The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  But this pathetic hope was shattered as she was tossed in the air like a broken doll, then plunged beneath de Giac’s fastest stallion face downwards, her arms wrenched behind her back and pulled round the horse’s neck, where they were bound, her feet coming up into the same position, and tied together hard across the horse’s rump. She thought she was going to die of pain as every disc in her spine jarred simultaneously. Exposed and tragic, her small round belly hung down, the nearest thing to the ground.

  “It’s full moon and you’re going riding,” said de Giac and once again he laughed a wild hyena’s laugh, a sound Bonne would not have thought could possibly be human.

  They clattered out of the stableyard and the Devil’s man immediately applied his spurs so that the capricious beast shot straight into full gallop, the terrified woman beneath it groaning in agony as they headed for the densely forested lands that lay some miles beyond de Giac’s chateau.

  Poor little Bonne lost her child about half an hour later, and an hour after that her own small life. She gave it up willingly, knowing there was no one left to love her and nothing left to live for.

  With a cold smile on his lips and his maddened eyes glowing in the shadows, de Giac buried his ill-fated wife by moonlight on the edge of a deserted field. Then he desecrated her grave, leaving it unmarked, before he finally turned for home with a song on his lips and a sudden tremendous feeling of being at one, not only with his Dark Master, but also the Devil’s most beautiful acolyte, Gilles de Rais.

  Twenty-Seven

  As the winter of 1426 approached and the war, of necessity, came towards its annual close, Georges de la Trémoille left the court of Philippe le Bon, Duke of Burgundy, without having made any progress in his ambassadorial negotiations. With a heavy heart and feelings of frustration caused by the Duke’s deliberate obstinacy, the fat man had gladly started the long trek homewards, depressed only that his mission had failed.

  A lover of the Queen and a servant of Jean the Fearless, Duke Philippe’s father, Georges’s twinkling house-mouse eyes had a way of making him a friend to everyone, particularly when the friendship was to his own advantage. He had fought at Azincourt, been captured and taken to London, but had quickly paid off his ransom and returned to France, shortly afterwards marrying Jeanne, the wealthy widow of the Duke of Berri, this at roughly the same time as de Giac’s marriage to Bonne.

  The convenient death of his wife had been the best stroke of good fortune Georges had ever had. The great riches of the old Duke had by court ruling become his and de la Tremoille’s star had gone firmly into the ascendant. During these years of political progress he had also managed to acquire two very valuable allies: the Constable of France, the Earl of Richmond, and the woman whom Georges suspected of meaning more to Arthur than either would admit, the young King’s mother-in-law, Yolande d’Anjou. Seeing his potential as a mediator between Charles and Burgundy, the Queen-Duchess and the Constable had appointed Georges their ambassador and sent him without delay on a deputation, the aim of which was to woo Philippe back to their side, away from the English.

  Such a move was desperately needed. Richemont’s brother, Jean of Brittany, had briefly changed allegiance in order to marry his daughter to Yolande’s son, Duke Louis, and then, early in 1426, having been defeated by the Duke of Bedford at the Battle of St. Jacques, defected once again and rejoined the triple alliance. The effect of this on Richemont had been disastrous and his brother’s betrayal, coupled with the fact that the Constable had been in command at the losing battle, had turned the tide of opinion against the Earl. It was only the combined strength of him and Yolande that was keeping him in his high position as his fat friend Georges had left on this most delicate of missions.

  The journey back had not been without incident. After a few miles, de la Trémoille had fallen into the hands of the English and had been forced to part with every bit of his money and all the valuables on his person, only the Duke of Burgundy’s signed safe conduct getting him out alive. So it had been with great relief that he had seen the distant towers of the castle at Bourges and crossed the river Yèvre with his party of riders to approach it.

  In an odd way, when he recalled events later on, Georges thought he could remember noticing that the King’s guards looked different, but at the time he paid no heed, only too gratified to be back and able to go in shortly and warm himself by the fire in the great hall. Handing his horse to an ostler, de la Trémoille hurried inside.

  The scene within was one that he never forgot. The great hall was full of the most terrible-looking people; rough oafish men ogled women who had plainly been brought in off the streets, thick with face paint and stinking of unwashed parts, while de Giac’s collection of freaks cheered on one of their number who was actually copulating publicly. There seemed nobody there he recognised, but as Georges pushed through the crowd he found to his horror the Admiral de Culant, a friend, lying on the ground being viciously kicked by the Lord de Lignières, one of de Giac’s creatures.

  “Stop, stop!” de Culant was shrieking as de Lignières’ foot went into his stomach over and over again.

  He had just had a long and hazardous ride and was also seriously overweight, but Georges did not hesitate. Flying like a cannonball he threw himself at the unsuspecting Lord who toppled beneath the enormous bulk tackling him from the rear. There was a splintering crunch as the two men went down together, landing on top of the Admiral who promptly lost consciousness. The dwarves and freaks, losing interest at once in their rutting companion, dashed to watch this latest diversion and screamed shrill encouragement at de la Trémoille.

  “Come on fatty, hit him!”

  “Slap him one, big man.”

  Georges obeyed, ploughing in for all he was worth, until de Lignières lay in a pool of blood, teeth everywhere but in his mouth, snarling vengeance with what was left of his voice.

  Dragging his friend to his feet, de la Trémoille exclaimed, “What the hell is going on here? The place is like a thieves’ bloody kitchen.”

  But de Culant was too faint to answer and it was only when he had manhandled him into an antechamber and sent for wine and water that Georges finally got any sense from his bruised and battered companion.

  “It’s de Giac,” the Admiral gasped. “He’s taken over. The King is under house arrest, constantly guarded by a hundred swordsmen. Nobody can get in or out.”

  “Christ’s poor wounds,” exclaimed the fat man, deeply shocked. “How did all this come about?”

  “It was while you were away. De Giac took it into his head to murder his wife—”

  “You mean Bonne is dead?”

  “Yes, I fear so. Anyway, Charles found out and went crazy, like a maddened animal. He was just going to have de Giac put under arrest when there was a coup. Pierre’s troops rounded on the King’s and outnumbered them. Robert le Maçon was hauled off as a hostage and not released until Charles had paid a thousand golden écus as ransom. It is anarchy, Georges, sheer anarchy. De Giac runs this place like a bandit chief. He’ll have you done to death for saving me. You’d best get out while the going’s good.”

  “Where are the King and Queen?”

  “Kept in their apartments. Charles spends most of his time reading and she occupies herself with the children. They can’t get a letter out. Everything is read and destroyed.”

  “Is de Giac totally insane?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s gone right over the edge. I pity his poor wife.”

  “You mean he’s married again?”

  “Yes, the widowed Lady de l’lsle-Bouchard. She was fat when he first wed her but she’s hardly eaten since, and is now down to skin and bone.”

  Even in adversity Georges’s piquant humour flashed. “If that’s what he can do perhaps I should marry him as well.”

  “Don’t joke about it,” answered the Admiral, mopping his wounds. “De Giac is a pervert. His latest friend is Gilles de Rais, the most evil creature one ever set eyes on.”

  “Then help
must be summoned.”

  “Yes, it must — and urgently. Go to the stables and take my horse. It’s fresh and ready. Strong too,” the Admiral added, and chuckled in spite of everything.

  “Where’s Richemont at the moment?”

  “In Angers, helping Yolande defend Anjou. Part of Maine has fallen to the English and she’s striving night and day to hold them there. Her great fear is invasion.”

  “He’s not been a very successful Constable so far, has he?” de la Trémoille commented reflectively.

  “The great blow was his brother changing sides again. If that hadn’t happened I think the Earl might have been able to bring things round.”

  Georges nodded, taking this in, and would have answered had not a sudden noise in the corridor outside had him sprinting, light as a cat for such a sizeable fellow, to the far door.

  “Will you be all right, my friend? I hate to leave you in such a plight,” he whispered from the entrance.

  “I think so. But bring help soon for God’s sake. Poor Charles, who would have thought this could happen to a King.”

  “Poor Charles, poor Bonne,” answered Georges starkly. “How did she die?”

  “The rumour is he tied her to the underside of his horse with her belly dragging along the ground. You see, she was pregnant.”

  “He’s inhuman, vile,” de la Trémoille hissed violently. “He should be put down like a mad dog.”

  “Pray God that happens soon.”

  “I think it most likely will,” the fat man replied with much feeling as he hurried from the room.

  Yolande and Richemont had spent a hard summer, fighting off the English at every turn. John of Bedford, continuing the policy of his dead brother, was pressing southwards, threatening the Loire and all the lands lying beyond the mighty river. His entry into Maine, a part of Anjou’s many territorial holdings and the Countdom of Yolande’s third son, Charles, seemed a terrible portent of what might lie ahead and the Duchess had spared no effort to guard Anjou’s borders fiercely. Only now, with the winter of 1426 putting an end to the fighting, could she and her lover afford to relax their vigilance.

  There was a further worry to add to the others that beset the Queen-Duchess at this time. In the autumn of the previous year she had received a strangely worded letter from Alison du May, and had guessed that it in some way concerned Jehanne. But the meeting that Alison had so earnestly sought had been impossible to arrange in view of the English advance and the question as to what could be the matter with her bastard daughter had nagged at the back of Yolande’s mind throughout the entire twelve months. But short of asking Madame du May to state the trouble in writing there was little the Duchess could do except wait until sometime in the future when it would be safe to leave her beleaguered territories.

  All in all it had not been a good year for any of them and it was with much joy that Yolande and Richemont saw the beginning of December finally arrive, knowing that with the weather now worsening and the daylight hours growing short, the war must, perforce, come to a halt till the spring.

  “Shall we go to Provence?” Richemont asked, but Yolande shook her head.

  “I trust the situation too little to journey so far. I think we should stay here, or rather I should. When will you rejoin Marguerite?”

  “Just before the Twelve Days. The rest of the time I shall remain with you, if you will permit me?”

  It was all said with ritual politeness but the words hid a love that still ran savage and raw below the surface. Small wonder that Yolande’s coquettish, “Yes, if you please, Monsieur”, led to a rough kiss from Richemont which, in turn, led to more which, in their turn, led to Yolande’s bedchamber.

  It was in this way that the couple were lying in a calm deep sleep, their first for months without an ear constantly alert for the sound of battle, their lovemaking done, when Georges de la Trémoille arrived at the castle of Angers in a sweating panic. Shown to the Guests’ Lodging and then, sometime later, to the Queen-Duchess’s antechamber, where Yolande received him graciously, all Georges’s suspicions were confirmed when Richemont strolled nonchalantly in some ten minutes later, his scarred face rested, his eyes bright and cheerful, his expression, however, changing abruptly when he saw Georges’s obviously distressed condition.

  “God’s life, what is it, man? You look in dire straits.”

  “I am, I am,” breathed de la Trémoille, gulping down the wine that had been provided for him. “I come from Bourges with grievous news.”

  “Bourges?” repeated Yolande, rising from her chair. “Why, what’s happened?”

  “To put it bluntly, Madame, there has been a coup at Court. Pierre de Giac rules by mob law, his swordsmen hold the King and Queen at bay. Ordinary life is paralysed, letters can neither get in nor out. The entire situation is highly dangerous and volatile.”

  “De Giac!” growled Richemont. “At the root of every trouble, always de Giac.”

  And he and Yolande flashed each other a momentary glance which the observant Georges did not miss.

  “What’s to be done?” said the Queen, looking from one to the other of them in consternation.

  “Well, we’ve got to put a stop to it, that’s obvious,” Richemont answered without hesitation. “But when?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The winter is sealing all of us in, Yolande…”

  De la Trémoille couldn’t help but notice the easy use of the Queen-Duchess’s Christian name.

  “…and we mustn’t forget it. If we’re to make a move against de Giac we are obliged to wait till next year.”

  “But what of Charles and Marie? Are they in danger, Monsieur?”

  She had turned to Georges who was able to reassure her.

  “Certainly not. They are under de Giac’s command, that is all. It is not in his interest to harm them.” There was a pause and then he added, “Did you know that Madame de Giac is dead, ma Reine? That it is whispered her husband murdered her?”

  “Bonne dead?” Yolande said in horror. “But she was such a close friend to my son-in-law.”

  ‘And that’s an understatement,’ thought de la Trémoille irreverently.

  Out loud he answered, “Alas she’s no one’s friend any more. Apparently de Giac slung her belly downwards beneath his horse and rode it till she died. She was expecting a child it seems.”

  “A child!” said Yolande, sitting down again. “Oh, I see.”

  And she did, everything falling neatly into place. Richemont, too, it appeared, also reached some sort of conclusion about this because he cursed de Giac as only a soldier could.

  “Christ’s mercy! I’ll cut his coillons from his body with my own hand.” He turned to look at Yolande, his scarred face wild and livid. “I pray you, Madame, pass the death sentence on him, because it is now high time it was issued. De Giac has sinned long enough in this world. Let him go to the Devil, whom he loves so well, and take his chance in Hell.”

  “I pronounce it without hesitation,” the Duchess answered at once. “Monsieur Constable, Monsieur de la Trémoille, I charge you both with encompassing the death of Pierre de Giac as soon as possible. Give him no quarter or mercy. He showed none to Bonne whose only sin was one that every woman knows.”

  “Amen, amen,” cried Richemont in an ecstasy of revenge. “It shall be done as you desire.”

  He could not have known that there was now a price on his head and yet, for mysterious reasons of his own, at the end of January 1427, Pierre de Giac ordered that the whole court move from Bourges to the castle of Issoudun, on the river Théols. Here he fortified himself in, making sure that the town gates were locked securely every night at dusk and ordering that no one be allowed admittance without his prior authority. And yet there was one person, other than the captive King, who could overrule that order and it was the one person, because of his involvement in the war, that de Giac had not reckoned with.

  So it was a shock when on the evening of 2nd February, late and in the darkness,
the Constable of France himself came to the gates with a small group of men, including the Lord d’Albret, Bonne’s brother Roger de Naillac, and Georges de la Trémoille.

  “Open up at once,” the Earl shouted into the gloom and a second or two later repeated the command as the porter’s white and officious face appeared at the wicket.

  “You must wait there. I can let no one in without the express orders of Monsieur de Giac himself.”

  “You’ll hang in the morning and on my orders,” Richemont called back. “Do you not recognise the Constable of France?”

  And there was a flurry of movement as the Constable’s personal standard was thrust forward and the great chain of office revealed from under Richemont’s cloak.

  “But—”

  “If these gates are not open in the next thirty seconds I’ll batter them down and your head with them. Now move, you imbecile son of a whore.”

  Keys were clanked and the gates flew back so fast that Richemont wondered grimly if the man were trying to set some sort of record. The Constable turned to his group.

  “Right, tie him up and relieve him of his duties till morning. The rest of you come with me.”

  “Where are you going?” whispered Georges.

  “To the nearest tavern and then to church. I need to rest and pray before doing what I must.”

  It was extraordinary to de la Trémoille to watch the scar-faced warrior, once having secured a room in the tavern, settle himself down for a few hours’ sleep, the town keys firmly attached to his belt, slumbering calmly through the noise of the roisterers below stairs. Eventually, though, Richemont rose and went straight to the Chapel where he knelt in prayer until d’Albret called that it was after midnight and the Earl, having hastily crossed himself, got to his feet.

  Their shoes muffled by cloths, their weapons held in front of them to avoid jangling, the hand-picked group of men went through the town to the castle and there obtained entrance by a little-used door leading into one of the towers. Creeping up the spiral staircase and along the many galleries the silent band of grim-faced conspirators came to the main living quarters and made their way unhesitatingly to the apartments occupied by de Giac, easily identifiable by the strong smell of erotic incense coming from beyond the door.