by Deryn Lake
“Monsieur le Comte?” said the man, bowing slightly.
“Yes. Monsieur Flamel?”
“I am. Do me the honour, Monsieur, if you will, of accompanying me to my library,” and with that the Grand Master held out his hand.
To say that Charles was drawn against his will would not have been quite the case yet at that moment the boy knew as he slowly ascended that he could not have refused even had he wanted to. Tilting his head back, Charles stared directly into those colourless eyes and saw there not only wisdom but great shrewdness.
“So you have decided to trust me?”
And the alchemist smiled, all the lines on his face suddenly etched in, confirming that he had indeed reached a considerable age.
“I think so,” Charles answered cautiously and Flamel laughed, a curious rich sound that had a love of life in its depths.
Together they mounted the rest of the stairs and walked the length of a stone-flagged passageway into the room that lay at the end. Here a great fire glowed in the hearth, throwing its crimson light on the thousands of books that lined the walls, playing over the jars, bottles and retorts that stood on a table at the far end.
“Will you sit, Monsieur?” said Flamel and indicated one of the two chairs which stood on either side of the fireplace. “May I offer you some wine?”
Charles was tempted to ask if it was drugged but thought it too impolite, instead nodding silently and watching as the alchemist poured a dark red liquid into two silver cups. Slightly relieved that Flamel had taken some from the same jug, Charles sipped, relishing the pleasant taste.
“Do not be afraid,” the alchemist said softly. “There is nothing in there to hurt you. I apologise for sending your governess to sleep but I assure you she will wake refreshed and well.”
“Thank you,” answered Charles solemnly.
“And now you will want to know, and rightly, who I am and why I have asked you here.”
“Yes.”
“I will begin if I may by telling you something of my past life…”
Charles nodded, attempting to look both wise and sensible.
“I am a Parisian, born in the city and proud of it. Educated here too, and starting my career in the Latin Quarter as a scribe, writing letters and documents for those who had not that skill. As you might well imagine, Monsieur, many interesting papers passed through my hands and through them I began to acquire knowledge of many different and fascinating things. And then one day I came across something which changed my entire life.”
“What was it?” Charles found that he was listening intently.
“A book came into my possession with a strange and intriguing name.” Flamel paused and took a mouthful of wine, and Charles noticed the gleaming eyes observing him closely. “It was called The Sacred Book of Abraham the Jew, Prince, Priest, Levite, Astrologer and Philosopher to that Tribe of Jews who by the Wrath of God were Dispersed amongst the Gauls.”
“Well, I think that is a terrible title if I may say so,” Charles answered truthfully.
Flamel laughed his rich laugh. “It was terrible in every sense. I pored over that book for twenty-one years without being able to understand its meaning and then, one day, I met a Christian Jew in Leon and he told me the key to its mystery.” The man’s face changed, his features seeming to melt and re-form into those of another even while Charles watched in profound amazement.
“I returned to Paris and put into practice all that I had learned and as a result achieved my first successful alchemical transmogrification.”
“What do you mean?”
“I changed one substance into another.”
Charles’s mouth fell open. “Not lead to gold?”
Flamel’s face flickered. “That is a question I cannot answer. Let me just say that the discovery enabled me to become a philanthropist, endowing hospitals and churches and giving alms to the poor.”
“And is all this linked with your being a Grand Master?”
“In a way, yes. A great lady, a princess of Navarre who was also an alchemist, became my patron. She was the Grand Master of a secret order. When she died she passed that honour to me.”
“And what is this order called?”
“You shall be told the name when you are a man. You will shortly meet the one who is to tell you and recognise him by the fact that his little finger is almost the same length as his fourth.”
“Oh!” said Charles. “And how will he know the name?”
“Because it is already decreed that he will be the new Grand Master when I die.”
The boy stared in astonishment. “Did you bring me here to tell all this?”
“No, there is more.”
Flamel rose and, going to a large carved wooden desk, unlocked a drawer and took out a sheaf of papers, striking them with his fingers as he returned to his seat.
“These documents contain the story of your life, Monsieur. I have drafted them from the time of your birth. They contain what is called your zodiacal chart.”
“I see.”
“In them the path of your destiny is clearly shown. But I must warn you that we are all masters of our fate. Though greatness lies waiting for you it is up to you to follow its path.”
The boy simply stared, unable to think of a word to say.
“You were born under the sign of the two Great Fishes and as a result will develop a complex character, secretive, elusive, and difficult to truly know. But these characteristics will be of enormous advantage to you in the difficult years that lie ahead. For the truth is, Monsieur le Comte, that if you follow the course which fate intends, it is you who have been chosen to become the future King of France.”
Charles felt a shiver seize his spine and his eyes filled with tears of fear. “But how could such a thing come about? I have two brothers both older than I.”
A faint frown crossed Flamel’s misty features. “It would not be right that I reveal the answer to you. You are still too young to know. But hear this part well, Charles, I beg of you. You must fight to keep your birthright, you must claw your way tooth and nail to see this civil war over, and you must not stop until the English are driven from our soil. It is God’s will that you do this because it is foretold that you, Charles the Victorious, will lead France out of decay to its rebirth.”
The boy sobbed, trembling, overwhelmed by what he was hearing.
Flamers voice rose. “You are the chosen one and you must fulfil your destiny.”
“But I am small and ugly and nobody listens to me,” Charles answered in awful terror.
“You will be helped, by many different people in fact. But there are three particular women more important than the rest. It will be up to you to accept what they can help you achieve.”
“Who are they?”
“One is a tall queen, another a virgin bringing a rose, and the third will be beauty to your beast.”
Flamel’s face began to change again and the boy saw the features of the alchemist reappearing. “I am tiring. The message is over. I shall be leaving Paris soon to escape the bloodshed. Stay true, Charles, stay true…”
His voice died away and the Grand Master’s eyes closed.
“Monsieur Flamel?” said Charles anxiously. “Monsieur Flamel, please! There is much more I need to ask you.”
But it was no use, the alchemist’s clairvoyance was at an end and Charles found that he was simply looking at an old man asleep in a chair by the fire.
With a great sigh he got to his feet and stealthily went to pick up the papers which had fallen from Flamel’s hand to the floor and now lay open on one particular page.
“Within Charles, whose destiny it is to bring about the birth of a new France, lie many men, each one a secret and extraordinary character. This child born on 22nd February 1403, may yet resist the greatness which could be his but, whatever the outcome, he is fated to die on
It was enough! The boy dropped the papers as if they had burnt his hands and rushed from the room and down the stai
rs, longing to be once more enfolded in the comfortable and loving arms of his nurse.
Even down by the Country Gate a handful of people had gathered in the cold to wave as the Duchess went into her castle, and as her litter swept beneath the arched entrance and through to Nobles’ Court there was cheering. Yolande smiled and waved her hand, her closed face revealing nothing of her mental agony. Six weeks earlier she had given birth to another man’s child and now she must face her husband.
“God help me,” prayed the Duchess as the horses came to a stop.
He was there, standing on the steps of the King’s Lodging, thinner than she remembered and somehow weathered, as if he had slept outside in conditions when a man should, by rights, be warm and comfortable.
“Ma chérie,” he said, and the full mouth that could so easily betray his emotions smiled with pure joy.
“Oh, Louis, Louis,” answered Yolande, and it was strangely comforting to feel him take her hand then draw her close, not caring that they were in full view of the court. “I’ve missed you,” she said, and it was true.
The Duke held her at arm’s length again. “Let me look at you, just let me look.”
Yolande braced herself, tilting her head and smiling, hoping that the evil of guilt was not written all over her face.
“You’re pale,” Louis said at last. “Was the journey bad?”
“Very,” she answered, “but nothing compared to what you have had to endure. Oh, my dear, let’s go inside out of the cold.”
She had forgotten how reassuring he was, how warm and how kind. As she linked her arm through his, Yolande felt at peace for the first time in almost a year.
“All is prepared within,” her husband was saying. “We shall sup alone, in our quarters, with only the musicians for company. Would you like that?”
Her heart sank at the thought, knowing what would follow in the bedchamber afterwards, but Yolande smiled again and said, “I could think of nothing nicer to welcome me home.”
“I’ve missed you desperately,” Louis added in a lower voice. “It was a hard and bitter campaign — and a lonely one.”
“But successful?”
He smiled. “Our territories are regained.”
“So you are back for good?”
The Duke frowned. “No, I must return later this year to settle certain matters.”
In a rush of emotion that she could not control, Yolande said, “Don’t go away again, Louis. Don’t leave me, please. I couldn’t bear another time like this last.”
He stared at her, astonished. “But everyone has been telling me how brilliantly you acted as Regent. Why, I almost felt my presence was no longer necessary. De Beauvau assured me that you handled the Council with the composure of a man.”
Yolande pulled a face. “What a terrible compliment. I handled them like a woman let me hasten to assure you.”
His big mouth widened. “Pardon me, Madame. I retract. Women are, of course, superior in absolutely everything. We men have only one useful function.” And the Duke winked.
For no real reason other than the sheer relief of being with him, who was father and brother and friend all in one, Yolande laughed delightedly.
“That’s better, my Lord. I’m glad to see that you have not lost your sense of proportion.”
Louis pulled her hard against him. “Don’t tease me too much or I will have to pay back your sharp tongue even before we’ve had our evening repast.”
She shrank away, dreading what must inevitably take place between them, only wishing her poor tired body could be given time to recover properly from Jehanne’s birth. Sensitive as he was to her after all their years together, the Duke sensed immediately that something was wrong.
“I wasn’t serious, chérie. I can wait. After all, I’ve done without for almost two years.”
The Duchess looked up at him. “No camp followers?”
“None. I was too tired anyway.”
She waited for him to say, “And you?” but he didn’t, simply escorting her inside and helping personally to remove her travelling cloak.
“It’s good to be back,” he said. “But I was sad when you weren’t here to greet me. Didn’t you get my letter telling you when I would be returning?”
“No, I must have already left for Lorraine.”
The Duke looked at her, his pale blue eyes expressionless. “It was a long visit.”
Inwardly Yolande cringed, wondering if he was hinting at something, but Louis merely added, “I hope it was worth it.”
The Duchess took his hand between hers. “It was. René is set for a brilliant future there.”
“And you and I, Yolande; have we a brilliant future too?”
“Of course, my darling,” she answered, and this time forced herself not to flinch as his arms went round her.
Nine
It had always been the tradition at Isabeau’s court that on the morning of May Day she and her courtiers, all dressed in green, would rise early and go to the woods to collect blossom, wash their faces in dew from the hawthorn tree, then feast and make merry until early afternoon when they would return to the palace and rest before the evening’s May ball.
With uncaring resolve the Queen had insisted on this ritual being carried out in the face of war, pestilence and plague, determined that whatever the state of the country she would continue to sport in the woods with her friends.
“For, after all, outdoor lovemaking begins on May Day,” she would say carelessly, shrugging a fat white shoulder. “Only a fool would miss that.”
Every year this remark met with polite applause and laughter, particularly if Isabeau winked at a desirable gentleman as she said it. But this year, fluttering her lid at the Duke of Burgundy, the Queen was seen to bridle as he merely grunted by way of reply. The suspicion that he might be tiring of blubber and depravity crossed everyone’s mind but they pushed such pessimistic thoughts away. Yet who could blame him if his mind was elsewhere?
Jean the Fearless had now ruled Paris for almost two years and the stirring of unrest from the ordinary citizens against his regime was daily becoming a more serious problem. Determined to get rid of the English but still needing a strong force to keep the Parisians beneath his domination, the Duke had armed the butchers under their leader Simon Caboche. At the same time as this, the University had decided on measures to reform morality, their more violent representatives, together with the butchers, the tripe sellers, the tanners, and all the other unsavoury people who liked to think of themselves as vigilantes against sin, patrolling the streets nightly, setting about anyone who crossed their path.
A few weeks earlier the Caboche, as the murderous gang was known, had burst into the Hotel St. Pol in the dead of the night, interrupting a grand ball given by the Dauphin, dispersing the dancers and sending the furious youth off to bed. Fortunately for Isabeau she had not been present, busy about her own affairs at the Hotel Barbette, as she was one of the people specifically named by the University as needing to mend her ways.
And now it would seem that the consensus of opinion amongst her courtiers was that a May mom expedition to the woods might be dangerous, that the Caboche might strike by day, accuse them of immorality, and send them home humiliated — or worse!
“I’ll simply go with a few loyal hearts in that case,” Isabeau stormed furiously.
In the event, the morning being a fine one, a party of about twenty left through the city gates, their servants following behind bearing the food and wine that would make up the midday repast. In a swiftly moving cavalcade, the men mounted on their finest horses, the women on long-limbed palfreys, the Queen in a litter pulled by two mighty beasts, they went rapidly out of Paris to the pastures and meadows beyond. Here, sparkling streams gurgled, cutting through the landscape like silver threads, the dark emerald of the forest barely throwing a shadow at this hour, the carpet of wild flowers beneath the horses’ feet a shining mixture of bluebells and periwinkles.
All clothed in green, the l
aughing courtiers sped through the dew-drenched dawn, bending low to avoid branches, the bells on the falcons that some of them carried — though this was far from a hunting party — jingling a brave accompaniment, the sound of a lark adding a melody, the whole sky-blue morning full of merriment and sound, the clack from the sails of a distant windmill a faint reminder that the less privileged were at work.
There was blossom everywhere, in the hedges, the fields, the orchards, and, seeing it, the courtiers hacked at the blooms, winding them round their necks and waists, bedecking their hats and hoods. This year of 1413 the petals seemed whiter, more pure, than ever, almost as if nature were fighting back against the blood and filth that spattered the streets of Paris and choked the countryside half to death.
But none of this laughing crowd saw that, indeed would have looked blank if one of their number had pointed it out, too intent on tearing the garlands down to enhance their own appearances, Isabeau draping a great streamer round a young man’s neck, then pulling him playfully into the trees and out of sight.
‘This early?” whispered one of the grooms, nudging another.
“Time means nothing to that great whore,” answered his companion. “And while she copulates, Paris is brought to ruin.”
“Something must be done,” said the first man. “We cannot go on like this.”
“Something will be done,” murmured the other. “Revolution is but a stone’s throw away.”
“Thank God.”
Their words were drowned by a medley of sound as every courtier that carried a musical instrument suddenly began to play, serenading the Queen while she made love out of doors. The birds flew off in fright at the noise, the wild creatures hid themselves away. Once again, Queen Venus had brought everything down to her own unspeakable level as she gasped and jerked in the forest with yet another decadent young man.
On that same bright morning, just as the sun broke over the river Maine, Yolande d’Anjou left the castle of Angers and rode out alone towards the blossom-filled orchards that lay on the right bank, just beyond the Doutre. Though it was not yet fully light, the Duchess crossed the river at a steady trot, over the Great Bridge which joined together the merchant streets of Baudrière on the left bank and Beaurepaire on the right, and was itself lined with shops, though none of them open at this early hour. But though she rode quickly, Yolande did not push herself too hard, for she had only been riding again less than a month.