The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  The guests, what few of them there were that night, had dined in the great hall in the King’s Lodging, together with the Lords of Anjou staying on to attend the next day’s reconvened council meeting. Noticeably, the seats at the high table where the Ducal family usually sat were empty, the Seneschal presiding from his chair, two places down from that of Duke Louis.

  Out of courtesy the Lord de Beauvau had placed Pierre de Giac on the high table, though somehow contriving to be too far away to speak to him. But with Arthur de Richemont he had done the opposite, seating the lively young man immediately on his right, obviously in the hope of an amusing evening. But in this the Seneschal was to be disappointed, for Richemont hardly uttered a word, staring at his plate, on which the food lay untouched, seeming lost in a fit of deep depression. Nor did the Earl stay to hear the singers, come to entertain the company at the end of the meal. Instead, with a murmured apology to the Seneschal for his silence and an excuse that he was suffering from a pain behind the eyes, Richemont rose, bowed, and left the great hall.

  It would seem, however, that he was not the only one of the guests so afflicted, for shortly after Richemont’s departure de Giac also got up, blamed the fatigue of travelling, and likewise departed.

  “No stamina these youngsters,” growled the Seneschal.

  Robert le Maçon raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps, perhaps not. More likely de Giac has gone to confer with his Dark Master; and as to Richemont, I suspect he is in love.”

  “I should hope so indeed. I cannot think why his mother did not find him a good match years ago.”

  “Too busy finding her own, I shouldn’t wonder,” answered le Maçon, and the two men laughed.

  But though the Chancellor was right about Richemont, who sat moodily before the fire in the Guests’ Lodging wondering whether he dare try to enter Yolande’s apartments by the hidden staircase, about de Giac he was wrong. That young man had, in fact, merely walked round the battlements in order to get some air before he retired, at the same time mulling over the possible reasons why Richemont was behaving in such a strange manner.

  So it was with particularly cruel delight that he returned to see the subject of his deliberations sitting quietly in front of the fire in the chamber leading from the great hall in the guests’ quarters. Staring at the back of the Earl’s neck, Pierre in a flash guessed part of the truth. The little upstart lusted after someone in the castle of Angers. De Giac smiled his wolfish smile and sent a prayer to his demonic master that he would get at the truth and thus have a hold on the Duke of Brittany’s pretty brother.

  “Good evening,” he said softly, bowing low. “I hope I do not disturb you, my Lord.”

  Startled, Richemont turned round. “Oh, it is you, Monsieur de Giac. No, no, I was just getting warm before I went to bed.”

  “May I join you for a while?” Pierre was bowing again, his smile reassuring.

  “Please do.”

  There was silence as de Giac took his place at Richemont’s side on the low wooden bench pulled before the hearth and stared at the flames which since his arrival had suddenly seemed to glow a deeper shade of red.

  “I left early because there were too few ladies dining tonight to suit my taste,” said the newcomer eventually, breaking the stillness.

  “Were there?” answered Richemont, surprised.

  De Giac grinned knowingly. “Ah! You obviously had eyes for only one — and she was present.”

  “As a matter of fact you’re wrong,” replied the Earl, wondering even as he spoke what could possess him that he was being so blatantly reckless.

  Pierre said nothing but winked, his pupils molten in the firelight. Richemont had the extraordinary feeling that he would get drawn into de Giac’s eyes and drown in them. He stared at the other man transfixed, quite unable to move.

  “Not there, eh?” answered Pierre, the sound deep in his throat like a tiger’s purr.

  Richemont heard a disembodied voice saying, “She doesn’t want to see me. That’s why she kept away.”

  “Really, how foolish of her. Women can be very stupid sometimes.”

  The distant voice answered, “But she isn’t. She is the most brilliant woman in France.”

  De Giac stretched, seeming to grow in size like a serpent, and Richemont fought to recover his slipping senses.

  “Now who can you possibly mean, I wonder?” Pierre whispered, but his smile said it all. He knew everything, though how, Richemont could not guess.

  “That I’ll not say,” the Earl answered abruptly, standing up. “I’ve revealed too much already. I’ll bid you goodnight, Sir.”

  “Pleasant dreams,” smiled the other. “Let’s hope the lady changes her mind tomorrow. But then she probably will. She’s an unpredictable creature as far as her personal life is concerned.”

  Richemont did not stop to challenge that remark, only too glad to get away from de Giac’s consuming presence and hurry to his room, where he stripped off his clothes and lay on top of the bed, suddenly too hot despite the chill stone walls of the castle.

  He must have slept lightly, for the first call of a blackbird, leading the chorale of sweet voices which welcomed the dawn, had him wide awake instantly. In that early-morning air, Richemont shivered, realising with anguish that he and Yolande had spent a night under the same roof but not together.

  “God help me, there is nothing left but to respect her wishes and go,” he muttered out loud. “But if only I could understand why.”

  Yet staring helplessly out of his narrow window towards the King’s Lodging gave him no answers and it was with a heavy heart that the Earl dressed, collected his few things together and went down to the stables to fetch his horse. That dark beast at least was glad to see him and Richemont slipped his soft boots into the stirrups almost with a sense of relief to be getting out. Without turning back he made his way across the stable yard towards the Country Gate.

  The castle had three entrances: the City, the Country and the Water Gates. This last, for those who travelled by way of the river, consisted of a protected mooring bay, but the City and Country gates led into the fortress direct, each guarded by a drawbridge and portcullis set between two close and forbidding towers. The Earl of Richmond shivered as he waited in the shadow of the vaulted passageway while the clanking drawbridge lowered to let him pass.

  Once through and across the moat there was another wooden bridge to be negotiated before the Earl found himself facing the open countryside, the golden hills in front, the city of Angers behind, and to his right the gurgling river, rushing green and cool in the dawn light. It promised to be a beautiful day, the haze just lifting from the slopes and the sun still veiled by mist.

  Richemont reined in his horse for a moment and stood looking about him, seeing the distant roofs of the Abbey of St. Laud catch the light, the sound of its bells ringing for Prime clear in the fine morning air. The trees of the right bank were already beginning to shimmer slightly, long before the heat of midday, and the smell of summer, of grass, of roses, of ripening apples and plums, made the breeze heady as wine.

  With a sigh, Richemont turned his horse southwards and would have cantered off had not a distant cry from the direction of the castle mingled with the sound of abbey bells. The Earl’s heart quickened its pace so violently that he thought it might burst through the padded chest of his doublet, but peering into the distance dashed his hopes. Pierre de Giac was making his way across the wooden bridge, his falcon hooded on his arm, calling out as he came.

  It was too late to pretend he hadn’t heard. With an air of resignation, Richemont braced himself for another encounter with that unnerving creature who had so recently guessed the secrets of his soul.

  “A lovely morning,” de Giac was shouting pleasantly as he hurried towards the Earl. “May I enquire in which direction you are travelling, Monsieur? Perhaps I could ride with you for a while.”

  Much irritated, Richemont said briefly, “I’m going south, to join the Count of Armagnac.”
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  “Ah, then I shall accompany you a little of the way,” de Giac replied.

  Constrained by politeness, the Earl nodded his head and managed a smile, though actual words seemed to stick in his gullet. So it was in silence that they covered the first few miles, a silence broken by de Giac who gave an elaborate yawn and said, “Forgive me, my Lord. That woman was insatiable last night. I can’t remember when I felt so exhausted.”

  Even at the words a feeling of dread began to rise in Richemont’s throat. “Insatiable?” he repeated dazedly.

  De Giac pulled at his horse’s mouth. “But of course! Don’t you find her so?”

  The Duke stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about?”

  “What or who? My good friend, I speak of the delightful creature whose pleasure it is to play love games with the likes of you and me. That eager slut who simply cannot resist a young companion while her husband is away fighting his interminable wars.”

  Richemont wrenched his horse to a standstill. “What are you saying?”

  “My dear fellow, I’m saying that I spent last night in bed with the Duchess Yolande who pleasured herself with me until daybreak.”

  The Earl was off his mount in one move, grabbing at de Giac’s legs and pulling him out of the saddle, the falcon rearing in alarm.

  “You lying son of a whore, don’t soil her name by speaking it.”

  “But it’s true,” gasped Pierre, struggling to his feet.

  “If it is I’ll kill you,” answered Richemont, and crushed his hand round the other man’s throat, squeezing until de Giac’s face began to turn from red to blue.

  It was then that a sudden and agonising pain ran through the Earl’s fingers, forcing him to release his hold and so allow Pierre to struggle free. Richemont heard his adversary mutter, “Thank you, Master”, before de Giac whirled round on him, a dagger in his hand.

  “Now beg for mercy you senseless little prat,” he hissed. “Beg for your life, knowing I have no intention of sparing it.”

  “I’ll not beg anything from you,” spat the Earl. “Kill me if that’s your will and become the most wanted man in France, for my brother of Brittany will seek revenge, you can rely on it.”

  “And how will he know the identity of your killer?”

  “Through his court astrologer who sees everything and, or so it is widely believed, is in league with the Devil.”

  The words went home for de Giac hesitated and in that second Richemont wrenched at the other man’s arm and seized his weapon.

  “Now it should be your turn to beg,” he snarled, “but for the fact I have decided not to kill you. For if it is true that you and she are lovers I would rather spend my life working against you both.”

  De Giac smiled cynically. “So be it. I put my faith in him whom I serve. I have no fear of you, Richemont. And neither has she. When she gave her body to me she had already forgotten who you were.”

  It was said so convincingly that the Earl of Richmond finally believed and tasted the bitter bile of hatred. “Then by God I’ll give her cause to remember in the years that lie ahead,” he answered quietly. “And so too you, de Giac. Look for me behind every shadow, as well may she.”

  “And in turn,” whispered the other, his eyes blazing, “I curse you, Richemont. I call on my Dark Prince to see you damned.”

  And with that the Devil’s man mounted his horse at speed and galloped away towards the hills without looking back.

  Five

  The day did not start well. Rising early, as was her custom, the Duchess and Regent of Anjou had at once felt so weak that she had been forced to go back to bed, where for an hour she had lain tossing uneasily, thinking about her problems and seeing no easy solution to any of them. Every worry she had of course was dominated by the fact that she was now almost five months pregnant and still had no plan prepared to deal with the situation. That she must go away and secretly give birth, putting the baby out to foster parents, was obvious, but as to where and to whom she simply had no idea. With an ominous feeling of disaster, Yolande finally swung her long thin feet onto the cold flags of the floor and hurried to perform her ablutions.

  The garderobes in the castle of Angers drained into the moat which, in turn, was cleansed by the river. The Duchess had also seen to it some while ago that wooden seats replaced the old stone ones. Thus sanitation in the fortress was of reasonably high standard and Yolande had even gone so far as to provide a garderobe conveniently near the banqueting table in the great hall for the comfort of those dining.

  The Regent herself owned a large wooden bathing tub, lined inside with thirty ells of common cloth and decorated above with a canopy of red Malines. But this morning Yolande did not bathe, simply calling for a pail of water to be heated over the kitchen furnace and brought to her apartments. When this arrived she duly stripped and washed before dressing privately, without the assistance of her ladies.

  Through long years of riding and exercise the Duchess’s body had remained muscular and strong and, as with her other three pregnancies, there was as yet no obvious outward sign that she carried a baby. But she knew, was conscious that her abdomen had by now started to swell, already rounding to a child, and the fear that a sharp-eyed servant, particularly Lady Sarrazin, might notice a change in the Regent’s physique had Yolande dispensing with her women’s services more and more. Yet she was aware that even this change in routine might give rise to comment. The Duchess was caught in a trap of which she was only too well aware.

  The fashions of the day, however, particularly those gowns which floated straight down from the bust, were of enormous help. Yolande had seen to it that the up-turned collar and very long trailing sleeves which were part of that particular style were embroidered in bright and different colours, or covered with pearl drops and gems, to attract the eye away from her figure. But yet all these wiles would be of little purpose by the late autumn when her pregnancy could no longer be concealed.

  The Duchess had calculated, knowing the date of conception as she did, that the child was due at some time during the Twelve Days of Christmas and a vague idea that she might go away, giving the excuse that she must keep her Christmas elsewhere, was just beginning to form at the back of her mind. Yet there could be one fatal twist of fate that would ruin not only her tentative plan but her entire life: if Duke Louis were to return from the fighting earlier than anticipated she would be finished and could resign herself to being banished to a convent for the rest of her days, branded both adulteress and whore.

  Richemont’s child, as Yolande could surely have predicted, was already strong, she could tell that by its frequent movement. Her third baby, René, had been similar, in contrast to the first two, Louis and Marie, who had not moved much and who had both been born quiet and docile. Much as she despised the idea of having favourites, the Duchess secretly admitted that of the three of them it was René, with his bright jewel eyes and quick beautiful smile, who was the one she loved the best. But this baby, sired by the flawless Earl, must be the child Yolande would hold dearest of all even though she could never give it public acknowledgement. With a sigh, the Regent, fully dressed now, her face freshly painted, went to the window to look out at the day.

  Every morning at first light the three entrances to the fortress were opened so that the town folk and visitors might enter with their wares, accompanied by those wishing to have audience with the Duchess. From her vantage point, Yolande could see the Water Gate already busy with fisher people, amongst their bright colours the black habits of the Benedictine monks of the Abbey of St. Nicolas, founded on the right bank by Duke Fulk Nerra in 1010, and the equally dark vestments of the sisters of the Abbey of Ronceray, built by the same Duke some fifty years later. The members of both orders would cross the river daily to buy and sell in the town, and every week the Abbots of the various houses would communicate by letter or visit to the Regent. Bracing herself for the hours that lay ahead, Yolande smoothed her hands over the front of her dr
ess to check that it still hung flat, and left her apartments with a resolute step.

  She had broken her fast with bread and honey, washed down with a pitcher of verjuice, a combination of sour fruit juices, and would not eat again until dinner, which was served at noon. At this meal Yolande would see her children for the first time that day and would, if her appointments permitted, remain with them until they retired for the night. But now, before the pressures of duty began, the Regent crossed Nobles’ Court and headed off in the direction of her private garden.

  The September weather was still very warm and the Duchess at once made for the shaded paths in which to stroll, looking about her with enormous pleasure at the harmonious blendings of colour, the bursting beds of lily, rose and lupins; violet, poppy and heliotrope; all their combined perfumes filling the air with a delicious heady scent which was ecstasy to inhale. Here, too, were the Duchess’s herbs: coriander, sage, mint and dittany; musk leaves and southernwood adding their aromatic smell. Beyond lay the fruit trees and, on a whim, Yolande went to pick herself an apple, crunching her strong white teeth into its crisp skin.

  Why she chose that moment to look down into the walkway running many feet below, the Regent never knew. But look down she did, only to see a couple struggling brutally, reduced in size by the distance but still clearly grappling with one another. Just for a moment the Duchess thought they might be embracing lovers, for one was male and the other definitely female, but realised a second later that this was not so, for the man delivered the girl a blow that rang out to the terrace above like a cracking whip.

  Without thinking of her physical condition, Yolande acted immediately. Shouting, “Stop at once, do you hear?” she rushed for the steep stone stairs cut into the battlement wall and began to hurry down. Inside, her baby leapt wildly in response to its mother’s quickened heartbeat, and it was with gasping breath that the Duchess of Anjou reached the bottom of the steps and started to run.