The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  Now he remarked, “You have a clever daughter there, ma Reine. Made in your mould if I may dare to say so.”

  Isabeau, who was occasionally capable of making jokes against herself and who, this afternoon, felt buoyant with drink, glanced down at her enormous body and said, “But a smaller model, let God be praised,” and once again the entire company broke into laughter.

  “And what of the Count of Ponthieu?” drawled Georges, voicing the very question that Charles longed but did not dare to ask himself. “Are we to presume that Madame has found him a bride?”

  “I did ask one of the gargoyles if it would like to marry him,” Isabeau answered merrily, casting her eyes round for further cheap approval, “but it refused. I have, therefore, been forced to enter into negotiation with the Vestal Virgin of Anjou.”

  The Duke of Burgundy gave a growl. “Don’t speak of her so lightly. A betrothal to the Angevins is always worth having. There is a great deal of wealth in Anjou, believe me.”

  “What is a Vestal Virgin, Mother?” asked Catherine, starting to wriggle from Isabeau’s lap.

  “A pure untouchable woman,” answered the Queen, snorting slightly. “The sort of woman, indeed, who would make an ideal mother-in-law for an ugly little boy.”

  Charles, still gallantly staring at the chessboard, felt his blood rise, aware that everyone in the room was looking in his direction, staring no doubt at his bulbous nose and big mouth, some with pity, others not. With great self-control in one so small, the child did not give the Queen the satisfaction of even glancing in her direction.

  “Wouldn’t she, Charles?” Isabeau called out loudly.

  He did not move.

  “Charles, do you hear what I am saying?”

  Still he made no response, aware that his mother was working herself into a fury.

  “Come here, you little wretch, or I’ll give you a beating,” she shouted in exasperation.

  And it was then that the unhappy boy knew exactly what he must do to win this particular game. Looking over in the direction of the Duke of Burgundy, he said politely but distinctly, “My Lord Duke, I think my mother is speaking to you.”

  There was chaos as the courtiers shrieked with genuine amusement, the jester actually falling onto the floor and rolling about in ecstasy. But even while they did so, Isabeau rose from her seat and bore down on the child like a vengeful mountain.

  For a fat man, Georges de la Trémoille moved very fast, jumping to his feet from where he sat on a cushion and placing his body, diminutive in comparison with Isabeau’s but sizeable by any other standard, between the Queen and her son.

  “How wonderful it must be,” he said loudly, “to be dam to both beauty and wit. For indeed, Madame, that gift you certainly have in your two younger children. One so fair and the other so ready with his tongue, it must be a blessing that many a mother would envy.”

  She stopped in her tracks, looking at la Trémoille suspiciously, wondering if he was mocking her. But his twinkling eyes were wide and ingenuous and the smile on his jolly moon face was disarmingly full of admiration.

  “Well said,” put in Burgundy, bored with upheaval and anxious to rest before the evening’s entertainment. “An amusing child.” He stood up, jerking his eyebrows several times in the direction of the now uncertain Isabeau. “Well, I’m to my chamber for an hour or so. Adieu.”

  He nodded to the company and left the room, passing Charles’s chair and giving the boy a pat on the head which practically rendered him senseless.

  “So you like chess, mon Prince?” said de la Trémoille, squeezing with difficulty into the place recently occupied by Catherine.

  Charles looked up slowly, his steadfast eyes taking in the details of Georges’s face, the buzzing in his head caused by Burgundy’s hand dying away.

  “I do enjoy playing certainly, but before we speak of the game may I say thank you for saving me from a beating,” he murmured.

  “Saving you?” Georges repeated guilessly.

  Charles said nothing but flicked his eyes in the direction of his mother who, now the Duke had gone, was beginning to yawn pointedly.

  “Ah!” said Georges, his jolly gaze bright. “Think nothing of it, Monsieur. Call it a service for Christmas Eve.”

  “Very well, I will. But, my Lord, I want you to remember that I am in your debt. If ever I can grant you a favour…”

  “I shall most certainly call on you,” de la Trémoille answered, and smiled so knowingly that the Count of Ponthieu believed the man really meant it.

  Jacquetta of Luxemburg was certainly ready for love, pulling Richemont close to her as soon as the heavy door of her chamber had swung to behind them, then opening her mouth wide beneath his hard and demanding kisses. But afterwards, in the soft aftermath of lovemaking when he held Jacquetta in his arms, Richemont thought of Yolande and knew the guilty despair that only one who truly adores another can ever experience. He saw himself as a villain, dishonouring his brother’s guest, betraying the woman with whom he would be obsessed until his death. But had she not played him false, had she not used him as something little more than a stallion?

  “What’s the matter?” asked Jacquetta sleepily.

  “I was thinking what a wicked wretch lam.”

  “Don’t do that, please. I made you go on when you would have stopped.” She sat upright, the firelight gleaming on her skin, turning it the colour of morning. “But the odd thing is my heart still loves John even though my body wants yours.”

  Richemont smiled despite his teeming thoughts. “You little witch, you have the gift of reading my mind. For I love that woman, though I wish to God I could shake myself free of her.”

  “What exactly did she do to you?” Jacquetta asked curiously.

  “She betrayed me with another.”

  “Oh!”

  And it was as well that the shadows in the room hid Jacquetta’s secret smile as the irony of the situation slowly dawned upon her.

  It was growing late and the simple fish meal that Yolande d’Anjou and Alison du May had enjoyed together had long since been cleared away by Alison herself.

  As in every house that the King-Duke owned a small permanent staff kept the place running all the year round, reinforced by a great body of servants who travelled with their royal master when he went to stay in one of his many homes. But on this particular occasion the Queen Duchess had brought no other retainers, which the servants who ran the Manoir du Haut-Pin considered a blessing in view of the fact that Madame might well have the plague.

  Every day the master cook and his scullions came in and prepared the food, while the cleaning women worked throughout the manor house, leaving the top floor where the Duchess lay ill to the good offices of Madamoiselle du May. And every evening, instead of sleeping round the fire, they left the Manoir and stayed with relatives to lessen the chance of contracting the illness. Only Jacqui the pot boy, kind-hearted but born stupid, remained behind to protect the place at night.

  “Bonne nuit,” he called now through the dining-room door, doing his final rounds before sleeping.

  “And to you,” Alison called back, she and Yolande having abruptly ceased to speak on hearing his approaching footsteps.

  “Oh, and Jacqui…”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t lock up yet, I shall be going for a short walk before I retire.”

  “Very good, Madame. Is the Duchess any better this evening?”

  “No better, no worse,” Alison answered. “Thank you for enquiring. I shall tell her you did. Bon Noel.”

  “Bon Noel,” the boy replied cheerfully, and the two women heard him move away towards the kitchens.

  “May I go for a walk?” Alison asked now. “Once I have helped you prepare for the night?”

  “As long as you make it a short one. It’s very cold out there.”

  “I promise to be quick. It’s just that fresh air helps me to sleep.”

  “You can borrow my fur mantle.”

  So it was tha
t Alison du May, protected from the bitter weather, did not worry as she saw the dark sky begin to shed its burden and the first great flakes come down softly, covering the black earth with a delicate sprinkling of fine powder.

  Looking out of her window the Duchess, too, noticed the snow start to fall and hoped that Alison would not be long, partly because she was concerned for the girl’s safety, partly because being alone was such a strange sensation.

  With a sudden lurch of her heart, Yolande realised that it must be almost the first time in her entire life that she had experienced solitude. A protected child, a young bride, a Queen, a mother, a Regent, she had always been surrounded by people. And now here she was, an island, alone in an ocean of quiet, the only other person near her a slumbering kitchen lad. With a deep sigh, the Duchess left the window and going to her bed lay down on it fully dressed, momentarily closing her eyes.

  It was the silence that woke her, deep down from a wonderful sleep, every care she had forgotten and soothed. But as she came to wakefulness Yolande knew that the situation had reached its conclusion, that nothing could ever be the same again, that the end of nine long months had arrived. In the unearthly quiet of a snow-filled night she had, at last, gone into labour.

  The Duchess of Anjou, King Juan’s brave daughter, faced birth as she did everything else in her life, with fierce determination. When her first child, Louis, had been born she had been twenty-three years old, strong as oak but supple as willow, yet that had been eight years before and there had been two other births in the gap between.

  “Alison,” she called out loud, as she took stock of the situation and prepared herself for onslaught. “Can you come to me?”

  But there was no responding movement in the close blackness of the house and Yolande guessed at once that she was alone, that her pretty Lady was still out, lost somewhere in a white wilderness.

  “So,” she said aloud, “we are solitary, my babe, you and I. Come easily then, and do your mother no harm.”

  Then the Queen-Duchess eased herself into the position that gave her most comfort, breathed deeply but gently, and waded into the sea of birth, fearing nothing.

  The Queen of France lay face down on a heap of scattered cushions in that exotic place in the Hotel St. Pol known as the Hall of Rosewater, inhaling the rare fine smoke from the braziers and the musky perfume that floated everywhere. To say that she was annoyed was an understatement, for Christmas Eve had turned out to be a disappointment after all.

  Isabeau had returned from Mass, hoping for light relief after the ordeal, only to find Burgundy so drunk that he had been fit for nothing but to stagger to his bed, while Georges de la Trémoille was suddenly nowhere to be found. Furthermore, Isabeau’s other occasional partners all seemed mysteriously about some private business of their own and so, in a mood for love, she had found herself alone.

  There had been nothing for it but to make the best of a bad situation. Snatching a handful of spice, especially brought from Damascus and said to have an extremely powerful and exotic effect, the Queen had made for the hall and thrown all of the substance onto the braziers. And now, indeed, the benefits could be felt. Isabeau smiled as she began to drift off into a dream in which the flame of every candle dipped to half its full strength. At that moment it seemed to her a bare body climbed onto her back and hands slid beneath to knead her great breasts, hands that belonged to Pierre de Giac himself.

  It was nearly midnight and still the swirling snowflakes fell from a black velvet sky, confusing the landscape utterly so that no landmark looked the same as it had done an hour earlier. What had begun as a simple walk round the Manoir’s formal garden and into the meadows lying beyond had become a desperate trek to find the way home. Gasping for breath, Alison resolutely turned her back against the wind, shielded her eyes with her hand, and attempted to get her bearings.

  As its name suggested the manor house stood high, an ancient and majestic pine tree its landmark. But this tree, like all the others, must be glistening with diamonds, no longer standing out as something to head towards. The lights of the house, too, would be dim by now as Jacqui always doused the candles and torches before bedding down for the night.

  To Alison’s left lay an expanse of white which appeared to have no end, while to the right the only discernible break in the snow fields was a clump of trees. In front of her the same pale blanket spread on again, and it was with more desperation than hope that she decided the only way to turn was into the wind, blinded by the driving flakes as this would make her, to try to pick up the direction in which she had come. Unable to see a single step before her, Madamoiselle du May wheeled round and bravely began to struggle along.

  The flicker of a flare was so unexpected and so quickly gone again, a point of light brief as a firefly, that Alison dashed her hand across her eyes, wiping the snow from her lashes, convinced that she was seeing a mirage. But then the sight came again and she began to hurry as best she could through the drifts which by now almost reached up to the calves of her legs.

  “Help,” she called, her voice blanketed by the dense night. “I’m over here.”

  The torch flashed once more and suddenly she saw a dark shape, a man leading a horse, the poor beast struggling through the snow as best it could, was coming towards her.

  “Help me, please help,” Alison called again.

  It was impossible to see his features in the wild conditions but a tall shape loomed directly up to her, putting an arm round her shoulders to steady her against the blowing drifts.

  “I take it you’re lost?” said a pleasant voice, muffled by the folds of the stranger’s hood.

  “Yes. I’m trying to find the Manoir du Haut-Pin.”

  She felt him stiffen in surprise. “But that’s the Duchess of Anjou’s home! Is she not lying there sick with the plague?”

  “She is, yes, she is, and I am most anxious to get back to her. I am her Lady, the only one who tends to her.”

  Tight against her breast, she felt him ripple with laughter. “Well, if you’re a carrier I no doubt have caught the contagion.”

  “Who are you?” asked Alison, slightly shocked, staring up at the hooded face.

  “Charles is my name, young lady. Now come on, take my hand, or we’ll both get stranded.”

  It was a big friendly fist and Alison was glad to slip her fingers into its depths as the stranger with a touch of nonchalance contrived to lead her and the horse, while still grasping the flare, through the wildernesses which engulfed them.

  And then, suddenly, there was the great pine tree raising its proud head bedecked with brilliants, and the dark shape of the house loomed, all draped in white.

  “Off you go!” said her rescuer. “Get to your work — but take care.”

  She smiled and a long red curl fell from her bedraggled headdress and for a moment caught in the fur of her mantle.

  “A fiery one, eh?” he said, and briefly caressed the lock with his gloved fingers.

  ‘Thank you for helping me, Sir,” Alison answered, pulling away and running towards the great wooden door.

  “What’s your name?” he called over his departing shoulder.

  “Alison du May.”

  “I’ll remember that.” His voice was distant, hollow. “Farewell.”

  Just for one luxurious moment as she got inside, Alison leaned against the heavy oak door to regain her breath before fleeing up the winding stone stairs to the top of the house. But no sooner was she through the entrance to Yolande’s chamber than she saw the Duchess crouched by the head of the bed, her legs drawn up, her knees wide, and the top of the baby’s head already visible.

  “I’m here,” shouted the girl, flinging herself forward. “I’m here.”

  But Yolande did not answer, pushing and grunting like the most primitive of peasants as she laboured to bring her baby into the world.

  “Come on,” urged Alison, who had often seen birth in the crowded dwellings of the walled city of Angers, and so was not afraid. �
�Heave him out, my Lady.”

  In that moment she had forgotten utterly that she addressed the Regent and had gone back to the patois of her youth. But Yolande only looked at her, wild-haired and wild-eyed, and sunk her chin onto her chest, rolling herself into a ball in order to push more strongly. And then it was not so hard. Alison put a delicate hand on either side of the head and turned it very gently, and a moment or two later a strangely appealing but very wrinkled face appeared.

  “Another push,” said Madamoiselle du May in a voice of command. “Get shot of him, come on, Madame.”

  It was done! The shoulders eased out one after the other and the little body almost dropped into Alison’s waiting hands. It was a girl; Richemont had a daughter not a son.

  As Yolande’s head fell back onto the pillows and the eyes closed in her sweat-stained face, her servant tied a piece of string from her pocket around the cord, then cut it with her herb knife.

  “What is it?” asked the Duchess, her voice an exhausted rasp.

  “You have a baby daughter, ma Reine.”

  “Perfectly formed?”

  “Perfect and strong, here.”

  And Alison passed the naked infant to its mother. She shouldn’t have done it she knew, realising how hard it would make the inevitable parting, but Yolande tore the covering shift from her breast and put the babe to suck. With that sensation, her milk began to come in, and she was transported to paradise, holding the tiny creature and feeling the flow like a magic fountain. Looking on, Alison shook her head, knowing how difficult this sweet ritual would make the Duchess’s future.

  “What will you call her, Majesty?” she whispered softly. “Have you thought of a name?”