by Deryn Lake
“And when will that take place?”
“I cannot say at this precise moment.”
The Dauphin jumped from his chair, his face contorted with rage, his black eyes suspiciously bright.
“Such an expedition might never happen. What you are really doing is sending me into exile, isn’t it? Well all I can say is you must love your great whore very much indeed.”
“Yes,” put in Marie, also rising. “If you are capable of putting her above considerations of family, above blood ties, I hope you get all you deserve. Other than for state occasions I shall not visit you again.” And she swept from the room, Louis one pace behind her.
The Dauphin turned in the doorway. “Goodbye, Father. Now that you have another son you obviously have no further need of me.”
And with that Louis strode out, leaving the King white and trembling, while the boy shed silent tears of grief. This was to be their last meeting. From that day onward they were never to see one another again. The echoes of the slap the Dauphin had given Agnès, said to reverberate even as far as the Vatican, were to sound in his ears until the day he died.
Forty-Two
The conspiracy which the Dauphin had been hatching against Pierre de Brézé while continuing to clasp his hand and call him friend finally came to fruition in the spring of 1448. Planted witnesses and forged letters and a statement by Louis that the Seneschal had tried to poison the King’s mind against him, led to disgrace and a case being brought before the Parlement in Paris. The King departed for the capital in order to be present during the trial and for this state occasion Marie left her self-imposed exile and journeyed with him. Agnès Sorel, ostensibly on a pilgrimage to Ste Genevieve, followed a few days later.
Rumour had reached the citizens of Paris a considerable time ago that the King had a mistress and the good-hearted Queen was out of favour and, as a result, la Dame de Beauté was jeered wherever she went. Nor did the flaunting of her two greyhounds, Carpet and Robin, in white fur coats and jewelled collars, endear her to the hungry crowds.
In the end, in order to keep the peace, Marie had led Agnès onto the balcony of the Hotel St. Pol and stood beside her to wave. But once inside the state room from which the balcony led, Marie had glowered at Agnès and said to her husband, “I would be obliged, Monsieur, if you never ask me to perform that kind of favour again.”
“I am humbled by your kindness,” answered Charles, and their eyes had met and in his wife’s he had read the fact that she still loved him and would do anything not to see him unpopular with his people.
But this incident, superficial though it might have appeared, was part of fate’s intent, simply a stepping-stone on the way towards the final fulfilment of the great destiny of Charles de Valois.
With the King already gone from the room Agnès loitered to give her own thanks, for these days she had grown into a woman of maturity despite her superficial arrogance.
“Madame,” she said, and dropped a curtsy that though polite somehow managed to block Marie’s way to the door.
“Yes?”
“I wanted to say how grateful I am to you, how I owe you a debt. Is there anything I could do to repay you? I know, believe me, how hard it must have been to stand there beside me and smile as you did.”
The Queen looked at her hard-eyed. “The truth is I dislike you intensely, Agnès Sorel. That it is you who have come between me and my happiness. How could I in those circumstances ask any favour?”
Inspired, Agnès said, “Because you could use me, perhaps, as an instrument to achieve ultimate good.”
Marie paused, obviously dwelling on this, then eventually came to a decision and spoke.
“Has the King’s Majesty ever told you of the night when, as a boy, he was taken to see the Grand Master of the Priory of Sion? And of how it was predicted to him that he would be the one finally to drive the English from our shores?”
“His Majesty has talked of it, yes Madame.”
“That prophecy has never been fulfilled. It hangs over him, the last thing between the King and ultimate greatness. Already he is known as the monarch who, aided by Richemont and La Pucelle, brought peace to our country. I believe it ought to be he who should take the final step, who must force the English out of the last of their strongholds and return France to its own people.”
“Of course he should, it would grant him a place in history. But how may I help in achieving this?”
“Is it not obvious?” answered Marie bitterly. “It is you he listens to, you whom he adores. Persuade him that the time has come for him to break the truce with the English and invade Normandy. That this one final onslaught can bring him the victory and peace that it is his destiny to achieve.” The Queen’s voice changed. “I can never pretend to care for you, Madame. In fact I detest you for what you have done to disrupt my family. But achieve this one fine thing and history may look upon you with kinder eyes.”
Agnès went hot, then cold, a sudden feel of her part in the King’s immortality laying its cold hand on her. Curtsying again, she raised the Queen’s fingers to her lips.
“Madame, I will do my best for I believe you to be right.”
“Better to be the mistress of a great King than that of a nonentity?” asked Marie cynically, no illusions left for her.
“Better to be the Queen of an illustrious monarch than one who never left his mark,” Agnès rejoined with spirit.
During the next four weeks, while one of the most suave and delightful men of his era was on trial for his life, Agnès in the background constantly assuring the King that de Brézé had never plotted against him, the concept of all that the Queen had said had taken considerable shape in her mind. Was she then, the pampered Beauty, also a pawn of destiny? Was it her role to be the power behind the throne? To turn a good King into a great one?
The more Agnès dwelled on it the more she warmed to the idea. Jehanne had gone forth with sword in hand to free France from the yolk of the English. Might she not achieve as much lying between perfumed sheets, her only weapon her sexuality? She delved deeper into the concept of the mistress as God’s chosen instrument, the one who from her pillow whispered that empires should topple, continents be won. By the time that Agnès Sorel had talked the King of France into writing a letter to the Parlement speaking of de Brézé’s value and the services he had rendered in the past and would be likely to do in the future, she had become convinced that it was she, working through Charles, who had stepped into the shoes of Jehanne. If, Agnès wagered to herself, Pierre was cleared of the ridiculous charges laid against him then she was definitely the one chosen to see France shake off the last vestiges of enemy occupation.
On 14th May, Agnès having left Paris a tactful four days earlier, de Brézé was acquitted of treason, reinstated as Seneschal, then called before the King to receive his pardon and orders for the future.
“Monsieur,” he said, going on one knee and covering Charles’s hand with grateful kisses. “I owe you my life.”
The King smiled wryly. “You owe it to la belle Agnès. It was she who convinced me that the charges against you were flimsy and that you were indispensable to my cause. Without her judgement I might perhaps have been a little more cautious. So now it is up to you to prove yourself all over again.”
It had been Charles’s ploy for years; playing chess with people, setting men on their mettle, pretending to be governed then throwing the would-be manipulator out. But de Brézé, even though he knew the King for the wily fox he was, had been badly frightened and said, “Anything, Sire, name it. What new position do you want me to hold at court?”
“I don’t,” Charles answered drily. “I have an entirely new line for you to pursue.”
“And that is?”
“I want you to prepare for the forthcoming invasion of Normandy.”
De Brézé gulped. “What?”
“The invasion of Normandy. Certain factions have been speaking about it for months but it was la Dame de Beauté who final
ly convinced me that it was not only right but inevitable. So, my dear de Brézé, as you and she are so close I thought it only fair and proper that I hand the planning of the entire exercise over to you.” And the King laughed soundlessly.
Pierre remained silent, still kneeling at Charles’s feet, wondering if there had been any hidden meaning in that last remark, if the King had received information through his vast network of spies about the exact nature of the relationship between the Seneschal and Agnès Sorel. But obviously nothing further was forthcoming so he merely nodded his head and slowly stood up.
“Consider it done, Majesty. The invasion will be prepared.”
“Good, good,” answered Charles. He looked up. “By the way, Seneschal, I think it might be for the best if Monsieur le Dauphin remains where he is for the time being, so do not involve him in your scheme.”
De Brézé decided to risk all and said, “Will Monsieur be coming back to court?”
“No, not for some considerable while,” answered the King with a sigh. “In fact, not in the foreseeable future.”
Plans for invasion of the territories held by the English continued to simmer secretly for most of that year, it being both Charles’s and de Brézé’s idea that some excuse should be made for their taking up the offensive, that they should wait for the English to break the truce and then appear to retaliate.
Agnès, delighted that her scheme had worked, that she had been the one to push the King to the point, encouraged them both, still committing the sin of sharing her body between them, still allowing Jacques Coeur to gaze in wonderment, to put his lips where no one but a lover should. But she justified it all to herself by thinking of the part she had played in putting France on the offensive, itching to boot the occupying English forces out for once and for all.
And in March 1449, the excuse they had been looking for at last came about. The town and castle of Fougères, a French stronghold on the Breton border, was seized by an Aragonese mercenary captain in the pay of the English. A general order, “Prepare for War”, was secretly sent out and the French army began to mobilise.
Agnès gave a great ball at Beauté to celebrate the fruition of her plans, the guest of honour the King, at the next strata of society, Pierre de Brézé and Jacques Coeur. As it was spring she threw open all the doors and the visitors saw that below on the river floated decorated boats packed with musicians, the lanterns from each craft reflected in the water. As always at Agnès’s feasts the banquet and the entertainment were without equal, but it was generally agreed that the dancing was by far the most splendid part of the evening.
Agnès was led out by the King and the guests gasped that she carried a flaming torch which lit her unearthly beauty and flickered on her scintillating jewellery. But after only a few steps la Dame passed the flambeau to the couple behind her, and so it went round, lighting dancer after dancer, until finally it ended with Agnès again. Then, laughing and lovely, she led a line out into her formal garden and there, in the open air, drunk with exhilaration as much as wine, they all performed the wild hard peasant dances of Provence, the women raised aloft, the men stamping their feet, hands clapping as everyone swung into a circle then went whirling round, fingers joined, till the last chords were played and the fiddlers’ bows were silent.
Small wonder that after this excitement certain couples wandered into the discreet darkness of the trees, the King and his mistress amongst them. With the moon coming up over the river throwing a strip of silver that seemed to end at the very feet of the lovers, Charles and Agnès swam naked in the shallow water and then, shivering with cold, went to a little stone summerhouse where a fire blazed. As always when he was with her the King was instantly ready for coupling and, on a caprice, having taken her in the warmth and comfort, afterwards chased la Dame through the trees, watching the play of moonlight and shadow on that most exquisite of bodies, unmarked by childbirth or the passing of years.
Silver gleamed on high round breasts, and on her supple waist and elegant hips, and Agnès’s face was transformed to that of a goddess by that most bewitching of lights. A halo of moonshine glittered round the burnished hair, the great eyes sparkled, the sweet lips and straight nose were shadowed grey, the splendid neck had become the stem of a flower, the bloom her perfect silvered face.
“If only I could paint you now,” called Charles, and la Dame de Beauté paused beneath the trees, as perfect as a statue, so that he could take one final look at her before she ran, laughing, into the forest.
*
“It’s war at last,” said Richemont with the relish of an old battle-scarred warrior. “We are to invade Normandy. I have been called upon to mobilise my army.”
“You’re looking forward to it,” said Catherine. “You men!”
“I don’t relish killing, don’t accuse me of that, but I’ve been itching to get at the English for years. They’re like bloody squatters up there in the North. High time they went.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” his wife said heartily. “So I think I’ll be a camp follower for this one. I feel like a damned good ride in any case.”
He laughed at her, patting her broad shoulder. “What a woman you are. I’m so glad I met you.”
“It suited us both,” she said, and bit into a fondant to make her point.
“I’m going to look round my old haunts before I go,” the Earl said in a different voice. “Say goodbye to them.”
“Why? You’re not going to get killed if that’s in your mind. I’m far from finished with you yet.”
“I might die of natural causes. I’m fifty-six.”
“Coillons, Monsieur. You’re dug in for a long life.”
He grinned at her. “Be that as it may, I’m still off to see them.”
“Memories of your old love?”
“Perhaps.”
He left his home near Poitiers in the blackness of night and rode hard so that he was at Angers before dawn. Extraordinarily for that time of year there had been a heavy frost and the morning was sharp with both cold and mist, which lay heavy over the fields and river forming lakes that were not really there.
The dark grey ridges of cloud, beyond which the first pink threads of day could just be seen, were a mountain range of the mind. Sheep in the pastures leading down to the Maine walked stiffly on the frozen ground, their breath fluting up in little spirals of vapour, their voices clear in the crisp air, while steam rose from the flanks of Richemont’s sweating mount as he entered the castle of Angers through the Country Gate and made his way within.
The fortress was just stirring into life, the smell of fresh bread coming from the bakehouse, a curl of smoke rising from its chimney, the creak of bolts as doors and gates were opened for the day, the sound of feet and voices as the scullions went about their business. Without asking permission, knowing that Rend was not in residence, Richemont made silently for the Queen’s apartments.
How many years had it been since he had walked the battlements in his soft boots and heard her laugh? How many years since they had discovered the joys of each other’s body, since they had created the little warrior girl who had died in agony in the flames of Rouen, since he had found he loved Yolande d’Anjou?
Foolishly, because he was far from the seventeen he had been when he had first fallen in love, Richemont climbed onto the balustrade and began to walk along it, balancing precariously. And then somewhere behind him he heard a woman laugh and nearly fell to his death in fright. Somehow steadying himself, Richemont quickly jumped down to the safety of the balcony.
The wooden door leading to the Queen’s chamber was open and within the Earl saw the black outline of a woman, standing silently, watching him.
“Yolande?” he whispered.
But as he rushed forward, his arms outstretched to embrace the spectre, he saw that it was not his dead lover but her daughter Marie, the Queen of France.
“Madame,” he exclaimed, “why are you here?”
“I could ask you the
same,” she retorted, but he saw that she smiled in the dawning, her plain and careworn face, never as beautiful as her mother’s, softened by the gentle light.
The Earl shrugged apologetically, more than a little embarrassed. “I came to look round the scenes of my youth before I went off to war.”
“Yes, it has come at last as I had hoped. But will the King win? Will the English finally go?”
Richemont thought carefully about his reply. “This is our great chance. The enemy are tired and have no stomach for it. Yes, it may take us a while but we are going to win.”
Marie nodded. “Then everything has been worth it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Asking Madame Sorel to talk the King into fighting, humbling myself, it will all have been worthwhile if France is the ultimate victor.”
Richemont, curious, said, “Forgive me, Madame, for I know it is not my affair, but yet I long to know the answer. That day in Paris when the crowd booed la Dame de Beauté, why did you lead her onto the balcony and show her friendship?”
For answer, the Queen asked another question. “You were fond of my mother, weren’t you?”
“Devoted to her.”
“Then you will remember the two proverbs she liked so well. ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters’ and ‘As you sow so shall you reap’.”
“I do, clearly.”
“I reaped bitterness after striking la Dame in public. It was I who felt cheapened and degraded, not she. So when it came to the incident in Paris I knew I would cleanse myself of that guilt, reap a good harvest, if I could only help the King by pretending to like her.”
“And you cast your bread by asking Agnès to spur him on to fight the English?”
“Precisely. I feel somehow that my mother would have been proud of me for that.”
“She would indeed.”
There was a moment’s pause and then the Queen said, “You were more than fond of her, I believe. In fact I think you were in love with her.”
