by Deryn Lake
“My future husband,” she said, “is it true he is simple?”
The Astrologer Royal hesitated momentarily, never liking the fact of giving bad news. “You will certainly be the more dominant of the partners,” he said eventually.
But Marguerite was vixen sharp. “Then he is. Will he go completely insane like his French grandfather or will he just be stupid?”
“He will withdraw from the world. It is you, Princess, who will carry the burden of the kingdom and it is you who must act wisely at all times. There are two roses in this crystal, one white, one red, and with them all the signs of bloody conflict.”
“What does that mean?”
“Civil war, somehow connected with roses, will break out in England and you will be involved, heavily at that. Tread with caution always. Do not listen to false advisers. Weigh everything that is said to you with great care.”
Marguerite shivered. “It sounds awful — but interesting! Will I have many lovers?”
Guy smiled. “What Queen does not?”
“My aunt Marie for one. It is the King who is the lecher in that relationship. And talking of lechery, how will my friend the Dauphine fare? She would like to have seen you herself but lies ill in bed so asked me to represent her.”
The Astrologer’s face grew watchful. “I feel Madame should be careful in all that she does.”
Marie looked slightly irritated. “You do nothing but issue dire warnings. Surely you can be more specific?”
“Very well. The Dauphine is thinking of playing a dangerous game in order to become pregnant. I believe you know what I mean…”
Marguerite blushed, remembering her advice to her cousin to find herself a healthy youth to act as sire to her child.
“…and this could rebound in her face. The Dauphin is going through a period of hating women. I believe that Margaret of Scotland should beware his wrath.”
The Princess of Anjou shivered, suddenly cold. “I will tell her to be on her guard.”
“I enjoin you to do so, otherwise her entire future lies under a shadow.”
Marguerite stood up, passing him a gold coin. “I thank you, Astrologer. I will think seriously about everything you have had to say. And now may I ask you one final question?”
“Certainly.”
“I have heard it said that you knew Jelianne Dare, that your brother once acted as her confessor. Is it true?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then tell me please, what was she like?”
“A strange mixture of things as are most people. But brave and good and honest, a bright flame that can never be put out.”
“Why didn’t my royal uncle save her?”
“I think he tried but failed.”
“Was he sad that she died?”
“He went into retreat at the Abbey of St. Nicolas where my twin was Abbot. I believe they prayed together for many days.”
“You said was. Is he no longer there?”
“No, he left his post after Jehanne’s death and went to Rhodes to become a Knight of St. John of Jerusalem. He believed that her work should somehow be continued so became a warrior-monk in order to play his part.”
“That must have been a hard life after the gentleness of an Abbey in Angers.”
“He seemed to welcome it,” Guy answered sadly. “He was never able to settle back to the monastic existence having once known her.”
“She must have been a very powerful person.”
‘The strange thing was that in many ways she was very weak.”
Marguerite shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” Guy said quietly. “She left behind a great many questions, most of which I believe will never be answered.”
In September of the year of Marguerite’s betrothal, the Dauphin was wounded at the siege of Lambach, an arrow being shot through his knee, pinning him to his saddle. In an agony of guilt, Charles had written letter after letter begging his son to come home, but the Dauphin preferred to stay away, keeping his own counsel, until the campaign was finally over and there was nothing further left for him to do. Then, very reluctantly and with dread in his heart, Louis had returned to the Loire in the spring of 1445.
He was now a little mad, there could be no doubt of that, the form of his madness an obsessive hatred for his father and Agnès and, even more so, for his wretched wife the tragic Margaret of Scotland. In fact no sooner was Louis through the door at the end of his journey home than he turned on her like a fury.
“You useless cow,” he had screamed, throwing the girl violently to the floor. “What cruel fate ever led me to be married to you? You’re barren, your dower has never been paid, you cough, you’re stupid, melancholic, and recite poetry. Why don’t you have the good grace to die?”
“But I’ve never done anything to harm you,” the unhappy creature had sobbed. “I devote my entire life to trying to have a child. It’s not my fault if nothing happens.”
“Of course it’s your fault,” Louis had shouted, giving her a swift kick. “For it’s certainly not mine. That child the bitch Sorel had last November, I fathered that.”
“But you couldn’t have done. You and she weren’t…together…in February. It’s the King’s.”
He had knelt down beside her, his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re not to say that word, do you hear? Nobody speaks the name of my royal whoremonger father to me. And if ever you do so again I’ll flay you to within one inch of your life.”
Poor Margaret had become hysterical at that, shrieking and sobbing so loudly that her principal Lady had come running in, only to find the Dauphine in a state of total collapse.
“You’d better take her to her bed,” Louis had said carelessly, peeling himself some fruit. “She’s jealous because the royal whore has had a child. Get a doctor to her for the love of God.”
It was so cruel, so heartless, that most of the courtiers were sickened by his behaviour. But there were those within the whispering gallery who took delight in causing pain and trouble and murmured to the Dauphin that Margaret had been unfaithful while he was away fighting, that she had been trying to find some country boy to act as a stud.
“If she’s betrayed me, by God I’ll kill her,” Louis had said, and there was something about the look on his face, about the wildness in his eyes, that had convinced his set of friends the Dauphin meant everything he said.
Within six months of the death of Yolande d’Anjou, Richemont’s legal wife, Marguerite of Burgundy, had followed her to the grave, and the Earl had been left entirely alone to dream of the past. Widowerhood had suited him, had become a way of life he enjoyed, being solitary, to walk by the river when he was at home, free to eat and sleep when he liked, to dream of Yolande and feel her cold hands touch him during the night, to think about his one great love and how different it would all have been if they had married.
But his companions, his comrades-in-arms, unable to understand that the Earl was perfectly happy, interfered as is the way of the world and, at the great tournament given to celebrate the betrothal of Marguerite d’Anjou, introduced him to Jeanne, younger sister of Charles d’Albret. She was very young, sixteen, blonde, giggling constantly, and she was also very highly sexed, taking a perverted delight in seducing a scar-faced warrior three times as old as she was.
But the dictate of his body, the sexuality of his youth, was still there and a kind of madness overcame Richemont as Jeanne wore him out in her sinful bed. And then came the horrid discovery that she was pregnant and her lust turned to abject despair.
“You’ve got to marry me. I’ll be disgraced,” she had wailed.
“But I’m too old for you.”
“You should have thought of that before you raped me.”
He could have protested, told her that if any raping had been done it was on her side, but the Earl of Richmond acted like a man of honour and married the little slut in a private ceremony. Two months later she was dead, going into premature labour in the autu
mn of 1444 and ending both her futile life and that of her baby. Richemont had thought that he would never smile again.
But then, returning to the court in the summer of 1445, having besieged and conquered Metz in Lorraine on behalf of the King, he was both pleased and surprised to hear that Jacquetta of Luxemburg’s widowed sister Catherine, together with the youngest sister of all, Isabella, were paying Charles a visit. With fond memories of his former mistress, who had tried so desperately hard to save Jehanne, the Earl had looked forward to meeting them.
Much to his surprise, rather than resembling their beautiful sibling, the sisters were not only totally unlike her but also completely different one from the other, Catherine being large, dark and hearty, and Isabella small and redheaded. But the one thing they did have in common with the beautiful Jacquetta, who had consoled herself after John of Bedford’s death by marrying Sir Richard Woodville, renowned as the most handsome Englishman of his day, was an acute mind and a ready wit.
Richemont had found himself warming to the jolly Catherine when he had been placed next to her at a banquet, for watching her eat had been an education to him. Unlike many of her contemporaries the widow thoroughly enjoyed her food and made no bones about it, tucking in with relish and eagerly awaiting the next course.
“Aren’t you afraid of putting on weight?” the Earl had asked cautiously, knowing that women could be sensitive about such a subject.
“If I do, I do,” she had answered philosophically. “I like my victuals too much to give them up. Life’s too short for all that nonsense.”
Richemont had found himself suddenly laughing, enjoying himself, feeling that a breath of fresh air had come into the room.
“I think you’re absolutely right,” he had said.
“We’ve met before,” Catherine had gone on, “though I don’t suppose you will remember. It was years ago in Brittany, one Christmas when we were all young and gay. I believe you had some kind of liaison with Jacquetta.”
“Were you the dark little one with the soulful eyes?”
The widow had laughed uproariously. “Well, I’m still dark at least! But the passing of time has knocked the soulfulness out of me, and as for being little…”
And she had patted her comfortable girth with a merry grin.
Richemont had found himself laughing once more, and when Catherine had suggested that they ride together the next day had accepted her invitation with remarkable enthusiasm, remarkable in that he had not thought he would ever look forward to a woman’s company again.
But to see her riding had been a further revelation. Plump she might be and hefty her horse, but together woman and beast made a remarkable partnership, and Catherine had taken off like an arrow from a bow, zooming towards the summer woods, jumping obstacles as if they simply didn’t exist. By the time the Earl had caught her up, and he was far from a mean horseman himself, Catherine was in full flight, sailing over the brook on her way to the high meadows.
“God’s heart,” Richemont called after her. “Where did you learn your equestrian skills?”
“Born to it,” she shouted cheerfully over her retreating shoulder. “Got on a horse as soon as I could walk. My father always called me the Amazon.”
“You’re quite a character!” the Earl had shrieked to the black dot in the distance, which had waved its hand then vanished over the horizon.
It had been a strange courtship, not a love match at all, more a series of japes which had had them both laughing at the pure absurdity of their situation. And then had come the night when Richemont had finally grown serious and told Catherine, without mentioning the name, of his forbidden love for a married woman, now long since dead and gone, and how he would never, could never, love like that again.
“Much as I felt for my old thing,” the widow had answered.
“You were fond of your husband?”
“I adored him. It was one of those extraordinary occurrences, a chance in a million I suppose. The marriage was arranged yet we fell passionately in love at the very steps of the altar. I can tell you, Richemont, the consummation was memorable! Anyway, we had twenty-five blissful years together — I’m forty-two to save you trying to work it out — and then he went, a candle flame in the breeze. I cried for an entire month. But what’s the use? Life must go on.”
The words were on his lips before he knew what he was saying. “We should marry for companionship’s sake.”
“Each other do you mean?”
He hadn’t in fact but now that the Lady of Luxemburg came to say it the practicality of the idea struck Richemont forcibly.
“Yes, if you could put up with my scarred face.”
“Who’s perfect at our age?” Catherine responded sensibly.
“Was that your way of accepting?”
“It certainly was.” And she clinked her wine cup against his. “Here’s to us,” she toasted robustly. “And here’s to my sister Isabella and her little intrigue.”
“Is there one?”
“Haven’t you noticed her and that pretty young man, Maine?”
“Now you come to mention it they do seem quite friendly.”
“Friendly? They’re thick as thieves. There’ll be a double wedding, you mark my words.”
And the redoubtable Catherine was right. Charles, Count of Maine, Yolande’s third son and the King’s kinsman through marriage, who had been angling for a Burgundian heiress and missed his chance through being too dilatory, had decided to cut his losses and marry the ginger dwarf, as he lovingly nicknamed the diminutive redhead who was to become his bride. Thus the stage was set for a great celebration and the King ordered tournaments and jousts, banquets and merrymaking, as he gladly gave permission for both the Constable of France and his spoiled but beloved brother-in-law to be married.
Much to the delight of her female contemporaries, Agnès Sorel immediately conceived following the birth of her daughter, Marie-Marguerite, in November 1444, and went straight from one pregnancy to another, thus temporarily losing her spectacular figure which, in its full glory, was narrow-waisted, slim-hipped, with breasts that would tempt the saints. Yet, despite this silly miscalculation, la Dame de Beauté continued to lead fashion.
Agnès now bought all the cloth for her many sumptuous dresses from Jacques Coeur, a wealthy merchant of Bourges who had his own fleet of ships and imported goods from the great ports of Alexandria, Beirut and Cairo, the Pope having granted him special permission to trade with the infidel. Spices, cloth and jewels were shipped in by the load, and Coeur also exchanged French silver for Arab gold, thus amassing a mighty fortune for himself.
But it was not only her clothes that originated in the warehouses of Coeur, for from him came the fabulous jewellery of Agnès Sorel; her diamonds, her rubies, her pearls with sapphire clasps. In fact it was rumoured abroad that la Dame de Beauté now owned more jewels and was richer than the Queen of France herself.
For the weeks of festivities planned to celebrate the two court weddings Agnès, despite the fact she was now six months pregnant, had had nearly two hundred different outfits made and nearly as many veils. Long and transparent, mere gossamer wisps, they floated to the ground from the top of her head, enhancing the lustre and sheen of her polished oak hair, which she wore loosed about her shoulders. There was no woman in the kingdom who could compete with her and as a result la Dame de Beauté was universally loathed.
To mark her disapproval of the public flaunting of her husband’s mistress on every conceivable occasion, Marie had made it her habit to stay away from most social gatherings unless her presence was required as a matter of etiquette. So it was that this night she had remained at Tours, the place beside Charles occupied as usual by la Dame de Beauté.
“The King can no longer bear to be parted from her,” the Dauphin’s chamberlain, Jamet du Tillay, whispered into his master’s ear as he poured his wine. “La Dame is beside him at the table, at Council, in his bed.”
“Do you think I don’t know it,” L
ouis answered fiercely. “She feeds on him like some filthy parasite. And talking of such things, what further news of my wife and her adulterous habits?”
“She’s definitely being served by someone or other but her ladies are keeping a conspiracy of silence about who the man actually is.”
“You’ve got to find out,” the Dauphin whispered back frantically, breaking into a sweat. “You’ve got to find out.”
He was in a terrible state, almost to be pitied had he not been such an awful young person. Truly believing that the pathetic Margaret, who had ignored Marguerite’s advice to find herself a stud and remained steadfastly faithful to her husband, had betrayed him. As a result his cruelty to her of late had reached unbelievable proportions and the Dauphine had now had a complete nervous breakdown, hardly able to walk round, hard put to it to conduct any kind of normal conversation. And this is what led her to be sitting propped up on either side by two gentlemen of the Dauphin’s household, unable to be present at the banquet without actual physical support.
“Whore,” Louis would hiss at her from time to time. “Adulteress.” To which the Dauphine would respond with silent tears followed by a coughing fit, her chronic chest condition obviously aggravated by her nervous debility.
From higher up the table Charles glared angrily towards his son, not quite near enough to hear all that was going on, none the less mouthing the words, “Behave yourself,” a fact which sent Louis into a state bordering on frenzy.
Turning to Margaret the Dauphin shouted, “Why don’t you go to bed? The sound of your cough is ruining my entire evening.”
“I can’t help it,” she answered pathetically. “I’ve been on a pilgrimage to try and get it cured.”
“To try and get laid more like,” Louis answered into a sudden stunned silence.
“What did you say?” roared the King, looking amazingly angry, his eyes hard as rocks.
“Were you waylaid,” the Dauphin said brazenly, but nobody laughed at his quick thinking.
