Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The Read online

  Each Sunday they walk with their retinue to the cathedral of Saint-Maurice, an awe-inspiring mix of low, round Roman arches and of the modern style of soaring pointed arches, sweeping heavenward and tempting her eyes to stray from her Book of Hours. One Sunday evening after dinner, as they discuss the magnificence of the cathedral, they arrive at a simultaneous inspiration.

  ‘Why don’t we commission a fine chapel,’ announces Louis, ‘to be built in the cathedral in our joint name? We shall have the arms of Sicily, Jerusalem, Aragon and Anjou carved in its vaulted archways. In it, we can house Angers’ greatest relic, a small piece of the True Cross brought here by Saint King Louis IX himself.’ And they embrace in their delight at this shared concept.

  When Yolande tells Juana, her deeply religious companion is greatly impressed. ‘Oh! Madame! You do realize that once built, your chapel will be designated a sainte-chapelle, since it will enshrine a relic of Christ’s Passion?’ Yolande is delighted and runs to tell Louis.

  Within the enormous chateau, Yolande and Louis’ two establishments run separately; hers includes quite a number of ladies and ‘women of the household’. In addition, she has a dozen young demoiselles, maids of honour from the noblest families in the duchy, in attendance on her. Not only is she obliged to keep these girls, but it is her role to dress them as well. The choice of fabrics allocated to her staff gives an exact indication of their status within her entourage. How could she have managed this without the guiding hand of Louis’ mother? she thinks.

  ‘Your own ladies, dear Yolande, should wear silks and velvets from Italy or Paris, whereas the rest of the household wear simpler cloth in strict accordance with their positions,’ Marie de Blois instructs her.

  At this time, the fashion in society is for bright colours – scarlet; pinks in tones shading from the most luminous skin colour to fierce flamingo; purples – royal or mourning; deep blue or navy; several shades of gold and strong greens of emerald or peridot. Wherever she sees ladies gathered at receptions in the neighbouring chateaux, Yolande is thrilled to see the company weaving a colour palette of rainbow brightness. She sends at once for fabrics from Paris – and a seamstress – so that she and her ladies can be fitted out appropriately at home.

  Even outside Paris, ladies are fashion-conscious, and they have quite different rules and customs to those of Aragon. In France, ladies who frequent the court wear heart-shaped hollow bonnets, or bourrelets, covered in delicate gold gauze and often studded with pearls or precious stones, their hair mostly tucked away inside. Some of Duchess Marie’s younger ladies wear the fashionable henin – a tall, pointed cone, with a slight veil floating from its tip. This diaphanous veiling trails over brows and down backs, or it might be drawn modestly across a face. Hair is also tucked out of sight inside the henin, except for a little showing at the brow. Elegant as they are, these headdresses make entering rooms very difficult. Louis and Yolande catch one another’s eye and watch with barely suppressed glee as ladies wearing the henin become acrobats, twisting their heads down and sideways to get through some of the low doorways.

  The early spring arrives, and with it news of a forthcoming visit from the king’s delightful brother, Louis d’Orléans and his wife Valentina. Yolande and her mother-in-law fill the state rooms with flowers – whole branches of blossom trees in places – and the royal suite is prepared for their first illustrious guests. Musicians, jesters and a splendid trouvère famous for his poems and songs of love have been engaged. They will have dinners and dances and ride out in the countryside. Louis tells her that his cousin and wife enjoy the chase as much as they do, especially with falcons.

  Most of all, Yolande wants to get to know Valentina and make of her a friend with whom she can exchange confidences. From the moment they met at court in Paris, she felt they might share a strong bond.

  ‘Welcome, dear cousins, welcome,’ calls Louis as they arrive – both on horseback, although two carriages follow with their luggage. To Yolande’s surprise, they travel with very few attendants, all mounted, and just a dozen soldiers. And their own three wolfhounds.

  ‘My dear Valentina, you have no ladies in attendance?’ she asks in surprise – no grand lady from Aragon would travel so lightly.

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ she laughs. ‘See the two young gentlemen riding astride on that pair of greys? They are really ladies who can dress my hair as well as my clothes – and my horses! I hate to be fussed over and my clothes are always as simple as possible. Is that not also your custom?’ she says with a smile.

  Yes, she knows me already, thinks Yolande. We will be friends. Valentina’s riding habit is superbly cut, and Yolande tells her so.

  ‘Ah, thank you, my dear. I brought my tailor with me from Milan and will lend him to you willingly. Now, show me our rooms and then take me around your kingdom of Angers!’ And they both laugh with the complicity of their new-found alliance.

  The two cousins Louis – who both reply when addressed by either wife, since none but their family is so familiar – plainly enjoy one another’s company. Their talk is largely of the political and economic situation in the country – ‘man talk’, as Valentina puts it – while their two ladies relish finding out one another’s tastes in literature, art, music, gardens, cuisine and animals. Valentina joins Yolande in the kitchens and they discuss menus at length with Carlo and Vincenzo, the under-chefs hovering. Some culinary triumphs emerge from these sessions – and a few disasters as well, to their shared mirth.

  On a brilliant spring day they ride out together on the chase. It is not too warm, with enough scent for the deerhounds, and the hunt ends at sunset with two stags at bay killed by their huntsmen. On the second day they ride out with a falcon each on their left arm to bring down game birds. They start early, their horses fresh and frisky, and it gives Yolande great pleasure to see how well Valentina rides.

  ‘I like your mounts, dear cousin,’ Valentina calls. ‘The Andalusian bay gelding was superb, and now this clever little Arabian stallion.’

  ‘I could see how well you rode and so I dared to put you on him. He is called Ismail and comes from the Barbary Coast. He is the king’s wedding gift to me and I have never allowed anyone else to ride him,’ Yolande says with pride, before they take off after the huntsmen, who have sighted their prey.

  The two Louis are competitive and never stop their games, whether on horseback or in front of the fire: silly guessing games, or chess, or cards, or mimes to entertain their ladies when they are alone after dinner and the guests and musicians have left.

  It is a shared sadness when Louis and Valentina leave, as they must but with firm friendships formed between them.

  To their delight, Louis’ uncle, Jean of Berry, also comes to stay and accompanies Yolande when she follows her husband going about his official duties within Anjou. She walks some paces behind Louis as she should, and notes his people’s devotion to him. ‘Our good and generous duke,’ she hears from all sides with genuine appreciation. Louis is not an actor like other lords she has observed; he is sincere, and the people can see it in his eyes. Yolande finds herself admiring him more each day.

  ‘Uncle Jean, it makes me so proud to watch Louis in action as Anjou’s ruling duke. Since he was just a boy when his father died, was it you who taught him?’

  ‘Dear child – forgive me, you look very young to my old eyes – Louis’ mother, our dear Marie de Blois, was astonishing in the way she coped with both her sons, but yes, I did come to Angers and often went around his estates with him, giving him my advice on how to judge and choose people to work for him. I think I opened his eyes a little, although he quickly found his own style of governing.’

  ‘I have noticed how cleverly he deals with his subjects,’ she ventures, hoping to hear more.

  ‘The thing about my nephew that I have always admired,’ says Uncle Jean, ‘is his common touch. He knows how to speak to every level of person and make each one feel comfortable, whether the simplest peasant or the grandest duke,’ and
he points to himself and laughs. ‘You see, my dear, he has always been curious. His mother taught him that. A curious child will learn, and he had a lot to learn and quickly, particularly to avoid knaves taking advantage. His father, my older brother, was shrewd, but too kind for his own good. I am sure that is why he lost the throne of Naples – and his life,’ he adds with sadness.

  Yolande sees his eyes welling with tears. ‘I can see you loved your brother very much,’ she says softly.

  ‘Oh yes, I worshipped him. He was the eldest of the brothers after the king, and such a heroic figure, very like your Louis – tall and blonde. And kind, very kind to me, the youngest of his siblings. The rest you know – his elder son, your Louis, set out to conquer that mirage of a kingdom when still very young. Dear Marie will surely have told you the story?’

  ‘Yes, indeed she has,’ answers Yolande, but her thoughts stray once again to that faraway kingdom. What a challenge I shall face to win my husband away from this powerful intoxication called Naples, she thinks to herself.

  Ambassadors are frequent visitors, and Louis shows his exquisite manners by descending from his tall chair on a dais to make their obeisance unnecessary. He is well briefed by his staff to remember details about each person’s life, but he makes it appear so natural, as if he himself remembers. His visitors melt under the effect of his attentiveness. He has notes made during and after each meeting which are carefully kept to brief him for the next visit, and he makes it seem as if concern for his visitor is all he has on his mind.

  But he can also be firm. If an ambassador or important visitor takes liberties in conversation with him, most especially if they hint at or speak disparagingly of the king’s mental illness, his eyes flash and the visitor quickly feels the razor slice of his tongue. ‘Good sir, I believe you are mistaken,’ he says softly but with acid, and the offender is quietly, discreetly removed from his presence.

  Yolande notices that Louis does not shy away from his power; on the contrary, he enjoys it to the full, and shares his good fortune liberally. At council meetings, which Yolande is permitted to attend, she is repeatedly surprised by his magnanimous gestures, granting privileges and favours to supplicants. Marie de Blois, her guide in all things to do with the court and its inhabitants, further surprises her.

  ‘My dear, do not imagine that all our French dukes behave like Louis d’Anjou! I regret to tell you that a great many of our feudal lords hug their power and wealth to themselves – almost furtively.’

  Louis’ estates and great houses are countless, and one by one he takes her to visit them all. There is much for her to learn. But sometimes at breakfast he will announce: ‘Enough of work, wife of my heart – today we play!’ Then horses are brought and they ride out together in the countryside, taking wild gallops over fields and into forests, at times with hawks on their arms; or they join a hunt with neighbours, their hounds following. Often they will ride out alone with only their dogs, their grooms following at a discreet distance. They picnic under trees by a stream, and she sings romantic songs taught to her by troubadours in Aragon, or tries to accompany him on her Spanish guitar as he serenades her with the old love ballads of Anjou.

  As part of her marriage portion, Yolande has been given the beautiful chateau of Saumur in the Loire district of Anjou, and there they are as much at home as in Angers. With its roofless towers, crenellations and bold panache, the chateau sits high, dominating the town. Although strongly fortified, it does not intimidate – at least not Yolande. Since it is hers to do with as she chooses, she makes a number of changes to the structure both inside and out, adding a tall tower with a pointed roof at each of the four corners. ‘They look almost like the henins worn by my ladies, but without the veils!’ she tells Louis. For entertaining in the summer months and to allow in more light, she creates several courtyards and edges them with orange trees in square tubs. How delicious is the scent of the blossoms trapped within the four walls as it wafts up to the open windows. For comfort in the colder months, chimney pieces are installed in every room and blazing fires burn day and night. Fur pelts of all kinds lie in profusion on the rugs covering the stone floors; and on the beds are soft coverlets of marten, mink or otter. Many candles stand in clusters on every surface to throw light on the glorious tapestries hanging on the walls – not only for their beauty, but to cover the cold stone. Saumur, the most striking of their castles, is the home of Yolande’s youthful marriage into which she tries to incorporate the elegance of her native Aragon. Her mother has sent her a number of tapestries, carpets and clothes chests from Saragossa, and she houses them easily at Saumur.

  Throughout the summer months they move between Angers and Saumur, remaining in each place for some weeks, making their way overland to the nearby Loire, then sailing when they can, or else being rowed in barges, theirs in front and the household following. They take everything with them they need – bed linen, tablecloths, plates, silver, chests full of clothes and hangings, tapestries and carpets, as well as some of the servants. Yolande takes Carlo and Vincenzo from Angers to test if they will become her eyes and ears among the staff and their guests.

  Come the autumn, they make a longer journey – to Tarascon, their capital in the south. The voyage is only feasible for most of the way by water. With a few stops it can take up to seven or eight weeks, their barges or galleys resounding to the songs of the sailors as they row in rhythm, the lyrics often so bawdy Yolande blushes. The long river journey south from Anjou is such a happy time for them all – the promise of an adventure as they leave the growing chill of the north and follow the sun to the warmth of their land of Provence.

  They plan to arrive at the end of the hot local summer, at the time of the lavender harvest. From the boat Yolande can see row upon row of the thick mauve bushes, and watches the women cut and tie bunches, tossing them into the baskets on their backs to be dried at home. How delicious is the scent of lavender as their boats pass by, all their goods infused with the aroma. They will spend the winter and spring at their chateaux in the south, at Tarascon, Arles or Aix, and there is always a visit to the port of Marseilles for business. These are magical times, and cherished. Then, when the blossom appears in the orchards, and the lambs, foals and calves arrive, they know it is time to move north again.

  One lovely afternoon, Marie de Blois and Yolande are sitting in the recently completed walled garden at Tarascon, admiring the sunlight filtering through the trees. Chilled glasses of elderflower juice mixed with water refresh them, and they both work slowly on their embroidery as Marie talks about Louis’ nature – punctual, exact, almost military – which is often at odds with the more relaxed Mediterranean ways of Provence.

  ‘Believe me, my dear, I made every effort to have him absorb the Latin ways. But as you may have already noticed, he is a precise man; his life is dominated by control and order, with everything and everyone in their place.’

  ‘You are right, dear Maman; it’s true, he is punctual and consistently keeps to his word, and I have observed how reasonably he deals with his tenants and listens to argument.’

  ‘Have you noticed that when someone has a convincing point of view that he finds valid, he will change his original opinion and agree with them?’

  ‘Yes, it is one of the traits I admire the most – his humility when he realizes he is mistaken, or another has a better idea.’

  ‘Ah, my dear, this flexibility is not the custom of the south, and as a result, he has had some difficulty in coming to terms with the more rigidly feudal existence within Provence. You will see soon enough that it will be your role to smooth his path in dealing with some of his more intractable subjects.’

  It does not take Yolande much time to appreciate that the massive commercial power of the Anjou family originates from the south, for here they have access to the sea with their great port of Marseilles; they have ships; they can trade the produce from the rich soil of Anjou as well as from Provence, and import goods from all over the Mediterranean to sell throu
ghout France. Provence is the heartbeat of this family she has married into – the principal source of their great wealth; of men for their armies; of ships for trading, or to carry their soldiers to Naples to fight for their distant kingdom. This sovereign territory produces twice the income of Maine and Anjou. Trade and taxation, and the salt mines – a valuable export – as well as the efficient government handed down from Louis’ father all contribute. To maintain order in his southern territories and to impose his will, it is important for Louis to show himself regularly in Provence, especially since the people here have not long been governed by the House of Anjou.

  Chapter Six

  It is while they are in Provence, about three years after their marriage, during the autumn of 1403, enjoying the weather, picking wild flowers amid the scent of lavender and the delicious aroma of the ripe harvest in the fields, that Yolande tells her husband she is expecting their first child. Louis surprises her with his enthusiasm. ‘Oh my darling wife – this is the best possible news! Of course the baby will be a boy, I know it! And he must be named Louis, yes, Louis III. My darling, clever, beautiful wife!’ And on and on he goes, describing his plans for his son’s first ten years.

  Yolande never expected her husband to be such a keen father-to-be, and they delight in her pregnancy. Perhaps they both thought she would conceive sooner, but God chooses his time and she considers herself fortunate – she is strong and healthy, and she feels no sickness. Much as she would love her mother to be with her and share the excitement of the baby’s birth, Aragon’s queen is nursing a badly broken leg and unable to travel. Her letters full of maternal advice fill Yolande with expectation, and Juana is with her, which comforts them both.

  It is during her pregnancy in Provence that they hear Queen Isabeau has given birth to her eleventh child, a son. Since his brother’s madness began, Louis d’Orléans’ unstinting support of the queen has been remarked upon, somewhat insidiously, by some courtiers. Inevitably, malicious tongues wag about the paternity of this new royal birth, but since the boy is the queen’s third surviving son, he is too distant from the throne for the gossip to be of importance. Both Carlo and Vincenzo have been fully trained by Yolande to listen to the staff of the many visitors to Anjou and Provence. From them Yolande has heard all the gossip of the royal court, possibly more even than Louis, since he is more interested in the government.