroom and lay down in the brightness of that late afternoon.

  She must have slept straight away for when she next opened her eyes the pinkness had gone from the day and her room gleamed red. Suppressing an involuntary sob, Yolande got up and went to look out of the window.

  The sun hung like a fireball above the river, which flowed the colour of life’s precious blood, while the distant hills were scarcely visible for a haze of damson. The sky was lucent, festooned with strips of cloud, bright banners of gold and rose engraved against its vivid blue. The cross on the spire of the Abbey of St. Nicolas, built amongst the verdant pastures of the right bank, suddenly gleamed as it caught the rays of the sun, while in the fishing village upstream a silver-scaled catch, just being hauled ashore, glittered like rubies. Yolande drew breath at the sight of it all and unconsciously her hand went to her body, almost as if she could transmit to the child the glory of such an evening.

  A loud knock on the door had the Duchess turning rapidly, rubbing her face with a dampened handkerchief lest the tell-tale signs of tears still lingered. But the effort was in vain, for her principal lady hurried in, peered at her, then said anxiously, “Ma Reine, you look ill. Have you a headache?”

  “Yes, yes,” Yolande lied desperately. “I am really not well at all. Could you help me prepare for bed, Jacqueline?”

  “But of course, Madame. Would you like me to send for your physician?”

  “No!” answered Yolande, a shade too quickly. “That will not be necessary. If you would fetch me a cool drink I shall retire immediately.”

  Lady Sarrazin stood hesitating. “There is just one thing, ma Reine…”

  “And what is that?”

  “An unexpected visitor has arrived who has most particularly requested an audience with you. He says that he is going off to fight, that he has joined the Armagnac cause and must see you to say farewell.”

  Even before she had asked the question Yolande knew the answer and had sat down on the bed in order to prepare herself.

  “And who might this visitor be?” she asked, her voice expressionless.

  “Monsieur the Earl of Richmond, Madame. He came an hour ago and is presently in the Guests’ Lodging.”

  The Duchess looked at her wearily. “I do not feel like receiving visitors tonight. Perhaps you could get word sent that I cannot see him.”

  “But I did that once before, Madame, and he forced his way in, do you remember?”

  “Indeed I do,” answered Yolande and turned her face away.

  “Well, I’ll see to it he won’t be getting up to those tricks again!” Jacqueline replied briskly. “Now, Madame, let me help you undress. Shall I light a fire in case it gets cold in the night?”

  Yolande nodded in silence, the words going round in her brain. Cold in the night! It hadn’t been cold when Richemont had held her. It hadn’t been cold when he had made love to her, mingling his body with hers. It hadn’t been cold when he had given her the child she now carried in her womb. And yet he was here, under the same roof, and she must send him away without setting eyes on him, the one person who had filled her heart with the love it constantly craved.

  As the door closed behind Jacq
ueline Sarrazin, bustling off to get the things her mistress had asked for, the Duchess, with a mighty effort of will, dragged herself to her desk and sat there, picking up a pen, thinking that she seemed to do nothing but send letters to Richemont when all she wanted was to hold him in her arms.

  “Oh, I love him, how I love him,” she said to the blank stone wall as she started to write.

  ‘My dear Richemont,’ Yolande began, wishing she were able to put, ‘My dearest love’.

  ‘It is more than kind of you to visit me at Angers but, alas, I feel it would not be wise for us to meet on this occasion. I pray that God will be with you now you are taking up arms for the Armagnac cause and that you will return safely to your brother. Sincerely your friend. Yolande R.’

  Sending him away to war without a word was a vile thing to do, she knew it well, but what other alternative was there if she was to protect his child, herself and, above all, the baby’s father, the Earl of Richmond?

  Even as she put her seal into the wax Yolande could imagine his face, so flawless and so vulnerable, as he read those cruel words. Would it kill his love for her? she wondered, prepared to take that chance. For her husband, Duke Louis, was due to return early next year and by that time all trace of lover and child must vanish.

  Slowly, the Duchess rose from her desk and seemed to fall the distance to her bed, stretching herself full length and closing her eyes. But as Lady Sarrazin returned, Yolande made one find effort, sitting up and holding out the letter.

  “Jacqueline, I have scribbled a note for Monsieur the Earl. Be sure that he gets it straightaway.”

  “Shall I tell him you will see him tomorrow, Madame?”

  “Say nothing. I think perhaps he might be leaving soon.” If Jacqueline guessed anything of the truth she did not show it, merely taking the sealed document and leaving the room as bidden, not even waiting to help the Duchess undress and put on her shift. But when she returned a quarter of an hour later, the letter safely delivered to the Earl, she saw that her mistress had managed to prepare herself for the night and was now fast asleep, lying amidst her shining coils of hair, the pillow still damp with Yolande’s newly shed tears.