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.
As she nears the steps of the church, she becomes aware of figures standing waiting to receive her outside the intricately carved stone archway of the entrance. Seeing her bridegroom in all his finery, she catches her breath. How handsome he is, so tall and fair, the sun shining on his silver jacket and hose, a large emerald pinning a white ostrich plume to his hat, another emerald gleaming at his throat. His eyes hold hers and his smile has her trembling until she bites her lip to remain composed. As he lifts her down from her warhorse, she closes her eyes and prays silently not to faint. Somehow she walks the few steps to greet Marie de Blois with a deep court curtsey.
‘Welcome to our family,’ says the duchess softly as she raises Yolande, kissing her cheeks. Those kind grey eyes smiling into Yolande’s manifest past suffering but also inner strength. Sensing Yolande’s nerves, Marie takes the girl’s hand and places it on her firm arm as they enter the cathedral, the bride’s knees threatening to buckle under her.
As she passes from the sunlight into the darker interior, Yolande is dazzled by the kaleidoscope of colour and glitter from the church ornaments, the glowing tapestries, the clergy’s vestments, the elaborately dressed people all staring at her; and by the overwhelming scent of flowers mixed with incense. She remains standing at the door, as Duchess Marie precedes her on the arm of the bridegroom – the bride is to follow alone once they have reached their places by the altar. A brilliant salvo of silver trumpets announces her entry. With a quick glance around at Juana behind her, Yolande is grateful to see her governess’s look of encouragement. Clutching her mother’s small ivory-covered prayer book in one hand, a pearl rosary in the other, her hands joined in front, Yolande d’Aragon starts down the aisle towards the altar, her long train of silver gossamer lace held by her six demoiselles, each dressed in the palest lilac. She hears the appreciative murmuring from the packed church and is comforted to know that Charles d’Anjou is walking behind her should she need support. But Yolande has regained her composure now and holds her head high, bowing slowly to right and left, her tall headdress with its covering of fine silver lace adding to her slender, almost ethereal presence.
Surrounded by the nobility of Provence and Anjou, and many of her kinsmen come from Aragon, the Princess Yolande, daughter of the late King of Aragon, is wed with considerable pomp and formality to the son of Duke Louis I d’Anjou, younger brother of the late king,
Charles V of France. She hears little of the sermon and moves as instructed, while floating in some kind of trance. The rousing singing of the Te Deum brings her back to herself, along with the echoing clarion call of the many silver trumpets. As Louis and his bride leave the church arm in arm, all the great bells of Arles begin tolling, a noise to wake the very dead. Conscious she is trembling, she steals a look at him, while flower petals rain softly down upon their heads from windows and balconies, along with happy salutations. It is good to feel the reassuring right hand of her husband stretching to cover hers on his left arm.
Now, as the wife of the head of the House of Anjou, Yolande is proclaimed the Queen of Four Kingdoms – Naples, Sicily, Cyprus and Jerusalem. Cyprus was conquered by her father, and Louis’ father bought the honorary title ‘King of Jerusalem’ from the granddaughter of one of its last kings. Even Hungary was claimed by Queen Giovanna II, once conquered by her father, and her brother crowned then as King Ladislaus before he died. Too many kingdoms – and none of them to hold – for the present.
But all that is as nothing compared with the excitement of being the wife of this dazzling young man. Dear God, prays Yolande, may I prove worthy of him.
The banquet, speeches and toasts are finally over and they are brought to a suite in the royal palace. Alone with her husband in this large room, her nerves return. What should she say to him? No matter how strong her feelings, how can she start to know this dazzling husband of hers?
It is Louis who breaks the silence, holding her by her shoulders at arm’s length and saying, ‘My dearest lady, my own wife, I have a confession to make to you.’
For an instant she imagines that her bubble of joy might burst with some fearful revelation, and she forces herself to remain calm as he continues.
‘It is true I had heard of your beauty, but princes are often lured into marriages of opportunity this way. I had to be sure. Now I must admit to you that I rode ahead of the rest of my party to await your arrival in Arles.’ Yolande’s mouth falls open in surprise, but she smiles a little as she reads the look in his eyes. ‘I mingled with the crowd, listening to their comments about you and your entourage. Every voice lauded your beauty; the people were in a state of wonder and awe – and as your cavalcade approached I watched you laughing happily as you encouraged your spirited mare to prance for the crowd. Even before I saw your face emerging from the shadow of the buildings, I noticed your horse – what a mettlesome little Arabian – and how you controlled her with such ease and confidence. I thought to myself, “If she can handle that horse, she can handle anything.” And then suddenly you were bathed in sunlight, a golden vision, skirts fluttering at every pirouette your horse made. And then I saw the beauty of your eyes . . .’
She holds her breath.
‘At that moment I bent one knee to the ground and crossed myself, thanking the Lord – and the wisdom of my mother – for having sent me this paragon; then I slipped away to await your official arrival. Will you forgive me?’ he asks anxiously.
With tender kisses she closes his questioning blue eyes. This man, she knows now, will fill her heart with love every day, whether they are together or apart. As he carries her to their marriage bed, she swears inwardly he will be the only man she will ever love.
To judge from his ardour, he does not seem disappointed in her either. ‘My darling wife, you and I will share such pleasures every night of our lives,’ he tells her with a gentle kiss in the morning – and she believes him.
It does not take her long to gauge his character. She judges him to be generous of spirit and human kindness; gentle yet strong; ambitious; most learned and sound in his judgements. And she too blesses his mother, and hers, for their wisdom in arranging their union; more, she trembles just at the thought of him touching her again.
He loves her, of that she is sure even after their first night together, but she discovers as the days and weeks go by that there are areas of himself he guards fiercely and will not share even with her – his real thoughts on what happened in Naples, his ambitions for the future. She knows his temper is strong and that she would be wise not to cross it. In these early, heady days of love, such realizations do not worry her. She knows herself too, knows that she will find ways to unravel his inner labyrinth and discover what she needs to prove a useful partner and collaborator. She will always be obedient to him, but naivety has never been part of her character.
After several days of ceremonies and celebrations, the bridal couple leave Arles and make their leisurely way by boat to Tarascon, where Louis has almost completed constructing what will be his principal seat in Provence. Situated in a valley, right on the bank of the River Rhône, this high, sheer fortress of white stone is being built on the site of a number of castles erected, destroyed and rebuilt again since Roman times. A few years ago Louis razed the last old fortress, and sent workmen to begin building his new château fort. Tarascon lies south of Avignon and north of Arles, in a strategic position on a bend of the Rhône which allows a perfect view of the countryside in every direction. The river is the border of their sovereign territory of Provence, with France on the opposite bank.
Yolande loves this new chateau at first sight, its great ramparts and crenellated towers, the whole seeming to grow sharply out of the rocks at its base. Narrow steps lead down to a landing area for small boats, and Louis takes her out on the river. The Rhône is not wide there; they could cross easily to France on the other side should they wish.
Despite the chateau’s austere stone exterior, her clever mother-in-law, Marie de Blois, has arranged the interior to be as dedicated to comfort and elegant living as it is said she has done in her other legendary castles of the House of Anjou. The ceilings are wooden, sometimes decorated with fanciful animals cut out of lead and stuck on to the beams; there is a chimney piece with a lit fire in each room; trellised windows allow abundant light and give views on to the Rhône. How Yolande would love her mother to see this, her first home – but in her absence, she knows that Marie de Blois will teach her how to run and manage such a large establishment.
After their arrival, they are partaking of refreshments in the Great Hall when the duchess takes Yolande by the arm and leads her gently to stand by the chimney piece. Stretching her hands towards the fire, she addresses her with the sweetest of smiles.
‘Dearest child, since you are the wife of my son, you are also my child, if you will allow me this privilege?’ Yolande senses that her mother-in-law is about to say something that means much to her. ‘By your marriage you are now the Duchess d’Anjou, Guyenne and Maine, and Sovereign Countess of Provence, but hereafter you will always be referred to as the Queen of Sicily, the highest of all your many titles – and I shall be known as the Queen Dowager.’ With that, to Yolande’s astonishment, the old lady bows gracefully to her before leaving the room.
Chapter Three
Louis and Yolande are in Tarascon with Marie de Blois and Charles d’Anjou, sitting around a glowing fire after dinner one evening.
‘My darling,’ says Louis, ‘I have decided that when we travel north on our way to Anjou, we will stop in Paris for a few days and call on the king.’
Yolande’s reaction is a mixture of surprise, delight and apprehension, but she says nothing. Strange rumours had already reached her in distant Aragon about the state of mind of the French king, and some anxiety mingled with her fascination. She hugs her knees with her back against a deep cushion, eager to learn more. But what she hears – as Louis, Charles and his mother take turns to tell the story – is not quite what she expected.
She knows that the King of France is Louis’ first cousin, Charles VI, a famously handsome, blonde charmer, whose reign began with such promise that even in Aragon they heard his praises sung. He was only eleven years old when he was crowned in 1380. Everyone was delighted when at the age of sixteen he married the beautiful Princess Isabeau of Bavaria, who adored him. When he came of age, three years later, he decided to dismiss his royal uncles, who had
ruled during his minority, and instead appointed sound advisers from the bourgeoisie to help him reign. They were known as ‘The Marmosets’ – wise, decent men who continued the policies of Charles V, his father, who was justly called Le-Bon.
Louis’ father, the eldest of the king’s uncles, left for Naples and tragically died there. The old king’s other two brothers, the uncles both of the king and of Louis himself, were the Dukes of Burgundy and Berry. They, as well as his uncle by marriage, the Duke of Bourbon, King of Navarre were occupied with their own sovereign duchies. It was the king’s brother, the Duke Louis d’Orléans, who remained always by his side, loyally supportive, his companion and closest friend.
No one was in any doubt that this was a truly promising beginning, and indeed, for the first four years of his reign, Charles gave the impression that he would become an excellent ruler. Since the personality and the character of a monarch dictates the quality of his government, the French felt blessed by God in the personality and wisdom of the young King Charles VI. But as he reached the age of twenty-four, things started to change. The king began to lapse into regular bouts of insanity. Two incidents seemed to have prompted these; one of them was referred to afterwards at the French court as the ‘Ball of the Burning Men’.
In order to entertain their sovereign, his close courtiers were constantly trying to amuse him, and so they arranged a costume ball at the chateau of Vincennes, an event that created great excitement. Several courtiers, including the king, decided to disguise themselves as ‘wild men’ who lived in the forests. At least ten of them entered the ballroom chained together, wearing costumes made of cloth soaked in a resinous wax on which was stuck a covering of frazzled hemp to make them look hirsute. They were a great success, instantly surrounded by revellers trying to guess their identities.
Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The Page 3
