Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The (40 page)

But sorrow, they say, never comes alone. She reads the cold words. Her beloved eldest son, Louis III d’Anjou, died on 12 November 1434. It seems he contracted malaria while campaigning on the Italian peninsula. It has taken more than four months for the news to reach her.

She does not cry out; she just sits very still, hardly breathing, trying to take this in. Her thoughts turn immediately to her beloved husband.
My darling, are you with me in this hour of my grief?
she wants to cry to the heavens. She has seen so little of their firstborn in the past years. Her last contact was over his rejection of the Duke of Brittany’s daughter, when she left for Nancy once his army had departed for the Italian peninsula.
We did not even say goodbye!

She turns her thoughts to the happiness he gave her and Louis with his birth, and as a family during his childhood: a sunny blond boy, serious, and then bursting with playful mischief. He was a good influence on the sad young Prince Charles, making him laugh, possibly, for the first time in his life. He was a wonderful inspiration to René, and always tender with the girls. He inherited his father’s looks and was strikingly similar in other ways too – intelligent, handsome, gentle yet strong, wise yet a warrior prince, cultured and full of courage. Yolande admired him intensely, this firstborn son of hers; he was all a royal duke should be, and yet they grew apart with time and distance, less aware of one another’s daily lives. She realizes she never met his wife. How often she has prayed that he would come home with her, but somehow she always knew his fate would be entwined with that fantasy kingdom.

She will mourn him quietly away from the court, and examine her inner heart as to how she might have failed him. She needs to be alone to cry out her anguish.
I do not want to be brave! I want to weep and beat my breast in my pain for the loss of this golden, heroic son!

She goes to Charles to tell him and to ask to be excused from the court’s activities. The words stick in her throat when she finds him. Quietly, she says, ‘Sire, I have sad news.’

He sees from her face that something is tearing her apart and, taking her hand, he leads her away from the others. ‘What is it, dearest
bonne mère
, tell me. I hate to see you distressed. How can I help?’

‘Dear boy, forgive me, but my son and your friend Louis . . .’ and she falters.

He knows at once and holds her, and she feels his body shaking with his own sobbing joining hers. Charles hero-worshipped Louis from the first day they met; she knows that Louis seemed to him a shining example of a princely knight.
Which indeed he was!
He takes her on to the terrace so they can be alone. They sit in the shade, and when they are done crying, they recount their memories to one another and discuss the happy times: the adventures, the tree houses, the pony excursions, the fights with the neighbouring children, and much more. In times of grief, this king she has raised can be so gentle and understanding, quite a different person.

Since Louis and his wife, Margaret of Savoy, had no children, René becomes Duke of Anjou, a territory he has ruled for his brother since Louis left more than ten years ago.

For a week Yolande retires to her suite, and Charles imposes a period of royal mourning on the court for the King of Sicily, his cousin and childhood friend.

Louis dead and René imprisoned indefinitely – how alone Yolande feels, and there is no Juana to comfort her. Somehow her beloved dogs feel her sadness and sit by her all the time, but even they cannot do much to console her.

S
pring becomes summer. Yolande has chosen to distract herself from her grief over Louis by spending time with Isabelle and the children, when she receives news from Calabria. Queen Giovanna II of Naples, the last of her line, had appointed Louis III d’Anjou as her co-regent and heir. Following his death, she named René as his brother’s successor shortly before she herself died. With the last of the senior branch of the Anjou family known as Duras, or Durazzo, gone, now the throne has finally passed to the younger branch. It is in his prison tower that René learns he has been bequeathed the kingdoms of Naples, Sicily and Jerusalem – a poisoned chalice as far as Yolande is concerned. How she prays those sirens of Naples will not call again and claim her sweet René one day as well.

And still Philippe of Burgundy refuses to set René free to accept his new responsibilities. The Queen of Sicily sends her representatives to plead with him; she offers to buy her son out of prison, but to no avail. He will not even see them. In reply to her written plea, Duke Philippe dares to remind her that Charles d’Orléans has been held in the Tower of London since Agincourt, a battle that took place some twenty years ago. She trembles at the thought of René sharing his fate.
Oh dear God, why am I so punished?

The only sliver of light on the horizon is the news that Anjou’s allies, the Genoese navy, have defeated and captured Alfonso V of Aragon, the claimant to what is now René’s throne of Naples, and the monster who sacked Marseilles. But it gives little enough comfort: when the ambassadors from Naples arrive at the end of that same year, 1434, it is Isabelle, René’s wife, whom they crown in his stead. Yolande, now to be known as the Old Queen of Sicily, attends the ceremony at Nancy with her youngest son Charles, Jean Dunois and Pierre de Brézé. Together they write to René with an account of what should have been his coronation. Watching this event of which her son has been deprived, Yolande swears she will never find it in her heart to forgive Philippe of Burgundy.

Yolande notes with pleasure that René was right when he wrote to say Isabelle is not unlike her – that she too has steel in her veins. Isabelle acts at once to grasp this opportunity to regain their Italian kingdoms. Leaving their eldest son, ten-year-old Jean of Calabria, in her stead in Lorraine, she has gathered her other children, her ladies and entourage, and is on her way west across France to Chinon. There she will ask for the king’s blessing – and Yolande’s – before heading south to Marseilles to take ship for Naples and claim René’s throne.

The newly crowned young Queen of Sicily arrives at Chinon escorted by her brilliant train and her ladies; she intends to set up her court with as much elegance as possible, even if she cannot have her much-loved husband beside her yet. Yolande feels a surge of pride in her daughter-in-law as she studies her court. What style she has, and what courage! Isabelle is her younger self – as tall as Yolande, with her long golden hair entwined high with red ribbons. She wears a long robe of scarlet and gold damask covered with a short, tight crimson velvet jacket. At her neck are the wonderful pearls Yolande gave her. Her blue-eyed gaze is firm and the sweetest of smiles belies the strong set of her jaw.
Yes,
Yolande thinks to herself,
she is very like me.

The gentlemen accompanying her suite come from Lorraine, Anjou and other French duchies loyal to the king. They are a fine sight – young, elegant and unmistakably intent on adventure. Yolande hopes that among them there are some more serious contenders for administrative posts. René has written that a number of the older and more experienced courtiers will remain in Lorraine to govern on his and Isabelle’s behalf and to train their heir. Isabelle’s is a young court, but then so are its principals. Her ladies and
demoiselles
are equally stylish and come from all over the country. Yolande can see they have been well trained by their mistress and appear both modest and capable. She has chosen only a small number – the rest must remain behind for the time being, at least until her son can leave for his kingdom. Yolande knows from her correspondence that Isabelle went to considerable trouble to choose for her retinue those
demoiselles
she felt would be the most suitable. One by one, at her request, they are presented to the Old Queen of Sicily, by the new queen. There are ten of them, all fair-haired and on the tall side, with laughing eyes and quick to smile – it is important that their approach to the local people shows this court to be warm and friendly, especially in a new country. None is hesitant, all advance willingly. They are a delightful sight, all dressed in pastel colours, with tight bodices and modest necklines. They wear their hair tied back in the same fashion as their mistress, and each curtseys with grace and a lovely open smile.

‘Tell me, my dears,’ the awe-inspiring Queen Yolande says to the group nonchalantly, ‘what do you expect to find in Naples?’ And she looks at the eldest of them.

‘Madame, first and foremost we are all aiming to make the life of our young queen as agreeable as possible, to serve her in every way and befriend the existing household if Queen Isabelle decides they should remain.’

Yolande turns to another of the older
demoiselles.
‘I understand you have all been taking lessons in Italian since you became aware of the plan to travel to Naples. How are you getting on?’ And there is a burst of gentle but merry laughter.

‘Oh madame, we are making some progress, but the gentlemen of the court accompanying us tease us so, it is hard! We all have lessons daily, first five of us followed by the other five, and then our teacher asks us to hold conversations entirely in Italian. It is very amusing, though not for him! He scolds us in Italian – which, I am afraid, is even more amusing! I think we have learnt scolding in Italian best of all since we hear the words so often!’ And they all laugh with good humour.
How I wish I could go with them
she thinks – just for a moment. Perhaps when René is freed, we can go together. Happy day dreams for another time . . .

One of the young ladies adds, ‘Oh, but madame, we do take it seriously, I assure you, and by the end of our sea journey we intend to be quite fluent.’ But their happy light laughter does not entirely convince her.

Among these
demoiselles
, Yolande catches sight of a strikingly beautiful young girl – a quiet, intelligent-looking maid who has kept her place in the background. She turns to the obvious leader among them, and whispers to her, ‘Remind me of the name of the youngest among you?’

‘Why, that is Agnès Sorel, and she is indeed our youngest at fourteen years old.’

Yolande thanks her, and becomes aware that she is not alone in noticing Agnès, as she sees the king’s eyes stray in her direction. Agnès keeps her own lowered and fixed to the ground as a maiden should. Charles’s interest intrigues his mother-in-law – normally he never takes note of anyone among the very young at court unless they are important.

As she watches him, an idea is slowly forming. Ever since Pierre de Brézé surprised her some time ago by confiding that he thought the reason for the king’s debauchery was his search for someone younger but as remarkable as his
bonne mère
to love, she has turned this over and over in her mind. She realizes she has been his image of perfect womanhood since he was ten years old, and yes, strange as it seems, this could indeed be the cause of Charles’s dissipation and lassitude. Flatterers he has in abundance, and even some friends. But she would be among the first to hear if he has ever fallen truly in love, that purest of emotions. She has long ago ceased to delude herself that his feelings for Marie will ever extend beyond friendship.

Even for the sake of the kingdom, would it not be a cruel betrayal of her darling daughter if she condoned her son-in-law’s relationship with a younger version of herself? And where could she find such a girl and, once found, would she be willing to be trained by Yolande to thwart the deviousness of the king’s mind? How to hold him to persuade him to heed her advice? Marie is so sound and could be such an excellent councillor, but he ignores her advice; her job is to breed children. Since the death of her husband and then her darling son Louis, Yolande has been aware that she herself is perhaps the only truly steadying influence on Charles, the only voice of reason that he still heeds. Aware, too, that since she will not last forever, she has been looking carefully at the young ladies of Marie’s entourage, as well as ladies who come to court as guests for one occasion or another. As yet, she has not encountered anyone with whom she believes he could fall in love. Such a young lady must not only be beautiful – he has such an admiration of beauty – she must be intelligent, cultivated, and yet not inspire the kind of envy among the court that caused the downfall of Jeanne d’Arc.

Yolande watches Agnès – there is something about her that reminds her of her younger self – and also of Isabelle – strength of character but not wilfulness; there was a dedication in those glorious eyes when she finally lifted them, yes, and a ‘
goodness
’, but also that spark, the sign of a natural intelligence, the kind that observes and reads the character of others. As the youngest, Agnès Sorel is the last out of the door, and her modesty and demeanour strike Yolande as particularly remarkable for a girl possessing such extraordinary beauty. She must receive compliments daily, but, as yet, they do not appear to have affected her. Again she notices Charles watching the girl, and not in his usual lascivious way.
Yes
, she thinks,
it might just be prudent to have Isabelle inform her regularly about this girl’s progress at her court in Naples.

T
he next morning Isabelle comes to Yolande’s suite with her enchanting little girl, Yolande’s youngest granddaughter Marguerite. It has been agreed between them that the journey to Naples is too dangerous for one so young, and that Yolande is to have care of her in Isabelle’s absence. Perhaps when René is released, he can bring Marguerite with him to Naples.

Isabelle is desperately sad to part with her youngest one and Yolande sees tears welling up in her eyes.

‘And how old are you now, Marguerite my darling?’ she asks.

‘Grandmama,’ answers the child quite seriously, and curtseys, ‘I am five now, quite old enough for the ship, but Maman says I will be sick and there might be pirates and I am so worried for my brother and sister!’