The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  That unpleasant nickname had been given to Louis because of his part in the uprising of the nobles, headed by Jehanne’s comrades-in-arms, the Dukes of Bourbon and Alençon. Strangely, the Bastard, whom Charles had named Count of Dunois in gratitude for his services, had joined the rebels for a while, angry that his half-brother Duke Charles of Orleans was still a prisoner in England, believing that Charles was leaving him there deliberately. But it was the Dauphin’s part in the plot that had been the greatest blow, and the discontented youth had had to crawl to his father, petitioning him with the greatest humility in order to be reinstated in the King’s affections.

  Of Jehanne’s other lieutenant there had been far more terrible news than a mere rebellion. In 1440, Gilles de Rais had been arrested and stood trial, accused, as the indictment read, of ‘killing 140 or more children, in a manner cruel and inhuman; and that the said Gilles de Rais offered the limbs of these poor innocents to evil spirits; and that both before and after their death, and as they were expiring, he committed upon these children the abominable sin of sodomy, and abused them against nature to satisfy his carnal and damnable passions; and that afterwards he burned in these same places the bodies of these innocents, boys and girls, and had their ashes thrown into his cess-pits.’

  Everyone had reeled at the horror of such crimes and when Gilles de Rais had been first hanged then burned, just as the woman about whom he had had such a strange and inexplicable fixation — though she had not been granted the mercy of the rope — there were some who said he was glad to follow her, that he could not exist without her, that his reign of terror against small and harmless children had been his protest to God and to Satan that she had been taken from him.

  Richemont shivered where he sat, drenched with a sudden cold sweat, afraid to dwell on this the most sordid crime ever set on record. Reaching for a woollen wrap that had once belonged to Yolande d’Anjou and still, very faintly, bore a trace of her perfume, he wrapped it about his shoulders, then fell asleep before the fire to dream once more about his two dead loves.

  Thirty-Eight

  The Spider caught the Butterfly on May Day, at least that was how court gossip told the story afterwards. They had all ridden out from the Chateau of Saumur in a great laughing crowd, heading away from the river towards the forested countryside. The musicians had gone first, playing their flutes and trumpets, wreaths of leaves on their heads, then had followed the Dauphin, dressed in rich blue brocade, his hat abandoned to make way for a leafy crown.

  The ladies by tradition wore green, but Agnès had been clever enough to contrast this with a snow white head dress round which she had woven leaves and flowers to enhance her appearance. And this it did to such a stunning effect that nobody could take their eyes off her, the other women stealing covert and jealous glances, the men staring in open admiration, though none more so than Louis, who shook and sweated with the intensity of his feelings. By this stage, having pursued Agnès for four weeks without so much as a kiss, he had convinced himself that he was in love with her, that the constant ache in his loins was prompted by the purest of emotions and sheer crude lust did not enter into the matter.

  “You can’t keep him waiting much longer,” de Brézé had warned. “He might go off the boil and lose interest altogether.”

  Agnès had given her lover a strange look. “And that wouldn’t fit in with your plans, would it?”

  Pierre had laughed, slipping one hand inside her bodice and familiarly fondling her breasts. “Ma chérie, it is what we agreed if you remember. We love one another but we also love money and power; we are children of ambition. So it is not a question of my plans, they are our plans.”

  He was right. They had decided long ago at Fromenteau, the chateau in the Touraine in which Agnès had been born and where they had first met and become intimate, that between them they would use the court of France as a ladder, Pierre relying on his wonderful turn of phrase and likeable manner, she on her unparalleled loveliness.

  “Together we make a deadly but irresistible combination,” de Brézé had said, and they had laughed and toasted one another and the future.

  And now her partner had advised submission to the ugliest man in the world, Louis the Dauphin, who could give them both so much and yet was so truly terrible to contemplate. With a flick of her reins, Agnès moved forward in the jostling amiable cavalcade drawing slightly closer to her suitor and thus causing a low buzz of comment from those near enough to see what she had done. And yet she was subtle, this nineteen-year-old exquisite, remaining a few paces behind the Dauphin, not pushing herself any further until they reached the woods and all of them drew closer in order to thread their way through the trees.

  Louis caught her horse’s bridle as Agnès drew level with him. “No word for me today, Madame?”

  “I bid you a happy May mom, Monsieur.”

  His black eyes glistened. “You know what I mean. I’m on fire for you. Won’t you spare me a few moments’ conversation in private?”

  Agnès lowered her glorious lids. “You are my sovereign, Sire. I am yours to command.”

  “Then I order you to let the others go on and to remain here alone with me. Agnès, if you would give me just one kiss I swear I would be happy for the rest of my life.”

  “Is that a command too?”

  “Yes it is,” the Dauphin answered hotly, and as the last of the riders went past, spreading out in twos and threes in their search for branches of blossom, he leaned from his saddle across the short space dividing them and kissed her on the mouth. It was pathetic in a way. He wanted her so much that he could not stop himself from trembling at even this most mild of embraces.

  “Mon Dieu, but I love you!” breathed Louis rapturously, and leaned over to kiss her again. But she was not there and, opening his eyes, he saw that Agnès had dismounted and was standing by her horse, looking at him with an expression of some amusement on her face.

  “Monsieur, would you not be more comfortable down here?” she said.

  It was the first real encouragement he had had and the Dauphin jumped out of the saddle with a will, pulling her into his arms and smothering her lips with his. And then, after a few moments of resistance, Agnès appeared to weaken suddenly and returned his kisses fiercely, running her hands over his body, even fleetingly touching him in his forbidden place.

  “Oh God,” whispered Louis in ecstasy.

  She drew away, blushing. “Monsieur, you have made me forget myself. I apologise humbly.”

  “But I want it. I want you to do that. I want you to caress me, to kiss me, everywhere.”

  “And I want it too. Oh, mon Prince, what a fool I’ve been to keep you at arm’s length so long.”

  He would have taken her there and then, mad with passion, not thinking at all, but now in the ebb and flow of feeling between them it was her turn to draw back once more.

  “No, the others are too close by. It isn’t safe.”

  “Oh, Agnès, don’t tease me. You are driving me to despair.”

  “Not for much longer, Monsieur.”

  “You will come to me tonight?”

  “At midnight. How do I find your secret stairway?”

  “De Brézé will show you where it is.”

  It did not strike the Dauphin as ironic that the girl’s lover should be the one to escort her to his bed. These were not easy times and in many ways, even at his exalted level, it was every man for himself, with scant room for modesty or impracticalities.

  “Till then, Monsieur,” said Agnès as he lifted her back onto her saddle. Then she turned and rode off into the woods, a small but smug smile briefly spoiling the perfect features of the beauty who had now most certainly started on the path to wealth and privilege.

  “How do you put up with him?” said Marguerite d’Anjou to her cousin by marriage, Margaret of Scotland. “Doesn’t the very look of him freeze the blood in your veins?”

  “Yes,” sighed the Dauphine, “he is truly hateful. Not in the least like t
he heroic knights of the romances.”

  “How could he be?” Marguerite answered. “Nobody as ugly as your husband could ever be heroic. If I were you I’d take a lover.”

  “I haven’t the energy,” replied the Scottish girl with yet another sigh. “Just trying to conceive a child by him takes up all my time.”

  “I pity you, I truly do,” Marguerite said sympathetically, and passed her friend an unripe apple, the seventh she had eaten that evening.

  They were up late the two of them, the precocious thirteen-year-old and the Dauphin’s young wife, discussing chivalry and tendre amour, both wishing that they had handsome lovers like those in the stories they enjoyed reading so much.

  “There’s talk of me marrying the King of England, I believe,” Marguerite announced with a note of boredom.

  “I know, I’ve heard the rumours. What do you feel about it?”

  “Well, I have no say, of course. But it would certainly mean I could get my hands on some good clothes and jewellery. But as for him, I’ve been told he’s a bit simple. Like his grandfather, the mad king.”

  The Dauphine looked amazed. “Do you mean that lunacy has been passed down through Queen Catherine to her son?”

  “So it’s said. But I don’t care. I shall simply ignore him.”

  “But if the madness is hereditary,” persisted Margaret gloomily, “what about your children?”

  “There are ways round that,” the thirteen-year-old replied loftily. “Ways that perhaps you should take.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That the Dauphin’s not potent, that he’s got no goodness in him.” The girl crossed to the window. “Look over there where he sleeps. He should be here with you now if he wants to beget sons.”

  She turned away, dropping the silk wall hanging that partly covered the window then rapidly snatching it up again. “Margaret,” she said, her voice suddenly changed to an urgent whisper. “Come here, look at this.”

  The Dauphine hastily tiptoed over and standing side by side the two girls peered down to the courtyard below. Crossing it, then entering the south wing by a little-used door, were a pair of figures who even in the flickering torch light could be easily recognised. Pierre de Brézé and Agnès Sorel were stealthily making their way into the Dauphin’s apartments.

  “So that’s it!” said Marguerite softly. “The Sorel is about to fall into your husband’s bed.”

  “Oh, the horrible creature! How could she?”

  “Because she’s ambitious, very. She joined my mother’s retinue some while ago and has been catching men’s eyes ever since. Mind you, I like her. She uses people to get what she wants, an admirable characteristic in my view.”

  “But what about de Brézé? I thought she was in love with him.”

  Marguerite frowned. “He’s married, of course, though that means nothing. No, she and he are a bit of a puzzle. I’ve never been able to quite work out their relationship.”

  “Oh,” answered the Dauphine flatly, and suddenly began to cry.

  “Please don’t,” said her cousin, putting her arms round her. “Remember, all the time Louis is with her he won’t be bothering you.”

  “But how am I to become pregnant if he’s never in my bed?”

  “He’s bound to continue to do his duty.”

  “Once a month! That simply won’t be enough. Conception is so difficult, and I just can’t face even more sour apples and vinegar.”

  “And if you use someone else as a sire?”

  “Louis would find out, I know he would. And there would be hell to pay.”

  Marguerite d’Anjou sighed. “What a predicament. Do you think we should consult an astrologer? My late grandmother’s hunchback is very good, I believe.”

  “But he’s not here.”

  “He will come when the King does. Guy belongs to him now.”

  “Then shall we go to him together?”

  “Yes let’s,” answered Marguerite, and giggled in anticipation.

  As a damoiselle of Queen Isabella’s household, and one low down the scale at that, it wasn’t easy to conduct an affair with the son of the King of France and at the same time go about one’s duties, particularly as the Dauphin had turned out to be such a demanding lover. For despite his unprepossessing appearance, Louis had an ability to make love all night long almost without pausing. Sometimes, looking at herself in the mirror, the most beautiful girl at court thought that she had become positively pale since their liaison began.

  “Late night?” her close friends would ask her, grinning. “More like an early morning.”

  “I’m surprised he doesn’t speak to his aunt, doesn’t take you out of her service.”

  “But how could he?”

  “Well, he is the Dauphin.”

  “Precisely. You need a king to be set up properly.”

  And yet another thing was bothering Agnès, a thing that hurt her very much, though she was not quite sure what to do about it.

  “You don’t mind about Louis and me?” she had asked de Brézé as they lay in each other’s arms in the heart of the summer forest, the only place where it was safe to meet without word getting back to the Dauphin.

  “Mind? Why should I? It’s what we both wanted.”

  “I know what we agreed, I know all that, but I still fail to understand why you’re not jealous. Don’t you love me at all?”

  De Brézé had smiled his bewitching smile, pinching the shapely chin that now trembled with barely suppressed emotion. “I adore you, you are my eternal mystery, my ocean. I could not live without you.”

  “Then how can you let me go to the Dauphin’s bed?”

  “Because it is all part of our plan.”

  There was no shifting him, no way of getting through to him the reality that his indifference wounded her desperately, and that night Agnès, relieved that Louis was due to attend his wife, sat at the dressing table she shared with several of the other young ladies of the household, staring at her reflection and wondering how best to come to terms with the situation.

  Her family were members of the minor nobility, the lords of Coudun, neither rich nor poor, their rose-bricked chateau at Fromenteau in the Touraine modest by some standards but a comfortable home for all that. In fact Agnès could have counted on a reasonable match, an honourable future, if it had not been for the eruption of Pierre de Brézé into her life.

  Her father had been a servant of the house of Anjou and so it had been that de Brézé, with his Angevin connections, had come to Fromenteau with a message, and set eyes for the first time on la belle Agnès. It had been for her love at once, dramatically, fiercely, surrendering herself and her virginity to the charmer who, married though he had been, had swept into her life so suddenly and altered its course for ever more.

  “You’ll be a fool to waste yourself here,” Pierre had whispered to the fifteen-year-old. “I can get you a position in the household of Queen Isabella. With a beauty like yours, ma chérie, you could go very far indeed.”

  “But that would mean leaving you.”

  “One way or another we will have to part from time to time. Surely it would be better for you to be away from home if we are to continue this affair.”

  His reputation as the finest talker of the day was obviously not undeserved; Agnès had agreed to his suggestion and in the winter of 1442, just after the death of Yolande d’Anjou, had joined the household of Isabella of Lorraine, Queen of Sicily.

  But now, now that the airy plans of youth were coming to fruition and she had actually become the mistress of the second highest ranking man in the realm, Agnès was no longer so sure, so certain, that she liked the reality of all their scheming. Because, in truth, she had never ceased to love Pierre de Brézé and the fact that she was sharing her body between him and another made her feel somehow shabby and cheapened.

  Sitting before the looking-glass, assessing her faultless beauty with a critical eye, Agnès saw unexpected tears run down her cheeks and suddenly wish
ed that she had started none of it, had remained at home and become respectably married, that she was not so desperately and vulnerably in love with Pierre de Brézé, that Louis the Dauphin might possibly leave her in peace from now on.

  As if some humorous sprite had heard the last wish and acted spitefully on it, Louis’s obsession with la belle Agnès had increased alarmingly that summer. He felt positively cheated if she did not spend every night with him and it was an effort on the part of all concerned to drive him into the marital bedroom where Margaret, resolutely chewing green apples, regularly cried her eyes out.

  “What shall I do?” Agnès asked her guide and mentor. “He’s getting impossibly demanding.”

  De Brézé smiled a cynical smile. “Ask him for a diamond as your birthday gift.”

  “But that’s not till April.”

  “For New Year then.”

  “Very well, I will. And as you seem so unconcerned with my problem, I think it might be best if we parted company, Monsieur. In future I intend to devote all my time to the Dauphin.”

  The fine talker did not reply, too busy winking at her and smiling a knowing little smile.

  “Oh, you are so irritating,” said Agnès, and stormed away.

  Strangely, it had not been difficult to stick to her resolve and the Beauty had thrown herself into her affair with real zest, pleasing Louis so much that he had indeed started to shower her with expensive furs and jewels, only demanding in return that she come to him nightly, like a mare to the stallion, willing and ready for mating.

  In this highly charged atmosphere the summer passed and as the days began to shorten and the leaves turn colour, Louis at last reached the point where he felt he could no longer live without Agnès and decided to make her his official mistress, setting her up in a mansion of her own in order to visit her frequently and remove her from the hotbed of gossip which was court life.

  So it was that they were lying in bed one night, planning the future in rapturous whispers, when there came the sudden stamp of horses in the courtyard below and the sound of shouting and general clamour. Running to the window, stark naked in the candlelight, Louis peered out while Agnès Sorel protectively drew the sheets to her chin.