by Deryn Lake
She had found it extremely pleasurable to welcome Jean the Fearless to her bed, the fact that he had murdered her lover, Louis d’Orleans, some four years earlier forgotten. When challenged on this point by one of her ladies, Isabeau had protested furiously that she had given herself to the Duke because it was politically expedient to do so.
“I hate him. I did it for the people of Paris,” she had answered — but it had been a lie. Burgundy, with his haughty face and long aristocratic nose, excited her as much if not more than most of her lovers because of the very fact he was an enemy. A case of forbidden fruit tasting sweetest, Isabeau supposed. Yet she missed the depraved de Giac, taken from her side by the duties of war, thinking that the greatest Christmas gift she could have would be for him to arrive unexpectedly. Meanwhile the Queen prepared for the culinary and sexual excesses which lay ahead by ordering twenty-four new gowns, twelve for day and twelve for night, to be made especially for the forthcoming celebrations.
In the castle of Angers, in stark contrast to her gleeful and overblown kinswoman, the Duchess of Anjou looked ahead to the impending festivities with what could only be described as a despairing hope; hope that the plan she and Alison du May had devised together would work, despair that her entire future lay in jeopardy and might be shattered by the smallest error.
There had been a great deal of comment amongst the ladies of Yolande’s suite concerning the sudden training of Alison for the role of fully fledged lady-in-waiting, this apparent favouritism causing a considerable amount of jealousy. For though having to admit that the girl was beautiful enough, with a head of rich red hair, a satin skin and lovely crystal grey eyes which in certain lights could appear almost silver, no one could deny her humble origins. To make matters worse she spoke with a peasant’s accent and was considered beyond the pale by most of the Regent’s servants. Yet it was obvious that the Duchess had taken to her and frequently called upon the girl to perform duties which Lady Sarrazin, for one, felt were way beyond the dignity of such a common little creature. But if any of the unkind whispers reached the ears of the Duchess it was obvious that Yolande chose to ignore them.
She had spent the autumn busily, giving herself little time to think of the terrible situation she was in, her principal task being the marriage arrangements for her two younger children. In a way, the fact that the Duchess was expecting a child had had a bearing on her determination to see their future settled, for lurking right at the back of her mind was the idea that they might be left without either parent. If Duke Louis were to be killed fighting and she to die giving birth, at least they would have their parents-in-law to care for them.
The least of her concerns was Yolande’s first born, young Louis. He stood to inherit all the massive kingdoms and lands belonging to Anjou: Sicily, Naples, Hungary, Majorca and Sardinia, as well as, through his mother, Aragon and Valencia. There was also the Kingdom of Jerusalem, a purely titular honour but one going back a long way indeed. In infancy, Louis had been betrothed to Katherine of Burgundy, a daughter of the Duke, now residing at Angers, being brought up as a member of the Regent’s family; an arrangement about which, as the civil war worsened, Yolande felt more and more uneasy.
For her second son, René, the Duchess had entered into negotiations with the house of Lorraine. The present Duke had no son and on his death his son-in-law and heir would succeed to the Dukedom. As to her daughter, Marie, the Regent had settled on Queen Isabeau’s third son Charles, Count of Ponthieu, as a future bridegroom for the girl, a match with no apparent potential at all.
‘And yet,’ thought Yolande tapping her chin with the feather of her goose quill pen as she finished the last of her correspondence, ‘who knows?’
The boy’s brothers were, if rumour were correct, as corrupt and decadent as their mother. It might still turn out that neither of them would make old bones, that the throne
of France might indeed pass to the third son, still too young to have been led astray. And on the day of his betrothal it was arranged that the boy would be removed to Angers to be educated by his future parents-in-law, thus escaping the Queen’s amoral clutches.
“An investment for the future, perhaps?” murmured Yolande to herself.
With a flourish she signed her last letter, addressing it to His Grace Charles, Duke of Lorraine, then dripped the hot wax on to seal it, pressing in a die bearing her double device of kinship with both the houses of Aragon and Anjou. This done, Yolande leaned back in her chair and silently ran over the course of events which would begin on the following morning and end early in January.
At first light all was prepared for her to leave Angers on an official visit to the Lord of Lorraine, the intention of such a meeting to finalise arrangements for the handing over of René to his care. Travelling with the Regent there would be an unusually small party, quite literally only the men of the armed escort and one lady-in-waiting, namely the newcomer, Alison du May. The Duchess was already aware that there was gossip about this, that Lady Sarrazin was both slighted and angry, but no longer had any choice.
Leaving Anjou, the party would head eastwards along the banks of the Loire until it reached Orleans; there, it would leave the river and continue east to Troyes, and from that place enter the province of Bar. From Bar they would cross the border into Lorraine, a Dukedom not dependent upon the Kingdom of France. In this way Yolande would, when she had reached her destination, no longer be on French soil.
In many of the principal towns in their territories the Duke and Duchess of Anjou owned houses referred to as Les Maisons du Roi de Sicile, and in some cases these houses belonging to the King of Sicily had been built in the provinces of Anjou’s allies. It was for this reason that in the Duchy of Lorraine, a few miles outside the capital city of Nancy, the King of Sicily, better known as Duke Louis II, owned a modest manor house, Le Manoir du Haut-Pin. How simple, then, for the Regent’s party to make its way to the Manoir, and once there for the Duchess to be taken mysteriously ill.
On the face of it the plan seemed feasible. A hint that Yolande’s sickness might be plague would keep everyone away, courtiers and servants alike. Yet how, even with the faithful Alison in constant attendance, could a baby be kept secret when it was finally born? How could they avoid some scullion hearing its distant hungry cries?
Yolande shook her head, still unable to see how things could be managed yet, at the same time, feeling a marvellous thrill of joy that she would soon be holding Richemont’s child in her arms, putting it to her breast and feeling it suckle. If only, she thought, she could keep the baby and have the pleasure of watching it grow, become like its beautiful father. But that was not possible; for the sake of all concerned foster parents must be found and the child settled with them.
Yet how could she bring herself to part permanently with Richemont’s seed? He had left the castle of Angers in the dawning and ridden away to war, it was possible that she might never see him again. Surely God would allow her to keep something of the man she loved to cherish in the cruel and lonely future, she thought, as she rose slowly from her desk.
The trouble was that though he hated and despised her, he could not get the woman out of his mind, nothing could blot Yolande from his thoughts. Richemont had gone to join the Armagnacs, offering his services, fighting like a savage on every occasion they had met the opposing troops of the Duke of Burgundy, and still the ghost of her would not leave him.
In the way of soldiers, the unspoilt boy had gone drinking and whoring and been a boy no more, manhood coming suddenly and bitterly in the thick of inglorious battle. But then Paris had fallen into the hands of the Burgundians, and Count Bernard d’Armagnac had been thrown into disarray. Wisely, he had disbanded his younger men for the Christmas festivities, telling them to return to him refreshed early in the new year when they must fight with renewed vigour. Then the Count had gone off to counsel with his seasoned campaigners as to the wresting of Paris from Burgundian hands.
But bad news had awaited the Earl of
Richmond when he had walked into his brother’s apartments on the evening of his return to Brittany, for in Duke Jean’s hand had been a letter from their mother, Jehanne of Navarre, Queen of England.
“Our stepfather the King is dying of leprosy,” Jean had said briefly, and had risen to embrace Richemont, giving him the fraternal kiss on both cheeks.
“I’ll go to her,” Arthur had answered at once.
“She says she will see no one, not even us. She is duty bound to remain with her husband and he can no longer receive visitors.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Richemont had exclaimed, then had burst into tears, a strange reaction and one which had made Jean suspicious that more lay behind it than grief for a dying stepfather, even though Arthur was the English King’s sworn liegeman.
“Come, come,” Brittany had said gently. “It is a tragedy, I know, that such a brave man should come to so terrible an end.”
“Forgive me,” his brother had answered. “I am very tired. I will be myself in a moment.”
They had always been closely and inexplicably linked, utterly different though they were. For Jean was small and dark, with cynical eyes, black and glistening as olives, a total contrast to his beautiful sibling. Yet mentally there was a bond between them that nothing could break and, as if he could look into Richemont’s mind, the Duke of Brittany had at that moment guessed his brother was in the aftermath of an unhappy love affair.
‘Ah, well,’ thought Jean, smiling to himself, ‘we all have to do it,’ while aloud he said, “Perhaps it would be of benefit if you did visit England this Christmas despite the circumstances. Even if you cannot see our mother the change might do you good.”
Richemont had suddenly looked so vulnerable and young that, tough as he was, Jean of Brittany had felt a tug at his heart. He had leant forward from his high chair and ruffled his brother’s hair.
“Go on, cross the Channel, forget her, whoever she is. You can take some money from the treasury for expenses. I’ll authorise it. Whatever happens, you can enjoy yourself amidst the younger people.”
“Including our stepbrother, Prince Harry?”
“Yes, even including him,” Jean had answered, smiling.
“Then I think I will not go after all.”
“Why?”
Richemont had repaid the compliment by ruffling Duke Jean’s hair in his turn. “I like and trust the man about as much as you do, my Lord.”
“And he would put you off going, eh? Then if you won’t visit England what can we do to lift your spirits?”
“Perhaps I’ll disobey orders and return to the fight.”
Jean had shaken his head. “No, that would be counterproductive. Armagnac wants his men rested and mettlesome when it comes to taking Paris. Yet how I wish that he and Burgundy would soon see sense and stop this bloody conflict before it is too late.”
Richemont had stared. “What do you mean exactly?”
Jean had taken two goblets of wine, already filled, from a nearby table and passed his brother one, sipping his delicately, relishing each drop, whereas Richemont downed the contents of his glass in one.
“Is it not obvious?” Jean had asked, half smiling still.
Arthur had frowned. “No, not to me.”
Brittany sighed. “Think, little brother, think. Just let our stepfather of England die, which event both you and I know privily is not far away now, and I’ll wager that either Armagnac or Burgundy, possibly both, would be prepared to make an alliance with that beastly little warmonger Hal, in return for troops. God’s guts, Richemont, they are tearing each other apart only to let the real enemy of France in through the side door. Let our stepbrother once get the crown of England on his unlovely pate and we’ll be at war, mark my words.”
“And would you side with him?” Richemont had asked quietly.
“I’ll leave that to traitors,” Jean had answered coldly. “Brittany is my main concern. Let Henry Bolingbroke’s son set one foot on my territory and I’ll kick his arse so hard he’ll cross the Channel without a ship.”
Richemont grinned, “And I’ll kick it with you. I’ve always detested him. His mouth is unbelievably obscene.”
“Red as a rosebud yet the shape of a scimitar.”
“The lips of a violent sensualist.”
It was Jean’s turn to grin. “No, you don’t like him, do you.” He had taken hold of his brother’s sleeve. “Listen, Arthur, if total war lies ahead then who knows when we may next celebrate the Twelve Days together? So let us make this one memorable. You shall have all the help you need but the actual planning for this particular feast will be entirely in your hands. I’ll give you until the Eve of Christmas to transform this court into a place of total pleasure. Now, what do you say?” Richemont hesitated, still tinged with sadness.
“Well…?”
“I might do it badly.”
“Nonsense. Besides…” Jean had added slyly, “…if there is a lady somewhere who has played you false, imagine how envious she will be when news of Brittany’s great festivity reaches her ears.”
“She wouldn’t think like that,” Richemont had answered, almost to himself. “That sort of thing would be beneath her dignity. But in other ways, alas, her pride is not so great.”
“Then to hell with her,” Jean had answered, rising from his chair and going to stand by his brother. “It’s not worth torturing yourself over that kind. Put it down to experience.” Arthur had looked at the Duke, shorter than he by a head. “The trouble is I loved her and still can’t get her out of my thoughts.”
“You need a wife,” Jean had answered briskly. “Let me find you someone who can bring a sizeable dower and is a good sturdy breeder.”
“You might as well at that. For certain, I’ll never marry for love.”
“Who does?” Jean’s sardonic face had creased. “The trouble is you are a romantic, Richemont.”
Arthur had turned away. “Perhaps, perhaps.”
Sensing his brother’s misery, Brittany had dropped his teasing tone. “Well, what’s the answer to my suggestion? Will you mastermind the Christmas revels?”
His brother rubbed a hand across his eyes and straightened his shoulders. “It will be a pleasure.”
The Duke of Brittany had clasped the Earl of Richmond in his arms. “Good then, now get about your work. It is already 24th November and time has a terrible way of passing quickly.”
Richemont bowed and kissed his brother’s hand. “I know it does, Sir. Though recently, for me at least, it has dragged.”
“Forget her — that’s an order,” Brittany answered gruffly, and with that turned on his heel and left the room.
In the cold bright darkness of the morning of 25th November, St. Catherine’s Day, devoted to virgins and lacemakers, Yolande d’Anjou, heavy with child, and Alison du May, whose virginity could not be vouched for, left the castle of Angers and headed eastwards away from the river Maine towards the Loire. At the head of the column rode the captain-at-arms, followed by seven horsemen, then came the horse-drawn litters bearing the two women, and finally another ten armed riders. This was considered a modest turn-out for an official visit and many queried the fact that the Regent of Anjou had not taken more waiting women and servants. And yet her answer to this question had made very good sense.
“In view of the civil war,” she had announced at the last council meeting Yolande had attended before leaving, when she had handed over the reins to her Chancellor, Robert le Maçon, the Seneschal, Pierre de Beauvau, having gone to Italy to join Duke Louis, “I do not intend to move across France with a vast horde of people. A light travelling column is all that is required. I can obtain other servants when I reach Lorraine.”
There had been a general rumble of agreement because, in truth, the Duchess was right. It was more sensible not to attract too much attention when making a journey of some considerable distance across warring territories.
‘And yet,’ considered le Maçon, his chestnut eyes narrowing slightly. ‘And y
et…And he had looked the Duchess up and down, thought his thoughts, and held his peace.
But this morning in the cold, his face pale in the flickering torchlight, he had kissed Yolande s hand as he bade her farewell and stared appraisingly at the pretty upstart du May, taking a shrewd guess as to why this cheerful young peasant should have been chosen to go to Lorraine and not one of the other high-born ladies.
Alison had seen him looking at her. “Is my head-dress on crooked, my Lord?” she said, very pertly in his view.
“It must be gratifying,” he had murmured in reply, “to have risen so high so fast. There are those who say you have your eye to the main chance, Madamoiselle.”
“Then let them pee in their own boots.” Alison had flushed angrily.
Le Maçon had smiled his slow smile. “Don’t make enemies, my girl. You might just possibly upset the wrong person.”
“I am loyal to the Duchess and you can tell them that. I would give my life for her.”
“Let’s hope you are never called upon to do so,” the Chancellor replied smoothly and turned to help the Regent into her litter. She was carrying a child, he felt sure of it but he, too, had his loyalties and nothing on earth would ever induce him to say so to another.
“God speed, ma Reine,” he said as he kissed her hand once more.
“I thank you,” she answered without looking him directly in the eye.
And now both he and the castle were left behind and Yolande sat silently in her litter, pulling her fur coverlet higher and thinking of the birth that lay ahead before she would ever see Angers again.
Seven
It was Christmas Eve 1411 which, in accordance with the Julian calendar brought in by Julius Caesar himself, was celebrated on 5th January, Christmas Day being the Feast of Epiphany on the 6th. The name Epiphany, or so it was said, came from a Greek word meaning manifestation and was the day when the Christ child had been revealed to the Magi. It was also the day when all the world celebrated Christ’s birthday and was the time for great festivity.
