The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  He was intrigued, there was no denying it. A grin, much like the one he used to have before he was scarred both physically and mentally, crept over Richemont’s poor gashed face.

  He turned to the maître-d’hôtel. “Is there a messenger available to take a letter to my wife at Nantes?”

  “The Queen of Sicily had anticipated such a thing, Lord Earl. Even now a rider stands ready with horse saddled and waiting; while parchment wax and inks are already prepared in your chamber.”

  “So she knew I’d go,” said Richemont quizzically.

  “Madame the Queen-Duchess hoped that you might,” answered the maître, and smiled as one man to another over the wiles and ways of powerful women.

  It was a journey of unbelievable difficulty and splendour. On the advice of the Captain of the Guard, Richemont’s cavalcade avoided the most hazardous routes and followed the Loire as far as Le Puy, then joined another mighty river, the Rhone, turning in along the coast only when they reached that eerie marshland known as the Camargue. It was the end of the month by the time they arrived in Provence and Richemont reckoned that Yolande could only be reaching her destination a mere handful of days ahead of them.

  “This had better be worth it,” he said grimly, his delight in the escapade just beginning to wear a little thin as the weather grew even hotter.

  It was relentless, the sun beating down on them as they passed beyond the fierce mountains to the gentle slopes below, the smell of lavender and flowers heavy on the breeze. Richemont inhaled deeply, stripped to the waist in the saddle, feeling that the foul air of prison had finally gone from his lungs and a part of him had become whole again. With every step of his horse’s hooves along that magnificent coastline his heart lifted, and when, late one evening, he caught his first glimpse of the Chateau de la Napoule, he stared at it as if he had been transported to fairyland and here lay the Queen’s bower.

  The bay which the castle dominated swept in a huge and glorious curve, distant views of another, equally beautiful, lying just beyond, while two islands off shore caught the light of the dying sun in a sea the colour of coral. As for the Chateau, it almost beggared description. Arriving at twilight and by land as he was, Richemont could see its wooded gardens, its turrets and towers, the Moorish quality of its architecture, smell the scent of its trees and flowers, beneath which constantly lay the smoky aroma of sandalwood. As the porter opened the gates for the cavalcade to pass through, the Earl could only feel glad that Yolande had made him travel such a long and arduous journey in order to see this magical place.

  Torches were being lit within the castle and courtyard as the sun slowly dipped out of sight, reflecting in the restless ocean, which was now turning a deep and mysterious blue. Only too conscious of how ugly and dishevelled he must appear in contrast to all this beauty, Richemont put a visor over his face as he dismounted.

  As was customary, the Earl and his retinue were shown to the guests’ lodging to wash, change and take refreshment before joining in the hubbub of castle life. Miserably aware of his disfigurement, Richemont shaved himself carefully before covering his scars with a black mask, matching both his sombre mood and dark clothes. The moment he dreaded was at hand. After years of separation he was to see the woman to whom he had surrendered his virginity, his heart, and then rejected again in a drunken folly. With a heave of his shoulders, the Earl left his chamber and descended to the Chateau’s main living quarters.

  She was waiting for him in her receiving room, her back turned, her eyes resting thoughtfully on the seascape beyond the window, as Arthur went quietly in. Just for a moment he stood watching her, then gave a discreet cough, at which Yolande spun round.

  She was still beautiful, he thought, with her great eyes glittering in the firelight, her hawk’s face softened by her smile. Richemont saw that the Duchess had put on the emerald she had worn when last they met and that it flashed and glinted, as sparkling and alive as she was.

  He bowed and said gruffly, “Your servant, ma Reine.”

  Yolande gave no answering salute but came towards him, stopping only when they stood about a foot apart, staring him fully in the face, her eyes almost level with his own, gazing at her so wretchedly through the holes in his visor.

  “Why are you wearing that?” she said eventually.

  “I am disfigured, Madame. My face was scarred at Azincourt.”

  “I know that, but you do not answer my question.”

  “Very well, if you insist.” His voice was harsh. “I am masked because I have no wish to cause you offence.”

  “How could you ever offend me!” Yolande answered quietly, and before he could move or protest untied the strings that held the thing in place.

  Inside his chest, the Earl’s heart died. “I don’t want you to see me,” he said, wrenching away.

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “But why?”

  “Because, God help me, I’m still in love with you I suppose.”

  But it was too late. The mask was off and he was revealed, imperfect eye, livid scars, all. Richemont lowered his lids in shame so only felt the long fingers tracing out the line of each gash, slowly and carefully, as if their owner were blind, learning a face.

  “The gorge of Verdon.”

  “What?” said Richemont, opening them again in astonishment.

  Yolande was smiling. “You have the map of Provence on your face. This long scar is the gorge of Verdon which is in the mountains of Haute Provence. Quite spectacular! It is very difficult to reach but I shall take you there one day.”

  He stared at her in astonishment, unable to utter.

  “And these two are the bay of Napoule and the bay of Juan. And these…” her fingers were teasing the Z on his left cheek “…are the winding courses of the Grand Rhone and the Petit Rhone in the Camargue.”

  Richemont wept silently, the tears splashing down onto her hands.

  “And those, drops from the sacred spring of St. Remy, where the Romans built their baths.”

  “Oh, stop, stop,” he said in a muffled voice. “It is too much to bear.”

  “What is?”

  “The fact that you can touch them, that they don’t repulse you. Marguerite, poor thing, does not flinch but she has never touched my scars. Never.”

  “Then I will do more,” answered the Duchess Yolande softly, and holding Richemont’s face between her hands, drew it close and kissed each livid gash.

  The love between them crackled in the air, never dead, never gone, always lurking beneath the surface, rough, raw and wonderful. In a glorious agony, mouth sought mouth as these two incredible people, the giants of their age, drew together once again.

  It seemed, then, that the folly of their parting had never taken place, that the wasted years had been but a few moments, and they were picking up their feelings, their intensity of love, one for the other, as if they had never been away. Quite slowly and without rush, they made their way in silence to Yolande’s chamber, situated in a far tower that overlooked the waves.

  Here, all was clear and blue; the sea and sky beyond the open window; the breath of the ocean, filling the room with its perfume; the bed, hung with blue taffeta; the silk hangings on the wall, woven with soft threads; the rushes on the floor mixed with the blue lavender that came from the fields of Haute Provence.

  “There are scars on my chest as well,” said Richemont awkwardly.

  “Perhaps,” answered Yolande, loving him, kissing him, gently undoing his linen shirt, “you are not just a walking likeness of Provence but the entire map of France itself.”

  Half dressed, the lovers drew one another down onto the bed as if they drowned, down and down beneath the rushing swirling water of the ocean which pounded just beyond the wall. It was the mating of merpeople, of sea creatures, as the Earl of Richmond and the Duchess of Anjou moved into one another rapturously, shapely breast against scarred chest, legs twining like fish tails.

  “Never leave me again,”
breathed Richemont urgently. “Yolande, promise that you will never leave me again.”

  “Only death will separate us,” she answered. “Only that master whom all of us must serve.”

  Then they spoke no more as passion took them out of the waves and into heaven, beyond the moon to catch the distant stars.

  They lay on cushions before the fire after all was done, sharing a wine cup, talking tenderly of nothing, the woman lying in the arms of her lover.

  “Tell me one thing,” said Richemont, his mouth against the sweep of her dark hair.

  “What is it?”

  “Why did you send me away without seeing me when I was leaving to join the Armagnacs next day?”

  Yolande hesitated momentarily, on the edge of telling him that she had borne him a daughter who was now nearly thirteen years old.

  “Well?”

  “You were too young to be involved with a married woman and I dreaded scandal.”

  “And that was the only reason?”

  “Yes,” lied Yolande. “Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered if it had anything to do with Pierre de Giac, that is all.”

  The Earl felt rather than saw her surprise.

  “De Giac? God’s mercy, no. Why do you say that?”

  “Because he told me it was he who spent that night with you.”

  Yolande did the most reassuring thing in the world and laughed. “With me? That reptile? No indeed. I leave his sort to Isabeau.”

  Richemont drew her even closer. “Then I was the only one?”

  Yolande turned her beautiful eyes on him. “Yes, my love. Only you and my husband in all this time.”

  “You realised I never stopped loving you?”

  The Duchess nodded. “Yes, I knew. Just as I knew that one day we would be re-united.”

  “And now you are free and I am not.”

  “Your sad little wife! Poor Marguerite, she has had no love in her life.”

  “I am as kind to her as I can be when my heart is not hers.” Richemont kissed the warm mouth so close to his. “Why did you send for me? Was it simply to seduce me again or was there some other reason?”

  Yolande laughed. “How clever of you to guess.” Her face changed. “No, there was another purpose but before I tell you of it let me assure you about something. Whatever you answer me, be it yea or nay, my feelings for you will remain unchanged. I swore just now to love you till the end of my days on earth — and I meant it.”

  “So what is it you want of me? Do you expect me to change sides yet again and join the forces of the new King?”

  “Yes,” Yolande answered simply. “Yes, I do.”

  There was a silence which hung heavily between them.

  “You put me in an awkward position, Madame. I am bound to both Brittany and Burgundy by ties of blood and marriage. It would be dishonourable to go against such bonds.”

  Yolande’s heart sank, for if the shabby truth be known she had hoped that by going to bed with him she could bring him to her side in more ways than one. Yet the gamble had not come off.

  “Your answer is no.”

  It was not a question just a bald statement of fact.

  “It must be. And so I suppose that is that. In the morning you will ask me to take my leave.”

  She drew away from him, her heavy coil of hair striking his shoulder like a flail.

  “How can you be so cruel, so wounding? I told you it was of no consequence. If we are on opposing sides in this war, so be it. It changes nothing.”

  He dragged her back to him, suddenly rough as blades. “You witch,” he said, so close to her that every line of his vicious cuts was clearly visible. “You know I would do anything in the world for you, but this I cannot. A man must have some integrity left. I gave my word that I would serve Henry of England and his allies. I will not renege on that promise.”

  “Then do not renege on ours. For we have given one, spoken or unspoken.”

  He kissed her roughly, quivering with intensity. “My beloved enemy, I speak my oath. I will love you all the days of my life. That is my promise to you.”

  Outside, the cold wind that had caused the fire to be lit banged at the window like a lost soul, the mood within echoing its desolation.

  “Then if that is the case let us put all that has been discussed behind us,” answered Yolande with great determination. “Otherwise I fear that we may part again — and this time for ever.”

  But Richemont wasn’t thinking about what she was saying, infatuated by Yolande’s beautiful proximity, looking through half-closed eyes at her long lean body, stretched to its full length, the firelight shining on its planes and shadows, turning her skin the colour of gold.

  “I want you,” said the Earl. “I swear to God I could not leave you even if I tried.”

  This lovemaking was carnal, voluptuous, where the other had been romantic. There was a certain desperation to it, engendered by the fact that they had almost argued, almost lost one another when so recently found. The Earl coupled brutally, like a soldier with a hired slut, while Yolande, aroused by such treatment, rediscovered elements in herself long forgotten. “My lovely whore,” whispered Richemont as he came to completion.

  “You dangerous rake,” she answered before she fell back into his arms and died the little death.

  They spent four weeks together, destined to be the happiest of their lives. They thought of nothing but themselves, forgetting the English, the war, the fact that they came from opposing sides. Yolande, slightly ashamed that she had even considered using his love for her as a means of persuasion, almost rejoiced that sworn enemies could be so at peace together.

  By day they walked the deserted beaches and hills, handfasted and barefoot, swimming without clothes in the warm summer sea, making love beneath the waves and in the roaring surf. By night they dined privately, then went to Yolande’s blue chamber, listening to the song of the ocean and the wild high cry of gulls.

  At the back of both their minds was the thought that this idyll could not last, that such unqualified bliss could not go on, that the scales must eventually swing. And so it came about, at the end of August, one deceptively calm evening just as the fireball sun quenched itself in the sea.

  The clatter of hooves in the courtyard brought no particular alarm, for servants and retainers came and went all day. But within minutes one of Yolande’s maids-of-honour had hurried to her side saying that a messenger had arrived with urgent news.

  “He will not even wait for refreshment, ma Reine. He says he has a letter for you from the King himself.”

  “Do you wish me to leave the room? He may have something to impart which is for your ears alone,” Richemont asked without irony.

  “No, stay. I would rather you did.”

  He watched as his mistress broke the seal on the rolled parchment, catching momentarily a glimpse of a flourishing signature, ‘Charles’, then saw her sit down rapidly, her face the colour of milk.

  “What is it?” he said, going to kneel beside her chair.

  “A triumph for you, a tragedy for me,” the Duchess answered bitterly. “Charles’s army has been hacked to pieces at Verneuil. Bedford himself led the opposing force. Normandy is completely reconquered and we have lost the Constable of France. The Earl of Buchan is dead.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then say nothing. It is better that you don’t.”

  The reality of their situation bore in relentlessly upon them. Where Richemont should, by rights, have raised his wine cup in a toast to the victors, Yolande should have put on mourning for a dead ally. Fate had once again inexorably moved its pawns.

  “I think,” said the Duchess into the silence, “I would like to be alone for a while. If you will excuse me.”

  And with that she left the room without looking at him again. Utterly benighted, Richemont followed at a distance, seeing Yolande go on to the sea terrace where she began to pace relentlessly.

  The Earl knew, then, what i
t was to be in pure torment. He loved her so much that her suffering was his too, and seeing her in such distress was more than he could endure.

  “Please, my darling, don’t,” he called, running to her side.

  She was not so much weeping as bleeding tears, each one falling with pain from eyes already swollen and red.

  “Don’t, don’t,” Richemont cried in agony. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

  Yolande shook her head. “Leave me alone, I beg you.”

  “Christ’s mercy!” called the Earl to the darkening sky. “What must I do? What shall I do?”

  And then he knew without question. Tied by blood and bond he may be to others, but to this woman, his woman, he was tied by something far more powerful.

  “Why do you weep?” he asked, his final quest for the truth before he took action. “Is it for the death of Buchan?”

  “That and the death of France,” Yolande answered harshly. “I swore to my dying husband that I would save this poor country of ours, but by Christ’s Holy Blood I have been defeated.”

  “No,” said Richemont violently, “no, no, no. He was my friend, I cannot betray him as well as you. I surrender. I will fight and die for your beloved country. Madame, I give you my services and my life.”

  She looked at him in astonishment. “But you swore—”

  “I know. I take back all I said. It is to you I offer my eternal love and allegiance. Will you take it?”

  He dropped on one knee before her, not knowing which was the louder, the roar of the ocean or the pounding of his heart.

  Yolande put her hand on his shoulder. “With you by my side I know I can win.”

  “You can and will.”

  The words came from nowhere, from a part of her brain where inspiration lay, quiet as the rocks at the bottom of the sea.

  “Then I extend to you, Arthur, Earl of Richmond, the sword of the Constable of France. What is your reply?”

  He stared at her in blank astonishment. “But I am nothing. A mere soldier. You cannot give me so great an honour.”

  “Do you accept?” Yolande repeated urgently.