The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  “God’s teeth, I might have guessed,” the Dauphin exclaimed savagely.

  “What is it?”

  “My father’s here. Trust him to arrive unexpectedly.”

  “Oh, let me look. I’ve never seen the King.”

  And before he could stop her, la belle Agnès, also in the nude, rushed to stand beside him.

  In the quadrangle far below, lit by flickering flambeaux, the girl caught a glimpse of a resplendent figure just dismounting from its horse. A scarlet hat and a doublet of black satin of Lucca shone in the light and there was a wink of diamonds from fingers and brooches as it moved.

  “Is that him?”

  “Yes, the old beast.”

  “He looks very elegant.”

  “Like a bloody peacock.”

  “Oh, shush.”

  They couldn’t have made a detectable sound from that distance nor could the King have noticed a movement in a darkened room but the fact of the matter was that exactly at that moment he looked up, apparently straight at them. Just for a second Agnès stood there, her naked breasts lit by moonlight, and then dived out of sight while Louis, taking a few steps backward, made an obscene gesture at the window.

  “Why do you hate him so?” she asked curiously.

  “Because he still treats me as a child. Why, I swear he’d disinherit me if he had another son, he thinks I am so juvenile.”

  “Perhaps you act in a juvenile way sometimes.”

  Louis shot her a furious glance. “You are my mistress, not my counsellor. I’ll thank you to hold your tongue.”

  “Then I had better go.” And Agnès started to put on her clothes.

  At once he was all contrition. “No, don’t leave me, chérie. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t get angry.”

  “I’m not, but I’m leaving none the less. The chateau will be thronging with people soon and I don’t want to be seen coming from your apartments in the morning.”

  “Are you ashamed?”

  “No, not ashamed, merely very discreet,” Agnès answered him firmly.

  She had a much better opportunity to observe Charles de Valois during the next day’s dinner when he and the Queen, the Dauphin and Dauphine, Queen Isabella and Marguerite, and their entire households, sat down to dine in the larger of the two halls. Without appearing to do so, Agnès observed him from beneath her half-moon lids, wondering if he had by any chance seen her on the previous night and if so whether he had guessed her identity.

  He was about forty years old, she thought, and, though no doubt considered plain, the King was still a great deal more attractive than his son. But it was his clothes that fascinated Agnès, so elegant and stylish, today clad in a luscious soft green doublet embroidered with the King’s device of roses and briars, scarlet hose on his legs, and a hat covered with plumes and silver-gilt ornaments, a far cry from Louis’s horrible pilgrim badges. Momentarily forgetting herself the Beauty stared, and was rewarded with a rapid glance in her direction which had her hastily dropping her eyes again.

  ‘Well, well!’ thought de Brézé, observing. ‘I wonder.’

  But Agnès was still furious with him, not speaking, and had not done so since June.

  ‘Silly girl,’ thought her lover. ‘I can see I’ll have to have words with her.’

  From where he sat de Brézé studied the perfect face yet again, noticing the way Agnès’s cheekbones arched and her chin came to a fine and delicate point, how small and straight her nose was, how beautifully placed were the exquisite eyes.

  ‘A rare creature indeed,’ he thought for the millionth time since he had met her. ‘A creature that could go to the top of the tree if only she were given half a chance.’

  But particularly observing the Dauphin that evening in the King’s council meeting, de Brézé did just for a moment feel a pang that so lovely a thing as Agnès should be coupling with such a monstrous boy, for tonight Louis looked even grimmer as he scowled and glowered in a great fury.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Pierre whispered to Jean, the Bastard of Orleans, Count de Dunois.

  “The King has just announced that Monsieur is to lead an expedition against Jean, Count d’Armagnac, and he’s none too pleased about it.” Dunois gave de Brézé a penetrating look. “Why is he reacting so fiercely? Cherchez la femme?”

  Pierre became instantly non-committal. “Possibly, but then you know Monsieur. He changes his affections as other men change their hose. It will be a passing fancy, no doubt.”

  “Umm,” answered the Bastard, unconvinced.

  But a thought was growing in de Brézé’s mind that was beginning to excite him enormously, a thought that perhaps the Beauty should now aim for the highest prize of all. With great presence of mind, Pierre managed to waylay the Dauphin on his way back to his own apartments, the meeting at an end.

  “Monsieur, my compliments. When do you leave on your foray?”

  “Officially January. But I shall have to be off in the next few days organising troops and munitions. De Brézé, I am utterly sick at heart. How am I going to live without her? I swear he has done it on purpose.”

  “Now, now, Monsieur,” Pierre murmured soothingly. “The King’s Majesty obviously wanted to give you a chance to prove yourself, that is all.” He cleared his throat portentously. “Sire, there is something I have to tell you.”

  “What is that?”

  “The little understanding between myself and la belle Agnès that I mentioned to you. I put an end to it as soon as I knew you were interested. Nowadays she and I are merely friends.”

  “She has told me as much herself but I thank you for saying it, de Brézé.”

  Pierre nodded. “Now I can be free with you again, thank God.”

  The Dauphin clapped him on the arm. “You’re a good friend to have. I shan’t forget what you have done for me.”

  “Then if you will heed my advice I would attend the Dauphine tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want to arouse the King’s suspicions and if Agnès should come to you…”

  “You mean he’ll have his spies out?”

  Pierre shrugged elegantly and spread his hands, saying nothing.

  “You’re right as usual. Go to her for me, friend, and tell her that we must be careful. But promise her that as soon as I return I’ll have her out of this damned court and into her own place.”

  De Brézé bowed. “At once, Monsieur. Leave it to me.” And he gave such a friendly smile that Louis felt guilty he had ever harboured thoughts of dislike about him.

  Agnès was preparing for bed with the other damoiselles when a servant’s knock disturbed them, and was in two minds whether to go or not when she heard that it was Pierre who was sending for her and not the Dauphin. But eventually, after the retainer had assured her several times it was most urgent, she hurried along to de Brézé’s chamber, only to be whisked inside in a conspiratorial manner.

  “What do you want?” she asked coldly. “It is most indiscreet of you to see me here.”

  “Ma chérie, you forget that I am still in love with you, that occasionally passion defies discretion and the longing to be alone with you overcomes everything else.”

  She knew she was a fool, knew that she must have taken leave of her senses, but the fatal fascination he held for her had never gone away, nor probably ever would. Admonishing herself even as she did it, la belle Agnès slid into the arms of Pierre de Brézé and surrendered herself to his kisses while he, with a smile, congratulated himself on keeping her away from the Dauphin as he had promised.

  He had noticed her at that first dinner and had wondered straight away if she were the owner of the perfect breasts he had seen so outrageously displayed at his son’s window, held there one fraction longer than they ought to be, Charles had thought. Looking over her figure with his worldly eye, the King had made a small wager with himself that she was indeed the girl and had felt a great stir of curiosity tinged with interest. His wretched boy, if the Beauty truly
was Louis’s mistress, had certainly got himself the loveliest girl in France, in fact the loveliest Charles had ever seen anywhere.

  “Maine,” he said, calling his brother-in-law Charles of Anjou, Count de Maine, younger brother of Marie and René and the most spoiled pup in the kingdom. “Go and find out what you can about that new girl, that beautiful damoiselle in Isabella’s train.”

  The young man smiled an insolent smile, his bright blue eyes knowing. “Interested, Monsieur?”

  “I only want to discover whether she’s the Dauphin’s mistress. But be careful. I want no ruffled feathers.”

  Maine had swept his hat from his head, bowing. “I am your slave, Sovereign.”

  “Get out!” said Charles affectionately, and applied the toe of his boot.

  A few hours later all the information was his. Her name was Agnès Sorel, she was nineteen and a half years old, she came from the Touraine, was a friend of de Brézé’s and, or so it would appear despite a certain conspiracy of silence, was sleeping with the Dauphin.

  “He has far better taste than I thought,” murmured Charles. “I must make a point of speaking to her.”

  “On Louis’s behalf of course.”

  “Most certainly,” the King answered firmly.

  But that was a lie. Even though he would have preferred to deny it even to himself there was a quickening of interest at the very mention of the girl’s name. Feeling like a Roman emperor, a lecherous satyr, Charles none the less knew perfectly well that one of these days he would make a point of seeking her out despite his son’s prior claim to her affections.

  The opportunity, strangely, presented itself of its own accord. The King was out, beyond the chateau, exercising two of his personal dogs, bracing himself against the brisk autumn weather, snuggling into his furs, when he saw coming towards him his niece Marguerite accompanied by Agnès Sorel, obviously not on particularly good terms with one another, for the Princess stalked several paces in front while the damoiselle followed meekly behind, very much the servant.

  “Ladies,” called Charles, and deliberately stopped right in their path.

  Marguerite dropped an informal curtsy, as one relative to another, while Agnès made a low reverence, very stiff and very respectful. Even in that harsh light, bright with the hint of snow, she was absolutely flawless.

  “You have finished your walk?” said the King, addressing his niece.

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “A pity, I would have asked you to accompany me.”

  “Alas I must get back and prepare for the Dauphin’s farewell banquet.”

  “Ah yes, of course,” Charles answered, smiling, and with that released one of the dogs he was leading and watched it tear off into the distance after a rabbit. “Oh, mon Dieu!” he exclaimed. “Wretched beast. Can you help me get it back?” And he looked straight at Agnès.

  She did not hesitate, pulling her skirts above her trim ankles and taking off at a run, while Marguerite stared after her in a disgruntled manner.

  “I’m sorry, mon Roi. I’ve hurt my foot,” she grumbled.

  But he had gone too, capering off like a twenty-year-old, leaving the Princess to walk back on her own.

  “So!” Marguerite said to herself. “I’ll wager the old fool’s smitten. God’s red blood, that’ll put an end to the Dauphin’s dirty little games. Margaret will be pleased.”

  And she went on her way, smirking and humming a little tune to herself, only too anxious to reach the Dauphine’s ear and whisper into it.

  “The King? The King is interested in the bitch?”

  “I’m sure of it. Let’s watch points at the feast.”

  “Oh, yes, what fun!” And poor pale Margaret gave a radiant smile which absolutely transformed her lifeless features.

  It was difficult to tell, of course, for with the Dauphin present both the King and the young lady in question were obviously going to be extremely careful, but Marguerite, who already considered herself a tremendous judge both of people and situations, was convinced that the odd look, the occasional little smile, was exchanged, and that it was all highly significant. But what she didn’t guess was that Agnès had never been more flustered, that beneath the calm exterior and lowered eyes she was barely keeping a permanent blush at bay.

  They had caught the hound up simultaneously and laughed and joked over the naughtiness of wayward animals, Agnès’s colour rosy and her breath fast with excitement at being so close to the King, yet blaming it on the cold October day and the vigorous run she had just had. Being a man of the world, Charles de Valois had not cheapened himself in any way, merely thanking the girl for her help and asking if she would be present at the feast.

  “Yes, I will, Monsieur.”

  “But of course. You are a friend of the Dauphin are you not?”

  “I do have the honour to know him,” Agnès answered coolly, hoping to God she was revealing nothing in her face.

  “Then my son has great wisdom,” Charles had replied.

  But now, here, at the banquet, his occasional quick glances in her direction told la belle Agnès everything. She had attracted not only the son but the father; the King of France was sexually aroused by her. Further down the table she could feel Pierre de Brézé willing her to look at him but Agnès steadfastly gazed at her plate, planning to lock herself in her room so that there could be no question of sharing the Dauphin’s bed on this his last night at court.

  Because of her resolve it was an extremely sulky young man who rode off at the head of his column the next morning. His brows drawn together, his black eyes fierce as a bird’s, Louis had no smile for anyone, making it obvious that he was as angry with Agnès as he was with his immediate family. Only the Queen, pregnant yet again, got a fleeting grimace that could have been interpreted as a grin as he kissed her goodbye.

  “And now for the winter festivities,” said the King as his son vanished from sight and the courtiers trooped into the warmth of the chateau.

  “And for love!” whispered Pierre de Brézé to the Bastard of Orleans as they went to stand by the fire.

  It was a wonderful wooing because it was done with such charm, such lack of haste, such infinite courtesy and style. In some enormously tactful way the King must have asked

  Isabella to rearrange her household so that certain of the damoiselles were given private rooms and it transpired, naturally, that Agnès Sorel was one of these. And yet, even then, even with her set up in her own luxurious chamber, Charles de Valois did nothing about it.

  By this time the girl was in a fervour, infinitely flattered by the admiration of the monarch, yet wondering if he was ever going to make a move, if perhaps he regarded her simply as a friend, or whether out of respect for his wife’s condition he was prepared to wait till Marie had given birth. This the Queen finally did on 1st December 1443, and the court groaned at the news that it was yet another girl, the eleventh surviving, the poor woman having been pregnant fifteen times, many of her children sadly dying in infancy.

  Christmas came in January with much merriment, Agnès the centre of attention when she set a new fashion by weaving a crown of mistletoe and wearing it over loosened hair, the sheen of her long tresses picking up the colour of the fires’ flames, turning them a deep mysterious red. Yet still the King, who noticed everything, did nothing about his obvious interest, and Agnès began to wonder whether she was regarded merely as a capricious daughter rather than a potential mistress.

  She was in a deliberate dream, not allowing herself to think, refusing to have a conscience about Louis, refusing to let de Brézé whisper instructions, concentrating on nothing but her conquest of the King, feeling that she had been challenged, that she was on her mettle, that she must live up to her reputation of the Beauty who could capture any heart. And then came New Year and everything was finally made clear.

  It was customary for the Kings of France to give étrennes, New Year’s Day gifts, ranging from 150 livres for the valets de chambre to money, robes and jewels fo
r the most highly favoured. And there, waiting for Agnès when she woke on that particular morning, was a sealed parchment. Breaking it open, she read, ‘It is our wish to give your étrennes to you personally. Please oblige us by taking supper in our apartments tonight. Charles.’

  So he had made his move at last; going to her dressing table, Agnès started to prepare. Tops were unscrewed from her gold and silver cosmetic and pomade bottles, her little sticks, jewel-handled, which acted as ear purifiers, tooth picks, tongue scrapers and nail cleaners were applied. Her face and eyes were washed with cold water, her body and hair with hot, scented with exotic perfumes imported from the east.

  The choice of outfit was not easy but eventually Agnès decided on a dress of green brocade with half-moons and stars embroidered on it, the sleeves slashed to the wrist so that her arms were visible, the bodice cut revealingly low.

  As if he had known what she was wearing, the King was also in green, a complementary shade, the velvet tunic edged with fur, his hose a pale silver grey, while on his feet Charles wore green shoes of Cordovan leather.

  “Ah, Agnès,” he said, almost in a business-like way, as she was ushered into his receiving room. “I am glad you could come. I wanted you to try on this.” And between his fingers Charles dangled a diamond, large as a hen’s egg, supported on a golden chain.

  The Beauty curtsied and took a step forward, holding out her hand for her New Year gift, but the King drew back.

  “No. I want to put it round your neck myself.”

  “That would be a great honour, Monsieur.” And she turned so that he could fasten it from behind.

  “There is just one further request I would like to make.”

  “Name it, Monsieur.”

  “I want to see it displayed as it should be, between your glorious breasts.”

  Agnès did not answer, merely pulling her dress down a little to rest on her shoulders, and waited for the King to do up the clasp.