The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  “Get up at once,” bellowed Georges, hammering on the door with his fist. “Get up, Monsieur. Your hour is at hand.”

  He said this last with great drama, relishing each word, and was rewarded by an oath, a shooting back of the bolts, and the sight of de Giac, stark naked, standing in the doorway. Beyond him, lying on the bed in the same state, could be seen the new Madame de Giac, her figure really very beautiful since her loss of appetite. Every head turned, every jaw sagged, and she snatched the sheets to her chin protectively as ten pairs of eyes looked in her direction simultaneously.

  “Mon Dieu!” said Georges softly, while d’Albret, quite involuntarily, gave a low appreciative whistle. Only Richemont remained unmoved, staring at de Giac with a merciless glare.

  “I arrest you,” he said bluntly.

  “On whose authority?”

  “My own. Seize him.”

  The three largest men in the group started forward but Bonne’s brother beat them all to it. Rushing up to the Devil’s man he heaved his knee straight into de Giac’s privy parts and as the man doubled in agony, sliced his hand down onto the back of his neck, then jumped on his erstwhile brother-in-law and began to choke the life from him.

  “No,” snapped Richemont, “de Naillac, no. He must be tried.”

  “He has been tried before Heaven.”

  “I know, I know. But let justice be seen to be done. I want no stain attached to this execution.”

  They dragged the Satanist from the room, an old cloak covering his blatant nudity, and it was only the fact that one of Richemont’s soldiers decided to help himself to de Giac’s silver on the way out that caused Madame de Giac, who up till then had remained remarkably calm, to open her mouth in protest. Losing her husband was one thing but being robbed of her valuables was obviously another.

  Leaping out of bed, not caring who saw what, she gave chase to the errant swordsman, shouting, “Stop thief, those are mine not his! Return them immediately.”

  The ancient castle woke in uproar, people hurrying from their rooms to see what was going on, Charles, wearing only a nightshift, coming blearily from his.

  “What the Devil!” he exclaimed as Catherine de Giac, stark naked, hurtled past him in pursuit of a struggling figure blanketed by a cloak.

  “De Giac’s been arrested.”

  An extraordinary combination of expressions crossed Charles’s features.

  “On whose authority?” he said, an echo of the victim’s earlier words.

  “The Lord Constable’s.”

  “It should have been mine,” responded the King bitterly. “By God it should have been mine.”

  Then without another word he marched back into his chamber, banged the door closed, and could be heard shouting and cursing within.

  “What on earth is the matter with him?” a shocked de la Trémoille asked Robert le Maçon, still haggard from his recent captivity at the hands of de Giac but doggedly serving his royal master as best he could.

  Le Maçon lowered his voice. “These days the King is a confused creature in many ways. Remember his early years and it is not difficult to see why. Sometimes the sheer frustration of his position gets too much for him. Charles has spent weeks, months, plotting his revenge on de Giac. Hidden away in his library he has secretly been formulating plans. And now in walks Richemont, cold as ice, and snatches the villain from under his nose.”

  “But surely he’s grateful?”

  “He’s grateful all right. It’s just that he is sick to his very gut that he didn’t have the power to throw de Giac out himself. Do you see?”

  “Yes I think so.”

  “He’s twenty-four years old, Georges. He is a married man with children, yet everyone treats him as if he’s a babe-in-arms. He is getting into a dangerously stubborn state.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Only hope he gets out of it.”

  But behind the closed doors of his apartments, Charles de Valois wept the bitter tears of one who knows stalemate, all the relief that his ordeal at the hands of de Giac was over tempered by his own powerlessness. The agony of Pisces was upon him. A creature with so much to give to the world was being netted by a hostile environment. With a feeling of despair, Charles began to swim down to the dark depths below the ocean, regardless of the fact that in the deeps there is no air for a human being to breathe.

  They took de Giac out of the city and gave him a summary trial, the verdict of which was a foregone conclusion. Throughout, he scorned the services of a Christian priest but on the eve of execution panicked and asked Richemont to come to him.

  “Well?” said the hardened campaigner, remembering how once he had left the castle of Angers at dawn, a boy on his way to war, his heart broken by de Giac’s deceit.

  “Am I to die in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I must keep my pact with Satan or he will be coming for my soul.”

  “He can have it and welcome.”

  “Richemont, for the love of God, I don’t want to rot in Hell. I promised the Devil my right hand. If he has that then I have kept the bargain and may confess my sins and go shriven to my death. If you have any mercy left, cut off my hand and send me a priest.”

  “You craven coward,” said Richemont contemptuously. “Your entire life has been devoted to demonic arts and now at the end you quail. To Hell with you. I’ll not help you.”

  “Please,” said de Giac, clasping his fingers together in supplication. “If I give him what I promised I can keep my soul.”

  “Why not?” said de la Trémoille, suddenly appearing in the doorway of the cell.

  “Because he deserves all he gets.”

  “Well, I for one owe him this last favour,” answered Georges mysteriously, and with that wrenched Pierre’s fingers out of the praying position, spread his right arm full length along the floor and hacked the hand off at the wrist with his sword. Blood poured everywhere at the severing of the artery and Richemont turned away in anger.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because tomorrow, when he is dead, his widow, the beautiful Catherine, gives herself — and her jewels by the way — to me. It was the least I could do.”

  Despite his fury, a grin started to creep over the Earl’s features. “God be praised, you don’t miss a trick, do you? When did all this intrigue start?”

  “From the moment she ran naked into my arms. It was I who gallantly hid her from the eyes of the world whilst taking a good look myself!”

  “You never cease to amaze me. Come on, I don’t want to watch this creature bleed to death.”

  But de Giac was still alive in the morning when the town executioners, masked and hooded in black, sewed him into a weighted sack which was thrown unceremoniously into the river Auron.

  “The air is suddenly cleaner, isn’t it?” said Georges, breathing deeply.

  “I hope so,” answered Richemont cynically, watching how the last ripple spread out before it finally vanished. “But in my experience there’s always another one like de Giac coming up behind.”

  “How true!” answered de la Trémoille, with twinkling eyes. “My dear friend, how very true.”

  Part Three - Jehanne

  Twenty-Eight

  Autumn began in a blaze of glory: trees like flame, the crisp harsh crack of leaves beneath the feet, skies clear, angel blue, rivers flowing with a cold deep urgent sound. Then came change: frosts by night, the ground white and stiff with rime, skies dark as seal pelts, ominously heavy, rivers starting to freeze in still, silent, currentless pools.

  Those who studied weather blew their fingers and pulled up collars, birds sought berries and wild things laid in stores. And yet the snow did not come, instead a constant cruel frost until December when flakes finally fell out of the sky in a blinding mass that brought everything to a standstill. With the claws of winter sunk so deep into the land, the war, which could not be described as raging but rather dragging on interminably, obediently halted at one feroc
ious stroke from nature.

  The town of Vaucouleurs, much like any other small walled city built beside a river, lay deep beneath the drifts, slumbering and silent until, cautiously but determinedly, out came the diggers. Rosy cheeked, hoods pulled down, eyes glistening in the cold, they cheerfully rubbed their hands together then got down to work and slowly the bridge, the gate, the tavern, the brothel — they drew lots as to who should dig out that one — began to emerge from beneath the smooth levels that the heavy fall had caused. Only the castle reared clear, throwing an eerie shadow on the narrow-streeted town that lay, snow filled, below its resplendently high perch.

  And yet this work, this shovelling, this battle with the elements, was a relief to every inhabitant. From the smallest toddler, plunging head first into the whiteness, emerging again with quivering lip not sure whether to laugh or cry, to the old men who limped their way to the hostelry leaning heavily upon sticks, the wood almost as knotted and gnarled as they, this wicked white winter was better than the summer when they had all lain under siege at the hands of the Angloys-Françoys.

  For from June to November 1428, the enemy had been staring at them across the river and only the gallantry of the townsfolk, under the captaincy of Robert de Baudricourt, who governed the place in the name of Charles of France, had saved them. Thus Vaucouleurs had become the only Valois fortress still holding out to the north-east of the Loire, apart from Montargis, a dire position to be in indeed.

  Therefore, this sudden attack from nature, which everyone understood and could reckon with, was preferable by far. In fact there was something satisfying about it all, shovelling and laughing together, putting a hot poker into the wine to mull the dark red liquid, roasting chestnuts, crunching them up with burning tongues and teeth, and spitting and swearing and cursing the Angloys and Françoys until breath ran out.

  In the castle, too, there was a sudden mood of contentment. The soldiers who had fought so bravely, glorifying both themselves and their commander, had been down in the streets helping to clear the snow, had been talking to the townsfolk as they worked alongside them, had been eyeing up the young women, who had giggled and coloured and brought the fighting men drink and refreshments, or had asked them into their houses to take a sup of ale. After all it was St. Hilary’s Day, 13th January, two days into the year of 1429, New Year’s Eve falling on the 11th January as it did under the Julian calendar. And on this particular saint’s day the ban on marriages, which held good during Advent and the Twelve Days, was lifted until the following Christmas.

  So, sitting before the fire in his private chamber, his boots neatly placed side by side in the comer and his toes curling towards the flames, Robert de Baudricourt temporarily put aside his contemplation of the current situation in France — enough to depress anyone — and concentrated instead on enjoying the sheer bone idleness of doing absolutely nothing at all. Other than raising his wine to his lips and grasping the cup in his fingers to prevent it from spilling, he had no other duties; in fact, de Baudricourt had not felt so relaxed since the moment when he had seen the last of the accursed English finally traipse off into the bad weather.

  “This is the life!” he said now, and allowed himself the luxury of snoring, something his wife detested, as he hovered between sleeping and wakefulness. Drenched in this wonderful somnolence, stretched out, lazy as a cat, the last thing he wanted was a knock on the door, but that is precisely what came, a cautious tap from someone who obviously knew he was resting and, after a moment or two, a head hesitantly appearing in the crack.

  “Captain de Baudricourt, are you asleep?”

  “I was,” Robert answered tersely.

  “Oh, sorry, I’ll go.”

  The head withdrew again but not before the Captain had had time to recognise the craggy features of Simon, his personal servant and general dogsbody, obviously sent to him with a message.

  “I’m awake now,” de Baudricourt called after him. “What is it you want?”

  The head reappeared. “I’ve been sent from the guard room to tell you that that loopy girl’s back.”

  “God’s mercy, what’s this?” Robert said irritably. “Come in, man, come in. What loopy girl?”

  “The one who came last May, just before the siege. She’s here again.”

  “Not the creature who said she had a mission to save France and must see the Dauphin?”

  Simon nodded until the shaggy red curls which grew in a great bush round his granite face flew about. “That’s her.”

  De Baudricourt sunk his head into his hands. “Oh, Christ, what have I done to deserve this? This is supposed to be my day off.”

  “They tried to get rid of her but she’s creating a bit of a scene down there. Says the Lord has told her to be with the Dauphin by mid-Lent so that she can relieve Orleans then take him to be crowned.”

  The Captain groaned aloud. “I’ll give her the Lord, straight up her backside! Tell them I’ll be down in a moment.”

  Simon nodded, tapped his forehead with his forefinger, said, “There’s one born every minute you know,” and vanished.

  With a great deal of reluctance, the Captain began to pull on his boots.

  The girl looked better than when he’d last seen her, he thought when he walked into the castle’s guard room some ten minutes later. Then she’d had her hair cut so short de Baudricourt hadn’t been able to tell at first exactly what gender she actually was, but now it was long, obviously female, lustrously dark against her red dress.

  “Well?” he said coldly.

  She glanced at him cautiously yet with direct eye contact, flinching from nothing, and de Baudricourt found himself scrutinising her closely in the few seconds before she spoke. The creature was over five feet, tall for a woman, and extremely muscular, almost athletic, and her face, though not beautiful, was certainly arresting. Dark, dark eyes, very Spanish-looking, gazed out from beneath thick black brows and lashes, while the hollows and curves of her face would be spectacular when she grew older and had fined down.

  “I’ve come back,” she said.

  “So I see. Did your father not box your ears hard enough?”

  There was silence during which she flushed a little, remembering, no doubt, his advice to her uncle to take the silly chit back to her parents and tell her father to give her a beating.

  “Well, didn’t he?”

  She hung her head momentarily, then suddenly flung it back. “I can’t waste time talking about that, Captain de Baudricourt. I have been sent by God, whose instrument and messenger I am. Before mid-Lent the Dauphin will be given help to get rid of his enemies. For, after all, the Dauphin’s kingdom really belongs to the Lord and He is tired of foreigners occupying His territories.”

  “Is He now?” said Robert, a smile beginning to twitch at the comer of his mouth.

  “Yes,” the girl answered firmly. “Furthermore, Captain, in order that I may fulfil my mission, namely to raise the siege of Orleans and take the Dauphin to be anointed King, I would ask you to give me a horse and escort to lead me to him immediately.”

  “You’re mad,” said Robert, sitting down on a stool and folding his arms on the rough-hewn table. “You are stark staring mad. Now in the name of God, whom you so boldly claim to represent, go away before I tan your hide myself.”

  “I see you don’t believe me.”

  “No, you silly bitch, I bloody well don’t.”

  “But I am the virgin from God, La Pucelle.”

  “Really?” said the Captain, and yawned.

  “Listen,” said the girl, leaning forward on the table so that her eyes were exactly level with his own, “last time I came here you gave me short shrift and sent me packing. Now you’re doing it again. But this time I’m not leaving. I am going to stay in this town and will continue to do so until you change your mind. I’ve got till mid-Lent to get to the Dauphin and neither you, Captain high and mighty de Baudricourt, nor any other mother’s son is going to stand in my way. Good day to you.”

&nb
sp; And she was gone in a flurry of red skirts and swirling hair.

  “Well!” said the Captain looking round his astonished guards. “Mettlesome little baggage, isn’t she?”

  “Extraordinary,” said Simon, who had been eavesdropping in the doorway. “Quite a character. Loopy of course, but still a character.”

  “Lieutenant de Metz,” called de Baudricourt to one of his fellow officers who had been standing behind the visitor, watching everything that went on.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Do you remember her name by any chance?”

  “I do as it happens. Jehannette Dare.”

  “Oh, yes, it comes back to me. Well, could you go into the town and find out where Mademoiselle Dare is lodging and suggest to her landlord he moves her on? I don’t want her hanging round here making a nuisance of herself till Lent. I really do not.”

  “But even if he agrees, I can’t stop her finding lodgings somewhere else,” de Metz pointed out.

  “Well, do your best,” Robert answered crossly. “The girl is a pain in the arse, not to put too fine a point on it, and I want her out.”

  “Very good, Monsieur. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Excellent. Now I’m going back to my fireside and my dreams and this time I don’t want any interruptions.”

  “Not even for a messenger from the Lord?” asked Simon irreverently.

  “Most definitely not,” replied the Captain and, grinning, cuffed his servant’s ear.

  The visit to Jehannette’s landlord went rather badly.

  “No, Monsieur,” Henri le Royer said firmly. “I’m not turning her out. She is a good girl, a holy girl, and I don’t want it on my conscience that I put such a person on the street. Besides, my wife has relatives in Domrémy. What would they say if I forced one of their own out of doors?”