The King's Women

by Deryn Lake

  “You are hopeless,” the Dauphin would hiss. And his wife would weep and read love poems out loud for consolation.

  Perhaps some, if not all, of these things could have been forgiven if the boy had had any filial devotion but, as it was, he was in a constant state of rebellion against his father.

  Not, obviously, of the open traitorous variety but more a dark brooding discontent which had started in his teens and never gone away, and which had actually erupted into a minor rebellion when he had been sixteen years old and spreading his wings.

  Charles, with his worldly manner and beautiful clothes, always made Louis feel like a child, a simpleton, his only consolation being that he was the sole heir to the kingdom. For out of the many, many children that Marie had borne the King the only survivors had been daughters. It seemed to the Dauphin that the palaces and chateaux were in a constant state of invasion by an army of little girls who were almost impossible to distinguish one from the other.

  To make matters worse even more females were expected at the chateau of Saumur this very day. Isabella of Lorraine, wife of René, with her daughter Marguerite — the most obnoxious little bitch ever born according to Louis — were coming from Toulouse with their household of Ladies and damoiselles, all of them bound to giggle and chatter and generally min life. The only consolation in all this was that some of their number would, no doubt, be willing to go to bed with the Dauphin of France and there would be a chance to indulge his greatest pleasure. Turning from the window, Louis surveyed himself in a mirror.

  He looked worse than usual, he thought, the bright day showing up his pasty complexion and awful nose, in fact the only good thing he could see about himself were his eyes, which were very clear, shining and alive. He had learned over the years, having no other decent feature, to make them extremely expressive. Sometimes the Dauphin would narrow them, thus looking knowing and shrewd. On other occasions he could make them twinkle and wink, and on others again, glow with passion. Adjusting them now to a steely gaze with which to look straight through his cousin Marguerite, Louis prepared to meet the visitors who he could tell from the thunder of horses’ feet were rapidly approaching the chateau.

  From the courtyard below, the building consisting of four wings round a spacious quadrangle, came the sound of the first horsemen clattering on the cobbles and, crossing to the window once more, Louis looked down. Leading the way in was Pierre de Brézé, a member of the King’s council since 1437, and a bumptious upstart in the Dauphin’s opinion. Tall, muscular, assured, with hair the colour of crisp autumn leaves, matching hazel eyes, and a superb speaking voice, Pierre was everything that Louis was not and was soundly hated as a result.

  “This visit is going to be disgusting,” said the Dauphin loudly, and pulling his hat down over his eyes braced himself to receive the guests in place of his parents, who were still in one of their winter residences in the Touraine.

  “Where’s Madame la Dauphine?” he shouted as he made his way from the first floor apartments to the great hall below.

  “Resting in her chamber, Monsieur.”

  “Then get her up. Tell her I want her here. Madame Isabella has arrived.”

  They were pouring into the hall even as he came down the stairs, Isabella, Marguerite, and what looked like a regiment of retainers. Bowing them in, acting as the King’s master of ceremonies, de Brézé smiled and chattered with a flowing good grace which made the Dauphin loathe him all the more.

  “Ah, good nephew,” called Isabella from the doorway. “How delightful to see you again.” And she blew a kiss.

  She was an enormously enthusiastic woman who always made an occasion out of an event. Fairly tall, very dark, and extremely overpainted, Isabella waved and shouted a good deal, laughed inordinately at minor jokes, and was good company in small doses.

  In comparison with her mother, Marguerite d’Anjou appeared positively mouse-like, but this was merely a superficial impression for Louis knew that the girl was an undoubted brat. Greedy, avaricious, spoilt and demanding, Marguerite played on her good looks for all she was worth. Her eyes, lips and nose were, all three, quite perfectly moulded but her forehead, which she shaved in the fashion of the times, was patently too domed, the only flaw in an otherwise lovely little face. Seeing Louis she surreptitiously raised her thumb to her nose, while he, noticing, shot her a dark glance before putting on a false smile.

  “My dear aunt, cousin, how very nice to see you again.”

  “Louis, so long,” gushed Isabella. “And where is Madame?”

  “Resting. The Dauphine, alas, suffers with her health.”

  “A delicate girl indeed,” his aunt replied, not concentrating. “King René I fear will not be joining us for quite some while. He sojourns in Italy at present.”

  “We shall miss him,” answered the Dauphin, thinking about the extraordinary turn of fate that had brought his uncle, René, to the throne of Sicily and Naples when Duke Louis, known to the world as Jade, had died shortly after being thrown from his horse, leaving no child to succeed him.

  “Ah, indeed,” Isabella replied, and waved gaily at Pierre de Brézé. “Monsieur, come and cheer us all up with your merry presence. Ha, ha, ha.”

  Barely disguising his thoughts the Dauphin nodded to the newcomer.

  “Yes, do come and cheer us. We are so dull without you.”

  De Brézé extricated himself from the horde of damoiselles who were overseeing the portage of all the luggage, and Louis took this opportunity of running an appraising eye over them, deciding which looked likely candidates for a bed romp. There was the pretty one from Anjou whom he had always rather fancied, and a plain one, very earnest looking, who was bound to be flattered and do his bidding. And then the Dauphin stopped short as his eye alighted on a figure in the comer, someone he had never seen before, and someone who set him frankly staring.

  A girl stood there, half turned away, a demoiselle, utterly new at court and quite the most beautiful creature Louis had seen in his entire life. Hair like polished oak, lustrous and gleaming, was bound up round her head in heavy coils, framing the delicately boned face beneath. A small straight nose, a curving mouth and eyelids like half-moons, lowered and demure, were perfectly placed in a countenance the shade and texture of magnolia leaves.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the admiring young man, then she looked up and he was rendered totally speechless.

  The girl’s eyes were large, black lashed, a rare shade, a combination of gold and green, clear as Normandy cider. Very fleetingly, just before she looked away, she gave him a tentative smile and made a small curtsy.

  As the royal ladies fussed together over their luggage, de Brézé, seeing the direction of the Dauphin’s gaze and grinning to himself over Louis’s dropped jaw, murmured, “You admire her I see.”

  “By God’s sweet passion, I’ve never seen anything like it. Who is she?”

  “My mistress actually.” Pierre tapped his handsome nose. “I know I shouldn’t, my wife expecting a child and so on, but I’m afraid I was sorely tempted.”

  “I don’t blame you,” answered the Dauphin, wondering why he felt so bitterly disappointed. “What’s the lady’s name?”

  “Agnès Sorel.”

  “I envy you her, I really do.”

  “Are you seriously interested, Monsieur?”

  “Very.”

  “Then I’ll see what I can do. I don’t see Agnès refusing a royal command somehow. It’s not in her nature.” And de Brézé laughed shortly, a slightly bitter sound.

  “You mean you’d share her?”

  “If she is willing, I am. I’ll sound her out.”

  Louis, suddenly deciding de Brézé was not as loathsome as he had originally thought, turned on him a beaming look. “You have just risen one hundred percent in my estimation.”

  “Anything I can do to oblige,” said his companion, then laughed and spread his hands.

  It being too late for the guests to attend dinner, which was eaten at noon, Louis
immediately decided to give a formal supper that evening in his apartments which lay in the chateau’s north wing. Saumur, in fact, did not belong to him, being the property of the Dukes of Anjou, but during René’s absences in his other territories the Dauphin frequently stayed as a kind of caretaker, glad to have the excuse to be away from his father and running his own household.

  Now, he assumed the role of genial host with ease and threw open his receiving room overlooking the river, setting the musicians to play at one end, the servants to attend the guests at the other. The Dauphin had also taken particular care with his dress that evening, abandoning his battered hat and usual worn grey outfit for a crimson doublet with an embroidered collar. For once, compared with his customary garb, Louis looked reasonably presentable.

  Just before dusk the royal ladies and their entourage swept across the courtyard from King René’s wing and mounted the elaborate staircase leading to the Dauphin’s apartments. Peeping slyly through the window, Louis was gratified to see that the new damoiselle, ravishing in deep blue, was climbing the stairs with them, well to the back as her lowly status demanded.

  “Monsieur,” said de Brézé as she came in, then bowed and winked, though quite what the Dauphin was meant to read in to that he was not absolutely certain.

  The Dauphine, as was her habit, entered listlessly and late, her fair hair woven with ribbons and hung with little veils, hennins having at last gone out of fashion, a lot of jewellery about her neck which only served to make her look pale. She greeted Isabella with polite indifference but immediately went into a huddle with Marguerite, a friend though six years her junior, and could be heard discussing tendre amour, part of the tradition of chivalry, in her indifferent French, made all the more difficult to understand by her pronounced Scots accent. Louis, looking in their direction, gave a great roll of his eyes.

  The girl, if de Brézé had indeed told her of the Dauphin’s tendresse, gave absolutely no indication of it, standing, like all good attendants should, behind the chairs of the royal party, now and then exchanging a few words with another damoiselle, only glancing up occasionally to take in the scene. As well as beauty she obviously possessed both poise and discretion, excellent attributes for anyone aiming to become a royal mistress.

  ‘Aiming,’ repeated Louis to himself. ‘I wonder why I used that word?’

  For there was no sign at all that such a thought had even entered Agnès’s mind.

  “Monsieur.” De Brézé was at his elbow.

  “Yes?”

  “You look bored and we can’t have that. May I walk with you, perhaps chatting to a few fellow guests as we go?”

  “Why not?” answered Louis cheerfully. “Minstrels, play up. You’re too quiet.”

  But even as they approached, the girl remained passive, almost as if she had either not noticed who was coming towards her or didn’t care. Louis felt the slightest tinge of annoyance and wondered whether to walk straight past. But she was too lovely, too arresting, for any such games. He stopped in front of her, made his usual ungainly bow and said to Pierre de Brézé, “Won’t you introduce Queen Isabella’s latest acquisition to me?”

  “Charmed,” said de Brézé, the lines round his eyes crinkling suddenly. “Monsieur, may I present Mademoiselle Agnès Sorel?”

  She curtsied very deeply and very straight, those intriguing half-moon lids of hers lowered discreetly.

  “Your humble servant, Monsieur,” she said, and even her voice was pleasing, soft and well-modulated, somehow a soothing sound.

  “I am captivated,” answered Louis, doing his best with his eyes. “Believe me, Mademoiselle.”

  “Oh I do,” she answered, with just the slightest hint of amusement, and looked straight past him.

  It struck the unromantic Dauphin that she was like a mermaid, with that gleaming hair and those great golden pupils of hers.

  “You are a very pretty young woman,” he said awkwardly, and was furious that de Brézé muffled an obvious snort.

  Agnès dropped another curtsy, her face expressionless. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  “I would like to talk to you further,” Louis whispered urgently, trying to drop his voice so that he could not be overheard. “Will you come to my apartments later?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “What?”

  “I said no Monsieur. I do not visit the rooms of men I do not know, even be the man the highest in the land.”

  “Then how can I become acquainted?”

  “I am staying in the Queen’s retinue until she plans to leave, which is some months away. You have until the winter, Monsieur.”

  He was completely nonplussed, never having had a refusal like this before. “Well, if you think so,” the Dauphin stammered out awkwardly.

  “I do, Monsieur. Now if you will forgive me I believe the Princess is calling. Au revoir.”

  He stared after her disconsolately only to see the Dauphine eyeing him narrowly, her conversation with Marguerite obviously at an end. Suddenly rather miserable, Louis went to join her.

  “You wanted me?”

  “I would like your permission to withdraw, Monsieur. I am feeling a little faint.”

  “Oh, you’re always faint,” snapped her husband. “I’ve never known such a lily-livered creature in all my life. Why can’t you be healthy and robust like everybody else?”

  “Because I can’t,” answered Margaret in her terrible French, and started to weep.

  “Oh really!” exclaimed the Dauphin at the end of his tether. “You’d better withdraw.”

  The Dauphine was suddenly all smiles. “Yes, I think I should. I’ve my apples to eat and my vinegar to drink. You see, I’m trying for a baby,” she announced to Marguerite, who had just come over to rejoin them.

  Louis’s cousin smirked. “I always thought it was the potency of the father that determined these things,” she said, then wandered off again.

  At night they came back to haunt him and he knew he would never be free of them until the day he died when, or so he most fondly hoped, he might glimpse them again, even if it be only for a short while. Richemont always woke crying after those dreams, his scarred face drenched, his arms reaching out for the space once occupied by Yolande, his ears alert for the sound of Jehanne’s battle cry, his heart pounding at double its normal speed.

  He would get up then and throw a log on the fire, sitting the rest of the night with his brandy bottle for company, aware that nothing could ever console him for the loss of the two women who had not only touched his heart but conquered it.

  The obscene death of his only child had been bad enough to bear, though its effect on the girl’s mother had been even more devastating. It was not that Yolande had aged overnight, that would have been too trite and facile a thing to say. It was simply that the fight went out of her, Richemont had been able to mark it visibly. The hawkish features had relaxed and softened, she had ceased to worry about the King and his court, only the fact that the English, against whom she now had an almost fanatical hatred, were still in Normandy, had bothered her at all.

  In a way it had almost been a relief to him to watch her settle down to middle age and though the Earl had teased the Queen that she had taken up tapestry work, he had been glad to see her sitting, sewing quietly, instead of concerning herself with matters of state. The death of Jade, that athletic outdoor creature, though it had been riding as he would have wished, had been the final blow to her. Though René had been released from captivity and inherited Anjou, Sicily and Naples with great joy, the Queen Mother had become just that, white-haired and suddenly weary.

  She had died in the garden of the Chateau of the Queen of Sicily. Just a few moments before she had been walking handfast with the Earl, grizzled and grey himself by now. Sitting down on a stone seat to rest, Yolande had turned on him a radiant face, all the youth and beauty magically restored to it.

  “I am at peace,” she had said. “But very very tired.”

  “Then rest your head on my
shoulder, ma Reine. Take a little nap.”

  “I will, I will,” she had said.

  And they had fallen asleep together, two lovers of old, out in the pale November sun. Yet when he had awoken, she had not and, in a sense, at that moment his life had ended with hers.

  They had laid Yolande to rest beside her husband in the burial place of the Dukes of Anjou, and Richemont had thrown a single winter rose on her coffin then ridden away before anyone could see him weep. But at night she came to him, lingering beside his pillow, holding him in her cold embrace, waiting for him to join her in eternity.

  He woke now, shivering from her touch, and went to stoke the fire, then sat down with his bottle and glass, thinking of all the stirring and strange events that had taken place in France in the twelve years since the burning of Jehanne.

  He, Richemont, had become finally reconciled with Charles during the year after her death and had then seen de la Trémoille off once and for all. Oddly, he had almost felt a moment’s compassion for the fat man of whom he had once been so fond, hating to see the merry mouse eyes brim with tears. Yet it had to be done for the good of the nation and his removal had seen the end of the old order. The King and the Duke of Burgundy had signed a peace treaty and Richemont, reinstated as Constable of France, had entered Paris in Charles’s name. In the following year, 1437, Charles had finally made his state entry into the capital after an absence of nineteen years. The monarch had worn full armour and a hat crowned with fleur-de-lis, riding alone beneath the state canopy, his horse covered with cloth of gold also sewn with the national emblem; a far cry from the boy who had escaped on the only horse left from the oncoming hordes of Jean the Fearless.

  After that the wheel of fortune had turned once more. Meaux had fallen into the hands of the Constable, then Pontoise. The English, mourning the death of John of Bedford, who had married his Jacquetta during the final two years of his life, were completely losing heart.

  ‘The only trouble,’ thought Richemont, drinking his brandy as he reminisced, ‘was with the universal spider, the Dauphin.’