Виктория Холт: The Queen's Secret

The incident put an end to the proposed war on Brittany; and it was the beginning of my father’s attacks of madness.

No one thought of it as such at the time. The heat had been intense and it was believed that he had been overcome by a fever which had made him delirious. Most people had seen men and women in such a state before. Moreover, he quickly recovered and was normal for about a year. The uncles at any rate were pleased to see the termination of a campaign for which they had had no enthusiasm.

A year passed. My father was still besottedly in love with my mother and she was leading him farther into the wildest extravagances. He spent a great deal of time thinking how to please her, and this resulted in balls, masques and lavish entertainments, all of which were not good for the treasury.

Then came that fatal occasion which was to show that the King’s behavior in the forest of Le Mans was no isolated incident.

To surprise and amuse my mother, he secretly planned, with five of his most frivolous courtiers, to arrive at the ball disguised as savages who had come from some distant land. Isabeau was always amused when he appeared in some strange disguise and the company pretended not to recognize him—although of course they all did. He would declare himself overwhelmed by Isabeau’s beauty, flirt with her outrageously…and the finale was that he was the King after all. It was an old trick of which everyone was aware, but it was always greeted with rapturous applause.

They went to a great deal of trouble to make their costumes. They were sewn up in linen to which tow was stuck with a sort of resin glue so that the effect was that of hairy apes. Apparently they looked quite realistic, and when they entered the ballroom there were shrieks of mock terror as they pranced around and around, in and out of the company.

Unfortunately one of the courtiers picked up a torch and came too close to the masquerading group. In a few seconds, several of them were alight. The resinous substance which had been used to stick on the tow burst into a great blaze, and the hairy savages were, in a matter of seconds, engulfed in flames. Frantically they tried to tear off their inflammable costumes, but in vain.

Someone shouted: “The King! Save the King!”

For he was there…my father…in the midst of that writhing mass of flame. It would have been the end of him if the Duchess of Berry, recognizing him, had not pulled off a heavy cloak from a man standing nearby and wrapped it around the King.

“Do not move!” she cried. “Keep still!” She pressed the cloak around him and, by a miracle it seemed, saved his life.

However, several of his friends perished and the incident brought on the second bout of madness.

He did not know where he was. He wanted to attack those around him. He kept shouting that he was made of glass and the glass was melting. He was not their King. He was an evil sinner, responsible for the deaths of those who had served him well. They should kill him.

That was a tragic night.

For some months he remained in a clouded world apart from reality…and then, suddenly, he regained his senses. He was able to take over his duties again. But he was a sad man. The knowledge was there. It was the second time he had gone into a frenzy—the first started by the man in the forest of Le Mans and the second by the terrible accident resulting from a foolish masquerade for which he held himself to blame. Those who had shared that folly with him had died. He had killed a man at Le Mans. He was now sure that he was subject to fits of insanity. The people had called his father Charles the Wise, and they were now calling him Charles the Mad.

A wonderful doctor was found for him. He came from Laon and his name was William Harsley. He looked after my father and he understood his madness; he even saw signs when one of his attacks was coming on, which was very helpful.

With Dr. Harsley’s help, my father came to accept his madness, for when he emerged into sanity, he was well enough to take up the reins where he had dropped them and conduct the business of state. But always he must be watchful and the knowledge that there was madness in his blood put a perpetual shadow over his life.

During the years that followed, between his bouts of madness, he continued to be the uxorious husband, and he and my mother had many children; in fact, a birth was almost a yearly event. Many of them died but some survived.

The uncles, Burgundy being the leader, came back into power after pushing out the ministers my father had restored. During his sane periods my father attempted to govern, but he—and those about him—were ever watchful for the first signs of insanity.

There was the usual trouble with England, but the prospects in this direction were brighter when my sister Isabelle married Richard II, and there was a truce between the two countries which was to last for twenty-eight years.

Alas for treaties! It was the year 1396 when my sister went to England.

And that was the state of affairs in France when five years later, on a dark October day, the fourteenth, in the year 1401, I was born.

I was no longer a baby. I was beginning to take notice of what was going on around me. At six years old, when one lives in very unusual circumstances, one is perhaps more aware than a child living more normally would be; one is watchful for happenings which could change one’s life.

Perhaps the fact that my father was under the same roof when he was mad and departed when he was sane, and we were never sure when the change would take place, made me more perceptive than most children would have been.

All of us, except Marie, developed a talent for gleaning gossip, mostly by keeping our ears open when we moved among those around us. We did not have many servants, and those who were there were devoted to us, for they were not always paid as they should have been; they had to wait for my father’s sane periods. But sometimes their resentment would overcome their discretion and they would speak their minds.

I discovered that the name of my uncle, Louis of Orléans, was constantly being mentioned…and my mother’s with his.

“It’s a scandal…a disgrace. I cannot understand why the poor King endures it. Cannot he see what she is…or does he try to pretend she is not?”

I asked Michelle what they were talking about, and being slightly older than I, she assumed a patronizing air.

“Oh, you’re too young to understand.”

“I can understand if you can.”

“Well,” she said, “our Uncle Orléans is very friendly with our mother…too friendly, they are saying…and when our father is shut away, the Duke of Orléans is…well…he is king.”

She looked at me triumphantly, so I pretended to look knowledgeable, though I was not sure of the significance of her remarks.

I soon learned though that throughout the Court it was a well-known fact that the Duke and my mother were lovers and that my mother preferred the Duke to the King because he was more handsome, more lighthearted and more merry than my poor father could ever be…even when he was not mad.

There were two people at that time who brought comfort into my life. One was Guillemote, who suddenly came to my notice. I was not sure how long she had been in the Hôtel. I think she may have come to look after young Charles, but she extended her care to all of us. She was a jolly, rosy-cheeked young woman. She seemed mature to me, but I have learned since that she was about sixteen years old when I first noticed her. She was rather buxom, different from the people around us. I think it was because she came from the country.

I grew to love her. She had a way of rubbing my hands when they were cold, and if I fell and hurt myself she would kiss the wound and make it better—which seemed a wonderful remedy.