The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  The Bastard went pale. “But how could we contrive that?”

  “Only by killing him.”

  “And that we dare not risk.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Is there any chance that Charles and Bonne will be reunited?”

  “There is a chance of everything in this life,” the astrologer answered seriously. “Remember that in any situation there are always two paths of destiny.”

  “But which to take?”

  “Which indeed.”

  “But what ought we to do in this particular affair? How can we restore the Dauphin to his old self?”

  “We can’t,” Guy replied quietly. “Yet in September something might well happen which could change the course on which Charles’s future is currently set. You and I are powerless to do anything about it. Only he can do that by deciding against a certain course of action.”

  “And will he?”

  “I think not.”

  Jean’s handsome eyes glistened fervently. “What is it that’s likely to happen? Come on, Guy, you can trust me.”

  “Violent death,” answered the astrologer, speaking even more softly.

  “Whose?” asked the Bastard, all attention.

  “That I cannot say.”

  “You must,” Jean answered impatiently. “Whose death?”

  Guy lowered his voice even further and almost inaudibly murmured, “The Duke of Burgundy’s.”

  The mighty province of Provence, surely one of the most beautiful in all France, with its towering mountains and unassailable peaks, its dramatic coastline and vivid sea, its fields of wild lavender and the smell of its flowers, was one of the places that Yolande d’Anjou loved best in the world. For it seemed to her that only here did the sky have a certain magic luminance, a deep blue against which the clouds appeared startlingly white; only in the hills where the villages clung to the feet of the mountains and the purple lavender threw out its amazing smell could one close one’s eyes and dream of paradise; only in the warmth of its hyacinth sea could one swim safely out to the point of a bay and gaze for ever at a coastline both majestic and lovely.

  The Duchess’s favourite residence when she visited her Provencal domains — Anjou had gained Provence as one of its territories many years before — was the bay of La Napoule. For here, on the very edge of the sea itself, stood a castle built in 1387 by the proud family of Villeneuve, who gladly loaned their jewel of a home to the Angevin Regent whenever she came to visit. Many years before there had been a Roman dwelling on this same spot and, after that, the Saracens had built a tower which still stood dominating the bay. But the most irresistible thing about the place was the castle’s gardens.

  With the song of the sea in her ears and its breath blowing softly on her face, Yolande could walk beneath stately cypresses, down shady paths at the end of which played fountains, sniff the woody smell of pine, the evocative muskiness of sandal trees. Then, if she turned towards the ocean, the Duchess could traverse a great terrace, below which lay the sea itself, foaming in through arches where it turned to pools of jade and purple in the deep shadows.

  Beyond the bay, the distant hills were the colour of the wild lavender fields inland, the sea bright periwinkle blue on the horizon, pure aquamarine as it came pounding and sucking up to the glittering shore. Of all the places in the world where the Regent of Anjou would like to have spent the rest of her life, then quietly died there, free from the cares of state, the Chateau de la Napoule was it. But today, as she walked along the sea terrace, a letter in her hand, there was a slight frown on Yolande’s face.

  She had left Anjou in the fond hope that domestic matters would run smoothly in her absence but now it would appear there was a hitch. The treaty signed between Charles and the Duke was turning out to be a farce, the Burgundian too frightened of the English king to do more than pay lip service to the Dauphin, the Dauphin himself in a strange uncaring mood. In the meantime, the whole of Normandy apart from the island of Mont Saint-Michel, had fallen once again under English domination, and Henry V had returned to England to raise funds from City merchants to allow him to continue his campaign.

  But that was not all that gave the Regent cause for anxiety. The writer, the trustworthy Robert le Maçon, without actually specifying why, for it was dangerous to put too much in a letter that could well be intercepted on its journey, hinted strongly that the Dauphin’s apparent disinterest in life was serious. And reading between the lines it was easy for Yolande to guess the reason. With a sigh she thought in hindsight that she should have left Marie with Charles and not listened to her daughter’s pleas to remain in Anjou where everyone was familiar and kind.

  “You are going to have to get used to being with Charles on your own soon,” the Duchess had said sternly.

  “But not yet, Maman, not yet. He is sleeping with that horrible Madame de Giac, I know it. He will ignore me completely.”

  “Then it will be up to you to get him away from her. Royal wives must get used to that sort of thing.”

  But even as she spoke the words, Yolande had known that poor little Marie never could, never would, sparkle in the eyes of men, that her own powerful personality had not been

  passed on to her child, and that she must treat her daughter with sympathy.

  “Very well. I shall let you stay in Angers until my return. But after that you must join your affianced husband and remain with him until you are old enough to be married.”

  “But Maman—”

  “No buts, Marie. Those are my instructions.”

  Yet now the Duchess knew that she had been wrong, that she should have insisted on Marie remaining at Charles’s side so that if his relationship with Bonne foundered — as it obviously had — her daughter could at least have adopted the role of sympathetic listener.

  “God’s heart, these men!” Yolande exclaimed in exasperation, and thought of Richemont for the first time in months.

  Above her head a seagull wheeled and dipped, an arrow of white arcing through a delphinium sky. Looking around her, the Duchess thought with reluctance that one day she must go back in order to resolve all the problems which had relentlessly appeared in her absence.

  “But not yet,” she said to herself. “Here there is space and tranquillity. I won’t return just yet.”

  Though the summer of 1419 was difficult for everyone at the Dauphin’s court, there was one person above all others to whom each hour was a nightmare, each waking moment an actual physical pain. Unhappy beyond belief, brought to the brink of breakdown by all she had had to endure, Bonne de Giac contemplated suicide almost every day. Only one thing kept her alive and that was the thought of revenge; revenge on her vile and wicked husband, revenge on the filthy Duke who pawed her so obscenely, revenge on Charles de Valois who had tossed her to one side without even bothering to discover the reason for her supposed infidelity.

  And yet Bonne knew in her more rational moments that when it finally came to it nothing on earth would ever persuade her to actually lay a finger on the Dauphin. Her ugly boy, as her husband so contemptuously referred to Charles, was the only man she had ever loved or ever would. And now to see him turning away from her, cutting her dead whenever they met and crossing the room to avoid her, was the worst kind of torment.

  She had tried writing him brief notes, not daring to explain anything in a letter lest they be tampered with, but they had always been returned with the seals unbroken. As hurt as Bonne, though utterly refusing to admit it, even to himself, Charles had one ambition, to freeze his former mistress out of court.

  De Giac, meanwhile, continued to take her to Burgundian headquarters to visit the vile lecher; journeys from which she always returned emotionally wrecked. It seemed to the girl that there was no one in the world willing to help her; even the faithful Guy keeping a cautious and obviously discreet distance. Yet it was on just one of those terrible visits which degraded her to little more than a hired whore, that help finally came. As she had left the Duke�
�s apartments at dawning, retching as she walked unescorted down the corridor towards de Giac’s bedchamber, a figure had detached itself from the shadows and clapped its hand over her mouth.

  “Jeanne, don’t be frightened, chérie,” it had whispered into her ear. “It’s Roger.”

  At the sound of her real name, for the wretched girl had been born Jeanne de Naillac, tears had flooded Bonne’s eyes. It was her own brother who held her so closely. With a great sob of relief she had turned into Roger’s arms and wept.

  “There’s no time for tears,” he had said swiftly. “Save them for another occasion. Listen to me and do precisely what I say. The Duke must be persuaded to go to the next conference at Montereau. He’s trying to change the location because his Jewish astrologer has warned him of danger lurking there. It is up to you to persuade him otherwise.”

  “Why?”

  “That I won’t say. Just do it, Jeanne, for the sake of us all.”

  She had guessed then, and for the first time in months some colour had come to her cheeks. “I’ll do it,” she said grimly. “I’ve been de Giac’s puppet too long. It’s time I acted for myself.”

  “For you and also for France. Adieu.” Roger had kissed her rapidly on the cheek and vanished into the shadows from which he had come.

  “For me” Bonne had said fiercely, the whole direction of her life changed in a moment. “I’ll do it — but for me”

  In the way of all conspiracies, the meeting was held at midnight. Most of the Dauphin’s Gentlemen were present, in company with Guillaume Bataille, Robert de Laire and the Vicomte de Narbonne, old servants of the murdered Duke Louis d’Orleans. Two stalwarts of Anjou, Robert le Maçon and Pierre de Beauvau, stood in the doorway, ready to silence the entire room should a stranger approach. Only the Lord of Barbazan, tonight his duty more to keep the Dauphin at the chessboard than protect him, was absent — but he had sent a message.

  “M’Lord the bodyguard asks me to tell you that he has recently refused a so-called gift of 500 moutons d’or from the Duke on the grounds that he never took money except from the masters he served.”

  “Well said,” put in de Beauvau.

  “One might as well talk to a deaf ass as Burgundy,” Tanneguy de Chastel remarked angrily. “While that intractable old fool leads the Burgundians we will never break the deadlock.”

  “The situation is hopeless,” agreed Hardouin de Maille. “Neither side can make a move. We have reached impasse”

  “He has to go,” said somebody from the shadows in the comer of the room. “If we are to defeat the English, Burgundy must die.”

  “Wait one moment.” Robert le Maçon was speaking from the doorway. “Better the devil you do know than the devil you don’t. His son’s an aggressive little sod, more likely than ever to ally Burgundy with the English. I feel we shouldn’t rush into anything.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Hugues de Noyer, standing close by him.

  “He who hesitates is lost,” countered de Chastel. “I say we get the swine at Montereau.”

  There was a subdued but definite murmur of agreement and le Maçon knew that if it came to a show of hands the death sentence had just been passed on the Duke of Burgundy.

  “One moment more,” he pleaded. “Is it your intention that the Dauphin should be informed?”

  There was another, longer, silence.

  “He’s still a boy,” ventured someone.

  “Rubbish!” snapped Louvet in return. “He’s sixteen and a man. I say let him be told.”

  “Do we need his consent?”

  “No, we act alone. But I believe he should be made aware of the plan.”

  “For God’s sake,” shouted le Maçon impatiently. “Monsieur could lose both his kingdom and his reputation through this.”

  “Oh, shut up, you moaning old woman,” replied de Chastel crossly. “How could he possibly do that?”

  “Don’t think Isabeau will let a lover’s murder go unavenged. She’ll fall like a fury on

  “And that would flatten’em,” interrupted one of the brighter young sparks.

  “None the less,” de Chastel stated forcibly, “I’m prepared to risk the wrath of the monstrous Queen in order to see Burgundy go down.”

  There was another, louder, cry of assent.

  “Then who,” asked le Maçon crisply, “will tell the Dauphin?”

  “I will,” said Jean the Bastard, getting to his feet and speaking for the first time. “I will. And do you know, gentlemen, I think he may well be mightily pleased with your decision.”

  “For avenging the murder of his uncle?” asked the Vicomte de Narbonne.

  “For that and other things,” answered Jean, with a secret smile. “For that and others.”

  *

  To rise in the dawning like a whore and to feel cheapened and degraded and ashen in the mouth; to stand and watch the sun come up and know that only hours before one’s poor body had been both used and abused; to look down at oneself and weep bitter tears, were experiences known only too well to Bonne de Giac, born Jeanne de Naillac, who now lived only for the moment when Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, would be done to death as mercilessly as Louis d’Orleans, the man whose slaying he had ordered so callously all those years ago.

  ‘And then, when he’s gone,’ thought poor Bonne, ‘if only I can make Charles understand that I was forced, driven, compelled to fornicate against my will, we might yet be reunited and the real wrongdoer, my merciless husband, be brought to book for his many crimes.’

  It was a hope that, in Charles’s present mood, seemed utterly forlorn and Madame de Giac sighed involuntarily, then jumped as a voice from the bed behind her said, “Why so sad, chérie?”

  It was Burgundy, his leathery features, wrinkled and lizard-like in the sharp light, presently contorted into what he imagined to be a kindly expression.

  Bonne could not bring herself to answer him. Knowing all that was at stake, aware of her importance in the plot to rid the nation of his unwelcome presence, she still could not say a word but continued to stare out of the small window at the moat below.

  “Darling, look at me,” his rough voice continued, softened by tenderness whenever he spoke to her.

  ‘How hideous it is,’ thought Bonne, ‘that this terrible man, old enough to be my grandfather and with knowledge of every perversion and sin in the world, has actually fallen in love with me, would give me anything I asked for.’

  Composing her features, she turned to look at him where he lay like a blemish amongst the lace-edged sheets.

  “Monsieur?”

  “Your back was turned. I thought you did not love me anymore.”

  Again, Bonne could not reply, simply looking down at her feet.

  “Come back to bed, there’s somebody here who wants to say good morning.” She saw his hands moving under the sheets. “Don’t disappoint him.”

  The girl braced herself for what she must do next.

  “If I greet him, what will be my reward?” she asked teasingly.

  “Anything you care to name,” the Duke answered, his breathing quickening and his face growing flushed.

  “Will you let me sleep with you every night at Montereau?”

  “Montereau? I don’t intend to go there. Bonne, hurry! My friend grows impatient.”

  She undid her shift and let it slip slowly to the floor, watching the purple veins stand out on his face.

  “Christ’s blood you are so beautiful. Come on! My friend is ready to explode.”

  “If I help him will you let me live as your wife at Montereau?”

  “Yes, yes! Just hurry!”

  “Say I promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “That I shall go to Montereau because it is Bonne’s favourite place.”

  “That I shall go to Montereau because it is…Ahh!”

  He groaned in ecstasy as she slid on top of him and began to ride, slowly at first, then faster and faster. And then she stopped.

  The Duke
opened his eyes frantically. “Why did you do that?”

  “Promise me again about Montereau.”

  “I swear it.”

  “Good.”

  And with that Bonne moved with such a strong rhythm that Burgundy lost any control he had left and was a spent force within seconds. But though he may be utterly in the thrall of his fragile young mistress, Jean the Fearless was not entirely devoid of sense and suspicion.

  “Why did you specify Montereau just now?” he asked, sleepily yet sharply enough for all that.

  “Because my husband’s castle is near there and I have fond memories of it.”

  And indeed she had, for it was in that place she and Charles had shared nights full of love in the round room of the chateau’s tower.

  “And also because your army is camped there and I would like to see the forces of Burgundy in all their might.” Bonne snuggled closer to the Duke’s body which smelt unwashed and rank. “Why don’t you want to go?”

  “My astrologer has warned me of a trap. He says if I visit Montereau I run the risk of assassination.”

  “What, with your entire company camped round the castle? What nonsense! Why, Monsieur, I swear you are as bad as the Dauphin who will not break wind lest he has consulted his soothsayers first.”

  Bonne felt a sense of true betrayal to Charles as she belittled him but knew she must use every weapon in her armoury to persuade the old horror to ignore his advisers.

  “That puny runt!” growled Burgundy. “I swear to God he thinks his cod’s only use is the passing of water.”

  How she longed to rend him with her nails and scream in his ear till its drum burst that her sweet lover was ten times the man he was and knew how to please a woman with a single touch.

  Controlling herself admirably, Bonne said, “Then you have nothing to fear from him, have you?”

  “No,” said Jean with sudden determination, “I haven’t. What could a pipsqueak like that possibly do to me? You’re right! I shall go to Montereau and to hell with any who say me no.”

  “Mon cher,” answered Bonne, silken-tongued. “What a wise decision. As you say, to hell with them.”