The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  “If I do, it will mean turning my back for ever on my brother of Brittany.”

  “I think not,” the Duchess answered slowly. “It has been in my mind some months now to offer him a prize he will not refuse — in return for his signature on a treaty.”

  Richemont looked blank and Yolande went on, “My son Jade, Duke Louis III, is twenty-one and not yet wed. I believe your niece Isabella is now of marriageable age Richemont burst out laughing. “She is fifteen and yes, of course Jean will jump at the chance of making her Duchess of Anjou. You cunning minx, Yolande, you incredibly devious schemer.”

  She smiled. “If Jean breaks with the triple alliance and becomes the King’s ally will that ease your path to the top?”

  “You know it will, by God’s sweet breath you know it will.”

  The Queen-Duchess wiped away the last of her tears. “Then stand up, Monsieur Constable, it is not seemly that a man in your exalted position should kneel to me.”

  “I will, metaphorically speaking of course, be at your feet for the rest of my life.”

  “So I should hope,” answered Yolande, and bent to kiss him as the last rays of the sun lit his scarred but exalted face.

  Twenty-Five

  Beyond the walled suburb of the Doutre, lying across the river from the town of Angers, the Abbey of St. Nicolas lay drenched in the harsh white moonlight of high summer. From the distant fields, above which rose in gentle undulations the hills cradling the city, down to the lake lying below the Abbey’s terraced gardens, all was bleached and light, glinting silver where the moon danced upon stretches of water.

  It was late, being the hours between Compline and Matins, and a great silence had fallen over the Abbey, a silence which indicated everyone therein slept. Yet in the Abbot’s lodging candles burned, for in his parlour, at the desk where those who had administered the Abbey had all sat before him, the Abbot Jacques still lingered, far away in thought.

  To have been made Prelate of such a great and important house at the age of twenty-five, as he had, was nothing short of miraculous. And yet doors had opened for Jacques that would not have been considered possible by those beyond the Abbey walls, though amongst the people who knew him there had only been expressed surprise that those all-powerful bodies whose duty it is to elect a new Abbot had indeed recognised the youthful monk’s outstanding qualities. Yet to onlookers who made a study of faces it would not have seemed so strange.

  True goodness and mysticism shone out of the man. From the light, clear blue eyes, as bright and fine as crystals, to the tranquil curve of his sensitive mouth, there was nothing about Jacques that could ever be remotely mistaken for malice or cruelty. The child who had started its days as a street urchin in Paris had grown into a being of exceptional quality.

  Strangely, the facts of his early life had not gone against him when the decision to elect him had been made. Rather, it had been considered an advantage that he had once been a creature of the people, knowing what it was to go barefoot and hungry, the victim of occasional beatings and regular fights. Furthermore, it had been remembered that the monk swore he had been called, that a vision had appeared telling him to follow his vocation and enter the cloister. So, two years earlier, in the summer of 1423, the unusual choice had been made and Jacques had become the youngest Abbot not only in Anjou but, undoubtedly, the whole of France.

  It was hot this night when he sat alone, staring into the shadows, every nerve ending alert, so hot that sleep was impossible for him. So it was with an almost impatient movement that Jacques got abruptly to his feet, his black habit sweeping the flagged floor, and made his way out into the moonshine to breathe the night air.

  The Abbey and its outbuildings were drowned in light, the cloisters round the great quadrangle, pools of purple shadow. Moving slowly but steadily, the Abbot’s slender outline threw a huge shadow as he made his way into the Abbey church, then stopped for a moment to breathe in the atmosphere of the place. Here, alone, in this half-hour before midnight, the essence of the building rushed to meet him; the smell of incense, imbued in the very fabric of the stone, the altar candles throwing high their small brave points of flame, the moonbeams casting through the window, lighting the dim interior with silvered shafts.

  In the grip of sudden and intense emotion, Jacques felt the collective power of all the prayers that had gone before him in this dim holy place and sank to his knees where he was, down on the stone floor, not even bothering to go to the Abbot’s stall. Years ago he had heard a voice while dusting the Lady Chapel, of all the extraordinary things, and now the same feeling was upon him that had preceded that other fateful occasion. Abbot Jacques, dedicated to the service of God but still a young and vulnerable man for all his great office, shivered as his spine grew cold and the hair on his tonsured head seethed with apprehension.

  “Lord, what do you want of me?” he asked, simply and directly, the best way to speak to God in his view, and a piece of advice he always passed on to the oblates.

  The answer came into his head that he must approach the high altar and, like a pilgrim of old, the Abbot made the journey up the nave on his knees, the stone flags warm beneath his skin on this scented summer night. The spearheads of light on the candles grew higher as he approached and Jacques suddenly felt the presence of something infinitely beyond his understanding. He closed his eyes and prayed for divine guidance.

  When the experience was over he wept, so awed by the power of such enormous love and understanding. Yet as Jacques cried he knew that soon he must dry his tears and be strong, that she who was now on her way would need every ounce of the help he could give her. Asking God for His forgiveness even before he did it, Jacques communicated his thoughts to his twin brother, something the boys had practised almost before they had learned to speak.

  ‘Guy, La Pucelle has started her journey/ thought the Abbot hard. ‘Like the wise men of old, try to find her star.’

  But there was no time to practise this strange telepathy further. In the distance came the sound of the brothers’ tread as they made their way to church to celebrate Matins, the first office of the day. The Abbot rose to his feet to receive them, his fine face radiant, his eyes glowing with light, as the monks filed quietly in to begin the solemn act of worship.

  The moment he awoke Guy knew that his brother had just called out to him, sending one of the extraordinary mental messages that by means of the rare bonding known only to identical twins, could pass between the two of them. Yet the content itself was none too clear, though the words ‘La Pucelle’ rang on and on in Guy’s mind.

  ‘Jacques, what is it?’ the astrologer thought urgently, and went to the window to look out across the river in the direction of St. Nicolas, giving his mental powers a focus as to where

  they were to go. Yet he was not surprised when there was no response. Judging by the position of the moon, Matins was being celebrated in the Abbey church and the Abbot would be concentrating on spiritual matters, not on a childhood trick. Being the practical person that he was, Guy decided to ride over to St. Nicolas in the daylight hours and try a more conventional means of communication. But meanwhile, on this most exciting of nights, there was much to do.

  Throwing a loose robe over his night attire, the hunchback left his bedroom and climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the tower in the castle of Angers, given over by ancient tradition to the current court astrologer. Here, where he had studied long ago with Dr. Flavigny, Guy now had his own consulting room, littered with charts of the heavens and various magical artefacts, not the least of which was the astrologer’s glittering crystal, tonight scintillating of its own volition as he approached.

  “Be calm,” Guy said to it, and knew a thrill of cold apprehension that there was so much alchemy abroad that inanimate objects were picking up the electrical vibrations.

  The crystal was icy to his touch, even in the heat of this particular night, and Guy drew in a breath of pure surprise before he stared deeply into its shimmering heart.
Then symbols came so quickly that he found himself unable to comprehend them all, even though well aware that he must understand as much as he could to recount to Jacques later.

  Guy saw woods and a tree, a spring bubbling nearby. Then he glimpsed fairies and children and one little girl in particular. The picture changed and he watched a young female — or could it be a boy? — riding with a band of warriors clad in white, a splayed red cross emblazoned on their surcoats.

  “The Templars,” breathed Guy in disbelief.

  But there was not time for logical thought as the crystal grew dark in the astrologer’s hands and, just for a second, the words ‘La Pucelle’ actually appeared. Then the scrying glass started to fade.

  “Wait,” said the hunchback urgently, “before your power goes tell me one thing. Where is she? Where is La Pucelle?”

  Just for a second before it went out like a snuffed candle, the crystal showed a picture of Yolande’s second son, René, then it went black.

  “René,” said Guy thoughtfully. So La Pucelle, whoever she might be, was connected with René d’Anjou in some way. Did that mean she was coming from Lorraine? Or was it hinting at something altogether more subtle? The hunchback’s brow creased in concentration as he tried to piece together the various parts of the puzzle.

  In the end Guy gave up, knowing that he needed to talk it all out with his twin. Yet he had one devastating flash of clairvoyance before he returned, rather wearily, to his bedchamber. He suddenly knew that in some way René d’Anjou and the Knights Templar were linked.

  ‘But that makes no sense,’ thought the puzzled astrologer as he blew out his candle. Tor the Knights Templar are no more. They have ceased to exist, have been wiped off the face of the earth. They are dead, every one of them.’

  Yet the vision of that fierce young female riding with a great troop of white mantled men, the splayed red cross identifying them more clearly than anything else ever could, stayed with him until he fell asleep as the moon began to fade.

  It was at daybreak that Prince René left the secret meeting of the Priory of Sion and headed for the border between his great-uncle’s territory of Bar and his father-in-law’s duchy, Lorraine. As always when he had been with the brotherhood, René felt exhausted, as much by the magnitude of the mystery they guarded as the fact that he was the youngest Grand Master, still being only sixteen years of age, that the Priory had ever known. And last night he had acted alone, the Regent Grand Master, his great-uncle the Cardinal, being indisposed and unable to be present.

  Amongst all the other weighty matters under discussion there had been much talk of the situation in France and the fact that the Angloys-Françoys, as the alliance between the English and various traitorous French noblemen had come to be known, could yet endanger the Priory itself.

  “If all France should fall into the Goddams’ hands nothing will be safe,” a brother had commented.

  The Goddams was a soubriquet for the English soldiers who swore constantly throughout every battle and siege.

  “Something must be done to assist the Dauphin,” another brother had said.

  “The King,” René corrected quietly.

  “The King, even be he not anointed. I fear if he goes down then so does what is left of the kingdom of France and so do we all.”

  There had been silence in the shadowy underground meeting place which the brotherhood of the Priory of Sion frequented, and René had looked round the cloaked anonymous figures, simultaneously glad and sorry that such an enormous legacy should have been left to him.

  “Is it time perhaps,” he said tentatively, “that our military wing was called into action?”

  There was a frisson of disapproval and yet, the young Grand Master felt, there were some in the room who were with him, perhaps descendants of those who in 1312, when the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon had been brutally dissolved, had shaved off their beards, put on ordinary clothing and assimilated themselves into the lay population.

  “Grand Master,” answered the speaker, “though we have vowed to serve you with our lives perhaps such a course might yet be a little extreme. Should we not wait until the Regent has returned to discuss the matter more fully?”

  “Indeed we should,” answered René, slightly irritated. “But if military action is out of the question there must be another way to help my brother-in-law and childhood friend. I would ask you all to give it your most serious consideration.”

  So, on this not altogether satisfactory note, the meeting had broken up and the Prince had turned his horse towards Lorraine and the homeward journey.

  ‘There must be a way.’ he thought as he galloped at some speed, knowing that today was the feast of St. Mary Magdalen, a fast day until evening and one held particularly dear by the Priory of Sion. ‘But what?’

  Born with no natural gift of clairvoyance, the many years of esoteric training which René had already undergone suddenly bore fruit. He was seized with a premonition of change, of things moving in the right direction at last. It also came to the Grand Master that he would be called upon to assist, and soon, on a very grand and positive scale. Heartened, the Prince galloped on, anxious to get to church and pray on this, one of the most important of saints’ days in the church’s calendar.

  She had been fasting since yesterday, as that had been the Eve of the Feast of St. Mary Magdalen. And though there had been no real need for her to deprive herself of food for an extra day, truth to tell she enjoyed the effects of going without; the lightness of mind and body, the strange far-away feeling that set in after sufficient hours of total abstinence had passed, the momentary sensation that she might lose consciousness and fall to the ground.

  It was in this state that the girl had come to Chesnu Woods to drink from the spring near the Fairies’ Tree, the spring which, so local people claimed, had curative powers. For it seemed to her that this water, surely blessed and pure, might sustain her better, allow her to fast longer, than that from the well outside her father’s house.

  It was hot this midday and the walk, especially on an empty stomach, had seemed long and arduous. In fact it was good to feel the shade of the trees closing about her like the cool shadows of a cloister. Hearing the tinkling water of the spring gave her a new spurt of energy, though, and she ran forward and knelt down beside it.

  Suddenly her legs ached and there was a pain in the girl’s chest, while her heart began to thump in a rather erratic and frightening way. Without knowing quite why, she thrust her face into the spring and let the cold water spurt into her eyes.

  When she opened them again she was looking directly into the sun, or would have been if something tall, something ringed with light, had not been in her way. She said nothing, too terrified to utter.

  A voice boomed. Was it her own calling out in fear, she wondered.

  “Jehanne? Are you Jehanne?”

  The sound of the spring grew suddenly loud, horribly so, and the next thing she knew she was face down in the ice cold water again. A distant cry was up, “Jehanne, Jehanne, Jehanne.”

  When she looked once more she could see nothing, blinded by comets of light which shot before her eyes. Then there was darkness as she crashed into oblivion, her last conscious thought that whatever it was that had stood between her and the sun had just now gone away again.

  The letter from Alison du May was straight to the point. ‘Grand Master, I greet you with reverence, and request that you see me immediately upon a matter of considerable interest and importance. I shall attend you in your antechamber at dusk. If you could ensure that my audience is a private one I would be grateful.’

  Rend was intrigued, his dark face full of questions, as he went at the appointed time to hear what his mother’s former Lady had to say to him that was of such significance it merited an immediate parley.

  Alison was punctual, her bustling form, quite plump and matronly now that she had given birth to five little bastards, rustling in importantly. But her beauty was stil
l undoubted, the red hair as bright as ever, though whether cosmetically helped Rend was not quite sure, the silver grey eyes clear, the skin around them unlined.

  Madame du May went on one knee before him and kissed René’s hand, as a supporter of the Order making her obeisance to the Grand Master of the Priory of Sion rather than a Prince of the house of Anjou.

  “Greetings, Madame,” he said, and raised her to her feet.

  It had been she who had, years ago when he had first arrived in Lorraine, taken him to that initial meeting with his great-uncle Cardinal Louis of Bar, and ever since Alison had been one of that shadowy group of people who bore allegiance to the Priory of Sion without ever being privy to its secrets and true designs.

  “What is it you have to tell me?” René asked, his amber eyes twinkling at the look of import on Madame du May’s rounded face.

  She paused. “May I sit down, Monsieur?”

  “But of course.” He indicated a chair, finding it hard to keep his mobile features under control. For the more serious Alison looked the more he longed to burst out laughing. “Now, my dear lady, how may I help you?”

  “Grand Master, it is about my ward.”

  “Your ward?” René’s quizzical black eyebrows shot up, unaware that Alison even had such a thing.

  “Yes. Some years ago I was given guardianship of a love child, put out for fostering at birth with a family of honest peasant stock.”

  “Oh, yes?” the Prince answered cautiously, instantly convinced that Alison was referring to some early mistake of her own.

  “So far the girl has caused no trouble, being brought up as one of several children and truly believing her foster parents to be those of her own blood. But now all that has changed.”

  “She is in difficulty of some kind?”

  Madame du May paused and neatly straightened out a crease in her full skirt. “Not exactly, Monsieur.”

  “Then what?”

  René would have liked to have asked her to get to the point, to enquire what interest this sixth little bastard of hers could possibly be to him, but for the sake of their long and excellent friendship he just continued to smile.