The Queen's Secret

by Jean Plaidy

  Knowing my father and mother, I could well imagine the scenes between them: how she cajoled him; how he tried to resist; how she, with Louis of Orléans at her elbow, laughed at the serious young king; how she tempted him and how he succumbed.

  There was constant trouble: perpetual strife with England, that old enemy; rivalry between the ducal uncles and Isabeau, with Louis of Orléans urging him to greater extravagant folly.

  But my father earnestly wanted to do what was right and he knew that he was not acting as he should. There were riots throughout the country over the high taxation; affairs were going badly. He knew he must take drastic action, so he dismissed his uncles and recalled those counselors whom his father had chosen to help him govern the country.

  The most important of these was Oliver de Clisson, whom he made his Constable.

  Alas, Isabeau continued to charm him to such an extent that he still allowed lavish entertainments, in which he joined, to take place.

  I do believe that he could have been a great king if my mother had not been there to lure him away from his duty.

  It was not to be expected that the uncles would allow themselves to be lightly pushed aside. There was constant intriguing, and one night, when Oliver de Clisson was returning home from a banquet given by the King at the Hôtel de St.-Paul, he was set upon and badly wounded.

  When news of this was brought to my father, he was just about to retire to bed. He was very disturbed and wanted to know where de Clisson was, and when he was told that he had been carried to a baker’s shop close to the spot where he had been struck down, the King immediately dressed and demanded to be taken to him.

  De Clisson had revived a little when he reached him.

  All this happened before I was born, of course, but I heard several accounts of it afterward.

  “My dear Constable,” he was reputed to have said. “This is monstrous. How do you feel?”

  “In a sorry state, Sire,” replied de Clisson.

  “Did you see your would-be assassins?”

  “Yes, my lord. I saw them clearly. It was Pierre de Craon and his men.”

  Pierre de Craon was the cousin of Jean, Duke of Brittany. This was treachery and my father was very angry.

  “He shall not go unpunished,” he promised.

  He was fiercely determined that Pierre de Craon should be brought to justice; and it was really this incident which triggered off his first descent into insanity, for it was during his campaign against Brittany that he had his first attack.

  I heard several versions of what followed for the incident was referred to again and again, particularly when my father’s condition was discussed, as it was continually through the years that followed.

  My father summoned his uncles to join him in the task of bringing Pierre de Craon to justice. The would-be assassin had taken refuge with his uncle of Brittany, who would not give him up. There was some belief that the uncles may have been involved in the attempt to kill de Clisson, but this was never proved. However, they did try to dissuade my father from setting out to attack Brittany and capture de Craon, but my father would not be deterred.

  The weather was particularly hot even for August when the King with his army set out for Brittany.

  I could picture it clearly, for the scene had been described to me so many times. My father wore a costume of black velvet; on his head was a cap of the same material, but of scarlet, ornamented with a chaplet of pearls which my mother had given him before his departure, that he might keep her in his thoughts. He rode apart from the rest because the ground was so sandy and the hoofs of the horses sent up clouds of dust. Ahead of him rode Burgundy, with Berry, Orléans and Bourbon.

  As they came to the forest of Le Mans, a strange figure dashed out from among the trees. He was tall though bent and his head and feet were bare. He was in a smock which had once been white and was then stained and ragged. He caught the bridle of my father’s horse and clung to it.

  “Go no farther!” he shouted. “You are betrayed.”

  Burgundy, Berry and Orléans rushed back to the King. They seized the man, who rolled his eyes wildly and kept shouting: “The King must turn back! Danger! Danger. He is betrayed!”

  Burgundy said: “The fellow’s mad.”

  “What shall we do with him?” asked Berry.

  “Let him go. He’s clearly crazy and harmless. Be off, fellow, and keep out of our path.”

  The man stood still staring at them for some seconds. Then he went off muttering.

  My father was clearly very shaken by the encounter. I sometimes wonder whether he was reminded of his own mother. It might well be that he had seen her in her moods of madness.

  The madman would not leave them entirely; he moved among the trees, following the cavalcade, and every now and then they would hear his shouting: “Let the King beware! He is betrayed! Go back, King, before it is too late!”

  They had emerged from the forest and were on a sandy plain where there was no shelter. The sun beat down on them and the heat was intense. One of the pages, drowsy in the sun doubtless, dropped his lance, and as it clattered to the ground, the King’s horse started forward.

  The King shouted: “Ride on! Destruction to the traitors!” And brandishing his sword he began to attack those about him. Two of the men fell wounded to the ground.

  The Duke of Burgundy immediately gave orders to seize the King, who was in a state of great excitement, galloping backward and forward and slashing out on both sides with his sword. Finally his chamberlain managed to restrain him. Others helped and he was laid gently on the ground. He recognized no one when they spoke to him.

  They bound him up, lest the frenzy overtake him again; and so they took him back to the town of Le Mans.

  The incident put an end to the proposed war on Brittany; and it was the beginning of my father’s attacks of madness.

  No one thought of it as such at the time. The heat had been intense and it was believed that he had been overcome by a fever which had made him delirious. Most people had seen men and women in such a state before. Moreover, he quickly recovered and was normal for about a year. The uncles at any rate were pleased to see the termination of a campaign for which they had had no enthusiasm.

  A year passed. My father was still besottedly in love with my mother and she was leading him farther into the wildest extravagances. He spent a great deal of time thinking how to please her, and this resulted in balls, masques and lavish entertainments, all of which were not good for the treasury.

  Then came that fatal occasion which was to show that the King’s behavior in the forest of Le Mans was no isolated incident.

  To surprise and amuse my mother, he secretly planned, with five of his most frivolous courtiers, to arrive at the ball disguised as savages who had come from some distant land. Isabeau was always amused when he appeared in some strange disguise and the company pretended not to recognize him—although of course they all did. He would declare himself overwhelmed by Isabeau’s beauty, flirt with her outrageously…and the finale was that he was the King after all. It was an old trick of which everyone was aware, but it was always greeted with rapturous applause.

  They went to a great deal of trouble to make their costumes. They were sewn up in linen to which tow was stuck with a sort of resin glue so that the effect was that of hairy apes. Apparently they looked quite realistic, and when they entered the ballroom there were shrieks of mock terror as they pranced around and around, in and out of the company.

  Unfortunately one of the courtiers picked up a torch and came too close to the masquerading group. In a few seconds, several of them were alight. The resinous substance which had been used to stick on the tow burst into a great blaze, and the hairy savages were, in a matter of seconds, engulfed in flames. Frantically they tried to tear off their inflammable costumes, but in vain.

  Someone shouted: “The King! Save the King!”

  For he was there…my father…in the midst of that writhing mass of flame. It would ha
ve been the end of him if the Duchess of Berry, recognizing him, had not pulled off a heavy cloak from a man standing nearby and wrapped it around the King.

  “Do not move!” she cried. “Keep still!” She pressed the cloak around him and, by a miracle it seemed, saved his life.

  However, several of his friends perished and the incident brought on the second bout of madness.

  He did not know where he was. He wanted to attack those around him. He kept shouting that he was made of glass and the glass was melting. He was not their King. He was an evil sinner, responsible for the deaths of those who had served him well. They should kill him.

  That was a tragic night.

  For some months he remained in a clouded world apart from reality…and then, suddenly, he regained his senses. He was able to take over his duties again. But he was a sad man. The knowledge was there. It was the second time he had gone into a frenzy—the first started by the man in the forest of Le Mans and the second by the terrible accident resulting from a foolish masquerade for which he held himself to blame. Those who had shared that folly with him had died. He had killed a man at Le Mans. He was now sure that he was subject to fits of insanity. The people had called his father Charles the Wise, and they were now calling him Charles the Mad.

  A wonderful doctor was found for him. He came from Laon and his name was William Harsley. He looked after my father and he understood his madness; he even saw signs when one of his attacks was coming on, which was very helpful.

  With Dr. Harsley’s help, my father came to accept his madness, for when he emerged into sanity, he was well enough to take up the reins where he had dropped them and conduct the business of state. But always he must be watchful and the knowledge that there was madness in his blood put a perpetual shadow over his life.

  During the years that followed, between his bouts of madness, he continued to be the uxorious husband, and he and my mother had many children; in fact, a birth was almost a yearly event. Many of them died but some survived.

  The uncles, Burgundy being the leader, came back into power after pushing out the ministers my father had restored. During his sane periods my father attempted to govern, but he—and those about him—were ever watchful for the first signs of insanity.

  There was the usual trouble with England, but the prospects in this direction were brighter when my sister Isabelle married Richard II, and there was a truce between the two countries which was to last for twenty-eight years.

  Alas for treaties! It was the year 1396 when my sister went to England.

  And that was the state of affairs in France when five years later, on a dark October day, the fourteenth, in the year 1401, I was born.

  I was no longer a baby. I was beginning to take notice of what was going on around me. At six years old, when one lives in very unusual circumstances, one is perhaps more aware than a child living more normally would be; one is watchful for happenings which could change one’s life.

  Perhaps the fact that my father was under the same roof when he was mad and departed when he was sane, and we were never sure when the change would take place, made me more perceptive than most children would have been.

  All of us, except Marie, developed a talent for gleaning gossip, mostly by keeping our ears open when we moved among those around us. We did not have many servants, and those who were there were devoted to us, for they were not always paid as they should have been; they had to wait for my father’s sane periods. But sometimes their resentment would overcome their discretion and they would speak their minds.

  I discovered that the name of my uncle, Louis of Orléans, was constantly being mentioned…and my mother’s with his.

  “It’s a scandal…a disgrace. I cannot understand why the poor King endures it. Cannot he see what she is…or does he try to pretend she is not?”

  I asked Michelle what they were talking about, and being slightly older than I, she assumed a patronizing air.

  “Oh, you’re too young to understand.”

  “I can understand if you can.”

  “Well,” she said, “our Uncle Orléans is very friendly with our mother…too friendly, they are saying…and when our father is shut away, the Duke of Orléans is…well…he is king.”

  She looked at me triumphantly, so I pretended to look knowledgeable, though I was not sure of the significance of her remarks.

  I soon learned though that throughout the Court it was a well-known fact that the Duke and my mother were lovers and that my mother preferred the Duke to the King because he was more handsome, more lighthearted and more merry than my poor father could ever be…even when he was not mad.

  There were two people at that time who brought comfort into my life. One was Guillemote, who suddenly came to my notice. I was not sure how long she had been in the Hôtel. I think she may have come to look after young Charles, but she extended her care to all of us. She was a jolly, rosy-cheeked young woman. She seemed mature to me, but I have learned since that she was about sixteen years old when I first noticed her. She was rather buxom, different from the people around us. I think it was because she came from the country.

  I grew to love her. She had a way of rubbing my hands when they were cold, and if I fell and hurt myself she would kiss the wound and make it better—which seemed a wonderful remedy.

  I did not realize it at the time, but I think she supplied a certain motherliness which I missed without knowing it.

  People always seemed to know when my father was coming out of his bouts of madness. He would be much quieter and Dr. Harsley would send a message to my mother telling her that the King appeared to be moving toward normality.

  On this particular day there was a great deal of excitement at the Hôtel because we were going to have important visitors. Our governess gathered us children together and we were taken into the hall to await their arrival.

  Our mother was coming.

  I could not remember what she looked like, so long was it since I had seen her. We were all a little nervous. Louis looked sullen. He did not like our mother. He blamed her because we were all banished to the Hôtel de St.-Paul. He would have liked to be at the Louvre, or Vincennes or wherever the Court was.

  Her image remains with me to this day.

  There was a flurry of excitement as she came into the hall. She looked wonderful…just as a queen should. She was magnificently dressed in a velvet cape with a gown which sparkled with jewels. Her thick, dark, curly hair was shown off by a slender crown of diamonds. She had the most magnificent pink-and-white complexion I had ever seen. There was a little white dog with her. She was carrying him and scolding him, now and then, in a tender, petting sort of way. A few paces behind her was a beautiful man whom I knew because Michelle had told me he would probably be there. It was our Uncle Orléans. He was almost as splendid as she was. He wore rose-colored velvet, and his jewels glittered only slightly more discreetly than hers.

  There were several other ladies and gentlemen with them…all very beautiful and grand to behold. I noticed among them one young woman because she had one of the sweetest faces I had ever seen.

  We children stared in awe, and when my mother turned to us and cried out loudly that we were her dear little ones and how happy she was to see us and how sad it was that we could not always be together, I thought Louis was going to ask why we could not be. But he was, I believed, as overawed as the rest of us.

  We bowed as we had been taught. My mother patted Charles’s head while he looked up at her with those bewildered eyes, and then Louis did what was expected of him and ceased to look sullen.

  I noticed the lady with the pleasant face smiling at us. I returned her smile and she seemed pleased.

  The Duke of Orléans—our splendid uncle—gave us an amused smile and they all swept past.

  I believe they went up to my father’s apartments, and we were taken to the schoolroom by our governess. The adventure was over.

  There was tension throughout the Hôtel until the party left; and
when they had gone, I discovered that the lady whom I had particularly liked remained behind.

  In due course I discovered why and who she was and her coming made life considerably more comfortable for all of us children.

  She was Odette de Champdivers and she came from Burgundy. Hers was a beauty different from that of my mother. It was by no means flamboyant. I thought of her as cozy. I learned that she had been chosen by my mother to look after my father.

  I heard some gossip about her.

  “They say Madam has had enough. Well, who wouldn’t? How many is it? Thirteen, or is it fourteen? That’s enough for any woman. Every time the King comes out of his madness there’s another little one to mark the occasion. So…she sent Odette along to make him happy. And who’s to say they’re all his anyway?”

  “Be careful now …”

  “Oh, I’m not the first to raise that point, I can tell you.”

  So Odette was with us, and she kept him happy. He was much quieter now. He did not have to be chained to his bed. Odette was there. She made sure that his clothes were clean; she cooked his food; she was gentle and loving, and my father was not the only one who grew fond of her.

  Sometimes she came to see us children; and when she did she was shocked by the way we lived and set about changing it. Our food was not adequate, she said. We were growing children and we needed new clothes from time to time.

  Odette began to give orders and they were obeyed.

  So, with Guillemote and Odette de Champdivers, life at the Hôtel de St.-Paul became more tolerable.

  Because I was so young, there were great gaps in my knowledge which made it difficult for me to grasp all that was going on around me. I pieced together what I heard and a great deal of conjecture was necessary; but I really was beginning to understand a little, and it is so much easier to bear adversity if one knows the reason for it.

  I remember very clearly the day my sister Isabelle came to the Hôtel to see us.

  She was twelve years older than I and had been sent to England at the age of eight. I was not born at that time. I was overawed to meet her…the Queen of England—for I supposed she was still that even though the King was dead, and she a widow had returned to France.