by Deryn Lake
“I’ll thank you to cherish Madame la Dauphine,” Charles shouted furiously, bringing his clenched fist down onto the table. “Go to her now and give her comfort. You’re her husband, damn you.”
It was the most appalling public outburst and seasoned courtiers, brought up on intrigue and violence, used to such things, were still seen to cringe.
“Very well,” answered Louis, his face transformed into a mask of pure loathing. “I will.” And leaving his place he went to sit beside the weeping girl, pushing the man on her right out of the way.
“Now, ma chérie,” he said, putting his arm round her and pulling her close. “Is your cough tickling you? Here, have a drink.” And tipping her head back, the Dauphin poured the contents of his own wine cup down the hapless girl’s throat.
Margaret choked and spluttered, unable to cope with so much fluid at a single gulp but, and this was tragic to behold, responded to this mockery of kindness, this sham of husbandly concern, by leaning against the Dauphin weakly and attempting a smile.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and then with no warning at all went into a convulsion, a kind of fit, her body completely rigid before she lost consciousness.
There was absolute pandemonium as glasses and plate went flying and Charles hurled his way towards the inert figure of his daughter-in-law.
“Send for Dr. Poitevin,” he called to the scurrying courtiers, “and carry Madame to her bed. Musicians, cease your play, the banquet is at an end.” He turned to Agnès. “Madame de Beauté, will you attend our daughter?”
“Certainly Monsieur,” she answered gravely, and swept a low curtsy before she joined the sad procession carrying the seemingly lifeless Margaret to her own apartments.
Three days later, on 16th August 1445, the twenty-one-year-old Scottish girl was dead, apparently of pneumonia. Dr. Robert Poitevin, who as a young student had been the lover of Richemont’s first wife, Marguerite, and who had since become the King’s personal physician, was sent for, but could not save the Dauphine, and of a sudden the word poison was on everyone’s lips.
“Is it possible?” Charles whispered to Robert on the morrow of poor Margaret’s death. “Could our daughter have been murdered?”
Poitevin looked very serious. “Monsieur, Madame always had weak lungs, damaged no doubt by that beastly Scottish climate she came from, and the Dauphine’s illness was certainly symptomatic of pneumonia. But…”
“Yes?”
“She died of suffocation and exhaustion which are also signs of convulsant poison. I am afraid, Monsieur, that the truth will never be known.”
“There shall be an inquiry,” answered the King. “Just because he is my son there is no need for him to think he is above the law.”
The doctor nodded. “You are right, Monsieur. I shall give my opinion honestly and truthfully.”
“I am sad, angered and troubled,” answered Charles, “and will take my leave within the next hour. Suddenly to be under the same roof as Monsieur le Dauphin is something I no longer want to do.”
“You will not attend the funeral?”
“No, let Louis see to that. We have no wish to be present, watching his arrant hypocrisy.”
But the Dauphin did not bother even to make a pretence of mourning. As the small coffin was put into the vault beside the other Valois queens, he merely shrugged his shoulders, said, “Our spouse has died of an excess of poetry,” then smiled a secretive smile and went on his way.
Forty-One
On the morning of his forty-third birthday, 22nd February 1446, Charles de Valois sat alone in his study in the great castle of Chinon and thought about both the past and the present. Below the walls of the chateau the little town lay cold in the chilly wind, single pennants of smoke rising from the clustering houses, but here, high up in one of the towers, the world was warm and opulent, the King in his furs, logs on the fire, a hound asleep with its muzzle on its paws.
Only now in these, the middle years of his life, had Charles finally become the person whom Nicolas Flamel had foreseen so long ago in Paris, the King who had brought peace to France. The truce of Tours, signed in 1444, had put an end to the war with the English even though they still remained in Normandy, Maine and Guyenne, and all fighting had now ceased. As to Charles himself, he had found love and contentment with Agnès Sorel, la Dame de Beauté, mother of two of his daughters and quite unquestionably the loveliest woman alive. Thinking about her and his feelings for Agnès, the King could see at last that she had been the prophesied Beauty to his Beast and not Bonne, his tragic mistress whose place of burial had remained hidden from the day of her death to this.
Yet in this great sea of calm, in which his Piscean nature swam with so much joy, there were sadnesses. The fact that Marie rarely spoke to him, had chosen to live in Tours or Amboise, refusing to associate herself with her husband’s harlot, as she always referred to la belle Agnès, wounded him, though he could fully understand the Queen’s feelings. But far worse than that was the ever deteriorating situation between himself and the Dauphin, his only surviving son, whom Charles most strongly suspected of being a poisoner, and yet against whom no proof had been found at the inquiry of October 1445.
The King had been fond of his wisp of a daughter-in-law, felt guilty that he had chosen her for Louis’s wife, thus sentencing her to an existence of sheer torment. It had grieved him enormously that she had died saying she had never done wrong to her husband and that she wanted to finish with life; so much anguish to feel at only twenty-one years of age. The King had known on the day Margaret had gone to her death that he would never trust his son again.
Yet he could forget all this when he lay in Agnès’s arms, smelling the sweet fragrance of her, the dew of her body nectar, lying between breasts the like of which he had never seen before and which la Dame, now that she was not pregnant, showed through her dresses, driving all men to frenzy. For la belle Agnès had openings in the front of her gowns through which either her nipples or indeed an entire bosom were sensationally revealed. Churchmen were horrified, women too old to adopt such a fashion furious, but the King’s mistress triumphed. It may not have been a subtle style, she may well have dressed more provocatively than anyone since Charles’s own mother, but the fact remained that she had men at her feet, adoring and worshipping.
Even thinking about her made the King glow with happiness and he got up to put another log on the fire, gazing into its sparking heart, seeing pictures, day-dreaming. But the rush of those flames conjured an image he did not want to dwell on at all and he abruptly turned and went to stare out of the tower window.
Far below was the courtyard where Jehanne had dismounted prior to their very first meeting, that small brave oddity who had sacrificed her life for him. Charles had tried his best to save her, though so discreetly that even now blame was laid against him for doing nothing, for letting an innocent go to the stake, a fact which only increased his suffering. And then, of course, there had followed the extraordinary case of the False Pucelle, a woman who had appeared in Metz in 1436 claiming to be Jehanne, saying that she had not been burned but rescued. It had been a confidence trick, of course, but the sex murderer Gilles de Rais had pretended to recognise the girl and had taken up arms with her. In the end the situation had turned from a nuisance to a full-blooded annoyance and Charles had trapped the woman into coming face to face with him in a garden at Orleans where he had denounced her for the impostor she was and forced her to apologise to the Paris Parlement.
“A bitch,” said Charles to himself and thought again of the real one, of the brave little nun only happy wearing men’s clothes, who had never menstruated according to her squire, Jean d’Aulon.
“May I come in, Monsieur?” called a voice from the doorway and, turning quickly, the King saw that the debonair Pierre de Brézé stood there.
“Please do, Seneschal,” he answered, glad to have his train of thought interrupted.
“I wanted to convey my birthday greetings to you personal
ly.” And Pierre smiled his autumnal smile, charming and amusing as ever.
Charles had never been absolutely sure about him, a niggling suspicion that the man might at one time have been Agnès’s lover worrying away at the back of his brain. But to please her he had promoted him, showered Pierre with honours, but never disregarded the fact that de Brézé and the Dauphin were still friends, that it was impossible to trust anyone, not even this eloquent and gracious man who spoke so well in company but who had an irritating habit of contradicting people, even pointing out to his King minor mistakes Charles had made, not an endearing characteristic at the best of times. And now de Brézé overstepped the mark again by pouring himself a glass of wine without asking permission.
“A toast to mothers,” said Pierre, raising the cup high. “Always apt on a birthday, don’t you agree, Monsieur?”
“Mine,” answered Charles wryly, “died of fat, of dropsy, of gout, so enormous she had become semi-paralysed. She was cold and miserable and thoroughly deserved it all. But I drink to her spirit, wherever it may be.”
And he swallowed a draught in a single gulp.
“Then I’ll toast another mother, more attractive than the last you described. To Agnès, the most beautiful matron in France.”
“To Agnès,” repeated the King, and wished that the familiar pang of jealousy he felt whenever de Brézé mentioned her name, would go away and cease to torment him.
Richemont could not believe the letter but yet the chevaucheur who brought it wore the livery of Georges de la Trémoille, Duke of Sully, and there was no reason to suppose it was a forgery.
‘My good Lord Constable,’ it read. ‘I whose fate it was to be rescued by you from the wicked clutches of Pierre de Giac send you greeting. Though he has not asked me to contact you I am writing on behalf of Georges de la Trémoille, my husband. Alas the poor man lies dying, disgraced and exiled from court, and yet speaks of you so often, saying despairingly that he would have your forgiveness before he leaves this world for the next. I would ask you, therefore, in the name of Christian charity to put behind you the many wrongs that he did and come to Sully to take your leave of him. If you find it in your heart to grant this, his last request, he will die blessing your name. Your humble servant in gratitude, Catherine de la Trémoille.’
“Do you think it is a trap?” Richemont asked his sensible wife, who was munching an apple to keep her going till the next meal.
“Heavens no, deviousness like that is for saints not sinners.” Catherine de Richemont looked carefully at the Duchess’s writing. “This was penned by someone distressed and hurried, see how her hand was shaking.” She pointed at the erratic letters. “No, I think it is genuine and you should go.”
“He tried to have me killed several times, you know.”
“I expect you did the same to him,” his wife retorted roundly, and helped herself to a sweetmeat.
A slow smile crept across the Earl’s face. “As a matter of fact you’re right.”
“Then go and make your peace with him. You’ll feel better if you do.”
Richemont had left for Sully that day, suddenly all too conscious of the passing of time and the fact that he might arrive too late, that Georges might have left the world unshriven, desperate for a blessing from the man who had once been his closest friend. But, as it was, the pennants and flags flew high above the chateau, announcing to the people of the little town surrounding it that their Lord was still alive.
Madame de la Trémoille, whom Richemont could clearly picture running naked in hot pursuit of de Giac and the arresting party, loudly demanding not her husband but her silver back, wept as she greeted him.
“My Lord Constable, God will thank you for this. Yet I would beg you to let me warn Georges before you go in. I did not tell him I had written to you in case you refused to come.”
So Richemont was left on his own to gaze over the green moat out of which the chateau, large and formidable, appeared to rise, though it actually stood on a small island. None the less, the impression of strength was overpowering and the Earl found himself reflecting on what a character its owner had been in his day. Thus, he was not quite prepared for the change in Georges when he was finally issued into the Duke’s chamber.
The vast stomach still rose high in the air, draped with white sheets, looking like a snow-covered mountain, but the jolly face had sunk away, leaving jowls devoid of fat hanging like empty sacks about the dying man’s shaved chin. Yet the eyes were bright in the wasted visage, peeping out as acutely as a rodent’s on his final vision of the world.
“Richemont?” he said, just a little uncertainly, and then tried to smile but cried instead.
“Yes, it’s me,” answered the Earl, controlling his own emotions rigidly.
“Come to take your leave?”
“I never speak of leavetaking while there is life. But I am most certainly here to renew an old friendship, one that was once the best in France.”
“Yes, it was that indeed,” Georges answered through his tears, and putting out his hand grasped that of Richemont in a tight desperate grip. “My dear man, I beg your forgiveness. I ask you to pardon the sins I committed against you and to let me have your blessing before I go. Once I released Pierre de Giac from his pact with Satan, now I am asking you to release me from my burden of guilt. Will you?”
“Of course,” answered the Earl and, kneeling by the bed, put one arm round the fat man’s shoulders.
“Then say the words.”
“I Arthur, Earl of Richmond, forgive you Georges, Duke of Sully, for any crimes you may have committed against me in either thought or deed. I also give you my blessing as one gentleman of France to another and pray God that he will look with mercy upon your immortal soul.”
With a gasp de la Trémoille sank back upon his pillows. “And I Georges,” he said faintly, “forgive you for any similar offence and pray not only for your soul but for that of she who has gone before us and whom I will soon see again, the well beloved of Richemont, Yolande d’Anjou.”
“My well beloved?” repeated the Earl wonderingly. “So you knew?”
“Oh, yes, I guessed long ago.”
“Thank you for keeping my secret.”
“No one is entirely evil,” Georges answered. And then the housemouse eyes closed and his breathing became slightly shallower. “Send for my wife and the priest,” he whispered. “Richemont, farewell.” And the pressure on the Earl’s hand ceased.
Outside in the coldness of day, Richemont waited alone, staring into the emerald waters, feeling to himself that an era was coming to its end. And when, an hour later, the banners were lowered to half-mast, he wept for the passing of a spirit which, though not that of a good man, was certainly a creature unique.
In order to see the Queen at the time of his birthday Charles had been forced to command a very annoyed and petulant Agnès to stay at Beauté for several days.
“But why should I, Monsieur? After all it is her attitude not mine that prevents Madame and me from meeting.”
“Madame is the Queen,” Charles had answered with just a hint of acerbity. “She has the right to ignore you if she so wishes.”
“Well, I am not pleased about it. I feel I am being shut out of your life.”
“That is very silly and extremely childish. Please, Agnès, help me over this.”
“Oh, very well,” his mistress had answered and had reluctantly left Chinon looking sulky, accompanied by the flamboyant de Brézé, a fact which had given the King considerable disquiet.
Several hours later, dressed in black as was her custom these days, Marie had arrived with a clutch of little girls, looking about her suspiciously for any sign of the favourite.
“She’s not here,” whispered the Dauphin as he made his bow. “He’s sent the whore packing to make room for you, Madame.”
Marie’s eyes lit up. “Permanently?”
Louis shook his head. “I fear not.”
The Queen pursed her lips. “I
thought that would be too much to hope for. But say no more of it, here comes your father.”
The King, magnificently dressed in red and silver, came to join them, only for the Dauphin to make an over-elaborate bow and walk away. It was apparent to all that the Universal Spider was plotting something, constantly being caught whispering with his familiars in corridors and comers, but so far no tangible sign of any conspiracy had emerged.
“Marie, ma Reine,” said Charles, and kissed his childhood friend, his confidante and wife, on both cheeks.
“I find you well, Monsieur?” she replied with obvious lack of interest, and made a very deep and unnecessarily formal curtsy.
“Never better, chérie, never better.”
“Well, I can’t say the same for me,” Marie answered tartly.
“And why is that?” asked Charles, speaking before he had had time to think.
“I will tell you when we are alone,” the Queen stated with great meaning, and her husband inwardly gave a groan.
Throughout the rest of that day they treated one another with a politeness that was positively alarming, their conversation stilted, their smiles artificial, and it wasn’t until the evening when they were alone in the King’s receiving room, musicians playing softly in a side chamber muting the sound of their voices from any who might think of spying on the royal couple, that Marie finally came to the point.
“I can barely tolerate the existence you have forced upon me,” she said angrily. “Why should I, the Queen of France, be forced to live in semi-exile while you parade your half-dressed slut for all the world to see? Why should she not be kept in the background, why does it have to be me?”
“Why does it have to be either of you? Marie, years ago you accepted Bonne, accepted that I needed beauty in my life. Why can’t you accept Agnès now?”
“Because I felt sorry for Madame de Giac, an emotion I most certainly do not have about that other smug bitch.”
“But why?”