The King's Women

Home > Other > The King's Women > Page 42
The King's Women Page 42

by Deryn Lake


  Carvings and gargoyles, windows and staircases, abounded everywhere that the eye could see, for this chateau, unlike the awesome castle of Angers, was the graceful country residence of the Dukes of Anjou, their haven, their idyllic retreat, their place for love and laughter and tournaments. Here, in times of peace, the Dukes came to relax, to look down at the great waterway below, to leave the chateau by the bailey gate and go through the fields to hunt in the wild woods.

  From the bank on which this delightful pile was built, a bridge spanned the river to an island lying between the two arms of the Loire which, in turn, housed another bridge going across to the right bank. And it was here, between the two bridges, in the district known as the Quartier des Ponts, that another, smaller, but equally graceful chateau stood, virtually surrounded by water, its flower-filled gardens running down to one fork of the river, its imposing entrance dominating the other. Echoing the Duke’s residence, this smaller version also had embellished white stone and dark slates, and stood three storeys high, a fantasy of towers and turrets and sloping angled roofs decorated with lavish gargoyle spouts. For this was the home of the Queen of Sicily, built for Yolande’s mother-in-law but extensively altered and refurbished to suit the younger woman’s tastes.

  The island chateau had always been the Queen’s retreat, the place to which she retired to think, to plan, to be private. And it was to this palace, so discreetly hidden from observers, that Yolande had ordered the King’s messenger, Colet de Vienne, to bring Jehanne, skirting Chinon, taking the girl away from her planned route.

  ‘She is to see me before ever she is introduced to any member of the Court, particularly the King,’ Yolande had written in her sealed orders, a copy of which had been given to Bertrand de Poulengy. ‘It is imperative that I counsel the child first.’

  “But why are we not going to Chinon? Why are you not taking me directly to the Dauphin?” Jehannette had protested, seeing the road lead off in the opposite direction.

  “Because Queen Yolande of Sicily, Prince René’s mother, has asked to meet you first and that is a great honour,” de Vienne had answered firmly. “It was she who wrote giving you permission to come to Court if you remember, so the last thing you must do is be churlish about it.”

  “But it means yet another delay.”

  “For a visionary clairvoyante you are remarkably shortsighted,” the messenger had answered crisply. “Get the Queen on your side and almost every door will open for you. Just think about that.”

  And Jehanne, who had been about to say something further, promptly closed her mouth again, obviously doing his bidding. Colet grinned briefly, well aware that he, in his dashing livery, thoroughly overawed her, and very pleased to get the last word with such a thoroughly argumentative little baggage. Yet even he, critical though he was, had to admit that she had behaved impeccably during the journey, sleeping slightly apart from the men, never complaining of discomfort, and travelling amazingly well.

  “You’ve been trained to ride, haven’t you?” he had said suspiciously after one particular night when they had covered a distance almost too great for a young female to accomplish.

  “I used to get on my father’s horses,” she had answered casually.

  “Don’t give me that. No farmhouse nag could prepare you for this kind of feat. We’ve just covered 65 kilometres in one stint. Only a highly trained cavalry man could manage it.”

  Jehannette had shrugged her shoulders. “God helps me,” she had said.

  But Colet had been far from satisfied. He knew a skilled equestrian when he saw one and this peasant girl’s riding abilities were quite clearly phenomenal. But he had let her explanation pass, not wanting to upset Jehanne in any way even though his slightly cynical feelings about her had now returned.

  That she was sincere in the belief in her voices, de Vienne had no doubt. That the voices came from God rather than her own thoughts and wishes he was not so sure. Looking at her sideways, taking in the strong boyish physique, the tense face filled by the great dark eyes, he thought to himself that this was a very earthy little visionary.

  “Tell me, Jehannette,” he said matter-of-factly. “When you hear your voices do you also see their owners?”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered earnestly. “I have seen St. Michael, St. Catherine and St. Margaret. It is they who speak to me.”

  ‘Umm!’ he thought, saying aloud. “What do they look like?”

  “Like us, perfectly normal.”

  “Then how do you know they are saints?”

  “Because they have beautiful crowns, very rich and precious. Anyway, they told me who they were.”

  “Did they resemble their statues in the church?”

  “Very much.”

  ‘So that’s it,’ thought Colet. ‘A highly strung pubescent girl, fasting and prone to hallucinate, imagines things and comes to save France as a result.’

  Yet that explanation was too facile. For a mere deluded adolescent, Jehannette had remarkable courage and staying power, and none of those interpretations could explain her stunning horsemanship, the ease with which she handled the sword she had been given. Turning it all over in his mind, Colet de Vienne came to a different conclusion, namely that a genuine clairvoyante, a girl of enormous psychic power, had received such forceful intuitions they had given her the confidence to step out of nowhere and proclaim her mission. And that somebody, some hidden person, had utilised this, had had the girl trained as a knight, a training which she had been only too willing to undergo in order to achieve her objective.

  “Then let it be hoped that your saints, your voices, will help you to win back France for the Dauphin.”

  “They will,” the girl answered positively. “They will never let me down.”

  “I pray not,” Colet answered, and really meant it.

  It was evening, the 21st February 1429, when Bertrand de Poulengy’s party of riders eventually arrived beneath the walls of the chateau of Saumur, pale as a fairy castle in the rapidly fading light, and crossed the bridge to the Quartier des Ponts. In the gloaming they made their way to the town gate of the Chateau of the Queen of Sicily and traversed the small courtyard beyond, leaving their horses with the ostlers and making their way on foot through the arched entrance. And it was here that the group split up for the first time in eight days, Jehannette being led away by female servants to remove her travel-stained clothes, the men being taken to the guest lodging to eat and rest, awaiting further orders from Yolande d’Anjou.

  A dress awaited Jehanne in the chamber which had been prepared for her, a dress of vermilion silk, the most beautiful she had ever seen.

  “Madame the Queen asks you to put this on, Mademoiselle.”

  “But I couldn’t, it is far too fine. Can’t I wear my ordinary clothes?”

  “I think not,” answered the lady-in-waiting, specially assigned to serve the extraordinary girl she had been agog to see and about whom, already, there was so much rumour and speculation at court. “It would displease Madame not to comply with her request and, besides, I have been instructed to take your riding outfit away and have it cleaned.”

  “Then I must obey,” the creature answered humbly, and took a sip of the wine that had been put in readiness for her, as if to give her courage.

  An hour later Jehanne was ready, washed from head to foot and wearing the red dress, a colour that suited her dark appearance well. In fact, thought the Queen’s lady, the girl looked quite feminine and attractive, very different from the oddity that had arrived.

  “If you will follow me, Madame the Queen has asked that you be taken to a little-used room in the chateau. This is to maintain the secrecy of your visit.”

  “I understand,” the stranger replied, and went confidently enough through the galleries and down the stairways, making the Lady wonder at the strange mixture of her, the terrible ydioma accent, the boyish manner, all combined with an indefinable poise, as if someone had knocked the rough edges off, educated her in certain aspects of
behaviour and presentation.

  “You’re not afraid to meet the Queen?” she couldn’t help asking, sworn as she was not only to keep this visit secret but to resist questioning the girl in any way.

  “I am nervous and yet I am not.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That God is looking after me so I have no need to be scared, yet it is still a daunting thing to mix with great men and women.”

  “I wish you luck in all that you do,” answered the Lady simply and withdrew from the small unattached annexe, once the playing room for the Queen of Sicily’s children, left empty now that they were grown. With her she took so many extraordinary impressions of a striking young person that she was forced to walk in the gardens for an hour, pitch dark though it was, to clear her mind.

  In the soft candlelight, Jehanne waited, not daring to move, knowing that her moment of destiny was very near and wishing that those voices which pierced her to the heart with their clarity, their profound and incredible messages, would come to her assistance now. But this night they were quiet and it was another voice which said, “Welcome to the Chateau. Was your journey difficult, ma Pucelle?”

  Trained soldier that she was, the girl none the less started violently and peered into the gloom where a figure, clothed entirely in black, moved in the shadows.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “A friend,” came the reply, and Jehanne saw that a Benedictine Abbot stood before her.

  She was on her knees before she knew it, grateful that a man of God had been sent to receive her, rather than a proud and sceptical Queen.

  “There is no need for that,” he answered, raising her up. “It is I who should be kneeling to you. You see, I have awaited your coming many years.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jehanne answered honestly.

  “I had a vision when I was a boy that spoke to me of La Pucelle. So strong was its impact that I entered the cloister in order to serve you as best I could. Now I have handed the care of the Abbey to my Prior and am prepared to follow wherever you may lead me.”

  “You have seen them too? The saints?” Jehanne asked, gasping for breath.

  “I saw nothing except a light, while a voice spoke inside my head.”

  “But there was something there?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask that?”

  “Because there have been moments, Father, when I have wondered, have suffered the sin of doubt, and thought perhaps I imagine it all.”

  “That could not be,” Jacques answered her seriously. “Something, some force has given you the strength to come here. You are inspired, and inspiration in itself is divine.” She was in the presence of good intent and the girl knew it, knew that whatever might lie ahead this young man of God would never hurt or betray her.

  “Then I ask you to be my confessor, to stay by my side until the end.”

  The words slashed like a sword through the air, speaking as they did of fate and finality.

  “Bless me,” said Jacques, kneeling before her.

  “I cannot do that. I am the virgin from the woods, but no more.” She hesitated, then said, “Yet that is not all the story, Father. There is something about me I have not told you.”

  “I know already. You are a Poor Knight of Christ and the Temple. You have been received into that Order.”

  Jehanne stared at him. “How did you know?”

  “If I tell you that you will think it wrong, sinful.”

  “Nothing is sinful that strives for truth,” Jehanne answered. “My twin brother, as close to me as if he were part of my own flesh, is Astrologer Royal to the Queen of Sicily and it is he who saw you in his scrying glass, riding amongst the Templars.”

  “It is my mission not only to liberate France but to continue the deeds of the Order. My ultimate goal is to liberate the Tomb of Christ and the Holy Places from the power of Islam. The work of the Templars must go on.”

  Now Jacques understood the mystery of Jehanne fully. Ordinary peasant she may well have been born — though she seemed to have some air about her that suggested otherwise, yet that made little difference — she had been selected by some powerful person to continue where the Templars had so abruptly and cruelly been forced to finish. The Order, once so strong but now obviously driven underground, was to be revived through La Pucelle.

  “Bless me,” he begged again, and felt her hand lightly touch his head.

  “I do no miracles but I give you my love.”

  “Then I am content,” he said and stayed as he was for a moment, devoutly gazing on this strange dark girl whose eyes lit from within whenever she spoke of what must be done in the future.

  And that was how Yolande saw her child for the first time in eleven years, in the act of blessing Abbot Jacques who knelt before her, the shape the two young people made harmonious and beautiful, almost as if an aura of goodness surrounded and glowed about them.

  “Jehanne?” she said, and her darling, her love child, turned to look at her with her Spanish eyes, reminding the Queen yet again of King Juan, her father.

  With an action that would have been faintly comic in any other circumstances, Jehanne bowed like a boy.

  “Aye, I am Jehannette,” she said.

  “I prefer your grown-up name,” answered Yolande, and advanced towards her daughter as Jacques moved discreetly away, then through the door, leaving them alone together.

  “Do I know you?” said the girl, puzzled. “I feel I do.”

  “You do and yet you don’t. Suffice it to say that I have known you for many, many years.”

  Jehanne’s sudden and very charming smile flashed across her face. “Well, that’s not a very long time because I am young yet, as people keep reminding me.”

  “When one is young,” Yolande answered, laughing a little, “one wishes to be older. But when one is old one wishes to be young. There’s no pleasing people.”

  “You please me,” Jehanne answered, “because you sent for me. That means you have faith in me, and I thank you for it.”

  “I know you for what you are,” the Queen answered, “a pure and honest girl. But there are many at Court whispering that you are otherwise, that you are a witch, or even a common adventuress with whom the King should not associate.”

  “Who says this?”

  “Georges de la Trémoille for one. But enough of that for this evening. Tomorrow I intend to prepare you as fully as I can for all that you will have to contend with at Court, so tonight you shall sleep at the Abbey of St. Hilaire St. Florent, to hide the fact you are in Saumur. But now it is time for the two of us to get to know one another. I would like you and me to sup together privately.”

  “It is strange but I feel there is no need to get to know you, I believe I am already your friend.”

  “So you trust me?”

  “With my life,” answered Jehanne and impulsively, and with no regard for the fact that the woman she was addressing was the Queen of Sicily, she kissed Yolande on the cheek.

  Her mother froze beneath that wonderful embrace, not just because of her daughter’s glorious proximity but because for the first time she could sense something of her power, her weakness, her strength and her vulnerability.

  “Oh, my dear child,” she said, and hugged her close, throwing caution to the winds, not behaving as a monarch should at all.

  “Are you my friend?” Jehanne asked in that strangely direct and utterly captivating way of hers.

  “For ever,” answered Yolande, and allowed herself the luxury of joyful tears long, long overdue.

  On the morning of 23rd February, after attending mass in Notre-Dame de Nantilly, Jehanne left Saumur for Chinon, trotting in the midst of her escort, dressed in her boy’s suit, the beautiful red dress given by Yolande stowed away in her saddle-bag. Watching from a high window in her chateau, the Queen saw her go, her heart lurching with pride and faltering with fear for the brave little sprite setting out so boldly. But being the woman she was Yolande did not allow hersel
f to sentimentalise, instead going to her private apartments and ordering her Ladies to prepare for a journey.

  “Will you be visiting Chinon, ma Reine?”

  “I feel confident my son-in-law will ask me to attend him there very soon. But even if he doesn’t I shall go in any case. Nothing would keep me from being present when La Pucelle meets him for the first time.”

  Those words said, the Queen of Sicily went to her writing desk and with a wicked smile, knowing her son to be as great a master of deception as she, Yolande wrote to René, at last free of her self-imposed embargo not to endanger Jehanne by word.

  ‘My dearest Child,’ she put. ‘Your wishes and instructions have been carried out and you will be pleased to learn that Jehanne the Maid has left safely for Chinon to see the King. All your efforts have borne fruit for the girl rides and carries her sword as proudly as any Knight of France…’

  “And let him make of that what he will,” Yolande said aloud.

  ‘…and I feel certain will impress all those with whom she comes in contact, just as she did me. Naturally I will keep you informed of every twist and turn in this, the most fascinating of adventures.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t bring him hurrying to Court to see for himself I don’t know what will,’ thought the Grand Master’s mother.

  Incredibly restless, she went to the window and looked out over the river to the tiny Isle de la Poissonnerie, joined to the Quartier des Ponts by a bridge, another small bridge leading from the isle to the right bank.

  Everything Yolande could see from her vantage point suddenly seemed very tremulous and fresh; the banks of wild flowers on de la Poissonnerie sharp and colourful in the clear morning light, the wind ruffling the surface of the Loire so that the fishermen had to cast their lines with caution, while the high white sails of boats scudded past like cut-outs beneath the tight-budded willows and the bursting green-gold twigs.

  “On such a morning it is right my daughter goes to seek her fortune,” the Queen said to herself. “For it will always be remembered that she set out in the spring, a season as vivid as a crocus, just as she is.”

 

‹ Prev