by Jean Plaidy
The note did sting Henry into reply.
Louis laughed over it with Isabeau as he read it aloud. Most indignantly did Henry deny that he had had a hand in Richard’s death. ‘God knows how and by whom my cousin – whom may God absolve – met his death, but if you are hinting that that death was brought about by me then you lie and will lie foully whenever you say so.’
Nothing more was done about the matter and the months passed. It seemed to Isabella that there was a perpetual tension as though trouble was ready to burst out at any moment. Her mother and Uncle Louis were quite blatant in their relationship; her father was overcome with melancholy; her father’s uncle, the Duke of Burgundy, was constantly urging the King to do something, threatening that if he did not he would lose his crown. Did he want to find himself in the position of the dead Richard of England? he demanded. Isabella wanted to protest. It was no fault of Richard, she wanted to cry out. It was due to the wicked ambitious men around him. But no one would listen to her, of course. She was afraid of the Duke’s son, who was known as John the Fearless, Count of Nevers. He was a man of violence, not caring what he said and of whom he said it. He always seemed to be at the centre of some cause and vowing vengeance on someone. She was glad when he was not at Court.
The Duke of Burgundy was for ever trying to persuade the King to take the Regency out of the hands of his brother of Orléans during those periods when he was unable to govern himself. The King wavered, but Isabeau always managed to persuade him. She was a siren who could conduct her smouldering love affair with Louis of Orléans in her husband’s presence and somehow delude him.
Isabella would never forget the day the Augustine monk came to the Court to preach. He was named James Legrand and noted for his writings, and the directness of his sermons, and the subject of his sermon was the corruption of power and licentiousness. It was clearly aimed at the Court.
During the sermon the King rose from his seat and went and sat closer to the preacher, being immediately opposite him so that he could watch him while he spoke and not miss a word.
‘The King your father,’ said Legrand, ‘likewise taxed his people but he did so to build fortresses to defend his country. He saved his treasure and made himself the most powerful of kings. Now nothing of this kind is done. The nobility in this day spend the money on entertainments; they live in debauchery; they wear dresses with ornamental fringes and big cuffs.’ He turned to the Queen and thundered: ‘This is the shame of the Court, oh Queen. If you do not believe me, dress as a peasant and go into the city and mingle with the people that you may listen to what they say.’
The Queen was incensed. She said that the preacher should be arrested. Let him rot in a dungeon and see what brave words he would have to utter then; but for once the King would have his own way.
‘Nay,’ he said. ‘The man speaks some sense. It is true what he says of my father. I would I were more like him.’
The Duke of Burgundy was beside his nephew. ‘Take warning,’ he said. ‘During your illnesses the country is being led to ruin. Your brother is too feckless, too frivolous. His morals are not of the highest standard. His wife frets about him. He has a good wife in Violante Visconti and how does he treat her? He is notoriously unfaithful to her. She is an unhappy woman. Sire, you must take from him the power to govern when you are stricken. There are others more suitable to the task.’
‘You mean yourself, uncle.’
‘I am of a more sober age, nephew. You will find there are many who support me.’
The King had been so impressed by the sermon and the fact that it was true there were many to support the Duke of Burgundy that he gave way. He knew in his heart it was the right thing to do although he could not allow himself to believe what was so blatantly obvious and that was that his brother was his wife’s lover.
When the Queen knew that power had been passed to Burgundy she was furious. So was Louis. They both disliked Burgundy who they knew would keep a firm hold on the reins once he had them in his grasp. Life was not going to be as amusing as it had been.
‘A plague on Burgundy!’ cried Louis of Orléans, but what was the use of words. It was a fact that under Burgundy a new rule of law and order was imposed. The great Duke set an example to the country by his exemplary family life. He surrounded himself with men of his own kind, whose great desire was to preserve the country, and the people were beginning to see what a difference a good ruler could make. There were no longer the bacchanalian feasts in which the Queen had loved to indulge at the expense of the state. Burgundy could not stop the intrigue between herself and Louis of Orléans, but he could mend so much that was wrong and he had the people behind him.
Isabella was now seventeen years old. The day she had known Richard was lost to her was a long time ago but for her it was as fresh as ever. Never, she told herself, would she love anyone but Richard. He would always be there in her thoughts to stand between her and whoever they married her to; and they would marry her. She would not be allowed to live long in her single state.
Matters came to a head when an embassy came from England. It contained surprising news. It was secret it seemed, but Henry of England stated that if the King of France would give him the hand of his daughter Isabella for his son Harry, Prince of Wales, he himself would abdicate in favour of his son.
This was astounding. Henry abdicate? Why? The rumours of the terrible disease which had taken possession of him must be true.
Could he really be suffering from leprosy? It was the disease which had finished that great Scottish warrior, Robert the Bruce, years ago. Afflicted by it a man must become so unsightly to society that he had no alternative but to hide himself away.
Isabella Queen of England again! It was a glittering prospect.
It was necessary to convey the information to Isabella. There was a tradition that a woman who had once been married for reasons of state should be given a modicum of choice in her second marriage. Moreover Burgundy was not sure – nor were his advisers – that this match with England was the best possible at this time. If Henry were indeed incapable of ruling and was ready to be supplanted by his son, was that not an admission of weakness? If he wanted a marriage with France could that mean that he was seeking peace or at least a truce, because he feared his grasp was weakening? One country did not fight another when there was a marriage alliance between them.
The French were uncertain.
When the proposition was put to Isabella she was vehement in her denunciations of it.
‘I will never go there. I will never live among the murderers of my husband. Anything . . . anything but that.’
‘Anything?’ said the Duc d’Orléans. ‘Dear niece, it is necessary that you marry, you know.’
‘I know it,’ she replied. ‘But I will not marry Harry of Monmouth.’
Since Isabella was so determined and the council was so unsure, it seemed a good way out to let Isabella decide, but none knew better than she that had it been expedient to her country for her to marry Harry of Monmouth she would have been forced to do so.
It was then that her Uncle Louis spoke to her about his son Charles of Angoulême.
‘He loves you dearly,’ said Louis. ‘It is a wish very close to my heart . . . and to your mother’s . . . that you two should marry.’
‘I do not think my mother cares very much what becomes of me,’ said Isabella.
‘Oh my dear dear child,’ cried Louis, attempting to show deep concern, ‘you must not say that. She cares for you so much . . . you and your brothers and sisters.’
‘I have not noticed it, sir,’ replied Isabella coolly. ‘My sisters are in need of new clothes. Their food is not of the best. I am told that the money is not available to feed and clothe them in a manner due to their rank. My mother of course needs it for her ornamental fringes and big cuffs.’
Louis laughed. ‘You have been listening to the ramblings of that miserable preacher. If I had my way he would be thrust into an oubliette and left there.’
‘I doubt that not,’ replied Isabella. ‘But know this. I have no wish to marry.’
‘Oh come, dear child. You are not meant to waste the years. Why, you are a beauty. You will be like your mother one day.’
‘I pray not.’
‘She is the most beautiful woman in France.’
Isabella was silent. A terrible fear gripped her. They would pretend for a while that they wanted her consent and when she refused it they would force her. She knew their methods.
The possibility of a match was forgotten, temporarily for to the great rejoicing of Orléans and the Queen, the Duke of Burgundy fell ill. Within a short time he was dead. The new Duke of Burgundy was his son John the Fearless, Count of Nevers.
The whole of France waited in trepidation for what would happen next.
Louis was more anxious than ever now to bring about the marriage of his son and Isabella and the Queen told her daughter firmly that there must be no more delay.
‘Do you want us to send you to England?’ she demanded. ‘That is what will happen in time, depend upon it, if you delay much longer. There are some who believe it would be good to bring about a truce with England and they would do it with this marriage. The new Duke of Burgundy is against pursuing the war. You can guess what he has in mind. There is your cousin Charles. I know he is younger than you, but that will give you a chance to mould him in the way you want him to go. Come, Isabella, do not be foolish. Marry Charles. It is what I want for you and so does your uncle Louis.’
‘And what of my father? Does he want it?’
‘Your poor father alas is in one of his twilight phases. He does not know what he wants. But when he is in good mind he would agree that this is right for you. Think, child, it will keep you with us. Do you want to go to a foreign land? Do you want to be sent back to the son of your first husband’s murderer? I hear rumours of the life young Harry leads. Roystering in taverns . . . choosing the lowest companions. Not the sort of husband who would suit your sensitive nature and your refined tastes. If they wanted to find you a man as different from Richard as they could they would choose no better.’
So it went on and finally she agreed.
There was great rejoicing and her mother, delighted that her daughter had promised to marry the son of her lover, set about preparing the most lavish entertainments. They were cousins of course – first cousins at that – but never mind. The Pope would not dare to raise any objection and the dispensation was a foregone conclusion. Banquets and jousting, dancing, players . . . everything that could be devised was included. The Queen excelled at arranging such occasions; and Louis of course was beside her. It was the best thing that had happened since Burgundy had ousted him from his position as Regent.
Only the prospective bride was unhappy. She sat mournfully through the festivities and she could only think of Richard.
She had little feeling for the boy to whom they were marrying her, but he seemed bewildered and she tried to comfort him as well as she could.
‘You need not worry,’ she told him. ‘It will be all right.’
He clung to her hand reassured; but she could only turn away to hide the tears which she could not hold back.
So she became the Countess of Angoulême and was no longer Richard’s sorrowing widow.
The wedding did not arouse a great deal of interest throughout the country. People were more concerned with the scandalous behaviour of the Queen and her paramour and the growing tension between the Duke of Burgundy and Louis of Orléans.
There was a certain relief when Burgundy showed that he was seeking to placate Orléans. In the streets of Paris they said if these two could forget their differences, it would be to the advantage of France; and Burgundy, in order to show that the fault did not lie with him, invited Orléans to dine with him.
It was a dark November evening before the day fixed for the meeting between Orléans and Burgundy. Louis had dined with the Queen and he was in very high spirits. It was eight o’clock. He would join the Queen later but now he was returning to his apartments.
He was accompanied by two of his squires riding on one horse and by four menservants who carried torches. The Duke was singing as they walked along. As they came into the Vieille Rue du Temple, a band of armed men sprang out and surrounded the party.
Luckily for the squires their horse took fright and bolted with them on its back; the servants dropped their torches and closed in round the Duke, who cried out: ‘What is this? I am the Duc d’Orléans. What do you want of me?’
One of the assailants cried out: ‘You are just the one we want. Ready friends.’
The man who had spoken struck at the Duke with an axe and another came at him with a sword. Louis fell fainting to the ground.
One of his servants attempted to defend him and was struck down but managed to crawl away, the others seeing it was useless to try to defend themselves escaped into a nearby shop.
By this time windows were flung open for many had heard the commotion and the shouts of the assassins.
‘Murder!’ screamed a woman from the window of a cobbler’s shop.
‘Hold your tongue, strumpet,’ shouted one of the murderers and shot an arrow in her direction at which she immediately disappeared from sight.
‘Out with all lights,’ cried the leader of the band.
Then the murderers ran. By this time people had been wakened and were coming fearfully down onto the street; and now that the murderers had gone they came to look at that night’s work.
The Duc d’Orléans was dead. His body had been hacked and mutilated till there was no sign left of the handsome philanderer.
The Queen was in despair; so was Orléans’s wife, Violante. There was no doubt that they loved the Duke dearly.
‘Find his murderers,’ cried the Queen. ‘I swear I will take revenge of them.’
The Duke of Burgundy joined his voice with the Queen’s.
‘There was never a more wicked murder in the whole of the kingdom of France,’ he declared.
The Provost of Paris, Sieur de Tignouville, was sent for. Nothing must be spared in the hunt for the murderers, he was told.
‘My lord,’ was his reply, ‘if I may be granted permission to make my enquiries in the hostels of the King’s servants and those of the Princes, I will discover the criminals.’
The answer was that whatever help the Provost needed was to be given to him. He was to have free entry into every palace, hotel, shop or house in Paris.
‘Then,’ cried Tignouville, ‘I think I shall be able to give you the murderers.’
The Duke of Burgundy showed obvious signs of stress at this pronouncement and the Duc de Berri, his uncle, noticed this.
He drew him aside for a terrible suspicion had come to him.
‘You know something I believe, John,’ he said.
Burgundy could see that there was no point in denying that he was the instigator of the murder.
He answered: ‘Orléans was bringing dishonour to the King’s bed. He was a menace to the nation. Yes, it was I who hired the assassins to kill him.’
‘Oh my God,’ cried the Duc de Berri. ‘Now I have lost both my nephews. Louis murdered and you John his murderer.
‘You should not go back to the council,’ added Berri.
‘Nor will I,’ said Burgundy. ‘My wish is that none shall be accused of murdering the Duc d’Orléans, for it was I and none other who caused what has been done.’
With that he walked out, leaped onto his horse and taking only six of his attendants with him galloped away across the frontier to Flanders.
When it was known that he had escaped there was great indignation and a hundred of Orléans’s men gave chase but they were too late and could not catch up with him.
The affair had shaken the Court. People talked of nothing else. There was nothing that could be done to bring Burgundy to justice; and people were beginning to say that Orléans had deserved his death. He had dishonoured his brother; he had mad
e no secret of his adulterous relationship with the Queen, he had imposed taxes on the people, his rule had nearly brought the country to ruin, whereas everyone knew that Burgundy was a strong man. Fierce he might be, ruthless, violent; but his father’s rule had been good and he showed signs of his father’s strength.
Violante Visconti, widow of Orléans, was determined that his murderer should not go unpunished. In spite of his infidelities she had loved the Duc passionately, and she was eager to avenge him. She arrived in Paris with her children. The weather was bitterly cold – the worst Paris had experienced for several years. Nevertheless she came because the King was in the midst of one of his lucid periods and she believed that she would get justice from him.
She came to the Hôtel St Pol, where the King was in residence and she forced her way into the room where he was sitting with his council. There she threw herself onto her knees and demanded that her husband’s murderers be brought to justice.
The King promised her that everything should be done. ‘We regard the deed done to our brother as done to ourself,’ he told Violahte.
Isabella, unhappy in her own unsatisfactory marriage, did her best to comfort Violante. She knew what it meant to have a husband done to death.
‘We have much in common,’ she said sadly. ‘I feel for you.’
There were rumours in the town. Burgundy had no intention of remaining outside France. True he had murdered the Duc d’Orléans but he had done it for France. Everyone knew that he was ruining the country. Burgundy was building himself up as the saviour of France. The King beset on all sides immediately lapsed into madness.
Paris waited for what would happen next. It soon came. A monk arrived with a message from the Duke of Burgundy to the King. Poor Charles, his mind being in a clouded state, was unable to receive the monk; but his son the little Dauphin, who was now aged twelve, sat at the head of the council and listened to what the monk had to say.
