by Deryn Lake
“My dear child,” Yolande had answered smoothly, “I am a woman of the world as well as Regent of Anjou. I make it my business to keep in touch with everything.”
Charles’s face had taken on an obstinate look. “I don’t want to give her up. I can’t help myself, Madame. I am very drawn to de Giac’s wife.”
“I hold no brief for the man, never fear,” the Duchess had replied crisply. “He is a Satanist and a pervert.”
“But you feel I have betrayed Marie?”
Yolande’s voice had lost its anger. “No, not even that entirely. You are not yet married and there are few young men who go to their marriage bed virgin. No, it is simply that you did not bother with my daughter when she returned from her ordeal. Furthermore, Charles, it was a serious mistake indeed not to sign the proposed treaty with Burgundy and return to Paris with him.”
“To be his puppet?” the boy had answered bitterly. “Why, I’d rather be dead. I hate Burgundy with his boots and his spurs and his traitorous ways. I would never sign a treaty with him, never!”
“But one day you might have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“While Armagnacs and Burgundians are at each other’s throats the door is open wide for Henry of England.”
“I know it, I know it well,” the Dauphin replied with much feeling.
“Then you must consider peace.”
“But, my dear good mother — and that is how I truly think of you — I will not sign with him unless the terms are favourable to me, I will never be Burgundy’s creature, though no doubt that is my real mother’s dearest wish.”
Yolande had seen his point at once; nothing, not even the unity of France, would be worth a life of subjugation to Burgundy.
“Yes, I understand that.”
“Do you understand about Bonne too?”
“Even about Bonne.”
“Does Marie know I have a mistress?”
“I think not,” the Regent had answered thoughtfully, “and at the moment I would rather she remained ignorant. You see, Monsieur, in her simple childish way my daughter loves you.”
“And I would never hurt her.”
“Then after this visit I shall take her back to Angers with me and not bring her to rejoin you until Christmas when, if Madame de Giac is present, you will no doubt be forced to keep her in the background because of the presence of her husband.”
“But what of the future?” Charles had asked flatly. “Marie is bound to find out about it one day.”
“The future,” Yolande had answered with conviction, “must simply take care of itself.”
It was not so much fear of reprisals that had made Bonne keep silent about de Giac’s terrible and violent treatment of her, but rather fear of what Charles might do if he found out the truth. Just before she had left to join her lover, Pierre had unexpectedly appeared at the castle outside Paris with the unwelcome news that he would be shortly joining his wife at the Dauphin’s court.
“And by the way,” he had added, giving Bonne his sinister smile, “no ideas about telling your ugly boy what took place between us, because if you do I’ll end the relationship as sure as fate.”
“How?” she had breathed.
“By telling him you’re whoring with another.”
It would have been useless and dangerous to argue and Bonne had simply nodded her head.
“And I’ll be wanting that favour soon.”
“What favour?”
“The payment for letting your affair go on. Au revoir, my pretty. See you at court.” And with that the Devil’s man had bowed out.
And now, within a day of the arrival of Yolande and Marie, de Giac appeared, making his way by boat over the chilly grey waters of the Loire to the many-towered castle at Tours.
It was obvious at once that he had not seen Yolande for some time as he made a great show of complimenting the Duchess on her appearance, a fact with which an intimidated Bonne had to agree. In her widowhood and nearing forty, the Regent of Anjou was quite the most elegant woman she had ever seen, only Yolande’s slightly hawkish look detracting from an otherwise lovely face. Marie, too, flushed with pleasure at seeing Charles again, was improving, and de Giac kissed the girl’s hand lingeringly, slightly drawing the skin up between his lips.
“You have a beautiful bride, mon Prince,” he called out jovially to the Dauphin, then let his eyes wander deliberately from Marie to Bonne and remain for a moment. There was an uncomfortable pause before Charles answered boldly, “So have you, Monsieur.”
This exchange seemed to set the pattern for the rest of the day, the Dauphin and de Giac constantly trading innuendos, a ploy which terrified Bonne, irritated Yolande and entirely escaped poor Marie. But it was at the banquet held in the honour of the Regent and her daughter, and for which Pierre had most fortuitously arrived in time, that feelings began to run high.
As was the custom, the Dauphin sat at the head of the high table with his future mother-in-law and wife on either side of him. Seated next to Yolande was Robert le Maçon, the other dignitaries of the household interspersed down its length, Bonne amongst them, only de Giac finding himself in a lowly position at the far end. This obviously displeased him enormously and his smouldering blue eyes began to blaze as he stared from Charles to his wife and back again.
As always when the great men of the Armagnac cause were gathered together conversation turned to the state of the nation and, before the wine cups were passed round too often, a discussion better suited to the council chamber took place, partly because the much respected Duchess of Anjou was present.
“Some acceptable settlement with Burgundy must be found soon,” argued le Maçon sensibly, to which the Lord de Beauvau gave a forceful grunt of assent.
With two such powerful and highly regarded men coming out in favour of a truce, the warlords present held their tongues, and it was left to Louvet, from whose mind thoughts of money were never far away, to say, “It’s a pity we can’t bribe him.”
“No doubt we could,” Yolande put in, “but he would want too much, the price would be too high.”
“Unless,” said de Giac unexpectedly, startling everyone, as so far that evening he quite literally had not spoken a word, “it could be with something other than money.”
He was almost universally disliked and also suspected of being a traitor, rumour after rumour reaching the ears of the Armagnacs that the man still enjoyed a liaison with the Queen, but none the less everyone stopped to listen. There was a timbre in de Giac’s voice, a hypnotic quality, which made those overhearing it pay attention, whether they liked it or whether they did not. Consequently, the room grew quiet and the Dauphin became aware of the muted buzz of servants’ conversation, screened off at the far end of the hall, the scratch of dogs beneath the table, and the crackling explosion of sun-dried logs. Charles suddenly felt most intensely his love for Bonne, his hatred of her husband.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Now the Satanist was purring, all signs of his earlier anger gone. “They say that every man has his price, Monsieur. Surely even the Duke of Burgundy must be susceptible to some form of douceur.”
“He’s perverted if that is what you mean,” said an unidentifiable voice from one of the lower tables.
“Boys?” asked de Giac softly, but the speaker forbore to say it was cruelty that fascinated Burgundy, in view of the many ladies present and listening.
Somebody drunker than the rest, called out, “I should have thought you would know, Monsieur. After all, you and the Duke have mutual friends.”
It was an unsubtle reference to Isabeau but de Giac, his earlier mood vanished, simply raised a long thin eyebrow and let the comment pass.
“Why don’t we make a wager on it?” he said, still holding his fellow guests unwillingly captive.
“On what?” asked de Beauvau gruffly.
“On which one of us can first arrange for milord of Burgundy to confer with our royal master, the Dauphin.”<
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“Surely this is too serious a matter for gaming,” Yolande remarked, frowning.
But already a number of voices had made sounds of approval and she could see her opinion would be disregarded.
“Monsieur?” said de Giac, turning to Charles and baring his teeth in that terrible smile of his.
The two fishes in Charles’s soul swam rapidly in opposite directions. Much as he wanted to re-open negotiations with the opposing force, anything suggested by his rival was suspect as far as he was concerned. To gain time, he sank his jaw into his hand and set his lips.
“I will consider it,” he said finally. “And promise to let you know my decision before the end of the night.”
Bonne’s husband, who had risen when he first spoke, now sat down again looking well pleased with himself, and the Regent found she was smiling. It may only have been an act on Charles’s part but he had conveyed an air of statecraft; her pupil was obviously apt.
“Did I do well to answer that?” murmured the Dauphin, very low, for her ear alone.
“On consideration, it sounds a reasonable plan. After all it would get them on their mettle. Yet I have never trusted that man. You did the right thing to delay your reply.”
In one of his endearing displays of affection, Charles covered Yolande’s hand with his. “My good mother, what would I do without you? It was once prophesied that a tall Queen would be one of the women who helped me and those words have indeed come true.”
Yolande’s winged eyebrows rose high. “And who foretold all this to you?”
“That I am sworn not to reveal.”
“And Madame de Giac, was she part of it?”
“Beauty to my beast,” answered Charles, but would say nothing further.
The banquet took its usual long course, followed by singers and masquers and merriment, but during the entertainment the Dauphin suddenly rose from his chair, whispered to his Chancellor that all should continue without him, and left the room. And to the observant Yolande it seemed hardly a coincidence that about five minutes later Hunchback Guy slipped from his place amongst the musicians and also went out.
‘A consultation,’ she thought wryly, and wondered whether to inform Charles that Dr. Flavigny had died since the Dauphin was last in Angers and there was a general call amongst the members of the household for the hunchback to return and take the place for which he had been trained.
“Well?” said Charles, as soon as the door was closed behind the astrologer’s back. “Tell me everything that happened to you, right from the start.”
“I obtained a post with de Giac easily enough,” Guy answered, sitting down, “though I think he suspects me of working for you. And I have also cared for Bonne as best I could. But, Monsieur, she is in so much danger. I fear terribly for her safety.”
“But why? What could happen to her?”
“Destiny always has two paths as I have told you so often. And Madame de Giac will be safe and well only if you can get her away from her husband.”
“But how can I?” asked Charles. “I simply can’t take another man’s wife and set her up as my mistress, not openly.”
“You could always kill him,” Guy said simply.
“I might even do that. I hate him enough.”
“And it is decreed he could indeed meet death at your hands.”
The Dauphin looked uncomfortable. “The thought of the two paths of fate disturbs me. I wish the future were neater than that.”
“But if it were, what function would I or any other mystic have? We are here to advise on the best course to take.”
“Then what should I do about de Giac’s wager?”
“If you decide to take him up on it, you and Burgundy will most certainly be brought together, but there are great risks involved, for you, for Bonne, for everyone.”
“Why for Bonne?”
“I don’t know, I simply feel it,” Guy replied honestly.
“But good would come of it? Jean the Fearless and I might be reconciled.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll do it,” answered the Dauphin. “I shall go back and tell de Giac to lay any wager he likes. And say that I, too, shall personally reward the man who can bring the Duke of Burgundy to my table.”
“So be it.” whispered Guy as his royal master strode from the room, his mind made up.
It was light when Pierre de Giac returned to his chamber, his face white, his eyes dilated, red specks upon his hands. Throwing himself down on the bed he turned on his side, propping his head on his arm, and stared fixedly at Bonne, who slept delicately, as if she were lying in a shell, her ebony hair spread over the lace-covered pillows.
“So,” he said softly, “the game’s afoot and you, ma chérie, will have your part to play.”
The sound of his voice awoke her and she sat up, pulling the sheet to her chin, terrified to see him so close and so ghastly.
“What do you mean? What do you want with me?”
“Not your body you’ll be pleased to hear,” de Giac answered, grinning. “No, you must keep that young and fresh — in fact you will only be allowed to go to your boy once a week from now on.”
“What do you mean?” the frightened girl repeated dazedly. “That it is you, my pretty, who will be the bait to lure in the mighty Duke. It is you, sweet Bonne, who will become a lady of midnight, driving him mad with your caresses, bringing him to your royal master’s side.” De Giac sniggered loudly at his own joke. “You are about to become a whore to Jean the Fearless in order to earn your keep.”
“I won’t,” she shrieked. “I will never do such a terrible thing. I would rather be dead.”
“Which is precisely what you will be,” snarled her husband, grabbing her by the hair and half-wrenching her out of bed, “if you do not do exactly what I say. You have a straight choice, Madame. You either share your favours between the Dauphin and the Duke or you go to your grave.”
“You are evil personified,” sobbed the wretched girl. “You are truly a son of the Devil.”
“You surprise me with your lack of affection for your wretched partner,” said de Giac, letting go of her so suddenly that Bonne fell onto the floor in a heap of limbs. “Any woman worth the name would be only too happy to seduce her lover’s enemy in order to bring him round. You worthless slut, you will not even give your body to help the cause of France.”
“You are deranged,” the girl whispered helplessly. “I shall go to Charles and beg his help to stop you.”
“I think not,” answered her husband. “I think you will find by the time you see him again you and Burgundy will have already tasted the joys of the flesh together. Get dressed, pretty bitch. We leave in half an hour.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find your new lover.”
“No, no,” his wife cried despairingly.
But de Giac only laughed as he poured some water into a basin and washed his hands clean of the fresh blood that still bespattered them.
In the cold dawning during which the Devil’s man and his tragic consort left the castle of Tours by way of the river, another strange and secretive journey had taken place. From the chateau of the Duke of Lorraine, Alison du May and René d’Anjou, accompanied only by a single bodyguard, had made their way in the semi-darkness out of the town of Nancy and headed west to where the dukedom bordered onto that of Bar.
Here, as the sun came up, bloodless in the chill autumn morning, they had crossed from one territory to the other, then proceeded at a good pace to the town of Bar, passing the churches of Notre-Dame and St. Etienne as they made their way to the upper quarter and the residence of the Duke and Cardinal himself, the boy’s great-uncle, Louis.
Now, still in the shadows of that gloomy morning, René was ushered into a receiving room where a swirl of crimson from a high-placed chair told him that his elder relative already awaited his arrival. The boy bowed as a voice, large and deep said, “Let me see you.”
Very afraid, René stepped
forward into a shaft of light, blinding him with its early brightness, and waited.
“Do you know why you have been brought here?” the voice asked.
“No, my Lord.”
“Then allow me to tell you the reason. Nicolas Flamel, whose name I am aware you already know, has died, and with his death the Grand Mastership of an ancient and important secret order, the Priory of Sion, has passed back into the hands of our family. For Flamel, whose right it was to name his successor, nominated you as the next Grand Master.”
The boy peered out of his spotlight, glimpsing a rustling red robe. “Me? But why? What does it mean? What do I have to do with it?”
“Nothing as yet,” the Cardinal answered quietly. “I shall act as your Regent until you come of legal age, but long before that I will initiate you into the secret which the Priory protects. Later today the initial step will be taken and you will be received into the Order of the White Greyhound.”
“Which is?”
“A preparation for the higher order. It will be many years before you know everything, René, but as your great-uncle you may trust me to instruct you wisely. Now go to the table, fetch the wine cup that stands there, and drink with me, my nephew, heir and Master as I welcome you solemnly to your great inheritance.”
Wishing he knew exactly what was happening and that he could see who spoke to him more clearly, René took a cautious sip of wine.
“One day,” the Cardinal went on, “when that fool, your other uncle, the Duke of Lorraine, has left you his territories and I have left you mine, the duchies of Bar and Lorraine will be united again as they should have been long ago.”
“But what connection does Nicolas Flamel have with that?” René asked tentatively.
“One of the great ladies of the family, Blanche of Navarre to be precise, was an alchemist and a mystic. She was also Grand Master of the Order you now lead, and when she died left that honour to Flamel, her teacher and friend, because she felt only he was worthy to succeed her.”
“So why has it come to me?”
“Because you were considered worthy too.”
“But what about Jade…Louis…my elder brother?”