Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The (42 page)

Following this success, the king installs Jacques Coeur as his Argentier, his personal treasurer and supplier of luxuries to the court. The Old Queen sees her merchant friend not long afterwards, on one of his frequent visits to Marseilles. When her agent informs her he was in the port, she invites him to dine with her at her palace.

‘My dear Jacques – how very pleased I am to hear of your new appointment – so well deserved.’ She thinks he is actually blushing.

‘Madame my Lady Queen, I am all too well aware how such an honour has come my way, and once again, I give you my solemn vow to be in your service always.’ This he says with such a low bow she almost laughs, but manages to bite her lip before he straightens.

This second appointment Charles has given Jacques Coeur pleases Yolande sufficiently to invite the good merchant to join her and Marie’s entourage for the journey from Bourges to Paris to witness the king’s entry into his capital.

The official entry into Paris will be a momentous occasion, not only for the French to recover their capital, but for the king personally. Naturally, the Queen of France and the Old Queen of Sicily want to look as majestic as possible and Yolande joins Marie in Bourges to plan their wardrobes together. Jacques Coeur has been prepared and is waiting at the palace in Bourges, laden with wonderful cloth and furs. Marie and Yolande exchange glances of mother and daughter complicity – what fun! Now they can really allow themselves some extravagant fantasy for the great occasion when they, two queens, will be in their places of honour to watch the king’s entry into his capital at last.

They drape themselves with silks and satins of every shade, furs around their shoulders, gazzars of the finest spun gold thread, as they swirl about in front of a large looking glass forgetting themselves and poor Jacques completely.

‘Mesdames, my two dear queens, I fear it may be cooler in Paris, certainly by mid November,’ he tries to intervene and make some sense out of their pirouetting, ‘and there will be much waiting about on your litters before the ceremony. And despite the many candles, the cathedral is just as cold inside as out.’ With that, they drop the lovely sables and other dark furs as he hands them white minks and ermines, and white fox pelts. ‘I do hope you agree – I think white is the most appropriate colour for queens,’ he suggests with a low bow.

As Yolande catches Marie’s eye they have to turn their heads away so as not to let him see them smile. ‘Maman, what do you think of this,’ as Marie spreads a ravishing blue brocade with ermine, ‘or this,’ and a burgundy brocade is wrapped with white fox. They both sigh at one another and gaze with gratitude at Jacques Coeur, who sits in the middle of this delicious chaos with a satisfied smile. His lady queens are having fun. Finally they make their choices from an irresistible array of materials for their formal state gowns and their cloaks. As if this was not enough, Jacques then brings out more exquisite pieces – fans of pheasant feathers to go with Yolande’s green and gold brocade, and emeralds for her neck and ears to further enhance her ensemble. ‘Dear Jacquet, as they have taken to calling him – I do have my late husband’s emeralds, and should not take yours . . . but they are so beautiful . . . perhaps just for the one occasion?’

Yolande cannot recall a happier afternoon shared with her sweet daughter – their lives are so serious, and this is sheer, frivolous, delicious folly. They both know that with such exquisite, luxurious fabrics and furs, they will really appear as the queens they are on that important day, and they are grateful to Jacques Coeur for it.

The great event of the king’s entry into Paris takes place on 12 November 1437, some nineteen years since he left the city in such dramatic circumstances and in just his night shirt. At last, Paris is
his
city, the capital of his kingdom.

Stands have been erected all along the official route, the place reserved for the two queens upholstered in pale blue velvet, stitched with gold fleur-de-lis, with gold fringe on the awning above to shade them from the late autumn sun. They can feel the festive atmosphere welling up from the crowd below, and the joyful mood lifts their spirits. Flower petals are caught and spun by the breeze as people toss them from open windows lining the route. The air is chilly but fresh and the sky blue. Marie and Yolande both wear their fur capes, Jacques Coeur’s wise suggestion. Yolande’s is white mink and Marie’s cape of blue and gold brocade is lined and faced with ermine. She is the Queen of France after all, and her mother feels she should wear the royal fur Jacques Coeur has produced. They have added collars and cuffs of white fox. Marie is wearing the sapphires Louis and Yolande gave her for her wedding and looks very much the queen. On her head she has placed a small crown of diamonds, pearls and sapphires – another treasure from Jacques Coeur’s Aladdin’s cave, which may have to be returned, her mother warns her, unless they can persuade Charles – or Jacques Coeur himself. Yolande wears her crown as the Dowager Queen of Sicily.

The parade begins with brightly dressed foot soldiers and fearsome-looking pikemen. Next come the knights, most extravagantly attired, wearing parade armour, with tall ostrich feathers in many colours on their helmets. Some hold banners proclaiming their allegiance to a particular duke; others prefer to wear the current fashion of short, tight jackets and hose, and wide-brimmed hats with feathers, often attached with a glittering brooch. Finally, to loud cheers, the king appears, preceded by flower girls casting lavender and other herbs in the path of his prancing horse. Charles rides a snow-white charger, a stallion he particularly likes, which arches its neck and snorts to the appreciation of the crowds, sidestepping daintily despite its size. Named Abélard after the philosopher, it is caparisoned to the ground in quilted pale blue velvet stitched with golden fleur-de-lis, and from its gilded leather headband tall white ostrich feathers bob along with its bowed head and prancing steps.

As the crowd roars at the sight of its king, ‘Maman,’ whispers Marie with a wicked smile, ‘does Abélard have an Héloïse?’ and Yolande has to suppress a giggle.

‘Many, darling, many – he has more children than anyone we know! But none of his wives is called Héloïse!’

Yolande cannot deny swelling with pride to see Charles as their king. He is wearing a full suit of parade armour, decorated with finely inlaid gold scrolling patterns, glistening in the winter sunshine; his head is bare for the people to see him better, and he is escorted by his Scottish archers on foot.

‘How tall those archers are in comparison to some of ours,’ marvels Marie. Behind Charles rides the first esquire of the stable with the king’s crowned helm on a cushion, and another mounted steward carries the sword of state.

‘Oh, look there.’ Yolande points at a building opposite as she notices that jesters have climbed up on to a balcony and are somehow juggling balls while standing on the ledge.

Charles knows of their viewing position and makes a point of turning his horse and bowing gracefully to his queen and his
bonne mère.
His trumpeters notice too and give them a royal salvo, and the crowd responds with shouts of ‘
Vive le roi, vive la reine, vive la reine de Sicile
’, over and over.

After a short gap, next in the parade rides Yolande’s fourteen-year-old grandson, the Dauphin Louis, on a fine black gelding, followed at a little distance by other princes and nobles. She can sense Marie’s motherly pride as she watches her only son;
how she would have loved to have more, poor darling.

Then her heart fills with joy as she sees her René appear directly behind the dauphin among the dukes, her younger son Charles by his side. How René enjoys himself, turning to left and right with a huge smile, acknowledging salutations with much doffing of his feathered hat. He is dressed quite outrageously in mustard yellow with green facings and trimmings, with a large emerald holding the ostrich feathers on his hat and another at his neck. Young Charles is far more soberly dressed, but also elegant in burgundy velvet and a matching hat with a long white feather. Marie and Yolande exchange glances and smile tenderly at one another.
But do I imagine a shadow in my daughter’s eyes?
wonders Yolande.

Marie’s son Louis has always been something of an enigma – almost a split personality. Charming one moment and snarling the next, and for no apparent reason; intelligent, and yet Yolande recalls his tutors telling her he wasted his good brain on the rubbish he learnt from disaffected and conniving companions outside the court. Marie has lost so many children; who can know if she will produce another healthy son, and should this one become the only heir, her mother fears she will have no peace.

With René’s help, Pierre de Brézé has recently been appointed Grand Seneschal of Poitou and Anjou. How dashing he looks in his armour and black velvet cloak, a great shining jewel holding it on one shoulder and the gold chain of his new office around his neck. Everyone agrees that Pierre is still the handsomest man in France! Marie sighs in appreciation as he bows with raised eyes and a wave, smiling broadly at them as he passes on his high-stepping black Friesian stallion. How the crowd appreciates both rider and horse! Where did Pierre find such a creature? wonders Yolande, but not for long – it could only have been through that magician Jacques Coeur.

The army marches at the rear of the procession, with a noticeable bounce in their step, and stop when they reach the city gates. Trumpets blow, cheers ring out and the two queens have an excellent view as the mayor presents to King Charles the keys of Paris with great solemnity, followed by more clarion calls of the trumpets.

The traditional blue canopy dotted with golden fleur-de-lis is brought forward, supported at its four corners on gilded poles held by four favoured courtiers, all expertly controlling their horses at the same time. To the slow beat of a large drum, King Charles VII makes his official entry into Paris with deafening salvos and the traditional exclamations from his people of ‘Noël’, ‘Vive le Roi’ and ‘Montjoie’.

Marie and her mother exchange kisses and embrace, tears of joy in their eyes. It gives Yolande deep satisfaction that she has helped to heal the open wound between the Duke of Burgundy and his cousin, her son-in-law the king – as well as the rift between Burgundy and Anjou. She vows that in honour of this day she will retract her earlier pledge of enmity towards Philippe of Burgundy. When he passes them in the procession their eyes meet for a moment as he looks up; and he removes his hat and bows, while Yolande inclines her head.
Oh, when I think of the pain this man has caused me!
But today is a glorious occasion of unity and reconciliation. She squeezes Marie’s hand and her returning pressure reassures her mother that she understands. Henceforth, all past grievances will be forgiven and forgotten between the royal houses of Burgundy and Anjou, for the sake of king, country and peace.

All about them they see the people continuing to cheer and celebrate the king’s entry into his capital. The knights’ horses, sensing the excitement of the crowds, prance and fret, whinny and jingle, their metal shoes stamping on the strewing herbs scattered by young girls who curtsey as the king, the dauphin and his lords pass by along the route to the cathedral.

Having arrived early to watch Charles’s entry into the city from their specially built stand, once he and the main courtiers have passed, Marie and Yolande descend and settle together on their own litter.

With the delicious aroma of the fields of Provence wafting up from the lavender being crushed under their horses’ hooves, the procession winds its way through the thronged, joyous streets of Paris, past a number of
tableaux vivants
in progress. There is music and the sound of excited, happy citizens all around them. Coloured ribbons unfurl from balconies, banners curl lazily in the breeze, and petals drift down on the parade from the windows above.

When they reach the cathedral, their litter is lowered and they are ushered into their places of honour to await the arrival of the king and the rest of the procession. When all are settled in the nave, a Te Deum of thanksgiving rings out with all the verve, pomp and formality that can be imagined: choirs and silver trumpets, glittering vestments, incense and candles flickering so brightly they light even that cavernous dark space. Their places are near the king in the front and they listen as the Archbishop of Paris begins his address. Yolande’s mind wanders as she looks around at a sight she feared she might never see, of nobles from both sides coming together to rejoice in their sovereign and give thanks to God. At last, a united France; no more factions, no more internecine war. How both of her Louis would have rejoiced – and are, she is sure, in heaven above. But she is pulled out of her happy reverie by the loud ringing of the cathedral’s bells, the signal for all the bells of Paris to begin tolling as they follow the king outside, the choir competing with the clarion of the silver trumpets.

The whole occasion has been a triumph for Paris – for the king, his queen and their family and friends. A memorable, magnificent day!

I
n spring, to his mother’s joy, René visits her again at Saumur. Now that he has been with his eldest son Jean in Nancy and sorted out the administration of Lorraine and Bar, he finds he has more time to spend with her and with his youngest daughter Marguerite. René has so much to tell Yolande about his son’s successful work in Lorraine and Bar, and his pride in him gives her great satisfaction. They walk arm in arm in her garden under the blossom trees, chatting about nothing in particular, until he says with forced joviality, ‘Madame, my dear mother.’ She always knows when he begins this way that he has difficult news to impart. She cannot deny she has been expecting it, and she does her best to understand, hiding her dread.

‘You have no need to speak, my beloved son; I know your plans in my heart. Like all the eldest sons of Anjou, you crave your kingdom of Naples, as much as you want to be with your wife and children.’