The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  “I’m sure you will not,” she answered soothingly, sitting at his feet on a low stool, taking his hand between both of hers.

  The Duke looked at her so sadly that the Duchess could have wept. “Alas, sweetheart, I think you are wrong. A malignancy eats away at me and one of these days will become my master. That is why you and I must work hard in the time that is left to us to unite France against the usurper.”

  “But how can we? What can we do?”

  “I believe that Count Bernard d’Armagnac should now be appointed Constable of France.”

  “But he is so cruel, such a vicious soldier.”

  “At least he and his men fought at Azincourt, whereas Burgundy lay low.”

  “He could hardly have come out of exile.”

  “He could have reappeared and signed a peace treaty with us all. No, I think the only course remaining is to rally behind Armagnac and prepare ourselves for further conflict.”

  “The messenger said Henry of England has already sailed from Calais.”

  “Oh yes, he’s gone all right,” the Duke answered bitterly. “But he’ll be back. Mark my words, we haven’t seen the last of him.”

  Yolande stared into the flames in silence for some while, before saying quietly, “Who else fought at Azincourt that I might know?”

  “Orleans, Bourbon, Alençon, fat Georges de la Trémoille.”

  The Duchess smiled. “For a chamberlain to Jean the Fearless of Burgundy that was a brave act.”

  Louis smiled too. “I think, perhaps, he was afraid the Queen might banish him from her bed if he didn’t rally to the cause of France.”

  “Indeed he is brave, having Isabeau for a mistress and Burgundy as a friend, but yet there is still something likeable about him.”

  “Georges is a rogue,” Louis answered, “but an endearing one.”

  There was another intense silence during which the Duke began to stroke Yolande’s hair, much as if she were a beloved cat.

  “Did many of our friends die?” she asked at last.

  “Too many to name. But have I told you about young Richemont?”

  Beneath his hands, the Duke felt her tense and wondered at it.

  “Has he been killed?”

  “No, taken prisoner, though badly wounded I believe. Both he and Orleans were left for dead beneath a pile of bodies but were recovered by the English and sailed with the King. Henry will want enormous ransoms for them, of course.”

  “But at least they’re alive,” said Yolande joyfully, “that is something to be grateful for.”

  Louis patted her head gently. “There is very little left for us to rejoice about but, yes, I suppose it is something that Azincourt had a few French survivors.”

  It was almost midnight, the witching hour, before Yolande finally left her husband’s side and, acting under compulsion, went through the dark of the sleeping castle to where the astrologer had his rooms. Eccentrically, and by reason of some ancient tradition the basis for which no one could any longer remember, the stargazers attached to the court always had their apartments in the left-hand part of the castle complex in one of the huge towers. Consequently, the Queen-Duchess was obliged to leave Nobles’ Court, responding quietly to the challenge of the guard on gatehouse duty, and walk the entire length of the mighty enclave in the darkness of that cold autumn night, the light from the torches set in sconces at intervals along the walls insufficient to illuminate its deepest shadows.

  Beneath Yolande’s feet the leaves crackled and crunched, the death knell of the year, and she thought of all those who would never see spring again, and gave thanks that Richemont still had his life. In fact she was dwelling on his fate even as she reached the ancient door leading into the tower and began to climb the stairs, so that somehow the Duchess was not surprised when Guy, his misshapen body not noticeable beneath the long robe affected by those who studied magic, met her in the entrance and said, “Those who survived the battle will return, Madame.”

  Raising one of her dark brows, the Duchess replied, “How did you know I was thinking about the prisoners of war?”

  “Because Azincourt is uppermost in everyone’s mind and it is obvious that while we must mourn the dead we must also be concerned for the living,” he answered quickly.

  “So it was just a shrewd guess.”

  The hunched shoulder rose crookedly as Guy smiled and spread his hands. “Partly, perhaps. But now my master awaits you, Madame. He felt you would come to him and is most anxious to unburden himself in view of all that has befallen France.”

  They climbed a few more steps, then went into the great round chamber where Dr. Flavigny sat at his desk, his white head nodding as he fought off sleep.

  “Her Grace the Duchess is here, Monsieur,” his apprentice called loudly, and the old man woke up, clambering to his feet to greet his noble visitor.

  “Welcome, Madame, welcome. I pray you sit down by the fire. It is because of Azincourt that I believe I have to speak.” Dr. Flavigny cleared his throat importantly. “Madame, the future King of France dwells even now within these walls.”

  Yolande stared blankly, not understanding, and Guy added softly, “It is true, ma Reine. Monsieur le Comte de Ponthieu is destined to inherit the throne in place of his two brothers and lead France to victory.”

  Yolande stared at him in disbelief. “Dr. Flavigny, the French have just suffered the most crushing defeat but yet you speak of triumph.”

  “It is destined in the stars, ma Reine, that Charles aided by La Pucelle can achieve just that.”

  “La Pucelle?” The Duchess frowned. “Who is La Pucelle?”

  “That, Madame, I do not know,” the astrologer replied. “The name came to Guy without explanation.”

  “But I’ve heard it before,” Yolande said thoughtfully.

  “From my brother, ma Reine,” the hunchback answered. “He had a vision and entered the cloister that he might serve her.”

  “Then he knows who she is?”

  Guy shook his head. “No, Madame, nobody does. But he believes, as do I, that she exists.”

  The Duchess stood up, her cynical attitude to such prophecies barely concealed. Yet going through the darkness afterwards, alone in the black night except for the guards and the watchmen, Yolande found she was unable to shake off the strange feelings that the talk of La Pucelle had aroused in her. Was it merely bone weariness that had made the whole room seem to grow in dimension and a picture flash into her mind of an army, a small female figure at its head, marching beneath the oriflamme? Was it just tiredness that had made her experience, be it only momentarily, an inexplicable sense of pride and fulfilment?

  Not understanding any of these things, Yolande decided that only time could answer her questions, and with a sigh entered the King’s Lodging by way of the concealed staircase.

  Fourteen

  He had lived no kind of life at all yet he managed to make a decent exit from it. In the Hotel St. Pol in Paris, almost two months after the ignominious defeat of the French army at Azincourt, the Dauphin Louis lay dying of syphilis. Alone but for his two physicians and a priest, only a handful of his most loyal servants present, he had been deserted by his family apart from his wife, Marguerite of Burgundy.

  Strangely, she who had so often wished him dead and who had always maintained a healthy hatred for her youthful husband, now wept, not so much in sorrow but more at the loss of someone she had known since she was a child. She had been betrothed to Louis when she was seven, and now he was leaving her for ever. Marguerite could do nothing but cry for the death of a man to whom she had, almost against her will, grown both used and attached.

  It was the second stage of the disease which was killing the Dauphin, so that he lay swathed in white gauze to hide his rash, his poor face invisible but for two holes allowing him to see out and another pair, larger, for his nose and mouth. To all appearances he seemed already dead and could have been mistaken for a corpse, were it not for the fact that his lids were raised and he w
as gazing painfully towards the ceiling.

  “Louis, please get better.” Marguerite whispered pathetically to him from time to time, but her voice was drowned by the solemn prayers of the Dauphin’s confessor, while her husband, responding to none of it, continued only to stare heavenwards.

  “He’ll not last another hour,” a member of his retinue murmured to another, to which came the muttered reply, ‘The great pox never spares its victims.”

  “How dare you speak of pox,” the Dauphine responded violently, grasping her dying husband’s hand, her cheeks flushing in defiance. “It was the shock of Azincourt that killed Monsieur.”

  But nobody listened to her and Marguerite wept all the more for the fact that she was so powerless. Yet it was then, just as if he would finally agree with her at the very end of his life, that the Dauphin spoke his last words.

  “Yes, it’s true. Azincourt has speeded me on my way. It’s because of Richemont’s capture, I believe.” He swivelled his eyes painfully to look at his wife. “If he ever comes back you are to marry him, do you hear?”

  “Marry Richemont?” she said, dropping to her knees beside Louis’s bed.

  “Yes, you foolish little woman. That is my last wish.” He squeezed the hand that still held his. “You’ve no sense and you’re frigid but I believe you will do your best.”

  The fact that with his final breath he was, as always, scolding her, rent the Dauphine’s heart.

  “Did you love me at all?” she asked, the tears gushing freely.

  He could not answer but just for a moment she thought she saw the flutter of a wink about one eye before they both slowly closed. The priest who had shriven Louis an hour before, giving him extreme unction, stepped hastily to the bedside.

  “Monsieur le Dauphin, for the sake of your soul say these words with me. In te domine, confido, ne confundar in aetemum…”

  But there was no response; the restless spirit of the heir to the throne of France had broken free. The Dauphin was dead and Marguerite of Burgundy, at the age of fifteen, was already a widow.

  Before her fourth birthday, which fell on 6th January, Epiphany and also Christmas Day in the calendar followed by all the civilised world, Yolande d’Anjou sent a coded letter to Alison du May, requesting her to take a wooden toy — ‘One which moves’ — to Jehanne.

  Then let me have word of her, dear Alison, please do. Does she grow fit and strong? And, above all, is she happy? I torment myself frequently with the thought that I abandoned her to her fate, to a life to which she might not be suited. Despite your earlier letters reassuring me, please send me fresh news.’

  In February, on the eve of Charles’s thirteenth birthday, Alison’s answer duly arrived and Yolande took it to the privacy of her chamber to decode and study.

  ‘Ma Reine,’ she read, loyal greetings from your devoted servant. I apologise to you that I have not written sooner. The truth is that because of severe weather conditions I was unable to see Jehanne until the beginning of February but I am now pleased to report to you she is well, apart from the usual childhood complaints, and plays happily enough with what she believes to be her brothers and sister.

  The child is small but very sturdy, with dark hair and eyes, and a pleasant smile. She is not in the least shy and greeted me with enthusiasm though she had no idea who I was. She liked the wooden knights better than the doll I took her and spent a long time playing with them in the comer of the room while I talked to her parents…’

  Yolande winced that the word ‘foster’ had been left out but accepted that, by now, this sort of thing was inevitable.

  ‘…who said she was well behaved, had a charming belief in wood, fairies and sometimes goes with the other village children to a certain tree known as the Fairies’ Tree and there makes garlands, dances round it, and sings songs.’

  Yolande put the letter down, smiling to herself. It was a happy childhood, obviously, and carefree. Yolande thought of her daughter gambolling round a tree, flowers wound in her hair, holding her friends’ hands, and for the first time was grateful that Jehanne was leading the innocent life of a country child, removed from the horrors of war and unaware of the danger in which France lay.

  “I pray for my little girl’s future,” said the Duchess and, having read the letter to the end, locked the papers away in a secret drawer in her desk and turned her mind to that other child whose care was her concern, Charles de Valois.

  Tomorrow the boy would be thirteen years old, and not long afterwards would be obliged, complete with an entourage of his own and accompanied by young Marie, to leave for Paris to take up his duties as the Dauphin’s heir. But tonight he was to have formal audience with the Duke and Duchess before the full Council of Anjou to hear what plans had been made for him. Going to the table where lay all her cosmetics and paints, Yolande rang a bell for Lady Sarrazin to come and attend her.

  The Count was to be briefed in the council chamber, the old hall on the cliffs, and after this a celebratory banquet would be held with the new members of his household which would go on until well after midnight and thus run in to his birthday. In her future son-in-law’s honour, Yolande dressed and prepared herself with care and, for this special occasion, wore soft green, a great ruby brooch sparkling high on her shoulder.

  “You are wearing the colours of a wood fairy, Madame,” Lady Sarrazin said whimsically, and Yolande smiled at the coincidence of her principal Lady’s words.

  Most of the Conseillers had arrived early and there was a scraping of seats as they stood up while Yolande ascended to one of the high chairs on the dais. Tonight a third chair had been placed in front of those of the Duke and Duchess and it was to this that Charles was led by the Duke of Anjou when they made their entrance a moment later.

  “Gentlemen, be seated,” Louis commanded, and there was a further clattering while all the great men of the province obeyed, taking their places expectantly, waiting to hear who had been chosen to form the Count of Ponthieu’s first household.

  The Duke stood up, clearing his throat, and immediately there was total silence.

  “Gentlemen, I do not want to mar such a happy night as this by speaking of the tragedy of Azincourt. Let me simply say that the English King has renewed his suit for the Princess Catherine’s hand and has announced his intention of returning to these shores if she and a dowry of two million crowns are not made available to him. The Council of France will not agree to such ridiculous terms and this can only mean that at some time in the future King Henry will come to invade us again. I speak of this simply to underline the fact that those chosen to protect and serve the Dauphin’s heir must swear their utmost loyalty, for the Count of Ponthieu will be entering the world scene at a most dangerous and difficult time.”

  Louis laid his hand on Charles’s shoulder and the boy looked up at him, his eyes never more true and steadfast than at that moment.

  “Charles de Valois,” said the Duke solemnly, “do you swear to serve your country to the best of your ability, to take your place on the Council of France aware of the true dignity of such a body? Do you give your oath that you will do your utmost to keep foreign invaders from our shores and to quell internal troubles with a strong arm?”

  “I swear it before God,” said Charles, rising and laying his hand on the Bible that the Duke proffered to him.

  “And do you also swear that if ever you should inherit the realm of France you will govern it as the true protector and champion of its people?”

  “I do by God,” answered the Count, his voice trembling.

  “Then all is well,” said the Duke seriously. His manner noticeably changed and became more business-like. “Monsieur le Comte, your household will be made up as follows: Robert le Maçon, Lord of Treves, will be your Chancellor.”

  Charles smiled at the man, this night dressed in his favourite colour of chestnut brown but with a crimson hat and decorations to give a dash of boldness. It had been he who had placed his body between Charles and the Caboche revolut
ionaries and, as such, had earned himself an honourable position.

  “Jean Louvet will become president of the chambre de comptes”

  Glancing at the man who was the Bastard’s future father-in-law, the Count saw a big bluff fellow in his late forties, handsome in a fleshy way. His mouth was sensual, or so Charles thought.

  “Hugues de Noyer and Guillaume d’Avagour to continue as Chamberlains to Monsieur; Jean, the Bastard of Orleans, to take his place as a new Chamberlain.”

  The Count caught Jean’s twinkling eye and both of the boys had difficulty in restraining a grin.

  “Confessor to the Count of Ponthieu, Gerard Machet.” The tall cadaverous priest inclined his head to signify he understood that he must now leave the household of Duke Louis and travel with the boy to noisome Paris.

  “And finally, and this by special request of Monsieur himself, Hunchback Guy as Personal Astrologer.”

  Gerard Machet sunk his bony jaw into his hand, obviously disapproving of this clash between theology and superstition, and there was a slight murmur amongst the more conventional members of the council. But the Duke ignored them. Astrologers were a part of life, dealing out medicine and political advice with equal ease. If Charles’s difficult time in Paris could be alleviated by the presence of a soothsayer then Louis could see no objection to it.

  “As soon as the winter is over and the ways are clear, Monsieur le Comte and his party will leave Anjou and take up residence in Paris. Gentlemen of his household, I ask you to make your arrangements to accompany him.” Duke Louis smiled. “And now our business is formally at an end. The great banquet to celebrate the thirteenth birthday of the Dauphin’s heir will shortly begin. I hope we will have the pleasure of entertaining each and every one of you on so joyous an occasion.”

  The Conseillers went with a will, having little enough to rejoice about in such troubled times, even the two youngest children of the household, little Yolande and the Count of Maine, being allowed to attend for a while. But throughout the happy occasion, the guest of honour found himself ill-at-ease, certain that the possibility of Nicolas Flamel being wrong about his future now seemed remote, that it truly was he who was destined to be the next King of France.