The Red Rose of Anjou Read online

  He was so tired of everything. He almost wished he were a country nobleman and could retire to his estates and have done with all the troubles which surrounded him.

  Joan of Arc was on his conscience, and often that strange episode would intrude on his thoughts and try as he might he could not forget her. Luxembourg, Burgundy’s man, had captured her and had sold her to the English. It was the English who had burned her as a witch but his remorse must be as great if not greater than theirs—for he had done nothing to save her. He should have fought with all his might... and he had turned away. He had rejected her; he had tried to tell himself that she was after all some sort of witch.

  He hated war. Bloodshed was revolting. He had to admit it brought gain to some. He thought of Harry of England at Agincourt. But where was Harry of England now? And if the war had brought misery to France how had England fared? They were still struggling for the crown of France. They were groaning under taxation to pay for the war and there was many a widow in England mourning her husband, and children grieving for a father who had gone to France and would never return.

  Oh for peace! thought Charles.

  And now here was Isabelle of Anjou come to ask something from him. He was sorry for René. He liked René. He was especially fond of René’s mother who was his own mother-in-law. She was one of the most enlightened and interesting women he knew. He found pleasure in her society and regarded her advice with a greater respect than that which he felt for many of his ministers. Yes, he would like to have helped Isabelle. But how could he, against Burgundy? How he hated Burgundy. Burgundy was the bogey of his life.

  Her little girls were adorable. Isabelle was a beautiful woman and she pleaded most eloquently, but as he had told his mother-in-law Yolande, there was nothing he could do against Burgundy. The Duke’s resources were far greater than his own; and much as he would like to he could hardly involve even what he had in a private quarrel between two families.

  He was desperately sorry. He would have liked to help. Yolande understood. Isabelle must.

  Oh, what a wearying business it was being King of a country that was in such a dire state as France was at this time!

  He liked to walk alone in the gardens about the castle. One day as he sat down under a tree brooding in his melancholy way, he saw a girl. She was walking through the gardens and stopping now and then to admire the flowers. He watched her for a few moments before she was aware of him. She was unlike any other girl he had known. She was of the Court he supposed but he had never seen her before. He would have remembered if he had, because there was something so distinctive about her.

  He called: ‘Well a day, my lady. Are you enjoying the gardens as I am?’

  She paused and smiled at him.

  ‘They are very beautiful, my lord.’

  It occurred to him that she could not know who he was because she showed no sign of the great honour he did her by speaking to her.

  ‘Would you care to sit awhile and talk?’ he said.

  She came and sat beside him. The purity of her features startled him. He admired beauty, he admired women. He guessed by her clothes that she was not a lady of high rank. She could not be for if she was he would surely know her. She was not a serving-woman either. His adventures with women had been many. He had never hesitated to indulge himself, and because of that sense of inferiority which his mother had inspired in him those of the lowly kind attracted him. With them he had been able to feel superior. He despised himself and often wished he did not know himself so well. This was different though. He admired her beauty but had no desire for a quick seduction this day and to forget her by tomorrow.

  ‘I have not seen you at the Court before,’ he said.

  ‘It is not surprising since I am lately come,’ she answered.

  ‘And what think you of it?’

  ‘It is a sad Court in a way. The threat of the English invaders hangs over it still.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he sighed. ‘But it has improved has it not? In the last two years there has been change.’

  ‘A slow change,’ said Agnès.

  ‘And you think it should be quicker?’

  ‘But of course, my lord.’

  ‘The King should bestir himself, you think?’

  ‘Aye, that he should. He should rid himself of ministers who impede him, and act for himself.’

  ‘You are not of the Court, but lately come, you say, yet you tell the King’s minsters how they should act.’

  ‘Not his ministers. But I think the King should rouse himself. He should take the governing of the country in hand. He should be a King in truth.’

  ‘Which he is not at the moment?’

  ‘As you said I am a simple girl from the country, but I listen, I think; and I know what has happened. We had a brief glory when the Maid came and drove the besiegers from Orléans and had the Dauphin made King at Rheims...and then...’

  ‘Yes, my lady, and then?’

  ‘Then it stopped.’

  ‘There were no more miracles, you mean. The Maid lost her powers and then the English burned her as a witch.’

  ‘They should never have been allowed to.’

  ‘Nay, you speak truth there. And do you think that is why God no longer seems on the side of the French?’

  ‘He is not on the side of the English either.’

  ‘In fact He has shut the gates of Heaven and is leaving us to our own devices.’

  ‘I think...’

  ‘Yes, my lady, what do you think?’

  ‘I think that God would help France again if France helped herself

  She stood up.

  ‘So you are going now?’

  ‘Yes, I must return to my charges.’

  ‘Who are your charges?’

  ‘The children of the Duchess of Lorraine. Yolande and Margaret.’

  ‘So you are in that lady’s train. Shall you be in the gardens tomorrow?’

  She looked at him steadily.

  ‘I would be here, if you wished it.’

  ‘That is gracious of you.’

  She laughed then. ‘Nay, all would say it is gracious of you. I know who you are. Sire.’

  He was amazed. She had not behaved as though in the presence of the King. And all the time she had known him!

  She was quite unabashed by her own temerity. ‘I have known you long,’ she said. ‘I thought of you often...during the difficult days. I should have been very happy to have been at Rheims on the day they crowned you.’

  ‘You are a strange girl,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘It is Agnès Sorel.’

  ‘Agnès Sorel,’ he repeated. ‘I have enjoyed our talk. I shall see you again.’

  ###

  She saw him again. He was attracted by her. She was in the first place outstandingly beautiful, and in a serene way, quite different from the flamboyant beauties of his Court. She cared about the country. That was what amazed him. There was no sign of coquetry. She must have thought him extremely ugly, which he undoubtedly was, and old too, for he appeared to be older than his years and she was very young. He was astonished by how much she knew of the country’s affairs.

  By the end of the second meeting he was more fascinated than he had been at the first. Her frank manner, her complete indifference to his royalty enchanted him. He could not stop looking at her. He discovered she was more beautiful every time he saw her. But chiefly he discovered a peace in her company which he had never known before.

  He talked to the woman he admired more than any other. She was his mother-in-law Yolande of Anjou who was a frequent visitor at the Court and who had been one of his closest friends ever since he had known her. He was closer to her than to his wife. He was in fact glad that he had married Marie because the marriage had brought him Yolande.

  ‘Do you know the young girl who travelled in your daughter-in-law’s train? She is in charge of the little girls.’

  ‘Oh, Agnès,
you mean. She’s a delightful creature is she not?’

  He was relieved that his mother-in-law shared his views.

  ‘I find her so,’ he said.

  ‘You have made her acquaintance...personally then?’

  ‘Yes. But not as you might think. She is not the sort of girl for a quick encounter today and to be forgotten tomorrow.’

  ‘I would agree with that.’

  ‘Her conversation is amazing in one who has lived her life in the country.’

  ‘She has a bright intelligence and a rather unusual beauty.’

  ‘That was my opinion.’

  ‘Have you...plans concerning this girl?’

  The King was silent.

  ‘I find myself thinking of her often but not...in the usual way.’

  ‘I see,’ said Yolande thoughtfully. She was thinking that it would be good for him to have a mistress of good reputation. If Charles were ever going to win the respect of his people he would have to change. He would have to develop confidence in himself; he would have to act more forcefully; he would have to be extricated from ministers whose one aim was to enrich themselves. He was fond of women; he listened to women. Yolande regarded that as a virtue. She believed that if Charles could be surrounded by wise people, if he could be aroused from his lethargy, if it could be brought home to him that he had the makings of a great monarch in him, he could become one.

  She went on thoughtfully: ‘I think the girl would be an asset to our Court. She has a certain grace. I noticed it myself. She could become a member of Marie’s household. I will speak to her.’

  ‘As always you are my very good friend.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Yolande.

  It may have seemed strange, she ruminated, that she should introduce into her daughter’s household a young girl who was very likely destined to become the King’s mistress. But Yolande was far-seeing. How much better for the King to have one good woman to whom he was devoted than a succession of furtive fumblings with serving girls which was ruining his health in any case as well as undermining his dignity. Yolande looking into the future could see the day arrive when Charles could be a great King. She must therefore allow no obstacles to stand in his way. He needed guidance until he found the way he must go; and he would succeed, Yolande believed. She knew men; she knew how to govern; she herself had acted as Regent of Anjou for her eldest son Louis who was in Naples trying to keep hold of the crown there. In her wisdom she believed that Charles needed as many steadying influences as could be found. And it seemed to her that this beautiful and wise young girl could well be one of them. She could mould Agnès, become her friend. Charles was not the only one who sensed rare qualities in this girl. It was worth giving the matter a try.

  Isabelle, realizing that no help could be obtained from the King, prepared to return to the palace in Nancy where her own mother was in charge.

  When she went she left Agnès Sorel behind. Agnès had become Maid of Honour to the Queen of France.

  ###

  Meanwhile René was finding a certain amount of enjoyment in captivity. He had never been one to care for battles. His position forced him into a situation which his inclination would have been to avoid if there had been a choice. Yolande had seen that he had been brought up to reverence the laws of chivalry, and these often made heavy demands on a man.

  However, at Dijon, he had leisure and he was free of making war. The laws of chivalry demanded that he must be treated with the utmost respect which resulted in the fact that, strictly confined as he was, he was more of a guest at Dijon than a prisoner.

  Although he was closely guarded he could go where he liked within the castle and he found pleasure in the chapel where there was a great deal of glass some of which had been decorated with exquisite paintings. René was a painter of some ability; he was also a poet and a musician; how often had he deplored his inability to devote himself to these activities which he loved. Now here was a chance. He had so much admired the paintings in the chapel that he would like to paint on glass himself. Glass was found for him and paints provided and in a short time René was passing the days of his captivity in a very pleasant fashion.

  Time flew. He had completed a portrait of the late Duke John of Burgundy, who had been known as the Fearless; and so pleased was he with it that he did another of the Duke’s son, the present Duke Philip.

  He then painted miniatures of other members of the family and looked forward to each day when he could continue with his work.

  When he heard that the Duke of Burgundy had announced his intention of visiting Dijon he scarcely heard the news; he was so intent on getting the right texture for the hair of the subject of one of his paintings.

  Duke Philip arrived and expecting to find an abject René of Anjou begging for his release was surprised to find the captive intent on his work.

  The Duke looked at the painting. ‘Why it is beautiful,’ he said. ‘I had no idea you were an artist.’

  ‘Oh,’ said René modestly, ‘it passes the time.’

  He talked of the way he mixed his paints and the subjects who pleased him most.

  ‘You seem to have found an agreeable way in which to spend your captivity,’ said the Duke.

  ‘An artist,’ explained René, ‘can never truly become the captive of anything but his own imagination.’

  ‘So an artist can be content wherever he is.’

  ‘While engaged in the act of creation most certainly.’

  ‘It seems to me you do not find all this in the least irksome.’

  ‘At times, yes. I should like to be with my family. My children are growing up, you know, and it is always a joy to see them changing. But while I paint my work engrosses me. It is so with artists.’

  The Duke was amazed. There could not be a man less like himself. It was not that the Duke was not a highly cultured man. He was. He loved beautiful things, but first and foremost he was the Duke of Burgundy and his main object in life was to uphold his power and increase it.

  But he was greatly impressed by René’s work and when he saw the pictures which his prisoner had painted of Duke John and himself he declared that they were very fine indeed and should be placed in the window of the chapel.

  ‘You embarrass me,’ he said. I do not care to hold an artist such as you captive.’

  ‘There is an easy remedy for that,’ said René with a smile. ‘Let me go free.’

  ‘Now you know that is not possible. There are conventions to be observed in matters like this. If I freed you without conditions I should have every prisoner I take claiming to be an artist.’

  ‘That is a matter, my lord Duke, which could be put to the test.’

  ‘The appreciation of great art is an individual matter. I should be told that my prisoner was a great artist but of a different school from that which I admired. You see my difficulties.’

  ‘I do, my lord.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said the Duke, ‘I would discuss terms with you. You were captured in battle. The dispute over Lorraine has to be settled. Who has the prior claim—you as husband of Isabelle or Antoine de Vaudémont! Are we to enforce the Salic Law or not? I can see an easy settlement to that dispute.’

  ‘I should be glad to know it.’

  ‘You have a daughter, have you not?’

  ‘Two. Yolande and Margaret.’

  ‘It is of the elder I would speak.’

  ‘That is Yolande.’

  ‘My dear man, Antoine has a son, young Ferri. Why should not these two be betrothed? In time Antoine’s son and your daughter would inherit Lorraine. Would you agree to that? I ask you this, but at the same time I must remind you that you will remain a prisoner until you do.’

  ‘It seems a fair enough solution,’ said René.

  ‘Then that will settle the main dispute. But naturally there must be a ransom. Certain castles shall we say?’

  ‘Which?’ asked René.

  ‘Clermont, C
hatille, Bourmont and Charmes?’

  ‘You strike a hard bargain.’

  ‘And twenty thousand gold crowns.’

  ‘Twenty thousand gold crowns! Where shall I find them?’

  ‘You will have time to find the money. I should advise you to agree. Ransoms have a habit of increasing with the years. I am being lenient. You must admit. It is because of the respect I have for an artist.’

  When the Duke had gone René considered the matter. He wanted to be with his family. He longed to see the children. It was true that little Yolande would doubtless be expected to join the Vaudémonts. Well, that was the sort of thing that happened to girls.

  He agreed and very soon after was speeding on his way to join his family.

  ###

  After René had been warmly greeted by his family both Isabelle and her mother considered the terms of his release and declared that they were very harsh.

  In the nursery, Theophanie was fuming.

  ‘A nice state of affairs,’ she said. ‘A little mite like my Yolande to go off and live with strangers. Her cousins they may be, but it’s not right. It’s not right at all. And Agnès. Who would have believed that? A Maid of Honour eh, to the Queen. I reckon she’ll be pining for her nice place in my nurseries before very long. Agnès at Court! I can’t see it. I can’t see it at all.’

  But the real tragedy was of course the departure of Yolande.

  It was a mercy, she muttered to herself, that the child was so young...too young to realize. She was only four years old, poor mite. She was asking a great many questions about her new home.

  ‘As if I could tell her,’ mourned Theophanie.

  Margaret looked on with wide eyes. ^

  ‘Why is Yolande going away?’

  ‘Because she’s going to be betrothed.’

  ‘What is betrothed?’

  ‘Married, in time.’

  Theo, shall I be betrothed?’

  ‘You certainly will, my lamb.’

  ‘Is it a good thing to be?’

  ‘It’s sometimes very good...for others,’ added Theophanie bitterly.

  The boys were interested. ‘You’ll have to go one day, Margaret,’ they taunted her.