The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  A little shower appeared from nowhere and pelted the river with glistening drops.

  ‘Soon there’ll be a rainbow,’ thought Yolande. ‘Yes, I truly believe that soon there will be a rainbow.’

  Thirty

  It was suffocatingly hot, the sheer press of bodies generating a heat that was almost unbearable. Outside, the February night was raw and sharp, the stars whipped to tatters by a bone-freezing wind, but within the hall women grew flushed and faint and great lords dripped sweat, while rank odours rose in abundance from the unwashed majority. Not for a long time could anyone recall seeing such an overpowering throng pack the Salle du Trône in the castle of Chinon, everyone chattering and laughing, loud as monkeys.

  At one end of the room a huge fire burned in the stone hearth, devouring the half tree trunks thrown on to it, contributing enormously to the tremendous heat, while along the walls torches held in sconces threw wavering lights and smoke and yet more warmth. Between these flambeaux hung majestic arras, some depicting biblical scenes, some mythological, the richness of their colours echoed in the clothes of the courtiers. Velvets and brocades, towering hennins, furs, jewels, everything fine had been brought out for this wildly exciting occasion, the arrival of the virgin from Lorraine, whose presence in Chinon for the last three days had set the whole place in uproar.

  The girl about whom everyone was talking, Jehanne la Pucelle as she was generally referred to, had been staying in the hostelry Grand Carroi while the King dithered, tom between de la Trémoille, who said she was either witch or whore, possibly both, and Yolande, for whose advice Charles had sent immediately, and who declared roundly that her son-in-law would be a fool if he did not interview the girl. And meanwhile, his own curiosity was driving him mad.

  “Is it possible that this peasant could be our salvation?” Charles had whispered to Marie, not daring to hope.

  “Stranger things have happened — at least I think so! Why don’t you receive her?”

  “Georges says I would be consorting with a hired slut if I do.”

  “Only because he’s afraid of what she might say,” Marie answered acutely and in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Charles, see the girl at least.”

  There was a very faint stirring of some of his old spirit and just for a second the faun who had ridden to battle at the head of his troops shimmered a smile at his wife.

  “Very well, I will. She shall come tomorrow night. I’ll instruct Colet de Vienne to tell her.”

  And it was as well for Charles that he had made that decision, for the following morning, riding with a large escort which included Abbot Jacques and his brother Guy, the Queen of Sicily appeared with much jingling of harness, the very crispness of her arrival indicating that she had arrived to see the legendary Jehanne, and was not in a mood to take no for an answer.

  And now the evening had come, the court packed to the doors, the atmosphere crackling with undisguised excitement, and everyone awaiting the moment when the Monseigneur Comte de Vendome, who had gone down to the town on horseback, ushered in the virgin from the woods.

  Outside the walls of the huge fortress, which was really three castles in one and had two internal moats within its enceinte, the night grew colder, sharp as needles, as out of the bustling town where the houses leaned close to one another, came Jehanne. Following the rough track that wound upwards to where the Chateau sat on a high hill, her black horse picked its way behind that of the priestly Comte, through a thin line of people who had braved the February wind to come and watch her. A child gave a shrill cheer and waved as she passed by — but Jehanne saw nothing except the frosty stars, knowing that tonight irrevocably sealed the rest of her life.

  Following her guide, almost in a trance, La Pucelle entered the castle by way of the town gate and made her way past the Fort St. Georges, then over the drawbridge which spanned the first moat and through the archway of the Clock Tower. Now she found herself in the central chateau, in a great courtyard lit by flickering torches, red-cheeked ostlers at the ready to help her dismount and take her horse. Fear came, black and fathomless, at the sight of it all and just for a second Jehanne stayed where she was, almost as if she would turn her horse and gallop off into the night. But then the noise and light coming from the building lying directly in front of her caught her attention and she knew that she must take this last step if everything prophesied by her voices was to be fulfilled.

  “Ready?” said Vendome, casually, coolly, not wanting to take sides or in any way show favour to this peculiar creature whom he had believed to be a transvestite but who tonight wore a dress of vermilion silk and would have looked feminine were it not for the shortness of her hair.

  “Yes, Monseigneur,” said Jehanne, and unkilting her skirt slipped out of the saddle and onto the mounting block.

  “The King awaits you in there.” And the Count pointed to the hive of activity which faced them.

  “He and many others to judge by the noise.”

  “The whole court has turned out to see you. Does that make you nervous?”

  “Very. But God will give me strength to cope with it.”

  “Well, that’s as well,” Vendome replied drily.

  There were seven steep steps leading up from the courtyard to the first floor salon which reared above their heads, enormous and imposing, its mullioned windows blazing with light. Standing on the very top step was a page, obviously a look-out who, as he saw the couple approach, turned on his heel and rushed within. And as she reached the entrance Jehanne heard the high harsh call of the King’s trumpets and realised that they were for her, that the boy had given a secret signal, and that the aim of such a display was probably to make her even more nervous than she already was.

  The girl took a step forward then stopped, the sight before her dazed eyes unbelievable, the glitter of jewels, the sumptuous colours of fine materials, the dark svelte sweep of furs, melding into a living tapestry of people. She had never in her life seen anything so rich, so decadent, so totally removed from everything she was herself. And yet there was a fatal fascination about it. Quite unconsciously Jehanne found that she was studying the women, some flaunting high bare breasts, wondering how it could be that though she and they were all female, the ladies of the court had elegance and beauty whereas she was tall and muscular, undeniably boyish, far more at ease dressed in men’s clothing. And then she remembered her training as a knight and dismissed such irrelevant ideas from her mind. Advancing into the room Jehanne gazed round for the Dauphin.

  She saw him at once, knew immediately who he was, even though he had hidden himself away in a group of courtiers and put another man in his clothes and chair of state. A silly trick yet one she had more or less expected as a test of her clairvoyant powers. Smiling unconcernedly, Jehanne made her way towards him and without hesitation went down on her knees at his royal feet.

  “Sweet Dauphin,” she said, “God grant you long life. I am Jehanne la Pucelle and have come to tell you that you will be crowned and consecrated at Reims and that day become the lieutenant of the King of Heaven, who is the King of France.”

  Charles stared at her open-mouthed. “But…”

  Jehanne shook her head slightly. “Do not deny that you are he born to rule France. That other man may wear your clothes but he could never wear your crown, sweet Prince.”

  She had captured his interest completely, she knew it. “May I speak with you privately, Monsieur?” Jehanne went on, using her advantage. “There are things I would say that are for your ears alone.”

  Charles gazed at her, dumbfounded, and it was several seconds before he found his voice and answered huskily, “If you wish it we can withdraw to that recess. Please rise.” She did so, turning her head slightly, and at that moment had one sweeping glimpse of the room. The courtiers looked stupefied, unable to credit that their coxcomb King, the idiotic boy who had not lived up to one grain of his early promise, had not only made a decision for himself, but was drawing the peasant girl into a window
embrasure, ordering the guards to clear it of people. The fat man, whom she was certain must be Georges de la Trémoille, could be seen seething with fury, his twinkling eyes hard as pebbles. But Yolande and, most surprisingly, Prince René, who had obviously travelled from Lorraine expressly to be present, were both smiling, as were the Abbot Jacques and his hunchbacked twin.

  “Thank you,” said Jehanne to her God, her saints, her King, and raised Charles’s hand to her lips.

  He almost exclaimed aloud, fighting to keep tight control of his emotions, but already there was a pricking of his spine, a stinging behind his eyes, a leap of his soul out of darkness towards the light.

  “No one can hear us here,” he said, and motioned the girl to sit beside him on the long padded cushion made specially to cover the window’s wide stone sill, an extraordinary gesture for a King to make to a peasant.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  He was trying desperately to study her dispassionately, without feeling, as if she were just another commoner come before him to beg a favour, but it was impossible. Against his will, Charles found himself drawn towards the girl, to such an extent he could do nothing but stare straight into the dark, spellbinding eyes that were gazing at him so candidly.

  Like a dying man he saw his life pass before him: he saw all that he had become, a puny midget of a thing fighting for survival, a nothing, a vainglorious puff of wind allowing itself to be ruled by futile creatures, when it should be he who gave the orders, held the reins, issued the commands that would pick his poor bleeding country up from the ground and stand it on its feet once more. Charles saw his shallowness, his attitudinising, his lack of integrity; saw his lassitude, his depression, the low state into which he had allowed himself to be dragged.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “She who has come to tell you on behalf of God that you need have no more doubts. That you are the heir of France and as such will be anointed and crowned in Reims Cathedral.”

  It was impossible to pretend with her and Charles answered bitterly, “But what if I am a bastard? What then? For sometimes in my nightmares I think perhaps that is why my kingdom is slowly being taken from me. Because I am not, after all, its rightful heir and it should indeed go to Catherine’s son.”

  “But even if you are not the late King’s child,” Jehanne answered simply, “then you are most certainly the person chosen by God to rule France for Him. My voices told me so. That is why I have been sent to you. To put an end to the siege of Orleans and ensure that you are anointed with France’s sacred oil. Because that is what God wants.”

  It was said so positively, with such complete conviction, such obvious sincerity, that there could be no arguing with the statement.

  “You are certain of this?” Charles answered dazedly.

  “I am absolutely sure.”

  “And these visitations, these voices of yours, how do they manifest themselves exactly?”

  He saw her grow slightly defensive. “Usually three saints come to me, giving instructions and commands about what I must do. Though at other times I hear them speak without actually seeing anything. It is they, acting as God’s messengers, who told me I had been chosen to save France.”

  “But in order to do that, in order to raise the siege of Orleans, you would have to fight the English. How could a girl do that? It is a matter for hardened soldiers.”

  Jehanne made no reply and for once seemed to be avoiding his eyes, giving Charles the strong impression that for some reason she did not want to answer. He decided, for the moment at least, not to press the point.

  “How long have these saints been coming?” he asked, puzzling about what it was that she, who was patently so open, was suddenly trying to hide.

  “Since I was thirteen,” she replied, obviously relieved at the change of subject. “The first time was when I was in my father’s garden, the second happened in the woods. I picked a flower to remind me of when they first came, and have kept it since.” The girl fished inside her long sleeve used, in the manner of ladies of the court, as a pocket, and drew out a faded bloom, long dead and pressed flat. “Here,” she said impulsively, “here, sweet Dauphin, you can have it if you like.”

  Charles looked down into the palm of his hand and as he took in what he held a million comets seemed to burst inside his brain. For now, at last, all was clear: the prophecy had not lied. A rose lay there, a faded red rose, and the voice of Nicolas Flamel rang in his memory as clearly as if the old man had spoken yesterday.

  “Three women will help you. One is a tall queen…” Yolande obviously. “…another a virgin bringing a rose…” By God’s passion what other description could there be for this glowing child sitting next to him? “…the third will be beauty to your beast.” Poor dead Bonne, rotting somewhere in her unmarked grave.

  “Oh, God!” said Charles. “Oh God! So you haven’t forsaken me! Then be thanked for this great mercy, and for revealing her at last.”

  For the first time in years the colour came into his cheeks and he felt a surge of energy which had him jumping to his feet.

  “It’s true! You are the virgin with the rose predicted long ago. So you have finally come to me.”

  “I am indeed your salvation,” answered Jehanne, once more kissing his hand. “And to prove it let me tell you things about yourself that you have not yet confided to a living soul. For every night, sweet Dauphin, I know that you pray God to rescue and defend you if the Kingdom of France is truly yours by right but, should it not be so, to allow you to forget you were ever a King and let you go to live in peace in Spain or Scotland.”

  Charles gazed at her, no longer in astonishment but now in awe.

  “Then you are indeed a true visionary for you have just spoken aloud the secrets of my heart.”

  “By the sign of the rose,” answered Jehanne.

  It was too much for the overwrought young man listening to her and he started to weep, quietly at first and then more and more emotionally. And as the faint sound of his sobs was heard first by one group of courtiers, then another, a silence fell over the entire company gathered in the Salle du Trône in Chinon. There was not a whisper from anywhere except for the crying of the King and the faint breathing of the girl who sat beside him on the window seat, tears dampening her own flushed cheeks as she watched him. Huge in his golden robes, de la Trémoille made to move towards them but was forestalled by the Queen of Sicily, dark as midnight in her deep blue dress, and just as forbidding.

  “My Lords and Ladies,” she announced in clarion tones, “gentlemen and retainers, the court is cleared. There is no need for any of you to stay. The King would be private with his guest.”

  “But, Madame…” boomed Georges, only to find that she was ready for him.

  “My son,” she said, referring to Charles not René, “wishes to confer only with La Pucelle, his immediate family and his astrologers. Nobody else should remain except for the Abbot of St. Nicolas and the Astrologer Royal of Anjou. Thank you, Monsieur. Good evening.”

  And she turned her back. Short of making a public scene, de la Trémoille had no choice open to him. He had been dismissed by a Queen. There was nothing for it but to leave the room with as good a grace as possible.

  “And may that see the beginning of his end,” Yolande hissed at his departing bulk.

  “A pity,” said René, watching him go. “He used to be so amusing. But oh, how power corrupts!”

  “Richemont said to me shortly after de Giac’s execution that there is always another one coming up from somewhere.”

  “Richemont,” René repeated thoughtfully. “Is he still banished?”

  “Only while de la Trémoille holds sway. But nothing, not even banishment, will stop the Earl from rallying to Jehanne’s call. I’m sure of it.”

  “She is just what we need if she can summon men such as him.”

  “Yes,” answered Yolande severely, “she is.” She turned to look at her son. “Now, are you going to tell Cha
rles the truth about her?”

  A look of pure astonishment crossed his raven face. “You know?”

  “Of course I know. Alison told me long ago that you had discovered a visionary peasant girl and subsequently sent her for training in the use of arms. Why did you do that, René?”

  “Because otherwise she would have ended up dead. God, the saints, simple clairvoyance, her own mind, whatever it is that drives her on, was telling her to go to war against the English. Can you imagine that, Mother? She would have lasted five minutes if she’d been lucky. I had to do something and I truly believe in protecting her I also did the best for France.”

  “Is she a member of the Knights Templar?”

  “Yes, she has been received into the Order, the only woman in their entire history. Jehanne has become a fully-fledged warrior-nun.”

  “Why did you not tell me this before? Why did you try and deceive even me?”

  “Because,” answered René solemnly, “there are some secrets too deep ever to be revealed. Surely you would agree with that?”

  Looking from her bastard daughter to her legitimate son, then back again, Yolande said equally solemnly, “Indeed I do.”

  The wheel of fortune had finally turned. Everyone who mattered to the newly buoyant Charles agreed with him

  that Jehanne should be taken seriously. The Astrologer Royal of France, Master Pierre de St. Valérin, concurred with the Astrologer Royal of Anjou, Hunchback Guy, that this was definitely the virgin whose mission was written in the stars, and quoted the predictions of Marie of Avignon that France would be saved by the intercession of an untouched girl. The King’s mother-in-law herself announced her willingness to act as Jehanne’s sponsor, the Abbot of St. Nicolas declared himself convinced that the miracle had finally taken place. Even Marie abandoned the royal nurseries and had a long conversation with Jehanne, who had been given accommodation in the Tower of Coudray, the place where Jacques de Molay, the last official Grand Master of the Knights Templar, had been kept prisoner, a somewhat grim residence chosen by herself.