The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  ‘And to you,’ she added inside her head. To the deepest darkest pit where I hope you bum for ever.’

  The town of Montereau lay to the south-east of Fontainebleau, straddling the river Seine as it flowed away from Paris into the open countryside. Its chateau being the headquarters of the Duke of Burgundy, the Dauphin, gone there for the conference, had taken up residence in a hostelry while his army, some twenty thousand men in all, had much to the dismay of the citizens occupied the town. There were soldiers everywhere, billeted out, under canvas, sleeping in temporary barracks, and though the local shopkeepers and the brothel were doing well, others cursed at the fierce congestion. On the opposite bank of the Seine stood the castle, towering over the landscape and there, looking somewhat meagre in comparison with the Dauphin’s vast escort, were camped the three thousand soldiers of the Burgundian army.

  The town being thus divided, it had been arranged that the bridge which joined the castle bank and that of the city should be the scene of the meeting, symbolically on neither side, a type of neutral zone, as had been the middle pavilion at Pouilly. However, there had been one or two rather strange arrangements made by the Armagnacs. Two barriers had been erected closing off each end of the bridge so that the centre, which had been nominated as the meeting point, could only be reached by means of a wicket gate, an odd concept to say the least.

  On the day chosen for Charles and Burgundy to parley, 10th September 1419, several council meetings had taken place in the town, attended by the Dauphin and representatives of the Duke but not by Jean the Fearless himself, and it was not until early evening that Charles finally signified his desire to leave for the rendezvous, noticeably having some kind of altercation with Robert le Maçon, whom the Prince wanted to accompany him but who, on the other hand, tried to hold the Dauphin back. Finally the chestnut Chancellor stayed behind looking extremely woebegone and muttering that his royal master had been ill-advised.

  As the figures on the town clock shuffled out to beat the bell five times, the Duke of Burgundy left his castle and rode on to the bridge accompanied by an escort of ten foot soldiers, passing through the first barrier which was guarded by his officers. As he trotted forward so did the Dauphin, Tanneguy de Chastel beside him, and his Gentlemen, including the three past servants of Louis d’Orleans, forming a tight protective group around the heir to the throne.

  With a solemn expression on his face, Jean the Fearless rode through the wicket gate, which closed again so quickly behind him that not all his escort were able to get through.

  “Why have you done that?” he called out in alarm.

  “Because I need to speak to you privately,” Charles answered, riding up to where the Duke awaited him, and then dismounting. “Because I need to ask why you still remain an ally of the English, why you have not acted on all that was agreed at Pouilly?”

  “Simply because you have not joined your parents at Troyes, Monsieur, and thereby shown your goodwill,” replied Burgundy curtly. “The day you take your place at the proper court of France, the day you comply with the wishes of the King and Queen, will be the day I break off all ties with Henry of England.”

  “I shall never again,” the Dauphin said through clenched teeth, “subject myself to a life lived at the mercy of my mother. I am a grown man and entitled to my own household.”

  “Then it is you, Monsieur,” purred Burgundy smoothly, “who are standing in the way of the alliance against England. It is you who are putting your personal and selfish wishes first.”

  “That is a lie,” cried Charles furiously, “and you know it.”

  “Yes,” said another, unfamiliar voice. “It is not the Dauphin who is the enemy of France but you, Monsieur le Due. The whole country is at deadlock because of you and now it is time you relinquished your grip.”

  Looking behind him, the Dauphin saw that the three Orleanists led by the Vicomte de Narbonne, Tanneguy de Chastel following them, had appeared as if by magic.

  “Out, Monsieur,” commanded Tanneguy briefly, and grabbing Charles beneath the elbow practically threw him from the enclosure just as Robert de Laire seized one of Burgundy’s legs and toppled him out of the saddle.

  “Don’t look round,” de Chastel ordered the boy. “It is not fit that you do so.”

  But the air was full of the sounds of death as the three followers of Louis d’Orleans avenged the murder of their lord.

  Guillaume Bataille’s voice rang out. “You cut off my master’s hand, so I’ll cut off yours.” And there was the thud of an axe blade on bone followed by a scream of agony which showed that Burgundy was not yet dead.

  “Did they have to do that?” gasped a white-faced Charles.

  “He was a Satanist,” de Chastel answered shortly, “and as such deserves no quarter.”

  The Dauphin nodded, still panting. “Is it finished now?”

  The older man looked back over his shoulder, his face impassive. Jean the Fearless lay in a pool of blood, his head smashed to pieces by axe blows, his severed hand lying, almost casually, at his feet.

  “Burgundy will not bother any of us again.”

  “Thank God, thank God,” said Charles, and wept with relief.

  “Surely you are not grieving?” de Chastel asked curiously.

  “Far from it, believe me. I doubt that there are many who will do that. Except, of course, for Madame de Giac.”

  It was out! The Dauphin had actually put into words the reason for all his recent unhappiness and by doing so at last removed the embargo which had kept his Gentlemen silent for so long.

  De Chastel cleared his throat. “Without her the Duke would not have come to Montereau, you can believe me. She was forced into his bed by her husband, determined to win the wager that he could bring Burgundy to the conference table, and she has been kept there against her will ever since. As soon as her brother told Bonne of the plot to kill the Duke she did everything in her power to help. She is very much sinned against, Monsieur.”

  Charles turned on him a look of pure astonishment. “But why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “Nobody liked to, mon Prince. Though we all guessed the cause of your distress, none of us, not even the Bastard, thought it our place to interfere. If only you could have mentioned the matter to someone.”

  “I thought her a vicious whore. I could not bring myself to speak of it because I loved her so much.”

  De Chastel nodded wisely. “There’s no misunderstanding that cannot be unravelled, Monsieur. Though we must leave Montereau at once, I think that as soon as we have returned to Bourges you should see Madame.”

  “I would like that very much,” answered the Dauphin, and gave his old friend and faithful servant a smile that said everything.

  They had not spoken to nor looked at one another for two months, a short space of time in reality but one which to lovers as close as Bonne and Charles had seemed an eternity.

  When they were at last alone, both having been guests at an informal supper given by Jean Louvet, a supper at which each of the dozen hand-picked guests had received the gift of a small gem, Charles and Bonne’s both being a diamond, they stood in silence, resisting the love potion which their host had so thoughtfully mixed with their wine.

  “I thought you had betrayed me,” the Dauphin said eventually.

  “I betrayed myself,” Madame de Giac answered bitterly. “My husband told me that if I did not serve the Duke he would tell you I was a whore. That is why I gave in. I wish now that I had refused. I would rather have been put to death than caused you any pain.”

  “Oh, Bonne!” Charles’s voice was choked with emotion. “How you must have suffered.”

  “It was terrible. I rejoice that the Duke is dead. I felt — and still do — less than the dust beneath your feet when I was forced to—”

  “Say no more of it, there is no further need to think such things. It is done and one of these days de Giac will pay for his crimes. But meanwhile we are back together. Oh, ma chère…”
The Dauphin took both of Bonne’s hands in his, “…forgive me for not realising the truth.”

  She pressed close to him, Lou vet’s aphrodisiac becoming hard to ignore.

  “Of course I forgive you. Oh, darling, cure me of all ills.”

  He needed no invitation, leading her to his bed, laid with its best silk linen, the pillows a delicate web of lace. Yet despite his period of abstinence, Charles did not hurry himself over his lovemaking, content to lie silently beside Bonne, staring at her naked body in the firelight, rubbing it with scented oils, running his finger over her lips, her nipples, her thighs.

  “I want you to promise me something,” the Dauphin said finally.

  “What is it?”

  “That you will never again allow yourself to fall into such a terrible trap. That if de Giac threatens you, you will come straight to me.”

  “I wish he were dead, too,” the girl answered savagely. “I wish that there had been two murders at Montereau, not one.”

  “I dare not get the reputation of being a butcher,” Charles replied thoughtfully. “Living down the death of Burgundy will be bad enough. I must wait before I kill de Giac.”

  “But no one can prove you were privy to the plot.”

  “Neither can they prove I wasn’t.”

  Bonne nodded without conviction. “Perhaps.”

  But now they had spoken enough and the time had come for love. She was soft as a rose, as Charles held her against him, the dews of her body melding with his, the tumbling black hair brushing against his face, the small lissome shape shuddering to receive him.

  The Dauphin of France knew then that he would love her for the rest of her days on earth, that Bonne de Giac was more precious to him than anyone else alive.

  “Don’t ever leave me,” he whispered into the firelight.

  “Never!” she breathed, floating on a cloud of sensation.

  “Forgive me for doubting you.”

  “I forgive you.”

  “From now on we will always be together.”

  “Always,” whispered Bonne, and pressed Charles close to her wildly beating heart.

  Twenty-Two

  It had come as something of a relief to Guy when the letter begging the favour of his return to Angers had arrived from the Regent. Her time in Provence very nearly at an end, Yolande having spent the final few months of her stay preparing an Italian campaign for her son Duke Louis III, in which he would not so much reconquer his Neapolitan and Sicilian territories as re-establish himself as their King, the Duchess was at long last making preparations for her return to Anjou.

  Laying careful plans, as she always did, the filling of Dr. Flavigny’s vacant post had not escaped Yolande’s attention to detail and so she had written to Charles, a masterly letter worded in such a way that the Dauphin could hardly have said no to her request without appearing churlish. Rather reluctantly, not wanting to let him go, Charles had had no choice but to call the hunchback into his presence to discuss the matter.

  It was the end of August, almost three months since Catherine had married Henry V, now named by the mad King as the heir and successor to the domains of France in place of Charles. The land groaned in agony as the royal bridegroom crunched the dying countryside beneath his heel. The Princess’s honeymoon had been one of war and bloodshed, her new husband besieging Sens two days after their wedding, and going on a fortnight later to massacre the citizens of Montereau in vengeance for the murder of the Duke of Burgundy. And, to the utter contempt of her brother, the new Queen had not uttered a single word of protest at any of these outrages.

  It was hard to judge which had affected Charles more, his treatment at the hands of his parents, or the marriage of his sister. But whichever, the change in him was marked. At seventeen he had become a man.

  His funny face, so plain and sad, had grown fine-boned, honed with a resilience rare in so young a person. The great eyes, once so clear and true, now had suspicion lurking in their depths and he had learned the trick of masking them to the point where they grew dark and mysterious. The Dauphin’s body, too, although still lean, at last seemed in proportion, giving an appearance of splendid height, so that he wore clothes well. And these days what clothes they were!

  As if in defiance at the lowly status imposed on him, Charles de Valois dressed not so much like a prince of France as a king. He had adopted blue, gold and vermilion as his theme, and these colours were repeated everywhere: in his flags and banners, in the liveries of his pages, on his shields and escutcheons. Gold was draped over the dais on which stood his high chair, giving him a regal glow, and his personal colours were repeated again in his lush velvet gowns and daringly short doublets, cut to reveal splendid and obvious cod pieces. Blue and white feathers cascaded to Charles’s shoulder from his various hats and caps, and his best and favourite blue doublet was covered with dazzling gold threads, on the sleeves, picked out in five hundred and sixty-eight pearls, the words, ‘For the love of my dark lady’.

  This was his answer to his crazy father and amoral dam, this was his two raised fingers to Henry V. Wars might indeed be won on battlefields, but in the bed and ballroom the ‘so-called’ Dauphin would shine like a god. And, indeed, though not grand enough physically to take on those proportions, the boy shimmered and gleamed like a faun. Glittering hostility, Charles de Valois was now prepared to defend his birthright, if not by force of arms at least by appealing to the mighty lawyers of the world as to whether he could indeed be legally repudiated by his lunatic father’s whim.

  But at the moment he was not thinking of this, instead scowling at Yolande’s letter, realising that his brilliant guardian, as he always thought of her, had out-manoeuvred him once again.

  “So,” he said abruptly, “they want you back in Angers. Do you want to go?”

  Guy hesitated, deeply attached to his friend and master yet on the horns of a dilemma.

  “Well?”

  “The truth is that part of me longs to return to my twin, the other to stay with you.”

  But it wasn’t all of the truth. The reasons for Guy wanting to leave were rather more complex than that. He was a genuine clairvoyant, a young man who could use almost any medium to channel his enormous gift: astrology, the tarot, the palms of hands, scrying a crystal, all brought him strange and heady visions, some of which he did not understand himself. And to be a court astrologer, to have to advise a master who had become a companion, to see the dreadful peril in which that companion’s mistress certainly lay, was more than he could bear. For months now Guy had borne the intolerable burden of censoring everything he said to Charles, telling him only half of what he saw, and it had become too much for him. Let the Dauphin’s other two soothsayers, Dr. de Thibouville and Dr. des Phares, water down their facts, he could no longer continue to do so.

  “I see. Well, the Regent has put her request in such a way that to refuse would be difficult. I think, with much regret, that I will have to part with you, my friend.”

  It was said with all Charles’s old sincerity, the defiant faun temporarily banished, and Guy felt himself on the point of tears.

  “My dear Monsieur,” he said, dropping awkwardly to his knees and kissing the Dauphin’s hand. “May I indeed call you friend?”

  “Of course, we are comrades and always will be. But though it is hard to part you must look upon the Regent’s request as a compliment. Obviously she has heard well of you or she would not ask for your return.”

  From his kneeling position, Guy said, “You will be King, mon Prince. Let them rail against you, let them do their worst, the fact remains that the final victory will be yours.”

  “In my present situation that is somewhat hard to believe.” Guy raised a loyal face. “One is coming who will turn round fate.”

  “One person alone? What manner of man could that possibly be?”

  “Or woman,” added Guy so quietly that Charles did not hear. Louder he said, “I do not know, Monsieur, but yet forewarned is forearmed. Have you heard o
f the prophecies of Marie of Avignon?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Read all of her words I beg you. Somewhere in them lies the key.”

  “You mean she has predicted this person who is coming to help me?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Then you must know who it is.”

  “I don’t,” answered Guy, laying his hand upon his heart to show he spoke the truth. “I have only been made aware that a being already breathes upon this earth who shall be the saviour of France, and that Marie of Avignon has prophesied their coming.”

  “Then I shall study her writings with care, I promise you,” the Dauphin answered thoughtfully.

  “If any more is revealed to me I shall inform you of it at once,” Guy said anxiously, his funny face strained with the force of his sincerity.

  “You must,” Charles replied, and sank back into his chair so that the golden cloth over the dais burnished his face. “It is your duty to do so.”

  The hunchback kissed his master’s hand as a token of assent.

  “Now go to Angers with my blessing and give my good mother my fondest greetings and respects when you see her. Tell her that I will visit her shortly after her return.”

  The astrologer rose to his feet and bowed. “May God be with you, Monsieur. I shall ask my brother, Jacques the monk, to pray for you.”

  The Dauphin nodded. “Do so, do so. I feel in need of every prayer there is.”

  “Farewell, Master. Keep your faith.”

  Long after Guy had gone, Charles sat alone in the gathering shadows, his chin sunk into his hand, not moving other than to breathe. He had reached bedrock in the last few months, sick to his soul of defeat and rejection. For, for all his brave show of not caring, the stripping away of his titles, his removal from the line of succession, was eating at him like a canker. If he had had the resources and the manpower nothing would have pleased him more than to have driven Henry V from France with a great show of force.

  “And yet I swear by God I’ll do it one day!” he whispered into the darkness. “Oh, Christ, have mercy, send help soon.”