The Queen's Secret

by Виктория Холт

  “Do you know that I am the Duke of Orléans?” he is reputed to have demanded.

  “Yes,” was the reply. “You are the one we want.”

  One of his men attempted to defend him but was immediately struck down. Another was badly wounded and crawled into a nearby shop.

  Everyone was talking about the murder of the Duke of Orléans. We had heard so much of our Uncle Orléans. He was the most discussed man in the country. His liaison with my mother, his usurping of his brother’s rights…it had all been common knowledge and everyday gossip; so even the children could not be prevented from hearing of it.

  Odette told us a little of what had happened. She was wise and I believe she thought it would be better for us to know something near the truth rather than form our opinions from the random gossip which would undoubtedly be circulating.

  “Who killed him?” I asked.

  “That is something which has to be discovered,” replied Odette.

  “Why did they kill him?” Michelle wanted to know.

  Odette surveyed us for a moment and then she said: “A man in the Duke’s position would have many enemies. They will discover why in time.”

  “Why was he out in the streets at night?”

  “He had been dining with the Queen, they say.”

  “He always dines with our mother,” said Michelle.

  “Did no one see who did it?” asked Marie. “They must have heard the noise.”

  “There were one or two people who peeped out. We heard through them that a cobbler’s wife opened her window and shouted that murder was being committed. She was told sharply to be silent, and shots were fired at windows where lights appeared. A woman said that there were men with masks over their faces and they shouted to all in the houses to keep away from the windows and put out the lights.”

  “And did they?” Louis wanted to know.

  “They dared do no other…and when the men had gone away and there was silence in the streets, some of them crept out and saw the Duke lying dead on the cobbles. They carried him into the church of Blancs-Manteaux. Now the question is, who did it?”

  There was great consternation when the instigator of the crime was discovered. He confessed to it himself. We could not believe it, and what seemed so strange was that he should have confessed.

  The murderer of our Uncle Orléans was our father’s cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, known as Jean the Fearless.

  He said: “I confess, so that none may be accused of putting the Duke of Orléans to death. It was I and none other who caused the doing of what has been done.”

  There was upheaval everywhere.

  “This is no ordinary murder,” Odette told us. “The effect of this will be felt throughout the entire country.”

  And she was right.

  Burgundy, after making his confession, returned to his mansion, the Hôtel d’Artois, and then, taking six of his most trusted men with him, made for the Flanders frontier. The Duke of Bourbon was angry, because, so stunned had everyone been, no one had attempted to arrest him.

  The shock had brought my father temporarily out of his madness. It surprised everyone that the moment this happened he seemed to pick up the threads and behave as though he had not been away from his state duties.

  He was deeply disturbed by the death of his brother—though many of the servants wondered why, since Orléans had taken over not only his authority but his wife, and had hardly shown himself to be his friend.

  We were avid for news. Surely Burgundy would be captured and brought back for trial? He had committed murder and, although he himself had not actually carried it out, it had been done at his command.

  The Duke’s widow came to Paris to demand justice. She was very sad, which was surprising, for he had been a neglectful and faithless husband to her.

  It was December and bitterly cold, I remember, and one of our main concerns at that moment was keeping warm. The Duke’s widow was the daughter of the Duke of Milan; she was a quiet, peace-loving woman and had been completely subservient to her husband; but when such people’s determination is aroused, it can be surprisingly firm. Thus it was with Valentine Visconti, Duchess of Orléans.

  She came to the King, begging him on her knees to avenge her husband’s murderer. He must be brought to trial, she said.

  My father assured her that this should be done and said that he regarded what had been done to his brother as though it had been done to himself.

  Soon after, however, my father lapsed into insanity again. There was a halfhearted attempt to raise a cry against Burgundy; but people were now remembering the overbearing attitude of the Duke of Orléans, and his extravagances, and he was fast ceasing to be one of those heroes whom the dead become—particularly when they are cut off in the prime of their manhood.

  Christmas came and, although people were still talking about the murder, nothing was done to bring Burgundy to justice.

  And then…I remember the day well—a cold February day with clouds scudding across the sky and that dreaded wind seeping into all the rooms. There was excitement in the streets. Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, came marching into Paris, with a thousand men at arms. The people came rushing into the streets in spite of the cold. They were shouting. I heard them clearly: “Long live the Duke of Burgundy!”

  Crowds followed him to the Hôtel d’Artois, which was strongly fortified. It was soon clear that no attempt would be made to arrest him. The people, for one thing, would not allow it. Moreover, Burgundy had his fighting force with him. The people did not want battle in the streets of Paris.

  There was consternation in the Hôtel de St.-Paul when Burgundy did not so much ask as demand an audience with the King.

  How could our poor father confront his warlike cousin? He was deep in the delusion that he was made of glass and it was time someone shattered him, which was what he wanted more than anything.

  My little brother Louis was frightened. He was twelve years old and he was the Dauphin, so, since the King was not fit to see Burgundy, the duty fell to him.

  Odette tried to comfort him. “You will not be alone with him, my love,” she soothed. “The princes and the lords and the counselors…they’ll all be there. They’ll tell you what to say.”

  Louis was trembling when he went to face Burgundy.

  Of course, there was none of them who could stand up against Jean the Fearless. I had heard it said that everything would be different in France if Burgundy had been King. And that was what he wanted, of course…and Orléans had wanted the same for himself.

  Burgundy’s case was stated with eloquent fervor by a monk whom the Duke had chosen to speak for his defense.

  Yes, he had had Orleans killed. Orléans had been a criminal and a tyrant whose aim had been to take the throne from the King and his children and keep it for himself and his own. In this the Queen had aided him. The killing of Orléans had been a justifiable act, and it had been undertaken in the interests of the welfare of France.

  As soon as Burgundy had entered Paris it had been seen that the people were with him; and when Valentine Visconti had come to Paris to avenge her husband, they had not shown any great sympathy for her; and when the scandals about Orléans and his incestuous relationship with the Queen were remembered…it seemed inevitable that Burgundy, instead of being condemned for what he had done, would be hailed as the country’s savior and a hero.

  Burgundy had prepared a paper for my father to sign. In this he had laid down that he, Burgundy, and his heirs should live at peace in the realm in respect of the death of the Duke of Orléans and all that followed concerning it; and that from the King’s successors and all people, no hindrance to the affairs of Burgundy should be offered at this time or that to come.

  My father—lucid again—was prevailed upon to sign the document. He did say that, although he himself canceled the penalty, he could not answer for the resentment of others, but it would be for him, Burgundy, to defend himself against revenge from some quarters which migh
t be inevitable.

  To this Burgundy graciously replied that all he cared for was the King’s good graces. As far as other men were concerned, he feared nothing.

  Nor did he. He was, after all, Jean the Fearless. He had cleverly rid himself of the man most dangerous to his own interests and managed to make of the deed a virtuous act performed for the good of the country.

  My mother might have been deeply saddened by the loss of her lover, but she had greater concerns, for if he were regarded as a menace to the country, what of herself, who had worked and lived side by side with him?

  When my father signed the letters exonerating Burgundy from blame, it was tantamount to admitting that the murder of Orléans had been a just act committed against a man who was a danger to the state.

  The day after the signing, in the late evening, six men and women arrived at the Hôtel de St.-Paul.

  My father was in his room, sunk in melancholy, calling out for someone to kill him, so it was no use appealing to him.

  We were all in the schoolroom with our governess when Odette came hurrying to us. Guillemote was just behind her. I knew something dramatic was going to happen because Odette was distraught and Guillemote looked frightened.

  “The Queen’s men are here,” said Odette. “We must obey…but it will be all right. You must not be afraid. The boys are to be taken to her.”

  “Not to our mother!” cried Louis.

  “You see…there is unrest in Paris…she wants to take care of you”

  “I won’t go,” said Louis.

  “My dear,” said Odette quietly, “you are frightening the little ones. No harm will come to you. Your mother wants to look after you. It’s natural.”

  “It is not,” insisted Louis.

  “You will be all right. Please…Louis…remember little Charles. Look after him. You must take care of your little brothers.”

  “I will,” said Louis. “I will look after them, but I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you, Odette.”

  “I know. You’ll be back soon. I’m sure of it. Come…go graciously…remember you are the Dauphin…and if you do not go willingly …”

  Louis said no more.

  And the boys were taken away.

  I heard later that that night they left Paris with my mother for Melun.

  Michelle had come close to me and taken my hand. Marie was praying and an expression of acceptance was creeping over her face.

  The boys had gone. Now it was the turn of the girls. We were not as important as the boys but still we were royal princesses, and had our uses, so we must not be taken over by Burgundy.

  Odette said: “You are to go into a convent. That will be pleasant for you. You will learn so much. You will all be very happy and clever.”

  “Are you coming with us?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “My place is here. But you three will all be together.”

  “Is Guillemote coming?”

  “No. But there will be the three of you…sisters to look after each other. You will be very happy there. It will be so much more comfortable than St.-Paul. I can promise you that.”

  We flung our arms around her and told her that we did not want to leave her. Then we turned to Guillemote who was trying hard to smile and told us we should be very happy in our convent where we would learn to behave like princesses.

  The days in the Hôtel de St.-Paul were over. Soon after that we left for the convent of Poissy.

  POISSY

  Life was different at Poissy—more quiet and orderly. The nuns were severe, but kind; we were fed and clothed adequately and our education, which had hitherto been somewhat neglected, received immediate and assiduous attention. Marie was very happy. She was in her natural element. She was one to whom life would bring exactly what she wanted, and she knew then that she wanted to become a nun. It was different for Michelle and me. Michelle was already betrothed to the eldest son of the Duke of Burgundy; for me, nothing had so far been arranged.

  We rose early—about five in the morning—and the rules of the convent were that every one of the hours between that time and darkness, when we retired, must be spent in some useful occupation. For Michelle, Marie and myself it was mostly lessons. We learned Latin, and English and music lessons were given every day. We had to learn to converse intelligently, and great stress was laid on good manners at table…and elsewhere, of course. The Mother Superior was a deified figure. She was benign yet aloof and we all were in great awe of her. We would walk in the gardens where we learned the names of flowers and herbs and their uses, and were allowed to grow some of our own, and when we wandered through the sequestered paths of the gardens we could chatter a little.

  It was a very different life from that which we had lived in the Hôtel de St.-Paul. Here we were shut away. In the Hôtel there had been a smattering of gossip to give us ideas—if vague ones—of what was happening. To the uncertainty of life there had been added a whiff of excitement. We had never known when our father was going to recover and our lifestyle change for a while. Then his lapses into madness had been equally unpredictable. Now life in the convent fell into an ordered routine. One knew what one would be doing at any moment of the day.

  Occasionally visitors were allowed, and Isabelle came to see us.

  She had now been married to our young cousin Charles who, on the death of his father, had become the Duke of Orléans. He was younger than she, and I could see, merely by looking at her, that she was not exactly unhappy in the marriage, so that that which she had so much dreaded had turned out to be tolerable after all.

  “Charles is very gentle and sweet-natured,” she told me. “Of course he is very young, but he loves me. Isn’t that wonderful, Katherine…for he was forced into this marriage…even as I was. He writes poetry. It’s really very good. It is not only I who says so. I think I have been fortunate in having two good, kind husbands.”

  I knew all would be well with her now because, although she referred to Richard, she did not look downcast as she had before.

  I said to Michelle later: “I believe she is quite happy. She seems different.” And Michelle agreed.

  It was from Isabelle that I learned something of what was happening outside the convent walls.

  She told me that Burgundy had remained in Paris, imposing his rule on the city. He had been there for four months and would still be there but for a revolt in Liège.

  “He sent troops to suppress it, but they could not do so, and he had to go himself. When he was gone, our mother came back to Paris. Louis was with her. Poor Louis. It is all rather bewildering for him. I think he rather wishes he was not the Dauphin. He’s such a boy really and always so nervous because he is afraid he will do—or even say—the wrong thing. Who would be born royal? I often think, Katherine, how much happier we might be if we were just simple people. We should perhaps be able to lead our own lives. Well, our mother came back with Louis, and Berry and Bourbon are with her. They are against Burgundy. And what do you think our father has done? He recovered a little, but he is always afraid that his madness is going to break out. He has said that he cannot go on like this and he thinks it would be wise to pass on the government of the country to the Queen, our mother! You can imagine what consternation that caused.”

  “Our poor father, he must be completely mad.”

  “Louis is quite alarmed, wondering what this is going to mean to him. And Valentine Visconti upset him terribly by coming to him, kneeling at his feet and asking for justice for her murdered husband.”

  “What did Louis do?”

  “He said he would give her a speedy reply. Poor little Louis, it will not be for him to decide what shall be done. And in the midst of all this came the news that Burgundy had completely subdued the people of Liège and was preparing, with a victorious army, to return to Paris.”

  “Were they all alarmed?”

  “I am sure they were. In any case, they all left without delay. They have gone to Tours. Our mother has ta
ken the King and the Dauphin with her. What will happen next I do not know, but I can see that it will take a long time to heal this rift between the houses of Burgundy and Orléans. It worries me, Katherine. I wonder how my Charles will react. He is not a fighter. He is not like his father either. He will never be an unfaithful husband. I know it.”

  I smiled at her and held her hand tightly. I was so pleased that she had ceased to mourn for the long-since-dead Richard of England, and life had turned out well for her after all. She had been given a chance of happiness and I was sure that, with her sweet and gentle disposition, she would attain it.

  I began to notice a serenity about her. It was some weeks before she told me.

  “Katherine, what I have always wanted is to come to pass. I am going to have a child.”

  I embraced her and we both shed a few tears. They were tears of happiness. I was thinking how wonderful it was that in the midst of all this turmoil there could be this joy. And who deserved it better than my sweet sister Isabelle?

  One of the saddest events of my childhood happened during my Poissy days.

  I remember it well. A nun came into the room where we were doing our lessons with other daughters of the nobility. She went straight to the one who was teaching us, and a whispered conversation ensued. I was glad of a little respite from the tedious task of translating a passage in Latin, when the nun who was taking the class said: “Will the Princesses Marie, Michelle and Katherine please step up here to me.”

  We obeyed at once.

  “The Mother Superior wishes to see you,” we were told. “You may go to her now.”

  Michelle and I exchanged glances, wondering what sin we had committed, for it was not often that the Mother Superior wanted to see pupils, and when she did, it usually meant they were in deep disgrace.

  But it was not for that purpose that we had been summoned. How I wished it had been!

  The Mother Superior smiled at us in a kindly fashion when we entered her sanctum. She said: “You may sit.” And we did.