Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The (37 page)

And open the gates they do. Jean Dunois and René enter the empty cobbled streets of the city with the army to see the closed doors and shutters of the houses, a chink open here and there so that curious eyes can stare at the columns as they clatter past, heading for the cathedral.

Y
olande, Isabelle and Marie wait at the gates of Bourges every day now for their couriers. Marie receives short messages from Charles, but never in his own hand. Sometimes there is a little gift – a scarf, a decorated tile. At least he thinks of her.

Then comes the day when a letter arrives from René, and they race back to the palace – it has become a tradition to open it together and for Yolande to read to them:

Maman, dearest wife, and beloved sister,

I trust you have received my other packets and know what has been happening before we reached Rheims. Once we entered the city, I knew we had just twenty-four hours to prepare and carry out the coronation. The Bishop of Rheims was expecting us and the king’s chosen set to work.

The Archbishop of Rheims could only take possession of his office on the day before the ceremony, and the whole of last night was spent in feverish preparations. As the king’s brother-in-law, together with Jean Dunois as the king’s first cousin – and the only male member of the Orléans family left in France – we had the honour of being placed near the front. Although it was only just after eight o’clock in the morning when we formed the procession to ride to the cathedral, it was already becoming hot.

After the silence of our reception from the citizens the day before, I was astounded and relieved to see how their mood had changed overnight. It was as if a dense fog had lifted and the local people had decided in favour of their king. Doors and shutters were flung open and a gentle sprinkling of petals fell from above, or were tossed by people in the thick crowds lining the cobbled road leading to the cathedral.

Children were lifted on to shoulders, men and women wore their Sunday best, not the usual dull robes of workers and housewives. We heard them exclaiming with approval at the elegance of our attire and shouting ‘
Vive le Roi!
’ – their excitement and enthusiasm infecting us and our horses, which jigged and sidestepped, snorting and prancing, well groomed and gleaming in the morning sunshine.

We in the king’s suite wore all the finery we could gather – velvet tunics, satin sleeves, large hats with long feathers and whatever jewels we had, to add to the shine of the metal on bridles, the trappings of our steeds, our spurs and swords. What a kaleidoscope of colour, so many of the senior nobles carrying banners with every device imaginable; and the smells, some good – rose, jasmine – others less so – horses and sweat, though the strewing herbs and flower petals crushed under the horses’ hooves did help!

I rode close behind the king with Jean Dunois, and we could see him clearly under his golden canopy. The expression on his face when he turned to bow to the crowds was one I have never seen before – a mixture of joy, astonishment, humility and reverence as he acknowledged
his
people to the left and right, waving and bowing graciously. Maman, believe me when I say he was kingly.

On entering the cathedral, coming from the bright sunlight, at first I was blinded, the interior still dark despite the myriad candles lit for the occasion. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I could see the glow of the strong reds, blues and silver threads of the tapestries against the stone walls, hastily hung the night before. I became aware of being overwhelmed – almost faint – by the incense and the press of large numbers of courtiers and nobles eager to watch the proceedings, but when I reached my place of honour there was no crush there. We knew that the royal regalia was in the possession of the English at the abbey of Saint-Denis in Paris. We did not have the sceptre, or even the correct order of service for the ceremony, but to our surprise, the crown was found in the cathedral’s treasury! And above all we had the Holy Oil, the most important part of it all, which was still lodged in the basilica of Saint-Remi within our own territory.

The choir stood at the back with the Archbishop of Rheims, the senior peer of France, and the Bishop of Châlons in front of them, magnificent in their embroidered robes, together with several bishops blazing in scarlet. The choir was in fine voice for the rousing Te Deum, which I really appreciated. The Constable of France held the king’s sword throughout the ceremony pointing upwards, the handle nestling in a cushion.

The Holy Oil was brought with great ceremony from the basilica, carried by the
abbé
walking bare-footed between four mounted, fully armed captains, each carrying a pole supporting one corner of the golden canopy held over the
abbé
. In that formation they rode their horses right into the cathedral, clattering up the stone steps and to the choir! Ushers held their bridles while the
abbé
presented the ampoule containing the Holy Oil to the Archbishop of Rheims on a red velvet cushion – which a quick-thinking page had slipped underneath it. I found the sight incredibly impressive.

Following tradition, the archbishop anointed the king with the Holy Oil on his chest and back through slits in his shift, and on his head. It was then that the Duke d’Alençon knighted the king – I had no idea he was not a knight already! Georges de la Trémoille, as Lord Chamberlain, laced the king’s shoes adorned with golden fleur-de-lys and then Alençon fitted the golden spurs on to the shoes of our kingly knight.

It was moving to see with what reverence both the newly anointed King Charles VII and Jeanne d’Arc treated the ceremony; tears poured down her face as she watched the anointing. Then the king’s more formal robes were put on over the shift. As his closest relative there, I stood just to his right, and behind me, Jean Dunois. We heard the king swear his solemn coronation oath in Latin, ‘to protect and uphold Justice and the Law’. Then to great salvos from the dozen silver trumpets, the Archbishop of Rheims held the crown of Charlemagne high for all to see, and placed it carefully on Charles’ head. He then handed him the makeshift sceptre. At that moment he was truly the king, our king, Jeanne d’Arc’s king! The choir burst into another bold and loud Te Deum and we all bowed our heads in reverence to our newly crowned monarch. When I looked at Jeanne, I swear she had the face of an angel transported.

I was quite close and able to watch the Maid throughout the ceremony, standing near the king. She stood motionless in her splendid white armour, her banner of Lorraine furled and upright beside her, a celestial expression on her face. She really could have been in heaven. This was the moment she has been living for; this was her goal, the culmination of her dream. Her dauphin was now truly her king.

Since the day she came to see me at Nancy, I have met Jeanne a few times with Charles at court, and the difference between the Maid I saw even then and here is extraordinary. By now she has seen battle at close hand: the horror of it, the cries of the wounded men, the screams of injured horses, and the pools of blood from both in which soldiers often slip. She has seen houses burn, children abandoned and crying by the side of the road, begging and lost. She has seen the faces of the dying, and the hard faces of the victors. Jeanne d’Arc has grown up in that short time, just one year since she left her home town of Domrémy.

Another innovation – and there were many for this hastily improvised ceremony – was the handing over to the king of the keys of the city of Rheims, placed on another cushion, in a token of submission to the newly crowned monarch. Following this gesture, Charles VII stood and knighted over three hundred of his most deserving soldiers.

I was told the ceremony would be much shorter than usual because of its improvisation, and I can only say thank the Lord for that, as it was around nine in the morning when we entered the cathedral, and we did not leave until after two o’clock. I found the music superb, the Rheims cathedral choir of the first order, and they fairly lifted off the vaulted roof with their final rousing Te Deum, sung as we emerged with the king into the bright sunlight, to be met by a scene of wildly cheering crowds.

There followed the traditional laying of hands on the sick by the king, and I slipped away with Jean Dunois to find something to eat.

How typical of him – food before the holy moment – but Yolande and the others had to smile.

Can this great ceremony really have changed Charles? Yolande dearly hopes so. But she knows that although Charles is sincerely religious, he is also profoundly cynical. So many opposites are contained in him – capable then helpless, strong yet weak, charming then charmless, cruel then breathtakingly generous and forgiving. No one knows him better than she does, but does she really know him? Even to her, this adopted son and son-in-law is still an enigma.

Once crowned, the king sets out on a triumphal journey. Jeanne d’Arc, who has by now assumed mythical status, rides just behind him as more towns in Burgundian territory capitulate to his army and her presence. During one of the recent battles Jeanne was wounded in the leg by an arrow but refused to leave the field, which enhanced her standing even more in the eyes of the soldiers. As for the king, it seems that the coronation in Rheims has confirmed his spiritual status.
I know I was right to insist on his coronation,
thinks Yolande – nothing else would have given him legitimacy in the eyes of his subjects.

Now that Orléans has been saved and the king has been anointed and crowned, Yolande must make haste to Marseilles with her Angevin army and equip them to sail to Louis who is anxiously awaiting their arrival to re-conquer Naples. As far as she is concerned, Jeanne d’Arc’s mission is over. Like the rest of France, she is forever indebted to the Maid of Orléans for achieving the impossible, but now that her task has been accomplished – and, as she herself has admitted, her ‘voices’ are silenced – the time has come for her to live her life peacefully again, among family and friends. She has been offered a great house in Orléans and will have the admiration and gratitude of the country, and the House of Anjou, for life.

Yolande sends for her, but her message is met with a gentle determination to continue in the king’s service until France is rid of the English. It is easy for Yolande to appreciate her feelings, but Jeanne is young and does not yet know the disillusionment of defeat – or betrayal. Again the Queen of Sicily begs her to go home, but the Maid of Orléans has made up her mind to remain with her king, to fight on with the soldiers who have flocked to his side. Yet without her voices – and Yolande’s – to guide her, or the Angevin soldiers to support her, Jeanne will be rudderless.

They meet in Bourges, where Yolande has come to see the king, and embrace. How much older she looks, thinks Yolande to herself, and tired.

‘My dear Jeanne, I admire what you have achieved for your king and country,’ she begins, and as Jeanne bows low and raises herself, Yolande can see the girl’s face visibly shrinking before her in anticipation of the words to come.

‘How strange you must think it that I would deny the king my army and send my men to Naples instead of fighting on against the English.’ Jeanne stares at her shoes. ‘But I gave my word to my husband, and my son’s messages are becoming more and more desperate.’ Still the girl will not meet Yolande’s eyes.

‘Winter is fast approaching, and soon there will be no more fighting in France until the spring – now is the right time for you to go home. My dear, your work for your country is done.’ There is no more reaction from Jeanne d’Arc than from a stone wall.
The girl must listen! She is doomed if she stays – the court is pitiless!

‘We all have our duty to do. Mine is to focus on the quest of my eldest son, and I can no longer afford to lend you my army. Louis is fighting for his throne in Naples and has more need of my resources. My responsibility is clear to me, no matter what the cost.’

Jeanne bows again and backs away from her silently. Another bow and she is gone. She has not uttered a word – and there is no softening in her desire to continue fighting with the king. Yolande watches her leave and then, with a sense of foreboding, goes to find Marie.

‘Dearest child, now that you are her queen, can you not make Jeanne see sense? You know as well as I do that Charles will not stand by her for long. The courtiers do not want her, nor does the clergy – and sooner or later they will convince Charles to abandon her.’

‘I know you are right, Maman, and I have already attempted to talk to her.’ Marie sighs, looking at her hands in a new attitude of helplessness.

Yolande does not give up. ‘Jeanne should leave on a high note, my darling daughter, not as one rejected by the court. This ragged army Charles has collected on her account will drift away to their homes when the snow comes. Will they return in any number in the spring? I doubt it. I will try once again myself before I leave Bourges,’ she decides.

She calls on Jeanne the next day. The Maid has been installed in a beautiful suite in the palace at Bourges, quite feminine, with light blue velvet on the walls and curtains edged in a gold fringe. The tall windows look out on to fields and a small lake. Soft furs cover the bed and lie on top of sofas and cushions; paintings of various Valois kings and queens hang on the walls, and there are flowers in vases on many of the surfaces. In these grand surroundings, Jeanne looks more fragile even than on the first day Yolande met her at Chinon.

‘My dear girl, listen to me,’ Yolande tells her firmly. ‘I must leave again for Provence, as you know. You have completed the task God, your voices and I gave you. Do not be swayed by the hero worship you see around you – it will be short-lived. Do not imagine these victories are yours alone. Others will claim their place in them and resent you yours.’ The girl’s face tells Yolande she is talking to a wall, but she feels she must try to convince her.

‘Go home, Jeanne: I ask you in all sincerity, and with a genuine affection and admiration for you. Soon you will find yourself isolated in a hostile environment at court, fuelled by envy of you and your success. The courtiers are jealous that a maid has achieved what they could not; the bishops are envious that you had God on your side when the people say the Church did not – and you do not know your king. This man you have seen crowned and majestic before you can change in an instant into another person altogether. I know because I reared him. Once you are of no further use to him, he will abandon you without a qualm.’