She has to laugh at his next letter which follows on the heels of the last – how he keeps the couriers busy!
‘Maman – I asked Isabelle if she would mind if I left her at home and joined Charles and the royal army at Bourges. She would miss me, of that I am sure – we are inseparable. But I planned to tell her that when summoned to halt the advance of the English king, I must go.
She saw my face as I approached her:
‘What is it?’ she asked me. ‘You look so odd – a mixture of joy and misery with tears in your eyes but with an ecstatic smile.’ And all I could answer was:
‘It’s war dearest; King Henry has landed in France. I must go and defend our country.’ Again she gave me a peculiar look.
‘What are you talking about?’ she replied – rather crossly I thought.
‘When the king summons his vassals, I must go join the army in Bourges,’ I blurted out. And then I could see her lip trembling as she said:
‘But not yet, we’re not at war yet, are we?’ And I held her, this delightful, funny, slip of a girl who I have come to love so dearly I would die for her. ‘I don’t want you to die for me,’ she cried – Maman, she can read my thoughts, I have said it so often – ‘I want you to live and be here with me in my beautiful Lorraine, where we can walk in the forests and climb the mountains and hunt the game and, and . . .’ She dried up, tears rolling down her pretty face, and her shoulders shaking with sobs. It was then that I knew she loved me and I am torn in half – my love and my duty. Duty won – as we both know it would, and I leave tomorrow to join the Angevin army in Bourges. My father-in-law knows I will wear the colours of Anjou proclaiming my allegiance to the king and he understands. He just said: “Well, see you make me a grandfather before you get yourself killed,” and embraced me.’
Ah! My son – what a delight he is. Dear God, may he be kept safe.
Then, to Yolande’s horror, she hears that the Duke of Clarence craves his own lands for himself. Disregarding her treaty with the king, he is leading an army of seven thousand towards Anjou. Far away in Provence as she is, and constrained by her position and sex, she can feel the warrior’s blood of her ancestors rising in her at the prospect of an assault on the heart of her husband’s lands. All she can do is write to the dauphin beseeching his help while praying for Rene’s victory and safe return.
The couriers ride off, and no answer comes from the dauphin. Her beautiful palace at Tarascon, flooded with the sunshine of the south, begins to feel like a prison. Day after day she waits for news, until finally couriers begin to arrive and she can piece together what has happened. Despite being badly outnumbered, the Angevins did not disappoint, loyally gathering around one of her own senior officers to lead them. Then, just when the battle looked to be turning in favour of the English, reinforcements arrived – sent by the dauphin himself! Not only the Maréchal de La Fayette, but with him a terrifying band of some four thousand Scots soldiers! So Charles did receive her urgent messages, and acted. Thank God. The Scots had not long landed at La Rochelle, and were headed by their fearsome leader, Lord Buchan. René was there too, riding proudly with the Angevin army, by then swollen to some six thousand mounted men and foot soldiers.
Battle was joined at Baugé. The English, led by the Duke of Clarence, were slowed down by having to ford a wide, fast river. The French archers began to pick off the English in the water, one by one, giving their soldiers the time to arrange themselves in battle formation. And René, it seems, was in the thick of it, charging with the others, slashing to left and right, ‘without,’ he writes, ‘any thought in my head, as if my actions were laid down by years of practising for this moment, or by the heroes in my ancestry you told us about as children!’
She is proud to hear how her son has proved himself in battle, as has her Angevin army joined by the dauphin’s and the Scots. The French are hailing this victory in the same light as the English conquest at Agincourt, although the numbers were far smaller. Two thousand English killed, including Clarence himself, with far fewer casualties among the French and Scots.
Following this victory the dauphin heads for Chartres with an army of eighteen thousand men, a proud René invited to ride with him in his own party.
Chapter Nine
The news of a son born to Catherine, the dauphin’s sister and King Henry V of England’s queen, has at last prompted the wedding ceremony between the dauphin and Marie d’Anjou. The Queen of Sicily decides their union should be solemnized at her city of Tours in Anjou on 2 June 1422, and that she will leave Provence to be present at the ceremony. Charles is nineteen, Marie eighteen, and they have been betrothed for the past nine years – the same long engagement Yolande had with Marie’s father. But her daughter has known her future husband all this time, while Yolande’s Louis was a miraculous surprise. Sadly, that will not be the case for her darling Marie.
In Tours, the Queen of Sicily has prepared as much as she can with her excellent staff from Angers, led by Carlo, Hubert and Vincenzo, who have been working for weeks. When the bridal couple arrive from Bourges some days before most of the guests, it gladdens her heart to see what good friends they are, chatting and joking together. Charles is surrounded by his courtiers, leaving Yolande and Marie time to discuss her trousseau and the wedding dress.
‘Maman, of course I want to look elegant, but not too elegant – you know it’s not my style. Anyway, no woman alive can look as elegant as you!’ Marie is sweet, but sadly still no beauty. Yolande concocts a headdress which she think will do more for her face than most, with a high collar of gauze on the neckline to fill her out a little.
The arrival of Isabelle and René delights everyone, especially Yolande. René has been granted leave by Charles himself, and she knows he has done this to please her, for which she is grateful. It is the first time she has met René’s Isabelle, and she is instantly impressed, noting her calm as well as her beauty. Her older children are pleased to see the younger two; Yolande is now ten and Charles eight. They were both tiny when they went south to Provence, and the occasion turns into a happy family reunion. Only her shining eldest, Louis, is missing.
A number of the French dukes come to Tours for the ceremony, and many dignitaries arrive from Bourges to support the dauphin. Yolande has even dared to send an invitation to Philippe of Burgundy; although she doubts very much he will come, at least it shows her public desire for reconciliation. There is a large contingent from Anjou and also from Provence: graceful ladies, prancing horses with elegant riders, young girls from the city scattering flower petals and herbs in front of them, the local people leaning out of their windows unfurling coloured ribbons. The gardens along the processional route are bursting with June flowers, and climbing roses cling to every wall.
The wedding day sees the month of June at its best, and the ceremony is as splendid as the Queen of Sicily can devise. Spring flowers decorate the soaring cathedral built in the flamboyantly pointed Frankish style, and the scent of the many lilies and narcissi lining the aisles is heady and delicious. Marie’s dress is of silver brocade, her hair caught up in a golden veil brought forward around her face, and she glitters in her mother’s jewels. Her daughter will grow to be handsome rather than beautiful, Yolande thinks, but she is intelligent and cultivated, and has marked her little court at Bourges with a distinctive polish.
Charles, too, wears silver brocade, at his throat the great emerald brooch inherited from Jean of Berry. He looks cheerful enough as he enters the cathedral, walking alone and bowing to right and left. Marie waits for him to reach his place near the altar before making her entrance. She is escorted by her demoiselles, each a daughter from a great house, delicately pretty in their pastel dresses of lilac, pale blue and shades of pink. To her mother’s pleasure, Marie has placed her enchanting cousin and friend, Veronique de Valois, in the lead as her chief maid of honour.
When bride and groom stand together before the altar, the silver trumpets in the gallery blast their celebratory clarion call. The
congregation rises for the entry of the bishop who will conduct the service. Seeing the way Charles and Marie smile at one another gives Yolande hope for this marriage after all, and she knows Marie will do her duty as she has been taught. She keeps reminding herself: They are friends, it will be a success – and she prays sincerely for that.
Everyone is in a jubilant mood – this wedding has been so long awaited that it almost comes as a relief. After three days of merrymaking, the bride and groom leave for Bourges with Yolande’s blessing on them both, while she returns to Tarascon with Juana and her young ones, who loved every minute.
Chapter Ten
Yolande’s agent has arrived at Tarascon, eager to impart his news: ‘Madame, when King Henry V realized he was dying’ – she is aghast: dying? – ‘he made his last wishes clear to the Duke of Bedford: his young son is to succeed to the throne of England and of France on the death of our King Charles VI; his youngest brother, the Duke of Gloucester, is to be the regent in England; and the Duke of Burgundy is to be offered the regency of France!’
Yolande is speechless. Burgundy to be France’s regent! He will find a way to move up the final step to the throne once his cousin the king is dead, of this I am sure.
Her agent continues: ‘Should Burgundy decline, Bedford is to continue to be regent until Henry V’s heir comes of age.’
This sudden change in their fortunes has left her more anxious than ever before. Some weeks later, on 21 October, comes another dramatic surprise: France’s own dear, mad king, Charles VI, follows his English nemesis to his maker. He dies in the arms of the beloved mistress Yolande found for him, his last words a whispered: ‘Odette, Odette.’
Yolande has not seen Charles VI for some years now and always thinks of him as he was when she met him on her first visit to Paris – her wedding journey – a handsome man and so like her own dearest Louis. Those kind eyes – the colour of the sapphire ring he gave her – smiling into her own, telling her that if she wore it, she would always have access to him if she needed. How glad she is that Odette de Champdivers has been there to comfort him and make his last years easier. And the poor queen, confined to a manor in the English-controlled part of Paris, no longer exercising any influence on court affairs and, by all accounts, lacking all interest. They say she has become so obese she can hardly move her vast bulk from her bed, and keeps her shutters closed with almost no light in her room. And no mirrors. Odette writes that Isabeau has shown no interest in her husband’s death.
Both kings dead! If only she had her dear Louis with her to counsel the dauphin, the new King of France – or is he?
The Duke of Burgundy has rejected the English offer to become regent. Of course! He would far rather be king. The Duke of Bedford, as regent of France once again, accompanied his brother’s coffin to England for burial in Westminster Abbey. When he heard of the death of Charles VI, he promptly turned back for the funeral of the French king – but more importantly, to claim the throne for his nephew, the baby Henry VI of England.
Already on the road, a fast courier meets Yolande with a letter from Pierre de Brézé in Paris: ‘Madame, I beseech you, hurry to Bourges.’ She must join Charles and see that he takes the necessary steps to mount the throne of France. This is the dauphin’s moment and it must not be lost.
The Queen of Sicily arrives in Bourges in the golden glow of early autumn. When her party reaches the outskirts of the city, she is instantly aware of an air of expectancy, of bustle, everyone in a hurry, everyone busy; people arriving, tradesmen, carriages, as well as mounted visitors in attire that ranges from the fashionable to the homespun. The streets seem much more crowded than usual and there is a distinct buzz, an effervescence, in the air. But what this effervescence means, good or bad, as yet she cannot tell.
Her first stop is with Marie at the royal palace. She embraces her, then René, who has also hurried to Bourges with Isabelle from Nancy. But they are not there to rejoice – each of them knows what the death of the two kings means for the dauphin. Henry V’s death was surely an act of God in their favour – at the least, an act of justice. Their own king’s death has Marie, René and Yolande sharing the same thought: a ten-month-old baby king in England cannot inspire the French nation. And France has a twenty-year-old dauphin waiting in the wings, a dauphin who is, by tradition, now the legitimate King of France – at least in the eyes of many.
‘Where is Charles?’ Yolande asks, but apart from being with his entourage, no one seems to know.
Suddenly, there he stands before them, the new King Charles VII. As he enters, they embrace, and Yolande traces the sign of the cross on his forehead with her right thumb – just as she would to her son – before making him a deep reverence. Charles bursts into tears, then composes himself somewhat and turns to face her.
‘Bonne mère, does this mean I am now the lawful King of France? Or will the English crown my tiny nephew of England in my place?’ His eyes are wide and red; how she feels his anguish. Without hesitating, she makes another slow, deep curtsey, and bows her head before rising to reply:
‘Sire, yes, you are now the lawful king. The English will try to crown your nephew, but we shall have the country behind your legitimate claim, I promise.’ She knows she is promising what she cannot deliver, but she is determined that this prince will come into his rightful inheritance. Then tears appear in his eyes once more, and he weeps: for his father, for himself, his country and his uncertain future.
Yolande sends out several of her trusted Angevins, who have awaited her arrival, to test the mood of the people. Unsurprisingly, the word she receives back from the streets – her intelligence-gatherers are efficient – is that the people of Berry, and certainly of its capital, Bourges, would be far more willing to accept Charles as their king than an English baby prince. Marie, René and Yolande stress this to Charles, to reassure him as much as possible, but his eyes are vacant and hesitant. That wretched Treaty of Troyes hangs over him and drains his confidence still.
Yolande dispatches one of her Angevins to try to find Jacques Coeur – he may know the feeling of the country from his many agents. The messenger returns with a note:
‘Madame and Majesty, with sincere apologies, I beg you to understand when I request that you come to my office for a private meeting. It would be better for you and especially for your son-in-law if I am not seen together with your family at this time.’
Yolande hurries through the narrow backstreets of Bourges, winding her way between the many delivery carts. She goes on foot and heavily veiled, accompanied by twelve of her best men wearing disguise so as not to draw attention. On arrival at Jacques Coeur’s office, they check the interior and see that it is safe – only his four impressive giant Moors stand guard in the corners of the room, their black, muscled arms glistening; shiny, curved scimitars at their waists. She has warned her men not to be afraid, but they seem happier to wait for her outside.
Jacques Coeur receives her with his usual courtesy, hand on heart and a dignified bow.
‘Madame, I beseech your forgiveness for this secrecy, but in view of the dauphin’s presence in the town, the Duke of Bedford’s agents are everywhere and the English are anxious that he will succeed in declaring his right to the throne.’
‘And what do you think, Jacques, my friend. Should he announce himself as King Charles VII?’ she asks earnestly, pushing back her veil. ‘I see you hesitate; I give you my word, this conversation between us will remain just that. You have agents all over the country – I need to know your instinct when you have so many informants.’
‘Madame – you know you have my trust and I have yours. Yes, I think the new king should announce himself as the rightful heir of his father, but it will not be easy to dislodge the English. The Duke of Bedford has been a fair and good regent during the lifetime of both the late kings, French and English, and there is nothing to say he will not continue in the same way. Whereas our new King Charles is still an unknown quantity and some of his actions do not speak w
ell for him, not least his reputation for – excuse me – debauchery.’
She knows he is telling her the cold facts; she cannot dispute them. She thanks him as she makes to leave, and he bows. As he straightens, he looks into her eyes and says: ‘Madame and Majesty, you know you can count on me always to do your bidding. Know too that I will support the new King Charles VII in any way I am able.’ He bows again and she leaves, confident in the allegiance of this able man.
Weaving around carts and small children, holding her veil close to her face and over her nose, the Queen of Sicily makes her way back to the palace. More of their loyal people are gathered there – Jean Dunois has joined René and Charles, and a number of her Angevins wait in another room, Tanneguy du Chastel and Arnaud de Barbazan among them. Jean Dunois has news from Paris.
‘Madame, you will be pleased to hear that very few French accompanied the funeral cortège of the English king to Paris and on to the coast, but huge crowds turned out for our own King Charles VI’s funeral journey to Notre-Dame. Vast numbers of people gathered and cried out their desperation that such a good king should leave them! An even larger crowd accompanied the cortège from the service in Notre-Dame on to his royal resting place at Saint-Denis. I estimate the crowd at around eighteen thousand.’
This is good news at last – and a surprise that in spite of his illness, the French still loved their once-so-promising king.
Jean Dunois has more to add, though: ‘At the end of the ceremony in the crypt of Saint-Denis, the heralds announced the new reign of King Henry VI of France and England, shouting with one voice, “Long live the king! Long live the king!” The assembly, who were all hand-picked supporters of the English, shouted: “Noël!” in the traditional salutation, but I could detect little enthusiasm from the crowds in the streets of Paris, and that despite the Duke of Bedford’s personal popularity.’
Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The Page 23
