Crown in Candlelight Read online

  She was confident. It would have surprised her to learn that the agents of Jean sans Peur also watched the King just as avidly, and bore back to their master the disconcerting evidence of their eyes. It was as if the whole of France reverberated with the beat of hooves and whispers. And at Blois, Violante of Milan watched sadly from her château-tower, watched the empty courtyard and the barren vineyards and wondered then, if ever, her husband would come home. Sometimes, Louis still thought of her, but he was enwrapped in Isabeau, feeling ecstatic and afraid, as if he rode a wild horse down an avenue of darkness. By the time they left Troyes and took up residence at the Palais, joy had vanquished his fear. He grew bold and more assertive. He was in bed with the Queen, late at night, when the message came, voiced in ancient squeaky tones outside the door.

  Isabeau said: ‘Call out. Say we have retired, and that tomorrow I’ll punish whoever has disturbed us.’

  The scratching on the door continued with the urgent summons.

  ‘Make a light.’ Louis fumbled for flint and tinder. The Queen raised herself on her elbow. The light rippled on her heavy white breasts; her face was puffy with sleep. Louis slid from bed,. threw on a robe and opened the door. The servant confronting him was unfamiliar but there were many such in Isabeau’s entourage; distant relatives, hangers-on.

  ‘Seigneur, you must come. Your wife, the Duchess Violante.’

  ‘She is at Blois,’ he said curtly.

  ‘No, she is in Paris here, at the Louvre, mortally ill. She was brought this evening so that the King’s physicians might save her life, but it is hopeless. She is asking for you.’

  ‘Wait.’ He went back into the chamber and began quickly to dress. Isabeau had overheard the conversation. She watched him cynically.

  ‘You still have a tender heart,’ she mocked.

  ‘She’s my wife,’ said Louis, and threw on his chaperon and mantle. He picked up sword and belt and buckled them. ‘But you, my queen,’ he said gallantly, ‘are my life!’

  The old page, agitated, was waiting, and went ahead down the stairs and out through the great gate into the foggy street where horses and an escort of five men waited. We must hurry, they said, and took Louis at a fierce pace through the deserted city. He rode in the midst of the escort, the man at its head going so fast through alleys and courts that the lantern he carried swung up and down, its rays like pale steam against the. fog. Louis thought of Violante: I could have treated her better, though I was never cruel … They turned over cobbles glossy with fog, into the Rue Barbette, narrow and dark, in the meanest quarter of Paris. A short cut, seigneur, said the leading rider, slowing his horse and turning to smile with unpleasantly black teeth and unshaven jaw poking from his hood. What a devil, thought Louis; why does Isabeau employ such villains, but then doubtless he is good with his fists. It was his last conclusive thought. From a darkened house on the left four men rushed out. Louis turned with a cry to the escort, just as the first blade drove into his side, doubling him in agony. He raised his head appealingly and was instantly almost blinded by blood from a slash to his brow, yet saw the unshaven man steadying the light and smiling. Louis slipped from his horse. His left hand clawed upward and clutched at the saddle-horn. one of the assailants raised a short sword and the Duke felt a searing pain. He looked up through blood, saw his own severed hand still clinging to the saddle, and fell below it to the ground. There nine men hacked at him and he died.

  Nearby a window was flung open, a light bloomed and a voice called sleepily. Quickly the leader doused his lantern and shouted through the murk.

  ‘The Watch here! All shut, blow out your candles!’ and the window went dark again. Nine red blades were sheathed. Nine riders set spurs and were gone. Louis lay still in his blood. A little runnel of it was moving, coming to rest beside the severed hand on the other side of the street.

  By a strange irony, Violante of Milan had indeed been ill at Blois, and now in Paris she had a deathly appearance. With the Princess Isabelle she sat in the foremost carriage of a long mourning procession which wound north-easterly to the Hôtel de St Paul, where the King now resided. Isabelle had designed the cortège with as much care as her resources could muster. Seven black charrettes, each drawn by a pair of white horses, slowly moved, a magpie chain of grief, from the Porte St Jacques where at the south outer wall she had received Violante with tears. In the second of these carriages lay the black-clad body of Louis of Orléans, wearing his orders and jewels, with his left hand wrapped in cloth of gold and placed by his head. Following the corpse came the young Charles, his sword drawn and carried before his face. Behind him in the remaining wagons sat Isabelle’s retainers and those who were prominent in the household of Orléans. Word of the procession’s approach had leaped ahead and the streets filled with citizens craning for a long look at the murdered Duke. From the Abbey of St Victor, from St Geneviève and St Etienne the students and tutors came hurrying and followed the cortège into the Cité. As the slow black-and-white river moved over the bridge at the Petit Châtelet and into the shadow of Notre Dame, the crowd swelled. The bell was sounding, mingling with the rattle and ring of hooves and wheels. The train passed through the Porte au Blé into the precinct of St Paul where the Célestins bell joined that of the cathedral. Men bared their heads, looking awestruck on tiptoe at the Duke’s remains. A voice said loudly: ‘Whose evil work was this?’

  Isabelle had no need to wonder; she was sure. The King’s words to Isabeau still haunted her. ‘So shall I do to all your mountebanks, who fill your lust …’ She sorrowed for her uncle but her prime emotions were rage and revulsion. Bosredon’s killing had been bad enough, for all that he had only been an adventurer and a spy. Now this ambush in the dark brought to her the sick reminder of another dearer death. So had Exton’s assassins, on Bolingbroke’s orders, struck down Richard in the night at Pontefract. There were still the marks of cudgel and sword on the pillar in that dungeon in England’s north. Richard had managed to kill at least two of them, but had been defeated by numbers, the coward’s method. What despair for him, in the dark! Beside Isabelle, Violante sobbed, pressing a linen square to her eyes.

  ‘Do not weep, my lady,’ said Isabelle grimly. ‘I will be your champion. You shall see my father’s shame!’

  At the gate of the Hôtel de St Paul the cortège halted. At the foot of the steps she turned to Charles, who shook his head, still holding his sword. ‘I must stay to guard my father.’ So she assisted the wid-owed Duchess upwards to the Hall, through the columns decorated with weird howling faces, into the presence of a large assembly. The King stood by his dais, Odette behind him. The Dauphin Louis, now tall at eleven years old, his younger brothers Charles and Jean, and Michelle were there, standing quietly. And there was Katherine, with the King’s hand resting on her shoulder: When she saw Isabelle she made to run forward, but halted at the expression on her sister’s face. Why in heaven has he taken her from Poissy? thought Isabelle. God knows I would not have had her witness what I shall say, but it’s too late. Supporting Violante, she walked between the bowing courtiers and faced her father. He smiled at her tremulously; his eyes were black-ringed and a vein flickered in his temple. She thought: once I pitied him, sorrowed for him. But now his barbarism has cast out all my compassion.

  ‘Madame,’ he said softly, ‘and my lady of Orléans. God be with you both.’

  He stretched out his hands, the fingernails grown long, for his daughter and sister-in-law to kiss. The Duchess Violante sank to her knees; the princess stood still.

  ‘Belle?’ said the King in a high voice. ‘Come, greet me. This is a sad day.’

  ‘Your day! Your doing!’ said Isabelle with great violence.

  ‘Madame?’ he said uncertainly.

  Dimly she heard herself begin a planned tirade that outgrew its intent and overwhelmed her, bringing the sweat on to her face and shaking her whole body. From somewhere outside she looked amazed at this crying, ranting self, then seeing, as through mist, the faces of the company
, nervous and appalled, the small princess drawing closer to Michelle, the Dauphin forgetting to smile. And the King’s eyes ringed with deeper black in new pallor, his speechless immobility.

  Everyone still as stone except for Odette, who came with a quick fluttering step to stand beside King Charles.

  ‘You are my shame,’ Isabelle said on a harsh breath, and lapsed into the formal third person singular. ‘For my father has murdered his own brother. He has become as barbaric, as gross in villainy as … as the English! As vile as Henry Bolingbroke!’ And in that instant it was Bolingbroke whom she wildly confronted.

  ‘My daughter,’ said the King very faintly, ‘you are wrong. I am guiltless.’

  ‘Assassin!’ she cried. She drew Violante up, holding her in her arms. ‘See your handiwork! For God’s sake!’ Her voice wailed about the pillared Hall; it might have come from the carved mouths of the wild men. ‘Has Valois come to this? Butchering its own flesh in stealth by night? Louis of Orléans would have been my father on my marriage, so you have robbed me of two fathers. For from this day I count you none of mine!’

  She finished, almost fainting. Even Violante, her own sorrow momentarily eclipsed, was looking at her aghast, like the whole court. Then the King gave a groan. Forty pairs of eyes swivelled to the dais. He had sunk to the floor, his arms waving wildly. He had knocked off his diadem. It fell and rotated like a glittering coin. The King clutched at his head and Odette bent to him. Katherine crept nearer and laid a timid hand upon his neck.

  ‘Do not touch me! I shall shatter!’ He held out his taloned fingers. ‘Look!’ he cried into the frightened child’s face. ‘I am made of glass …’ Then he buried his head in the skirt of his mantle and rolled about against the steps of the dais.

  Doctors ran and milled about him as the dreadful silence began to break up into whispered oaths and little prayers.

  Odette left the King’s side. She came down to where Isabelle, horrified, stood staring at her father.

  ‘I trust you’re satisfied, Madame!’ She looked sadly back at the writhing figure. ‘I would have given my heart’s blood to spare him this. Orléans was of no account beside Charles of Valois, for whom I would gladly die. A hundred lives would be small price to keep him well. And now …’ For the first time in memory Isabelle saw tears in Odette’s eyes. ‘He will not recover easily from this storm. Why, Madame? Why did you do it? He had enough on his soul without false accusation! You should have saved your spleen for Jean sans Peur!’

  Isabelle covered her face with her hands, but Odette pulled them away.

  ‘Look, Madame! Look well! There’s the beginning of France’s ruin!’

  Haggardly Isabelle looked. The Dauphin Louis had picked up the fallen diadem, and was surveying it with a reckless infantile greed. And on the steps, unnoticed by the distraught throng, sat Katherine, shivering and crying like a little old woman gone mad.

  In the cloister garth at Poissy, between the troutstream and the house, a willow grew. Each autumn Katherine watched the leaves changing from silver-green to grey, and listened to the shivering branches. It was now the third autumn since that dreadful day at court, from which she had returned weeping, fevered and coughing. Dame Alphonse had nursed her back to serenity; now she was cherished and cloistered and knew little of the world outside. She was denied nothing, hence the private chamber overlooking the garden, the bounty of silver toilette appointments and fine gowns sent by Charles of Orléans, now married to Isabelle at last.

  She did not know that her father lay in the worst madness of his life nor that thirteen-year-old Dauphine Louis feebly held government under the regency of Jean sans Peur. She did not know that Louis of Orléans had been buried with honours in the royal vault at the Célestins, where, less than a year later, Violante had joined him. Neither did she know that Jean sans Peur, emboldened by his new supremacy, had sent an army to besiege, albeit abortively, the English stronghold of Calais. Henry Bolingbroke had viewed this impertinence gravely from London, sending Prince Harry, as Captain of Calais, to keep the tenure under arms.

  She sat holding the silver mirror close to her face. Outside the willow waved and mourned and Jacquot lay on the bed, watching her. She looked deeply in the polished metal; her eyes were immense, black as autumn fruit. Her dark hair fell thick and shining to her waist. But, inescapably, her nose was too long. Frowning, she smoothed and pressed it, grimaced and dropped her hand. Beside her lay the portrait of Belle. She slept with it beneath her bolster; she took it out to fix her eyes on it before she extinguished her candle. That face must be the last thing she saw before sleep, or ill-luck would come in the morning. Now she compared it with her own mirrored image, staring alternatively at Belle’s perfect features, the bright determined eyes with their essential sadness, the enchanting half-smile. She glanced at the September candle she had marked and burned in anticipation of Isabelle’s next visit. It was nearly down. A smile touched her face, completely translating its sombre curves. The unwatched mirror reflected a loveliness that far outshone the envied portrait.

  The days of sitting on Belle’s lap were over. Indeed now it would be impossible. Isabelle was near her time, rounded with a mystery that looked almost comic against her slenderness. Charles of Orléans, more worshipping an ever, had accompanied her on that last occasion. He had been kind and solicitous, but Katherine was jealous. He had not allowed Belle to stay to long, saying that she was tired and Katherine must have patience. Now surely the child was born and they would meet again; very soon, if the candle did not lie.

  ‘Princess, if you look too long in the mirror, you will see the Devil,’ said Dame Alphonse, entering with a swish and jangle.

  ‘He can’t be as ugly as I am,’ said Katherine. ‘Oh, sweet Dame! I’m very bored.’

  Two sins in one breath, thought the nun. Heresy and worse, accidie, kin of sloth and father of mischief. But I’ll not reproach the child. Dame Alphonse had her finger on the pulse of the world outside. The King’s malady was worse, and incredibly, Queen Isabeau had made a new conquest. Jean sans Peur had spent some weeks with her at Tours. What a world! thought Dame Alphonse, and blessed her own vocation.

  ‘How I wish I could see Madame!’ said Katherine. ‘Is there any news?’

  She looked at the portrait longingly and the watching nun began to tell her beads mechanically. After a moment, she said:

  ‘Don’t love so much, Princess. It is unfitting.’

  ‘Unfitting!’ Katherine looked up sharply. ‘To love my Belle, when there is none other in this world …’

  I can’t blame her, thought the nun. Yet she said:

  ‘Princess, it’s good and right that you love your sister. But Madame is as sinful as you and I, as any mortal creature. There’s One above all princes, exempt from sin, eternal. It is He whom you must love …’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Katherine quickly. Into her mind came an old picture from the breviary with the burning heretics. God had been there, gravely judging from the clouds above the smoke and flame. Her eyes returned to the portrait, the face with its certain pledge of love. Her choice was already made, but it would not do to acquaint Dame Alphonse with it. Better anyway not to pursue the argument, for Dame Alphonse had recently returned from a rare expedition to Calais and Katherine was longing to hear about it all. She rose and laid her long white hand on the nun’s capacious sleeve.

  ‘Did you enjoy your journey?’

  ‘Too swift at my age. My joints are still aching.’

  ‘Did you see many people?’

  ‘I visited the Dominicans. Their house can’t hold a candle to ours’ (with a smirk that embraced the sin of vanity). ‘Their discipline comes and goes like April weather. But then, they’re in English territory and doubtless infected by that wayward environment. They’ve a fine image of St Catherine. I asked intercession for you, and I swear she smiled at me.’

  ‘What else?’ said Katherine eagerly.

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’ Dame Alphonse was hurt.

&nbs
p; ‘Did you see the English? Belle told me that some are more fiends than the Fiend himself. Did you attend any banquets?’

  ‘Banquets! Me? I stayed in cloister, of course. By courtesy of the Abbess. I saw no fiends!’ A little alarmed, she glanced at Katherine. Madame had put some wild notions into the child’s mind. The princess was looking so disappointed that Dame Alphonse relented.

  ‘I did see Prince Harry, though. He rode by with a great train, very fine, on the way to the harbour. They say his father’s likely to die in England, but it seems he takes his time over it. And Harry badly wants the crown …’

  Just as your own young brother Louis lusts to rule France unhampered by regency, she thought. Already Louis was grotesquely playing at manhood – eyeing the women at court, and more than once drinking himself insensible.

  ‘How does Prince Harry look?’

  ‘I only had a glimpse.’ The nun hurriedly collected her thoughts. ‘His head was bare, his cheek florid. He has a scar on his face. Aged about twenty-three. He looks … clever.’

  Katherine felt, in loyalty to Belle, that he should at least have ridden in a haze of fire and brimstone … but then Dame Alphonse often confessed she needed spectacles. Strange to think that she, Katherine, could have been his bride. A wicked thought popped up: it couldn’t be more boring than Poissy!

  To counteract her instant guilt, she said loudly: ‘They wanted me to marry him. But I would first have put an end to myself!’

  ‘Now there’s real heresy!’ said Dame Alphonse grimly. ‘Pray for pardon. This minute.’ She slid stiffly on to a priedieu and pulled the princess down beside her. Together they murmured quietly to the little flame above, while a willow branch tapped at the window as if afraid of approaching winter and begging entry. Its tapping was echoed from outside the chamber door. Dame Alphonse prayed on steadily for a few moments, then rose, and opened the door. Katherine remained kneeling. Just outside the door the nun saw the house chaplain and a young man, mud on his mantle. She recognized him after a moment; Antoine l’Astisan, secretary to Charles of Orléans. Katherine, pretending to pray, listened hard. She caught only a stray word or phrase.