The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  Tanneguy looked up again. “Well, you’ve come to man’s estate. Monsieur, and so I suppose you should be treated as such. The turncoat is your mother.”

  Charles lost colour, not so much at Isabeau’s perfidy but more that she had treated him with a friendliness which had obviously been a sham, a means to an end, making clear the fact that his mother still had absolutely no love for him at all. His passionate lips tightened.

  “Then I order you in the name of the King to bring the Queen to Paris to answer that charge.”

  De Chastel opened his mouth to tell him that that command had already been issued by the Count d’Armagnac, then hadn’t the heart to say to this young creature with its blood and colour up that his wishes really didn’t count for much.

  “I’ll see to it at once, Monsieur,” he said, bowing in the saddle. “You men, escort the King and the Dauphin back to Paris, you others take the prisoners to the Bastille. Special guard, follow me to Vincennes.”

  Charles’s heart beat faster in his proud young chest. He had given his first order and it had been instantly obeyed. Perhaps the thought of ultimate power was not so frightening after all.

  “And Monsieur le Provost…” he added trying to sound casual.

  “Yes, Monsieur le Dauphin?”

  “Be good enough to ask Pierre and Madame de Giac to accompany the Queen if you would.”

  “Certainly, Monsieur,” answered le Chastel, grinning to himself as he rode away.

  The revenge of Bernard d’Armagnac on a woman who had come so near to betraying him was terrible. In the name of the King he confiscated all Isabeau’s properties, treasure chests and jewellery. He sent the President of the Dauphin’s chambre de comptes — his Chancellor of the Exchequer — to disperse the Queen’s households and servants and to search for any hidden wealth she might have. This task Jean Louvet, who was in love with Isabeau’s fat and who had only a few nights before been in bed with her, undertook with a certain reluctance, until it occurred to him that this was a wonderful way to fill his own coffers without anyone being at all the wiser.

  Meanwhile, d’Armagnac drew up plans for the Queen to be exiled, first to Blois and then to Tours, her only companion the Princess Catherine. He also ordered that her powers of Regency should be taken from her and re-invested in the Dauphin.

  “And will all this be in order, Monsieur?” Count Bernard asked, paying lip service to Charles’s new-found status.

  “It will,” the boy replied with dignity. “But I still require to see my mother before she goes. There is something I need to ask her.”

  And so it was arranged that on the eve of her departure, the Queen should attend him at the Hôtel Toumelles, a private palace which Charles, for reasons best known to himself, preferred to inhabit rather than the Dauphin’s official apartments in the Hotel St. Pol.

  That the sight of her would revolt him Charles had already expected, for fat had now completely deformed her. But it was the feeling of utter rejection, the knowledge that her friendly overtures had not held one ounce of genuine affection, that almost made him retch. Isabeau regarded his turning aside from her with an icy and unrelenting glare, almost spitting out her words at him.

  “So you find me revolting, do you, you miserable little monster? Well, look to yourself. You have not one ounce of beauty, nor ever will. That de Giac girl is only out for what she can get from you, mark what I say.”

  Charles gazed at her in horror. “You know about her?”

  “Of course I know. So does her husband. We watched you with her, thrusting away, and laughed ourselves sick.”

  The Dauphin sat down rapidly. “You watched us…me and Bonne? How?”

  “Through the mirror in my bedchamber. It was made especially for me in Italy. It is a window to the next door room.”

  “Mon Dieu!” snarled the boy, rising up again, his face drained but for two flushed patches on his cheeks. “It is you who are the monster, not I. You watched your own child make love, while you did likewise no doubt, floundering in your fat. Be gone from my sight! By my own command, for what it is worth, I decree that in exile you be allowed neither food, favour nor fornication. You are ordered to fast, Madame.”

  He swung away, turning his back on her, so that Isabeau’s hiss came from directly behind him as she moved her chair close.

  “I swear by God in heaven that you will never — never do you hear? — succeed to the throne of France while I live. I’ll show you up for the accursed bastard that you are. I’ll admit my adultery and rob you of any chance you ever had. By Christ’s Holy Blood I would rather see Henry of England take the throne than you get within a mile of it.”

  Charles spun round again. “And there speaks the traitor that you are. You have been in league with Burgundy all along, he who is our enemy, he who signed a treaty with the English King last autumn and who has declared the French his antagonists. It is the Duke whom you would rather see in my place, and it is to our foes that you are going to sell our poor downtrodden country. Well, you can reckon with me first, Madame. I’ll fight you to the end.”

  She did not answer, ringing a bell for a servant to come and take her away, but meanwhile manoeuvring her chair as far as the doorway. There the Queen turned.

  “I’ll see you dead before you ever become King, you bastard.”

  “I’ll be King,” the Dauphin replied, remembering Nicolas Flamel and his fated words. “And it is I who will drive the English out. And you will think of me doing just that when you are old and lonely, Madame.”

  And with those words he left the room by the further door, feeling her terrible stare rake his back until he had finally gone from his mother’s sight.

  It was Yolande who closed the Duke of Anjou’s eyes for his final long sleep, and it was she who placed his hands across his breast and drew a white cloth over his quiet face before she retired to her own apartments to weep. At the age of forty, the man whom she had married when he had been sixteen years old had been taken from her, and she wept bitterly for him, her greatest friend gone for ever.

  Happily, the Duke had lived long enough to know of Charles’s elevation and had nodded his head when Yolande had told him of it. And his last words had clearly shown he had more than understood what the Duchess had said. Gripping her hand, Louis had ordered distinctly, “Stop this feud between Armagnac and Burgundy, Yolande. Do whatever is necessary to get the English out. We must unite France against the common enemy.”

  “I will do what I can,” she had answered, knowing only too well the hopelessness of the situation.

  “Use the boy,” he had continued. “Let him be the instrument if necessary.”

  “I will, I promise,” his wife had answered, meaning it.

  “Then all’s well,” whispered the Duke, kissed her hand in farewell, and died without further fuss.

  It was very rarely these days that the Duchess’s mind turned to Richemont, still a prisoner in England, moved from the Tower of London to Fotheringay Castle because Henry V had not the patience even to see him, despite the entreaties of the Queen Dowager, Richemont’s mother Jehanne. But now, when every moment should have been devoted to mourning the dead man who lay in the adjoining chamber, unwanted thoughts of the Earl crept in.

  ‘Both gone,’ Yolande reflected. ‘Both the men I loved, in such very different ways, snatched from me.’

  She wept, then, with self-pity, a rare thing for that fine strong woman, for it seemed to her that she had reached the watershed of her life, the ashes of existence. Yet, intelligent creature that she was, the Duchess knew, even in this state of total depression, that she had the usual two paths of widows: the choice of locking herself away with her memories, a harsh black relict eking out her days until death came for her too, or taking the more difficult road and calling fate to heel, setting herself the task of wrestling with whatever difficulties life might throw her way.

  Yet what decision was there really? The new Duke, fourteen-year-old Jade, now Louis III, would need a Coun
cil of Regency to see him through the next four years and, miserable though she was, Yolande could not imagine herself allowing anyone else to be appointed Regent. Furthermore, the new Dauphin must be moulded into a future king of stature and courage. So, with all these stirring events at hand, it was not possible even to contemplate retiring from the world. With a sigh, Yolande, as she always did when she was deep in thought, went to gaze out of the window.

  A sharp clear shower was drenching the land, the setting sun still out, throwing great dappled pools of light and shadow on the castle walls and gardens. Over the river arched a double rainbow reminding the Duchess of Dr. Flavigny’s Tarot cards and that representing the lovers.

  Richemont had come to her in an April night six years earlier and Jehanne had been conceived, but where were those lovers now? A widow and a war prisoner who would probably never meet again. Whatever future lay ahead of her it would seem destined to be one of hard work and struggle with all the softness of love taken from it. And yet the Duchess was still only thirty-seven years of age. With an uncontrollable sob more tears came and both Yolande and the sad sweet evening wept together as the sun finally dipped behind the hills.

  Eighteen

  Deep down, far away in a drenching sleep, the Dauphin of France dreamed of both his past and the future.

  He was a child again, sitting on the lap of Lady du Mesnil, listening to her sing an old French song. Then he was standing in the maze of walkways and dwellings that made up the Hotel St. Pol, watching and waiting for his beloved sister to come and play with him. And now she was walking towards him, but twined like a creeper round a red-mouthed man whom Charles recognised to his horror as none other than the monstrous murderer of the French nation, Henry V himself.

  In despair, the Dauphin called out, “Oh, Catty, don’t love him. Please don’t.”

  But it was useless, for her brother knew that the girl was hopelessly besotted, that she would give up her birthright a thousand times just for the chance to lie in the arms of that most brutal enemy of France, longing for the touch of his cold ascetic lips on her strawberry ripe mouth.

  The dream changed course and Charles was suddenly a silent spectator, marching with a division of Henry V’s army, seeing them put poor Normandy to the sword, marauding and spoiling everything they touched. The fact that Catherine loved such a ruthless, pitiless tyrant made everything more hopeless and the boy felt the taste of ashes in his mouth.

  “I hate you, I hate you,” the Dauphin moaned in his sleep. “I hate you, Catherine, for betraying me.”

  The dream altered again and now Charles found himself in a deserted and moonlit field, the landscape harsh and scrubby, the only sign of any human presence a mound of freshly dug earth beside which stood Bonne, her back turned to him, her shift bleached white by the moonshine, her black hair clouding out round her shoulders.

  “Oh, darling,” called Charles, starting to run towards her. “Oh, Bonne, where have you been hiding?”

  She turned to look at him. She had no face, only a grinning skull. She had been dead for weeks.

  “Christ,” screamed the Dauphin. “Christ protect me!”

  And he woke up making the sign of the cross, shivering violently, the bedclothes drenched with the dew of his sweat, and lay thus for a few moments, desperately afraid and disorientated, trying to get his bearings, before finding a tinder and lighting the candle beside his bed only to see the outlines of the Dauphin’s chamber in the Hotel Toumelles emerge from the darkness.

  Charles sat up and swung his feet to the floor, trying to slow the racing thoughts which teemed through his brain relentlessly. For in the year since he had become Dauphin of France the situation in the country had deteriorated even further, though through no fault of his.

  In the autumn following Charles’s elevation, Henry V had landed his troops, once more claiming the right to his bride Catherine, and her dowry. This time he had split his army into four divisions so that Normandy could be conquered systematically. Meanwhile, bored to distraction in her exile in Tours, her lovers, her jewels, her fine gowns all gone, Isabeau had written for help to Jean the Fearless. Hurrying to her rescue at once, he had snatched her from prayer in a convenient convent and transported her to Troyes where, with the full agreement of the English King, Burgundy had set her up as Regent of France.

  The Dauphin, while all these ills beset his future kingdom, did his best to lead with what little scope he had. Under the auspices of Yolande he had received the keys to various cities, been stupendously polite to every local dignitary, however boring, spent a few days with Marie then hastily returned to the arms of Bonne, only to find that his future bride had been sent on separately to join him in Paris. Charles had also added several more gentlemen to his household and had begun to sign edicts issued in the name of the King, the boy’s well-formed hand with its bold and flourishing signature becoming a familiar sight on state documents.

  These days the Dauphin was growing up in every way, the three-year gap between himself and Bonne almost seeming to be reversed, so that he appeared the elder and she the anxious child. This illusion was aided by the fact that the boy had grown taller, though remaining lanky as ever, and his pleasingly husky voice had now become fully mature, charming all those who listened to it. With his lovely eyes alert and his passionate mouth smiling, there were times when even this particularly plain young man could look alive and attractive.

  The Dauphin’s intimate set of friends — the Bastard, Hardouin de Maille, his grand maître, and Robert le Maçon and Tanneguy de Chastel of the older men — all knew about their royal master’s affair with Madame de Giac, and to each one of them, in varying degrees, it gave cause for concern. Knowing her husband’s evil reputation, none could understand why the man was not taking his revenge on the young but adulterous lovers, though le Maçon guessed shrewdly that the Devil’s man was waiting to see which side would be uppermost in the forthcoming political struggle and then blackmail the Dauphin, should he be the victor, for promotion to the highest position in the land. But in the meantime de Giac, who must have been more than aware of his wife’s infidelity, chose to ignore the flagrant affair being conducted beneath his very nose.

  Now, sitting on the bed, still shivering slightly, Charles wished Bonne were beside him, that it could be one of the forbidden nights which made his life worthwhile, enriching both his body and soul, or so he made himself believe. But the girl was not, and he had little choice but to lie down again and go to sleep and would, indeed, have done so, had not a sudden sound sent him starting up again. Footsteps were pounding up the stone stairs and along the corridor towards his room. Acting almost by reflex, the Dauphin slid rapidly out of bed and pulled on his hose, so that he was at least partly dressed when the door flew open.

  Tanneguy de Chastel, the Provost of Paris, stood there, his leathery face pale, his black eyes hot as roasting nuts, while behind him Charles could see Guillaume d’Avagour and his Chancellor, Robert le Maçon.

  “For the love of God come at once, Monsieur,” said de Chastel urgently. “There is not a second to lose.”

  “What has happened?” answered Charles, throwing a loose shirt over his shoulders. “Are we under attack?”

  “Yes we are, by God. Burgundy has broken through the walls and is entering the city. He’ll be after your hide sure as fate. So for Christ’s sake don’t dawdle.”

  He was rough, he was peremptory, but nobody cared.

  “Where are we going?” asked the Dauphin, breaking into a run to keep up with the others as they hurtled down the staircase and into the great hall where stood the Bastard, his face chalk white.

  “There are horses outside,” Jean gasped. “We must make for the Bastille. This whole bloody thing’s a plot. One of the merchants stole the keys of the St. Germain gate and let the Burgundians in.”

  “No, no horses,” le Maçon ordered, “you’ll be spotted a mile off. Go through the gardens. I’ll make my own way and join you later.”

 
There was something exciting about such terrible danger, Charles thought, as the four of them slipped out of the Hotel’s terrace door, down the stone steps and into the ink-dark grounds, the smell of night flowers rushing to meet them like a perfumed veil. Beyond the palace the sounds of battle were now distinctly audible, the shouts of men and the scream of horses, the crunching of feet and clash of swords as enemies fought hand to hand. Suddenly only too aware there was a massacre in the city of Paris, Charles turned to the Bastard fearfully.

  “Where are the others? Is everybody safe?”

  “They’re getting out as best they can,” Jean answered briefly.

  “And Bonne? Where is she?”

  The truth was that the Bastard of Orleans had absolutely no idea, having left his own apartments so hurriedly that his livery collar of the Bourbon Porcupine had fallen off on the way. But now he told an expedient lie.

  “She and her husband have already quit the city.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I saw them go myself.”

  And that could easily be explained away later, should the de Giacs perish in the bloodbath, by saying he must have been mistaken, that his judgement had been impaired by the confusion and panic.

  In the darkness the Dauphin blushed, suddenly remembering poor inoffensive little Marie, his hapless fiancée, back at his side since the New Year, hating every minute of court life and mightily suspicious of the delicate and beautiful Madame de Giac.

  “And Marie?” he asked. “What about her?”

  “Also gone,” the Bastard answered, lying again. “Now come on.”

  Beyond the Hotel’s walls the Bastille, the grim fortress used as a prison by the Council of France and to which Tanneguy de Chastel, as Provost, had immediate right of entrance, threw its towers and turrets like an even darker shadow against an already dark sky. But it was with relief that the royal party, fearing tremendously for the Dauphin’s safety, heard its portcullis raise at de Chastel’s shouted command and then, even better, lower again behind them, hearing from the guards as they passed through that Robert le Maçon was already inside.