by Deryn Lake
In the castle of Angers, the kitchens were ablaze with the light of fires and candles as the cooks and scullions prepared the Epiphany feast. This evening, it being a fast, only fish was to be served but the serious work of preparing tomorrow’s enormous banquet had begun hours since.
The Great Pie, consisting of a mixture of small game — peacocks, pigeons, herons, cranes, chickens, capons and geese, to name but a few — was being prepared, its vast hood of pastry already rolled; swans were being cased in paste and baked; three boars’ heads, already smoked, were now being glazed and decorated; neats’ tongues were in the oven; boars, calves, kids and pigs were turning on the spits; a fresh ox was being doused in herbs; while two great cauldrons of frumenty to go with the venison — the eggs, cream and saffron bubbling thickly together — were suspended above the fire by sturdy hooks.
In the great hall of the castle the plain fare of tench, eels, pikes and gurnet, ling, hake, herrings and barr, to say nothing of the mountainous plates of shrimps and shellfish, glistening with oysters and boasting mussels galore, was ready on the table. And as the Chancellor bade the minstrels play, wine cups were raised; Christmas had formally begun.
Yet one face was missing from the feast. The Duchess of Anjou was not present, still enjoying her state visit to Charles, Duke of Lorraine, with whom, no doubt, she would be keeping a most merry Twelve Days. In her absence Yolande’s health was drunk, as it would be every night of Christmas, particularly heartily on New Year’s Eve, celebrated on 11th January, and Twelfth Night which fell on the 17th.
“I wonder,” said the Duchess with just a hint of acerbity, “if they are drinking my health at home — or if they are too busy feasting and have already forgotten about me.”
“You shouldn’t say those words, Madame,” answered Alison, who sat opposite her at the far end of a trestle dining-table, the firelight throwing dark red shadows on her hair. “That could never be the case. But then I think you know that well and are just feeling a little sorry for yourself.”
“You are very familiar, you know,” retorted Yolande, with no real anger.
“That is because I love you, ma Reine, and have no desire to see you depressed. After all, we have arrived here safely; we were not attacked by war parties on the way; the Duke of Lorraine believes you may well have the plague and is leaving you alone; and the master cook and scullions, to say nothing of the cleaning women, are terrified to come near you. I would have thought our plan had succeeded admirably.”
After a moment Yolande nodded, stretching out her hand towards the girl. “You are right, my dear. And it can be no fun for you being cooped up here with me, virtually living the life of a prisoner.”
“I owe you everything,” Alison answered simply. “I am your creature and will serve you all my days. I enjoy caring for you.”
“With no thought for yourself?” Yolande’s tone was mildly teasing.
Alison lowered her eyes, the candlelight concealing her flushed face.
“Even as a child, ma Reine, I believed that one day I would leave the streets of Angers and become a grand lady, living in a grand house, with a great man to love me. It was more than a belief, in fact, for sometimes I actually thought I could see a vision of that future. I confess I did snatch at the chance to help the dream come true by offering to serve you, but that in no way diminishes my loyalty. That is all I have to say.”
“I’m sorry,” answered the Duchess, humbled. “It was wrong of me to speak thus.”
“Thank you, Madame.” Alison raised her glass. “I drink to the future of all present, including…” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “…the baby.”
Yolande smiled sadly. “Poor little thing. I will try to do my best for it.”
“And so will I when I go in search of the foster parents.”
“You must be very careful in your choice, Alison. Everything depends on you selecting them wisely.”
“I will choose them as if I were you yourself, Majesty.”
“If only I could go looking with you,” the Regent answered with a note of despair. “But the risk would be too great.”
“It would indeed. I shall pretend that it is I who have sinned and am desperate to hide the proof of my adultery…” Yolande flinched but Alison, cheerfully unaware, went on speaking.
“…then I can tell them with authority how well they must care for the child for whose keep, of course, they will believe I pay.”
“And they will be well paid,” the Duchess added earnestly.
Alison left her place, going to stand by the Regent and putting her arm round the other woman’s shoulders.
“Please trust me, Madame. I promise to find a couple who will love the baby as if it were their own.”
A tear ran down Yolande’s cheek. “Yes, Alison, please try hard. For the sake of the child and its father we must give it a good home.”
“Its father…Alison whispered to herself, conjecturing about his identity for the millionth time.
“I wonder where he is now,” the Duchess went on, another tear joining the first. “And if he ever thinks of me.”
The Eve of Christmas in Brittany, and Duke Jean and his court sitting down to a feast par excellence, all the fruits the sea could yield up served before them, every superb dish their emerald coast could provide laid on gleaming platters, fancifully decorated to delight their gaze, crammed onto the many trestles packing the great hall.
Only the master of ceremonies himself, Arthur, Earl of Richmond, seemed not to be tempted by the banquet and sat drinking much and eating little, worrying his brother who from time to time shot him inquisitive glances down the length of the high table.
‘So he is still in love.’ thought Jean, and wondered yet again who might be the object of Richemont’s affections.
The Duke had taken the trouble to place his brother next to Jacquetta of Luxemburg, Jean of Luxemburg’s thirteen-year-old daughter, with the hope that she might awake a spark of interest in him, though at the moment Arthur was showing no sign of life, gazing off into space and nervously turning the gold ring he always wore on his little finger.
The girl on the other hand, or so Jean thought, was more than aware of her companion, her beautiful eyes, which always seemed to have a flicker of amusement in their depths, hardly leaving Richemont’s face.
“Oh, come on!” hissed Duke Jean, wishing he could influence events.
But for once the Earl of Richmond did not pick up his brother’s thought processes, almost unaware of the girl who sat beside him, his mind too full of images of Yolande, wondering how she might be spending her Christmas Eve — and with whom!
“…completely naked.”
The words startled Richemont back to the present and he frowned at Jacquetta in surprise. “What did you say?” he asked abruptly, not really caring if he was being rude.
“I said that if you don’t talk to me soon I shall take off my clothes and dance upon the table completely naked. That might arouse your interest at least.”
He smiled despite himself. “Yes, I think it probably would.”
“Then shall I?” She seemed serious.
“No, no. It would shock the other guests.”
“And you, would it shock you, my Lord?”
“I don’t imagine so. I consider myself a man of the world.”
Jacquetta smiled knowingly. “Of course. I forgot. You are a member of the licentious soldiery. Have you slept with dozens of women?”
“Hundreds,” answered Richemont, finally entering into the spirit of the conversation. “I’ve had more women than you’ve had nightmares, as they say.”
The girl clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! I love experienced men.”
“I take it from this that you are not married?”
“Not yet, but heavily betrothed. I shall be a bride next year. He is hideous, by the way, and I shall shut my eyes when I have to go to bed with him.”
“That’s a pity for you.”
“Don�
��t worry,” Jacquetta lowered her voice to a mutter. “I intend to have many lovers to make up for it.”
Richemont laughed, suddenly amused, and further up the table Duke Jean heaved a sigh of relief and finally started to concentrate on his meal.
“And you, you are the gallant Earl of Richmond are you not? And not wed either.”
“No, I was betrothed when I was a boy to a woman many years older than I, twenty-five to my eleven in fact, but she died.”
“Before consummation?”
“Yes, you cheeky chit.”
“That’s a pity, you could have learnt much from her.”
“I think not, she was very frail and tragic.”
“I would like to learn from an experienced man,” said Jacquetta, giving Richemont a look that made him go warm. “You should be careful to whom you say that.”
“I am careful to whom I say it, I assure you.”
“I really think we should change the topic of conversation. Tell me about your family.”
Jacquetta gave a knowing smile. “I take after my aunt, of course, my mother Marguerite d’Enghien’s sister, Yolande. Despite being married she had an affair with the late Due d’Orleans and bore him a son, known as the Bastard of Orleans. Have you met my cousin?”
“Oh, yes, I know the Bastard well. He is close to his half-brother Duke Charles d’Orleans.”
“I hear he has connections with the house of Anjou.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just connections.”
She pulled a face and said nothing more, leaving Richemont with the awful feeling that the handsome Bastard, young though he was, might be one of Yolande’s lovers.
“Are you all right, my Lord?” For the first time Jacquetta’s voice had lost its provocative undertone.
“Why do you ask?”
“You’re sweating suddenly.”
“It’s just that I am hot. If you will excuse me I think I’ll go out for some air.”
“Ill join you,” Jacquetta answered instantly.
Richemont rose and gave a bow, “Please do.”
“Gladly,” she said, and inclined her head.
It was politeness only, he cared nothing as to whether the forward minx walked with him or not. So it was with a feeling of slight annoyance that Richemont caught his ducal brother’s eye and saw a hint of a wink before Jean studiously looked away. But despite his irritation, Arthur of Richmond offered the girl his arm and was surprised how good it felt as her little bosom brushed against it. For the first time, as they left the great hall and stepped out onto the paved walkway that ran along the lower battlements, he looked at her properly. Jacquetta was so stunningly beautiful, her presence in a room being almost an insult to every other woman there, that Richemont wondered how he could possibly have ignored her for so long. Her figure was small, delicate, as befitted her extreme youth, but the breasts, though tiny, were both shapely and lovely, while her eyes were particularly wonderful, an unusual shade, like the wild violets that grew in profusion throughout the woods of Brittany. To crown her perfect features, Jacquetta’s hair, which Richemont could glimpse beneath her fashionable head-dress, made of soft padded rolls of material decorated with cut out leaf shapes, was a glorious shade of gold.
“Well, you’ve looked at me at last,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“You are a very beautiful girl.”
Jacquetta gave a laugh. “But you don’t really care for me.”
Richemont felt embarrassed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You had no need. Your mind has been elsewhere all the evening as, indeed, has mine.”
Not knowing how to answer, the Earl merely stared at her.
“You see I can read you,” Jacquetta went on, tucking her arm more firmly through his. “I, too, have been crossed in love.”
“Really?” Richemont was astonished at such frankness.
“Yes. I was taken to England when I was eleven and there fell in love with John of Lancaster. Do you know him?”
“Casually, yes.”
“Then you will be aware of how magnificent he is.”
“Well…yes.”
It had never occurred to Richemont that his middle stepbrother, full brother to Prince Henry, was anything out of the ordinary. But Jacquetta was not waiting for a reply.
“Of course we will never be allowed to marry. As I have already told you my father has chosen someone else who is politically more expedient. But that will not stop me loving John for the rest of my days.”
The Earl gazed at her. ‘That is very much how I feel,” he said quietly.
Jacquetta’s lovely eyes took on a speculative expression. “Would I know the lady?”
“I doubt it. But even if you did I should not tell you who she was.”
She laughed prettily, and squeezed Arthur’s arm. “How discreet you are! I am such a gossip I simply cannot keep a thing to myself. How would you like to come to my apartment for a chat? My sisters are still at the banquet.”
Richemont gazed in amazement, wondering exactly how to interpret the remark and, as if to leave him without doubt, Jacquetta stood on tiptoe and rapidly kissed his cheek.
“We orphans of love might just as well comfort one another,” she whispered. “I meant it when I said I liked experienced men.”
The Earl had hardly been celibate since he had parted from Yolande, determined to pay the Regent back in her own coin, and this new adventure had every prospect of being delightful even though the girl was rather young.
“Madame, you honour me too much,” he answered, tightening his hold on her.
“And honour me you certainly shall,” answered Jacquetta without a moment’s hesitation, and kissed him again, but this time full on the lips.
It was one of the best Christmas Eves that the Queen of France could remember. Not only did the fish and wine for supper promise to be of the highest quality but, since Martinmas, she had discovered the Duke of Burgundy to be an even more exciting lover than she had at first imagined. Fearing Armagnac may attack at any time he had taken to keeping his boots on in bed, a variation which both thrilled and delighted Isabeau. So much so, in fact, she had plans to attend her Feast of Venus, planned for Twelfth Night, as booted and spurred as he.
Conversation, too, on this particular 5th January had proved stimulating, for Jean the Fearless had arrived that morning with a witty young man, twenty-nine-year-old Georges de la Trémoille, son of one of Isabeau’s former lovers. In order to remind herself of the father she had invited the son to her chamber for an hour or two, with excellent results. With so many capable men around her the Feast of Venus looked fraught with possibilities!
The one blight to the Queen’s enjoyment had been the fact that the necessary evils of Christmas, the obligations to attend Mass and to see one’s children, could not be avoided. She had sighed deeply as the young people had come trooping into her presence, complete with wives in the case of Louis the Dauphin and Jean, Duke of Touraine. These two were now fifteen and fourteen respectively, behaving more badly than ever, Louis as promiscuous as his mother and furious that he must restrain himself under the eagle eye of his father-in-law, the Duke of Burgundy. As if to annoy his elder brother, Touraine, in contrast, had chased every female in sight, reducing his young wife, Jacqueline of Bavaria, a large ungainly girl with a red face, to constant and copious tears.
“Be quiet!” Isabeau had thundered at the creature, to whom she was close kin. “Turn a blind eye, do you hear me? That is the duty of all royal wives.”
“And in your case obviously of royal husbands too,” the girl had dared to retort, and had received a smarting blow round the head for her temerity.
In the midst of this chaos, Catherine and Charles, she having recently celebrated her tenth birthday, he approaching his ninth, sat quietly together playing chess. Earlier in the day, one of the Queen’s Ladies had offered them food and drink, which they had gladly taken, but since then th
ey had made as few demands as possible, anxious to keep out of the domestic dramas erupting all around them. Yet even this discreet behaviour could not guarantee their safety when, after leaving for a light midday repast, Isabeau returned sparkling with wine.
Charles now knew that he hated his mother, dreaded the moment when her gleaming dark eyes would alight on him. He was no longer too young to understand her taunts about his ugliness, nor the murmured whispers that he was a bastard, son of the man he had once thought of as uncle. In his wilder moments the wretched boy cherished the idea of his mother silently dropping dead at his feet while he muttered some deep and heartfelt curse. And today was no exception. As Isabeau came into her receiving hall on the arm of Jean the Fearless, Charles took his sister’s queen, squeezing the chess piece hard in his hand and whispering, “I wish this were my mother.”
The Queen took her place in her great chair — great in every sense as it had now been especially widened and strengthened to accommodate her bulk — and stared round the room. The Count of Ponthieu shuddered, then looked away as Isabeau called, “Catty, come here, ma chérie. I want to talk to you.”
Thankfully, Charles bent his head over the chessboard, hoping that nobody would notice him while, her eyes cast to the ground, Catherine silently made her way to where their mother sat.
“My sweetheart, you are so pretty,” Isabeau was saying, heaving her daughter onto her knee. “How can it be that such a beauty will be the last one to leave home?”
“What do you mean?” Catherine had forgotten to be ingratiating in her obvious surprise.
“Simply that you are the only one of my children whose marriage I have not yet arranged.”
From where he sat, Charles began to listen hard.
“And the strangest thing about it…” Isabeau went on, “…is that you are the best looking of them all. So what do you make of that, daughter?”
“That you must be saving me for the greatest prize,” Catherine answered pertly, and there was a roar of approval from everyone in the room, particularly la Trémoille who slapped his leg and shouted with laughter.
He was a fat young man, barely of medium height, and had enormous buttocks, thighs and genitals, none of which were concealed by his tight parti-coloured hose, over-short doublet, and scanty codpiece. As with many fat people he insisted on wearing the latest fashions regardless of the fact that they did not suit him. But Georges’s face was pleasant enough; round, with an easy smile and lazy light brown eyes which twinkled as he talked. He also had a cutting wit and was dagger-sharp in conversation. The Dauphin and Duke of Touraine hung on his every word, while Catherine and Charles found him amiable and not unkind.