by Deryn Lake
“Oh, Arthur,” he said wretchedly, his face echoing all that his friend was suffering. “Please don’t torture yourself anymore.”
“I can’t help it,” the young man answered, looking away. “I still have such strong feelings for—”
His voice ceased abruptly but the Dauphin, wisely, said nothing, asking no questions, positive that the cause of all this anguish was someone connected with the house of Anjou, if not the Duchess herself.
Eventually, he said slowly, “What is past is past, you know, and must be allowed both to die and be buried.”
“I have already vowed it should be so,” answered the Earl.
“Then why?”
“The ghost of her is not yet exorcised.”
“I know little,” the Dauphin said earnestly. “I am yet young and have been too busy killing myself to learn much. But one thing I am certain of. Time heals all things, there is no ailment, mental or physical, that its great slow magic cannot cure.” Richemont raised his head. “Then let the years pass quickly.”
Louis trembled. “No, don’t say that. Who knows what fate awaits us all? This is life’s own sweet blood that we are spilling, these seconds are precious, every one.”
“I welcome the passing of time,” replied Arthur bitterly. “Let the days fly by until I am finally free of her.”
But Louis only crouched close to his friend, shivering at the thought of the irrevocable march of destiny and all the savage events that might befall them in the years that lay ahead.
Part Two - Marie and Bonne
Twelve
From his many journeys between Anjou and its Neapolitan territories, the Duke-King Louis had brought back a formidable collection of treasures with which to adorn his castle at Angers. Paintings and tapestries brightened every room, mirrors reflected sparkling views of the river and the changing colours of the landscape, the Duchess and her ladies were dressed in clothes made from rare and beautiful materials, while the aviaries rivalled those of the Hotel St. Pol in Paris containing, in addition to all the exotic birds, a collection of doves and pigeons which would circle the castle with a wild white beating of wings before returning nightly to settle in their lofts.
On summer evenings the Duke’s courtiers would stroll amongst the gardens to the accompaniment of music and poetry, the smell of rare and sumptuous perfumes filling the air, shade thrown by fig trees and other plants not native to Anjou. Indeed, a cultivated and cultured life was led by all those lucky enough to live within the castle’s precinct and, in the midst of this atmosphere, the boy who had been brought there less than two years earlier, thrived.
Charles de Valois had grown taller and filled out somewhat in that time. Predictably, his face had remained plain but had lost its nervous apprehensive expression and developed an ugly charm all its own. His voice, too, now that he was thirteen and pubescent, was dropping to a deliciously husky timbre which was more attractive than anything else about him.
“That one will seduce women just by talking to them,” Guillaume d’Avagour had said affectionately about his young charge, and then added, “and I suppose when the time comes we’ll have to fix that up for him.”
Hugues de Noyer had looked slightly askance. “But the Duchess would be furious. What about Marie?”
Guillaume had winked. “The Duchess would be the first to agree. She certainly won’t want him cutting his teeth on her daughter.”
“What an unbelievably vulgar phrase that is.”
“But very true.”
“Anyway, you won’t have to worry about that for a year or two. Though I hear young Jean the Bastard’s principal gentleman has been taking him to visit a certain high-born widow.”
“Does Duke Louis know?” asked Guillaume, surprised.
“He arranged it in the first place. He wouldn’t want his son’s friend getting into bad company, now would he?”
They had both laughed at that, considering it an extremely civilised arrangement and far better than the early lifestyle of the Dauphin who, according to rumour from Paris, had contracted the Croix de Venus and was far from well. For even Guillaume, sophisticated city dweller though he might be, was blossoming in Anjou as he never had before.
It was not just the beautiful countryside with its huge skyscapes and capricious rivers that was so captivating, but also the atmosphere in the town and castle of Angers itself. The walled city bustled with life, the street sellers calling their wares, the public fountains catching in the wind and showering passers-by with icy drops, the great bells of the cathedral of St. Maurice ringing out carillons, the stained glass windows, some of them dating from the 1180s, blazing like rainbows in the sunshine, the narrow streets crowded with shops, each with its own brightly painted sign, urchins playing on the cobbles.
Everywhere there was gaiety and noise as the populace bustled between the left bank and the Doutre, buying and trading, fighting and feasting, the black habits of the Benedictine orders adding sobriety to the vivid colours of the milling throng. And as if such a tangible zest for being alive was infectious, exhilaration seemed to have spread into the castle itself so that the children who dwelled there, quite in harmony with the cultured existence of their elders, enjoyed a carefree, boisterous upbringing, unusual in the somewhat formal times.
The leader of this merry set of young people was undoubtedly Jean, the fifteen-year-old Bastard of Orleans, illegitimate son of the Duke who had been Isabeau’s late lover, and half-brother to Charles d’Orleans, the present Duke. He had been betrothed to Marie Louvet, daughter of the President of Provence, a few days after the betrothal of Charles de Valois and Marie d’Anjou and was, indeed, based in the Presidents household, though somehow contriving to spend most of his time with the royal children.
Next in line came Charles de Valois, in his fourteenth year and truly finding his feet. In the two years since he had left Paris the boy had been taught to ride, swim and fence, and on fine evenings he and the other young males would shoot arrows in the butts on the riverbank. Yet most of all, the Comte de Ponthieu loved to read and study, by far the cleverest of all the children, with a brilliant mind already at work, and now playing a masterful game of chess.
Beside him young Louis d’Anjou, known as Jade by his family because of the intense green of his eyes, seemed almost slow-witted, yet this appearance was deceptive. A large, lazy, affable child with great feet and hands, Duke Louis’s heir, though charming, was actually idle to the bone.
Next in the pecking order was poor Marie, simply by reason of the fact that she was now coming up for twelve years of age. Unfortunately her appearance had altered little since her betrothal, though the colour of her skin had mercifully lightened so that her eyes seemed darker and therefore more interesting. But it was obvious even now that she would never make a beauty and Charles agonised over the fact that one day he would have to marry her. The first stirrings of sexuality were making themselves felt in his body and the boy knew already that he would soon become sensual, would cherish the company of lovely women and want to take them into his bed.
And the thought of doing what his friend the Bastard did to the noble widow, and then afterwards so graphically described, to a girl Charles considered his little sister, a gentle companion who had taken the place of Catherine, frankly revolted him.
By far the most interesting of the King-Duke’s children, or so it was generally considered, was six-year-old René, a dark, saturnine child with huge eyes, so light a shade of brown they looked almost amber, set in a thin angular face. He had very unusual hands with long tapering fingers, quite extraordinary in a boy of his age. This large brood of youngsters from the house of Anjou was completed by little Yolande, aged two and a half, and Charles, Count of Maine, a baby of only nine months.
When the Duchess had departed from Paris in the bitter February of 1414 she had had only two principal aims: to irrevocably put away all thoughts of the Earl of Richmond and to mould the pathetic Charles de Valois into something like a proper chi
ld. The first had been difficult to achieve, costing her dear emotionally. But with her iron will Yolande had set about reshaping her life and, indeed, had achieved a kind of arid happiness, forcing herself to concentrate on her duties to her family and subjects and never allowing thoughts of love to enter her mind.
Fortunately, Duke Louis had not gone away to visit his distant territories again, and it had been inevitable with him at home that sooner or later another pregnancy would occur. In the late autumn of 1414, at the age of thirty-four, Yolande had given birth to her sixth child, a boy who had been named Charles in honour of the Count of Ponthieu but who was known to all as Maine, of which territory the infant was Count, in order not to confuse the two young people.
Despite her longing to see her fourth child once more, Yolande had firmly resisted, fearing that to do so might kindle painful memories of Jehanne’s father. But news of the Duchess’s bastard came regularly from Alison du May, now firmly entrenched as the Duke of Lorraine’s mistress and already the mother of his baby sons. It would appear from these coded messages that the child was happy in its rustic existence, loved and cherished by her foster parents, good honest people of farming stock.
It was August 1415, hot and cloudless, the grapes swelling on the heavy vines of Anjou, the Maine and the mighty Loire, glistening with light, winding their way through the land like two sun-drenched lizards. The well-watered flower-beds of the castle bloomed with colour, scenting the air with a heady sweet perfume, while in Yolande’s terraced gardens trees threw a dappled shade. She could not remember a finer summer nor a more golden feeling of high harvest. All the world seemed in harmony with the lazy buzz of bees, the flutter and swirl of flirting butterflies, the splash of fish in the indolent river.
The Duchess pushed away the papers she was reading and stood up, her husband glancing towards her as she did so.
“I think I’ll go down to the water. It’s so hot in here.”
Louis smiled at her absently. “You should send everyone away and swim.”
“If I did would you come with me?”
“Yes. In half an hour or so.”
“I can think of nothing nicer.”
The devil that dwelt in her brain promptly told her that she was a fool, that nicer by far would be to swim naked with the Earl of Richmond and afterwards to lie in his arms beneath a willow tree and make love in the shaded sunshine. Resolutely, Yolande beat such torturing thoughts away.
“Don’t be long,” she said from the doorway and blew her husband a kiss before she made her way down to the river.
The castle’s Water Gate and landing stage were protected by a fortified tower built out into the Maine itself. To the right of this were the unscalable cliffs on the top of which the fortress was built, but to the left, outside the actual walls yet still part of its land, a gentle bank swept down to the water. It was here that the butts were located and it was also here that it was considered safe enough for the children to swim. Yolande had been taught by her father and had encouraged Marie to learn the art, but the girl was afraid of water and preferred to sit in the shade sewing while her brothers and her betrothed splashed about.
Now, as she approached, the Duchess was somewhat surprised to hear her daughter call out, “Be careful. Maman is coming.” and saw to her amazement that Jean, Charles and Jade were swimming stark naked. It was indecorous in front of Marie to say the least, but in a way Yolande was glad that there were no inhibitions between any of them.
“Get your hose on quickly,” Marie was shouting, and Yolande deliberately slowed her pace to give them time.
Yet it was René, his dark looks burnished by the sun, who actually came to stop his mother catching the others unawares. Still only six, and unable to swim himself, he had been paddling and now ran barefoot through the grass to take Yolande’s hand, winding his uncannily long fingers through hers.
“The boys are undressed,” he said without embarrassment. “And Jean and Charles would be shy if you saw them.”
“Then I’ll sit here and talk to you till they’re ready,” said Yolande, and dropped down onto the grass, pulling her second son into her lap.
It was a moment she would remember all her life for later she saw it as the end of an era. But knowing nothing of this then, Yolande could only look about her and marvel at the day. A haze of beauty lay upon the hills and the water of the Maine was a clear blue gemstone; the houses on the Doutre bloomed like roses in the clear light, while the meadows and pasture lands, drawing water from the river, looked sharp and green in the rest of the sun-baked terrain.
The child on her knee enhanced the sensations of all she could see. With her arms wound round him, Yolande could hear the beat of René’s heart, smell the body scent of him, feel the warmth of his skin. Burying her nose in his thick tangle of hair, sniffing its newly washed fragrance, licking his ear like a mother cat cleaning its young, the Duchess felt she was relishing her son like some delicious fruit.
“I shall miss you when you go to the Duke of Lorraine,” she said.
“But that’s in four years’ time,” he answered seriously, “and a lot can happen in four years.”
“Indeed,” Yolande replied thoughtfully and looking up saw that a flock of birds was flying between her and the sun, temporarily throwing a shadow.
The day changed colour, tinged with the first fine thread of evening, and the boys appeared, dressed and respectable, grinning rather sheepishly.
“Madame,” said the Bastard, and made the Duchess a bow, his white teeth gleaming in his tanned face and his black curls falling about his brows as he did so.
He was a magnificent youth, beautifully proportioned and immensely good looking, making Charles, his boon companion, seem thinner and plainer than ever.
“Take the others up to the castle, Jean,” said Yolande, handing René over to his care. “I am going to wait for the Duke. My Lord and I thought we might swim.”
The youngsters giggled, even Marie, and Yolande knew they were wondering if she and Duke Louis might also bathe naked together. She kept a straight face, however.
“That’s enough. Now, off you go.”
They went, reluctantly, in a raggle-taggle procession, Jade loitering behind, not wanting to return indoors.
Very subtly the river deeps turned to sapphire, the sky darkened to claret, while the hills beyond were drenched in a veil of mulberry mist. Unnoticed, half an hour had passed and still there was no sign of the Duke.
Slowly, Yolande stood up, brushing the grass from her skirt, thinking that her husband had become so absorbed in his work he had lost all count of time. Disappointed she had not been able to swim with him, she started to make her way back to the castle, along the riverbank to the Water Gate and then up the steep path into the fortress itself.
Why she began to hurry she could not afterwards recall, but a sudden sense of urgency came over the Duchess of Anjou and she broke into a run, going quickly uphill, and finally
rushing into Nobles’ Court towards the King’s Lodging. Even as she got inside and went up the spiral stairs that led to the receiving room. Yolande could hear voices and realised an unexpected visitor had come to the castle to see the Duke.
“…Christ’s Holy Wounds,” her husband’s voice was saying as she climbed, “this is a grievous day for France.”
Suddenly afraid, Yolande swept the door open and gazed into the room in apprehension. Duke Louis and the visitor, who was caked with dust from riding at speed over the dry tracks of Anjou and looked fit to drop with fatigue, stood by the window, each of them grasping a wine cup. In fact as the Duchess went in the stranger, obviously thirsty, was holding his out to be refilled.
“No,” said Yolande, as the rider turned and attempted to bow, “that is not necessary. Simply tell me what has happened.”
Duke Louis looked at her sombrely and she thought she had never seen him so hollow-cheeked and grey. “That son of a whore Henry of England has landed in Normandy and is besieging Harfleur.”
“Mon Dieu!” said Yolande, sitting down heavily. “What a blow for our poor country. Only just snatched out of Burgundy’s thrall — and now this!”
“They’re in league of course,” the Duke answered angrily. “Burgundy would sell his grandmother if he thought it might improve his position.”
“And the English King?”
“He’s claiming France as his birthright by reason of his descendancy from Edward III.”
Yolande poured herself a draught of wine and drank deeply. “What are we going to do?”
“A meeting of all the nobles and their armies is called to take place as soon as possible in Rouen,” the messenger answered tersely. “There the battle plan will be drawn up.”
“I shall bring my soldiers out of Provence,” the Duke said quietly, almost to himself, “and march at their head to the Council of War. This tyrant must be stopped at all costs.”
“But the country is so weak,” put in Yolande, the messenger nodding his head in agreement with her.
“Every last man must fight,” replied Louis harshly. “Every boy over sixteen must be called upon.”
“Then ours are too young to go, thank God.”
“Yes, but it will be difficult to restrain the Bastard. He’ll be itching to join his brother.”
“I shall stop him!” Yolande replied firmly. “I’ll not have their young lives put at risk until it’s absolutely necessary.”
Throughout the rest of that summer and well into the autumn the couriers of the noble houses of France, carrying white wands as symbols of their office, rode furiously through the countryside bearing letters and documents setting up the great Council of War which, it was desperately hoped, would put an end to the greedy claims of the English King.
And even while this ponderous method of communication rumbled on, Henry of Lancaster, after terrible slaughter, took Harfleur and started to march north-east to Calais at the head of an army of six thousand men. But as he went, the flower of French nobility and their liegemen, organised at last, headed for Rouen.
