by Deryn Lake
“Because I don’t trust her. She is altogether too powerful and furthermore I am not at all sure she is faithful to you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She is extremely close to de Brézé to say the least. And what about Jacques Coeur?”
“He is a merchant who supplies her with her clothes and jewels. That is all.”
Marie glared at him. “Oh, how swiftly you rise in her defence! It is said behind your back that anyone who speaks against her is finished as far as you are concerned.”
Charles glared back. “Kings are not concerned with gossip and tittle-tattle, and neither should be Queens. Where is your dignity, Madame?”
“Died of cold when you threw me out of your bed.”
“How dare you!” Charles expostulated angrily. “You removed yourself. Don’t blame me for your self-inflicted wounds.”
“Self-inflicted! What choice did you give me? Damn you, Monsieur, you have ruined my life.”
And with that she wept, her middle-aged face, which had not worn well over the years, crumpling.
The King stood helplessly, his hands hanging down by his sides, and then all his old feelings for his childhood friend came rushing back and he knelt down beside her chair, putting one arm round her shoulders. The old magic, so long dead, worked again, and they flung against one another in an enormous kiss, their recent anger putting paid to formality and inhibition.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Charles, and tore at his wife’s black clothes just as if he were a lusty peasant.
“Not here! The musicians!”
“Come to bed then. Oh, Marie, I love you.”
And he did, this was the tragedy of it. In a completely different way, Charles loved both Agnès and Marie simultaneously. But now he was mad to have his wife, pushing her into his bedchamber, taking her where she stood by the bedpost, too excited, his need too urgent, to wait another second. And the Queen, remembering all her old power over him, gave as good as she got, making love to him like a young girl, naked and eager, smothering him with kisses, guiding his vigorous appendage herself. It was a night that neither of them ever forgot and in the dawning, just as the spring birds began to sing, they coupled again, this time in rather a desperate way as if, because the hours of daylight had now returned, the delicate balance of their newfound relationship might once more come under threat.
*
It was a cold windy sunny March day and on the river Marne the bright sails of the fishing boats dipped and rose, the craft flying along in the breeze, the willow trees on the banks shaking and shivering in a whirl of buds, the golden catkins and the twigs, black from a recent shower, tossing in the air. Gulls wheeled amongst the crows, white wings spread against pitch-dark feathers, and the towers of the Château de Beauté glimmered gold.
In the cabin of her luxurious boat, furnished with rare and beautiful things bought from Jacques Coeur, Agnès Sorel and Pierre de Brézé lay naked, entwined about one another, exquisitely engaged in the most intimate act of all. As always with these two, attracted quite hopelessly to one another and never able to break the spell that lay between them, it was a fine encounter, slow to screaming point but culminating in ecstasy. But then, greedy as children, they were not content and began again, performing the carnal act until darkness fell and it was time to return to the château.
They had moored the boat at a little island, the property of la Dame de Beauté, in order that nobody would guess their secret. But as Pierre rowed back through the darkness Agnès, dressed now, sat silent, trying to come to terms with the fact that she was in love with two men at once. For she did love the King, not just as the provider of all good things but because of his sophistication, his charm. The appeal that only a middle-aged man can have for a younger woman was very real as far as she was concerned. And yet Pierre de Brézé, in a way, was the focus of her entire life. He had claimed her virginity and her love at the same time. The idea of giving him up was unthinkable. But, despite that, Agnès Sorel was not devoid of conscience and sometimes squirmed at the enormity of her arrant naughtiness.
In this maze of different emotions there was another factor, too. Jacques Coeur, the dark, intelligent, beautiful merchant prince, also admired and wanted her. Yet his love, thankfully, took a less demanding form than that of the two other men. Half the jewels Agnès owned, including rare and wonderful diamonds, Coeur had given her in exchange for seeing her naked, not touching just looking, walking round and round her where she stood on a podium.
Once she had asked him if he did not want to know her carnally and he had replied that he loved beauty, not sex. And yet the merchant had a wife tucked away somewhere and had fathered children. La Dame had considered it extremely strange. But at least Coeur’s love did not tangle her web any further, and for that she was both relieved and thankful.
“You’re quiet,” said de Brézé, momentarily shipping his oars.
“I’m thinking.”
“Of what?”
“The King. Hoping he never finds out about us.”
“It’s the Dauphin one needs to watch, not his father.”
“But he likes you.”
“He pretends to, but actually I’m sure he’s stirring up trouble.”
“Against us?”
“Of course.”
It was a sobering thought and it was with downcast eyes and much circumspection that Agnès, having received a message that the Queen had finally left, returned to court in April. De Brézé, of course, had gone ahead of her long since in order not to arouse suspicion, but Agnès was hard put to it not to rush into his arms when she saw him again, suddenly ill at ease, a strange pricking feeling about her spine.
One month later she knew exactly what had caused her premonition, and cursed the fact that she had allowed herself to be sent away so tamely, for the rumour was sweeping court that the Queen was enceinte.
“It happened during the King’s birthday celebrations,” Agnès overheard one giggling damoiselle tell another. “Madame moved back into Monsieur’s bedroom and apparently there were high jinks.”
“Obviously! My goodness me, I wonder how la Dame de Beauté will take the news.”
“She’ll be sick in her shoe,” answered the other, then they both shrieked mirthfully and moved away.
Agnès stood silently, wondering what to do, unable to consult Pierre who was in Anjou, suddenly feeling totally at a loss. As vulnerable as she was lovely, the girl felt moved to tears by the King’s betrayal of her, not giving a thought to her own scandalous behaviour. And then she had a moment of inspiration.
“Don’t unpack my. things,” she called to her Ladies. “I’ve a notion to go to Bourges and see Jacques Coeur.”
“But we’ve only just arrived.”
“Then it will be less work for you,” answered Agnès, suddenly angry, “if I go straight off again.”
The matter of where Marie should be housed was now becoming something of a problem, made all the more difficult by the fact the Astrologer Royal had assured Charles that this latest child, conceived during the wonderful weeks of passion the King and Queen had shared together, was not only fated to be Marie’s last but was actually a boy, a boy moreover who would survive, unlike the other little mites, and grow to manhood. Dazed by the news, Charles had consulted every astrologer for miles and they had all come up with the same answer. The Queen of France was going to bear him another son.
“You cannot leave Madame out in the cold, Monsieur,” Dr. Robert Poitevin had told the King. “She will be forty-two years old when the infant is born. If you want this to be a successful pregnancy and delivery the Queen must have every care, both mental and physical.”
“But Madame will not live under the same roof as la belle Agnès.”
“Then la belle Agnès must be persuaded to reside elsewhere. After all, she has two wonderful chateaux to choose from.”
And it was true, following the birth of Agnès’s second child, Charlotte, Charles had given his mistress t
he Chateau of Issoudun in Berri, filling it with wonderful tapestries, linen and tablewear, to say nothing of a specially made bed complete with set upon expensive set of lace and satin sheets.
“I’ll do my best,” Charles had answered gloomily, “but you know what women are like.”
“I know what the Queen will be like if she is not cherished.”
And with those words Robert Poitevin had bowed his way out, leaving the King to solve the problem for himself.
“Beauty is everything,” Jacques Coeur said, gently kissing Agnès’s nipples. “Beauty of appearance, beauty of thought, beauty of manners.”
She smiled at him in the gentle moonlight, standing naked on her podium, her neck and breasts enhanced by the presence of a single pearl brought from the East, the size of a human eye.
“But you forget yours I think, Monsieur. You promised that you would look at but never fondle me.”
“That kiss was a salutation to perfection, that is all. I would never lay my hands on you, ma belle. You are too perfect ever to be touched.”
“But I am touched and you know it.”
Coeur made a very slight face. “I do not wish to think of it. Such things are not aesthetically pleasing.”
It occurred to Agnès briefly that the merchant might be homosexual but she discounted this on the grounds that he had a wife and children.
“I came to you for advice not a lecture, my friend. What should I do about the Queen?”
“Accept the situation with grace, ma belle. Let the poor woman return to court. Show the world that you are as beautiful on the inside as you are to behold. Take up residence somewhere nearby but not intrusively so. The King will love you all the more for it.”
Agnès sighed. “You are right, I know it. I must be seen to have the manners of a princess even if I am not one.”
“A charming sentiment.” He kissed her navel. “And as a reward you may keep the pearl.”
Agnès’s hands flew to it and she lifted the precious thing in order to look at it. “But I couldn’t, it is far too rare.”
“Wear it and say it came from Jacques Coeur, then my fame will spread throughout court and everyone will buy their jewels from me.”
“But they do that already.”
“Be that as it may, I want you to keep it, belle Agnès. Wear the pearl and think of me.”
And the strange exquisite would hear no more of it, merely giving her one more very intimate kiss then sending la Dame de Beauté back to her sovereign lord.
It had been a great relief to all concerned when the King’s mistress announced that she would like to live at Loches, at least for the time being. And it had been an even greater relief to the doctors and astrologers when Marie, huge already despite the fact that the pregnancy was only four months advanced, arrived with her suite to settle with Charles at Chinon. Even the Dauphin, who was presently living a life devoted to conspiracies and carnality, was in a happy frame of mind. He was currently sleeping with three ladies at once, some said quite literally so, and this had put a smile back on his ugly face.
In this peaceful atmosphere the Queen bloomed while Agnès remained quietly in the background, and on 1st December 1446 went into a short vigorous labour the result of which was the birth of a large baby boy who, despite the fact he was baptised Charles almost instantly, appeared to have absolutely no intention of dying. His horoscope being cast by Guy, the Astrologer Royal was pleased to inform the King that the boy would both live and love well.
“A Prince after my own heart?”
“Absolutely, Monsieur.”
An even greater bonus was that the family tendency to extreme ugliness seemed to have bypassed this baby, who grew very quickly to look like his grandmother, Yolande.
“I love you. You have given me the greatest gift of my life,” said Charles to Marie, and really meant it.
And it was then, this remark being repeated to her by one of her many spies, that la Dame de Beauté decided it was time for her to act, that, despite her legendary appearance, her hold on the King was beginning to weaken. Thus, in the middle of December, she set out from Loches announcing her intention of passing her Christmas at court. And everyone awaited her return with bated breath.
“I shall go,” said Marie. “I’m not staying here with that little strumpet.”
“But you can’t journey in this weather. You’ve only just had a baby. Please, chérie, stay here for my sake.”
“Do you promise not to touch her?”
“I promise,” answered Charles weakly, and knew he was lying even as he said it.
It was almost as if de Brézé had taken up the challenge on Agnès’s behalf, an extraordinary fact in view of the secret situation between them. And yet to this brilliant wily man the situation was highly dangerous. Much as he loved his glorious protégée, he had no wish to see her influence diminish, her power over the King weaken. It was essential for his own ambitious plans that Agnès remain the royal favourite, and the fact that the Queen was now high in the King’s esteem did not please the Seneschal at all. Thus he decided, on la Dame de Beauté’s behalf, to win back the King’s passion.
The means chosen was a banquet to end all banquets, held on Christmas Eve, 5th January, plate and cloth loaned by Jacques Coeur, jewels bedecking every course, all of which were prepared by the finest cooks in France. As for the principal guest, Agnès herself, she was a masterpiece; dressed in fur-trimmed velvet, scarlet and black, one breast displayed, white as a gardenia against the lustrous dark pelt, diamonds in her hair and ears, one vast stone glittering at her throat. In comparison the poor Queen, only shortly risen from childbed, looked fat and frumpish and extremely middle-aged.
During the course of the feast, while this perfect star shone in her specially prepared firmament, it was obvious that Charles was as deeply attracted as ever, that the feelings Agnès aroused in him had not gone away and that, when all was said and done, the birth of Charles of France had made absolutely no difference.
“If he’s like this on Christmas Eve,” said one cruel courtier to another as the King rose to dance with la belle Agnès, his whole manner displaying the fact that he was once more utterly besotted, “what will he be doing by Twelfth Night?”
“Agnès up to the hilt?” asked his companion in a cruel play on words, for when a fellow courtier was disliked by de Brézé they only had to be given an ‘Agnès up to the hilt’, a word from la Dame de Beauté in the King’s ear, and out they went.
Most unfortunately the new mother, suffering with the usual depression following birth, overheard the entire thing and retired early from the banquet, scarcely able to fight off her tears. And seeing the Queen leave, a fact hardly noticed by the dancing King, seemed to be a signal for the Dauphin who also left the table and hurried after his distraught mother.
He caught up with her in her own apartments and displayed an unusual amount of tenderness, putting Marie to sit by the fire, bringing her a footstool and a cool towel for her forehead, pouring a glass of Bordeaux wine, known for its curative effect on invalids.
“What has upset you, Madame?”
“What do you think?” sobbed Marie, finally giving way to tears because of Louis’s kindness. “It’s her, that evil bitch. She’s determined to get him back, not that she ever lost him in the first place.”
“You should stand up to her, tell her what’s what. Why should she be allowed to get away with it? Truly, Maman, if there are any further displays like tonight I would remonstrate with the great whore. And I’ll back you up,” the Dauphin added hastily as his mother looked doubtful.
“Would you? Would you really speak on my behalf?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he said, and rolled his dark eyes in a way that was horribly reminiscent of Isabeau when she had been working herself into one of her furies.
*
Just as the courtier had prophesied, Charles weakened on Twelfth Night and was drunk enough and foolish enough to plant a public kis
s on Agnès’s lips at the end of a slow sad dance which had brought them close together, but never quite close enough to touch.
“I adore you,” he said.
“But what of the Queen?”
“I adore her too. Can you accept that?”
Remembering the lesson taught her by Jacques Coeur, Agnès curtsied and said, “I am but your servant, Monsieur. It is not my place to lay down terms.”
And it was then, in total contrast to this scene of great humility, Marie erupted on them like a fury. Leaving her place at the table, making straight for the King’s favourite, the Queen stood opposite her, staring into her face.
“I’ll thank you not to embrace my husband in front of others, Madame, nor, come to that, in private either.”
Agnès turned on her a beautiful mask of pure insolence barely concealed by a look of respect.
“Madame?”
“Don’t play innocent with me,” retorted Marie, and slapped la Dame so violently round the face that the girl reeled back, clutching her jaw. And what misfortune it was that she fell straight into the grasp of the Dauphin who had come silently to stand behind her.
“You wicked slut,” he hissed. “You who have shamed my mother before all.”
And with that he hit Agnès too, though not with the flat of his hand but with a clenched fist that truly hurt her. There was an awed silence during which the King pulled the Beauty into his arms protectively.
“Madame, Monsieur,” he said, addressing his wife and son, “I would ask to see you in my chamber immediately. Seneschal de Brézé, take la Dame de Beauté to her apartments and fetch Dr. Poitevin to attend her.” And with that he strode out.
To poor Marie who had loved Charles so long and so well, the next hour seemed like a nightmare as the King spoke to her and her elder son in a voice that terrified, soft but menacing, never rising to anything above normal conversational tones.
“I will never forgive either of you for what you have done tonight,” came the sinister words. “Madame, I suggest that you return to one of your favoured residences. Monsieur, it is now time you set up your own establishment as it seems you and I cannot live in peace together under the same roof. I would suggest, therefore, that you go to the Dauphine and hold yourself ready to join the expedition to Lombardy.”
