by Deryn Lake
“Then I shall go,” Charles answered slowly. “I shall go on the proviso that I am contacted immediately should the situation change in any way.”
De Maille hid his twitching lips and answered gravely, “I will see to it personally, Monsieur.”
“Good,” replied the Dauphin, and without another word shot into the woods and out of sight, leaving the grand maître of the household to ponder the fact that a most mercurial and eccentric young man now held the future of France in his increasingly capable hands.
Nineteen
Every step of the journey brought back bitter-sweet memories. The last time Yolande had ridden this route she had been pregnant, afraid, shivering with cold. Now, in the warmth of early autumn, the Regent of Anjou’s party including the new household of her son René set out, bravely going across country to Lorraine where the boy was finally to take up residence with his affianced bride.
Leading the cavalcade came a large and fearsome contingent of the Duke of Anjou’s army, for though Henry V still remained at the siege of Rouen in Normandy he was for ever turning his soulless eyes southwards and no one could afford to travel unprotected. Behind these men-at-arms rode the Regent’s own Gentlemen together with those of the Duke of Lorraine, sent especially to escort his future son-in-law to the boy’s new home.
Following this sturdy group came the ladies, travelling in decorated wagons, hooded and curtained against the wind and rain, the Duchess and her son side by side in the most luxurious of all. While bringing up the rear, mounted on mules and donkeys, the servants who had been seconded to Prince René from the royal household of Anjou journeyed along cheerfully, whistling and singing as they went. All in all some hundred people made up the brightly dressed procession which wove its way through the great river valley and then on eastwards to the territories which one day would belong to the young prince.
With every slow mile they put behind them, Yolande’s spirits lifted. She had left Angers angry and depressed, furious that Charles had not been at Saumur to say goodbye to René or meet Marie, returned by the Duke of Burgundy to the Duchess like a piece of unwanted baggage, Richemont’s brother Jean of Brittany riding as the girl’s escort. It had been Brittany whom Yolande had persuaded to act as go-between in the delicate negotiations between the Dauphin and Jean the Fearless, but Richemont’s elder brother had been none too happy when Charles had not been available to greet his future bride, in view of the fact the Duke had gone especially to Paris to collect her.
“What the Devil’s the matter with that boy?” he had said to the Regent, throwing his hat onto the floor in disgust. “Has he got another woman? Begging your pardon, Madame, but I feel with you I am able to speak frankly.”
Yolande had tapped her chin thoughtfully. “It’s possible I suppose, perfectly. I shall find out at once.”
“Mark my words, that’ll be the case,” Brittany had answered gloomily. “They’re all the same these lads. Think what a ram my poor wretched Arthur was in his heyday. Ah well, there won’t be much chance of that where he is now.”
Wondering whether she had flinched, the Duchess had said, “Is he still incarcerated?”
“I fear so. Henry of England will not even treat with me over him.”
Yolande had found herself unable to reply.
Of course the news had come back to her within a few days that the Dauphin had had a mistress for well over a year and the Regent’s spy had not spared her any of the details.
“They had been apart for some months, Madame. She was caught up in the bloodbath in Paris apparently. But she came back last week and has not left the Dauphin’s side since.”
“And the identity of this woman?”
“Bonne de Giac, Madame.”
“Ah,” Yolande had said thoughtfully, “that explains a great deal.”
Her creature had sighed. “It is said that Monsieur is very much in love with her.”
The Duchess’s green eyes had given a wicked flash. “I see! In view of this I shall keep my daughter here in the wardship of her brother. And should she be sent for, Madame Marie is not to leave Angers unless I specifically order it. Return to Bourges and tell the Dauphin that.”
“I will, Madame.”
But though she had been able to forgive Charles his infidelity, Yolande’s anger had really been aroused when the Dauphin had rejected the treaty offered between himself and Jean the Fearless, refusing point blank to go back to Paris, thus throwing Brittany into such a towering fury that he had declined to negotiate further and had walked out of the meeting in a huff.
So it was with all this on her mind that the Duchess had been forced to journey to Lorraine, leaving the matter of the Dauphin and his paramour totally unresolved. But one thought sustained her, with each mile she travelled the child she had not seen since its birth grew nearer, and Alison du May had already been requested to arrange a secret meeting between them.
It had been Michaelmas when they had left Anjou to traverse a land so ravaged by war that crops no longer grew, and it was on St. Luke’s Tide that they first caught sight of the walled city of Nancy, its roofs flushed the colour of burning wood in the light of the dying October sun.
Any thoughts of this great party staying in the residence of the King and Queen of Sicily — the remote manor in which Jehanne had been born — had been put aside by the sheer weight of its numbers. Only the Ducal Palace could house such a vast retinue and it was to the royal residence that Yolande, her son and her retainers, now made their way.
Having rested and refreshed herself, the Duchess entered the great hall surrounded by her ladies. Her eyes were drawn at once to René, who glittered with the excitement of all the important happenings in his world. Looking beyond her son for the beautiful Alison du May, Yolande saw her standing amongst the Duchess of Lorraine’s waiting women, trying discreetly not to be noticed in the general hubbub. But, it never being easy for the irrepressible to be restrained, as Alison dropped into a rigid curtsy at the Regent’s approach
there was a momentary but definite suggestion of the girl’s incredibly naughty grin.
‘Yet girl,’ thought Yolande, ‘is not quite the right description anymore.’
For Alison had filled out plumply, mother of sons as she was, though still maintaining the saucy good looks that she would keep till her dying day.
But, annoyingly, fond as they were of one another and longing to renew a friendship that had borne the test of jointly keeping a vital secret over many years, they were unable to get a private word until long after nightfall. The traditional light supper of cakes and ale had been served to Yolande in her apartments, the Regent pleading tiredness and the need to rest before the next day’s ceremony of officially handing René into the care of his future father-in-law. So it was that she was actually in bed when there came a light tap at the door and her principal Lady let in Alison du May, the Duke of Lorraine’s cherished mistress, now powerful in her own right.
“Ma chérie,” said the Duchess fondly, and embraced the girl with a great deal of affection. “You may go,” she called to her hovering waiting women. “Madame du May and I have a great deal to catch up on.”
There were several raised eyebrows and one or two noses pointed slightly in the air, but Alison had grown quite used to being unpopular with other women and merely smiled serenely until they had left the room. Then she gave another dignified curtsy before rushing to kiss Yolande’s hand.
“Ma Reine, you look lovelier than ever. I do not think you will ever grow old.”
The Regent shook her head. “You should not say such things.”
Alison frowned. “Was it too forward of me? But I was always myself with you, Madame. Must all that change?”
Yolande shook her head and patted a place on the bed for her devoted servant to come and sit beside her. “Of course not. Now, tell me everything that has happened to you. Are you happy? And how are your little boys?”
“Well and wonderful,” answered the Duke’s mistress,
and started to chatter at such speed that the older woman could not help laughing.
It was just as if no time had elapsed at all since Alison had left the castle at Angers to fulfil her more important role, and as the fire died down and the candles guttered it was hard to think that they were not exactly the same two women who together had delivered Jehanne into the world and so successfully concealed her identity.
“A lot has taken place over the years,” Yolande said eventually, “and many things have altered. Tell me, is all arranged for me to see my daughter?”
Alison made a slight face. “To see, yes, Madame. But I think it would not be wise for you to talk with her. To this day her parents believe me to be her true mother. I would not like to disillusion such good people.”
“And she is still happy with them?”
“Oh, yes, Jehanne knows nothing different. The child leads an ordinary village life. The civil war may have touched the people slightly as it has, indeed, most places. But other than that she is having a simple and unclouded childhood.”
“And does she still believe in fairies?”
Alison smiled. “Oh, yes. I believe she goes to visit the Fairies’ Tree once a week.”
“Where is it?” asked Yolande, indulgently curious about her small daughter’s pretty belief.
“In Chesnu Woods. There is a spring there apparently, near the tree. I haven’t been to see it but I believe it is a very pretty place.”
“Am I to watch her from there?”
“I thought it might be a good idea. We could observe without being observed, if you understand me, ma Reine.”
“And if I insist on speaking to her?”
Alison bowed her head. “I am always your loyal servant, Madame, and will abide by any decision you might make.” The Duchess patted her serving woman’s hand. “Don’t worry, I will take your advice on the matter. After all, it is you who have acted as Jehanne’s guardian, not I.”
“Then all will be well.”
Yolande changed the subject. “As I wrote to you, the political situation in Lorraine still leaves much to be desired.”
Mademoiselle du May nodded. “You refer to the enmity between the Duke and his neighbour, your uncle?”
“I most certainly do.”
And it was a fact that a great obstacle stood between Yolande and her plan to unite France against Henry V, in the form of the feud between Charles of Lorraine and Louis, Duke and Cardinal of Bar, both uncles of young René. For Lorraine supported the Duke of Burgundy, and the Cardinal, brother to Yolande’s mother, did not. It was as simple as that. Yet the stumbling-block lay in the fact that the boy was sole heir to the two men, his future father-in-law and his great-uncle both having named him their successor.
“Nothing must go wrong in the matter of my son’s inheritance,” Yolande added quietly. “It is essential that he succeeds to both Bar and Lorraine, and unites the provinces behind the Dauphin.” Alison gave her a curious look and the Regent said, “I promised my husband on his deathbed that I would do all in my power to end the civil war so that the English invader could be seen off for once and for all.”
“Then you may trust me, Madame. The Duke always consults me on important issues and has come to respect my views. Anything I can do to get the murderer of Azincourt off our land will be a pleasure.”
Alison said this last so violently that Yolande thought her servant about to spit on the floor as a gesture of her contempt. But the Duke’s lady, who had been born a commoner, remembered herself in time.
“Then I may rely on you?” asked the Duchess, smiling.
“As always, ma Reine. I have never forgotten the fact that I owe everything I have in life to you.”
In summer the trees of Chesnu woods met and interlaced overhead, allowing through little sunlight, a cavern of mottled green, filled with birdsong, hushed from all other sound. And now in autumn, abounding with great splashes of colour — ochres, vermilions and the deep brown of exotic spices — it still retained its silent quality, its mysterious atmosphere. Beneath the feet of the horses, led now as the two women had dismounted, the fallen leaves gave the merest crackle then sunk deeper into the carpet of vegetation which lay there all year long.
Green velvet moss was everywhere, hugging round the roots of trees, growing in vivid knots on the very trunks themselves, clinging to the long skirts that swished over it as their owners progressed further into the forest. Overhead, what could be seen of the sky was the clear, vivid, very pure blue known as mazarine. Bars of golden light splashed through the spaces where the leaves had fallen, lighting the ground with pools of primrose, a glittering gold dust floating in the shafts of sunshine. Dimly in the distance could be heard the splash and trickle of water coming from some eager little brook pushing its way up through the emerald earth.
“I can hear the spring,” said Yolande, “are we nearly there?”
“Yes, there’s a clearing round the next bend. I think we should leave the horses, it will make it easier to approach quietly.”
The Regent nodded agreement and she and Alison, having thrown the reins of their mounts over an oak tree’s supporting branches, made their way without speaking further.
The glade, when they finally came to it, was far bigger than the Duchess had imagined. Large and spacious, it had the air of a cathedral, an impression greatly enhanced by the lofty pillar-like trees and the colours shining through them, as dazzling to the eye as stained glass. In the middle of this almost circular clearing stood the Ladies’ or Fairies’ Tree, the little spring bubbling nearby, and two children, one fair, the other dark, playing amongst the leaves, throwing them up into the air in great armfuls, laughing as only pleasantly happy youngsters can.
The Duchess of Anjou froze to her soul, aware that one of these precious imps was her own flesh and blood, yet not sure which. And then the dark child looked over in her direction and the years rolled away. King Juan of Aragon stared out of the child’s deep mysterious eyes, while the sunlight gave her cap of dark hair the bluish sheen of a raven’s wing, just as his had had. But the body was Yolande’s. Already tall for a girl of six, yet lithe as willow, there was an air of strength about the mite that was almost daunting.
“Jehanne,” whispered Yolande and it was not a question. Perplexed, the Duchess looked for any similarity between the girl and her father, then saw a dazzling likeness in a flash. As Jehanne turned back to her companion, smiling, Yolande recognised Richemont’s beautifully moulded cheek bones and strong white teeth.
“She has good looks,” she whispered to Alison.
“But doesn’t care about them. She’s an utter little tomboy.”
“Better that than being sickly.”
“Oh, she’s very far from puny. Her mother told me it’s an effort to get her even to sit still.”
“If only I could speak to her.”
“Better not, Madame. Let her be.”
They must have raised their voices slightly for Jehanne once more peered in Yolande’s direction, her eyes bright and alert.
“Who’s that?” she called out, her peasant’s accent and dialect, the ydioma Francie, making her mother wince.
Neither of them answered, standing stock still, and Jehanne’s companion also stared in their direction, suddenly nervous.
“Do you think it’s the fairies?”
“It could be,” answered Yolande’s daughter boldly.
“Then we’d better run.”
“Why?”
“You know why. If they take us away to Fairyland we won’t be able to come back for a year and a day, or even seven years. Oh, Jehannette, come on,” and the fair-haired child snatched at her friend’s hand and started to pull.
With obvious reluctance Jehanne went with her, glancing back over her shoulder, curious and interested, several times before they disappeared from view.
Yolande, like April, smiled and wept. “Jehannette,” she said.
“A diminutive for a diminutive. Come, come, ma Reine,
do not upset yourself.” Alison answered gently.
“Will I ever see her again?” the Duchess asked through her tears.
“Of course you will. I promise it.”
“I hope so,” the Regent answered. “Only God knows how much I hope so.”
Bonne had come back at the end of September, riding into the castle at Tours with the Bastard as her escort. Charles had thought her pale, ill almost, but she had said nothing to him of her ordeal and with the marks on her body now healed, the Dauphin had put her air of sadness down to the terror of escaping from Paris.
Then there had passed an idyllic few weeks, almost like a honeymoon, during which the youthful lovers had spent every waking moment together. But late in November three people had come to the castle who between them had put an end to this enchantment. First, astride her horse, her long skirt kilted as was her defiant wont, came the Regent of Anjou, her daughter riding side saddle on a palfrey several paces behind.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Charles had exclaimed, looking out of the window of his bedchamber. “It’s my mother.”
“The Queen?” Bonne had shrieked in alarm, her black hair flying as she rushed to look.
“No, my mother-in-law of Anjou. I call her mother sometimes. It was she who brought me up, so I am deeply attached to her.”
But he had not felt quite so attached when the Regent, demanding private audience, had launched a bitter attack about his behaviour.
“If there is one thing I will not tolerate, Monsieur, be it from the Dauphin of France or anyone else, it is arrant rudeness.
You had written to tell René you would see him before he left, you knew full well that Marie was returning to Anjou. Yet you let both of them down.”
“Well, I…” Charles began lamely.
“No excuses. My poor daughter was distraught that you were not there to meet her, having been kept a virtual prisoner, remember. And when I enquired the reason why you did not attend her, I learnt that you were too busy with your mistress, Madame de Giac.”
The Dauphin had turned the colour of a beetroot. “How did you find out?”
