Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The (3 page)

Yolande had followed every move of the two protagonists through Louis’ mother’s letters for the past nine years, and she had never doubted his ultimate success. He sounded so positive, so strong in his character and beliefs, so sure of his right to this kingdom, that she had convinced herself he would win. She had often imagined herself there with him in Naples, secure in their position as king and queen. During his time on the Italian peninsula he had won a number of battles, and then, like a thunderclap, had come the final, unexpected defeat. Was it over, or was his return home no more than a respite? Was their planned marriage merely a means of acquiring reinforcements – through her substantial dowry – for yet another attempt at regaining his Italian kingdom?

She realized that she did not know this man at all. Was he still the bold, fearless, young god she had believed in for so long? Or was he a loser, someone she could not admire?

T
he leaves are still golden and falling gently as they reach Perpignan, Yolande’s last stop on home soil. To her surprise, she is not nervous now; instead she feels a strange and agreeable expectation – or is it just the beauty of the season and the light wind making her favourite mare skittish?

Yolande has heard so much about Aragon’s city of Perpignan as a centre of excellent craftsmanship, and of its complicated history as it passed continually between Aragon and France, that she gazes fascinated about her and almost forgets why she has come. But as the Princess of Aragon enters France, she is fast reminded by the appearance of her bridegroom’s younger brother, Charles d’Anjou, Prince of Tarente, who has come to be her escort across Languedoc. He arrives with a large suite of elegant courtiers on fine horses – horses always catch her eye – and the French courtiers follow his lead in paying her their respects.

‘Greetings, fine princess, my soon-to-be sister-in-law,’ he begins with an impish smile and a low sweep of his multi-plumed hat as he bends over the neck of his magnificent steed. He rights himself with a jolly laugh. When he bows almost lower to Juana with a more mischievous grin, Yolande is delightfully surprised and barely stifles a laugh. Juana catches her eye and gives Yolande her most knowing look – if her bridegroom is as handsome and has half the merry wit of his brother, she will be fortunate indeed. Charles is a lively companion and chats away without stopping while riding beside her. He is about her age and she cannot help but be entertained.

‘What a fancy little dancing mare you have, my Princess Yolande – may I try her?’

‘Certainly not,’ she replies firmly, ‘I am sure you would gallop away with her and I would be left with that great warhorse you are riding!’

He laughs, and whacks her mare so hard on the rump with his whip that she leaps and charges off, with him keeping up alongside, still laughing – to the astonishment of Yolande’s suite, unaccustomed to seeing their princess treated in such a fashion.

‘Ha!’ he shouts as they gallop, ‘You think this mount of mine is not up to yours? Just watch me beat you to that great oak in the distance!’ And to Yolande’s profound displeasure, he does indeed arrive first. ‘Never judge by appearances,’ he chortles, pulling up. ‘This charger of mine may be built to carry armour, but also to let me escape when I need!’

The way he glances at her from under his long dark lashes is most disconcerting for Yolande, his smile always hovering, a tease of some sort in his eyes. Juana can see that her charge is somewhat taken with this young French prince, until her stern look brings the girl back to her senses.

They are heading towards Arles, the old capital of Provence, where the wedding ceremony will take place. Yolande has heard much about this city, which was important in Roman times and is still full of their ruins.

‘Tell me about Arles,’ she asks Charles, and he does, with such enthusiasm that she makes a mental note to visit all the Roman sites here – the amphitheatre, the circus and the great triumphal arch. ‘Perhaps your brother will bring me back here some day – there is so much more for me to see.’

Her progress has slowed as the crowds grow thicker. Everywhere she stops, Yolande is hailed as a queen – she rather enjoys that, waving graciously and acknowledging the greetings, while her equerries toss coins to the children lining their route.

Her mother has made a huge effort with her trousseau. Yolande’s bright-coloured skirts almost touch the ground, and she wears a matching hat with a large brim trimmed with coloured ostrich feathers, pinned on with a sparkling jewel. This Spanish princess, an expert horsewoman, has brought a number of horses with her of pure Arabian blood, as well as the larger Andalusians with their strong, thick necks, flaring nostrils, long manes and tails. All are somewhat friskier than the ambling mares most ladies ride, and naturally she is aware of the admiring looks that greet her, especially from Charles d’Anjou.

‘Ah-ha, my beautiful soon-to-be-queenly-sister, I see you intend to sweep our streets with your skirts before deigning to set your pretty foot down on foreign soil,’ he jokes as he rides up alongside on one of his great chargers, which is snorting and blowing and even nipping the neck of her mare.

‘Are all you French lords as forward and flirtatious as your horses!’ she protests, in mock horror.

‘My lady, I am but your humble servant, on my knees forever before you. My back is yours to step on to mount your own fiery steed whenever you require,’ he answers with sham modesty.

I must not forget my place,
she repeats to herself over and over as they ride.

Their huge cavalcade stops at a large inn, and, together with the nobles of both countries, Yolande changes into a more ceremonial costume; their mounts are equally finely adorned. After all, she is a princess of Aragon, about to marry a royal French duke and receive the title Queen of Sicily. The Pope himself crowned her Louis in Avignon and no lost battle will remove that honour from him.

To Juana’s distinct disapproval, Charles d’Anjou is already a great favourite with the young ladies of the Aragonese suite, and they chatter and giggle in his presence as if going to a carnival. Yolande tries to remain serene and play her gracious part, but her future brother-in-law’s joking with her ladies until they almost cry with laughter makes it difficult.

‘Why, whose is that gorgeous hat?’ she hears him call as he snatches one from a
demoiselle
and puts it on his own head. ‘My, don’t I look as elegant as any one of you?’ and he hides half his face behind a stolen fan, to muffled shrieks.

Yolande’s escort of several young ladies-in-waiting, her
demoiselles,
fuss about her as she dresses. She likes her outfits to be made from the most beautiful imported brocades and silk velvets in a multitude of colours, but she insists on simple styles. And so there is little for her ladies to do – no ribbons to tie or flowers to attach which would keep them busy pinning or stitching. The bodices of her dresses are laced taut to show off her tiny waist – the more so with her shoulders padded wide and the sleeves fitting tight. Her necklines are high and edged in a white frill, and her hats have feathers floating down her back, dyed in colours to tone. Yolande believes in first impressions, and if her clothes are kept to a sharp silhouette all in one suitable, flattering colour, and worn with a good jewel and hat, she considers the impact greater than a display of ribbons and frills.

Once outside, she can hear shouts of ‘Brava!’ from the crowds, and others calling out ‘Look at her hat!’ and they throw flowers in her path as she bows to left and right.

As they near their destination, Yolande’s swollen cavalcade stops at a small chateau prepared for her arrival. Shown to her suite, which she barely notices in her nervousness at the prospect of this first meeting with her future husband, she calls to Juana:

‘Dearest, help me choose what to wear, please.’

After a number of false starts, they choose a dress of butter-yellow taffeta with two darker shades of yellow for her petticoats. Her fitted waistcoat is of pale mustard velvet with yellow taffeta sleeves, puffed at the shoulder and then tight from just above the elbow. Yolande is attaching a jabot of white lace at her neck when Juana approaches with the jewel case. ‘Wear the ruby,’ she urges. The Queen of Aragon has given her daughter some lovely jewels, and Juana pins the ruby brooch on to the jabot at the front. A large-brimmed white felt hat trimmed with long white ostrich feathers completes her outfit. Her blonde hair is twisted simply into a thick coil at the nape of her neck.

As she leaves the chateau to mount her horse, Charles d’Anjou rides up to greet her – and for once, his appreciation almost silences him.

‘Madame, my princess-sister,’ he says softly, ‘you are truly beautiful. I rejoice for my brother and for all France.’ He removes his hat and bows low on his horse. For once, no joke, no jolly banter – just a quiet smile and a look of reverence in his eyes.

As they approach Arles, the crowds lining their route grow denser.

‘Listen to them!’ shouts Charles over the noise, and Yolande can hear loud compliments about her, and about the ladies and gentlemen of her suite as well. She rides near the head of the procession, with four splendid knights in parade armour preceding her, as well as two buglers. They are there to announce her arrival, and to warn other travellers or farmers with livestock to clear the road. Her suite does not ride quietly; there is much raucous repartee from all sides and she can sense everyone’s excitement growing with her own.

She notices some of her equerries tossing coins to the peasants who hail her, and she returns their salutations with a bright smile. As they come closer to Arles, more mounted Angevin noblemen join their procession, each with a bow of greeting to Yolande, their hats sweeping low, before they fall in behind. How elegant they are in their multicoloured parade outfits, and handsome; she can feel the expectations of her ladies. The crowds lining the road have grown yet thicker, and she can clearly hear their shouts of ‘Godspeed’ and ‘welcome’, and blessings on her marriage. ‘May this union of Aragon and Anjou bring peace, prosperity and many children,’ she hears repeated from all sides.

Finally, on 1 December 1400, in weak sunshine but under a clear blue sky, the Princess Yolande of Aragon rides into Arles to meet her bridegroom for the first time, his brother Charles by her side.
If he is as welcoming as the crowds, I shall be fortunate indeed
, enters her mind, with a prayer. What a reception they give her – flowers everywhere, and at this time of year too; people are pressing forward so thickly her mare can hardly walk, but aware of her dancing agitation, they do move back a little.

Then, there he stands – her bridegroom. Any resistance she might still have felt towards this marriage disappears the moment she sees him. Louis d’Anjou is more handsome, more gallant than any young man she has ever imagined, with a penetrating gaze from honest blue eyes and a cheerful, friendly smile. She feels her heart beat so fast it may well jump out of her tight bodice. As she brings her mare up to him, he descends the three steps on which he stands, slips her reins through his left arm, and, with both hands firmly on her waist, gently lifts her down from her horse to overwhelming cheers. As he lowers her, their eyes meet, and at that moment, she knows she can love –
will
love – this man as her husband, completely, for all her life.

‘May I greet my beautiful bride,’ he says with a smile and a low bow after he sets her down.

She drops a deep curtsey, eyes lowered demurely, but when she looks up, she cannot help laughing with delight. ‘It is a joy indeed to meet my bridegroom,’ she replies, ‘especially after such a long journey and’ – much softer – ‘after such a long engagement!’

‘You must be tired, my dear’ he answers with a smile that reaches his eyes. ‘Come, meet my mother, and then rest,’ he says as he steers her firmly by the elbow.

The soft grey eyes of Marie de Blois embrace Yolande as warmly as do her arms. ‘Welcome, dearest daughter, welcome to Provence and your new family,’ and Yolande knows at once that they will be friends.

Louis and Yolande see little of one another on that first evening, as she is presented to the great and the good of his provinces. Occasionally they catch one another’s eye across a sea of faces, and she can feel herself blushing in confusion and pleasure.

The next day, 2 December 1400, will be engraved forever on her heart. She is to ride ‘amazon’ – side-saddle – to the church on a large, slow white horse, not her fiery little Arabian. Her mother decided that she should wear a long dress of white silk overlaid with a web of fine silver lace; on her head a high tortoiseshell comb also draped in silver lace, worn in the custom of her country. Following Spanish tradition, as a maiden, under the lace her hair will hang loose over her shoulders to well below her waist. Her only jewellery is a beautiful row of pearls left to her by her father, and matching drop earrings. In front of her horse and behind it walk four elegant stewards dressed in vertical red and yellow stripes, the livery of the House of Aragon. Each holds a gold-painted wooden pole supporting one of the four corners of a cloth-of-gold awning held high over the bride’s head. Above her she can see her royal arms and those of her bridegroom embroidered at its centre. In this way the Princess Yolande d’Aragon makes her solemn official entry into Arles, ancient city of the Romans and capital of Louis d’Anjou’s sovereign territory of Provence.

Soon the bride forgets her nerves as she gazes with fascination at a large Roman arena and then a theatre. As the cavalcade winds slowly through the narrow streets of ancient sand-coloured stone buildings, she cannot stop marvelling at her surroundings. Despite the lateness of the season, every window and balcony is garlanded, and the streets are completely covered with a blanket of flower petals and local herbs. The delicious scent of rosemary and lavender rises up from under the horses’ feet, and the loud cheering of the crowds hailing Yolande as their queen quite overwhelms her. Suddenly the procession turns into a wide cobbled street leading to the ancient church of Saint-Trophime, built three centuries ago in the Roman style, with additions to the cloister of tall pointed arches in the new Frankish manner. Yolande has never seen anything like it.