The Queen's Secret

THE HÔTEL DE ST.-PAUL

My earliest recollections are of that drafty and comfortless mansion, the Hôtel de St.-Paul, in which, at that time, was incarcerated the man who was known throughout France as Charles the Mad.

There were six of us children living there: Louis, Jean, Marie, Michelle, myself and baby Charles. We had been put there because our mother did not know what to do with us, and as she had no great interest in our existence, the best thing seemed to her to be to shut us away.

Charles was just over a year younger than I. We all felt tender toward him because he was the baby and used to toddle after us with a rather bewildered look on his little face which was appealing. In truth, we were all rather bewildered.

Moreover, we were often hungry because there never seemed enough food to go around. The soup grew thinner every day until it was more like water. Louis used to ask for more. He was more important than the rest of us because he was the Dauphin—and he felt that entitled him to privileges.

He was promptly told that there was no more, so that was the end of the matter.

We had a governess who was always whispering to the nurse. “It’s a shame and a scandal,” she used to say. “Poor little things…and her going on as she does.”

We listened avidly. We knew there was something odd about the place and we—at least the little ones—were quite unaware of what it was. Louis might have known something and he might have whispered it to Jean, but they were the eldest and boys. We were the young ones…and girls at that—with the exception of Charles, who was only a baby.

Marie was different from the rest of us. When we complained about being cold and hungry she would say: “It is God’s will. We must accept what He gives us and be grateful to Him.”

“How can you be grateful for what you do not have?” asked Michelle.

“If you do not have it, it is God’s will that you should not,” insisted Marie, “and we must all be grateful to Him.”

I wished I could have been like Marie. It must be wonderful to feel there was something virtuous about being cold and hungry.

While the rest of us shivered in bed at night, even after having covered ourselves with everything we could find to keep ourselves warm, Marie would be kneeling by the bed, her hands and feet blue with the cold, thanking God.

Marie was different from the rest of us, and it was Michelle and I who were the closer friends.

One day stands out more clearly in my memory of those early days than any other.

It was winter—always to be dreaded for there was never enough wood to keep the fires going, and to be cold and hungry is so much worse than merely being hungry.

I did not realize it at the time, but it must have seemed very strange to our nurse and governess and the few attendants who were in the Hôtel that, although we lived in such misery, the days were conducted as though our upbringing was the normal one for children of our rank.

We had our lessons every day; and on this occasion we were all seated at the table in the schoolroom and our governess was attempting to teach us, when suddenly the door opened and a strange creature stood there.

We children all stared at him in wonder.

He was very pale and his hair was in wild disorder. He wore an elaborately embroidered jacket, the splendor of which was impaired by a tear in the sleeve and stains down the front.

Our governess gave a little start and for a few seconds seemed uncertain what to do. Then she rose to her feet and bowed with great respect.

We children all sat staring at the intruder.

I caught my breath in terror when he approached the table for he was truly an alarming sight.

“My children,” he began, and I noticed at once that he had one of the most musical voices I had ever heard.

Louis surprised me. He must have suddenly realized who the man was, for he rose from his chair and knelt before him.

The man stared down at him. He put out a hand and touched Louis’s head; and I saw the tears running down his sunken cheeks.

“You are Charles,” he said, in his beautiful voice. “Charles the Dauphin.”

“No, Sire,” replied Louis. “I am Louis the Dauphin.”

“But Charles …”

“Charles is our younger brother now, Sire.”

“And what of Charles…Dauphin Charles …?”

“He is dead, Sire. He was ill…and he died.”

The man stared ahead of him and his lips trembled. He smiled suddenly and said: “And you…Louis…you are now the Dauphin.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Louis…when did you last see your mother?”

“I do not remember. It was a long time ago.”

“My child, I have been ill…but I am better now. Yes. I shall be better now.” He looked at us children sitting there at the table watching this scene in bewilderment. He held out a hand to us.

We looked questioningly at our governess, who nodded to us, implying that we should rise and go to him.

He looked at us all in turn.

At length his eyes rested on me. “And you, little one?” I was surprised that I was no longer afraid of him.

“I am Katherine,” I said.

“Katherine, my dear child…God bless you.”

He turned to the governess. “How long have the children been living here…like this?”

She told him when we had come.

“These are the Children of France,” he said. “It is unbelievable that they should live so.”

“We were sent here, Sire. We have done our best.”

“I know that well,” he replied. “Now…it will be different. Everything that is needed will be sent. I shall command it to be done and there will be no delay.”

I remember no more of that scene, but I had learned something. The mad man of the Hôtel de St.-Paul was our father and the King of France.

For several weeks after that we were warm and no longer hungry. New clothing came for us and there were fires in all the grates. There was plenty to eat. Life took on a different style.

Marie said: “Our prayers have been answered. God is good to us.”

I heard the governess say to the nurse: “I pray God the King stays sane.”

Her prayers were not answered for after a few months of good living, a carriage arrived at the door of the Hôtel. It brought our father. He had become the wild man again, and several strong men were needed to guard him as they brought him in.

We heard his shouting. He cried out that he was made of glass and that he was going to shatter into a thousand pieces.

I tried to visualize a glass man. I could not believe our father could be that.

I heard him call out: “I am unworthy. I do not deserve to live. Shoot me, I beg of you.”

I was deeply puzzled and after awhile the old bad times returned. It became a way of life and we accepted it as normal, as children do.

That was how it was in those days for us royal children in the Hôtel de St.-Paul.

When I was a little older, I realized that I had been unfortunate to be born at a time when my country was in a more desperate decline than it had ever been—and I hope will ever be again.

I ask myself where it began, and I think, if I am completely frank, I must say that it started with my father’s marriage. But perhaps it was even before that, for, as I learned so much later, my father’s mother, Joan of Bourbon, who had been a good wife and mother and cared greatly for her children, suffered from periodic bouts of madness; and it seemed that she had passed this malady on to my father.

Still, I am sure his marriage did nothing to help him, and at least that was responsible for much of the trouble which arose in our country. Perhaps it is ungrateful to blame the mother who brought one into the world, but many people did blame her. So why should not I? The Bible says, “Honor thy father and thy mother,” but how could I honor Isabeau of Bavaria, when I think I came near to hating her?

I saw very little of her during my childhood. There were so many of us that I believe she found it difficult to remember who we all were. It was only when we could be of use to her that she showed an interest in us. For the rest…we could be shut away in the Hôtel de St.-Paul, to be joined by our father during his bouts of insanity. I think there were fourteen of us, but I am not sure, because many of us did not survive birth.

My two eldest sisters, Isabelle and Jeanne, had pleased her because they had made advantageous marriages—and that was, of course, the fate intended for us all. Jeanne had married the powerful Duke of Brittany when she was about six, and had been sent to him to be brought up away from the licentious Court of France as a worthy little Breton. Isabelle had made an even more brilliant match; she had been sent to England to marry King Richard, and although only eight years old had become Queen of England.

So it was only when we were needed to forge some alliance that we were important to our mother. For the most part we could be left in obscurity, looked after by servants who were fond enough of us to stay and care for us, even though they were not always paid for their services.

She was very beautiful, our mother. And she had more than beauty. Her skin was very white, her large dark eyes luminous, her dark hair abundant and curly; and she had perpetual vitality. Much as I hated and feared her, I was aware of her allure which, as I grew older, I realized lay in an insatiable sensuality. It drew men to her even though they knew it could destroy them. She was like a siren singing on the rocks calling sailors to their destruction. They knew it and yet they could not resist, for she was irresistible, even to the most austere.

As soon as my father had seen her he had become desperately enamored of her and determined to marry her, which was just what those about him wanted, for she had been brought from Bavaria for that purpose. She had been fourteen years old at the time. He was about seventeen.

My poor father! My heart still overflows with pity for him. When we grew to know him, during his lucid periods, we all loved him. We used to be very distressed when we heard him, shouting that he was made of glass and would break into a thousand pieces.

Writing of it now, it seems incredible that members of the Royal House of Valois, the family of the reigning King, the Dauphin of France and his sisters and brothers could be living in conditions such as those prevailing in garrets in the back streets of Paris. But it was true—the only difference being that we were living in apartments which had been grand once if they were now shabby…and were probably more drafty than any attic in the slums.

My father had been at a disadvantage from the beginning, for he had been only twelve years old when he came to the throne. His father, known as Charles the Wise for obvious reasons, had always feared that his son might inherit the crown before he was of an age to govern.

Regencies brought trouble, said Charles the Wise. It meant that two or three ambitious men would be jostling for power—more concerned with doing good to themselves than to the country. He lowered the age of majority to fourteen, thinking he might live long enough to see his son reach that age.

My grandfather, though a wise man, was not a healthy one. When he was a very young man, his cousin, known as Charles the Bad, had attempted to poison him, and although the attempt had failed, the King had never fully regained his health, though with Joan of Bourbon he did have nine children, only three of whom survived infancy. Joan was the one who suffered from insanity.

Alas, Charles the Wise, as he had feared, died before his son, my father, reached his majority; and of course he was right when he said that regencies caused trouble.

My father was immediately taken in hand by his three uncles, the Dukes of Anjou, Berry and Burgundy. There was one other uncle who joined with them—his mother’s brother, the Duke of Bourbon. They were all ambitious men and for a short time they governed in a manner calculated to bring most profit to themselves.

Those counselors whom Charles the Wise had gathered together to assist him in the government of the country were immediately dismissed. That was the beginning of the trouble, because the uncles—always short of money—revived old taxes like the fouage and the gabelle—the hearth and salt taxes—which had always been unpopular; and the inevitable riots followed.

My father had greatly admired his father and had wanted to be like him. He loved his country, but by this time he was married to Isabeau and was coming more and more under her spell. She laughed at his seriousness, teased him and told him he should be more like his brother, Louis of Orléans. She wanted gaiety, extravagant parties, balls and masques at which she could appear in elaborate and sensational gowns. In this she was aided and urged to great extravagance by my father’s brother, Louis of Orléans, who was very handsome, dashing, witty, fascinating…and ambitious. He must have summed up the situation. My father wanted to be a good king, to follow his father’s methods…but alas, even more he wanted to please his wife.

Knowing my father and mother, I could well imagine the scenes between them: how she cajoled him; how he tried to resist; how she, with Louis of Orléans at her elbow, laughed at the serious young king; how she tempted him and how he succumbed.

There was constant trouble: perpetual strife with England, that old enemy; rivalry between the ducal uncles and Isabeau, with Louis of Orléans urging him to greater extravagant folly.

But my father earnestly wanted to do what was right and he knew that he was not acting as he should. There were riots throughout the country over the high taxation; affairs were going badly. He knew he must take drastic action, so he dismissed his uncles and recalled those counselors whom his father had chosen to help him govern the country.

The most important of these was Oliver de Clisson, whom he made his Constable.

Alas, Isabeau continued to charm him to such an extent that he still allowed lavish entertainments, in which he joined, to take place.

I do believe that he could have been a great king if my mother had not been there to lure him away from his duty.

It was not to be expected that the uncles would allow themselves to be lightly pushed aside. There was constant intriguing, and one night, when Oliver de Clisson was returning home from a banquet given by the King at the Hôtel de St.-Paul, he was set upon and badly wounded.

When news of this was brought to my father, he was just about to retire to bed. He was very disturbed and wanted to know where de Clisson was, and when he was told that he had been carried to a baker’s shop close to the spot where he had been struck down, the King immediately dressed and demanded to be taken to him.

De Clisson had revived a little when he reached him.

All this happened before I was born, of course, but I heard several accounts of it afterward.

“My dear Constable,” he was reputed to have said. “This is monstrous. How do you feel?”

“In a sorry state, Sire,” replied de Clisson.

“Did you see your would-be assassins?”

“Yes, my lord. I saw them clearly. It was Pierre de Craon and his men.”

Pierre de Craon was the cousin of Jean, Duke of Brittany. This was treachery and my father was very angry.

“He shall not go unpunished,” he promised.

He was fiercely determined that Pierre de Craon should be brought to justice; and it was really this incident which triggered off his first descent into insanity, for it was during his campaign against Brittany that he had his first attack.

I heard several versions of what followed for the incident was referred to again and again, particularly when my father’s condition was discussed, as it was continually through the years that followed.

My father summoned his uncles to join him in the task of bringing Pierre de Craon to justice. The would-be assassin had taken refuge with his uncle of Brittany, who would not give him up. There was some belief that the uncles may have been involved in the attempt to kill de Clisson, but this was never proved. However, they did try to dissuade my father from setting out to attack Brittany and capture de Craon, but my father would not be deterred.

The weather was particularly hot even for August when the King with his army set out for Brittany.

I could picture it clearly, for the scene had been described to me so many times. My father wore a costume of black velvet; on his head was a cap of the same material, but of scarlet, ornamented with a chaplet of pearls which my mother had given him before his departure, that he might keep her in his thoughts. He rode apart from the rest because the ground was so sandy and the hoofs of the horses sent up clouds of dust. Ahead of him rode Burgundy, with Berry, Orléans and Bourbon.

As they came to the forest of Le Mans, a strange figure dashed out from among the trees. He was tall though bent and his head and feet were bare. He was in a smock which had once been white and was then stained and ragged. He caught the bridle of my father’s horse and clung to it.

“Go no farther!” he shouted. “You are betrayed.”

Burgundy, Berry and Orléans rushed back to the King. They seized the man, who rolled his eyes wildly and kept shouting: “The King must turn back! Danger! Danger. He is betrayed!”

Burgundy said: “The fellow’s mad.”

“What shall we do with him?” asked Berry.

“Let him go. He’s clearly crazy and harmless. Be off, fellow, and keep out of our path.”

The man stood still staring at them for some seconds. Then he went off muttering.

My father was clearly very shaken by the encounter. I sometimes wonder whether he was reminded of his own mother. It might well be that he had seen her in her moods of madness.

The madman would not leave them entirely; he moved among the trees, following the cavalcade, and every now and then they would hear his shouting: “Let the King beware! He is betrayed! Go back, King, before it is too late!”

They had emerged from the forest and were on a sandy plain where there was no shelter. The sun beat down on them and the heat was intense. One of the pages, drowsy in the sun doubtless, dropped his lance, and as it clattered to the ground, the King’s horse started forward.

The King shouted: “Ride on! Destruction to the traitors!” And brandishing his sword he began to attack those about him. Two of the men fell wounded to the ground.

The Duke of Burgundy immediately gave orders to seize the King, who was in a state of great excitement, galloping backward and forward and slashing out on both sides with his sword. Finally his chamberlain managed to restrain him. Others helped and he was laid gently on the ground. He recognized no one when they spoke to him.

They bound him up, lest the frenzy overtake him again; and so they took him back to the town of Le Mans.

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.

I did not realize it at the time, but I think she supplied a certain motherliness which I missed without knowing it.

People always seemed to know when my father was coming out of his bouts of madness. He would be much quieter and Dr. Harsley would send a message to my mother telling her that the King appeared to be moving toward normality.

On this particular day there was a great deal of excitement at the Hôtel because we were going to have important visitors. Our governess gathered us children together and we were taken into the hall to await their arrival.

Our mother was coming.

I could not remember what she looked like, so long was it since I had seen her. We were all a little nervous. Louis looked sullen. He did not like our mother. He blamed her because we were all banished to the Hôtel de St.-Paul. He would have liked to be at the Louvre, or Vincennes or wherever the Court was.

Her image remains with me to this day.

There was a flurry of excitement as she came into the hall. She looked wonderful…just as a queen should. She was magnificently dressed in a velvet cape with a gown which sparkled with jewels. Her thick, dark, curly hair was shown off by a slender crown of diamonds. She had the most magnificent pink-and-white complexion I had ever seen. There was a little white dog with her. She was carrying him and scolding him, now and then, in a tender, petting sort of way. A few paces behind her was a beautiful man whom I knew because Michelle had told me he would probably be there. It was our Uncle Orléans. He was almost as splendid as she was. He wore rose-colored velvet, and his jewels glittered only slightly more discreetly than hers.

There were several other ladies and gentlemen with them…all very beautiful and grand to behold. I noticed among them one young woman because she had one of the sweetest faces I had ever seen.

We children stared in awe, and when my mother turned to us and cried out loudly that we were her dear little ones and how happy she was to see us and how sad it was that we could not always be together, I thought Louis was going to ask why we could not be. But he was, I believed, as overawed as the rest of us.

We bowed as we had been taught. My mother patted Charles’s head while he looked up at her with those bewildered eyes, and then Louis did what was expected of him and ceased to look sullen.

I noticed the lady with the pleasant face smiling at us. I returned her smile and she seemed pleased.

The Duke of Orléans—our splendid uncle—gave us an amused smile and they all swept past.

I believe they went up to my father’s apartments, and we were taken to the schoolroom by our governess. The adventure was over.

There was tension throughout the Hôtel until the party left; and when they had gone, I discovered that the lady whom I had particularly liked remained behind.

In due course I discovered why and who she was and her coming made life considerably more comfortable for all of us children.

She was Odette de Champdivers and she came from Burgundy. Hers was a beauty different from that of my mother. It was by no means flamboyant. I thought of her as cozy. I learned that she had been chosen by my mother to look after my father.

I heard some gossip about her.

“They say Madam has had enough. Well, who wouldn’t? How many is it? Thirteen, or is it fourteen? That’s enough for any woman. Every time the King comes out of his madness there’s another little one to mark the occasion. So…she sent Odette along to make him happy. And who’s to say they’re all his anyway?”

“Be careful now …”

“Oh, I’m not the first to raise that point, I can tell you.”

So Odette was with us, and she kept him happy. He was much quieter now. He did not have to be chained to his bed. Odette was there. She made sure that his clothes were clean; she cooked his food; she was gentle and loving, and my father was not the only one who grew fond of her.

Sometimes she came to see us children; and when she did she was shocked by the way we lived and set about changing it. Our food was not adequate, she said. We were growing children and we needed new clothes from time to time.

Odette began to give orders and they were obeyed.

So, with Guillemote and Odette de Champdivers, life at the Hôtel de St.-Paul became more tolerable.

Because I was so young, there were great gaps in my knowledge which made it difficult for me to grasp all that was going on around me. I pieced together what I heard and a great deal of conjecture was necessary; but I really was beginning to understand a little, and it is so much easier to bear adversity if one knows the reason for it.

I remember very clearly the day my sister Isabelle came to the Hôtel to see us.

She was twelve years older than I and had been sent to England at the age of eight. I was not born at that time. I was overawed to meet her…the Queen of England—for I supposed she was still that even though the King was dead, and she a widow had returned to France.

She was very beautiful, I thought, and I was surprised and flattered when one of our attendants pointed out that there was a striking resemblance between us. But there was a sadness in her beauty, and the reason for this soon became clear to me, for she still mourned her late husband, although it was some years since he had died.

She and I were specially drawn to each other from the beginning and she talked to me frankly.

I learned something of the terrible trepidation a young girl can feel when she is sent to a new country to be the wife of a man whom she has never seen before.

Isabelle told me about her experiences.

“But as soon as I saw Richard,” she said, “I was afraid no longer. I went to a new life…I left all this.” She smiled and looked thoughtful. “It was not so happy here. There were troubles, even then. We traveled to Calais. Our father was with us. His illness had only just started then. He was very handsome in those days. He met the King of England who was to be my husband and they embraced. He liked Richard. Who could help that? Everybody loved him…except those wicked, cruel men who wanted to take his crown.”

She was overcome with emotion and I tried to soothe her.

I wanted to hear how happy she had been in England, how she had loved her wonderful husband who was so good and kind to her. How she had never known such kindness until she met Richard.

She wept a great deal and I would sit silently beside her, holding her hand, not knowing how else to comfort her. But I believed I did…just by sitting there and listening to her.

“I had been frightened, of course, but as soon as I saw him I knew it would be all right. I was glad, Katherine. Glad that I had come. Was that not wonderful?”

I agreed that it was. “Was he so handsome?”

“He was the most wonderful man I had ever seen…or ever shall.”

She was crying again for him.

“Why should that have happened to him?” she demanded. “What had he ever done to deserve that? I wish you could have known him, Katherine. He said he was surprised when he first met me. He had expected me to be pining for my home and that he would have to comfort me. I told him I liked being his wife and Queen of England better than being a Princess of France. He was very touched and we loved each other from that moment. I had to do my lessons when I reached England for I was only a little girl. Not much older than you are now, Katherine. But he used to come and sit with me and listen to me. He laughed a lot. He was never stern. And he bought me fine clothes and we used to ride together…and the people cheered us. I was so happy, Katherine.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

“And then they killed him. They were not content with taking his crown.”

“Who?” I whispered.

“Henry Bolingbroke…he who calls himself Henry IV of England. He sits there on Richard’s throne…and the only way he could keep it was by murdering Richard. And they wanted me to marry … his son. It was to keep my dowry, of course. Oh, they are wicked.”

“His son?” I asked.

She nodded. “Henry of Monmouth.” Her lips curled in contempt.

It was the first time I had heard the name of the man who was to play such an important part in my own life. Afterward, looking back, I felt how strange it was that I did not have some premonition at the time. But I did not, and Henry was then just a name to me. He was the son of that wicked predator who had stolen the noble Richard’s throne and murdered him.

“Henry of Monmouth?” I repeated.

“He is still called that by some, because it was in Monmouth that he was born. He is odious. I hate him. How could they think I would marry him!”

“Never mind, sister,” I said. “You are home now. He cannot harm you here.”

“But they would marry me…to my cousin of Orléans.”

“But he is our mother’s …”

“No…no…not the Duke. Charles, his son. Oh, Katherine, I do not want to marry. I want Richard to be alive. I want to go back. I want to be Queen of England.”

“If you married…this Henry of Monmouth…he will be King one day.”

She shuddered. “Perhaps. Most of all…I want to be left alone. I want to spend the rest of my days thinking of Richard.”

“Poor, poor Isabelle.”

“If only those traitors had not succeeded. It is so unfair…so cruel. Richard was a good king. He thought he had got the better of his enemy, Bolingbroke, because he had sent him into exile. How pleased he was about that! He ought to have had his head…when he could have. But he did not, you see. He was too kind and Bolingbroke was his cousin…the son of John of Gaunt. He might have known that Henry would have his eyes on the throne. John of Gaunt would have liked to be King…and he passed on that ambition to his son.”

“But Richard came first.”

“Oh yes. Richard. Richard was the son of the greatest of King Edward’s sons—the Black Prince. He used to talk of his father. He had been a great hero to him. When he died, Richard had been about nine years old. Richard was wonderful. Oh, Katherine, it is a tragedy to be a king…and so young…with scheming men around one.”

“Like our father,” I said.

“Yes, our poor sad, sick father. But Richard was wise and clever. He quelled the peasants’ revolt when he was only fourteen. He had the makings of a great king. I cannot describe him to you, Katherine. He was so handsome. His wonderful golden hair…his nobility of countenance…and he was my husband. He was never impatient with my youth and innocence. He was always tender, calling me his Little Queen. People called me the Little Queen. It was because I was small and young. I thought it was going to be so wonderful…and it would have been, but for those wicked men.”

She was silent for a few moments and I prompted: “That Bolingbroke …”

“We thought all would go well when he was sent into exile. He was the one who made the trouble. We all knew that. Richard used to talk to me sometimes…very seriously. He used to tell me how troubled he was. Then he would laugh and say: ‘What of it, eh, Little Queen? I want you to try this sweetmeat I have had them make for you. And look at this brocade. How would you like a dress made of that?’ I cannot explain to you, little sister.” And again she broke down in tears.

It grieved her to recall that happy past, but her only comfort was in talking of it.

“It was while he was in Ireland,” she said, “that Bolingbroke returned to England. Richard had taken a loving farewell of me. I had wept at his departure and he had said he would be back soon. He said: ‘And see how you are growing.’ He reminded me that soon I should be done with the schoolroom. I should be at his side…his true Queen. We would have children…heirs to the throne. It was a wonderful prospect before us. We only had to be patient for a little while.”

“And it did not come to pass,” I said sadly.

She shook her head. “The traitors. Richard had been so good to Bolingbroke’s children.”

“That was Henry of Monmouth. He was one of them.”

“Yes…he and his brothers. When their father was sent into exile he took charge of them. They never suffered for their father’s sins. And when Richard returned from Ireland…the country was in the hands of Bolingbroke, who called himself Henry IV, and Richard the King was their prisoner.”

“How can we know what will happen to any of us?” I said, speaking from experience.

“It was so sad…so heartbreaking, Katherine. They came to me at Windsor and said I was to leave at once. They took me to Wallingford, which was like a fortress. I stayed there…while Richard was their prisoner. His one thought was of me. Later…after he was dead…I was told that he found comfort in writing to me. He called me his mistress and his consort. He cursed the men who had separated us. He was filled with grief because of it. He knew that he was hourly in danger of death and he wrote that he had lost his joy and solace…and by that he meant me. How I wished that letter could have reached me.”

“It would only have made you more sad,” I told her.

She shook her head. “If only they had let me be with him. I would have died with him most willingly.”

“Do not talk of death, sweet sister. You are young yet and there is much to live for.”

“With Orléans?”

“Will you marry him, then?”

“Do you think I shall be allowed not to? Our mother and our Uncle Orléans wish it…and that is enough. It will come to pass.”

“But you refused Henry of Monmouth.”

“That was different. I think that our mother and the Duke, who are the rulers of France when our poor father is in his sorry state, did not wish it. If they had …” she shrugged her shoulders “… it could well be that by now I should be the wife of that monster.”

I shivered with her.

She went on: “He lives riotously. He is the friend of the lowest and frequents the taverns of London, mixing with rogues and vagabonds…and lewd women. I could tell you tales of what I have heard. But I forget, sister, you are only a child. You would not understand.”

“I do understand,” I insisted. “I listen to them talking. That tells me much.”

She laughed at me and kissed me. “It does me good to talk to you. You may be a child, but you have the sympathetic ear. You seem to care.”

“I do care,” I assured her. “Tell me more. Tell me about Richard and the wicked Bolingbroke and Henry of Monmouth.”

“They were all against Richard. They welcomed Henry. They kept me a prisoner and they took me to Sunninghill.”

“I have heard of that,” I said. “Our father was so worried about you that it made his illness worse.”

“They told me lies. They said that Richard was well and free. Oh, why did the people turn against him? All he wanted was to live in peace. Why do people want kings who lead their countries into war? Why do the people have the power to depose a good, kind king? They cheated me. It was the Earls of Kent and Salisbury. They told me that they had driven the usurper from the throne and I was to place myself at the head of the men they had brought with them and march to join Richard, who was waiting for me. How can I tell you of the joy I felt then! I was dizzy with happiness. I was in a delirium of joy. I was advised to send out a proclamation that Henry was no King. There was only one King…Richard. We marched to Cirencester…and into the trap. Richard was not free…not waiting for me. They had found someone who looked like him and dressed him up as the King. I knew at once that he was not my Richard. They did not deceive me. And then I understood that I had been betrayed. Bolingbroke’s plan had been to capture me, and to show the people that I was the leader of a revolt. He could not execute me. He dared not because I was the daughter of the King of France. Besides, he wanted me for his son Henry. I did not see Richard. I never saw Richard again. They murdered him in Pontefract Castle.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

She nodded. “It was like something which had happened before, some said. There was a king once who asked his knights why they did not rid him of a turbulent priest; and the result was the murder of Thomas à Becket. They told me that Bolingbroke, one day, said to his knights: ‘Have I no faithful friend who will deliver me from one whose life will be my death, and whose death my life?’ I do not know if this be true or if it be rumor…but Richard died soon after. Some said it was Sir Piers of Exton who took a company of some eight persons and went to his prison and there slew him. I do not know if this be true. Others said Richard starved himself to death. He would not eat. His grief was too great because he had lost the crown, but I like to think that his greatest grief was for me. And he died and I was the widowed Queen.”

“My poor, poor sister.”

“I was thirteen years old. It did seem a great deal to have happened in a not very long life. They kept me at Havering Bower. Our father was too ill to demand my return and Henry said I should be treated with great honor. It was unfortunate, he said, that I had been given to Richard who was too old for me, but now there was another, younger prince eager for my hand. Again and again I refused young Henry and it was good luck for me that our mother and our Uncle Orléans did not want the match. We have no say in our destiny, Katherine. It happens to us all. When we have once done what they call our duty to the state, we should have the freedom to please ourselves.”

“Yes, we should,” I agreed.

“But I was a child still. There was a lot of haggling over my jewels. Henry would not give them up. Then there was this matter of the dowry. This went on for a long time while I was kept in semi-captivity. Two years passed and at length I was allowed to return home to France without any of the valuables about which they had been quarreling. I was fifteen years old. You were only a baby at that time.”

I nodded.

“I am surprised,” she went on, “that they have left me so long. They might have forced me into marriage by now. I know why, though. It is because they are unsure which marriage would be profitable to them. I live in fear that they may decide after all to send me to England.”

“As the wife of that…Henry?”

“Yes. I believe they would have done it if our Uncle Orléans had not wanted me for his son Charles.”

“Our mother will surely say that you must do as our uncle wants.”

“But there are times when our father is aware of what is going on. There are others, too. I know they hesitate. I was terrified when Henry Bolingbroke said that if I were given as wife to his son, he would give up his crown, and his son should be King of England and I the Queen.”

“Second time Queen of England!” I cried.

“There is more to life than crowns, sister. I would forgo the greatest crown on Earth if it meant I had to take that man with it.”

“Poor Isabelle! How frightened you must have been.”

“I was glad then that our mother is so enamored of our uncle. Of course, she was very much against the match with England because he was. I am sure that was the reason why, after a good deal of deliberation, it was refused. We even had an embassy from England to settle the matter. It was a time of great anxiety for me. Just imagine going to England a second time…with all the memories of the first. I don’t think I could have borne that.”

“But it did not happen,” I soothed.

“No. But did you hear what Orléans did? He sent a message to the King of England, saying it was the duty of noble knights to protect the rights of widows and virgins of virtuous life. He referred to Henry as the plunderer of my goods and the murderer of my husband; and he challenged him to a duel to settle the quarrel between them and decide the matter of the return of the dowry.”

“And what did Henry say to that?”

“It was an absurd challenge in the first place, and Orléans must have known that it would never have been accepted. Henry’s reply was cold and dignified. There was no example in history, he said, of a crowned king’s fighting a duel with a subject, however high that subject’s rank might be. As for the implication that he had been responsible for Richard’s death, God knew how or by whom his death was brought about, and if the Duke of Orléans implied that it had been brought about by his, Henry’s, order, the answer was that he had lied. I knew that was the end of my fears and that I should not be sent to England. It was a great relief, sister, I can assure you.”

“And Charles of Orléans?”

“I fear it may come to marriage with him. You see, I am of an age to be married…and that is the fate of all princesses.”

She was right. I did not see her for some time, but Odette, who came to see us frequently while our father was sleeping, told me that our sister Isabelle was now betrothed to her cousin, Charles of Orléans.

“He is a gentle boy,” said Odette. “Quite a poet. I pray they will be happy together.”

I prayed too. So did Marie and Michelle; and we listened eagerly to the stories we heard of the fêtes and banquets which took place at Compiègne where Isabelle, in the company of our mother, joined up with the Duke of Orléans and his son.

Isabelle was nearly twenty years old and Charles was younger.

It was five years since she had left England, but I knew, for she had made it very clear to me, that she still mourned Richard.

It was about this time that an event took place which shocked the entire country and changed the course of our lives.

It was a dull November evening. The Duke of Orléans had been with my mother, as he often was. It was eight o’clock and he was returning to his hôtel in a very merry mood, probably thinking that all was going well for him. His brother, the King, was never going to return to complete sanity and his relationship with Queen Isabeau gave him the position for which his ambitious heart had always craved; he was, in all but name, ruler of France.

It was not the sort of night when many people would be out unless it was necessary, and the streets were deserted. He had two squires with him, and one or two servants on foot, carrying torches. Suddenly some twenty armed men sprang upon him. The squires’ horses took fright and bolted, and, brandishing their swords, the armed men fell upon the Duke.

“Do you know that I am the Duke of Orléans?” he is reputed to have demanded.

“Yes,” was the reply. “You are the one we want.”

One of his men attempted to defend him but was immediately struck down. Another was badly wounded and crawled into a nearby shop.

Everyone was talking about the murder of the Duke of Orléans. We had heard so much of our Uncle Orléans. He was the most discussed man in the country. His liaison with my mother, his usurping of his brother’s rights…it had all been common knowledge and everyday gossip; so even the children could not be prevented from hearing of it.

Odette told us a little of what had happened. She was wise and I believe she thought it would be better for us to know something near the truth rather than form our opinions from the random gossip which would undoubtedly be circulating.

“Who killed him?” I asked.

“That is something which has to be discovered,” replied Odette.

“Why did they kill him?” Michelle wanted to know.

Odette surveyed us for a moment and then she said: “A man in the Duke’s position would have many enemies. They will discover why in time.”

“Why was he out in the streets at night?”

“He had been dining with the Queen, they say.”

“He always dines with our mother,” said Michelle.

“Did no one see who did it?” asked Marie. “They must have heard the noise.”

“There were one or two people who peeped out. We heard through them that a cobbler’s wife opened her window and shouted that murder was being committed. She was told sharply to be silent, and shots were fired at windows where lights appeared. A woman said that there were men with masks over their faces and they shouted to all in the houses to keep away from the windows and put out the lights.”

“And did they?” Louis wanted to know.

“They dared do no other…and when the men had gone away and there was silence in the streets, some of them crept out and saw the Duke lying dead on the cobbles. They carried him into the church of Blancs-Manteaux. Now the question is, who did it?”

There was great consternation when the instigator of the crime was discovered. He confessed to it himself. We could not believe it, and what seemed so strange was that he should have confessed.

The murderer of our Uncle Orléans was our father’s cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, known as Jean the Fearless.

He said: “I confess, so that none may be accused of putting the Duke of Orléans to death. It was I and none other who caused the doing of what has been done.”

There was upheaval everywhere.

“This is no ordinary murder,” Odette told us. “The effect of this will be felt throughout the entire country.”

And she was right.

Burgundy, after making his confession, returned to his mansion, the Hôtel d’Artois, and then, taking six of his most trusted men with him, made for the Flanders frontier. The Duke of Bourbon was angry, because, so stunned had everyone been, no one had attempted to arrest him.

The shock had brought my father temporarily out of his madness. It surprised everyone that the moment this happened he seemed to pick up the threads and behave as though he had not been away from his state duties.

He was deeply disturbed by the death of his brother—though many of the servants wondered why, since Orléans had taken over not only his authority but his wife, and had hardly shown himself to be his friend.

We were avid for news. Surely Burgundy would be captured and brought back for trial? He had committed murder and, although he himself had not actually carried it out, it had been done at his command.

The Duke’s widow came to Paris to demand justice. She was very sad, which was surprising, for he had been a neglectful and faithless husband to her.

It was December and bitterly cold, I remember, and one of our main concerns at that moment was keeping warm. The Duke’s widow was the daughter of the Duke of Milan; she was a quiet, peace-loving woman and had been completely subservient to her husband; but when such people’s determination is aroused, it can be surprisingly firm. Thus it was with Valentine Visconti, Duchess of Orléans.

She came to the King, begging him on her knees to avenge her husband’s murderer. He must be brought to trial, she said.

My father assured her that this should be done and said that he regarded what had been done to his brother as though it had been done to himself.

Soon after, however, my father lapsed into insanity again. There was a halfhearted attempt to raise a cry against Burgundy; but people were now remembering the overbearing attitude of the Duke of Orléans, and his extravagances, and he was fast ceasing to be one of those heroes whom the dead become—particularly when they are cut off in the prime of their manhood.

Christmas came and, although people were still talking about the murder, nothing was done to bring Burgundy to justice.

And then…I remember the day well—a cold February day with clouds scudding across the sky and that dreaded wind seeping into all the rooms. There was excitement in the streets. Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, came marching into Paris, with a thousand men at arms. The people came rushing into the streets in spite of the cold. They were shouting. I heard them clearly: “Long live the Duke of Burgundy!”

Crowds followed him to the Hôtel d’Artois, which was strongly fortified. It was soon clear that no attempt would be made to arrest him. The people, for one thing, would not allow it. Moreover, Burgundy had his fighting force with him. The people did not want battle in the streets of Paris.

There was consternation in the Hôtel de St.-Paul when Burgundy did not so much ask as demand an audience with the King.

How could our poor father confront his warlike cousin? He was deep in the delusion that he was made of glass and it was time someone shattered him, which was what he wanted more than anything.

My little brother Louis was frightened. He was twelve years old and he was the Dauphin, so, since the King was not fit to see Burgundy, the duty fell to him.

Odette tried to comfort him. “You will not be alone with him, my love,” she soothed. “The princes and the lords and the counselors…they’ll all be there. They’ll tell you what to say.”

Louis was trembling when he went to face Burgundy.

Of course, there was none of them who could stand up against Jean the Fearless. I had heard it said that everything would be different in France if Burgundy had been King. And that was what he wanted, of course…and Orléans had wanted the same for himself.

Burgundy’s case was stated with eloquent fervor by a monk whom the Duke had chosen to speak for his defense.

Yes, he had had Orleans killed. Orléans had been a criminal and a tyrant whose aim had been to take the throne from the King and his children and keep it for himself and his own. In this the Queen had aided him. The killing of Orléans had been a justifiable act, and it had been undertaken in the interests of the welfare of France.

As soon as Burgundy had entered Paris it had been seen that the people were with him; and when Valentine Visconti had come to Paris to avenge her husband, they had not shown any great sympathy for her; and when the scandals about Orléans and his incestuous relationship with the Queen were remembered…it seemed inevitable that Burgundy, instead of being condemned for what he had done, would be hailed as the country’s savior and a hero.

Burgundy had prepared a paper for my father to sign. In this he had laid down that he, Burgundy, and his heirs should live at peace in the realm in respect of the death of the Duke of Orléans and all that followed concerning it; and that from the King’s successors and all people, no hindrance to the affairs of Burgundy should be offered at this time or that to come.

My father—lucid again—was prevailed upon to sign the document. He did say that, although he himself canceled the penalty, he could not answer for the resentment of others, but it would be for him, Burgundy, to defend himself against revenge from some quarters which might be inevitable.

To this Burgundy graciously replied that all he cared for was the King’s good graces. As far as other men were concerned, he feared nothing.

Nor did he. He was, after all, Jean the Fearless. He had cleverly rid himself of the man most dangerous to his own interests and managed to make of the deed a virtuous act performed for the good of the country.

My mother might have been deeply saddened by the loss of her lover, but she had greater concerns, for if he were regarded as a menace to the country, what of herself, who had worked and lived side by side with him?

When my father signed the letters exonerating Burgundy from blame, it was tantamount to admitting that the murder of Orléans had been a just act committed against a man who was a danger to the state.

The day after the signing, in the late evening, six men and women arrived at the Hôtel de St.-Paul.

My father was in his room, sunk in melancholy, calling out for someone to kill him, so it was no use appealing to him.

We were all in the schoolroom with our governess when Odette came hurrying to us. Guillemote was just behind her. I knew something dramatic was going to happen because Odette was distraught and Guillemote looked frightened.

“The Queen’s men are here,” said Odette. “We must obey…but it will be all right. You must not be afraid. The boys are to be taken to her.”

“Not to our mother!” cried Louis.

“You see…there is unrest in Paris…she wants to take care of you”

“I won’t go,” said Louis.

“My dear,” said Odette quietly, “you are frightening the little ones. No harm will come to you. Your mother wants to look after you. It’s natural.”

“It is not,” insisted Louis.

“You will be all right. Please…Louis…remember little Charles. Look after him. You must take care of your little brothers.”

“I will,” said Louis. “I will look after them, but I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you, Odette.”

“I know. You’ll be back soon. I’m sure of it. Come…go graciously…remember you are the Dauphin…and if you do not go willingly …”

Louis said no more.

And the boys were taken away.

I heard later that that night they left Paris with my mother for Melun.

Michelle had come close to me and taken my hand. Marie was praying and an expression of acceptance was creeping over her face.

The boys had gone. Now it was the turn of the girls. We were not as important as the boys but still we were royal princesses, and had our uses, so we must not be taken over by Burgundy.

Odette said: “You are to go into a convent. That will be pleasant for you. You will learn so much. You will all be very happy and clever.”

“Are you coming with us?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“My place is here. But you three will all be together.”

“Is Guillemote coming?”

“No. But there will be the three of you…sisters to look after each other. You will be very happy there. It will be so much more comfortable than St.-Paul. I can promise you that.”

We flung our arms around her and told her that we did not want to leave her. Then we turned to Guillemote who was trying hard to smile and told us we should be very happy in our convent where we would learn to behave like princesses.

The days in the Hôtel de St.-Paul were over. Soon after that we left for the convent of Poissy.