by Deryn Lake
“Keep quiet, for the love of God,” he muttered, but the child merely gave him an innocent smile as if he had no idea what in the world was going on. Le Maçon, however, remained uncertain and continued to gaze at him until the sudden pounding of running feet on the stone stairs leading from the hall wrenched his attention back to the current and highly dangerous situation.
A terrible scream from someone standing right outside rent the air, this awful sound followed by that of men close by dying at the hands of others, the background to this the dull thud of bodies falling to the floor.
“Prepare yourselves,” hissed le Maçon. “Let none of you make a move.” And with that the wooden doors of the Dauphin’s receiving room flew open to reveal a hefty raw-boned fellow with a red face and enormous hands standing in the entrance. “There they are, the fat whore and her bastard brood. Let’s kill the whole bunch of ‘em,” he bellowed.
In one move, le Maçon thrust the terrified Charles behind his back and stepped rapidly forward. “No,” he roared. “I command you in the name of Duke Louis of Anjou to stay where you are.”
“Coillons!” answered the other pithily. “Stand aside.”
“By Christ I won’t,” answered le Maçon and, risking everything, stood directly in the revolutionary’s path. “Now listen to me,” he hissed, “to touch one hair of their heads is a crime the punishment for which is first torture, then slow and agonising death. And I vow that even if you were to temporarily triumph by killing the Queen and her children, their cousin, Duke Louis, a prince of the Blood, remember, would march on Paris with his troops and put you down like animals as soon as he heard the news.”
“How could he?” answered the other, visibly shaken. “Because the Duke has an army already with him in Italy, an army of Angevins who would rejoice to do his bidding if his family’s blood were spilled.”
The revolutionary’s face suffused with rage. “So where does that leave us? What are we supposed to do? Bow the knee for ever to that whore’s whelp Burgundy?”
“Burgundy must go, you are right in that,” answered the Chancellor swiftly. “He is both usurper and tyrant.”
“Fine words,” the man said bitterly. “But they don’t help us. All right, lads,” he called over his shoulder, “take them prisoner.”
“One moment more,” pleaded le Maçon, his eyes molten in a face drained of colour. “I swear on my solemn oath that if you will let these people go free I shall leave Paris at first light and go straight through France to Italy in search of my Lord of Anjou. And when I find him and tell him what has happened he will not fail you, I know it. He will drive Burgundy out of the land and set the people of Paris free.”
The rebel leader glanced to his fellows crouching in the doorway like dogs ready to spring then wheeled round to look le Maçon in the eye once more. “That’s for the future but there are two things the citizens insist upon immediately.”
“What are they?”
“That that little sop,” the man pointed at the Dauphin, “takes his duties as President of the Council seriously. All he can think about is whoremongering and drinking till he drops from excess. And second, the Queen’s pretty boys go now and most of her ladies with them. It’s time she learned to wipe her own arse.”
“You’re right,” said the Dauphin suddenly, jumping up from where he had sat slumped in a chair. “She’s a disgrace. And so am I. By Gods precious blood you have taught me something tonight, good people.”
The Chancellor looked at him sharply and saw that the boy had not only sobered up miraculously but for once was using his wits.
“Umm,” answered the rebel leader, unconvinced. “Be that as it may, the undesirables leave Paris tonight. You’ll be hard up for fornication, Madame.”
Isabeau wobbled like a furious blancmanger but said nothing.
“And a good thing too,” the Dauphin went on. “Now, citizens, I beg you to go home, trusting that I will become a President worthy of you and will rule Paris wisely. Not only that; my Lord of Treves will keep his word and go at once to seek Duke Louis’s help.”
“Let him swear it,” rumbled someone from the doorway.
As if it had been prearranged, le Maçon raised a hand dramatically. “I swear upon my family honour with God as my judge and witness that I will do everything in my power to alleviate the sufferings of the people of Paris.”
“So be it,” answered the revolutionary leader. “But we’ll take one of you with us just the same.”
“So be it, indeed,” answered the Dauphin. “Gentlemen, I am at your service. Would you like me for hostage or would you prefer to have my wife?”
He shot a malevolent look at Marguerite who burst into a further fit of weeping.
“She’s Burgundy’s daughter, isn’t she?” called someone.
“Yes, she is.”
“Then let her come. She can wait on us at table.”
“Courage, chérie, courage,” said the Dauphin and, patting her hand, tucked his wife’s arm through his as he led her to the doorway.
“You cruel little pig,” muttered le Maçon under his breath.
But it was Charles who called out, “You won’t hurt her, will you? It’s not her fault if her father is a beast.”
Isabeau rose majestically from her high chair. “I will go. I will not risk the life of a young and innocent girl. Let me bargain with these men.”
The rebels looked from one to the other. “Fancy a night with the big whore, lads?”
There was a general chorus of agreement and Robert le Maçon looked away, disgusted. No longer afraid, the Queen’s eyes were glittering at the thought of what might befall her. Like Messalina of Ancient Rome, Isabeau was always willing to try a new experience.
“Go then,” he muttered, deep in his throat.
“My brave Maman,” added the Dauphin sweetly and, suddenly smiling, went to pour himself another drink.
It was only to be expected that no good could come from the promises of such a corrupt set of people. The single act that the Dauphin carried out was to barricade the Hotel St. Pol until it resembled a fortress under siege; while Isabeau, after a night of what she described as hard bargaining with the rabble, could only complain of her health, swallowing yet another fortune in potable gold and ground emeralds in order to try and alleviate her symptoms. It was the opinion of many in the know that she had contracted the French pox from the common herd.
Only Robert le Maçon did as he had vowed and went with few stops and little rest to seek out Duke Louis. But in that he had been forestalled. As always when a state is governed by extremes, the moderates make their voices heard and deputations had been already sent to the royal Princes — the Dukes of Bern, Alençon, Anjou and Orléans — begging them to rescue the people from the daily bloodbath that life in Paris had now become.
Anarchy had taken over completely and nobody seemed in charge any longer, day-to-day administration being in the hands of the public executioner. Burgundy, fighting with his back to the wall, authorised the Caboche to perpetuate even greater atrocities and every day saw terrible deeds savagely enacted on the people of Paris. The riff-raff had snatched the law into their own hands.
This was the obvious moment for the Armagnacs to swoop on the city and this time Count Bernard had the strength of the royal Dukes behind him. On 23rd August, the year being 1413, a combined force attacked, including the army of Duke Louis who had travelled from Italy through Provence, taking Paris completely by surprise.
It was all over by nightfall, the drastically outnumbered Burgundians fleeing for their lives, the Duke included. But yet Jean the Fearless had not lost his wits completely. Going to the Hotel St. Pol he had kidnapped his uncle, the mad King, who had wet himself with fear, screaming that he would shatter into a thousand pieces if the Duke so much as laid a hand on him.
“I’m sorry, mon Roi,” Burgundy had answered, swinging his fist so hard into the King’s face that there had actually been a crunching sound. But this clever stra
tagem had not lasted long. The victorious troops had gone in hot pursuit and the lunatic, bellowing loudly, had been snatched back again at Vincennes.
With the citizens set to clean up the streets and repair the damage of battle, the Council of France, which included the royal Princes, met with the Dauphin at its head to discuss the news that Jean the Fearless had fled to Flanders, part of Burgundy’s enormous land holdings. Calls were made, then, for him to be banished from the land, no voice louder than that of Queen Isabeau. A fact noted with great irony by all those who heard it.
‘She actually called him “evil murderer”,’ wrote Duke Louis to Yolande. ‘She who had so blatantly shared his bed. But other than her sickening hypocrisy all is well in Paris and I beg you to join me here as soon as you can.
‘I have written formally to the Duchess of Burgundy breaking the betrothal between her daughter Katherine and young Louis. Please could you see to it that the girl is escorted back home as soon as possible. I no longer wish the house of Anjou to be associated with the Burgundians in any way whatsoever, and the quicker she is gone the happier I shall be.
‘By the way, amongst the Armagnac forces occupying the city is the young Earl de Richemont whom I am sure you will remember with affection from bygone times. I played chess with him the other night and he asked particularly to be remembered to you. He said I taught him chess but that you taught him end game, whatever that might mean.
‘Come soon, my darling, I miss you. Ever your loyal friend and husband, Louis.’
He had added a postscript. ‘The Queen has arranged for the betrothal of Marie to the Count of Ponthieu to take place in December so please get here in good time for that.’ Yolande had read the letter twice then thrown it on the fire. There had been no word of Richemont for over two years — and now this cutting slight! As vividly as if it had been yesterday she remembered the night of love they had spent together and the child that had been born as a result.
“If only you knew,” the Duchess said aloud. “If only you knew what I have had to endure.”
Then again came the nagging feeling that soon she must visit the Duke of Lorraine, at whose court Alison du May was these days happily enjoying the role of favoured mistress, and make such a journey the excuse to see Jehanne once more.
Ten
It was almost impossible to believe that four months earlier the streets of Paris had been running with blood and the Hotel St. Pol virtually under siege. Now, from the walls that bordered onto the Seine as far as the Town Gate, the mad King’s crazy palace was en fete, decorated with what greenery and flowers the winter gardens could yield up. Pennants bearing the fleur-de-lis fluttered from every comer, mingled amongst them little banners made of red silk split into many points, known as oriflammes, the royal standard of France. Woven into this great display were countless other flags emblazoned with the coat-of-arms of the house of Anjou, together with the personal insignia of both Duke Louis and the Duchess Yolande.
The light from a thousand candles gleamed in the silver plate that had been polished and brought out for this special occasion; the tapestries, the dust beaten mercilessly from them, shone with bright colours; the minstrels, in shifts, played horn, rebec, gittern and flute; the stone floors, swept, soaped and scrubbed, were spread with clean sweet rushes mingled amongst dried and scented rose petals. And all this splendour and celebration in honour of the fact that that very morning in the cathedral of Notre-Dame, Charles, Count of Ponthieu had become betrothed to Marie of Anjou.
Swamped in a large green brocade cotte embroidered in gold with the arms of his countdom, the red-faced boy, cringing with embarrassment, had reluctantly asked the two tall and splendid people whom he now knew to be the Duke and Duchess of Anjou, for consent to have their daughter’s hand in marriage. And then, even worse, on receiving the royal couple’s formal agreement and with the Archbishop and all the court looking on, had been forced to endure the misery of repeating the question to the girl herself.
‘And all she has to do,’ the wretched child had thought enviously, ‘is put her hand in mine.’
He had experienced a strange feeling at that moment, looking down at the small docile hand which he was going to have to hold for years and years to come, aware that it belonged to a total stranger. In a way it had been quite pretty, plump and childish, with dimples where one day knuckles would show, none the less the emotion of it all had been too much for him and Charles, to his chagrin, had started to weep, then had sobbed at full voice, abjectly aware of the spectacle he was making of himself but unable to do anything about it.
Gazing round through a shower of tears, Charles had seen his mother mouth the word ‘Imbecile’, and this had made him bellow all the more. To make matters worse, if that were possible, the girl, looking thoroughly startled, seemed on the point of tears herself.
In desperation, the Count of Ponthieu had cast about for some form of help; none from the stem-faced Archbishop nor the uneasy courtiers, or from his two brothers who were in hysterics and not bothering to hide it, and certainly none from the King, who had been washed and brought out especially for the occasion and was now picking his nose with great interest.
It was at that moment that the boy, in extremis, had caught the bright green eye of his future mother-in-law and much to his astonishment seen the lid slowly lower then rise again. Utterly amazed and far from certain whether the Duchess of Anjou was winking at him or merely twitching, Charles stopped crying and simply stared.
Seizing the opportunity of a moment’s respite, the Archbishop hurriedly cleared his throat, pronounced the couple affianced, and at that precise second, obviously guided by some hidden signal, the bells of the cathedral pealed wildly. It was done, Charles de Valois and Marie d’Anjou were betrothed, and amidst a great deal of noise from the congregation the two young people had walked down the aisle and out into the bitter December day.
And now it was evening and time for the celebratory banquet and ball, held by custom in the King’s great hall, wonderfully decorated and fine, sparkling with the corporate splendour of the most beautiful courtiers in France. Velvets from Genoa, rich stuffs from Damascus, and Persian taffetas vied with one another as the wonderfully gowned women swished past, leaning backward with hips thrust forward as was considered the stylish way to walk, high hennins and saddle head-dresses, swathed in yards of jewelled veiling, balancing precariously on their heads. The men meanwhile, not to be outdone, flaunted fur robes and pearl-sewn doublets, heavy gold necklaces gleaming with stones, glistening rings, jewelled belts and daggers, gigantic codpieces, winking brilliants, and hats large as platters decorated with gems.
In the centre of the high table sat the Count of Ponthieu and his future bride, flanked by the Dauphin, taking the place of his father who had been locked in his quarters, and on the other side the Queen-Duchess of Anjou.
A hawk to Isabeau’s pouter pigeon, Yolande had almost understated her ensemble in order to show off an emerald that had been passed down amongst the royal family of Aragon for over two hundred years. Clad in white, her simple gown utterly without adornment, the Duchess wore her hair pulled back starkly into a flat head-dress, its only decoration a wide band and the amazing emerald. The glittering stone danced and blazed and threw facets of light about the room, illuminating its wearer’s eyes to such an extent that they too shone with the same colour and intensity.
There was no doubt that Yolande was the most elegant woman in the hall and Isabeau, festooned in crimson velvet, her hennin five feet high, looming above all others and veiled with cloth of gold, felt overdressed. Adding to her discomfort was the fact that the logs burning in the two great hearths, each piece of wood the size of half a tree, had combined with the scented candles to produce such a great heat, the Queen had begun to sweat. Thoroughly ill at ease, Isabeau was very conscious of the fact that her heavily applied make up was starting to run and was dripping towards her nose.
Dwarfed by the overwhelming occasion the newly betrothed children,
very small and solemn, sat in their places of honour in total silence. Charles, gorgeously dressed in a deep blue doublet embroidered with silver nettle leaves, silver hose on his thin little legs, looked exactly like an ornate goblin and felt both awkward and conspicuous. Marie, too, was obviously miserable, staring at her plate, seemingly incapable of speech.
‘Oh, dear,’ thought the boy. ‘I wonder if she’s always like this? Will I have to endure years of silence while she stares into her lap?’
“It’s very hot,” he ventured, but Marie did not reply.
Catherine, however, aged twelve now and more vivid and beautiful than ever, decided at this point to intervene. Leaning across the Dauphin, at whose right hand she was sitting, she slanted her eyes at the strange girl, saying pointedly, “Monsieur le Comte de Ponthieu plays chess superbly, Madame. Let it be hoped that you do so too.”
“I don’t,” answered Marie in a quavering voice, her eyes still lowered.
“Dear me! Then tell us, pray, what are your interests?”
The wretched child, barely nine and an innocent babe in comparison with the children of the royal court, quivered slightly. “I do tapestry work, Madame.”
Catherine smirked. “Really? How nice. I’m afraid I have always abominated working with my needle.”
“Except for sticking it in,” answered Charles instantly, aware that his ability to make a quick riposte was most gratifyingly increasing as he grew older.
Catherine flashed a feline smile. “Mon cher, how sharp you are!” She pealed with laughter into which the Dauphin, in his cups as usual, joined noisily.
“Good for you, Charles. Not as silly as you look, eh?”
“My mother believes,” said Marie in a half-whisper, “that one should not judge people by their appearance.”
“Well, that’s as well!” answered Louis, and laughed all the more.
“You are so rude,” muttered Charles, “that something awful will happen to you one of these days.”