Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The (5 page)

Following these two incidents, the king would descend regularly into bouts of deep depression. These developed into sporadic outbursts of insanity, which increased in frequency and intensity thereafter.

Sensing Louis’ anguish at telling her these things, Yolande moves next to him and makes him drink the warm wine a servant has left by the fire. It is as though a view distantly glimpsed has suddenly come into focus. Some of the story is not new to her – at her parents’ court in Saragossa they had heard of the French king’s condition, his sudden terrible rages when he lost all control, even killing some of his servants in unprovoked, frenzied attacks – but she had never known what to believe. Her parents had already received the ambassadors from Anjou proposing her marriage to their young duke, and the King and Queen of Aragon became concerned when they heard that the cousin of their daughter’s betrothed had turned into a madman. They did not tell her any of this at the time, but as she grew older, she could hardly fail to hear the rumours, and she began to wonder. Did Louis have the same mental illness in his blood? Would he become like his cousin and try to cut off her head as the French king had done to one of his courtiers?

Despite Louis’ distress, Yolande is relieved to know the full story. Warmed by the wine, she leads her troubled husband to their room and holds him close in her arms as he weeps. Instinctively she knows that he worries for the sanity of their children yet unborn.

When Louis himself exposed these revelations about his king and cousin, she understood he wanted her to know the worst possible scenario that could result from their union. Through this uncomfortable disclosure made by such a proud man, Yolande knows that she has come another step closer to understanding the man with whom she has so easily fallen in love.

After two weeks in Provence, Louis has seen to his various duties in the region and, together with their enormous suite, they leave Tarascon for Paris. Their journey by river is made in flat-bottomed boats with sails that catch the wind from above the river banks, which in some places are impressively high. Ingeniously, their masts can be lowered flat to the deck to allow them to pass under bridges. Yolande is fascinated. They row north on the Rhône to Lyon, changing to boats waiting on the Saône to take them to Châlon. From there they transfer to horses and carriages to reach Paris. It is a long and complicated journey, but as everything around her is new, Yolande finds it thrilling.

‘Where possible we always travel by river,’ Louis tells her. ‘The roads are often impassable during the cold season.’

‘And Charles has told me about the brigands,’ she says, with a little too much excitement. He laughs at her as he indicates the number of soldiers they have travelling alongside them.

It is December, midwinter here in the north, and Yolande can feel the growing chill as they head away from the warmth of the south. In the boats are soft fur rugs and small brass braziers filled with hot coals. The ladies slide under their fur covers and push heated bedpans down towards their feet. Yolande is as excited as a child; wearing fur mittens and a hood, she can enjoy every moment on the river, the banks lined with trees, their branches often sweeping down into the water.

Their entourage is large, but she and Louis manage to be alone quite often. They picnic on the banks of rivers and spend their nights in comfortable quarters, ignoring everyone else, selfishly absorbed in one another. Louis tells her about the members of his family she will meet, the king and queen especially, so that she is prepared.

After three weeks of travelling, by river and then by road, finally they reach Paris. Their reception is noisy – soldiers stamping to attention, and many barking dogs, leaping on their master with joy. Louis’ magnificent manor house on the banks of the Seine is almost a small town in itself, with a great inner courtyard, separate houses within, and stabling for many horses. The staff, beautifully trained by Louis’ mother, stand in a long line, each greeting their new mistress with a bow or curtsey.

With warm smiles, they make Yolande comfortable in her spacious quarters, the windows overlooking the river as well as the courtyard. Her suite is beautiful. Primrose silk hangs from the posts at the four corners of her bed, forming a ceiling over it, and there is a bedspread of ermine, with white fox furs draped on large cushions and laid on the floor by the fire on top of the exotic oriental rugs. Painted clay figures and bowls and silver candelabra decorate the surfaces, and the gold dressing table is set with a standing gilded looking-glass. With a small intake of breath, Yolande sees her own initials entwined with those of her husband on the backs of all the brushes, and engraved on the vermeil lids of the crystal jars. The care and loving thoughtfulness shown by Marie de Blois must be unique, she thinks to herself, recognizing that there is so much she can learn from this extraordinary lady. Little sachets of lavender lie in each clothes chest, and the wardrobes are lined in sandalwood to keep away moths. The smell is delicious and brings back recent memories of her days and nights with Louis in Provence.

The royal newlyweds are constantly invited and feted. Yolande barely has time to take in the sights of this great city as she passes her days and evenings smiling, bowing, allowing her hand to be kissed again and again – some of the peasants even kiss her feet. She tries hard to pay attention to the people she meets during these early days of her marriage, all the while attempting to read their minds, their hearts, and gauge their loyalty to her husband, as well as to their king.

She is happy, swept up in Louis and his love. She finds she has almost forgotten Aragon, and at times even her dearest mother grows faint in her mind, filling her with guilt. Sometimes it seems that only the sight of Juana and her wolfhounds remind her that she had a life before the day she married.

As the day of her presentation at court looms, Yolande pleads with Louis to be excused so that their formal life does not yet need to begin. ‘Let us continue in private a while longer,’ she begs him. Then she recognizes his expression and reassures him quickly: ‘No, my love, I am not nervous or afraid in any way. I just do not want this time alone with you to end too soon.’

But she knows it must end, and Louis wants his bride to meet the king and queen, as well as other members of his family and a number of the important courtiers, before they leave for his duchy of Anjou.

They arrive at the Louvre in great style, surrounded by Louis’ liveried attendants. The building is enormous, and severe. ‘My darling, I had no idea this palace would be so impressive,’ says Yolande, marvelling at the finely cut honey-coloured stone, the main facade facing the river and the great courtyard within where their carriages draw up among many others. Their attendants all hold flaming torches; horses agitate, more guests arrive. ‘Will the king be normal?’ she asks nervously.

Louis laughs. ‘We shall see!’

Yolande has chosen to wear a dress of green velvet, and as she enters, she removes her matching cloak lined in dark sable. As Louis’ new duchess, she wants to make a good impression. She prays that her dress, train and headdress are appropriate, and that she will do her husband justice before the critical eyes of the court. How could they be otherwise? She is a
foreign
princess, after all.

They are shown into the glittering Great Hall, her discerning eye lighting on the huge, exquisite tapestries lining the high walls before Louis leads her to the throne. Her court obeisance is low and slow, as she was taught at home in Aragon, and only on rising does she look. She sees a pair of smiling blue eyes, very much like Louis’, a charming face and a hand beckoning her forward. Louis whispers: ‘Go up and sit by him on the stool,’ and she obeys.

Charles VI is still a very handsome man, only nine years older than her husband, but he has a certain vacant expression that makes her unsure of his awareness. This is dispelled at once when he addresses her loudly enough for the nearby courtiers to hear.

‘Ah! My dear new cousin Yolande! Welcome to Paris! How was your journey from distant Aragon to Provence? And another long journey to come to visit us at our court in Paris, for which I am grateful.’ He smiles endearingly, looking so like Louis. ‘I hear you speak perfect French, due to your Valois mother. What a pleasure,’ he says, as he takes her hand and lightly kisses it. Then, more softly, just for her ears: ‘I hope you will visit us often.’

He examines her with a cool, appraising gaze.

‘Hmm, I am beginning to think you are someone with whom I can talk freely, someone I can even trust.’ He says this so quietly that Yolande is not sure whether Louis can hear him.

‘Sire,’ she replies just as softly and sincerely, looking into his eyes, ‘with pleasure.’

At that, he removes a ring from his smallest finger, a gold ring with a fine, smooth sapphire engraved with his crest, and slips it on to her slim index finger. ‘This ring is my gift to you, my beautiful new cousin. It will remind you of our first meeting and can always gain you access to me should you need it.’ Again he smiles into her eyes. ‘Now you may greet Isabeau.’

She bows low again and turns to his queen, Isabeau of Bavaria, who is sitting on a throne a little distance apart from her husband. Seeing her, Yolande is taken aback somewhat, although she gives no sign. In Aragon she was told that the queen was beautiful, but if that was so, only a hint of beauty now remains. After giving birth to ten children, Isabeau has lost her figure and is swathed in copious finely woven silks to hide her shape, so that she resembles a pyramid of multicoloured spun sugar. On her head she wears several ropes of pearls entwined within her hair, and her ears are weighed down by a pair of large rubies. When she looks at Yolande’s slim waist, there is regret in her eyes, but also a certain sympathy, as if she recognizes no malice in Yolande, a foreign king’s daughter like herself, newly arrived in a potentially hostile environment.

‘Yes,’ she says graciously, echoing her husband, ‘come and visit us, beautiful Yolande. You will always be welcome wherever we hold our court.’ And she beckons Yolande to approach and kiss her.

Louis has exchanged friendly words with the king; now he too kisses the queen’s hand and cheek, and they withdraw from the dais. He takes Yolande to one side. ‘Now you must meet the king’s brother, Louis d’Orléans, the greatest charmer in France.’

He is right. Apart from her Louis, the king’s brother is the handsomest man in the room – no, in France; certainly the second-handsomest man she has ever seen.

‘Where has my cousin been hiding you, ravishing new member of our family?’ he says. ‘Yolande – a name to roll on one’s tongue with delight,’ and he laughs merrily. ‘Come, meet my Valentina – we have both heard of you and want to be satisfied that your charms have not been exaggerated!’

With that, Louis d’Orléans steers Yolande by her elbow towards a dark-haired Italian beauty as tall as she is, with a disarming smile and flashing eyes. ‘Welcome to Paris, and France, and this court, our new cousin Yolande. May you find peace outside it – for there is certainly none within!’ she says with a laugh, but Yolande detects a trace of sadness. ‘Now that we are family, I hope you will visit me and meet my children – and have some of your own soon as well! In your Louis you have won the best of this family, for only he has no interest in acquiring more power here – it is the curse of this court.’ To Yolande’s surprise she says this quite openly.

‘Pay her no mind, beautiful cousin. My darling wife is from Milan, where they thrive on intrigues!’ interjects Louis d’Orléans, caressing his wife’s cheek fondly with the back of a finger. ‘Now, there is one more cousin for you to meet, at least so you know whom to avoid,’ says her husband quite frankly. ‘I am amazed he has shown his ugly face here, but I can see he is already making his way towards you. Be warned – despite appearances, he is not a giant toad, but our cousin, Duke Jean of Burgundy.’

Standing before her is quite the ugliest man she has seen in company – gross, pockmarked, with small eyes, a mean expression, and large, wet, protruding lips; his unsightliness the more marked standing between the two beautiful Louis – and all three of them first cousins. Jean-sans-Peur, John-the-Fearless, as he is known, bows over Yolande’s hand, which he wets with his kiss, and she instinctively recoils.

Thankfully her husband is at her elbow and steadies her, saying graciously, ‘Cousin Jean, I am pleased to present to you my wife Yolande. I trust you will pass our good wishes to your dear father.’ And with that he smiles warmly and bows, as he turns easily on his heel towards a fine-looking older man. ‘Ah, my dear uncle of Bourbon! Meet Yolande, my bride from Aragon. My dear, this is the king’s and my uncle, Louis of Bourbon, husband of our aunt Jeanne. I know you will be friends.’

There is something about the older man’s face that appeals to her instantly, an apparent goodness and calm. They greet one another warmly, and then Louis whispers in her ear:

‘My darling, I have saved the best until last. Now you will meet my favourite uncle, Duke Jean of Berry, my father’s younger brother and the most cultured of the whole family. There he is by the window – let us move towards him and then your ordeal will be over.’

‘Louis, my dearest nephew,’ says the older man as they embrace warmly. ‘And this must be your bride from Aragon about whose beauty the whole room is talking.’ He bows to her with such a sweet expression – how could anyone not like him instantly. ‘My dear Yolande, I do hope you will visit me at Bourges. It is a most agreeable city, the capital of my land of Berry. Do you enjoy books? I have a library that will delight you. Won’t you please come?’

‘I shall, dear new uncle, I shall come to Bourges with great pleasure if you promise to show me your famous Book of Hours I have heard so much about?’

‘Ah, you know of my
Très Riches Heures
! So its fame has reached Aragon?’ he asks with evident pleasure. ‘It will be my delight to show it to you, my dear.’ And with an all-embracing smile he is swallowed up into the crowd as Louis takes her elbow again and steers her determinedly to a door, and they slip away.