by Deryn Lake
And then he remembered the prediction of Nicolas Flamel and went cold. But the Dauphin had not heard a word and was now busy staring round the room, saying, “Where the devil’s Richemont? He told me he’d be here without fail. Can’t leave his pretty whore I suppose.”
Charles would have taken no notice, would have used this moment to attack his food, had something rather extraordinary not happened. Sitting next to him the Duchess of Anjou sighed, very softly but very distinctly. Covertly, the boy glanced up and saw that the beautiful bony face of the woman who was his mother-in-law elect had bleached as white as her dress.
They had by now reached the fourth and final course of the betrothal feast and the comforting sweet dishes that the boy loved dearly were being brought in from the kitchens: mountainous egg custards, puddings of honey and nuts, brightly coloured jellies, succulent tarts, cakes, crustardes and doucettes and, to crown all, a subtlety.
This night this particular confection, made from sugar and almond paste, was moulded into the shape of a lover’s knot entwined with the initials C and M, and as the subtlety was wheeled in before the assembled company there was a mighty cheer. Charles lowered his gaze to the tablecloth, noticing as he did so that Marie had gone bright red, and for the first time in his short life felt more sorry for someone else than he did for himself.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “it will all be over in another hour.”
She said nothing, as usual, but he saw a flicker of relief pass over the face of Marie d’Anjou before she turned her head away.
She was, Charles thought, very far from beautiful, completely lacking her mother’s style and charm, but the girl’s features were pleasant enough even though she seemed to be a study
in beige, hair, eyes and skin all very much the same shade. In many ways she reminded her future husband of a mouse, and not even the twinkling amusing sort that lived in the wild, but simply an ordinary domestic. The Count of Ponthieu sighed a little and wished that fate could have sent him someone rather more exciting.
“You must lead the dancing, Madame,” Catherine was saying to the girl, obviously taking a delight in torturing a creature she considered an utter little simpleton. “It is your duty to open the ball.”
“Oh, must I?” answered Marie, looking terrified. “Must I begin the dancing, Maman?”
The colour had come back to Yolande’s cheeks, Charles noticed, as she nodded and smiled.
“Yes, but it is Monsieur le Comte who will lead you out. You need not be nervous.”
Every kindly streak in Charles’s character rushed to the forefront in his pity for the poor young dolt he was destined to marry.
“Come on,” he said, “I will look after you.”
That was the moment when nine-year-old Marie d’Anjou fell in love with him, she decided some time afterwards. It did not matter a bit that the boy whose wife she was eventually to be was the ugliest in the world, nor did it matter that she had only known him little over two weeks. What did matter was that his eyes were clear and true and were looking at her now as if she were made of glass and he must stop her breaking at all costs.
Marie’s chest became constricted and her breathing difficult, while the colour of her face went from rose to peony and back again in less than a minute.
“Merci, Monsieur,” she said, and wished that she were as beautiful and bright as his horrible cat-like sister who at this very moment was giving her a supercilious grin.
“Don’t forget, you are a good dancer,” murmured her mother’s voice comfortingly, but Marie gave a pitiful look as Charles rose to his feet and the minstrels struck up a slow melodious air while he bowed before his betrothed.
“There’s a hole in your hose,” whispered the Dauphin cruelly.
“I don’t care,” Charles replied with dignity and led Marie d’Anjou to the space in the middle of the hall.
It was not easy for two small people, both knowing that they were not very pretty nor, indeed, very interesting, to open the dancing together but it seemed only a moment or two before Duke Louis and the Queen had joined them, and then the Dauphin and the Duchess of Anjou.
“Your mother’s very beautiful,” said Charles, as the tall figure in white went past him, the emerald in her head-dress catching the light and gleaming a million twinkling darts.
“I wish I was like her,” answered Marie wistfully.
“I expect you will be when you’re older,” her betrothed replied stoutly, his gargoyle smile flashing across his face as he squeezed her hand comfortingly.
Love came afresh at that and Marie, tongue-tied once more, could think of nothing whatever to say by way of reply. So it was that conversation ceased and Charles, his liking for observation never more prevalent than tonight, saw what he could only think of as a grand arrival in the arched entrance at the far end of the hall. Brilliantly dressed in scarlet, a great black plume in his hat and a diamond clasp on his shoulder, there suddenly appeared a dazzling young man whom the Count of Ponthieu dimly recognised as Arthur, Earl of Richmond, who once had saved him from being viciously attacked by the King.
“There you are!” called the Dauphin above the din and, smiling, Richemont began to thread his way through the dancers.
The Count of Armagnac, no longer in the city, had left a strong force behind him, aware as was everyone at court that with the leprous Henry IV now dead and his son on the throne, negotiations between the recently routed Duke of Burgundy and the new English king were inevitable. There was not an adult in Paris who did not fear future retribution at the hands of Jean the Fearless should he ally with the English, and Count Bernard was taking no chances. His young strong supporters, of which Richemont was one, remained in Paris like an occupying force.
“Monsieur,” Arthur was shouting cheerfully, waving a long lean arm and doffing his hat, so lacking in concentration on his whereabouts that what happened to him next was more or less inevitable.
Weaving his way through the galloping dancers, now enthusiastically embarked on a trotto, the young man collided so hard with a couple that he almost knocked them to the ground. Charles’s face took on a look of horror as he saw that the woman was his future mother-in-law and her partner the Duke of Alençon. Bowing low in apology, Richemont had not actually noticed who they were until he straightened. The Count of Ponthieu’s eyes widened to twice their normal size as he saw Arthur’s face freeze and the Duchess stiffen her back as a wave of ice ran between the two.
For two and a half years, Yolande had endured a life of misery since their last fateful meeting. While Richemont, never able to escape her thrall, had known the bitter torment of hatred. And yet still, and both knew it at once, their feelings were so strong they hardly dared touch. But that was precisely what Richemont did.
Bowing low once more, he said, “Madame, please may I make amends? If your partner will permit me to continue the rest of this dance.” And without waiting for a word from either of them, Richemont pulled Yolande into his arms, almost roughly, and whirled her away. As always their eyes were on a level and as the Duchess’s gleamed furious green fire so did Arthur’s take on a lazy insolent expression.
“Still as beautiful as ever,” he said with a drawl that grated on her like a scraping saw. “But I expect you’ve been told that many times since we last met.”
She could hardly speak, sick for love yet hurt beyond measure by the terrible thing he was inferring.
“What do you mean?”
“What I say, Madame. That flattery must come as no stranger to a woman like you.”
He longed to see her suffer and was glad when Yolande’s body, so close to his own, shook from head to foot.
“If you mean what I think then by God’s holy blood I shall strike you, here in public.”
“Go ahead,” answered Richemont, jeering. “I’ve been a soldier, I’m used to brawls.”
The fact that they cared for each other so desperately was driving them on to even greater folly.
“Let me go,” said Yoland
e, “I will not listen to this another minute.”
For reply, the Earl squeezed her tightly against his chest. “Does this offend you, Madame? Do I not suit you anymore? Have I grown too old for your bed perhaps?”
“You wretched creature,” came her answer. “Yes, you do offend me. You have lost all the charm you ever had, Richemont. You have turned into a foul-mouthed blackguard.”
“And you,” he whispered back, “what have you turned into, eh, Madame?”
The wrenching push that separated them was covered by the fact that the trotto had doubled in pace by now, all the dancers stamping their feet wildly in time to the music. Taking advantage of the noise and total confusion, Yolande turned her back on the Earl and walked slowly away, tears transforming her eyes to green glass, while Richemont, a muscle in his cheek jumping uncontrollably, fought his way through to the Dauphin and burst into loud and somehow unpleasant laughter.
“I shall never speak to the whore again,” he muttered when he had quietened himself, aware that his entire body ached as if it had been dealt a hammer blow.
“What say?” asked Louis.
Lowering his voice out of respect for the Dauphin’s wife, who had left her husband’s side and hovered near by, Richemont murmured, “I said, let’s go whoring.”
Normally this suggestion would have been greeted with enthusiasm by the decadent youth, his prodigious sexual appetites as excessive as those of his dead uncle, Louis d’Orleans. But tonight the Dauphin shook his head.
“I’d better not. It is Charles’s betrothal after all, and I am here in loco parentis, more’s the pity.” He peered into his friend’s face. “Is anything the matter? You’re suddenly drained of colour.”
Richemont attempted a smile. “Am I? It must be the heat.”
Louis looked unconvinced. “I think not. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Arthur looked grim. “I’ve seen a ghost tonight, if you must know. A woman I used to love has come back to haunt me, Monsieur.”
The Dauphin brightened. “Really? Who is she?”
The Earl shook his head. “I would not reveal her identity for all of Tartary’s treasure, not even to you.”
Louis stroked his chin. “This gets more and more interesting. You sly fox, Richemont. You are the last man on earth I would have guessed to be hiding a secret love.”
“Please forget it,” Arthur answered abruptly, turning away with a movement almost of anger. “I simply can’t bear to think or speak of her anymore.”
But even as he said the words his eyes slid to the high table and the place where Yolande d’Anjou sat alone, her immediate neighbours having left their places to dance. Louis, smiling quizzically, followed the line of his friend’s gaze, saying nothing, his dissipated young face for once shrewd and knowing.
“Come,” he said suddenly, “dance with my wife, stamp your feet, lift her in the air. It’s an estampie.”
The music for the wild dance which had originated in Provence filled the room and the Dauphin whirled away to find himself another partner so that Richemont had no choice but to pull the nervous Marguerite of Burgundy into his arms. Despite her timorousness she was a comely creature, well made and fair, her eyes a pretty shade of blue.
“Madame, please do me the honour,” said Richemont, then without waiting for a reply picked the Dauphine up over his head, stamping his feet all the while. Even without looking round he knew that Yolande was watching him and clasped Marguerite all the harder, flirting shamelessly with his friend’s wife and being rewarded by a sparkle suddenly appearing in her eyes in place of their generally frightened expression.
The inevitable had happened. Richemont, off his head with drink and the pain of hopeless love, had actually been mad enough to go to the Dauphine’s room and climb onto her bed with her where, after some relatively innocent horseplay, the couple had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. The Dauphin, however, returning to his apartments at dawn, had not considered it very amusing to find his wife, her clothing disarrayed, sleeping with another man and without waiting for an explanation had launched himself bodily at the pair. Fortunately, a surfeit of wine had impaired his judgement and he had missed the bed entirely, crashing onto the floor and knocking himself unconscious on the flagstones. This had sent Marguerite into a fit of giggling during which Richemont, deciding that discretion really was the better part of valour, had made an exit through one of the windows.
“Tell him he dreamed it,” he called as he put one leg over the sill. “Please, Madame, don’t let him discover the truth.”
By this time the Dauphine was almost out of control and the last sight the Earl had of her, as he slithered the length of a drainpipe to the courtyard below, was bent double, clutching her sides, great tears rolling down her face. It was at that farcical moment that Richemont decided he liked her a great deal, certainly as much as Jacquetta though not as much as…
In the harsh light of very early morning, Arthur pulled himself up sharply. It was fruitless, ludicrous, to go on in this way. He must put Yolande d’Anjou behind him for ever if he was to make any kind of life for himself. As long as he was possessed by her he would be fit for nothing and no one, his entire future depended on forgetting everything that had happened between them.
Bracing his shoulders, the Earl of Richmond marched to the nearest pump and put his head beneath it, relishing the sharp coldness of the water as he ritually washed away all thoughts of the past.
Eleven
They left Paris in the bitter cold of a raw February morning, all the world so bleak and grey that the city and the countryside beyond had neither form nor definition. River, clouds, landscape, all merged into one, the lines between them softened to a blurred smudge in the frozen wastes of a land transfigured by the iron bleakness of winter. In the colourless terrain the little cavalcade of horses and riders moved like a ribbon of colour, a blob of bright paint running down an untouched canvas, gawdy in such stark surroundings.
At the head of the column rode Duke Louis of Anjou flanked by two of his most able young lieutenants, Hardouin de Maillé, brought up to serve the Angevin royal family and recently married in their presence, and Robert le Ma(;on, the Chancellor. Behind them came the men at arms, the Duchess Yolande, and the pair of young people whose betrothal had restored some of the spirit to a war-weary Paris.
Scorning a litter, the Queen-Duchess sat astride her horse, her long heavy skirt kilted to the knees, her arms round the body of Charles de Valois, who rode passenger in front of her. Similarly, Marie was cradled by Hugues de Noyer, who had accompanied the Duke from Anjou in order to join the Count of Ponthieu’s service, the only familiar figure to Charles, Guillaume d’Avagour, who had served in the King’s household and had now been commissioned to be Chamberlain to the Count.
Riding hard, the party headed westwards towards the city of Chartres and late in the evening, just as the first bitter flakes began to fall, clattered in through the town gate beneath the brooding bulk of the huge cathedral of Notre-Dame, coming to a halt in the Rue des Grenets where the Hôtel de Barrault, a mansion house already prepared for their visit, property of the Bishop, awaited them.
‘Snow,’ thought Yolande as she entered the courtyard. ‘At memorable moments always snow.’
And now as her future son-in-law took the momentous step of spending his first night away from home, a covering of white was settling on the roofs and cobbles.
“Come on, mon cher,” she said quietly, looking at Charles, then saw that the child slept in the crook of her arm, his small fur-capped head snug against her breast.
“Poor little thing,” she murmured. “What a wretched life! A madman for a father, a trollop for dam. What kind of happiness can he have had?”
The snow swirled more heavily, falling on the gargoyles jutting beneath the mansion’s roof, obscuring the riders as they dismounted and took the sleepy children within. But Yolande paused before following them, letting the freezing dusk sting her face, relishing the mom
ent of being solitary in the bitter night.
And it was then, dwarfed beneath the looming shadow of the cathedral, that a strange feeling suddenly swept her, chilling the marrow of her very bones. For it came to the Duchess with clear conviction that Charles, despite his puny size and nervous manner, had lying deep within him a potential for greatness, an ability for shrewdness and statesmanship that must be realised at all costs, and that hers would be the destined hand to mould this latent promise.
The Duchess shrank into the comfort of her cloak, her wild thoughts turning to Richemont and the springing hatred which had taken the place of their once fierce love. As she had left Paris that morning he had watched her from an upstairs window and just for a moment she had turned to look him full in the face, studying the perfect features, renouncing her lover even as she gazed at him. Seeing her stare, Richemont had stepped back into the room out of sight, giving her one swift expressionless glance before he did so.
At that moment they believed it was over for ever, that neither would ever see the other again. Wheeling her mettlesome mount, the Duchess had headed for the gateway, longing to be away from the place where so fine a feeling had been ultimately destroyed. And now in the icy evening a tear ran down her cheek and was gone, a single chilling epitaph for all that once had been.
“Oh, cheer up, do,” the Dauphin said petulantly, his young face scowling and blotchy in the candlelight. “Come on Richemont, I am truly sick of seeing you in the sullens.”
But then he bit back the words as he saw to his amazement that Richemont was crying.
Getting up from his chair, Louis knelt before his friend, wiping away the tears with his own handkerchief, filled with so much tenderness and compassion that his heart ached. For the truth was that he loved the Earl, was in love with him probably, though he had never tried to express that emotion either by word or deed. Yet the fact remained that, given the choice, the heir to the throne of France would rather have spent his days in the company of Richemont than any other person on earth.