Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The (29 page)

‘Madame, I apologize for telling you about these events, but they must be stopped, and René insisted you know,’ he says for the second time. ‘I believe that such behaviour, which I hear is not uncommon at the dauphin’s court, will ruin all we have worked so hard to achieve. Servants talk, and soon this information will reach the ears of the powerful dukes we have succeeded in enrolling into our cause on behalf of the dauphin.’ Poor Jean, shaking with embarrassment, cannot wait to leave.

It is shocking, but there is no time to be shocked; it is repellent, but there is no time to be repelled. Yolande withdraws into herself with her new-found unwelcome knowledge and deliberates on what to do. Soon her objectives become clear. She must find a way to remove the abysmal influences surrounding the dauphin and encourage the good ones to return and replace the others. Above all, she must as ever find a way to unite the warring dukes. She has never severed her contact with Philippe of Burgundy and arranges several secret meetings with him. As always, he is measured and calm, but implacable. He too has kept dialogue open with Charles but he has maintained the same conditions since the murder of his father: as long as the plotters of Montereau are still at liberty, safe in the dauphin’s sovereign territory of Berry, or outside the jurisdiction of parlement in other sovereign duchies, Philippe can never contemplate uniting his forces with the dauphin.

And now the situation has become urgent. Henry V of England is on the doorstep once again, and this time he lets it be known that his intention is a complete conquest of France. His forces are formidable – far more so than ever before. Happily, a good number of the counsellors Yolande has placed around Charles are sound and able. But how can her excellent captains succeed in battle when they see that their dauphin, for whom they risk their lives, is a victim of venal and avaricious courtiers? How can they respect him as their future king when they hear of these orgies in his private apartments? And as long as Charles is surrounded by the intriguers of Montereau, and allows them to remain safe within his sovereign duchy of Berry and behave as they do at his court in Bourges, there is no chance of rapprochement with Philippe of Burgundy – the only hope of freeing France from the English.

Disregarding for a moment her problems with Charles, Yolande must alert her sons to their duty. She sends a courier with some strong words to René to drag him out of his happy reverie of the newly wed:

‘My beloved son, Henry V is coming to claim not only the north of France but our entire country, our way of life, our nation. Since you were a small boy you have been practising for this moment, and now you must fight to defend our lands in France. Although you are young, I know your mettle, for it was forged by the love shared between your father and me. Your father was a warrior prince. Now I ask you to be one as well – like your father, and his father before him. Like my father of Aragon, and his father before him. In your veins flows the blood of heroes; the time has come to live up to their heritage, to fight with your king against the invader, the thief of his just throne.’

She can read René’s mind even from the distance of Provence.
Yes
, he will be thinking,
this is what I have always wanted to do. No longer a wooden sword, now it will be real war!
And Isabelle will support him, of that she is sure. She knows that war is still some kind of gallant medieval tournament to René, despite Agincourt. This is not a game, however; this is dangerous, and on its conclusion rests all their futures. He must understand this . . . France is in mortal peril.

René’s reply has come by return. He must have made the courier wait while he wrote:

‘Madame, dearest Mother, of course I am ready to do the king’s bidding, and yours, though I hate to leave my darling Isabelle. But I will be the warrior prince you want me to be! I will not fail you, nor my father or yours, and theirs before them. I have heard nothing here in distant Lorraine of King Henry’s arrival, but I will make for Bourges and join the king’s army. I will tell Isabelle at once.’

She has to laugh at his next letter which follows on the heels of the last – how he keeps the couriers busy!

‘Maman – I asked Isabelle if she would mind if I left her at home and joined Charles and the royal army at Bourges. She would miss me, of that I am sure – we are inseparable. But I planned to tell her that when summoned to halt the advance of the English king, I must go.

She saw my face as I approached her:

‘What is it?’ she asked me. ‘You look so odd – a mixture of joy and misery with tears in your eyes but with an ecstatic smile.’ And all I could answer was:

‘It’s war dearest; King Henry has landed in France. I must go and defend our country.’ Again she gave me a peculiar look.

‘What are you talking about?’ she replied – rather crossly I thought.

‘When the king summons his vassals, I must go join the army in Bourges,’ I blurted out. And then I could see her lip trembling as she said:

‘But not yet, we’re not at war yet, are we?’ And I held her, this delightful, funny, slip of a girl who I have come to love so dearly I would die for her. ‘I don’t want you to die for me,’ she cried – Maman, she can read my thoughts, I have said it so often – ‘I want you to live and be here with me in my beautiful Lorraine, where we can walk in the forests and climb the mountains and hunt the game and, and . . .’ She dried up, tears rolling down her pretty face, and her shoulders shaking with sobs. It was then that I knew she loved me and I am torn in half – my love and my duty. Duty won – as we both know it would, and I leave tomorrow to join the Angevin army in Bourges. My father-in-law knows I will wear the colours of Anjou proclaiming my allegiance to the king and he understands. He just said: “Well, see you make me a grandfather before you get yourself killed,” and embraced me.’

Ah! My son – what a delight he is. Dear God, may he be kept safe.

Then, to Yolande’s horror, she hears that the Duke of Clarence craves his own lands for himself. Disregarding her treaty with the king, he is leading an army of seven thousand towards Anjou. Far away in Provence as she is, and constrained by her position and sex, she can feel the warrior’s blood of her ancestors rising in her at the prospect of an assault on the heart of her husband’s lands. All she can do is write to the dauphin beseeching his help while praying for Rene’s victory and safe return.

The couriers ride off, and no answer comes from the dauphin. Her beautiful palace at Tarascon, flooded with the sunshine of the south, begins to feel like a prison. Day after day she waits for news, until finally couriers begin to arrive and she can piece together what has happened. Despite being badly outnumbered, the Angevins did not disappoint, loyally gathering around one of her own senior officers to lead them. Then, just when the battle looked to be turning in favour of the English, reinforcements arrived – sent by the dauphin himself! Not only the Maréchal de La Fayette, but with him a terrifying band of some four thousand Scots soldiers! So Charles
did
receive her urgent messages, and acted. Thank God. The Scots had not long landed at La Rochelle, and were headed by their fearsome leader, Lord Buchan. René was there too, riding proudly with the Angevin army, by then swollen to some six thousand mounted men and foot soldiers.

Battle was joined at Baugé. The English, led by the Duke of Clarence, were slowed down by having to ford a wide, fast river. The French archers began to pick off the English in the water, one by one, giving their soldiers the time to arrange themselves in battle formation. And René, it seems, was in the thick of it, charging with the others, slashing to left and right, ‘without,’ he writes, ‘any thought in my head, as if my actions were laid down by years of practising for this moment, or by the heroes in my ancestry you told us about as children!’

She is proud to hear how her son has proved himself in battle, as has her Angevin army joined by the dauphin’s and the Scots. The French are hailing this victory in the same light as the English conquest at Agincourt, although the numbers were far smaller. Two thousand English killed, including Clarence himself, with far fewer casualties among the French and Scots.

Following this victory the dauphin heads for Chartres with an army of eighteen thousand men, a proud René invited to ride with him in his own party.

T
he news of a son born to Catherine, the dauphin’s sister and King Henry V of England’s queen, has at last prompted the wedding ceremony between the dauphin and Marie d’Anjou. The Queen of Sicily decides their union should be solemnized at her city of Tours in Anjou on 2 June 1422, and that she will leave Provence to be present at the ceremony. Charles is nineteen, Marie eighteen, and they have been betrothed for the past nine years – the same long engagement Yolande had with Marie’s father. But her daughter has known her future husband all this time, while Yolande’s Louis was a miraculous surprise. Sadly, that will not be the case for her darling Marie.

In Tours, the Queen of Sicily has prepared as much as she can with her excellent staff from Angers, led by Carlo, Hubert and Vincenzo, who have been working for weeks. When the bridal couple arrive from Bourges some days before most of the guests, it gladdens her heart to see what good friends they are, chatting and joking together. Charles is surrounded by his courtiers, leaving Yolande and Marie time to discuss her trousseau and the wedding dress.

‘Maman, of course I want to look elegant, but not
too
elegant – you know it’s not my style. Anyway, no woman alive can look as elegant as you!’ Marie is sweet, but sadly still no beauty. Yolande concocts a headdress which she think will do more for her face than most, with a high collar of gauze on the neckline to fill her out a little.

The arrival of Isabelle and René delights everyone, especially Yolande. René has been granted leave by Charles himself, and she knows he has done this to please her, for which she is grateful. It is the first time she has met René’s Isabelle, and she is instantly impressed, noting her calm as well as her beauty. Her older children are pleased to see the younger two; Yolande is now ten and Charles eight. They were both tiny when they went south to Provence, and the occasion turns into a happy family reunion. Only her shining eldest, Louis, is missing.

A number of the French dukes come to Tours for the ceremony, and many dignitaries arrive from Bourges to support the dauphin. Yolande has even dared to send an invitation to Philippe of Burgundy; although she doubts very much he will come, at least it shows her public desire for reconciliation. There is a large contingent from Anjou and also from Provence: graceful ladies, prancing horses with elegant riders, young girls from the city scattering flower petals and herbs in front of them, the local people leaning out of their windows unfurling coloured ribbons. The gardens along the processional route are bursting with June flowers, and climbing roses cling to every wall.

The wedding day sees the month of June at its best, and the ceremony is as splendid as the Queen of Sicily can devise. Spring flowers decorate the soaring cathedral built in the flamboyantly pointed Frankish style, and the scent of the many lilies and narcissi lining the aisles is heady and delicious. Marie’s dress is of silver brocade, her hair caught up in a golden veil brought forward around her face, and she glitters in her mother’s jewels. Her daughter will grow to be handsome rather than beautiful, Yolande thinks, but she is intelligent and cultivated, and has marked her little court at Bourges with a distinctive polish.

Charles, too, wears silver brocade, at his throat the great emerald brooch inherited from Jean of Berry. He looks cheerful enough as he enters the cathedral, walking alone and bowing to right and left. Marie waits for him to reach his place near the altar before making her entrance. She is escorted by her
demoiselles
, each a daughter from a great house, delicately pretty in their pastel dresses of lilac, pale blue and shades of pink. To her mother’s pleasure, Marie has placed her enchanting cousin and friend, Veronique de Valois, in the lead as her chief maid of honour.

When bride and groom stand together before the altar, the silver trumpets in the gallery blast their celebratory clarion call. The congregation rises for the entry of the bishop who will conduct the service. Seeing the way Charles and Marie smile at one another gives Yolande hope for this marriage after all, and she knows Marie will do her duty as she has been taught. She keeps reminding herself:
They are friends, it will be a success –
and she prays sincerely for that.

Everyone is in a jubilant mood – this wedding has been so long awaited that it almost comes as a relief. After three days of merrymaking, the bride and groom leave for Bourges with Yolande’s blessing on them both, while she returns to Tarascon with Juana and her young ones, who loved every minute.

Y
olande’s agent has arrived at Tarascon, eager to impart his news: ‘Madame, when King Henry V realized he was dying’ – she is aghast:
dying?
– ‘he made his last wishes clear to the Duke of Bedford: his young son is to succeed to the throne of England and of France on the death of our King Charles VI; his youngest brother, the Duke of Gloucester, is to be the regent in England; and the Duke of Burgundy is to be offered the regency of France!’

Yolande is speechless. Burgundy to be France’s regent!
He will find a way to move up the final step to the throne once his cousin the king is dead, of this I am sure.

Her agent continues: ‘Should Burgundy decline, Bedford is to continue to be regent until Henry V’s heir comes of age.’

This sudden change in their fortunes has left her more anxious than ever before. Some weeks later, on 21 October, comes another dramatic surprise: France’s own dear, mad king, Charles VI, follows his English nemesis to his maker. He dies in the arms of the beloved mistress Yolande found for him, his last words a whispered: ‘Odette, Odette.’

Yolande has not seen Charles VI for some years now and always thinks of him as he was when she met him on her first visit to Paris – her wedding journey – a handsome man and so like her own dearest Louis. Those kind eyes – the colour of the sapphire ring he gave her – smiling into her own, telling her that if she wore it, she would always have access to him if she needed. How glad she is that Odette de Champdivers has been there to comfort him and make his last years easier. And the poor queen, confined to a manor in the English-controlled part of Paris, no longer exercising any influence on court affairs and, by all accounts, lacking all interest. They say she has become so obese she can hardly move her vast bulk from her bed, and keeps her shutters closed with almost no light in her room. And no mirrors. Odette writes that Isabeau has shown no interest in her husband’s death.