The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  “It was Master Flamel’s own choice. Yours was the name he gave us.”

  “But why?”

  “He spoke of La Pucelle and your role in her story.”

  “La Pucelle? Who is she?” asked René, feeling himself begin to grow cold.

  The crimson robe quivered as the Cardinal shook his head. “I do not know the answer to that but Nicolas Flamel certainly did. He said that you and she must be side-by-side when the appointed time came.”

  “I feel afraid,” said the boy. ‘That name makes me feel afraid.”

  The Cardinal stood up in the gloom and René saw the hem of the red robe shiver to the floor of the dais as if it were a scarlet waterfall.

  “Fear nothing, my son. God will take you by the hand.”

  “But I am still only a child. How can I help anybody?”

  “The way will be shown you and when the time comes you will know what to do.”

  “I feel that a great burden has been laid upon me,” said the boy, growing even colder. “Do I have the right to refuse this honour?”

  “Yes, you have that choice. But it is foretold that you will not, that you will prove to be one of the greatest Grand Masters the Priory has ever known.”

  “Then why am I so afraid?”

  “You fear the unknown as do we all. Yet remember, René, that my hand will guide you until you reach man’s estate. I will look after you.”

  There was silence while the boy drew his dark brows together, thinking that he would like to run away from the entire situation yet already feeling a touch of excitement at such a fraught and dangerous predicament.

  “So be it. I accept,” he said eventually.

  In the gloom the Cardinal went on one knee before him. “Then the heritage of Sion is yours. I offer to God my prayers for you and pay you reverence.”

  And with that he kissed the boy’s small and icy hand.

  Twenty

  They met in no man’s land, a neutral zone, symbolised by a huge and tapestried pavilion, and they met alone. The Dauphin went in first, passing beneath branches specially woven to form an archway, and stood, white-faced, awaiting the arrival of his arch-enemy, that traitor to his people, the Duke of Burgundy. Then, a moment later, Jean the Fearless’s bulk blotted out the light in the entrance and the man and boy stood staring at one another, masking their seething emotions with blank eyes, before the Duke finally dropped to his knees at the Lieutenant-General’s feet. So it had come at last! The two sides tearing France to shreds, Armagnac and Burgundian, were finally face to face.

  At a carefully measured distance from the central pavilion were two others, equally large and imposing, each belonging to one of the opposing factions, their bright banners and flags fluttering crisply in the evening air, beyond them, on separate sides of the field, the tents of the vast retinue of followers.

  Each set of courtiers openly vied with the other as to who could be the most gorgeously dressed, while the knights, in their chain mail, glared constantly at their opposing numbers. Page boys, wearing the livery of their various masters, swarmed under the solemn feet of the foregathered lawyers and clerks, garbed in sombre black or resplendent purple, adding to the general atmosphere of excitement. It was 8th July 1419, and talk of peace was running wildly through the great encampment in the meadow lands just outside the town of Pouilly.

  It had been Bonne de Giac, of course, who had been responsible for this amazing gathering, contrived even more successfully than her husband had imagined possible. That Burgundy would desire and play with such a beautiful little thing he had never had any doubt, but that the depraved old lecher should actually fall in love with her, de Giac had not reckoned on.

  But that strangest of things had actually happened. In her very horror and reluctance, in her terrified shrinking away, the Duke had tasted the sweet fruit of the girl’s innocence, and had surrendered his heart to her. So it was partly to please Bonne, partly for his own reasons, that he had at long last agreed to meet Charles de Valois, unaware that his mistress was also that of the Dauphin; and in the eyes of the entire Armagnac faction, Pierre de Giac had been seen to have won the wager.

  Yet neither of the two men alone in the central pavilion was aware of how cruelly both of them had been manoeuvred by the Devil’s man, simply remaining frozen as statues while Burgundy murmured honeyed words of allegiance and conciliation.

  “Return to Paris with me, mon Prince, and take up your rightful place as your father’s Regent.”

  “France already has a Regent, Lord Duke. You nominated my mother the Queen as such. I am Lieutenant-General of the kingdom.”

  “I admit my foolishness, Monsieur. It is you who should by rights be acting in Queen Isabeau’s place.”

  “Tell me,” said Charles, narrowing his eyes in his still, pale face, “why are you doing this? Are you suddenly afraid of the English King? Do you think he might be a threat even to you?”

  It was so acute an observation that Jean the Fearless shifted very slightly where he knelt, and the Dauphin knew he had hit home. His spies had already described to him the very first meeting of Catherine and Henry V, when the Englishman, though obviously dazzled by the French girl’s extraordinary beauty, had not let his heart rule his cold and calculating head. His demand for a dowry of eight hundred thousand crowns, the return of the lands conquered by his grandfather Edward III, the Regency of France and, on the death of the mad King, all of France to become part of Henry of England’s domains, still held. And this, so the Dauphin had been reliably informed, had made Burgundy, who had also been present, change from a state of unease to one of open hostility, and the marriage talks had ground to a halt.

  “Did she fall in love with him?” Charles whispered now, half addressing Jean the Fearless, half not. “Was my sister violently attracted to the Englishman?”

  “She was utterly besotted with him,” Burgundy answered, equally quietly. “Madame Catherine will stop at nothing in order to marry the man. It is a highly dangerous situation.”

  “And so you come to me!” said the Dauphin, shaking his head at the irony of the situation. “Then be assured this discussion will be on my terms.”

  “But you will accompany me to the court at Troyes?”

  “Never! I will not trust my person in your hands. If I am to be Regent I shall rule from Bourges.”

  “That can never be,” answered the Duke, and both knew that there lay the stumbling block in their entire negotiations.

  Outside the pavilion the eagerly waiting courtiers grew cold as the sun burned its way out of a threatening sky and cruel black clouds amassed on the horizon, and still there was no sound from within.

  “Are they speaking?” whispered Tanneguy de Chastel to the Gascon Arnauld Guillaume, Lord of Barbazan, Charles’s personal bodyguard who had sworn never to leave the Dauphin’s side yet who had mastered to perfection the art of discreetly distancing himself.

  “Very little. The Duke keeps repeating that Monsieur must go with him to Troyes.”

  “And what does he reply?”

  “That he will not put himself at the mercy of the man who murdered the Duke d’Orleans and who slit the throats of twenty-five thousand mutineers at Liege, to say nothing of ordering the massacre in Paris.”

  De Chastel grinned. “Monsieur has been well counselled.”

  “And is growing up fast.”

  “Does the Duke still kneel?”

  Barbazan’s large dark eyes brightened. “Yes, I am delighted to say he does.”

  “I wonder how long he can keep that up?”

  “That we must wait and see.”

  De Chastel shivered, looking heavenwards as a gust of wind suddenly blew between the tents, rattling them where they stood.

  “There’s going to be a storm.”

  “Yes, in every sense. The Dauphin is adamant.”

  “Will the Duke concede?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then it’s stalemate.”

  And inde
ed it was, for though Jean the Fearless repeated his demand over and over again, Charles had ceased to listen and had long since let his thoughts wander to Bonne and the fact that these days she always seemed distant, far away, constantly preoccupied and sad.

  “Is de Giac being cruel to you?” he would ask.

  But his mistress’s only answer was a swift smile and a brush of her lips on his before she would whisper, “No more than usual.” Actions and words which did nothing to comfort the infatuated Dauphin. Now he forced himself to concentrate as the Duke spoke once more.

  “Monsieur, I feel there is little more I can say to you tonight. It must be past midnight and there is obviously a storm brewing. Do I have your permission to rise?”

  “You do.”

  The Duke got shakily to his feet, rubbing his aching knees. “I have knelt before you some five hours, mon Prince. I hope it has done a little good.”

  “I hope so too,” Charles answered swiftly, and bared his teeth in a mirthless grin, as he walked away from the Duke to the entrance and out beneath the woven arch.

  “Little toad,” hissed Jean the Fearless beneath his breath before he, too, made his way towards the great tent in which he slept.

  Like an omen, the sky split with lightning as the two contenders appeared, and there was a simultaneous shout of thunder directly overhead, then the hiss of wind-whipped rain.

  “It’s a terrible night, Monsieur, come,” said the Lord of Barbazan, sheltering the Dauphin with his outstretched cloak.

  “How late is it?”

  “Nearly one. You have been in conference many hours.”

  “Well, nothing came of it,” Charles answered gloomily, “except for the pleasure of making him stiff with cramp.”

  “The Duke knelt throughout?” the bodyguard asked in surprise.

  “He most certainly did.”

  Barbazan smiled grimly in the darkness. The Dauphin had exacted a boy’s revenge and it was only to be hoped that this would not jeopardise the chance of that most urgently needed peaceful settlement.

  But he had no time to dwell on this as the Dauphin’s servants rushed into the pouring rain to help Charles into his sleeping quarters, bringing the boy food and wine, and assisting Monsieur to get ready for the night. In this small confusion, Barbazan got left behind the throng, and so it was only he who saw a slight figure battling its way through a wind so strong it threatened almost to blow the woman over. Madame de Giac, undeterred by the lateness of the hour and the terrible conditions, was making her way to the Dauphin’s tent.

  Barbazan, the model of tact, prepared himself to enact his usual ritual, ushering the girl into the royal presence and then, when the time came for them to make love, searching the bedchamber for any hidden assailant before the couple entered and he absented himself with a perfunctory smile, remaining close enough to the door to guard it but far enough away to be out of earshot.

  Bowing, the bodyguard waited for Madame de Giac to take his proffered arm, then straightened again as she passed him by, her hood pulled down against the overpowering gale.

  Staring in astonishment, Barbazan could hardly believe his eyes as he saw the girl cross from the Armagnac camp to that of the Burgundians, making straight for the tent of the Duke himself.

  “Christ’s wounds,” he whispered into the stirring air. “I can hardly believe it. Monsieur’s Madame is both traitor and whore it would seem.”

  But there was no denying what he had only a moment ago seen for himself. Bonne de Giac had entered the sleeping quarters of Jean the Fearless and so far had not reappeared.

  “So,” thought Barbazan wryly, “my discretion will not be needed tonight after all. Well, well, who would ever have guessed it?”

  But on the point of hurrying to tell his young master what he knew, the bodyguard checked himself. If he were to relate everything he had just witnessed not only the peace treaty but the entire future of France might be put at risk. Deciding to keep his own counsel, Barbazan went to attend Monsieur le Dauphin, being able to assure his master with his hand on his heart that tonight he would have an undisturbed night’s rest.

  But when all was said and done, the Lord of Barbazan need hardly have bothered to keep his secret. Two days after their first meeting, the Dauphin and the Duke strode from the central pavilion, each in a towering rage, and headed immediately for their own camps. Mounting their horses, the two men almost simultaneously ordered the pennants to be raised, signifying departure, thus destroying any hope left that the civil war might be coming to an end. In full cry, the courtiers and the knights mobilised, ready to go, already forming into columns and starting to move forward.

  No one, with the possible exception of the bodyguard, could adequately explain what happened next. As if from nowhere, Bonne de Giac suddenly appeared and ran headlong between the two armies, risking her life should one of the great horses, frightened, bolt in her direction.

  “Stop!” she shouted. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  Both the Dauphin and the Duke wheeled to look at her, equally startled, and Barbazan with a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach saw an almost identical look of adoration cross the Dauphin’s young and vulnerable features as did those of Burgundy’s debauched and raddled old countenance.

  “Listen to me,” hissed Bonne violently, coming to a halt and standing between them, staring straight in front of her, not looking at either man. “If you love me you will stop this folly and return to the conference table. You must make concessions. The future of France is at stake and personal pride should be put aside.”

  Charles gaped at her, unable to believe that his mistress should remonstrate with him so publicly and there was a stunned silence before Burgundy eventually said, “I am willing to talk further if you are, Monsieur.”

  But all the while as he dismounted and went back to the great pavilion, this time surrounded by his cheering supporters, a terrible suspicion was beginning to grow in Charles’s mind. A suspicion that persisted and magnified throughout the next frantic hour as, swept along by his advisers who, to a man, enjoined the Dauphin to agree, Charles found himself signing a rapidly prepared treaty. A treaty in which Burgundy recognised him as Regent and agreed that it was not necessary, after all, for the Dauphin to be based in Troyes, and Charles, in his turn, forgave the Duke and welcomed him back to France from exile. With his signature the civil war was nominally over but in Charles’s heart it was only just beginning.

  Why had Bonne not looked at either of them during her extraordinary outburst? Why had Burgundy started to answer her at exactly the same moment as he had? What could have induced her to act in such an uncharacteristic way? The answers all pointed in the same direction and with a terrible reluctance Charles found himself drawn to consider them, as a moth to a flame.

  And then, without the need for further thought, everything was made clear. As more and more people crowded into the pavilion, shouting wildly that peace had come at last, Charles glimpsed Bonne standing beside her husband. And as the

  Dauphin glanced over at her, so did the Duke of Burgundy. What Jean the Fearless was thinking was written on his face for all the world to see, foolish smile followed foolish smile, the beastly old pervert was in love with the same woman as the heir to the throne of France.

  The need to act became irresistible. Charles stood up and there was immediate silence.

  “This conference is now over. In future both the Duke and I are sworn to keep peace with each other and to make no treaties with the English. Gentlemen, you may feast in celebration but I am going to pray for the souls of all sinners. I bid you adieu.”

  He shot Bonne a look full of hauteur, as only a Valois princeling could, and renounced her without saying a word, dismissing her from his life as surely as if he had told her directly.

  He was sixteen, but Charles the Dauphin felt old and beaten as he slowly left the pavilion, ordering even Barbazan to stay where he was, and hearing through its walls the shouts and cheers of his courtiers as he wen
t to his quarters to weep alone.

  Twenty-One

  The change in the Dauphin after the signing of the Treaty of Pouilly was noticed by everyone with whom he came in contact. The likeable, slightly eccentric boy had vanished overnight and in his place had come a cynical youth, his penchant for manipulating his courtiers turned to a hobby, his selfishness grown almost to the point of indifference.

  The gentlemen of his household — Pierre de Beauvau, Robert le Maçon, Jean Louvet, Hardouin de Maille, Tanneguy de Chastel, Hugues de Noyer, the Lord of Barbazan and the brothers du Mesnil, to say nothing of the Bastard of Orleans and Hunchback Guy — all knew the reason but not the remedy.

  That the love affair between Charles de Valois and Bonne de Giac was over was glaringly obvious to them all but yet there was not one of them, not even the astrologer, who dared approach either party about the matter. Constantly in the background, triumphant that he had succeeded in bringing together the Dauphin and Burgundy, loomed the sinister figure of her husband, eavesdropping on secret conversations, lurking round comers. It was agreed by them all that none should interfere until such time as de Giac left court.

  Probably more hurt by Charles’s uncaring attitude than any of the others were Jean the Bastard and Guy. It was they who had been his close companions in the early days, it was they who had always done his bidding, and now to feel themselves shut out of his life was a cruel stroke of fate.

  “If only he would confide in me,” the Bastard complained.

  “If only he would consult the stars,” Guy replied sadly.

  “He does, through Dr. de Thibouville, he who wormed his way in while you were away serving the de Giacs.”

  “Thibouville is a good astrologer,” Guy commented wryly, shrugging a crooked shoulder.

  “But only tells Charles the things he wants to hear.” The Bastard hesitated, then said, “Be honest with me Guy, how much of this trouble did you foresee when we were all together in Paris?”

  “I sincerely believed then — and still do — that unless Bonne can be permanently removed from her husband’s side she will one day lose her life.”