On the instructions of the Queen of Sicily, Jean de Dunois accompanies the dauphin whenever necessary; he is the ideal older childhood friend, a wise head and protector. At her request, Jean goes with Charles on a visit to one of his further cities, La Rochelle, in the north on the coast. Not long afterwards, a courier arrives with an urgent letter for Yolande from young Dunois, full of concern, to say that he is accompanying the dauphin back to Bourges and must come on at once to give her, in person, an account of an event that occurred in La Rochelle.
The sun is shining when Jean Dunois arrives at Tarascon a few days after his message. Yolande is about to suggest they sit outside under one of the great trees in her courtyard when she notices how muddy he is. He must have ridden hard and without much sleep to reach her so quickly. Usually guests stop at a nearby tavern just before reaching the castle to prepare themselves for their arrival. How he has grown, and into such a fine young man, she thinks, as he enters the Great Hall, the scene of so many childhood romps, of visits from troubadours and minstrels that she wants to reminisce with him about – but his face, showing deep anxiety, stops her.
After he bows to her in greeting, she sends him to wash and change while food and drink are sent upstairs so that they can talk in private.
Jean returns, his stained travelling coat removed and his muddy boots and trousers changed; his hair is brushed and his face and hands washed. She thinks to herself how young he looks. ‘Now I can embrace you,’ she says, and does, but she feels his unease like a coiled spring.
‘Come sit with me,’ she continues as warmly as she can, to relax him a little, as he enters her favourite room, the little yellow sitting room between her bedroom and what was Louis’ on the other side. The levrettes lie in heaps all over the crimson velvet cushions and grunt resentfully as they are pushed aside to make room. The sun is streaming in through the window and on to the carpet and fur pelts on the floor, and Yolande’s mind slips back to all the mad frolics she has had here with her growing young family.
‘Jean dear,’ she begins, ‘do forgive me for looking on you as one of my children, although I see before me a tall and mature young man.’ Still he does not smile, so she knows his news is grave, though eventually he does sit. She tosses some rosemary on to the fire as her people bring in food and drink. He waits until they have left, then, taking a deep breath, he says quickly:
‘Madame, dear madame, I come in haste because I must inform you of something crucial that may have badly affected the dauphin.’ He has no time for small talk; it must be serious. ‘A week ago, I travelled to La Rochelle, at your request, to attend Prince Charles. Madame . . . there was a terrible accident there.’
She stops eating her own cake and puts it down on the plate carefully. Something is badly wrong.
‘I know you are aware – or I think you know – that ever since his proximity to the horrifying sight of the bloodshed at the massacre of Montereau, the dauphin has had a terror of wooden bridges. Now his experience at La Rochelle has left him badly shaken – and swearing that he will never again appear in a crowded room!’
Yolande moves herself nearer to her young friend on the long, deep cushions, and takes his trembling hand in hers.
‘Jean, my dear, tell me calmly exactly what happened,’ she says, trying to ease his tautly controlled agitation. Again he takes a deep breath, and looking at the floor, he begins:
‘The dauphin and I . . . we arrived with his entourage at La Rochelle . . . to a splendid reception from the citizens.’ He is calming down, she notices. ‘They had turned out in great numbers to cheer and wave, girls tossing flowers before our cavalcade. Madame, you cannot imagine his grateful reaction to the crowds. His face brightened, and he turned to me in surprise, half smiling, with a question in his eyes, as if to say, “What have I done to deserve this?” With each cheer it seemed as if his confidence grew. I was happy for him – for his welcome and his joy in it.
‘His arrival had put him in high spirits, and during dinner he told me with merry expectation how he would dress for the great occasion the next day when La Rochelle’s leading citizens would be presented to him in their town hall. He planned to wear a wine-red velvet tunic, with his great gold chain of office hanging on his chest, matching red stockings and shoes. On his head, a black velvet beret – and a brooch of pearls and diamonds to secure a large white plume. He brought this out later to show me, and tried it on my head, and then on his at different angles, laughing all the while. We joked about the feather: whether it would bob down over his nose, or should he turn it away from his face and risk it tickling his ear? Would it be squashed behind him if he leant back on his throne, and so on.’ More tension now from Jean, as his breathing becomes faster.
‘The next morning, we entered the hall, and the dauphin walked slowly and with dignity towards his high chair of office. This had been placed in the middle, up against the wall at the end of the room. As he took his seat, I bowed and backed away to join his guards under a stone archway on the side, not far from the throne, for a good view.
‘From the doorway, I watched as the room filled with more and more local courtiers, all dressed elegantly, obviously in their best, looking solemn and dutiful, almost gaping in admiration at their dauphin, until the large room was packed and no space left at all. I was searching their faces when I became aware of a low groaning noise, as if the very walls were murmuring.’ He takes another gulp of wine as if his mouth has dried up.
‘Other people must have heard it and began to look around, their faces curious, expectant, apprehensive. Very slowly the noise grew until it became a roar, and in an instant the entire floor of the assembly room collapsed under the citizens’ weight, and crashed down to the level below!’ He stops, lost for breath. Her eyes are wide and she too is lost for breath.
‘One of the guards near me rushed towards the dauphin and fell with the company; the other pulled me roughly back under the stone archway as we stared in horror at the scene below – and at the dauphin.’
Yolande sits, her mouth open, as if turned to stone.
‘Madame, he was still there, sitting in his chair which had been fixed to the wall! Charles was suspended in space, legs dangling, while the whole room full of people had gone – disappeared – in a great crash of masonry, timbers, terrible screams and moans beneath a thick grey cloud of dust. The cries of pain, howling, shouting, the pitiful wailing – and just the dauphin left sitting frozen on his throne attached firmly to the wall. His face was white, eyes wide and blank, mouth tight shut, and his hands clenched on the arms of his chair. I could not take my eyes off him. His features were twisted in terror as she looked down on the broken, tangled bodies below him, many dead and others seriously injured, only partly visible among the broken timber and stone, some screaming, crying or moaning for help – and he unable to move.’ Jean Dunois quaffs again from the tumbler of wine before him. Now that the story is out, he seems a little more in control.
‘Go on, please,’ she says, as calmly as she can.
‘Soldiers came quickly and brought beams to make a bridge to the dauphin, who at first would not let go of the chair. I went to him and, talking softly, gently eased his fingers free. Then, walking backwards on the beams, holding both his hands, I led him to safety. He told me later that he had hardly dared to breathe and almost fainted with fear. Madame, believe me, so did I.’
His hands are cold as ice, and she holds them in hers. Dear Jean, as beautiful as his father and as appealing – and now this terrible incident, after she has placed Charles in his care, has shaken him badly, as if he is to blame somehow.
‘It is not a sight I will ever forget, nor, I am sure, will the dauphin,’ he whispers. ‘Nor will anyone who survived it. There were so many dead, many others terribly wounded. I saw limbs that had been wrenched off, even some heads. I left the dauphin with his escort to rest and went back to the scene to try to help lift some of the debris covering the dead and wounded. The towns-women brought bandages and splin
ts, but many people were crushed, broken beyond hope, and would surely die, their relatives crying out to the Lord to help them. Several priests and nuns moved among the dead and wounded – no one in that room was left unscathed except the dauphin and me and the soldiers waiting outside. Madame, I came as quickly as I could, as I know you would want to hear the news directly from me.’
Of course, Jean is right. Charles has such a superstitious nature, and he will imagine some deserved punishment from God, or that evil omens were involved in this terrible accident. She hopes the story of the ‘Ball of the Burning Men’ will not come back to haunt him – another occasion where innocent lives were lost while trying to please the king.
The events at La Rochelle affect the dauphin badly. He is tortured by his inability to help his stricken subjects, all come in good faith to receive him, as he sat, hanging on the wall, frozen with terror, afraid that the great chair to which he clung would come away from its hinges, crashing down with him on top of the others, causing more injury and pain. Only now does the full implication of the Treaty of Troyes overwhelm him. He went to the city with such optimism, and even there, fate seemed to be against him.
Chapter Eight
Lost and alone, Charles retires to Amboise in the Loire valley to spend his time with the distractions of the court, rather than travelling the country to inspire support. But worrying reports reach Yolande about the nature of these distractions as if seeking licentiousness and oblivion in equal measure.
My poor darling Marie, thinks her mother as she hears this. But can it be true? She knows that courts are often a hotbed of rumour, and there are many who wish the dauphin ill. It is therefore time to draw on those people she knows she can trust. With a heavy heart, because she knows how much he will hate the conversation, she approaches Jean Dunois on his next visit.
‘Jean, you have been our dear friend since your boyhood. I am now going to ask you something, and on the strength of the love that you know I have always shown you, I insist you tell me the truth.’ There is a long pause as their eyes lock. ‘No matter how bad it is, you must tell me what goes on among Charles’s inner circle at his court.’ She sees Jean blush and look uncomfortable, but then he pulls himself together.
‘Madame, it is true, you have known me since childhood and you have always treated me with great generosity. I have seen you do the same for the dauphin Charles, and we and your children are all of the same blood. It is for the sake of our family, the royal blood we share, that I will agree to tell you what I know. I do this for the future of our monarchy, the future of France, and out of my loyalty to you, since I know that only you are able to put an end to our dauphin’s decline. But I ask you to understand that because of my respect and love for you, it is painful for me – and shameful as well.’
Yolande looks at him and notes his expression – ever more like his father, Louis d’Orléans, the same look. It is said that bastards take strongly after their real fathers, and in his case, that is certainly true.
‘Don’t be ashamed, my dear young friend. You and I both know it is imperative that we help Charles. Tell me what you know, so that I can try to save him from his demons.’
‘Madame, Charles’s principal favourite is a man of low morals named Pierre de Giac.’
She nods. ‘Yes, I have heard of him in connection with Montereau.’
‘Madame, have you heard anyone speak of the Pages’ House? No? It is not far from the royal chateau of Amboise on the Loire. Giac was the prime mover in setting it up as Charles’s Pleasure House and it is the scene of much of the dauphin’s recent dissipation. He has had a small road built from the chateau which winds its way around to this his pleasure house, his folly. The house itself faces down upon the Loire in a charming situation. Charles likes to retire there in the evenings with his group of intimates, and there they meet with hired boy and girl prostitutes.’ Jean looks at the floor. ‘Go on’ is all Yolande says, stitching at her embroidery and not meeting his eyes.
‘I have once been a guest there, and René has urged me since to describe it to you, but I could not, until your insistence now. We both agree you should be aware of the full extent of what goes on in the life of our dauphin, since we believe only you have the power to end it. But until now, I lacked the courage.’ He says with shame. Yolande gets up to fill his glass, giving him time to compose himself.
*
Jean Dunois looks very uncomfortable, but he hardens his jaw and, taking a deep breath, begins:
‘On the night I went there, I had no idea there would be anything other than a dinner and perhaps some musical entertainment. I was brought into a luxuriously decorated salon with about thirty other young people there – mostly my age, some I recognized, including Pierre de Giac – surrounding what I guessed was a narrow table. As I approached to greet the dauphin, he put his arm around my shoulders and said jovially, “Ah! Welcome, my dear cousin Jean, I have a novel entertainment for you.” And he led me through the grinning crowd to the table, on which I saw a young girl of about ten or twelve years, lying on her back and smiling happily. Her naked body was thickly covered with sweet creams. At this point, the dauphin gave a signal, at which six of the company, not all male, proceeded with much mirth and ribaldry to eat from her body, using just their tongues as their hands had been tied behind their backs.’
Jean seems stuck for words and cannot look at her when she hands him a goblet of water.
‘The girl did not complain, but seemed to be enjoying this as well. I heard a number of the guests beginning to place bets as to who would have the final treat. . . . Madame, I was so repelled that I left without a word to the dauphin. Later I learned that similar events take place there regularly, with variations: two teams with pairs of girls, or boys, on two tables, head to toe, with prizes for the fastest – and the prize is usually one or more of the girls or boys, to be enjoyed in full view of the company . . .’ His voice fades away and his face is red with embarrassment.
‘Madame, I apologize for telling you about these events, but they must be stopped, and René insisted you know,’ he says for the second time. ‘I believe that such behaviour, which I hear is not uncommon at the dauphin’s court, will ruin all we have worked so hard to achieve. Servants talk, and soon this information will reach the ears of the powerful dukes we have succeeded in enrolling into our cause on behalf of the dauphin.’ Poor Jean, shaking with embarrassment, cannot wait to leave.
It is shocking, but there is no time to be shocked; it is repellent, but there is no time to be repelled. Yolande withdraws into herself with her new-found unwelcome knowledge and deliberates on what to do. Soon her objectives become clear. She must find a way to remove the abysmal influences surrounding the dauphin and encourage the good ones to return and replace the others. Above all, she must as ever find a way to unite the warring dukes. She has never severed her contact with Philippe of Burgundy and arranges several secret meetings with him. As always, he is measured and calm, but implacable. He too has kept dialogue open with Charles but he has maintained the same conditions since the murder of his father: as long as the plotters of Montereau are still at liberty, safe in the dauphin’s sovereign territory of Berry, or outside the jurisdiction of parlement in other sovereign duchies, Philippe can never contemplate uniting his forces with the dauphin.
And now the situation has become urgent. Henry V of England is on the doorstep once again, and this time he lets it be known that his intention is a complete conquest of France. His forces are formidable – far more so than ever before. Happily, a good number of the counsellors Yolande has placed around Charles are sound and able. But how can her excellent captains succeed in battle when they see that their dauphin, for whom they risk their lives, is a victim of venal and avaricious courtiers? How can they respect him as their future king when they hear of these orgies in his private apartments? And as long as Charles is surrounded by the intriguers of Montereau, and allows them to remain safe within his sovereign duchy of Berry and behave
as they do at his court in Bourges, there is no chance of rapprochement with Philippe of Burgundy – the only hope of freeing France from the English.
Disregarding for a moment her problems with Charles, Yolande must alert her sons to their duty. She sends a courier with some strong words to René to drag him out of his happy reverie of the newly wed:
‘My beloved son, Henry V is coming to claim not only the north of France but our entire country, our way of life, our nation. Since you were a small boy you have been practising for this moment, and now you must fight to defend our lands in France. Although you are young, I know your mettle, for it was forged by the love shared between your father and me. Your father was a warrior prince. Now I ask you to be one as well – like your father, and his father before him. Like my father of Aragon, and his father before him. In your veins flows the blood of heroes; the time has come to live up to their heritage, to fight with your king against the invader, the thief of his just throne.’
She can read René’s mind even from the distance of Provence. Yes, he will be thinking, this is what I have always wanted to do. No longer a wooden sword, now it will be real war! And Isabelle will support him, of that she is sure. She knows that war is still some kind of gallant medieval tournament to René, despite Agincourt. This is not a game, however; this is dangerous, and on its conclusion rests all their futures. He must understand this . . . France is in mortal peril.
René’s reply has come by return. He must have made the courier wait while he wrote:
‘Madame, dearest Mother, of course I am ready to do the king’s bidding, and yours, though I hate to leave my darling Isabelle. But I will be the warrior prince you want me to be! I will not fail you, nor my father or yours, and theirs before them. I have heard nothing here in distant Lorraine of King Henry’s arrival, but I will make for Bourges and join the king’s army. I will tell Isabelle at once.’
Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The Page 22
