by Deryn Lake
“Where did you find them?” interrupted Jeanne, most interested.
“She had left them in a hidden drawer, of which I knew the whereabouts. It was in a desk in the apartments she once occupied, that is before the Queen told her to leave.”
Adult as the two women were they none the less looked at one another and tittered. For it was not the fact that Valentine Visconti had been the lawful wife, and widow, of Louis d’Orleans which had enraged Isabeau so much she had sent the Duchess into exile, but really that the Italian woman had had a wonderful figure. Slim and elegant, Valentine had been able to eat whatever she liked without gaining an ounce of superfluous flesh, whereas Isabeau was fast disappearing into a flounder of fat. Furthermore, the Duchess of Orleans had been gracious and had despised excess in everything. Indeed Valentine had possessed the capacity to reduce Isabeau to silent tears of fury and frustration. It had been hardly surprising that, with Orleans gone, Isabeau had accused his widow of bewitching the King and had exiled Valentine to Blois for the rest of her time, which had, in fact, been barely two years.
The truth of the accusation was simply that the Duchess had had in her possession a set of Tarot cards, cards which had been in use in her native Italy since the thirteenth century, and which she had eventually become expert in reading. The King, in his lucid moments, had enjoyed looking at them, hearing from Valentine’s own lips the story and meaning of each one. But now the Duchess was dead, her cards long forgotten, and it was left to Marie de Barrois, having unearthed them again, to triumphantly produce them from a bag attached to her belt and put the pack on the table.
“What strange symbols,” said Lady du Mesnil, picking one up and looking at it closely. “A woman sitting blindfold upon a beach, a sword in either hand. What can it mean?”
Marie shook her head. “I don’t know. But it has a sinister look somehow.”
Jeanne glanced to where her two charges sat rapt, engrossed in the chess game for which Charles, young as he was, already had a fondness and the signs of some talent.
“I wish I knew what would befall them.”
Marie’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I have learnt this much. If you think of the subject, then shuffle and cut into three with your left hand, a strong impression of their future should be visible.”
Jeanne looked at her sidelong. “But can you interpret what you see?”
“We could try to do that together.”
Lady du Mesnil gleamed with excitement. “Then let us proceed.”
She picked the cards up rapidly, shuffled with vigour, then cut deeply into three packs, muttering, “What will befall the Princess Catherine?” as she did so.
Lady de Barrois turned the decks over and the two women looked with some uncertainty at the cards revealed. One showed a crowned, cloaked King, seated on a throne, bearing in his hand a mighty sword; the next, a Queen, similarly seated but with her bare feet paddling in the sea, an elaborate cup in her hands; the third, a rider, bearing a laurel-crowned stave in his hand, a crowd also bearing staves jostling around him. Underneath were words written in Italian.
“What do they say?” asked Jeanne.
“The King of Swords, the Queen of Cups, and the Knight of Wands.”
“And what does it mean?”
“Perhaps that Catherine will marry a king.”
“If so, a warlike one,” Lady du Mesnil put in with a certain bitterness. “And what of the knight?”
“That is one card I do know,” Marie answered quietly. “It means betrayal.”
“Betrayal!” said Jeanne breathlessly. “But of whom and by what?”
Marie shook her head. “I don’t have enough skill to answer that. Unless you can guess its meaning.”
“I wouldn’t like to. I only hope it doesn’t foretell treachery to Catty.”
“Or hers to another,” breathed Lady de Barrois, looking to where the ten-year-old’s beauty shone in the gloom of the vaulted room. But Jeanne did not hear her, concentrating as she was on drawing cards for Charles. This time three women came up, a fair-haired empress sitting out of doors, her diadem crowned with stars, an orb of majesty in her hand; a plainly gowned girl wrestling with a dog-like creature; a blue-robed priestess, a sphere on her head, a white cross on her breast, and a sickle moon at her feet, sitting between two pillars, one bearing the initial B, the other J.
Once again, Jeanne du Mesnil asked, “What are these?”
“The Empress, Strength, and the High Priestess.”
“Three powerful creatures!”
“Each bearing great virtues.”
Jeanne picked up the card depicting the priestess. “I wonder what the initials B. J. stand for.”
“Jesus? Jerusalem? Who knows?”
“And the B?”
Marie shook her head. “I have no idea. But at least the cards are a good draw for Charles.”
“Should one take them literally? That he will know three extraordinary women?”
“Yes,” Lady de Barrois answered, her eyes twinkling. “Let’s say he will, and that it is a very good omen indeed.”
“He’ll need all the fair fortune he can get,” his governess replied quietly.
“Check,” called Charles from the comer.
“You little pig,” shouted Catherine in answer. “I cannot make a move.”
“As I planned,” Charles went on triumphantly. “Mate!”
“No quarrelling,” said their governess automatically, but was smiling as she went to help them pack away the board and pieces, before taking them to the Hall in the Hotel du Petit-Musc, where the two young people would dine alone except for their loyal servants.
“Check,” said Richemont, unable to conceal his delighted smile.
“Ah!” answered Yolande and leant forward over the board, moving a candle closer in order to throw more light. Illuminated thus, every feature of her face was thrown into stark relief, an effect enhanced by the fact that the Duchess’s hair was pulled back into a taffeta turban, so there was no softness about her. Like this, with her eyes hooded by their heavy lids, her resemblance to a bird of prey was marked. The hawk’s nose threw a harsh shadow and her pupils, when she finally looked at him, glittered with intensity.
Richemont felt himself attracted and repelled simultaneously. No other female of his acquaintance could ignite the hot stir of passion yet freeze him with fear lest he should fall out of favour and become her enemy. In that moment he knew, even though he was not yet eighteen and in many ways inexperienced in the ways of the world, that Yolande was the most disturbing woman he would ever meet in his life.
“Your turn, I think,” said the Duchess and Richemont saw that while he had been staring at her she had captured his attacking knight with a surprise move from her bishop.
He laughed in sheer amazement. “You are a master of the game, Madame.”
“I was taught by my father,” Yolande answered simply, the words conjuring up a vision of a young Spanish Princess, laughing in the high hills of Aragon, running free, riding hard, beside her sire, King Juan.
“My name in Spanish is Violante, did you know that?” the Duchess went on.
“I think I have heard it,” Richemont answered slowly. “Does it mean violent?”
Yolande laughed, putting back her head like a man and showing white teeth. “Of course not, that is naughty of you. It is the word for violet.”
“So that is why you chose such a colour for your turban. It suits you well.”
She was pleased, there was no doubt of it. The strong features relaxed and the green gaze sparkled. “Thank you, Monsieur. I have been somewhat short of male flattery recently.” Despite her acute mind, the Duchess felt herself warming to his exuberant charm.
“A great pity for a woman of your beauty,” Richemont went on gallantly.
There was a momentary silence while Yolande’s unforgettable eyes looked at him, an unreadable expression in their depths.
“You must never spoil yourself, Richemont,” she said
eventually.
“What do you mean, Madame?”
“Don’t become a fawning fop, living to give and receive empty compliments.”
He felt a thrill of pure annoyance. “That is very far from my thoughts. I am sorry you regard what I say so poorly. I think perhaps I should retire. Please excuse me.”
And with that the young man swept to his feet, but a strong hand reached over and covered his before he could make another move.
“Lord Earl, please sit down, and kindly remove that frown. It spoils your looks. If I have said anything to offend I apologise. It is only because I am fond of you that I am concerned for the sort of person you will become in the future.”
Richemont remained where he stood. “You may have concern, ma Reine, but it would appear you have little trust.”
Yolande’s face softened visibly. “Of course I have trust. That is why I do not want to be disappointed.”
Aware that he was probably making a fool of himself, Richemont protested wildly, “I will never disappoint you. I would rather die.”
She laughed her husky laugh. “Don’t do that, mon ami. No woman is worth the sacrifice.”
To his enormous surprise the young man suddenly found himself on his knees before her. “But you are no ordinary woman, ma Reine. You are a goddess in comparison with others.” And he passionately kissed the clasped fingers that lay in her lap.
Yolande stared at him in amazement, shaking her head a little then, snatching her hands away, took his face between them.
“Richemont, control yourself. I do not look to arouse such emotion.”
What it was about her touch that triggered off tears, he did not know. Perhaps such tenderness made him think of the mother he still missed, or perhaps it was because the Duchess seemed usually so remote; whatever the reason, Richemont wept, silently and bitterly. For a moment Yolande d’Anjou did nothing, then, without a word, gently pulled his head into her lap and stroked his hair.
“I love you, ma Reine,” said Richemont through his tears. “I swear to be your liegeman. I will serve you always.”
Yolande laughed softly. “You are liegeman to King Henry of England and also to your brother of Brittany. I could not ask you to spread yourself further.”
“Do you mock me?” asked the sobbing boy.
“Not in the least,” answered the Duchess soothingly, then bent to kiss his brow.
It was all he needed. In a burst of passion, hot as the blood that throbbed through his veins, Richemont turned his mouth to hers and kissed her, his tears wetting her lips with salt.
“I love you, I love you,” he repeated fervently, as he snatched his mouth away then covered her lips once more.
And in being so close to her he sensed the moment, virgin though he was, when her body relaxed and she exchanged kiss for kiss with him. But then she tensed again and pushed him away, still kneeling on the floor at her feet.
“Enough, Richemont, enough,” she said. “Go to your quarters.”
He gave her a broken look. “I have offended you.” Yolande stood up from her chair. “No, no. Go now. We’ll speak no more of it.”
The Earl got to his feet. “Obviously I shall leave tomorrow. May I see you to say farewell?”
Yolande turned away so that all he could glimpse was the rise of her dark brow.
“I shall be with my Council all day.”
“Then must we part without a word?”
She turned to look at him, her face expressionless. “No, that would not be right for an ally and friend. I shall dine early. You may come to say goodbye after that.”
Richemont bowed stiffly, suddenly very aware of his tear-stained face and the terrible thing he had done.
“Thank you for being so civil to me, Madame. I apologise! —”
“I don’t wish to discuss it,” she cut in fiercely. “Goodnight, Richemont.”
“Goodnight, ma Reine,” he answered, and snatching at the threads of his dignity bowed again and left her alone, staring out of the narrow window to where the river flowed far below.
Three
The Queen’s new gown had been made from Genoese velvet studded with pearls, the skirt flowing in soft pleats caught up at the side by a golden and jewelled hook to reveal a glimpse of stockinged leg. The bodice, high and tight, was a miraculous feat of engineering acting as a platform for Isabeau’s breasts, which today had been bathed in poppy juice, rinsed in rose water, and buffed with ivy and camphor, even the nipples subtly painted with essence made from red berries. On her head she wore a vast conical head-dress called a hennin; expensively made of gold brocade and over a yard high, it was covered with precious stones, the veil from its pointed peak hanging over her shoulders and half-way down her back.
On another woman all this magnificence would have been dazzling, enough to ensure the illusion of great beauty, but on the Queen it was grotesque. For no amount of clever draping could now disguise the fact that she was growing enormously fat, no stout wooden busks conceal the truth that her breasts should have been hidden away years ago, no clever work with paint box and brushes mask her sagging jowls and double chin.
Crouched at her feet like little grey spiders, her sewing women shivered in awful anticipation that one of them would give a cry of horror as they looked up at the vast obscene figure that loomed above them.
“Well?” said Isabeau, turning slowly, eyeing them half in challenge.
“Superb, your Majesty,” answered Flore, the Queen’s most senior seamstress.
“Umm,” responded her mistress, and once again stared at herself in the mirror held by two of her waiting women.
She was at the stage of her life when secretly she knew that she was becoming revolting, that her youthful good looks were vanishing forever, yet still she lacked the willpower to do anything about it. And today, when a new handsome reckless lad was to present himself, messenger of Yolande d’Anjou, Isabeau felt uncertain, her hands flying to her bodice in an attempt to cram her breasts within.
“Which one of you made this?” she screamed, as the tight-fitting top stubbornly refused to accommodate the extra girth.
“Madame, Madame,” answered Flore soothingly, standing up. “The busks are meant to give support. The dress was not designed to wear the bosom concealed. But if your Majesty would prefer I could cut in laces.”
Just for a moment Isabeau looked pathetic and the seamstress was vividly reminded of the terrible old trollops of Paris still plying their trade though no man had hired them long since.
“I thought perhaps I might appear immodest,” the Queen answered slowly.
Thinking of the children who relied on her money in order to eat, Flore said, “Her Grace the Queen always looks the height of fashion. A little provocative perhaps, a trifle daring, but this is the style that suits Madame. Let the dull grey women of this world cover themselves. The Queen of France is not one of them.”
Isabeau turned to her delightedly. “You really think so?”
“Truly, ma Reine.”
“Then you shall be well rewarded. Lady de Lyon, see that this woman is given an écu d’or for her services.”
The lady-in-waiting bobbed a curtsy, simultaneously shooting Flore a look which needed no words.
But perhaps the deceit was worthwhile, for the Queen, seated at her dressing table a few minutes later, radiated happiness and excitement as she vigorously applied her tongue scraper, her ear pick, and finally her paint. Freshly made up like this she imagined that the beauty she had once possessed when she came to France from Bavaria as a fourteen-year-old bride still shone as brightly. And the illusion was heightened even further by the lighting of candles in her receiving room, all advantageously placed, as dusk fell over Paris. In such a flattering gloaming, Isabeau and her jewels gleamed and sparkled. The Queen was obviously ready for a new love affair.
She had expected the Duchess of Anjou’s messenger before dark but as it was torches blazed outside the palace and in the corridors, and extra candles had be
en brought to the Queen’s apartments, before the noise of a horse’s hooves crunching the cobbles sounded distinctly from the courtyard below. For no reason Isabeau was reminded of the last night she and the Duke d’Orleans had had together three and a half years before, and the merry din made as he and his party left the Hotel Barbette. Unwanted, a solitary tear escaped her right eye and ploughed through the powder on her cheeks, forming a canal. A nervous feeling overcame her and without realising it Isabeau found herself reaching for her wine cup, but before she could even drink a voice from the shadowed doorway made her almost spill its contents over her new gown.
“Gracious Queen, I bring you salutations from Madame Yolande, Queen of Sicily, Queen of Naples, and Duchess of Anjou,” said the unseen visitor.
Hastily gathering her wits, Isabeau called, “Come in, come in,” and hoped her lip rouge had not smudged.
The door opened wider and a draught blowing down the stone passageway outside made every candle in the room flicker and bend before returning to its usual strength. Dimly, Isabeau could see that a dark shape had entered and now knelt bowing before her.
“Who are you?” she said, half afraid of the silent way in which the stranger paid her homage.
“An admirer, ma Reine,” said a muffled voice, and with that the man threw back his mantle and rose to his feet, laughing to himself at some private amusement.
To say that he was handsome would have been an understatement for an incredible young man stood in front of Isabeau’s high chair, all long lean limbs and golden hair. His eyes were frightening: a fierce wild blue with some dark shadow in their depths; but the Queen could not see that, dangerously attracted to the stranger who was now looking at her boldly, licking his lips with a wolfish tongue.
“I had heard you were beautiful but not like this,” he said, apparently unafraid of reproach. “I am your ardent admirer, Madame.”
Once again the candles dipped and Isabeau was glad of the momentary respite as she suddenly drenched with sweat, a feeling of feverish desire sweeping her enormous frame. Hardly able to speak, she found herself whispering, “What is your name?”
