Joanna Hickson - The Agincourt Bride

In her usual quiet way Michele perched sedately on a bench under a tree and immersed herself in Voraigne’s Legendes d’Or and I am ashamed to say that as I sat with my back against a sun-baked wall, lulled by the murmuring of bees, I drifted off to sleep. I did not doze for long however, because Louis, little menace that he was, took advantage of my lapse to creep up and drop something wriggly and bristling down the front of my chemise. Roused by a stinging sensation between my breasts, I squealed and sprang behind some bushes, tearing open the laces in order to delve into my bodice while the boys screamed with delight. Shuddering, I removed a hairy black caterpillar and tossed it away. An itchy rash had already appeared on the tender damp flesh and, mortified, as I re-tied the laces of my bodice I was already rehearsing the rollicking I was going to deliver to the young princes when their giggling ceased abruptly. Emerging red-faced from my refuge, I stared open-mouthed at the sight that met my eyes.

It was as if a flutter of giant butterflies had alighted in the garden. The guards had rushed to open the old gate that led to a little-used dock on the riverbank and through it was advancing a procession of ladies and gentlemen clad in the height of fashion and chattering and laughing together. The gilded galley from which they had disembarked could be seen bumping gently against the landing stage, while a trio of escorting barges drifted in mid-river, each carrying a score or more of arbalesters and men-at-arms. Rooted to the spot, the children stood gawping like street urchins.

The half dozen ladies of the party wore full-skirted gowns in rainbow hues with high waists and trailing sleeves and they walked with a studied, laid-back gait, carefully balancing an array of architectural headdresses – steeples, arches and gables – glittering with jewels and fluttering with gauzy veils. The men were no less flamboyant, sporting richly brocaded doublets with high, fluted collars and exotically draped hats and teetering on jewel-encrusted shoes with high red heels and spring-curled toes.

In the van of the procession strolled the most magnificent pair of all, locked in animated conversation. I had never seen her at close quarters, but I knew instantly that this must be the queen, linked arm in arm with her brother-in-law the Duke of Orleans.

Queen Isabeau was not slender any more – eleven children and all those succulent roasts had seen to that – but on this stifling afternoon when everything was melting, she glittered like ice. Her gown was of lustrous pale-blue silk so liberally woven through with gold thread that it shimmered as she moved and around her shoulders hung thick chains of pearls and sapphires. On her head an enormous wheel of pale, iridescent feathers was pinned with a diamond the size of a duck’s egg.

Her escort was no less resplendent. Louis of Orleans was tall and handsome with a jutting jaw, a long, imperial nose and twinkling speckled grey eyes. To my astonishment there were porcupines embroidered in gold thread and jet beads all over his gown and his extravagantly dagged hat was trimmed with striped porcupine quills, which rattled as he walked. It was only later that I learned that the porcupine was the duke’s personal emblem. Louis of Orleans liked everyone to know who he was.

I was so mesmerised by these visions of fashionable extravagance that I had forgotten to scamper out of sight and now I could only sink to my knees, for Catherine and Charles had taken shelter behind me and were clinging to my skirt. As it turned out I need not have worried, for I do not think Queen Isabeau even noticed us. She only tore her gaze from the duke in order to fix it on Michele, who was now standing nervously, clutching her book like a shield.

‘Princesse Michele?’ The queen beckoned to the trembling girl and I detected a distinctly peevish note in the deep, Germanic voice. ‘It is Michele, is it not?’

Well may she ask! I heard my own voice exclaim inside my head. To my knowledge she had not laid eyes on this daughter of hers more than once or twice in the nine years since her birth.

‘Come. Come closer, child!’ She made an impatient gesture.

The grubby hem of Michele’s skirt moved into the scope of my vision and I saw her bend her knee before her mother. For one so young her composure was remarkable.

‘Yes, you must be Michele. You have my eyes. And these are your brothers, are they not?’ She gestured towards Louis and Jean and nodded at Michele’s whispered, ‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Of course they are! What other children would be playing in Queen Jeanne’s garden? But how wretched you look!’ exclaimed the queen. ‘Have you no comb – no veil? And your gown … it is dirty and so tight! Where is your governess? How dare she allow you to be seen like this?’

Michele coloured violently, her expression a mixture of fear and shame. I waited to hear her denounce Madame la Bonne but she merely swallowed hard and shook her head. Perhaps she knew that her all-powerful mother would never believe the truth; that the nursery comb had few remaining teeth, there were no clean clothes and the governess was closeted in her tower chamber counting the coins she had managed not to spend on her royal charges.

‘Have you forgotten your manners?’ the queen demanded. For a tense moment it looked as if she might explode into anger but then she shrugged and turned to the duke. ‘Well, never mind. Young girls are better quiet. What do you think, my lord? Will she polish up for your son? He is only a boy after all. They are cygnets who can grow into swans together!’

Louis of Orleans bent and placed one gloved finger under Michele’s chin. The little girl’s eyes grew round with apprehension, giving her the appeal of a frightened kitten. The duke smiled, releasing her. ‘As she is your daughter, Madame, how could she be anything but perfect? I love her already and so will my son.’

The queen laughed. ‘You flatter us, my lord!’ Orleans’ charm made her forget Michele’s shortcomings and the absent governess. She waved the large painted fan she carried. ‘Michele, Louis, Jean, follow me. I am glad to have found you in the garden. It has saved us sending men to search the palace. The time has come for you to leave here. It is no longer safe for you. The new Duke of Burgundy thinks he can use you to rule France himself but I am your mother and the queen and I have other plans. You need bring nothing. We are leaving now.’

Her words fell like a thunderbolt in the scented garden. The three named children exchanged astonished glances; Michele with alarm, Louis with excitement and Jean with bemusement. None of them dared to speak.

‘We are going somewhere where Burgundy cannot force you into undesirable alliances. We will foil his schemes and you will have new playmates in your uncle of Orleans’ children. Ladies!’

The queen snapped her fan at her attendants, two of whom hastened forward to manoeuvre the long train and voluminous skirt around her feet so that she could turn around. While they busied themselves, she cast another doubtful glance at her children, then leaned closer to Orleans, murmuring, ‘Are they worth saving from Burgundy’s machinations? They look a sorry bunch to me.’

Orleans made a reassuring gesture. ‘Have no fear, Madame, they are of the blood royal. They will polish up.’ He turned to address Michele, who still clutched her book fiercely, as the only solid object in a violently shifting world. ‘The Duke of Burgundy wants to marry you to his son, Mademoiselle, but how would you like to marry my son instead?’

He clearly expected no reply, for the procession was already moving off, back towards the river-gate, and he immediately returned his attention to the queen, missing Michele’s eloquent glance in my direction. ‘I told you so,’ it said, ‘I am to be married to heaven-knows-whom and taken to heaven-knows-where!’ I crossed myself and whispered a prayer for her. Poor little princess, her worst fears were realised.