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Title: King René d'Anjou and His Seven Queens

Author: Edgcumbe Staley

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Most recently updated: October 22, 2024

Language: English

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The Project Gutenberg eBook, King René d'Anjou and his Seven Queens,
by Edgcumbe Staley

KING RENÉ D’ANJOU AND HIS
SEVEN QUEENS

The Ceremonious Entry of the “Lady of the Crest” Saumur
Tournament 1446
From “Le Livre des Tournois” Painted by King René

KING RENÉ D’ANJOU
AND HIS SEVEN QUEENS

BY
EDGCUMBE STALEY
AUTHOR OF
“LORDS AND LADIES OF THE ITALIAN LAKES,” “GUILDS OF FLORENCE,” “FAIR
WOMEN OF
FLORENCE,” “TRAGEDIES OF THE MEDICI,” “DOGARESSAS OF VENICE,”
“HEROINES OF GENOA AND THE RIVIERAS,” ETC.

WITH COLOURED FRONTISPIECE AND THIRTY-FIVE
OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS

“FIDES VITAT SERVATA”
King René’s Motto

LONDON
JOHN LONG, LIMITED
NORRIS STREET, HAYMARKET
MCMXII

TO
MY BROTHER VERNON
AND
HIS WIFE ETHEL

CONTENTS
PAGES

CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY—KING RENÉ
King René’s titles—His character—A beau-ideal Prince—
His occupations—His work as an artist—Visits to Italy
—Scrivani—“The Burning Bush”—“Souls in
Purgatory”—“La Divina Commedia”—“St. Madeleine
preaching”—“Preces Præ”—“Pas d’Armes”—“Livres
des Heures”—René’s literary work—“Regnault et
Jehanneton”—“Mortifiement de Vaine
Plaisance”—“La Conquête de la Doulce
Mercy”—“L’Abuzé en Court”—“Le Tracte des
Tournois”—Charles d’Anjou-Orléans—Dance songs—
Letters—Collections, books, curios, etc.—Work as a
craftsman—Orders and Guilds—Agricultural tastes—
The rose de Provence—Workshops—“Les Comptes de
Roy René”—La Cheminée du Roy—Intercourse with
his people—A troubadour King—Relics—A famous 17-
winecup 29

CHAPTER II
YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA—I.
A Queen in labour—Natural children—Princess Juanita 30-
—“La Gaya Ciencia”—Troubadours—Iolande de 66
Flandres—Bar-le-Duc—Highwaymen—Recruits—
Fêtes galants—Court of Love—Juan I., King of
Aragon—A beauteous damsel—L’Académie des Jeux
Floraux—A royal Mainteneuse—Nails in their heads!
—“Plucking the turkey”!—“Quite as good as
you!”—“A gay woman”—A royal baptism—Princess
Yolanda—The Salic Law—A bridegroom-elect—

Mauled by a wolf—A silver throne—“The Queen!”—
Bullfights—A royal trousseau—A brilliant cavalcade
—Louis II. d’Anjou—Attractive girls—Castle of
Montpellier—A royal progress—“The Loves of Louis
and Yolanda”—A King-suitor in disguise—An ardent
kiss—A royal marriage—Beautiful Arlésiennes—“A
lovely creature!”—A splendid dowry—Gardens at
Tarascon—Legend of St. Martha—A deadly dragon—
State entry into Angers—The castle and its contents
—“Mysteries”—Inartistic fare—Feastings—Yolanda
Lieutenant-General of Anjou—English invasion—
Rabbit with a medallion—Isabeau de Bavière—A
wasp-like waist—Jewels—Catherine de Valois—
Yolanda’s first-born—The “Black Death”—Queen-
Duchess Marie—Princess Marie—Taxes and tax-
gatherers—René d’Anjou born—St. Renatus—The
Queen’s enterprise—Cutting off his tail!—Claimants
for a throne—A piteous little Prince—A royal betrothal
—Henry V. of England—Louis II. in Italy—His death

CHAPTER III
YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA—II.
Royal mourning—Cardinal Louis de Bar—Yolande a 67-
constitutional Sovereign—The Duke of Burgundy— 93
Matrimonial alliances—Tournaments—Princess
Margherita di Savoia—Louis III. fights for the crown
of Naples—Queen Giovanna II.—Princess Isabelle de
Lorraine—A stick for a bad woman!—René takes up
arms—A vassal—Ordre de la Fidélité—The Van Eycks
—Treasures—Gardens at Bar-le-Duc—Floral games—
Fortune is a woman!—Battle of Baugé—Birth of Louis
XI. of France—Jeanne d’Arc—A panel of matrons—
Slanders—Queen Yolande’s daring—Charles VII. inert
—René Duke of Barrois—A débauché Prince—A
young widow—Preux chevaliers—A love-match—
Princess Catherine de Champagne burnt to death—
René and Isabelle married—René Duke of Lorraine—

Battle of Bulgneville—A royal prisoner—A foisted
child—A beretta crown—Prince Jean—Duke of
Calabria—Princess Marie de Bourbon—Agnes Sorel,
the most lovely girl in France—Queen Yolande in
private life—The Castle of Saumur—Queen Yolande’s
death—Her character—No trace of her grave—
Théophaine la Magine—A quaint epitaph—The
stained-glass windows of Le Mans Cathedral—“A
good mother and a great Queen”

CHAPTER IV
ISABELLE DE LORRAINE
Child marriages—“The Pride of Lorraine”—A mailed fist—
Duchess’s bare feet—Satin skin—Cardinal
matchmaker—Ten considerations—Woman’s wit
supreme—A charming boy—Jean “sans
Peur”—“Polluyon”—A Sovereign’s oath—“Noël!
Noël!”—First free Parliament in France—Veterans—
Antoine de Vaudémont—“You may go!”—Bulgneville
—René a prisoner—Insecurity of life—The Duke’s
terms—Two boy hostages—La Tour de Bar—René’s
parole—Money the crux—René at Naples—The
Golden Rose—A royal artist—Music and song—
Duchess Margaret dies—“Le Roi est mort, vive le
Roi!”—The sword of Lancelot—A very young widow
—Isabelle leads an army—Alfonso in check—King
René free—Women of Genoa—On the throne—A
troubled land—“Cette vraie Amazone!”—Fortune did
not smile—“Too much blood”—A dastardly outrage—
Peace—Princess Marguerite betrothed—Black armour
—Jehanne de Laval—Black buffaloes—Grey hair—
Splendid tournaments—Ordre du Croissant—Double
nuptials—Henry VI. of England—Ferri carries off
Yolande—Cupid’s “Lists”—The spectre of war—
Death of Queen Isabelle—“My heart has lost its 94-
love!”—“Amour et Foy” 142

CHAPTER V
JEANNE D’ARC—“LA PUCELLE”
“Give me René!”—Village of Domremy—Village feuds—
A busy mother—A weird accouchement—Le Bois
Chènus—Voices—St. Michael—Mad Jehanne—A
coarse kirtle—She touched the hilt—Duke Charles’s
strange visitors—A dash around the courtyard—“Vive
la nostre Royne!”—A pilgrimage march—Priests and
minstrels—A famous sword—Jeanne’s oriflamme—A
dissolute Court—Charles VI. at Chinon—A winning
hazard—Certain secrets—Jeanne’s double ordeal—
Bishops and matrons—“La Pucelle” so named by
Queen Yolande—Filles de Joie—White armour—An
ultimatum—Divided counsels—The siege of Orléans
—“The Maid” wounded—En route to Reims—The
“Sacré”—Jeanne’s modesty—Her apotheosis—“Sire, I
bid you farewell”—René the hero—Jeanne the heroine
—To expel the hated English—The fall of Paris—“The
Maid” a prisoner—Deserted by everyone—A mock
trial—A human wreck—Burnt to death—A maiden’s
heart and a white dove—“Ma Royne est mort!” René’s
lament—Charles’s remorse—The memory of Jeanne 143-
d’Arc 173

CHAPTER VI
MARIE D’ANJOU
“The little Queen of Bourges”—A master-stroke—A lovely 174-
bride, an ill-looking groom—An evil mother’s 215
influence—Three fair witches—Yolande’s prestige—
Woman’s power in France—Marie v. Agnes—Unhappy
Charles VI.—The Châtelaine de Courrages—A
gallows and a flagellation—Marriage of Charles and
Marie—Impecuniosity—Never touched her below the
chin!—Jacques Cœur’s loyal succour—Terrible
disasters—A treacherous deed—Isabeau’s rage—
Queen Marie’s speech—A lovely bevy of Maids of

Honour—Outrageous fashions—Correcte’s crusade
—“À bas les hennins!”—Scudding stones—Plain
chapelles—A faint-hearted King—Queen Marie’s “I
will”—Marie d’Anjou and Jeanne d’Arc—No place for
the Queen!—Agnes Sorel, “la Belle des Belles”—
Serge chemises—“The plaything of the most valiant
King?”—Agnes’s four daughters—A loving son—
Boxed her ears!—Agnes’s heart in gold—“Males
femmes”—“Everything for France!”—Disasters and
delirium—Marie in shade and shine—A pillion—Poor
little Princess Margaret!—“A curse on life!”—A
dissolute Prince—Slander and hypocrisy—The Bastard
of Orléans—A tryst disturbed—The obscene Fête des
Fous—A royal repast-Tours for delicacies—A famous
pack of cards—The Queen as a business woman—
Cocks and hens—Marie dies at Poitiers—“A good and
devout woman”

CHAPTER VII
GIOVANNA II. OF NAPLES
“Like Queen Giovanna!”—Anjou succession in Naples—A 216-
lover suffocated—King Ladislaus—Many suitors— 252
Hard to please—A rare quality—Marriage ring torn off
—Louis d’Anjou’s advance—A poor old Queen—
Butterfly courtesans—A champion of physical beauty
—A wily woman—The cord of St. Francis—A base-
born athlete—The chief of the pages—The Queen’s
master—Vampire kisses—Louis v. Alfonso—A
romantic story—Fair Leonora—Not a tool of the
Queen—Fierce rivals—Pulled the Queen’s hands—
Giovanna in her lover’s arms—Flashing eyes—
Beneath the lips—Superb entertainments—Giovanna
discovers the liaison—René bravest of the brave—
Treason—Duchess Covella Ruffo and her jewelled
poniard—René at Naples—“Il galantuomo Re”—The
Jews—Alfonso defeated and a prisoner—Belated pious
deeds—Giovanna as the Virgin Mary!—An embassy

from Naples—Many claimants for the throne—Isabelle
a virago Queen—A macaroni basket—“I’ll not fight
with a woman!”—Colossal orgies—A Spartan mother
—Decisive battle of Troia—End of the Angevine
dynasty—Jean, Duke of Calabria, raises the flag in
vain

CHAPTER VIII
MARGUERITE D’ANJOU
“The loveliest Princess in Christendom”—A storm-rocked 253-
cradle—A child’s kiss—Troubadours and glee-maidens 305
—An eligible suitor—The love of all the boys—
Neglected education—A delighted grandmother—
Marriage tangles—Philippe, Count de Nevers,
repudiated—Henry VI. of England looking for a Queen
—The “Three Graces of Armagnac”—Cardinal
Beaufort charmed with Marguerite—An unpainted face
—“Oh fie! oh fie!”—An autograph letter—Splendid
nuptials—La Confrèrerie de la Passion—Too poor to
buy her own wedding dress—A peachy blush—Fine
fashions—Gold garter chains—Sumptuous hair-
dressing—A “Marguerite” flower-holder—A sorrowful
parting—A truly royal train—The entente cordiale—
The Queen short of ready cash—A stormy passage—
Chicken-pox?—The King’s ring—A famous tire-
woman—Extraordinary presents—Pageants—Queen
Margaret crowned—“La Française”—The Queen’s
strong character—The Duke of York nonplussed—
Pious foundations—The King’s seizure—She had to
play the man!—The Prince of Wales—York’s dastardly
insinuations—A costly churching-robe—Civil war
begins—Margaret leads the Lancastrians in person—
Success and failure—York’s grey gory head—“Love
Lady-Day”—Lord Grey de Ruthen’s treason—King
Henry a prisoner in the Tower—“Fie on thee, thou
traitor!”—The Queen in Scotland—King Louis’s
double game—A shipwreck—A common robette—

Galant Sir Pierre de Brézé—“Une Merrie Mol!”—The
kiss of etiquette—Thorns—All the poets sing of
Margaret—All is lost!—Margaret at home again—Earl
of Warwick’s loyalty—A diplomatic marriage—The
sea flouts Margaret—Perjured Lord Wenlock—A
treacherous blow—The Prince murdered—“Bloody
Edward”—The “she-wolf”—Hands tied behind her
back—King Henry killed—The Queen in a dungeon—
René’s pathetic letter—The great heroine of the Wars
of the Roses—Repose at Reculée—A lioness at bay
—“The grim grey wolf of Anjou”—A sad and lonely
death

CHAPTER IX
JEHANNE DE LAVAL
Roses—“December” and “May”—A famous House—The 306-
Queen of Beauty—All in love with Jehanne—The 356
champion’s crest—A tournament banquet—The Grand
Prix—René struck with Jehanne—His Genoese
innamorate—“Devils at home”—A second marriage
desirable—The King bemoans Isabelle—No festivities
—A moral allegory—A new course of life—Costly
offerings—“Les Tards-Venus”—Court of Love at Les
Baux—“La Passe Rose”—A coffin full of golden hair
—Ruralizing royalty—Jehanne, nymph of the bosquets
—“Pastorals”—“Regnault et Jehanneton”—All fall in
love, and all fall out!—An allegory of chivalry—Cuer
reads the strange inscription—Louis XI.’s outrageous
behaviour—“L’Abuzé en Court”—René the victim—
The Pageant of the Pheasant—An elysium of love—
The Queen’s virtues—Her portrait—René’s school of
architects—St. Bernardin, the King’s confessor—
René’s heart—Pious Sovereigns—Relics—The crown
of Catalonia—Queen Jehanne and Queen Margaret—
Church spectacles—Magnificent hospitality—
Demoiselle Odille—La Petite Hélène—Patroness of
crafts—“The Golden Rose”—René’s green old age

—“Le bon Roy est mort!”—Marie de la Chapelle’s
children—Queen Jehanne retires to Beaufort—A
studious widow—“I have no other rôle to play!”-“La
Reine” in an iron cage—The Queen’s sweet death—
Her will—Her monument and René’s—“Priez pour la
bonne Jehanne”

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
Ceremonious Entry of the “Lady of the Crest” Frontispiece
Queen Yolanda d’Arragona 30
Entry of a Queen into her Capital 40
Favourite Recreations 50
A Mystery 60
King Louis II. of Sicily-Anjou 68
Communion of a Knight 74
A Royal Repast 80
Street Scene in Aix 86
Queen Isabelle de Lorraine 94
King René (circa 1440) 106
Royal Patronesses and Crafts 118
“Cœur” and “the Island of Love” 130
“The White Queen”—Jeanne d’Arc 144
Expulsion of Gay Women 152
Siege of Orléans 160
Sacré of Charles VII. 168
Queen Marie d’Anjou 174
A Besieged Castle 184
King René and his Court 194
Queens, Judges, and Knights 204
Queen Giovanna II. da Napoli 216
Homage of a Vassal 226
King and Queen in Stone 236
King René and Guarini da Verona 246
Queen Marguerite d’Anjou 254
Before the “Lists” 268

King René in his Study 280
Agricultural Pursuits 292
Queen Jehanne de Laval 306
St. Madeleine preaching 320
“The Burning Bush” 334
King René (circa 1470) 348

PREFACE
King René d’Anjou and his Seven Queens—yes, I stand by my title, and
offer no apology to the captious and the curious.
René was the most remarkable personality in the French Renaissance.
How many English readers of the romance of history, I wonder, know
anything about him but his name? Of his “seven Queens,” two only are at
all familiar to the English public,—Marguerite d’Anjou and Jeanne d’Arc,
—and their stories as commonly told are unconvincing. The other five are
not known even by name to the majority of people; therefore I have
immense pleasure in introducing them to any clientèle: Yolanda
d’Arragona, Isabelle de Lorraine, Jehanne de Laval, Giovanna II. da Napoli,
Jeanne d’Arc and Marguerite d’Anjou. This galaxy of Queens, fair and frail,
will appeal as something entirely new in sentimental biography to those in
search of novelty.
Turgid facts of history and dryasdust statistics of the past are, of course,
within everybody’s ken, or they are supposed to be—this is an age of
snobbery! Piquant stories of the persons and foibles of famous men and
women are my measure, and such you will have in plenty in my narratives.
To get at my facts and fictions I have dug deep into the records of Court
chroniclers, and I think I have blended very successfully the spirit of the
troubadours and the spirit of the age of chivalry. At the end of the volume I
have added a Bibliography, for the benefit of sententious students, and my
Index is as full as possible, to assist the casual reader.
The illustrations which adorn my pages have been gathered from many
sources. I think they will greatly assist the appreciation of my work. With
respect to portraits of my “Queens,” there are no extant likenesses of
Yolanda and Jeanne: for the latter I have chosen to reproduce the historical
imaginative fresco of M. Lepenveu, at the Pantheon in Paris; for the former
the stained-glass window effigy at Le Mans Cathedral must do duty. Queen
Isabelle is an enlargement of a miniature by René; Queen Marie is after a
French picture of the School of Jean Focquet, now at the National Gallery,
London, but wrongly entitled. Queen Giovanna II. is from an altar-piece in

the National Museum at Naples. Queen Marguerite is from a miniature by
her father,—her portraits in England are eminently unsatisfactory and non-
contemporary,—Queen Jehanne is from the right wing of the Aix triptych,
by Nicholas Froment.
There is, I think, nothing more to add to my preface, so I leave “King
René and his Seven Queens” tête-à-tête with my discerning public. If they
are found to be entertaining company I am repaid.
EDGCUMBE STALEY.

CHRONOLOGY
1399. Marriage of Louis II. d’Anjou and Yolanda d’Arragona.
1408. Birth of René d’Anjou.
1411. Giovanna II. succeeds to throne of Naples.
1417. René adopted by Cardinal de Bar.
1420. Marriage of René and Isabelle de Lorraine.
1422. Marie d’Anjou marries Charles VII.
1424. René, Duke of Barrois.
1429. Jeanne d’Arc and René at Siege of Orléans.
1431. René, Duke of Lorraine; prisoner at Bulgneville.
1433. René’s campaign in Italy.
1434. René, King of Sicily, etc.
1435. Giovanna II. dies; René, King of Naples.
1437. René released finally from Tour de Bar.
1441. René retires from Italy.
1442. Queen Yolanda dies.
1445. Marriage of Marguerite d’Anjou and Henry VI.
1448. Order of the Croissant established.
1453. Queen Isabelle dies.
1455. Marriage of René and Jehanne de Laval.
1463. Queen Marie dies.
1465. René proclaimed King of Catalonia.
1470. Jean, Duke of Calabria, King of Catalonia, dies.
1473. René retires from Anjou, which is seized by Louis XI.
1480. René dies.
1482. Queen Marguerite dies.
1498. Queen Jehanne dies.

KING RENÉ D’ANJOU AND HIS
SEVEN QUEENS

CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY

“René, King of Jerusalem, the Two Sicilies, Aragon, Valencia, Majorca,
Sardinia and Corsica; Duke of Anjou, Barrois, and Lorraine; Count of
Provence, Forcalquier and Piemont,” so runs the preamble of his Will. To
these titles he might have added Prince of Gerona, Duke of Calabria, Lord
of Genoa, Count of Guise, Maine, Chailly, and Longjumeau, and Marquis
of Pont-à-Mousson!
He was famous as a Sovereign, a soldier, a legislator, a traveller, a
linguist, a scholar, a poet, a musician, a craftsman, a painter, an architect, a
sculptor, a collector, a sportsman, an agriculturist, and incidentally a
chivalrous lover. About such a many-sided character there is much to tell
and much to learn. His times were spacious; the clouds of Mediævalism had
rolled away, and the Sun of Progress illuminated the heyday of the
Renaissance; art and craft had come into their own. Venus disarmed Mars,
Diana entranced Apollo, and Minerva restrained Mercury, and all the
hierarchy of heaven was captive to the Liberal Arts. René d’Anjou,
figuratively, seems to have gathered up in his cunning hand the powers of
all the spiritual intelligences alongwith the life-lines of practical
manifestations. He has come down to us as the beau-ideal Prince of the
fifteenth century.
“A Prince who had great and pre-eminent qualities, worthy of a better
future. He was a great Justicier and an enemy to long despatches. He said
sometimes, when they presented anything to signe, being a-hunting or at the
warre, that the Pen was a kinde of Armes, which a person should use at all
times”—so wrote the historian Pierre Mathieu, in his “History of Louis
XI.,” in 1614. He goes on to say: “The reign of so good a Prince was much
lamented, for he intreated his subjects like a Pastor and a Father. They say
that when his Treasurer brought unto him the Royale Taxe,—which was
sixteen florins for every kindled fire, whereof Provence might have about
three thousand five hundred,—hee enformed himselfe of the aboundance or
barenesse of the season; and when they told him, that a mistrall winde had

reigned long, hee remitted the moiety and sometimes the whole taxe. Hee
contented himself with his revenues, and did not charge his people with
new tributes. Hee spent his time in paintings, the which were excellent, as
they are yet to be seen in the city of Aix. Hee was drawing of a partridge
when as they brought him newes of the loose of the Realme of Naples, yet
hee could not draw his hande from the work and the pleasure hee took here
in.… They relate that he dranke not wine, and when as the noble men of
Naples demanded the reasons, he affirmed that it had made Titus Livius to
lie, who had said that the good wine caused the French to passe the Alps.…
He was perhaps better suited to make a quiet State happy than to reduce a
rebellious one.”
King René’s career and work as a Sovereign, a soldier, a legislator, a
traveller, a poet, and a lover, are treated in full in the letterpress of this
volume. His work as an artist, a craftsman, an agriculturist, and a collector,
is here given under different headings, as introductory to the expression of
his personal talents.

I. Artistic Works of King René.

René’s first efforts as a designer and painter were exhibited upon the
walls of his prison-chamber at Tour de Bar, near Dijon, 1431-1435. Thence
forward he decorated the walls and stain-glazed the windows of his various
castles and palaces—Bar-le-Duc, Nancy, Angers, Saumur, Reculée,
Tarascon, Marseilles, and Aix. Every bastide and maison inhabited by his
Queens and himself was also similarly adorned, and many coloured church
windows were due to his gentle art. Alas that so few vestiges of these
admirable labours remain! French mobs are proverbial for iconoclastic
propensities, and no land has suffered more than France from the suicidal
mania of her sans-culottes.
To fresco-painting, portraits, and glass-staining, the Royal artist added
miniatures and penmanship. His “style” was formed and developed
successively under such personal tuition as that of the brothers Van Eyck
and Maistre Jehannot le Flament. Later on Jean Focquet of Tours and
Nicholas Froment influenced him. A letter is extant of King René,
addressed in 1448 to Jan Van Eyck, in which he asks for two good painters
to be sent to Barrois.

Visits to Rome, Florence, Naples, Milan, and other art cities of Italy, very
greatly enlarged René’s métier. Intercourse with Fra Angelico da Fiesole,
Fra Filippo Lippi, Paolo Ucello, the Della Robbia, and many other Tuscan
artists, quickened his natural talent and guided his eye and hand. Leon
Battista Alberti, Francesco Brunellesco, and Cennino Cennini, and their
works in materia and literature, produced great results in the receptive
faculties of the King-artist. At Naples he came in contact with Colantonio
del Fiore, Antonio Solario—Il Zingaro—and Angiolo Franco, and gathered
up what they taught.
Besides these immense advantages as a personal friend of great ruling
Italian families, the Medici, the Pazzi, the Tornabuoni, the Visconti, the
Sforza, the Orsini, and many others, René had opportunities enjoyed by
very few. His own amiable individuality and his ample knowledge were the
highest credentials in the pursuit of art and craft. René witnessed the
consecration of the Duomo of Florence and the completion of the guild
shrine of Or San Michele, and he was enrolled as an honorary member
thereof. At Florence also he was thrown in contact with world famous
scrivani—writers and illustrators of manuscript. The subsequent excellence
of French miniaturists was largely due to King René’s example and
encouragement.
René’s more considerable paintings, which have been preserved, are as
follows:
1. The Burning Bush, part of an altar triptych, at the Cathedral of Aix.
Projected and begun by the King, it was finished by Nicholas Froment,
1475-76, and for it the artist received no more than 70 gulden (see
illustration).
2. Souls in Purgatory, an altar-piece (7 × 5½), originally in hospital
chapel at the Chartreuse of Villeneuve les Avignon. It is really a
“Judgment,” with Christ and saints above the clouds, and twenty-four little
figures in and out torment. The building was destroyed in 1793.
3. La Divina Commedia, an altar-piece (8 × 6), in the church of the
Célestins at Avignon in distemper. It was due to René’s vision of his
mistress, Dame Chapelle, upon the day of her death, which shocked him so
greatly that he painted this composition to remove the painful impression he
thus experienced.

4. Saint Madeleine preaching, now in the Hôtel Cluny. It was a
whimsical conceit connecting the story of the sisters of Lazarus with René
and his Queen Jehanne. It is conventional in treatment but finished most
beautifully (see illustration).
King René’s artistic speciality was miniatures. He illuminated many
manuscripts.
1. Preces Præ. The Latin “Hours” of King René, a manuscript of 150
sheets of fine vellum, written very beautifully in small lettering, with superb
capitals in gold and colours. The borders and miniatures are exquisitely
painted. It is bound in red morocco. This precious volume was dedicated to
Queen Isabelle, whose portrait is painted as a frontispiece (see illustration).
It was one of the King’s wedding presents to his second Queen, Jehanne de
Laval. The value of the Preces Præ is enhanced by numerous marginal
notes of dates and details written by René’s hand. At the end by way of
Finis is a clock-face, upon which is painted “R et J,” under the words “En
Un,” all in a circle of gold. This treasure is now in the National Library in
Paris, and there is a copy almost exactly in duplicate in the Imperial Library
in Vienna. The date is 1454.
2. Pas d’Armes de la Bergère. A poem of Louis de Beauvau, Seigneur de
la Roche et Champigny, Grand Seneschal of Angers, Ambassador to Pope
Pius II., and a famous Champion in the “Lists.” It is a pastoral allegory, and
extols the courage and chivalry of many famous knights—Ferri de
Vaudémont, Philippe Lenoncourt, Tanneguy de Chastel, Jean de Cossa, Guy
de Laval, and others. It was put forth in 1448 after the celebrated
tournaments in Anjou, Lorraine, and Provence. King René illuminated it
with portraits and miniature paintings at Tarascon, where he and Jehanne de
Laval spent so many happy days ruralizing in 1457.
At Aix, in the Library, is a manuscript Livres des Heures, dated 1458; at
Avignon, in the Church of the Cordeliers, is another of the following year;
at Poitiers, in the Library, is a “Psalter”; in the Musée de l’Arsenal of Paris,
a Breviary (see illustration)—all exquisitely written and illuminated by the
master-hand of the King.

II. Literary Works of King René.

The earlier works of the King are sufficiently remarkable as exhibiting
his serenity in adversity and his uprightness as a legislator; his later poems
are notable in revealing his chivalry as a knight-adventurer, and his
tenderness as a dainty troubadour. René, whether as Sovereign, knight, or
lover, led the taste of his age. His personality attracted everybody, and his
character elevated all in fruitful emulation. His utterances and his writings,
in spite of the freedom of manners and the piquancy of speech, were
conspicuous for chastity of thought and delicacy of expression. Not a single
dubious word or doubtful reference disfigures his pages: a man and King
was he without reproach.
The works which René composed as well as decorated place him in the
forefront of poets. The principal are as follows:
1. Regnault et Jehanneton, or Les Amours du Bergier et de la
Bergeronne. It is an idyllic pastoral. The manuscript occupies seventy
sheets of fine vellum, written in black and crimson, very carefully and
finely. The miniatures and capitals are very numerous, and display the
greatest skill and taste in design and finish. This manuscript was written at
Tarascon, after René and Jehanne’s romantic sojourn at his bastide on the
Durance.
2. Mortifiement de Vaine Plaisance, or Tracte entre l’Ame devote et le
Cœur. In manuscript, written very carefully in black and scarlet, with many
exquisitely-painted miniatures and capital letters. This “Morality” covers
fifty-five sheets of the finest vellum. The Royal writer was assisted by
Jehan Coppre, a priest of Varronsgues. The frontispiece by René represents
the King, fully robed, seated in his studio labouring with his pen and brush
(see illustration).
3. La Conquête de la Doulce Mercy, or La Conquête par le Cuer
d’Amour Espris. This is a manuscript with 138 sheets of very smooth
vellum written in red, black, and purple, with sixty-two miniatures and
many capitals superbly painted. It is bound in red morocco, and is in the
National Library in Paris. It bears the date 1457. René both wrote and
illuminated it shortly before the death of Queen Isabelle.
4. L’Abuzé en Court. A manuscript covering fifty-seven sheets of very
fine vellum. Where and how King René got his “skins” we do not know, but
they are the finest and most perfect of any French or Italian manuscripts of

the period. The colour and grain of the skin are very fine; only an artist-
writer could have chosen such splendid folios. This manuscript is bound in
walnut-wood boards covered with crimson velvet and embroidered. It
contains fifty lovely miniatures and has rich capitals. René has in this case
recorded the exact date of completion—July 12, 1473.
5. Very superb—perhaps King René’s chef d’œuvre—is Le Tracte des
Tournois, a full description of his splendid tournament at Saumur, with the
richest possible illustration. It is dedicated to Charles d’Anjou, his brother,
who died in 1470; he was Count of Maine and Guise, and Governor of
Lorraine. The frontispiece and two other illustrations are reproductions of
the Royal artist’s designs.
One of the most charming incidents in René’s long, useful, and moving
life was his intercourse with Charles d’Anjou, son of the first Duke of
Orléans, brother of Charles VI. of France. The young Prince was made a
prisoner at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, and remained in captivity in the
Tower of London for twenty-five years. His constant complaint was: “I
mourn with chagrin that no one does anything to release me!” This piteous
appeal at length gained the heart of Duke Philippe of Burgundy, who
effected his deliverance in 1440. Between King René and Duke Charles
there passed, through spiritual affinity, a constant succession of delightful
poetic souvenirs—the prisoner of La Tour de Bar and the prisoner of the
Tower of London—comrades in sorrow, companions in joy! The form these
missives took was that of rondeaux, or valentines, and in this category
nothing could be more delicate and sensuous. A very favourite ending of the
poems was—

“Après une seule excepter,
Je vous servirai cette conte,
Ma douce Valentine gente,
Puis qu’amour veuilt que on’y contente.”
“With one only reservation,
I will send you this narration,
My gentle, natty Valentine,
Since your love so well content is mine.”

Charles d’Anjou died in 1465, greatly lamented by his poet-confidant.

King René composed and wrote, and also set to music, very many motets
and caroles (dance-songs). The former are still sung in village churches in
Provence, and the latter danced at village fêtes.
René was famous, too, as a polite letter-writer. Between 1468 and 1474
he despatched thirty-seven missives to Pope Sixtus IV. and others, chiefly
relating to affairs in the kingdom of Catalonia.
At the Château d’Angers, as well as at those of Nancy and Aix, King
René had splendid collections of manuscripts and books. Rare works in
Hebrew, Greek, Arabic, Turkish, and Latin, he collected in the several
departments of Scripture, Philosophy, History, Geography, Natural History,
and Physics. Writers and students naturally were attracted to such a sapient
Prince. Three of the former in particular attached themselves to his
patronage: Pierre de Hurion, Jehan de Perin, and Louis de Beauvau; and
with them was René’s chief collaborator—Hervé Grellin.

III. Craftman’s Works of King René.

René was a great advocate for the combination and co-operation of the
arts and crafts. In no sense was he a free-trader: his policy was to encourage
native enterprise and to check destructive intrusion of aliens. To consolidate
commercial interests and to safeguard industries, he established “Orders” or
“Guilds” for workers. For example, at Tarascon he instituted “The Order of
the Sturgeon,” for fisherfolk, which held an annual festival in July, called
La Charibande, specially in honour of Le Roy des Gardons—“King of
Roaches.” At Aix the King established “The Order of the Plough,” for
agriculturists, and their fête-day was the Festival of the Assumption. He
could hold the coulter with any of his farm labourers, and greatly delighted
in matches of strength and speed. René’s interest in agriculture and stock-
rearing did very much to make Anjou and Provence fruitful States. He
naturalized the sugar-cane, and introduced many new trees and plants: the
rose de Provence; the Œillet de Poëte—our Sweet William; the mulberry;
and the Muscat grape.
As patron of crafts, René especially encouraged workers in tapestry,
vestments, costumes and tournament decorations, goldsmiths, jewellers,
medalists, armourers, and masters of wood, stone, and metal, with
operatives in textiles. In Provence, at Aix and Marseilles, he had workshops

which he himself superintended, and where such instructors were employed
as Jehan de Nicholas, Guillaume le Pelletier, Juan d’Arragona, Jehan le
Gracieux, Luigi Rubbotino, Henri Henniquin, and Jehanne Despert. These
may be names only, but their fame may be learnt by the study of useful
industries in France. The Comptes de Roy René,—René’s business-books,—
at Angers are full of orders, instructions, payments, etc., to work-people of
all sorts and kinds.
At each of King René’s residences, and more especially at Aix, he
designed and erected a raised architectural loggia, or terrace, which at once
gained the name of La Cheminée du Roy. Here he was wont to spend a good
deal of his time in the enjoyment of the fresh air and the contemplation of
the persons and avocations of his subjects within range. Here, too, he gave
audience to all sorts and conditions of his subjects, passing the time of the
day merely to many, but with some of them entering fully into matters
proposed for his consideration. Craftsmen, tradesmen, and merchants, were
accustomed to pass that way to expose commodities, and exhibit novelties
which might tempt the Royal patronage. One salient object of this amiable
habit was that, as he put it, “my children may see their father, and take
cognizance of my state of health and my pursuits.” René lived and worked
among and for his people, and none who approached him ever went away
empty or dissatisfied. Nothing pleased him better than a morning salutation
or an evening serenade by troubadour-jongleurs and other makers of music
and of fun. Sometimes the municipal authorities made courteous protests to
their liege Lord for the creation of crowds and obstruction to the free
circulation of the traffic. To all such representations the King turned a ready
ear, but also turned their pleas into subjects for good-humoured merriment.
“You see,” he used to say, “I am something of a troubadour myself, and
life’s serious moods require joyous elevation.”
René was great in loving-cups, or, more correctly, their contents. Nothing
pleased him more than to hand to anyone who had interested or amused him
a delicious beverage, and often enough in the utmost good-humour he bade
the recipient keep the cup as a memento of his interview—and “mind,” he
added, “you drink my health and Queen Jehanne’s sometimes.”
René’s consideration of and generosity to his servants and attendants was
proverbial. The Comptes are full of instructions to his Treasurers to pay

such and such sums of money or other benefactions. To Jehan de
Sérancourt, an equerry, for example, he gave a purse of 200 ducats, “for thy
skilful care of my favourite charger.” To Alain le Hérault, a valet and barber
“a gold snuffbox and fifty ducats for his daughter’s confinement.” He was
very fond of quoting the example of Marie d’Harcourt, mother of his son-
in-law Ferri de Vaudémont, who died in 1476. She was affectionately called
“the Mother of the Poor.” “She was rightly called; am not I, then, father
too?”
René was a great collector of works of art and curios, although, by the
way, he was obliged very frequently to distribute his treasures in order to
raise money for his warlike enterprises and philanthropic pursuits. A
speciality was the acquisition of relics of saints and other venerable objects.
In 1470 he and Queen Jehanne assisted at the translation of a piece of the
True Cross, which he had obtained in Italy, to the Church of St. Croix at
Angers. Lists of such treasures, and, indeed, of the treasures in general of
his house, may be read in Les Comptes de Roy René. Many originally came
from King John the “Good” of France, René’s great-grandfather, handed
down by Louis I. and Louis II. of Sicily-Anjou.
René had a penchant for rock-crystal objects and miniature carvings in
wood. Among the former he possessed a very famous winecup, upon which
he engraved the following quaint conceit:

“Qui bien beurra
Dieu voira.
Qui beurra tout d’une baleine
Voira Dieu et la Madeleine!”
“Whoso drinks me
God shall see.
Whoso at one good breath drains me
Shall God and the Magdalen see!”

CHAPTER II
YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA—“A GOOD MOTHER AND A
GREAT QUEEN.”

I.

The Queen was in labour, and shivering groups of robust citizens and
sturdy peasants were gathered in front of the royal castle of Zaragoza,
eagerly awaiting the signal of a happy deliverance. The fervent wish of
King Juan for a male heir was shared by his subjects, for his brother
Martino, next in succession, was in delicate health; moreover, he had only
one son, and he was a cripple. The succession to the throne was a source of
anxiety to all good Aragonese. To be sure, there was a baby Princess
already in the royal nursery, but whether her mother had been a lawful
wedded wife, or no more than a barragana of the Sovereign, few knew
outside the charmed circle of the Court. In the opinion of the men and
women of the triple kingdom generally, this mattered little, for natural
children were looked upon as strengthening the family; hijos de ganancia
they were called. The Salic Law, however, barred the female heirs of the
royal house, so little Juanita was of no importance.

YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA
(KING RENÉ’S MOTHER)
From Coloured Glass Window, Le Mans Cathedral
To face page 30

Within the courtyard, about the royal apartments, and all through the
precincts of the Presence, minstrels and poets thronged, as well as Ministers
and officials; Queen Yolanda was the Queen of Troubadours, and the
courtiers she loved best to have about her were merry maids and men—
graduates of the “Gaya Ciencia.” The livelong night they had danced and
postured, they had piped and sung. Each poet of the hilarious company had

in turn taken up his recitative, printed by staccato notes, to be repeated in
chorus and in step, until the fandangoes and boleros of the South were
turned into the boisterous whirling jotas of Aragon. The first dawn of day
brought into play lutes and harps, restrung, retuned cellos and hurdy-
gurdies, and vihuelas de peñola, guitars with metal wires and struck with
strong herons’ plumes, and so awoke the phlegmatic guardians of the castle.
Sweet and harmonious Provençal voices blended with soft notes of
melodious singers from Languedoc to the running accompaniment of the
weird Basque music of the mountaineers.
The Queen, upon her massive curtained bed of state, heard the refrains
and felt the vibration of the lilting measures, and smiled pleasantly as she
laid awake expectantly. At length the great tenor bell up in the chapel turret
gave out the hour of six. The last note seemed to hang, and many a devout
listener bent a reverent knee and bared his head, whilst the women-folk
uttered fervent Aves. One single stroke of the metal clapper was followed,
alas! immediately by another. “Two for a Princess!” resounded from lusty
throats, but there was a tone of disappointment in the cry. The glaring
morning sun, however, made no mistake, impartial in his love of sex.
Dancing upon the phosphorescent ripples of the rolling Mediterranean, he
shot golden beams within the royal chamber, and crimson flushed the
cheeks of the royal mother and her child. It was the red-hot sun of Spain,
and the day was red, too—the feast of San Marco, April 25, 1380.
Christened within eight hours of birth—the custom in Aragon—and
“Yolanda” named, the little Princess’s advent was speeded right away to
distant Barrois, her mother’s home, by the Queen’s Chamberlain, trusty
Cavalier Hugues de Pulligny. He had been summoned at once to the
accouchement couch, and given to hold and identify the babe. With him he
took the Queen’s mothering scarf—the token of a happy birth—and hied
post-haste to lay it and his news at the feet of the anxious Duke and
Duchess at Bar-le-Duc. His reward was a patent of nobility and 500 good
golden livres.
Yolanda, Queen-consort of Juan I., King of the triple kingdom of Aragon,
Catalonia, and Valencia—Violante de Bar—was the elder of the two
daughters of Robert I., Duke of Bar, and his wife, Marie of France, daughter
of King John II., “the Good.” Their Court was one of the chief resorts of the
Troubadours and Jongleurs, who looked to the Duke’s famous mother,

Princess Iolande of Flanders, as their queen and patroness. Bar, or Barrois,
first gained royal honours when the Emperor Otto III., in 958, created his
son and successor, Frederic, Count of Bar and Prince of the Holy Roman
Empire. The succession was handed down for hundreds of years, and in
1321 Count Henry IV. married the Flemish Princess. Her jewels and her
trousseau were the talk of half a century. Her gaiety, her erudition, and her
skill in handicraft, were remarkable; her Court the most splendid in Europe.
Bar was, so to speak, the golden hub of the great humming wheel of
Franco-Flemish arts and crafts. Bordered by Luxembourg, Lorraine,
Champagne, and Burgundy, the fountain-heads of rich and generous
vintages, she took toll of all, and the Barroisiens were the healthiest,
wealthiest, and the merriest folk in the French borderland.
The influence of the bewitching and accomplished Princess-Countess
Iolande was paramount, and she was ever adding to her fame by making
royal progresses throughout her husband’s domains. Wherever she went,
music and the fine arts, and every artistic cult and useful craft, prospered
amazingly. Borne in a great swaying chariot, drawn by four strong white
Flemish horses, the magnificence of her cortège led on one occasion, if not
on more, nearly to her undoing. Travelling in the summer-time of the year
1361 to Clermont en Argonne, one of the ducal castles, she was, when not
very far away from storied Laon, beset by an armed company of outlaws,
who, however, treated her with charming courtesy. They caused the
Princess and her ladies to descend from their equipage and step it with them
as vis-à-vis under the greenwood tree. Then, not very gallantly, to be sure,
they stripped their fair partners of their ornaments and despoiled the
princely treasure, causing the Princess to sign a pardon for their onslaught.
The adventure, however, did not end here, for Iolande was a match for any
man, and on the spot she enrolled her highwaymen as recruits for Count
Henry’s army!
The almost fairy Princess-Countess survived her consort many years, and
lived to see the county of Bar raised to a dukedom, and to dance upon her
knee a little namesake granddaughter, Violante de Bar. Nothing gave her
greater pleasure than the floral games of the troubadours, and one of these
fêtes galants was enacted in 1363 at the Ducal Castle of Val de Cassel,
where Duchess Marie had just brought into the world this very baby girl.
The poets chose their laureate—one Eustache Deschamps-Morel, and

Princess Iolande crowned him with bays. The ballade he composed for
those auspicious revels is still extant—Du Métier Profitable—wherein he
maintains that only two careers are open to happy mortals.

“Ces deux ont partout l’avantage,
L’un en junglant, l’autre à corner.”

The sights and sounds, then, which first greeted the pretty child were
merry and tuneful. She was reared on troubadour fare, on troubadour lore.
Violante had three brothers, Édouard, Jehan, and Louis, and a younger sister
Bonne, married to Nicholas, Comte de Ligny, but alas! buried with her first-
born before the high-altar of St. Étienne at Bar-le-Duc.
When Violante was in her seventeenth year, there came a royal traveller,
disguised as a troubadour of Languedoc, to the Court of Love at Bar-le-
Duc. His quest was for a bride. He was of ancient lineage; his forbears
came from Ria, in a southern upland valley of the Eastern Pyrenees, and
had ruled the land ’twixt barren mountain and wild seacoast for no end of
years—Juan I., King of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia. He had just buried
Mahaud d’Armagnac, the young mother of his little daughter Juanita, and
there was a gaping wound in his amorous heart which yearned for healing.
The royal Benedict looked for a Venus with a dash of Diana and a measure
of Minerva, and chroniclers say he had drawn blank the Courts of Spain and
Southern France. Moreover, they tell a pretty tale of him which must now
again be told.
After wanderings manifold, the royal knight-errant found himself within
the pageant-ground of Bar-le-Duc and at a “Court of Love.” There he broke
shield and lance at tilt, and Prince Cupid pierced his heart. Mingling in the
merry throng, King Juan found himself partnered by the most beauteous
damsel his eyes had ever seen. She was the Princess Violante, daughter of
the Duke. Before she realized what her gay vis-à-vis had said and done, he
vanished. But upon her maiden finger glittered a royal signet-ring. Back to
Zaragoza sped the gay troubadour, and in a trice a noble embassy was on its
way to the Barrois Court to claim the hand of the fascinating Princess and
to exchange the heavy ring of State for the lighter jewelled hoop of
espousal.

The entry of Queen Yolanda (Violante) into Zaragoza was a resplendent
function, and, despite their habitual taciturnity, the citizens hailed the lovely
consort of their King with heartiest acclamations. In her train came
minstrels and glee-maidens from Champagne and Burgundy, from Provence
and the Valley of the Rhine and Languedoc. Such merry folk were unknown
in phlegmatic Aragon. To be sure, they had their poets, their dances and
their songs, but they were the semi-serious pastimes of the sturdy Basque
mountaineers.
The Académie des Jeux Floraux of Toulouse,—newly founded in 1323,
and better known there as the Collège du Gaye Sçavoir,—sent an imposing
company of minstrels to greet the new Queen of Aragon at Narbonne—the
city of romance and song—and to offer her a spectacular serenade beneath
the balconies of the Archiepiscopal Palace, where she and her suite were
accommodated. With them they bore golden flowers and silver with which
Royal Violante should crown the laureates, and to Her Majesty they offered
a great amaranth of gold, together with the diploma of a Mainteneuse.
Acclaimed “Queen of Troubadours,” her motley train swept through the
cities of the coast and crossed the Spanish frontier. One and all offered her
their true allegiance—to live and dance and sing and die for Yolanda
d’Arragona.
If the Aragonese were noted for stubbornness,—and of them was curtly
said: “The men of Aragon will drive nails in their heads rather than use
hammers,”—they have a sound reputation for chivalry. King Iago II.
established this characteristic in an edict in 1327. “We will,” ran the royal
rescript, “that every man, whether armed or not, who shall be in company
with a lady, pass safely and unmolested unless he be guilty of murder.”
Courting an alegra señorita, whether of Aragon, Catalonia, or Valencia, was
the duty of every lad, albeit the fair one jokingly called it “pelando la pava”
(plucking the turkey). The royal romance was a charming example for all
and sundry, and many an amorous French troubadour had his wings cut by
Prince Cupid and never went home again at all, and many a glee-maiden, to
boot, plucked a “turkey” of Aragon!
King Juan threw himself unreservedly into the arms of his merry
Minerva-Venus Queen: no doubt she “plucked” him thoroughly! A “Court
of Love” was established at Zaragoza. All day long they danced, and all
night through they sang, and at all times played their floral games, whilst

dour señors scowled and proud dueñas grimaced. The revels of the “Gaya
Ciencia” shocked their susceptibilities, until a crisis was reached in 1340,
when the King sent embassies to all the French Courts to enlist the services
of their best troubadours. A solemn session of the Cortes, wherein resided
the actual power of the State,—the King was King only by their pleasure,—
was called, “Podemos mas que vos”—“We are quite as good as you, or even
better”—that was the moving spirit of Aragon. A resolution was passed
demanding the suppression of “the feast of folly,” as the gay doings at
Court were called, and the immediate expulsion of the foreign minstrels and
their hilarious company.
Here was a fix for the easy-going King,—dubbed by many “l’Indolente,”
the Indolent,—between the devil and the deep sea. The Queen point-blank
refused to say good-bye to her devotés, and her wiles prevailed to retain
many a merry lover at her Court, for the stoutest will of man yields to the
witchery of beauty in every rank of life!
If Queen Yolanda was a “gay woman,” as historians have called her,—
and no class of men are anything like so mendacious,—she was not the
“fast” woman some of them have maliciously styled her. No, she was a
loving spouse and a devoted mother. Perhaps, could she have chosen, she
would have brought forth a boy; but, still, every mother loves her child
regardless of sex or other considerations. She addressed herself zealously to
the rearing of the little princess. No sour-visaged hidalgo and no censorious
citizen was allowed the entrée to the nursery. Minstrels rejoiced at the
nativity, and minstrels shared the rocking of the cradle. She was baptized at
the old mosque-like cathedral of Sa Zeo, or San Salvador,—where the
Kings her forbears were all anointed and crowned,—with the courtly
ceremonial of Holy Church, whilst outside the people sang their well-loved
ditties. Quite the favourite was “Nocte Buena”—

“La Vergin se fui’ in lavar
Sui manos blancas al rio;
El Sol sequedó parado,
La Mar perdio su ruido,” etc.
“To the rivulet the Virgin sped,
Her fair white hands to wash;
The wandering Sun stood still o’erhead,
The Sea cast up no splash,” etc.

and many, many other verses. Zaragoza was famous for the splendour of
her mystery plays, as many quaint entries in the archives of the archdiocese
prove: “Seven sueldos for making up the heads of the ass and the ox for the
stable at Bethlehem; six sueldos for wigs for the prophets; ten sueldos for
gloves for the angels.”
The little Princess was not the only occupant of the royal nursery in
Zaragoza; King Juan’s child Juanita greeted her baby companion with glee,
but the Queen was not too well pleased that she should be allowed to
remain there. Indeed, an arrangement was come to whereby Mahaud’s child
was delivered over to a governante, and Princess Yolanda was queen of all
she saw. Very carefully her training was taken in hand, with due respect to
the peccadilloes of the Court; but her mother saw to it that her environment
should be youthful, bright, and intelligent. Hardly before the child was out
of leading-strings her future was under serious consideration, for the King
had no son nor the promise of one by his consort, and Queen Yolanda
determined to do all that lay in her power to circumvent the obnoxious
clauses of the Salic Law.
The Princess grew up handsome like her father and bewitching like her
mother. She was the pet of the palace and the pride of the people, and
everybody prophesied great things for her and Aragon. The most important
question was, naturally, betrothal and marriage. The King, easy-going in
everything, left this delicate matter to his ambitious, clever Queen, and very
soon half the crowns in posse in Europe were laid at her daughter’s feet.
The survey of eligible lads of royal birth was far and wide, but, with the
tactful instinct of a ruling native, Queen Yolanda made a very happy choice.
At Toulouse, three years before the birth of her little daughter, had been

born a royal Prince, the eldest son of her uncle Louis of France, her
mother’s brother, titular King of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem, Duke of
Anjou, and Count of Provence. The boy’s mother was Countess Marie de
Châtillon, the wealthy heiress of the ducal line of Blois-Bretagne. He was
the husband-to-be of Princess Yolanda d’Arragona, Louis d’Anjou. King
Juan cordially approved the selection of the young Prince: French royal
marriages were popular in Aragon. An imposing embassy was despatched at
once to Angers, with an invitation for the boy to visit the Court of Zaragoza
under the charge of his aunt, Queen Yolanda. The King and Queen made the
most they could of their interesting little visitor. With a view to
contingencies, Louis was introduced at the session of the Cortes, and the
King gave splendid entertainments to the ricoshombres and other members
of the Estates in honour of his future son-in-law, the royal fiancé of the soi-
disante heiress to the throne.
This notable visit came to an abrupt and unexpected end upon receipt of
the news of the sudden death of King-Duke Louis at the Castle of Bisclin,
in La Pouille, on September 20, 1389. His young son, now Louis II., was
called home at once. Met at the Languedoc frontier by a kingly escort, the
young Sovereign passed on to Arles, and thence to Avignon, where, on
October 25, 1389, he was solemnly crowned in the basilica of Nôtre Dame
des Dons by Pope Clement VII. A stately progress was made to the Court of
Charles VI. in Paris, and the youthful King was presented to imperious
Queen Isabeau,—his aunt by marriage,—the proud daughter of Stephen II.,
Duke of Bavaria, and Princess Thadée Visconti of Milan.
The chief object of this visit was the formal betrothal of the young King
and the Princess Yolanda d’Arragona—a ceremony deemed too important
for celebration either at Angers or at Aix, in the King’s domains. A notable
function, in the grand metropolitan cathedral of Nôtre Dame, was held on,
of all days the most suitable, the Feast of the Three Holy Kings, January 6,
1390, whereat assisted all the Princes and Princesses of the House of
France, with Prince Ferdinand of Castile and Aragon as proxy for the bride-
Princess, and an imposing embassy from King Juan and Queen Yolanda.

SOLEMN ENTRY OF A QUEEN INTO THE CAPITAL OF HER SPOUSE, FIFTEENTH
CENTURY
See Froissart’s Chronicles and “L’Album Historique de France”
To face page 40

Back to Angers went, with his mother, Queen-Duchess Marie, the
youthful bridegroom-elect, to be safeguarded and trained for his brilliant
career. Everybody in Anjou and Provence loved their Duchess. She had won
all hearts. Those were prosperous, happy days—the days of the gracious
Regent’s kindly government.
Early in 1393 King Juan met with a serious accident whilst hunting in the
mountains around Tacca, the ancient capital of Aragon. He was, by the way,
a famous huntsman, and had gained by his keenness in pursuit of game the
title of “El Cazador”—“The Sportsman.” Mauled by a wolf he had
wounded in the chase, he never recovered from the loss of blood and the
poison of those unclean fangs. Feeling his end approaching, and anxious
about the future of his darling child, he proposed to Queen Marie and the
Anjou-Provence Court of Regency that the nuptials of Louis and Yolanda

should be celebrated without delay. This he did because he had determined
to evade the restrictions of the Salic Law by proclaiming Louis and Yolanda
heir and heiress together of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia.
Queen Yolanda most heartily seconded her consort’s project,—indeed,
she it was who had first suggested that line of action,—and when, on May
15, the King breathed his last in the castle of his fathers in Zaragoza, she
claimed the succession for her son-in-law and daughter. On the day
following the King’s death she took the young Princess,—barely thirteen
years of age,—accompanied by the whole Court and a crowd of
sympathetic citizens, into the basilica of Sa Zeo, and placed her upon the
magnificent and historic silver throne of the Kings of Aragon. Bending her
knees before her, she kissed the child’s hand in homage to her sovereignty,
and caused heralds to proclaim her “Yolanda Reina d’Arragona.” It was a
bold step, but quite in accord with the ruling instinct of the royal house;
moreover, it commanded the suffrages of very many members of the Cortes.
The Estates of the three realms met in plenary session, and before the
deliberations were opened the little “Queen” was presented by her mother,
who demanded a unanimous vote in favour of Louis and Yolanda. There
were, however, other claimants for the crown, and the Cortes decided to
offer it to Dom Martino, the late King’s only surviving brother, a next heir-
male of the blood, whose consort was Queen Maria of Sicily. The new King
treated his widowed sister-in-law and his little niece with the utmost
consideration. He prevailed upon Queen Yolanda to retain the royal
apartments at the castle, for he did not propose to reside there. He only
stayed at Zaragoza for his coronation, and returned at once to Palermo.
The whole energy of the widowed Queen was now devoted to the
education of her only child. Her widowhood weighed lightly upon her; her
buoyant, happy nature soon shook off her grief and mourning. She was now
perfectly free to cultivate her tastes. If the “little Queen” was not to be
Queen of Aragon, she should succeed herself as “Queen of Hearts and
Troubadours.” Accordingly she moved her residence to Barcelona, the
sunny and the gay, and there at once set up a “Court of Love.” Catalonia
was times out of mind the rival of Provence in romance and minstrelsy; her
marts had quite as many merry troubadours as serious merchants. The
corridas de toros—bullfights—of Barcelona were the most brilliant in
Spain, whilst the people were as independent and as unconventional as they

were cultured and industrious. The two Queens very soon became expert
aficionadas of the royal sport.
Queen Yolanda never for a moment lost sight of the future of her
daughter, and preparations for her marriage to Louis d’Anjou occupied very
much of her busy, merry, useful life. Queens’ trousseaux were something
more than nine days’ wonders; besides, the ambition of the mother-Queen
knew no bounds to her daughter’s horizon. She must go forth at least as
richly clothed and dowered as any of her predecessors. Goldsmiths, glass-
blowers, cabinet-makers, saddlers, silk-weavers, and potters,—none more
accomplished and famous in Europe than the artificers of Barcelona and
Valencia,—were set to work to fill the immense walnut marriage-chests of
the bride-to-be. Her jewels were superb,—no richer gold was known than
the red gold of Aragon,—the royal gems were unique, of Moorish origin,
uncut. Years passed quickly along, and Princess Yolanda kept her eighteenth
birthday with her mother in Barcelona. She was on the threshold of a new
life.

II.

One glorious autumn morning in the good year 1399,—“good” because
“the next before a brand-new century,” as said the gossips of the time,—a
gallant cavalcade deployed down the battlemented approach to the grim old
castle of Angers. At its head, mounted upon a prancing white Anjou charger,
rode as comely a young knight as ever hoisted pennoned lance to stirrup-
lock. He was dressed in semi-armour,—the armour of the “Lists.” His
errand was not warlike, for knotted in his harness were Cupid’s love-
ribbons: he was a royal bridegroom-elect speeding off to bring gaily home
from distant Aragon his fair betrothed. He had been knighted ten years
before by his uncle, Charles VI., at his coronation in Nôtre Dame in Paris,
at which solemnity he had,—a slim lad of twelve,—held proudly the stirrup
of the Sovereign.
Louis II. d’Anjou, born at the Castle of Toulouse on October 7, 1377,
succeeded his father, Louis I., in 1389, and, like him, bore many titles of
sovereignty: King of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem; Duke of Anjou,
Calabria, Touraine, and Pouille; Grand Peer of France; Prince of Capua;
Count of Provence, Maine, Forcalquier, and Piemont; Lord of Montpellier;

and Governor of Languedoc and Guienne. His grandfather was the brave
but unfortunate King John “the Good” of France; his grandmother, the
beautiful but sorrowful Queen Bonne of Luxembourg and Bohemia.
The boy-King carrouselled through the lumbering gates of Angers that
brilliant October morning between two trusty knights of his household,—
loyal lieges of their late King now devoted to the service of the son. As
valiant in deeds of war as discreet in affairs of State were Raymond
d’Agout and Jehan de Morien. All three bore the proud cognizance of
Sicily-Anjou,—the golden flying eagle,—and their silken bannerets were
sewn with the white lilies of the royal house of France. A goodly retinue of
mounted men followed the young King, guarding the person and the costly
bridal gifts which accompanied the royal lover’s cortège.
Queen-Duchess Marie, his mother, had kept as Regent unweariedly her
long ten years’ watch, not only over the business of the State, but also over
the passions and the actions of her lusty, well-grown son. Many a maid,—
royal, noble, and simple,—had attracted the comely youth’s regard, and had
flushed her face and his. Women and girls of his time were, as an
appreciative chronicler has noted, “franches, désintéressés, capable
d’amours, épidémentés, elles restent naïve très longtemps, parceque les
vices étrangères n’ont point pénetrés dans les familles.”[A] Louis had
responded affectionately and loyally to his mother’s solicitude; he was
famed as the St. Sebastian of his time, whose chastity and good report had
no sharp shaft of scandal pierced.
[A] “Natural, open-hearted, amorous, and accessible, they are always
unspoiled because odious foreign manners have never marred their home.”

The royal cavalcade pranced its way warily over the wide-rolling plains
and across the gently cresting hill-country of Central France, making for the
Spanish frontier. The whole of that smiling land was ravaged by foreign
foes and overrun by native ne’er-do-wells, but, happily, no thrilling
adventures have been recorded of that lengthy progress. Near upon the eve
of St. Luke, King Louis II. and his suite were cordially welcomed in his
royal castle of Montpellier, which the two mother-Queens, Marie and
Yolanda, had indicated as the trysting-place. There the royal Court was
established, whilst d’Agout and de Morien were despatched, with a lordly
following, to Perpignan and across the frontier of Aragon to greet, at the

Castle of Gerona, the two Yolandas—who were already on their way from
Barcelona—and thence escort them to their Sovereign’s presence.
The young “Queen” was quite as anxious to meet her affianced husband
as he was to embrace her, and no undue delay hindered the resumption of
the queenly progress. It was a notable cortège, for Queen Yolanda, holding
as she did tenaciously that her daughter was, at least, titular Queen of
Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia, travelled in extravagant royal state.
Besides the great chariot, with its tapestries and furniture of richest
Hispano-Moorish origin, were others almost as sumptuous for the lords and
ladies of the suite. All these had their guards of honour—trusty veterans of
King Juan’s time, and devoted to their “Queen.” Great tumbrils, laden with
costly products of Zaragoza, Barcelona, and Valencia,—the royal trousseau
and magnificent offerings for King Louis and his widowed mother,—
accompanied by well-mounted cavalry, rolled heavily along the ancient
Roman road to France.
The whole of Languedoc agreed to pay honour to the royal travellers, and
they revelled in the floral games and fêtes galants offered by every town
and castle by the way. From Toulouse, the birthplace of the bridegroom-
elect, came quite appropriately a phalanx of maintaineurs to Montpellier to
recite and sing poems and melodies of the “Gaya Ciencia.” The green
rolling hills of Languedoc gave back in sweetly echoing refrains the tuneful
music of the shell-sown shores of the rolling sea, the sun-kissed
Mediterranean: all sang the “Loves of Louis and Yolanda.”
There is a quaint and suggestive story anent the meeting of the august
young couple which calls to mind the adventures of King Juan at the Court
of Bar-le-Duc. The young King had timely warning of the approach of his
royal bride-elect, and, hastily donning the guise of a simple knight, he
mingled in the throng of enthusiastic citizens, unrecognized, at the entrance
of the town. Both Queens leaned forward in their chariot to acknowledge
the loyal greetings; and the bride,—arrayed in golden tissue of Zaragoza,
and wearing Anjou lilies in her hair,—smiled and laughed and clapped her
hands in ecstasy, the animation adding immensely to her charms of face and
figure. King Louis was enraptured, and, falling head over ears in love,
approached the royal carriage; and kneeling on his berretta, he seized the
youthful Queen’s white, shapely hand, and implanted thereupon one ardent
kiss. The impact sent the hot blood coursing through his veins, and it was as

much as his esquire could do to drag his master back and hurry him to the
palace in time to change his costume and receive his royal guests with
courtly etiquette. The young Queen was conscious of this outburst of love;
she, too, coloured, and tried in vain to penetrate the disguise of her
impassioned lover. The mother-Queen instinctively guessed who he was,
and quietly remarked: “You will meet your gallant knight again, and soon—
and no mistake.”
Montpellier was all too small to accommodate such a numerous and such
a distinguished company, so King Louis gave his royal visitors barely time
to recover from the fatigues of the long coach-ride out of Spain when he
hurried on the royal train to Arles, in Provence. Queen-Duchess Marie was
already waiting at the great Archiepiscopal Palace to give the royal visitors
a cordial greeting. After having waved her son adieu from the boudoir-
balcony of the Castle of Angers, she, too, set out for the south. She had
chosen Arles for the royal nuptials, as being the capital of the third great
kingdom of Europe and the most considerable city in her son’s dominions.
No better choice could have been made from a psychological point of
view, for have not the Arlésiennes been noted for all time for their perfect
figures,—Venus di Milo was one of them,—their graceful carriage, and
surpassingly good looks? They, with their menfolk, animated and merry,
have always eaten well and well drunk. The delicious pink St. Peray is a
more generous wine than all the vintages of Champagne. Physical charms
and fin bouquets were ever incentives to love and pleasure, and Mars of
Aragon yielded up his arms to Venus of Arles. Arles—la belle Grecque aux
yeux Sarrazines! Perhaps the becoming, close-fitting black velvet chapelles,
or bonnets, and the diaphanous white gauze veils, did much to express la
grâce fière aux femmes!
It was indeed a gorgeous function at which the royal couple were united
in the bonds of matrimony, that morrow of All Saints, 1399. The ancient
basilica of St. Trophimus was one vast nave, no choir,—that the royal
brothers Louis and René built a generation later,—but it was too
circumscribed for the marriage ritual; consequently, under a gold and
crimson awning, slung on ships’ masts beyond the deeply recessed chief
portal, with its weird sculptures, the clergy took up their station to await the
bridal pageant. The Cardinal-Archbishop, Nicholas de Brancas, joined the
two young hands in wedlock, and Cardinal Adreano Savernelli, the Papal

Legate, gave the blessing of Peter, whilst the two mother-Queens looked on
approvingly.
The royal bride,—in white, of course,—had an over-kirtle, or train, of
gemmed silver tissue—a thing of wonderment and beauty worn by her royal
mother, and her mother, Marie de France, before her, and coming from the
Greco-Flemish trousseau of the famous Countess Iolande. Her abundant
brown-black hair was plaited in two thick ropes, with pearls and silver lace
reaching far below the jewelled golden cincture that encompassed her well-
formed bust. Upon her thinly covered bosom reposed the kingly medallion
of her father, King Juan, with its massive golden chain of Estate, the
emblem of her sovereign rank. Upon her finger she wore the simple ruby
ring of betrothal, now to be exchanged for the plain golden hoop of
marriage.
“Yolande is one of the most lovely creatures anybody could imagine.” So
wrote grim old Juvenal des Ursins, the chatty chronicler of Courts. She
brought to her royal spouse a rich dowry—much of the private wealth of
her father and many art treasures, among them great lustred dishes and
vases of Hispano-Moorish potters’ work, with the royal arms and cipher
thereon. Four baronies, too, passed to the Sicily-Anjou crown: Lunel in
Languedoc—famed for vintages of sweet muscatel wines—Berre,
Martignes, and Istres, all bordering the salt Étang de Berre, in Provence,
each a Venice in miniature, and rich in salt, salt-dues, and works. The royal
bride’s splendid marriage-chests were packed full of costly products of
King Juan’s kingdoms: table services in gold from Zaragoza and finely-cut
gems; delicate glass arruxiados, or scent-sprinklers, and crystal tazzas from
Barcelona—more famous than Murano; great brazen vessels from Valencia
and richly-woven textiles.
The same veracious historian has painted a picture in words of the
youthful Yolande. “Tall,” he says, “slim, erect, well proportioned in her
frame, her features of a Spanish cast, dark lustrous hair, the Queen-Duchess
has an intrepid heart and an elevated spirit, which give animation and
distinction to her charming personality. She is remarkable for decision, and
commands obedience by her authoritative manner.”
The Court did not tarry long at Arles, for, in spite of the beauty of the
women and the gallantry of the men and its other notable attractions, it was,

after all, somewhat of a dull, unhealthy place. A move was accordingly
made,—before, indeed, the festivities were quite exhausted,—to the
comfortable and roomy manoir of Tarascon, a very favourite country
residence of all the Provence Princes. The gardens were famous, and laid
out in the Italian manner, and the extensive park and fresh-water lakes were
well stocked with game and fish. The fêtes galants of Louis XV. and “La
Pompadour” here had their model. The bridal couple, with their guests and
retainers,—often as not in the guise of shepherds and shepherdesses,—thus
kept there state for three merry months, until the warmer spring weather
hurried them off to Angers, in the north.

FAVOURITE RECREATIONS
1. A DIGNIFIED MUSIC PARTY.
2. HAND-BALL AND CHESS
Both from Miniatures in MS., Fourteenth Century, “Valeur Maxime”
British Museum
To face page 50

The pretty legend of St. Martha of Bethany appealed to the young Queen-
Duchess. In the crypt of the principal church of Tarascon is the tomb of the
saint, and on the walls is her story sculptured. Once upon a time a deadly
dragon,—called by the fearful country-folk “Tarasque,”—dwelt in a hollow
cave by the Rhone shore, and fed on human flesh. News of the devastation
wrought by the monster reached the ears of Lazarus and his sisters at
Marseilles, and St. Martha took upon herself to subdue the beast. With
nothing in her hand but a piece of the true Cross of Christ and her silken
girdle of many ells in length, she sought out the deadly dragon in his lair.
Casting around his loathsome body her light cincture, she enabled her
companions to slay him. The girdle of St. Martha became the mascot of all
the Tarasconnais, and everybody wore a goodly belt or bodice à la Marthe.
Such a girdle, in cloth of gold and tasselled, was offered to the young bride
by the loyal townsfolk.
The state entry of the Sovereigns into Angers,—the major capital of the
King-Duke’s dominions,—was just such another pageant as that which
greeted Queen Isabeau of Bavaria in Paris in the summer of 1385. From
ancient days Angers had been a place of note—the Andegavi of Gallo-
Roman times, a municipium and a castrum combined. In the Carlovingian
era the Counts—then Dukes—of the Angevines,—founders of the great
Capet family,—and their vigorous consorts nursed stalwart sons, who were
the superiors of their neighbour rulers in Frankland. From Geoffrey
Plantagenet, titular King of Jerusalem, sprang our English Kings. Louis IX.,
—St. Louis of blessed memory,—bestowed the duchy of Anjou upon his
brother John with the title of King of the Two Sicilies; hence came the
sovereign titles of Louis II. and Yolande.
The Castle of Angers in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries was one of
the most imposing in France. Flanked by eighteen great donjon towers,
shaped like dice-boxes, it had the aspect of a prison rather than of a palace.
The royal apartments were between two great bastions, Le Tour du Moulin

and Le Tour du Diable. The drawbridge spanned the deep, wide moat to the
esplanade called Le Pont du Monde; beneath were dark dungeons and
odious oubliettes. To honour their King and Queen, the castle household
hung great swaying lengths of scarlet “noble cloth,”—newly purchased
from the Florentine merchants of the “Calimala,”—to cover up the black
slate-stone courses of the masonry of Le Diable, whilst they concealed the
rough masonry of Le Moulin by strips of gorgeous yellow canvas of Cholet
d’Anjou. These were the heraldic colours of Aragon. All the gloomy slate-
fronted houses of the city,—“Black Angers” it was called,—were decorated
similarly, and gay Flemish carpets and showy skins of beasts were flaunted
from the windows. The citizens kept holiday with bunches of greenery and
early spring flowers in their hands to cast at their new liege Lady.
Queen Yolande waved her gloved hand,—a novelty in demure Angers,—
in friendly response to the plaudits of the throngs, and refused no kiss of
bearded mouth or cherry lips thereon as she rode on happily by the side of
her royal spouse. At St. Maurice,—the noble cathedral, with its new and
glorious coloured windows,—the royal cortège halted whilst Te Deum was
sung, and the bridal pair were sprinkled with holy water and censed.
Another “Station” was made where the ascent to the castle began, for there
pious loyal folk had prepared the mystery-spectacles of the “Resurrection of
Christ” with “His Appearance to His Virgin Mother.” The Saviour’s
features, by a typical but strange conceit, were those of the King-Duke, St.
Mary’s those of the royal bride!
The banquetings and junketings were scenes of deep amazement to the
new Queen. In Aragon and Barcelona people ate and drank delicately,—
their menus were à la Grecque,—but in cold and phlegmatic Anjou great
hunks of beef and great mugs of sack,—quite à la Romain,—were de
rigueur. An old kitchen reporter of Angers records the daily fare at the
castle: “One whole ox, two calves, three sheep, three pigs, twelve fowls.”
The only artistic confection was “hippocras, seasoned with cloves and
cinnamon.” Pepper, ginger, rosemary, mint, and thyme, were served as
“delicacies.” Another harsh note on the fitness of things which struck the
royal bride as extraordinary was the loud laughter indulged in by the
gentlemen of the Court and their coarse jests; le rire français had nothing of
the mellowed merriment of the “Gaya Ciencia.”

Alas! the rejoicings and the feastings of the Angevines and their guests
were suddenly arrested, and the enthusiastic shouts of welcome were
drowned by harsh hammerings of armourers and raucous military
commands. The King-Duke was summoned to take his position among the
captains of France, in battle order, in face of the foreign foe, and the Queen-
Duchess, young and inexperienced as she was, assumed the government of
Angers and the care of the citizens. All France was ravaged by the English,
and State after State fell before their onslaught. Yolande addressed herself
to the strengthening of the defences of the castle and the city. Imitating the
tact and prudence of Silvestro and Giovanni de’ Medici at Florence, she
ordered the levying of a poll-tax, rated upon the variations of land-tenure
and the varying incomes of the craftsmen: a tenth of all rateable property,—
shrewdly spread over three years, with a credit for immediate needs,—was
cordially yielded by the Angevines.
Probably this impost was made upon the advice of worthy councillors,
but, all the same, the manner in which the young châtelaine Lieutenant-
General in person superintended its operation was an eloquent testimony to
her force of character and her true patriotism. She disposed of many
personal belongings, and submitted to many acts of self-denial, an example
quickly followed by great and small. She sent also to Zaragoza for master-
armourers to refurbish old and temper new weapons of various sorts. Some
of these craftsmen she ordered to give instruction to native workers; so very
shortly her armoury was efficient, not alone for home defence, but for the
rearming of the King’s forces in the field.
Not content with these warlike preparations, Queen Yolande gave time
and money for the distraction and amusement of her people in their time of
stress. Castle fêtes, town sports, and church mystery plays, were bravely
carried through. The Queen herself was everywhere—now mounted for the
chase, now tending sick folks, now at public prayers. Born daughter of a
grand race, and full of dignity, she had inherited her mother’s happy
disposition. She charmed everyone in town and country, and endeared
herself to her loving subjects by many a homely trait.
A pretty tale has been preserved about her whilst King Louis was
standing shoulder to shoulder with Charles VI. and his other peers of
France. One afternoon,—according to her wont when not hindered by
affairs of State or claims of charity,—she sallied forth to the royal park of

L’Vien, her dogs in leash. Let loose, they put up a rabbit, which made
directly for their royal mistress, and sought refuge in the skirt of her green
velvet hunting-kirtle. Reaching down her hand, she fondled the little
trembling creature, when, to her immense surprise, she discovered upon its
neck a faded ribbon, with a medallion bearing an image of the Virgin. The
incident occurred in a woody dell within the ruins of a half-buried hermit’s
cell. Yolande did not for a moment hesitate in her interpretation of the
incident. She noted the date,—February 2, the Feast of the Purification,—
and she set to work to restore the holy house in honour of St. Mary. Upon
the portal, by her command, was sculptured the charming episode, with the
legend: “Nôtre Dame de Sousterre, l’amie et la protectrice des âmes en
danger.”[A]
[A] “Our Lady of the Deep Cell, the friend and protectress of souls in danger.”

The same year, 1401, found Louis d’Anjou and Yolande upon their way
to Paris, where she, as Queen of Jerusalem, Naples, Sicily, and Aragon,
made her state entry at the Court of Charles VI. and Isabeau. Doubtless the
young Queen was struck with Isabeau’s extraordinary freedom of manner.
Her own training, both at Zaragoza and Barcelona, in the rigid conventions
of a semi-Moorish Court, had taught her restraint and aloofness. The dress
of the French Queen astonished her, for in Aragon and Catalonia physical
charms were enhanced by semi-concealment, whereas Isabeau exposed her
painted arms, shoulders, and her breast, right down to her cincture; whilst
her low waist at the back was pinched by a cotte hardie, so that the bust was
enlarged to the degree of distortion: une taille de guêpe—“wasp-like”
indeed! The etiquette of the Court of her father, as well as that of Anjou,
kept men out of the bedchambers of the fair, but Isabeau, décolletée and en
déshabillée, was the centre of a crowd of flatterers and fawners at her daily
se lever. The dressing-room of Isabeau was the factory of gossip and
intrigue. Perhaps she gave utterance to the aphorism:

“Ostez le fard et le vice,
Vous luy ostez l’âme et le corps.”
“Take away fashion and vice,
And you expose both soul and body.”

On her side Queen Yolande caused a sensation among the French
courtiers. No one had ever seen such a wealth of gold and jewels as that
which adorned the winsome Spanish Queen. In spite of their great
dissimilarity in age, appearance, character, and manner, the two Queens
became fast friends, and Yolande was permitted to weld the intimacy into a
permanent relationship at the fortunate accouchement of Isabeau. With
admirable simplicity and charm she assumed the charge of the royal infant,
sponsored it, and gave it her own name added to Catherine. Born to be the
consort of Henry V. of England, the victor of Azincourt, Catherine de Valois
served as the gracious hostage and pledge of a greatly-longed-for peace.
Queen Yolande was, however, approaching her own accouchement, and
Louis, judging that a fortified castle was not a desirable locality for such an
auspicious event, hurried his consort and her boudoir entourage off to
Toulouse, the gay capital of Languedoc—Toulouse of the Troubadours.
There, upon September 25, 1403, within the palace, Yolande brought forth
her first-born, her royal husband’s son and heir. Louis the bonny boy was
named by the Archbishop at the font of St. Étienne’s Cathedral. Great was
the joy over all the harvest-fields and vineyards of Provence and
Languedoc. Perhaps the good folk of Aix felt themselves a little slighted.
Why was not the happy birth planned for their capital? they asked.
Nevertheless, they sent a goodly tribute of 100,000 gold florins to the cradle
of the little Prince, and saluted him as “Vicomte d’Aix.”
The year 1404 had seasons of peculiar sorrow for the Angevine Court,
followed, happily, by joyous days. On May 19 the King-Duke’s brother,
Charles, Duke of Maine and Count of Guise, died suddenly at Angers,—the
“Black Death” they called his malady,—amid universal regret. He had been
content to play a subordinate rôle in the affairs of State—a man more
addicted to scholarly pursuits than political activities. He had, however,
proved himself the son of a good mother and the stay of his young sister-in-
law from Aragon during her spouse’s absence from his own dominions. The
Duke left one only child—a boy—who succeeded him as Charles II. of
Maine. Queen-Duchess Marie felt her dear son’s untimely death acutely,
and, notwithstanding the loving care of her devoted daughter-in-law, she
never recovered from the prostration of her grief. Within a fortnight of the
obsequies of her son, the feet of those who had so sorrowfully borne his

body forth to burial were treading the same mournful path, tenderly bearing
her own funeral casket.
Ever since her happy marriage to Louis I. in 1360, Marie de Châtillon-
Blois had borne nobly her part as the worthy helpmeet of her spouse and the
devoted mother of his children. For ten years after his death her gentle
presence and wise counsels had directed the affairs of the House of Sicily-
Anjou, and smoothed away all difficulties from the path of her son. She left
immense wealth, which, added to the goodly fortune of Louis I., made her
son the richest Sovereign in all France. It was said at the time that she was
worth “more than twenty-two millions of livres.” “In spite of reputed
avarice and hoarding,“ said a not too friendly historian, ”she was a sapient
ruler, moderate and firm, and she left Anjou the better for a good example.”
“Sachiez,” wrote Bourdigne of her, “que c’estoit une dame de goût faiet, et
de moult grant ponchas, car point ne dormoit en poursuivant ses
besoignes.”
These dark clouds hung heavily over Louis II. and Yolande, but the cause
of their passing was a signal of enthusiastic joy. On October 14 a little
baby-girl was born. Mary, the “Mother of Sorrows,” heard the prayer of the
stricken Royal Family, and sent a new Mary to fill the place of the lamented
Duchess; for the child was named Marie simply, and was offered to St.
Mary for her own.
Troubles, however, were gathering thickly all over the devoted land of
France. The enemy in the gate, ever victorious, plundered and pauperized
every State in turn, so that the country was “like a sheep bleating helplessly
before her shearers.” Tax-gatherers and oppressors of mankind beggared the
poor and feeble, and spoiled the rich and brave. “Sà de l’argent? Sà de
l’argent?”—“Where’s your money?”—was the desolating cry which the
rough cailloux of the village pavé tossed through the draughty doorways of
peasant cottages, and the smooth courtyards echoed through the mullioned
windows of seigneurs’ castles. The gatherings, in spite of rape and rapine,
fell far short of the requirements of these times of stress, and a general
appeal was made to Queens and châtelaines to exercise their charms in
staying the hands of ravishers. The famous answer of Queen Isabeau was
that, alas! of Queen Yolande, though more sympathetically expressed: “Je
suis une povre voix criant dans ce royaume, désireuse de paix et du bien de
tous!”[A]

[A] “I am a poor voice crying helplessly in this wretched kingdom, seeking
only peace and the good of all.”

This aptly expressed the weary sense of disaster which saw that fateful
year expire, but for the King and Queen of Sicily-Anjou-Provence a gleam
of the brightness of Epiphany fell athwart their marital couch. Yolande was
for the third time a mother, and her child was a boy. Born on January 6,
1408, in a crenellated tower of the castle gateway of Angers, his mother had
to bear the anxiety and the vigil all alone, for Louis II. was in Italy fighting
for his own.
As before the birth of the Princess Marie devotions had been addressed to
the Mother of God and to the saints for a favourable carriage, now, in view
of the troubles of the land, special petitions were addressed to the most
popular saint of Anjou, St. Renatus, that the new deliverance might presage
a new birth of hope for France, and that the holy one,—the patron of child-
bearing mothers who sought male heirs,—might supplicate at the throne of
heaven for a baby-boy.
Baptized in the Cathedral of St. Maurice eight days after birth, the little
Prince had for sponsors no foreign potentates, but men of good renown and
substance in Anjou: Pierre, Abbé de St. Aubin; Jean, Seigneur de l’Aigle;
Guillaume, Chevalier des Roches; and Mathilde, Abbée de Nôtre Dame
d’Angers. The Queen by proxy named her child “René—reconnaissance à
Messire St. Renatus.”
The Queen folded her little infant to her breast, but after weaning him she
gave him over to the care of a faithful nurse, one Théophaine la Magine of
Saumur, who came to love him, and he her, most tenderly.
Among the documens historiques of Anjou are Les Comptes de Roi René
—notices of public works carried out in various parts of the royal-ducal
dominions. Many of these enterprises were undertaken at the direct instance
of Queen Yolande, and they throw a strong light upon her character as a
loyal spouse and sapient ruler. For example, on July 26, 1408, a marché, or
contract, was made between the Queen’s Council and one Julien Guillot, a
master-builder, for reslating the roof of the living apartments and the towers
of the Castle of Angers, and also of various public buildings in the city, and
the manor-houses of Diex-Aye and de la Roche au Due, at an upset price of

fifty-five livres tournois (standard gold coins), “to be paid when the work is
complete, with twenty more as deposit.”

A MYSTERY OR MIRACLE PLAY, FIFTEENTH CENTURY
From “L’Album Historique de France”
To face page 60

Again, under date October 25, 1410, another marché was signed,
whereby “Jean Dueceux and Jean Butort, master-carpenters of Angers,
agree to strengthen the woodwork of the castle chapel and replace worn-out
corbels. All to be finished against the Feast of the Magdalen, at a total cost
of two hundred livres tournois, according to the order of Queen Yolande
and her Council.” King Louis had in 1403 assigned a benefaction of twenty-
five gold livres to the ancient chapel of St. John Baptist, to be paid yearly
for ever, as a thank-offering for the birth of Princess Marie.
These documens are full of such notices, and they also record events of
festive interest. One such incident had a most ludicrous dénouement: “On
the twenty-seventh of June, 1409, Messire Yovunet Coyrant, Superintendent
of the Castle of Angers, paid a visit of inspection, and he complained that
on Sunday, June 23rd of this month, being within the said castle, where a

merry company was occupied with games and drolleries before Queen
Yolande and the Court, he stood for a time to watch the fun. Quite unknown
to him, the tails of his new long coat, which had cost him ten solz [half a
livre], were cut off by some miscreant or other, whereby he became an
object of derision! For this insult he claimed satisfaction, and named as his
go-betweens Guye Buyneart and Jehan Guoynie.” Whether these practical
jokers were inspired by the Queen we know not, but this trifling record
shows that she was not entirely absorbed by the heavy responsibilities of
her rank as Lieutenant-General of her consort, but found time to indulge in
some of the gaieties which had been the joy of her mother and herself in
Aragon, and which had graced her own nuptials and entry into Anjou and
Provence.
Again the mirthful pursuits of the Court and country were stayed by the
stringency of the times. Sedition spread its baneful influence all over
Provence and Languedoc what time King Louis was still far away fighting
in Italy. With courage, fraught with love and assurance, she set off to the
distant province, taking with her, not only an escort of doughty war-lords,
but also her own tender nurslings—Louis, Marie, and René. With her
children was also the young Princess Catherine, daughter of Jean “sans
Peur,” the Duke of Burgundy, whose betrothal to her eldest son Louis was
imminent. Through his children her appeal would first be made to her
husband’s disaffected subjects. Should that fail, then she could don cuirass
and casque and head her royal troops to worst them. With little Vicomte
d’Aix upon her saddle-lap, she passed through village, town, and city,
receiving enthusiastic plaudits everywhere; she was “Madame la Nostre
Royne!” The head of the rebellion was scotched, and from Aix the intrepid
Queen despatched messengers to the King to tell of her success, and to say
that she was ready to embark at once to his assistance.
This heroic offer was made possible by the death of King Martin of
Aragon in 1410, who bequeathed to his niece the whole of his private
fortune. This event, however, added to the Queen’s anxieties, for she was
not the sort of woman to allow the royal succession to pass for ever
unchallenged. La Justicia Mayor of the State of Aragon assembled at the
ancient royal castle of Alcañiz to receive the names and to adjudicate the
claims of candidates for the vacant throne. Yolande, still styling herself
“Queen of Aragon,” was represented by Louis, Duke of Bourbon, and

Antoine, Count of Vendôme. Her claim was not immediately for herself, but
for her son Louis. Two years were spent in acrimonious deliberations, but
the provisions of the Salic Law penalized the female descent, and
consequently the next male heir, Prince Ferdinand of Castile, placed the
crown of Aragon upon his head as well as that of Castile. Queen Yolande
had to be content with her protest and her titular sovereignty.
Back at Angers in 1413, the Queen conceived a notable future for her
nine-years-old daughter, Marie. Of the six sons of Charles VI. of France and
Isabeau, only one survived, the fifth-born, Charles. The imperious Bavarian
Queen had little or none of Queen Yolande’s fondness for her offspring;
they were born, alas! put out to nurse, forgotten, and neglected—so they
died. Upon the little Prince—the cherished jewel of his father—Queen
Yolande fixed her motherly regard. He was a year older than her Marie, and
a piteous little object bereft of a mother’s love and solicitude. Yolande’s
warm heart yearned towards the lonely child; she would mother him, she
would train him, and then she would marry him to Marie—this was the
Queen’s dream.
With that promptitude which marked all her well-considered actions,
Queen Yolande set about the realization of her castle in the air. She again
packed up herself, her children, and her Court, and took up her abode in the
Château de Mehun-sur-Yèvre, near Bourges, a favourite residence of the
French Court. Among her little ones was a baby-girl, no more than six
months old—Yolande, her own name-child. She gave as her reason for so
strange a line of conduct her wish for greater facilities in the education of
her children. Charles VI. offered no objection to the residence of such a
worthy mother and heroine wife in his own neighbourhood; indeed, he
regarded her advent with considerable pleasure and satisfaction. Yolande’s
influence for good would outweigh Isabeau’s for evil; besides, she would be
a trusty counsellor.
Queen Yolande had not been very long established at Mehun before she
put in a plea on behalf of the poor little heir to the throne of France. Charles
was thankful, he was delighted, and at once gave into her sole charge,
untrammelled in any way, his dear little son, to share the home care and the
studies of his two young cousins, Louis and René d’Anjou. Having obtained
the charge of the little Count de Ponthieu, Queen Yolande once more went
home to Angers, by no means embarrassed by the fact that she had assumed

the training of two Kings, Louis and Charles, with René a possible King of
Aragon besides.
For two years Charles passed for Yolande’s son, the playmate and boy-
lover of her sweet Marie. All his inspirations and his examples he took from
her and them—at last a happy boy, with a hopeful future. The Queen
allowed that future no halting steps; Charles and Marie should be betrothed,
and Mary should be Queen of France! Yolande broached the subject to King
Charles, and at once gained his cordial consent, but tactfully she left to him
the furthering of the project. Upon December 18, 1415, Charles of France
and Marie of Sicily-Anjou were privately affianced in the Royal Chapel of
the Castle of Bourges. France was in the throes of revolution and
dissolution; the terrible defeat at Azincourt, on October 24 that same year,
had paralyzed the military power of the French States, and was the ultimate
cause of King Charles’s insanity. For seven years he became a fugitive, not
only bereft of reason, but of all resources. Queen Isabeau did nothing to
relieve the tension, but maintained her irreconcilable position, and
continued her ill-living. The King’s only brother, the lamented Duke of
Orléans, had been assassinated eight years before, and there appeared to be
no one capable of steering the ship of State into a calm haven.
This was Queen Yolande’s opportunity, and she rose to its height
majestically. She was already guardian of the Dauphin, who after his
espousal returned with his child-bride to Angers. Now she assumed the
general direction of affairs, and became virtually Regent of France and the
arbiter of her destiny. She personally approached the English King, and
obtained from him favourable terms of peace, which assured tranquillity
and regeneration for France. She it was who proposed to Henry his alliance
with her young goddaughter, Catherine, the youngest child of Charles VI.
and Isabeau, then fourteen years of age. He was twenty-eight, and the
marriage was consummated five years later, although Henry’s terms
included the payment of the arrears of the ransom of King John the “Good,”
the prisoner of Poitiers, a sum of 2,000,000 crowns.
The Queen’s judgment and resourcefulness eminently merited the
grudging encomium of the wife of her husband’s fiercest rival, the Duchess
of Burgundy. “I am always glad,” she said, “when it is a good woman who
governs, for then all good men follow her!”

All this time,—a time fraught with infinite issues,—King Louis II. of
Sicily-Anjou was in Italy, meeting in his campaign with varied fortune. He
had all he could do to hold his own, but his presence at the head of his army
was essential to ultimate success. Three times he entered Naples acclaimed
as King, for Queen Giovanna II. had named him so. Three times he fled
discomfited after victory, which he failed to follow up. He rarely returned to
his French dominions, and really he had no necessity so to do on the score
of administration, for his beloved and capable Lieutenant-General was
perfectly able to keep everything in order and uphold his authority. At last
the King of Sicily-Anjou and Naples returned to Angers a broken and an
ailing man, to spend what time Providence would still grant him with his
devoted noble wife.
Queen Yolande’s first great grief came to her in 1417, when her faithful
husband was taken from her. Happily for them both, they were united at the
deathbed—consoling and consoled. He was young to die—barely forty
years of age—but ripe enough for the greedy grasp of Death. Louis II.’s
fame was that of a “loyal Sovereign, a righteous man, a true spouse, and an
affectionate father.”

CHAPTER III
YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA—“A GOOD MOTHER AND A
GREAT QUEEN”—continued

I.

A royal corpse reposed upon the state tester bedstead within the great
Hall of Audiences in the enceinte of the Castle of Angers, and a royal
widow knelt humbly at a prie-dieu at his feet. It was late in the evening of
that sweet April day,—half sun, half shower,—that the body of Louis II.,
King of Sicily, Naples, Jerusalem, and Anjou, was ceremonially displayed,
flanked by huge yellow wax candles in chiselled sticks of Gerona
brasswork. The tapestried walls of this chapelle ardente were covered with
sable cloth sewn with silver lilies and hung with great garlands of yew. The
head of the lamented Sovereign reposed upon a soft cushion of blue velvet,
put there by the widow herself. Upon his breast, with its pectoral cross, was
his favourite “Livre des Heures,” one of the famous treasures of the
collection of King John the “Good,” his grandfather.
In her black velvet chapelle, with its close gauze veil concealing her
beautiful hair, and attired in sombre black, unrelieved, the devotional figure,
sorrowful and brave, was none other than “Good” Queen Yolande. Her right
hand rested consolingly upon the shoulder of her eldest son, now Louis III.,
a well-grown stripling of fourteen. Around his neck his mother had but just
hung the chain and medallion of sovereignty, taken tenderly from her dead
spouse. Behind them knelt Prince René and Princess Marie, the fondest of
playmates, weeping bitterly, poor children! The vast hall was filled with
courtiers, soldiers, citizens, all manifesting signs of woe and regret. The
royal obsequies were conducted magnificently, under the personal direction
of the Queen, within the choir of the Cathedral of St. Maurice. Feuds of
rival Sovereigns, operations against the foreign foe, quarrels of fault-
finders, and the like, were all hushed in the presence of the King of Terrors.
To Angers thronged royal guests and simple folk to pay their last tributes of
respect and devotion. In state, King Charles VI. started to tender his

homage to the dead, but, struck down with sudden illness at Orléans, he
requested Queen Isabeau to take his place. Burial rites were not much in
that giddy woman’s way, and her hard heart had no room for sympathy and
condolence; so the “Scourge of France,” as she was called, gave Angers a
wide berth.
The Angevine royal children were five in number, and Louis left besides
a natural son,—Louis de Maine, Seigneur de Mezières,—and a natural
daughter,—Blanche,—whom René, when he attained his father’s throne in
1434, married to the Sieur Pierre de Biège. The defunct King’s will
appointed four simple knights,—his henchmen true,—executors: Pierre de
Beauvais and Guy de Laval for Anjou, and Barthélèmy and Gabriel de
Valorey for Provence, with Hardoyn de Bueil, Bishop of Angers, as
moderator. The Queen-mother was constituted Regent of the kingdoms and
dominions and guardian of the young King, whilst Prince René was
commended, under his father’s will, to the charge of his great-uncle Louis,
Cardinal and Duke de Bar, with the family title of Comte de Guise.

KING LOUIS OF SICILY-ANJOU
(KING RENÉ’S FATHER)
From Coloured Glass Window, Le Mans Cathedral
To face page 68

The loss of her second son and the parting of the brothers was a sore trial
to the whole family. The Cardinal, however, insisted upon his young
nephew being sent to him at Bar-le-Duc, to be educated under his eye and
prepared for his destiny as future Duke of Bar, which the Cardinal caused to
be announced both in Anjou and Barrois. Louis de Bar was a very
distinguished ecclesiastic; he had passed through every grade of Holy Order

with rare distinction. In 1391 the Pope conferred upon him the bishopric of
Poitiers, and two years later translated him to Langres, with the Sees also of
Châlons and Verdun. The latter dignity carried with it the degree of Grand
Peer of France, and in those days Bishops were regarded as temporal
Sovereigns within the jurisdiction of their Sees. Benedict XIII. in 1397
preconized Louis de Bar Cardinal-Bishop, and named him Papal Legate in
France and Germany. His temporal honours as Duke of Bar came to him in
1415, after the calamitous battle of Azincourt, in which his two elder
brothers, Édouard and Jehan, fell gloriously. Their untimely deaths and
disasters keen and sad brought about, too, the death of good Duke Robert,
their father. He died of a broken heart, whilst Duchess Marie shut herself up
in a convent, and was never known again to smile. Her death has not been
recorded.
After bidding adieu to her dearly loved son,—perhaps her favourite child,
and most like herself in temperament and character,—Queen Yolande, with
the young King, was fully occupied in receiving addresses of condolence
and assurances of loyalty both at Angers and at Aix, to which they made a
progress in full state. She assumed the personal direction of affairs,
appointing tactfully as assessors the most prominent men of all classes in
both domains. In a very distinct sense she was a democratic Sovereign, and
under her régime the Estates were allowed a good deal of independent
action in matters, at least, of local policy. Thus, by maintaining the dignity
of the crown of Sicily-Anjou-Provence and encouraging popular
government, Queen Yolande initiated the first free constitution in the
history of all France.
The stability of the throne and the welfare of its subjects having been
secured, the Queen turned her attention to the matrimonial prospect of her
eldest son. Some years before King Louis’s death, Jean “sans Peur,” Duke
of Burgundy,—in days when the Courts of Angers and Dijon saw eye to
eye, and the States were not rivals in the direction of the general policy of
the French Sovereigns,—had confided his little daughter Catherine to the
charge of the eminent Queen of Sicily-Anjou, to be brought up with her
own girls, the Princesses Marie and Yolande. Then the idea of the betrothal
of Louis d’Anjou and Catherine de Bourgogne was accepted as a very
excellent mutual arrangement; indeed, the Duke had named his intention of
dowering the Princess with 50,000 livres tournois (= circa £30,000),

besides placing the castle at the disposal of the young couple upon the
consummation of the marriage.
There had arisen coolness and suspicion between the Sovereigns of
France and the Duke of Burgundy, whose connection with the assassination
of the Duke of Orléans, in 1407, had never been cleared up. The Duke,
moreover, had seen good,—in view of his professed claims to the crown of
France,—to make terms with the King of England which would, under
certain circumstances, gain territorial aggrandizement for Burgundy, and
ultimately the reversion to his family of the royal title. This rapprochement
with the hated invader of Northern France,—the foe at the gates of Anjou,
—lead summarily to the renunciation by the Angevine Sovereigns of all
matrimonial affinities between the Houses of Anjou and Burgundy. Little
Princess Catherine was sent home to Dijon, and the Duke scouted the Anjou
alliance, and made terms with Lorraine, a step which in another decade told
disastrously against the son of Queen Yolande.
She, on the other hand, cared very little for the change of front of Duke
Jean “sans Peur.” Her mind had all along been made up in the matter of her
son’s betrothal, and her eyes were turned to Brittany, whose Sovereigns
were the most stable and the most powerful in France. The dual crown of
Sicily-Anjou was rich, and the prospects of the new occupant of that throne
with respect to Naples, and possibly to Aragon, were of the highest;
consequently the matrimonial market was absolutely at her command.
Politically it was clear that an alliance of Anjou and Brittany would more
than balance that of Burgundy and Lorraine. Very tactfully the Angevine
Queen-mother caused her “cousin” at Nantes to know that a nuptial
arrangement between her son and a daughter of Duke Jean VI. would be
favourably considered at Angers. To pave the way more auspiciously,
splendid fêtes were organized at the castle, to which the ducal family of
Brittany were invited as principal guests of honour. The Duke and Duchess
were accompanied by their young daughter, Princess Isabelle, and were
greatly affected by their reception. In the tournaments, pageants, and floral
games, the young Bretagne Princes gained all the laurels, whilst the
blushing Princess, as the “Queen of Beauty,” bestowed the prizes upon the
victors.
On July 3 a royal function in the Cathedral of Angers brought the fêtes to
an auspicious finish, for there Louis d’Anjou and Isabelle de Bretagne were

formally espoused, the young couple being of the same age. Alas for the
hopes of all concerned! the Princess,—a very beautiful and an
accomplished girl,—was not destined to wear the Queen-consort’s crown of
Sicily-Anjou. Before the year was out she sickened of plague,—as captious
critics said, caught in “Black Angers,”—and died. This was a serious blow
to Queen Yolande’s diplomacy, but she was not the sort of woman to waste
time in unprofitable lamentations.
By the force of circumstances, seen and unseen, the Queen-mother’s
search for favourable alliances and an eligible consort for her son was
greatly aided by the fresh aggression of the English under Henry V. In face
of the common danger, which threatened alike the western and the eastern
States of France, Queen Yolande found her opportunity of immensely
strengthening the position of her son’s dominions by detaching Burgundy
and Lorraine from the English alliance. At Saumur she signed the articles of
a defensive and offensive treaty between the four great duchies,—Bretagne,
of course, being one,—La Ligue de Quatre, it was called.
Next to the assurance of political security at home, this instrument set the
astute Queen free to turn her attention to the support of her son’s claims to
the throne of Naples. First appertaining to the older line of Anjou in the
person and descendants of Jehan, brother of St. Louis, they had lapsed until
King Louis I. of Sicily-Anjou asserted his right as head of the younger line
of Anjou in virtue of the grant by his father, King John the “Good.” These
prerogatives, alas! Louis II. had lost the year he died, and their reacquisition
was the destiny of his son. In furtherance of these duties, Queen Yolande
conceived that an Italian alliance, with the corollary of a matrimonial
contract for the young King, were indicated, and she set to work to
elaborate a scheme which should achieve the ends in view.
In September, 1418, Queen Yolande opened negotiations directly with
Amadeo VIII., Duke of Savoy, first for his assistance in the field of battle,
and next for the betrothal of his daughter Margherita, then an infant of three
years old. A treaty was signed on October 18, wherein the Duke agreed to
receive young King Louis in Savoy, and either personally to accompany
him through the proposed campaign, or at least to see his embarkation at
Genoa at the head of a Savoyard contingent of ten thousand men-at-arms,
for the recovery of the crown of Naples. One clause ceded the county of
Nice to Savoy in lieu of moneys borrowed by Louis II. for his Naples

expedition. Appended to this treaty was the marriage contract, which
appointed Chambéry,—the capital of Savoy,—as the place, and Lady Day
the following year as the date, for the formal espousal of Louis and
Margherita.
Steps were at once taken for the young King to enter upon his expedition
in a manner suited to his rank and commensurate with the military
movements of the time. Angers once more resounded to the metallic music
of armourers. A Guild of Sword-Cutlers was incorporated, and skilled
craftsmen from Aragon were again welcomed by the Queen. Masters of
Arms, too, were invited to give Louis the best instruction in warlike
exercises, Yolande herself meanwhile inculcating lessons of hardihood,
chivalry, and patriotism. Hers, happily, was the satisfaction of knowing that
these efforts were productive of the best results, for the youthful Sovereign
quickly became an expert and an enthusiast.
It does not appear that the young King took much interest in the
matrimonial part of the negotiations. An unripe boy of sixteen would
naturally be very much more affected by military prowess than by uxorious
daintiness. The service of Mars was very much more to his liking than that
of Venus, and he addressed himself zealously to the task of winning back
his grandfather’s crown and sceptre, which his father had failed to retain. It
was doubtless a daring enterprise for a youth to undertake, but we may be
quite sure that he inherited not a little of his family’s well known
fearlessness. Province was denuded of her garrisons, and Languedoc also;
but no men could be spared from Anjou and Bar, and it was but the nucleus
of an army which Queen Yolande reviewed at Marseilles, whither she went
to bid adieu to her dearly loved son upon his adventurous career.

COMMUNION OF A KNIGHT
Sculpture from Interior, Western Façade, Reims Cathedral
To face page 74

Louis sailed for Genoa, where he met the Duke of Savoy and took
command of his contingent. He anchored in the Bay of Naples on August
15, 1420, a day full of favourable omens. On the voyage he fell in with the
fleet of the King of Aragon, his rival for the crown of Naples, and worsted
it. At once he went off to Aversa, where the Queen of Naples, Giovanna II.,
received him with open arms. His naïveté delighted her, jaded as she was
with the attentions of willing and unwilling aspirants for her favours. She

created him Duke of Calabria, and proclaimed him her heir in lieu of the
defeated and discredited Alfonso.
It was a perilous position for the vigorous and gallant stripling Prince, but
the counsels of his virtuous mother were not thrown away. The young King
refused the amorous royal overtures successfully, and having kissed the
Queen’s hand, he offered a plausible excuse, and speedily took his
departure for Rome. The Supreme Pontiff extended to the youthful hero his
paternal benediction, and detained him at the Vatican just long enough to
invest him with the title of King of Naples, in place, as His Holiness
wished, of the worthless and abandoned Queen. Thence Louis travelled on
to Florence and Milan, and obtained promises of substantial assistance from
their rulers against the pretensions of the King of Aragon.
But to return to Anjou and the “good mother” there, the anxious and busy
Queen Yolande.
The Revue Numismatique du Maine contains many paragraphs
recounting the Queen’s prudence and activity in military matters. Under
date June 10, 1418, for example, she issued an order to the Seneschal and
Treasurer of Provence “to reimburse one Jehan Crepin, keeper of the Castle
of Forcalquier, whence one of the sovereign titles are taken, the advance
made by him for the reparation of the said castle.” On February 18, 1419,
the States of Provence assembled at Aix besought the Queen, as head of the
State, “to suppress the tax which had been levied upon the circulation of
foreign money, with a view to greater facilities being accorded for the
payment of sums required for the defence of the country.” A few years later,
—in 1427,—the authorities of the city of Marseilles prayed the Queen, then
at Tarascon, to authorize them to impose a poll-tax upon all foreign
merchants in the port, “so that the funds at their command might be
enlarged, for the express purpose of fitting out vessels of war.” The
inhabitants of Martignes, which county Yolande had brought, on her
marriage, to the possessions of her husband,—on December 20, 1419,—
sought for their Queen-Countess, as ruler and administrator, the right to
retain certain dues on the production of salt for the defence of their coast-
line. There are very many such entries in the State papers of the reign;
indeed, both before and after the departure of Louis III. for Naples, Queen
Yolande was recognized as responsible ruler for her son.

II.

If Louis’s matrimonial prospects were somewhat clouded by the extreme
youth of his child-bride, the Queen was by no means discouraged in her
policy of influential alliances. Her second son, René, who had won all
hearts in Barrois, was actually married to Princess Isabelle of Lorraine in
1420, although she was no more than nine years old, and he but twelve.
This match was, however, not wholly the work of Queen Yolande; her
ideas, however, were those which impelled her uncle, Cardinal Louis de
Bar, directly to ask the hand of the juvenile Princess.
The year before this precocious marriage the Cardinal had formally
proclaimed René his heir to the duchy of Bar, and created him Marquis of
Pont-à-Mousson. This action greatly displeased Arnould, Duke of Berg,
whose wife was Marie de Bar, a sister of the Cardinal. She preferred claims
to the succession as next of kin to her brother, and when she was refused,
the Duke took up arms and advanced upon Bar-le-Duc. The movement
failed, and young René saw the Duke’s dead body taken away for burial
without emotion. The young Prince had been for nearly two years residing
at his great-uncle’s castle, under his immediate care and instruction. Among
the tutors chosen for his training were Maestre Jehan de Proviesey, a
grammarian and Latinist, and Maestre Antoine de la Salle, poet and
musician. Such instructors were de rigueur, of course, for the true
development of a perfect gentleman and courtier. The latter master wrote a
treatise entitled “Les quinze joyes de la mariage: instructions addressés aux
jeunes hommes.” This he dedicated to his pupil, Prince René. Among the
quaint aphorisms it contains, this must have caused more than a smile on
the part of the young knight:

“Bon cheval, mauvais cheval, veut l’esperon;
Bonne femme, mauvaise femme, veut le baston!”

Perhaps the pith of the treatise is expressed in the neat quintet:

“Quattuor sunt que mulieres summe cupiunt,
A formis amari juvenibus,
Pottere fillis pluribus
Ornari preciosis vestibus
Et dominari pre ceteris in domibus.”

René’s time was, however, not wholly absorbed by his studies in school
and Court, for he bestrode his warhorse like a man, and rode forth by his
great-uncle’s side on punitive expeditions against recalcitrant vassals and
against the incursions of freebooters, who under the designation of
“Soudoyers” were devastating the duchy. It was said of the Cardinal: “Il
savait au besoin porter ung bassinet pour mitre et pour croix d’or un tache
d’acier!”
Directly Duke Robert died, and the succession fell to an ecclesiastic, the
dissatisfied subjects of the Barrois crown considered it a favourable
opportunity for throwing off their allegiance. Jean de Luxembourg, a cousin
of the widowed Duchess Marie, and Robert de Sarrebouche,—at the
extreme limits of the territories of the duchy,—were perhaps the most
conspicuous for their infidelity. The Cardinal-Duke struck home at once,
and both rebels surrendered. In the case of the latter, Prince René was put
forward to receive his submission, on his great-uncle’s behalf. The “proud
Sieur de Commercy,” as he was called, was compelled to kneel in the
market-place of Commercy before the boy-knight, and, putting his great
hands between the tender palms of his Prince, obliged to swear as vostre
homme et vostre vassail! The Prince’s bearing in this his first military
campaign was beyond all praise, and the Cardinal was delighted with his
chivalry. The Duke of Lorraine sent to compliment him upon his courage,
and his doting mother, Queen Yolande, held a ten-days festival at Angers,
and rang all the church bells in honour of her son’s baptism of blood.
These exploits caused the youthful hero to carry himself proudly, and
greatly increased his self-conceit. This latter development had an amusing
and yet a very natural sequel. The Prince with his own hand, under the
instruction of Maestre Jehan de Proviesey, wrote letters to all the leading
men of Angers, Provence, Barrois, and Lorraine, in which he enlarged upon
the boldness of his conduct; and inditing sententious maxims, he sought
their approbation and good-will. The Cardinal-Duke doubtless smiled good-

humouredly at these juvenile effusions, but at the same time he
reconstituted the Barrois knightly “Ordre de la Fidélité,” which embraced
as members all the young French Princes, and created René de Bar, as he
was now called, first and principal Knight. The Prince henceforward wore
the motto of his Order embroidered upon his berretta and chimere—“Tout
Ung”—and chose it as his gage de guerre.
Louis de Bar had, however, other duties and pursuits to place before his
favourite nephew. At the Court of Dijon resided two famous Flemish
painters, brothers—Hubert and Jehan Van Eyck, pensioners of the
enlightened Duke of Burgundy. By means of bribes and other influences
brought to bear, they were induced to remove to Bar-le-Duc, and with them
came Petrus Christus and other pupils. Keen patron of the arts and crafts,
the Cardinal-Duke encouraged his principal courtiers and vassals to send
their sons to them for instruction in the art of painting. The first pupil
enrolled in Barrois upon the books of the Van Eycks was none other than
Prince René, and no pupil showed greater talent and greater perseverance.
His uncle once said to him: “René, if thou wast not destined to succeed me
as Duke of Bar and leader of her armies, I would make of thee an artist.” In
his veins, we must remember, ran Flemish blood,—his famous and talented
ancestress, the Countess-Princess Iolande, came from Flanders,—and these
excellent pigment masters appear to have stirred qualities in the young
Prince which eventually proclaimed him the foremost royal artist in Europe.
The Cardinal also inculcated in his nephew the love and taste for objects
of beauty. He was himself a proficient in the craft of goldsmithery, and,
moreover, possessed a very magnificent collection of gold and silver work.
Part of this had come to him from his mother, Duchess Marie of France,
who took to Bar her share of her father’s treasures, the good King John. Of
these, the Cardinal presented to Pope John XXIII. in 1414 a writing-table
made of cedar, covered with plates of solid gold, and the superb gold
chalice and paten which are still used in the Papal chapel at Rome at special
Masses by His Holiness himself. Another precious goblet, mounted with
sapphires and rubies, was bequeathed to the Cardinal’s sister, the Princess
Bonne, Countess of Ligny.

A ROYAL REPAST, FIFTEENTH CENTURY
PROCESSION OF THE KNIGHTS OF THE TABLE
From “L’Album Historique de France”
To face page 80.

The ducal gardens at Bar-le-Duc were famous. The Cardinal sent to Italy
for skilled gardeners, who reproduced something of the terrestrial glories of
that favoured land. Tuscan sculptors and Venetian decorative painters
followed in the wake of the gardeners, who not only designed architectural
terraces with marble statues and garden-pavilions with painted ceilings, but
also designed and minted medals and plaques of the Cardinal, Prince René,
and other members of the family. Naturally, the young Hereditary Duke
revelled in these graceful settings for the floral games and festive pastimes
which made the Barrois Court, even in the absence of a reigning Duchess,
the rendezvous of poets, gallants, and beauties. Here, too, the Prince’s
natural love for music had full play; he became a poet and a troubadour “in
little,” if not in “great.” In a very real kind of way René’s training in the arts
of war and in the arts of peace was the very same which made a Lorenzo
de’ Medici at Florence and a Francesco Sforza at Milan.

Amid all these occupations, the Prince had few opportunities for visiting
his birthplace, Angers, and his devoted mother there. Travelling was very
insecure, and the Cardinal disparaged any expedition beyond the bounds of
the duchy. Only one such visit is recorded, and that in 1422, when René
took his absent brother’s place to give away his favourite sister Marie to
Charles VII. of France, and then Queen Yolande once more embraced her
son. On the other hand, the Prince was permitted by his uncle to vigorously
assist King Charles against Louis de Châlons, Prince of Orange, who was
devastating Dauphiné. In another direction the young warrior gained laurels
also. Named protector of the city of Verdun, he destroyed the rebel castle of
Renancourt and the fortresses of La Ferté, and hastened to the assistance of
his kinsman, the Count of Ligny, at Baumont en Argonne. Guillaume de
Flavy and Jehan de Mattaincourt surrendered, and René cleared the country
of disaffected marauders and adventurers.
Charles V.’s speech at the siege of Metz one hundred years later might
very well have fitted the youthful conqueror in Barrois: “Fortune is a
woman: she favours only the young.”
Queen Yolande’s eldest son, Louis III., was meanwhile meeting with
varying fortunes in Italy, but the slow progress of his campaign greatly
chagrined his dauntless mother. She actually made up her mind to set out
for Naples in person to try and turn the slow tide of victory into an
overpowering flood; but Anjou was too closely invested by the English for
the realization of her project. Here, however, the Queen had her militant
opportunity, for at the bloody battle of Baugé,—between La Flèche and
Saumur,—in 1421, the English were routed and so greatly disheartened that
they evacuated all their strategic points within and around the duchy. That
victory was gained directly by Queen Yolande, who commanded in person,
sitting astride a great white charger, clothed in steel and silver mail. Some
years later King René built an imposing castle upon the heights overlooking
the field of battle in memory of his mother’s valour.
The Queen’s warlike ardour, however, received a check, for Queen
Marie, driven with King Charles before the all-conquering English, escaped
to Bourges, and there begged her mother to hasten to her side. She needed,
not a mailed woman’s fist, but the gentle hand of her good mother at her
accouchement. Louis le Dauphin, her first-born, saw the light in the
Archbishop’s Palace on July 3, 1423. Those days were dark indeed for

France, but a brilliant star was about to rise above her eastern horizon.
Towards the end of 1428 strange reports began to spread all over the
stricken country concerning a simple village maiden in far-off Champagne,
to whom, in the obscure village of Domremy, Divine visions had been
vouchsafed. Her mission, it was stated, was nothing less than the
deliverance of France and the coronation of King Charles at Reims.
Nowhere did the mysterious tidings create greater interest than among
the members of the Royal Families and Courts of Sicily-Anjou and France.
When the news of Jeanne d’Arc’s arrival with Duke René reached Angers,
Queen Yolande set out at once for Chinon, that she might judge for herself
of the girl and her mission. Very greatly struck was the Queen by the maid’s
youth, comeliness, and innocence. Her simple manners and unaffected
devotion convinced Yolande that she had no adventuress to deal with. She
conversed freely with her, and her simple narrative and fearless courage
determined her to take the maid under her direct patronage. When it was
proposed to inquire formally into Jeanne’s character and mental bias, the
Queen promptly allocated to herself that duty. She called to her assistance
three ladies of her Court of good repute. Jehan Pasquerelle has quaintly
recorded this plenary council of matrons: “Fust icelle Pucelle baillée à la
Royne de Cecile, mère de la Royne, nostre souveraine, et à certaines dames
d’estant avec elle, dont estoient les Dames de Gaucourt, de Fiennes, et de
Trèves.” Another chronicler adds the name of Jeanne de Mortèmar, wife of
the Chancellor, Robert le Maçon. Their verdict was a complete vindication
of Jeanne’s honour and sincerity.
The tongue of slander had associated René and Jeanne in a liaison. The
Court of Chinon was full of evil gossip, and the more ill-conditioned
courtiers and hirelings, both men and women, revelled in compromising
insinuations and coarse jests. Queen Yolande determined once and for all to
put an end to these baseless and foul rumours. She knew her son too well to
doubt his honour, and now she pledged herself to defend that of the village
maid. Several of the offenders were dismissed the service of the King, and
warned to hold their tongue, unless they wished for condign punishment.
History has done scant justice to Queen Yolande for the part she bore in
the drama of Jeanne d’Arc. It was in a very great measure due to her that
the maid’s mission was carried out. Whilst Charles was dallying with his
idle associates and procrastinating in his military measures, Yolande played

the man. Her intrepid counsels and fearless insistence were the levers which
moved her son-in-law’s inertness. There is a story told that, when Queen
Marie’s gentle chiding had failed to rouse her desponding consort, Queen
Yolande appeared before him clothed in full armour, and demanded why the
King of France skulked in his castle!
“See, Charles,” she said, “if you refuse to follow La Pucelle at once and
do your duty to God and to your country, I will go forth as your lieutenant,
and in person lead your army against the English. But shame to you to trust
in a woman’s arm rather than your own! Rouse you like a man, and
begone!”
This emphatic order fairly called out Charles’s manhood, roused, to be
sure, by the mission of Jeanne d’Arc. Nothing excites a man more than a
woman’s threats to take his place and do his work; and many women can be
as good as their word, and one of these was Yolande of Sicily-Anjou-
Aragon.
The noble patriotic Queen-mother, moreover, backed her stout words by
actions firm. With that splendid unselfishness which marked her character,
she raised a considerable sum of money by the sale of her jewellery and
other precious possessions, and applied it, together with the substantial
offerings of her devoted subjects, to the fitting out of a convoy of provisions
and necessaries for the besieged garrison of Orléans. She also persuaded the
University of Angers, which her late consort, Louis II., had founded in
1398, to vote a goodly sum of money towards the King’s expenses. Charles,
stirred by the gentleness of Jeanne and the vigour of Yolande, was no longer
despondent. The Queen thankfully noted his confidence in his mysterious
guide from Domremy, but she remained at Chinon until she had seen him
and his equipage take boat upon the Loire. His last words to his mother-in-
law were: “Yes, now I am on my way to Reims with Jeanne, my oracle, my
Queen—ma Royne blanche: tous pour Dieu et la France!” Yolande then
quietly returned to her castle at Angers, and Anjou once more greeted the
King’s guardian and the Lieutenant-General of his dominions.
The decade had its consolations as well as its troubles, and among them
Queen Yolande rejoiced at the births of vigorous grandchildren. To Queen
Marie were born Princesses Jeanne and Yolande, as well as the Dauphin
Louis; and to Duke René, Jean, Louis, Nicholas, Yolande, and Marguerite,

in lawful wedlock. The Queen-mother, too, had satisfaction in the less
disturbed state of Barrois and Lorraine, of receiving at Angers her son René
and his fair young wife Isabelle. He had added to the bays of victory the
palms of peace, and his fame as an administrator of justice and charity was
already spread abroad.
The Cardinal-Duke Louis was ageing rapidly, and he executed his final
testament whilst his nephew and niece were in Anjou. Everything was left
to René, who had as much as he could do to get back to Bar-le-Duc in time
to receive his uncle’s last blessing and close his eyes in death. The dying
Prince was at the Abbey of Varennes when he breathed his last, on February
15, 1431. Duke René was at once proclaimed his successor, and the Estates
of Barrois did their homage heartily. The career of the young Duke had
been developed under the approving eyes of his uncle’s subjects, and his
marriage with Isabelle de Lorraine had been immensely popular. The new
reign opened, then, under the happiest auspices.

STREET SCENE IN AIX OF PROVENCE
FOREGROUND: MIRACLE OF ST. MAXIME
From a Painting by Nicholas Froment (1475-76). Aix Cathedral
To face page 86

René’s future being thus amply provided for,—his hand was also on the
throne of Lorraine,—Queen Yolande turned her attention to the settlement
in life of her younger children—Yolande, just eighteen, and Charles, two
years younger. For her daughter, whose espousal three years before to
Jehan, Comte d’Alençon, had not led to marriage, the Queen sought once
more an alliance with the House of Bretagne. The Duke’s eldest son,

François, Comte de Montfort, who had been first champion at the Angers
tournament in 1417, was the chosen bridegroom. He, indeed, had seen and
played with the Princess then, but she was a little child of five; their
betrothal, however, had been considered, and only hindered by the military
exigencies of the time. The Prince was in person as handsome as could be,
and talented, but his character was not one that Queen Yolande looked for in
a son-in-law. More addicted to warlike deeds and the free licence of a
soldier’s calling, he had little taste for peaceful pursuits, and still less for the
restrictions of family life. He was, like most Princes at the time, more or
less of a débauché, and his fair fame was besmirched by sordid and
licentious habits. Still, the Comte de Montfort stood for political
advantages, and questions of character were counted of less importance.
The royal nuptials were celebrated in due course at the Cathedral of St.
Pierre at Nantes, the capital of Brittany, on July 1, 1431, in the presence of
Queen Yolande and the Duke and Duchess of Barrois. Alas! once more
marriage proved a failure, for the year following the home-coming of the
Count and Countess he was slain in a foray with the English, leaving his
childless young widow to bewail her ill-luck alone.
The marriage of Prince Charles d’Anjou was delayed many years, and his
experience of the vicissitudes of Cupid’s thraldom was almost identical
with that of King Louis III., his elder brother. Affianced in 1431, at the
same time as his sister Yolande, to a daughter of Guy, Count of Laval, his
brother René’s bosom friend, and one of Jeanne d’Arc’s preux cavaliers,
another Yolande, he broke off the match because the infant Princess,—she
but three years old,—was “so plain and weak.” “Besides, I will not wait
twelve years for her.” He was himself just seventeen. The baby-fiancée’s
mother was a Bretagne princess, Isabelle, a daughter of Queen Yolande’s
great ally, Duke Jehan VI. The young Prince had in his mind another amour,
perhaps hardly in his heart; but he had seen and admired, when assisting at
the sacre of King Charles VII., his brother-in-law, at Reims, a Princess of
Champagne, and, much against his mother’s wish, he bespoke her for his
own. They were betrothed at the ancient castle of Coucy, near Soissons, in
1435. This match, too, came to nothing, for the fair fiancée, Catherine,
perished in the flames of her boudoir curtains, set on fire by accident, and
left her young Prince of twenty-one free to step along the uncertain path of
courtship once more. Such were some of the ups and downs of the Queen of
Sicily-Anjou and of her family.

The death of Charles II., Duke of Lorraine, on January 25, 1431, saw the
reunion,—after a century or more apart,—of Bar and Lorraine under one
Sovereign. Duke René and his Duchess Isabelle had resided more or less
quietly for ten years at the Castle of Bar-le-Duc, and there the greater part
of their family was born. Now they prepared to move to Nancy, but their
way, which Duke Charles had, as he thought, secured, was barred, and René
was called out to fight for his throne. Antoine, Comte de Vaudémont, Duke
Charles’s eldest nephew, thrust the provisions of the Salic Law in the new
Duke’s face, and drew his sword to enforce his action. Varied were the
fortunes of the civil war, but at the Battle of Bulgneville Duke René was
taken prisoner by Philippe, Duke of Burgundy, who supported his kinsman
Vaudémont, and was kept in captivity for nearly three years. In vain Queen
Yolande tried every expedient to set her son free. His captors required his
absolute renunciation of the duchy of Lorraine, and would accept no
compromise. Then came another crushing blow. Louis III., King of Sicily,
Naples, and Jerusalem, Duke of Anjou, and Count of Provence, died of
fever at Cosenza, the capital of Calabria, on November 15, 1434, lamented
alike by friend and foe. Queen Giovanna had in 1424 created him Duke of
Calabria, but many attributed his death, indeed, to poison administered by
order of the Queen. Never was there a more gentle nor a braver Prince
—“l’escarboucle de gentilesse,” he was styled in the annals of chivalry. His
devoted mother, of course, was not with him; she was broken-hearted at
Marseilles. Cast down by grief unspeakable, the young Queen of Sicily-
Anjou and Naples, Margherita, still a bride, was by his side to console his
last hours. They had been married by proxy at Geneva,—not at Chambéry,
as arranged,—years before, but had sworn to each other recently in the
Cathedral of Cosenza. Alas! no son was left to succeed his father and cheer
his mother’s heart; their only child, a little daughter, had survived her birth
a short six weeks.
Queen Giovanna, in spite of her iniquity in seeking to foist upon René
d’Anjou and Bar a child not his nor hers, in all probability, but so
acknowledged, made no opposition to his proclamation as King of Naples
or the Two Sicilies. What an exquisite piece of irony it was, to be sure—a
King proclaimed when fast bound in prison, a crayon for a sceptre in his
hand, his crown a drab berretta! Three devoted women, good and bad,
supported the royal captive’s prerogatives—three Queens indeed: Yolande
was for Anjou and Provence, Isabelle for Barrois and Lorraine, and

Giovanna for Naples and Sicily; whilst a fourth, Queen Margherita, looked
to the donjon of Dijon for clemency. It was said that a copy of King René’s
proclamation was fixed upon the portal of his prison in insolent derision.
“Sic transit gloria mundi” might well have been penned beneath it.
Upon King René’s succession to the throne of Sicily-Anjou, Queen
Yolande continued to act as his Lieutenant-General for Anjou and Provence,
and left negotiations for his release to the young Queen-Duchess Isabelle,
who was very much more favourably placed, and near at hand to serve the
royal prisoner’s interests. She spent most of her time in Anjou, but paid
many visits to Marseilles, her favourite residence in Provence. She never
crossed the Aragonese frontier; she could have done so only as Queen-
regnant, which of course was impossible. However, she named her
grandson Jean, Duke of Calabria, King René’s eldest son, as the heir to her
ancestral claims.
The Queen-mother’s presence in Anjou was necessary in the interests of
her daughter, Queen Marie of France, and she never relaxed her control of
the policy of her royal son-in-law. At each accouchement of the French
Queen her devoted mother assisted, and it was a long family of
grandchildren she nursed upon her knee. Her succour in sickness, her stay
in trouble, and her help in poverty, were immeasurably precious to the
fugitive Sovereigns. In 1437 Queen Yolande had the felicity also of
receiving her son René, after his release from durance vile, in the Castle of
Tine, near Saumur, and with him came Queen Isabelle and her children,—
Prince Jean, the eldest, being a fine lad of eleven. It was a season of
universal rejoicing in Anjou, and the Queen-mother, laying aside her
widow’s chapelle and veil, entered whole-heartedly into the festivities. The
most cheering feature of the gaiety was due to the magnanimity of the Duke
of Burgundy, who quite unexpectedly and unreservedly offered the crown
of peace by proposing that Princess Marie, daughter of Charles I., Duke of
Bourbon, his niece, should be affianced to the young Duke of Calabria. The
ceremony of betrothal was duly celebrated in Angers Cathedral, the little
bride being no more than seven years old. This was a great joy to the
Queen-mother, and René and Isabelle were very happy, too.
Again in 1440 the splendours of the Angevine Court were once more
revived by the Queen-mother, when she welcomed right royally King
Charles VII. and Queen Marie. It was by way of being a family gathering

also, for King René and Queen Isabelle were of the party. It was a reunion
remarkable in one way, as the introduction at Angers of the most lovely girl
in France, in the suite of Queen Isabelle,—a girl destined to play a very
important part in the private life of King Charles VII.,—Agnes Sorel. The
Queen-mother was charmed with her lovely young visitor, and never made
any opposition to her appointment as Maid of Honour to Queen Marie.
These festivities, however, were the last in which Queen Yolande took part.
The sorrows she was called upon to bear and the anxieties of the life she
lived had their natural effect even upon such an ardent and vigorous
constitution as hers. Gradually she retired altogether from public life, and in
1441 she took up her residence at Saumur. The castle was one of the
strongest fortresses in France, and was one of the very few which held out
successfully all through the Hundred Years’ War. Originally called La Tour
du Tronc, Count Foulques Nerra, Count of Anjou, in the tenth century gave
it the appearance and stability which it subsequently retained. Queen
Yolande placed her suite within the castle precincts, but she herself, putting
on an oblate’s habit, occupied for some time a house in the Faubourg des
Ponts, where her privacy could be less easily disturbed. What remains,—
and that, alas! is very little, of this habitation,—is still called La Maison de
la Reine Cicile (Sicily). In this humble abode Yolanda d’Arragona, “the
great Queen,” died quietly on December 14, 1443.
Whether King René was present to close his beloved mother’s eyes we
know not, but it is significant of absence that the expense,—500 livres,—of
the Queen’s obsequies was borne by her youngest son, Charles, Duke of
Maine; indeed, it is almost certain that René was at Marseilles when he
heard of his mother’s death. In one of his “Livres des Heures” he inscribed:
“Le 14 Decembre de l’an 1443 trespassa au Château de Saumur Madame
Yolande, fille de Roy d’Aragon et depuis mère de Roy René.” The funeral
ceremonies were celebrated by the Archbishop of Tours, her private
chaplain, not at Saumur, but at Angers, in the Cathedral of St. Maurice, to
which her remains were conveyed by night two days after her death. Her
grave was that of her consort’s, twenty-five years before,—in front of the
high-altar,—but all trace of it has disappeared, and explorations have failed
to reveal her burial casket.
It is eloquent of the irony of human affairs, that whereas no memorial, or
even inscription, is left to record the virtues of the royal mother of Anjou, in

the Church of Nôtre Dame de Nantilly at Saumur there is a memorial to
Mère Théophaine la Magine, the devoted nurse of King René and Queen
Marie, who died March 13, 1458. The original monument, erected by the
King, presented his faithful domestic holding him and Marie in her arms.
This has been destroyed, but an epitaph still remains:

“Cy gist la nourrice Théophaine
La Magine, qui ot grant paine
A nourrie de let en enfance
Marie d’Anjou, Royne de France,
Et après, son frère René, Duc d’Anjou.”
“Here lies good nurse Théophaine
La Magine, who at great pain
Foster-mother’d in infancy
Marie d’Anjou, Queen of France,
And then René, Duke of Anjou.”

The only existent memorials to King Louis II. and Queen Yolande are to
be seen in a stained-glass window in the Cathedral of St. Julien at Le Mans,
the capital of Maine, one of the richest and most beautiful specimens of
fifteenth-century glass in Europe. The royal couple are upon their knees,
attired in conventional costumes, and bare-headed. Their youngest son,
Charles of Anjou and Maine, is buried near that splendid window, an
interesting and curious circumstance in the happenings of Providence. He
died in 1474. All Anjou and Provence bewailed their Queen, her virtues, her
benevolence, her piety, her loyalty.
Yolande’s claim to the title with which she has been honoured, “a good
mother and a great Queen,” needs no vindication. She was, in short, the
most noble woman in all France during the first half of the fifteenth century.

CHAPTER IV
ISABELLE DE LORRAINE—“THE PRIDE OF LORRAINE”

I.

Child-marriage was a distinguishing mark of the Renaissance, but its
fashion in the Sovereign States of France was very much more
commendable than its prototype in Italy. In the Italian republics it became a
holocaust of immature maidens, condemned to untimely death through the
perverted passions of worn-out men of middle age. In France the girl brides
were mated with boy husbands, but cohabitation was regulated by the watch
and will of guardians. In both countries, doubtless, the marriage contract
was essentially a commercial undertaking, but in France it marked the
attainment of political and dynastic aims. Sovereign families rarely allied
their offspring out of the ruling class. At the same time the danger of
conjugal union between individuals nearly related was immeasurably
increased. Indeed, such relationships were those most zealously cultivated
by ambitious and exclusive rulers. The marriage of René d’Anjou and
Isabelle de Lorraine was a striking and typical instance of this precocious
marital custom.

ISABELLE DE LORRAINE
From a Miniature by King René, in “Le Livre des Heures”
To face page 94

Isabelle, “the Pride of Lorraine,”—as she was acclaimed by her devoted
subjects at the time of her betrothal,—was born at the Castle of Nancy,
March 20, 1410. Her parents were Charles II., Duke of Lorraine, and his
consort, Margaret of Bavaria. Charles himself was the eldest son of Jehan,
Duke and Count of Lorraine, and Sophie, Princess of Würtemberg. Born in
1364, at Toul,—a free city of the German Empire and an ecclesiastical
sovereign see,—Charles succeeded his father in 1392. Originally a fief of

the Holy Roman Empire, Lorraine was erected a kingdom by the Emperor
Lothair, who styled himself “King and Baron of Lothairland.” The first
Prince to bear the ducal title was Adelebert, in 979, and that style descended
unbroken through 500 years.
The Duchess Margaret was the second daughter of the Emperor Robert
III., Duke and Baron of Bavaria. She married Charles II. in 1393. To them
were born eight children, but, alas! Louis and Rodolphe died in infancy,
Charles and Ferri before their majority, and Robert in 1419, unmarried, at
twenty-two. Of their three daughters, Isabelle was the eldest. Marie became
the wife of Enguerrand de Coucy, Baron of Champagne and Lord of
Soissons, a lineal descendant of the founder, in the thirteenth century, of the
famous Château de Coucy, the most complete feudal fortress ever built,
whose proud motto may still be seen on the donjon wall:

“Roi je ne suis
Prince ni Comte aussi:
Je suis le Sire de Coucy.”

This union was childless. Catherine, the third daughter, in 1426 married
James, Marquis of Baden, Count Palatine of the Rhine and Elector. She
renounced all claims to Lorraine. Their only child was a daughter.
At the time of their marriage, Charles II. of Lorraine and Margaret of
Bavaria were a model couple upon the principles of dissimilarity and
contrast. The Duke, a soldier born, had made good his degree of knighthood
ten years before, when, a mere stripling, he won his spurs fighting daringly
by the side of his cousin, Philippe “le Hardi,” Duke of Burgundy. With him
he went on a punitive expedition against the pirates of the Barbary coast. At
Rosebach, and especially at the tremendous battle of Azincourt, he did
prodigies of valour. In Flanders and in Germany his ensign led on victorious
troops. Charles’s last military achievement was the rout of the Emperor
Wenceslas under the very walls of Nancy. No warrior loved fighting more
than the Duke of Lorraine. Slightly to alter the text, he was one of those
war-lords whom Shakespeare, in his “seven ages of man,” says “sought
reputation at the cannon’s mouth.” He yearned for the applause of gallant
knights, both friends and foes; he yielded himself amorously to the smiles
and embraces of the fair sex, and he revelled in the praise and adulation of

poets and minstrels. His mailed fist was ever toying with his trusty sword
and grappling the chafing-reins of his charger; his mailed foot was ever
ready for the stirrup and to trample upon the head of a fallen foe.
At the same time he was a gay and polished courtier, one of the most
accomplished Princes in Europe. Fond of literature and poetry, he studied
daily his Latin copy of the “Commentaries of Julius Cæsar” and similar
treatises. He had besides a taste for music, and was no mean exponent of
the lute and guitar, and a friend of troubadours.
On the other hand, the gentle, lovable Duchess was born for the cloister
and for the worship of the Mass. Her bare feet were ever moving in
penitential pilgrimages and religious processions, and her shapely hands
were ever joined in prayer or divided in charity. Her passion was the
submissive rule of Christ, her will the conquest of herself.
Daring and devotion thus harnessed together rocked the family cradle,
and insured for their offspring the best of two worlds. Such a union was
bound to be productive of genius and corrective of faults of heredity. What
a bitter disappointment, then, it must have been for both the Duke and the
Duchess when one after another their beauteous babes and adolescent sons
dropped like blighted rosebuds from their young love’s rosebush
prematurely into the cold, dark grave, leaving only the aroma of their sweet
young lives to soothe their sorrowing parents!
Isabelle was the fairest daughter of the three. She inherited the force of
character of her father and the pious disposition of her mother, and to these
precious traits she joined a spirit of intelligence much in advance of her
years as a growing girl. In short, she was remarkable “pour ses qualités de
l’esprit et du cœur,” a description difficult to render into good English;
perhaps we may say she had her father’s will and her mother’s love.
Many were the suitors for her hand, some for the pure love of beauty,
grace, and spirit, but most with a view to the Duke-consortship in the future
of rich Lorraine. The “Pride of Lorraine,” indeed, served as an ever-
reinforced magnet. She became remarkable for her loveliness of person, her
animation of manner, and her distinguished carriage. The natural sweetness
of her voice lent a gracious persuasiveness to her eloquence, which in later
life proved invaluable in the recruiting of adherents to her husband’s cause.
High-souled and condescending, she brought her enemies to her feet, only

to raise them her warmest friends. Talented beyond the average of
Princesses, she had also the charm of winsome gaiety, and proved herself a
worthy spouse and companion for her gallant and clever consort René. Tall,
slim, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with a skin of satin softness, the “Pride of
Lorraine” won all hearts and turned many a head.
To Louis, Cardinal de Bar, was due the accomplishment of an idea
suggested by Queen Yolande with respect to the future of her second son,
René d’Anjou. He had for ever so long been considering what steps he
should take with respect to the succession to the duchy. He of course, as an
ecclesiastic, could have no legitimate offspring. His brothers had died
childless, and only one of his sisters had male descendants, the grandsons of
Violante de Bar, his own grand-nephews. In His Eminence’s mind, too, was
a project to reconstitute the ancient kingdom of Lothair by merging Barrois
and Lorraine proper. Whilst Duke Charles II.’s young sons were living, the
Cardinal looked to one of them as his heir; and when they all drooped and
died, he reflected whether or not he should name Charles as his successor.
At this juncture his niece, the Queen of Sicily-Anjou, was busy looking out
for brides for her two elder sons, Louis and René. For the former a Bretagne
alliance was indicated; for the latter a union with Lorraine—Burgundy for
the time being out of the question—or Champagne seemed desirable.
The Cardinal clinched the matter, and paid a visit to the Duke of Lorraine
in furtherance of his project, which was the very natural and sensible one of
marrying his nephew René with the Duke’s eldest daughter Isabelle.
Whether Charles had any inklings of the Cardinal’s cogitations with relation
to his own position with respect to Bar we know not; but possibly he had,
for he met the proposition with a direct refusal. He read to his relative two
clauses of a will he had recently executed, which forbade his daughter
Isabelle to marry a Prince of French origin, and especially barred the House
of Anjou. This latter prohibition was inserted with reference to the rupture
between Jean “sans Peur,” the Duke of Burgundy, and Louis II., King of
Sicily and Duke of Anjou, which resulted from the part the former had
played in the assassination of the Duke of Orléans in 1407, and the
consequent repudiation of the betrothal of Catherine de Bourgogne and
Louis d’Anjou. Lorraine and Burgundy were in close alliance.
The Cardinal, however, was not to be diverted from the course he had
taken. He placed ten considerations before the Duke and his advisers:—(1)

The advisability of reuniting the two portions of Lorraine; (2) Charles’s lack
of male heirs; (3) his own incompetence in the same direction; (4) his
choice of his grand-nephew, René d’Anjou, as his successor at Bar-le-Duc;
(5) the attractive personality, mental attainments, and high courage of the
young Prince; (6) his descent from a Barrois-Lorraine Princess, Violante,
his sister; (7) the risks of the application of the power of the Salic Law over
his daughters; (8) the equality of age of René and Isabelle; (9) the wish of
the late King and of the Queen of Sicily-Anjou for an alliance with Lorraine
and a better understanding politically; (10) the welfare of the peoples of the
two duchies and the love of the Lorrainers for their princely house.
Charles asked time to consider these points, but meanwhile he summoned
the Estates, and laid before them a proposition concerning the succession to
Lorraine at his death. He named his eldest daughter as Hereditary Duchess,
and proposed that her consort should bear the title, and with her exercise the
prerogatives, of Duke of Lorraine. A concordat was agreed to whereby the
Estates were pledged to support the Duchess Isabelle, and to carry out
Charles’s wishes.
Queen Yolande had seconded her uncle’s negotiations in a very womanly
and sensible way. She communicated directly with good Duchess Margaret.
She pointed out to her the mutual advantages of the marriage of the two
children, and declared that such a union would heal the breach between the
eastern and the western Sovereigns of France. Margaret, loving peace and
holy things, was easily persuaded to reason with her husband; she submitted
absolutely to the overpowering personality of the Queen. With Charles,
Yolande had a stiffer fight, but she gathered up her strength, and in the end,
lusty warrior that he was, he yielded up his defence to the tactful diplomacy
of the good mother of Anjou. Woman’s wit once more, as it generally does,
triumphed over man’s obstinacy.
Charles agreed to receive the young Prince, and judge for himself of his
prepositions and qualifications. The result was beyond the Cardinal’s
expectation, for the Duke declared himself charmed with the boy. He was,
he said, ready to rescind the prohibitory clauses of his will, but he made it a
condition that he should have the personal and unrestricted guardianship of
the boy until he reached the age of fifteen. He desired René to proceed at
once to Angers to obtain Queen Yolande’s consent to the matrimonial
contract between himself and Princess Isabelle. Everything went merrily,

like the marriage-bells which soon enough pealed forth all over Lorraine,
Barrois, and Anjou, at the auspicious nuptials. The final arrangements were
completed, and René and Isabelle were betrothed at the Castle of St. Mihiel,
and on October 20, 1420, married at the Cathedral of Nancy by the Bishop
of Toul, Henri de Ville, Duke Charles’s cousin. Immediately before the
wedding, Cardinal-Duke Louis caused a herald to proclaim publicly, in the
market-place of Nancy, René d’Anjou, Comte de Guise, Hereditary Duke of
Bar, with the ad interim title of Marquis of Pont-à-Mousson.
The record of the marriage is thus entered in “Les Chroniques de
Lorraine”: “Les nopces furent faictes en grant triomphe, et la dicte fille
menée à Bar moult honorablement. Le Cardinal fust moult joyeulx.”[A] The
contract had been signed on March 20, 1420, by the Duke and the Cardinal
at the Château de Tourg, near Toul, Queen Yolande’s signature being
provided by her proxy. She granted to her son the right to quarter the arms
of Bar and Lorraine with those of Anjou and Guise.
[A] “The nuptials were celebrated with great ceremony, and the said Princess
was conducted to Bar very honourably. The Cardinal was full of joy.”

On November 10 formal proclamation was made in every important town
in Lorraine, to the effect that Duke Charles II. constituted his eldest
daughter, now Duchess of Barrois and Countess of Guise, heiress to the
duchy of Lorraine, and confirmed to her, and to her issue by René d’Anjou
and Bar, full rights of succession and government. The proclamation named
Queen Yolande of Sicily-Anjou, Louis, Cardinal de Bar, and the Duke
himself, Charles’s guardians during the minority of the young couple.
“René,” wrote a chronicler, “is well-grown, well-bred, and well-looking.
He is greatly admired by all the fair sex, and loves them in return. He will
make a good husband, and has the making of a great Sovereign.” The
bride’s praises were sung by poets and minstrels the length and breadth of
Lorraine and Bar.
Among the earliest to congratulate the young people and their parents
was the redoubtable Duke of Burgundy! He sent a special embassy to
Nancy with this striking message: “Tous estoient si joyeulx de veoir la
fervente et cordiale amour qui estoit entre ces deulx jeuns gens, que je me
trouve capable des sentiments les plus amiables pour tous mes cousins
royales. Je salue mes bons frères les Souverains Ducs de Lorraine et

Barrois avec Madame la Duchesse Marguerite, et sans autre choses la
bonne Rogne de Cecile, son épous le Roy Louis, pour jamais.”[A]
[A] “Everybody was delighted to behold the fervent and cordial love which
exists between the two young people, whilst I found myself filled with the most
amiable sentiments for all my royal cousins. I salute my good brothers the
Sovereign Dukes of Lorraine and Barrois, and also the Duchess Margaret, and
equally the good Queen of Sicily and her consort King Louis.”

This was as a jewel in the hair of Queen Yolande, and as nectar in the cup
of Cardinal Louis. Their plans had succeeded splendidly.
Shortly after his marriage, René returned to Bar-le-Duc with his child-
bride, and they were received in royal state by the Cardinal, who had
renovated and decorated the castle specially in their honour and for their
use. The town of Ligny was causing trouble in Barrois by refusing to pay
the accustomed tribute. The Prince de Ligny claimed that portion of the
duchy of Bar as his, by the marriage contract of his wife, the Cardinal’s
sister. He attacked the Castle of Pierrepoint and the town of Briey, whose
garrison he caused to be put to the sword. The Cardinal took arms, and,
accompanied by René and companies of Lorraine soldiers from Longwy,
defeated his relative and took him prisoner. The young Prince received the
rebel’s sword and personally conducted him to Nancy, where, after two
years’ confinement in the fortress, he signed an act of renunciation of his
pretensions in Barrois.
René, only twelve years old, the following year accompanied Charles II.
of Lorraine to the siege of Toul,—for many years a turbulent element in his
dominions,—where there was a hot dispute concerning certain laws and
customs oppositive to the claims of the crown of Lorraine. Toul was
captured, and mulcted in an annual tribute of a thousand livres.
Directly the proclamation of Isabelle of Lorraine with René as the sharer
of her throne was made, Antoine de Vaudémont, Duke Charles’s eldest
nephew, entered a protest and claimed the succession. He based his action
upon the three conditions—(1) The Salic Law ruled the succession of
Lorraine; (2) the male line had not been broken since the creation of the
duchy; and (3) the realm had never gone out of the family. Charles scouted
all these positions, affirmed his own sovereign right to name his successor,
and refused to alter the terms of the proclamation so far as regarded the
succession of his daughter and Duke René.

All the church-bells in Barrois and Lorraine were again set jingling
joyously when, in the ducal castle of Toul, on the morning of January 17,
1437, a young mother,—very young indeed, barely seventeen,—brought
forth her first-born—a beauteous boy, the image, as the midwives said, of
the boy-father, not yet nineteen. Church-bells, too, rang merrily all over
Anjou and Provence when the glad tidings reached their borders that a male
heir was born to the honours of Sicily-Anjou-Provence. Perhaps René and
Isabelle were too young to realize what it all meant for France at large, but
Queen Yolande understood well enough its tenor, and with her
congratulations she greeted her first son’s grandchild with the title of
“Prince of Gerona,” linking him ostentatiously with her hereditary rights in
Aragon. Duke Charles, too, and Duchess Margaret were the happiest of
grandparents, and baby Jean was created Comte de Nancy as future Duke.
Charles’s death was somewhat sudden and quite unexpected. Strong man
that he was, King Death seemed to be a power not immediately to be
feared. René was not at Nancy when the death-knell sounded, but news
swiftly reached him, and he returned at once to the capital. Duchess
Margaret,—despite her lamentations and her natural dislike to public
appearance,—attired herself in full Court dress, the crown she rarely wore
upon her head, and all the officials of the Court, the Government, and city,
in her retinue, and hastened to the gate to welcome the new Duke of
Lorraine. Before her carriage rode a number of lords and knights, who
dismounted on the approach of René, and, saluting him deferentially,
greeted him as “Vous estoit le nostre duc!” The cry was taken up by all the
gallant company, whilst René, having dismounted at the portal of St.
George, took the sacred missal offered by the Dean into his hands, and
swore then and there to respect and safeguard the ancient liberties of the
State and city.
One of the quaintest of quaint observances followed, a custom peculiar to
Lorraine. After receiving the ecclesiastical blessing, the new Duke
remounted his horse, and into his hand was placed the ancient altar cross
called “Polluyon.” He rode slowly through the city to St. Nicholas Gate,
where he again dismounted, and gave his charger into the care of one of the
canons, who took his place in the saddle and rode out of sight. This strange
custom had been observed at all the public recognitions of new Dukes of
Lorraine ever since its inception by Duke Raoul, in 1339. The Duke then

returned on foot to St. George’s, bearing still the jewelled cross. At the
entrance the Bishop stood ready to administer the customary oaths and to
accord the Papal benediction. This ceremony also was unique. The Bishop
told him to face the assembly of his subjects at the four points of the
compass, and to repeat at each the formula: “I take this oath before God and
you willingly, and look to God for assistance, and to you for service.”
Then conducted to the castle in great circumstance, amid the vociferous
plaudits of the populace,—“Noël! Noël!” they cried,—the Duke knelt and
kissed the hand of Duchess Isabelle, who was waiting there, and presented
her to the delirious citizens. “Vive le nostre Duc! Vive la nostre Duchesse!”
rang through the city, and, caught up by the sculptured pinnacles and turrets
of the cathedral, mingled harmoniously with the musical cadences of the
bells, and so was wafted over all that fair and smiling land.
René, although but two-and-twenty, gave immediate evidence of wisdom
beyond his years. His power to grasp and handle complex affairs of State,
and his discrimination in matters of moment, proved the excellence of his
grand-uncle’s training. His personal appearance was all in his favour, and
his graceful, well-set-up figure, his open countenance, his majestic manner,
—ever ready to bend to circumstances,—gained general admiration and
confidence. His gracious, patient, and conciliatory bearing was remarkable.
His modesty and absolute lack of presumption attracted the best men of all
parties. His readiness to appoint a Council of State, with unusual freedom
of deliberation and action, was only, perhaps, what might have been looked
for from the son of the founder of the free Parliament of Provence in 1415.
The new Duke set on foot movements for the amelioration of the condition
of the poor, for the improvement of education, and for the rectification of
the morals of the Court and city. One of his earliest edicts was for the
suppression of blasphemy; a first charge was punishable by the judge in the
ordinary way, a second involved a heavy fine, a third obtained correction in
the public pillory, and a fourth offence was purged only by the splitting of
the tongue and rigorous imprisonment.

RENÉ D’ANJOU
(Circa 1440)
Painted by himself “Le Livre des Heures”
To face page 106

In all these, and many similar acts of sapient policy, Duchess Isabelle
bore her part in counsel and example; her conduct was beyond all praise.
The next move was a progress through every part of the two duchies. At
each considerable town the royal cortège halted first of all that the Duke
and Duchess might make their devotions in the principal church, and endow
Masses and ecclesiastical grants. Then, assembling the officials and chief

citizens, they inquired into the hardships of the people and encouraged local
institutions, at each place leaving largesse for distribution. In strong places
with garrisons, the Duke interested himself in redressing injuries and
inequalities among the veterans. He offered to pay all the losses of officers
in the wars; he allowed eighteen sols for each horse killed in battle or on
march; he bestowed on each soldier a surcoat and steel helmet with his
royal cognizance, and created many knights. Meanwhile Duchess Isabelle
endeared herself to the women-folk by consoling words of sympathy and
gracious doles of charity. Widows and orphans she took under her personal
patronage, and no worthy claimant for her benevolence lacked favour and
assistance.
Thus René and Isabelle won, not only golden opinions, but the sincerest
affection of their subjects, rich and poor. But a climax was put to the noble
works of the kindly Sovereigns, and never came truer the saying;
“Providence ever destroys the good that men do.” An evil genius appeared
upon the peaceful scene when Antoine de Vaudémont refused to pay
allegiance to the new Duke and Duchess. The moment of his declaration of
hostility was as unfortunate as it was cruel. At the public baptism of Prince
Jean, the Duke’s eldest son, who had been privately baptized at his birth, in
1426-27, the Count entered the Cathedral of Nancy in full armour, and
objected to the Duke of Calabria,—the title of the young boy,—being
received by the Church as heir to the throne of Lorraine.
The Duke immediately summoned him to appear before the Council of
State, and also before a meeting of principal citizens, and there repeat his
protest. By both assembles his pretensions were scouted unanimously. Sieur
Jehan d’Haussonville, the Mayor, addressed the Count, and said: “Your
uncle has left daughters; the eldest, Isabelle, is Duchess of Lorraine. I salute
you. You may go.” Vaudémont left Nancy in a violent rage, crying out as he
passed through the gateway of St. George: “I shall be Duke of Lorraine all
the same, and soon, and then will I reckon with you dogs!” He posted off to
Dijon, and there took counsel with the Duke of Burgundy.
The body of Charles II. had scarcely been consigned to its monumental
tomb in the choir of St. Georges de Port at Nancy, when the Comte de
Vaudémont revealed himself in his true colours. After his protest against the
edict of the Duke which named Duke René of Barrois, the consort of the
heiress to the throne, as his successor to the title of Duke of Lorraine, he

had remained skulking in his castle, where he welcomed as many
malcontents and disturbers of the peace as accepted his pretensions to the
crown. The coronation of Duchess Isabelle was the signal for Vaudémont’s
attempt to vindicate his claim. He had hardly a sympathizer at Court, for
Charles had caused all the principal nobles and citizens to swear allegiance
to his daughter and her husband before he died. The Count appeared
suddenly before Nancy, and demanded the keys and the custody of the
Duchess. Duke René was away besieging Metz, but he at once posted off to
Nancy, and assisted with men-at-arms by Charles VII., and aided by the
generalship of Barbazan, he defeated Vaudémont in eight battles great and
small.
Vaudémont rallied his forces from Burgundy under Antoine de
Toulongeon, Duke Philippe’s favourite general, and enlisted foreign
mercenaries from Flanders and Germany. René had at his back all the
armed men of Lorraine and Bar, and contingents from Anjou and Provence.
James, Marquis of Baden, and Louis of Bavaria, joined him with squadrons
of cavalry, and his army numbered nearly 20,000 men. Perhaps he was
over-confident of his strength, his right, and his intrepidity; and having a
very much more numerous following, he advanced upon his enemy
disregarding sundry cautions and wise counsels. The two armies met upon
the plain of Bulgneville, near Neufchâteau, on July 2. Vaudémont played a
waiting game; besides, he had in reserve heavier artillery than his royal
foeman. Early in the encounter Barbazan fell mortally wounded, and then
René himself received a wound which incapacitated him for a time. The fall
of their leaders demoralized the Lorraine army, and Vaudémont, seeing his
advantage, made a dash with a column of heavy cavalry. René was smitten
to the ground and surrounded. He refused to surrender until an officer of
sufficient rank should be allowed to receive his sword. Then Toulongeon
galloped up, and the Duke, covered with blood and dust, was lead away to
the Burgundian camp.
Taken the same evening to the Château de Talant, near Dijon, the royal
prisoner was treated with the deference due to his rank, but, alas! he had
fallen into the hands of the enemy of his house—the hated Duke of
Burgundy. That evening the curfew sounded not in Nancy, but the gates
were shut and barred, and two weeping women, powerless in their woe,
never sought their couches in the castle. Mother and daughter, Margaret and

Isabelle, were nigh death themselves. No tidings could they gain of the
whereabouts or of the condition of the man they loved. Duchess Isabelle
cried out: “Alas! I do not know whether my husband is dead or alive or
wounded, nor where they have taken him.” None had a consoling answer,
for all Nancy was in mourning. Two thousand good men and true lay dead
upon the stricken field, and three thousand more shared the imprisonment
of their Duke. The wounded in hundreds crawled into city, village, and
mansion; not a house in Lorraine but was flooded with women’s tears and
men’s blood that desperate day and night. At last splashed and bedraggled
heralds brought news of the Duke’s captivity, and that his wounds were not
serious: “M’sieur le Duc, madame, estoit en bon santé; les Bourguignons
l’avoient pris: il se trouv at Dijon demain.”
Thus assured of her husband’s safety, Isabelle brushed away her tears and
roused herself to action. Promptly she called together the Council of State,
where she presided in person, and eloquently demanded that strong
measures should at once be taken to carry on the war against Vaudémont
and Philippe de Bourgogne, raise sufficient funds to make good losses, and
secure the liberty of the Duke. The Council responded nobly and
patriotically to the call of their Duchess; as the “Chroniques de Lorraine”
has it: “They had pity upon her, for she had borne four sturdy children as
comely as you might wish to see.” “Elle fust allegrée!” was the universal
testimony to Isabelle’s worth as a wife and mother. Duchess Margaret, too,
perhaps for the first time in her life of devotion, raised her voice, and called
for the temporal sword to be reground to avenge the disaster. She
accompanied her daughter, both mounted, to Vézelise, which Isabelle had
appointed as the rendezvous of the new army, and personally enrolled
companies and squadrons, fastening to each man’s helm a thistle—the
cognizance of Lorraine. Then she addressed a protest to the victor of
Bulgneville, in which she warned him not to approach Nancy, but to regard
herself as his implacable foe until he should deliver up the Duke. Étienne
Pasquier, the chronicler, sums up in ten words the courageous character of
Duchess Isabelle. “Within the body of a woman,” he says, “the Duchess
carries the heart of a man.” After warning Vaudémont, she concluded with
him a truce of three months, during which period she went in person to
Charles VII., who was then in Dauphiné, and implored his intervention and
assistance. In her train was a young Maid of Honour, Agnes Sorel, whose
beauty and naïveté rightly affected that unstable monarch; it was an

introduction which ripened later on into something more intimate than mere
admiration.
Duchess Margaret also greatly bestirred herself. Hearing that her uncle,
the Duke of Savoy, and her brother-in-law, the Duke of Berry, were at
Lyons awaiting the coming of King Charles, she posted off there, taking
with her as advisers the Bishops of Toul and Metz. In company with the
King of France was no less a person than Queen Yolande, his mother-in-law
—

“Aussi vient en icelle ville,
Accompaignée de demoiselles,
La noble Royne de Cecile.”
“There also came to the same town,
accompanied by Maids of Honour,
the noble Queen of Sicily.”

as we read in the “Heures de Charles VII.”
René was not kept long at Talant, but transferred to the fortress of
Bracon, near Salines. His imprisonment varied in severity; at times he was
treated roughly, half starved and unclothed, with no resources or intercourse
with friends outside. Then he was served with dignity befitting his rank, and
granted facilities for the better occupation of his time. But what a staggering
blow was his misfortune to all his dreams and aims of honour, glory, and
sovereignty!
Lorraine was in a terrible state, and so was Barrois; men knew not what
to do nor whom to trust. Overrun with soldiers of fortune and the riff-raff of
foreign camp-followers, security for person and for property was no more.
Vaudémont made, however, no use of his victory—at least, so far as
pressing his claims to the duchy. Everywhere his cause was unpopular;
indeed, he found himself in the very unusual and humiliating position of a
victor denied the fruits of his victory. He disbanded his army and retired
from Lorraine, and took up his abode with his ally, Philippe of Burgundy,
and there awaited developments. René found means to communicate with
his desolated wife, and forwarded instructions to the Estates of Lorraine and
Barrois to acknowledge and serve Duchess Isabelle as Lieutenant-General

during his captivity. She entered upon her responsible duties with the
utmost fortitude and courage. All historians testify to her indefatigable zeal
and administrative ability.
Whilst the two Duchesses were doing all they could to effect the Duke’s
release and maintain the rights of Lorraine and Barrois, René himself made
a direct appeal to Philippe of Burgundy, and on March 1, 1432, he proposed
certain terms to his royal gaoler. They were as follows: (1) The acceptance
by the Duke of Burgundy of Duke René’s two young sons, Jean and Louis,
as hostages for their father; (2) the cession of the castles of Clermont en
Argonne, Châtille, Bourmont, and Charmes; and (3) the payment of the
Burgundian troops in full for all arrears. Philippe accepted these hard
conditions, and added to their harshness by fixing a ransom of 20,000 saluts
d’or. At the same time thirty nobles of Lorraine and Barrois offered
themselves in lieu of the two young Princes.
This contract Philippe submitted to the Comte de Vaudémont for his
approval, which he gave after much consideration, but required the
insertion of a clause to the effect that his son Ferri should be betrothed to
Yolande, Duke René’s eldest daughter, then not quite three years old, and
that she should receive a dowry of 18,000 florins de Rhin for the purchase
of an estate in Lorraine, and he added very cunningly a proviso that
residuary rights to the duchy should be settled upon the issue of the
marriage. This was with grim vengeance the hoisting both of the Duke and
the Count upon their own petards. Such an extraordinary arrangement was,
perhaps, never before contrived by the craft of man.
At Nancy in the Queen’s apartments there was sorrow keen. Isabelle’s
heart was stabbed to the core. Could she part with her dear children? That
was the question she had to answer. The other clauses of René’s charter of
freedom were serious enough, to be sure, but none of them weighed upon a
mother’s heart as did this. As she looked out upon the pleasaunce whence
came echoes of childish laughter, her will failed her. No, there they were,
Jean and Louis, lovely boys of six and four, too tender much to leave her
fostering care, too young to face the rigours of captivity. And yet her dearly
loved husband, René, could not be left in durance vile; his liberty was of the
first importance, and no sacrifice would be too great to bring him home to
her again. What should she do? First of all she knelt in prayer to God, and
implored the aid of St. Mary and the saints. St. George was for Lorraine.

Then she hied her to the boudoir of her mother, Duchess Margaret, and fell
upon her bosom, sobbing violently, the woman with the courage of a man!
Those tears, however, washed away her momentary want of resolution, and
when she had laid bare her troubles before her sympathetic parent, the
answer to her prayers came through the same devoted channel.
“Isabelle, my child,” the old Duchess said, “dry your tears, and thank
God in any case, for this trouble will pass. St. Mary, the Mother of Jesus,
feels for you, the mother of her boys. She inspires me, too, and I am ready
to take the dear children myself to Dijon or wherever our René may be, and
to remain with them till Philippe of Burgundy plays the man and the
Christian and releases them, and then our René shall fold thee to his heart
ere many suns have set.”
This pious and heroic resolution of the good-living Duchess-Dowager
was, perhaps, no more than Isabelle expected. She, of course, could not take
her hand off the helm of State, but her mother was a persona grata at the
Burgundian Court; at least, she had been so when she came as a bride to
Nancy many years before. The long and the short of the matter was that
Duke René was released from his prison on March 1, 1432. He gave his
parole to return there within a twelvemonth if the conditions of his freedom
were not complied with.
By a curious concatenation of circumstances the arrival of Duchess
Margaret and her two little grandsons at Dijon synchronized with that of the
Duke of Burgundy. He had been away in Flanders and in the English camp
on political business, and had postponed the bestowal of rewards and
honours upon his adherents at Bulgneville. Now he called a Chapter of the
“Order of the Toison d’Or” at Bracon, of all places in the duchy, apparently
forgetful of the fact that his royal prisoner was there. The fortress possessed
two towers; in one of these René was confined,—henceforward known as
La Tour de Bar. There were three floors; on the topmost were the Duke’s
two chambers, below certain Lorraine prisoners of distinction were
accommodated, and the guard occupied the ground-floor. The other tower
contained the regalia and the archives of the Order. A very pleasant story is
told of a meeting of the two Dukes at Tour de Bar, and it delightfully
illustrates the French proverb, “Noblesse oblige.” On the day of the Chapter
the Duke of Burgundy, passing the portal of René’s tower, cast up his eyes,
and beheld his prisoner looking out of a window. He tossed up his bare

hand in token of recognition, and sent an officer up to René’s chamber with
a request that he would permit him to enter and hold converse there. Such a
demand appealed, of course, instantly to the chivalrous instinct of the Duke
of Lorraine and Bar, and the two Sovereigns clasped each other’s hand in
silence. Philippe’s heart failed him at the greeting of his captive, and he
shed tears. Whilst the Princes were so engaged, a noble of the Court of
Dijon approached his liege and delivered him a despatch, the perusal of
which greatly affected him. It was, indeed, the intimation that Duchess
Margaret of Lorraine was in attendance with René’s two young boys at the
palace in Dijon, awaiting Duke Philippe’s pleasure. He communicated the
intelligence to Duke René, who covered his face with his hands and sank to
his seat in a conflict of emotions.
Duke Philippe, laying his hand on his prisoner’s shoulder, said: “La
parole du Duc du Bar est plus forte que les ôtages!” Then he added: “Pray,
Monseigneur, consider the portals of the Tour de Bar open to your orders.
Let us go together and greet the good Duchess Margaret. You and she and
your children shall be set forth this day to Nancy. May the good God cheer
your way!” This was magnanimity incarnate—a choice trait of the days of
la vraie chivalrie! To describe the joy of René as he once more caressed his
sons and kissed the hand of his mother-in-law, and to set forth the rejoicings
at Nancy, and, indeed, all along that joyous march from Dijon, with the
blessedness of reunion between Isabelle and her spouse, would tax the pen
of any ready writer. René was free, and Philippe had attained his apogee.
Joy-bells rang, voices cheered, and Lorraine and Barrois gave themselves
over to unbridled festivity; whilst the Duke and Duchess and their two
brave boys made a royal progress, whereon they were nearly torn to pieces
by their enthusiastic subjects. René and Isabelle once more visited every
town, and personally thanked all and sundry for their loyalty and affection.
But business is business even in royal circles, and the Estates of Lorraine
and Bar were assembled by the Sovereigns to consider and fulfil the terms
of René’s charter of liberty. The crux was the amount of the money ransom,
and how to raise it. Both duchies were stripped bare of resources, prolonged
wars had impoverished the nobles, and had brought upon all classes great
privations. In Anjou and Provence much the same conditions existed, and
Queen Yolande had as much as she could do to make all ends meet. King
Charles VII. was a fugitive or little better, he had no money, and the Duke

of Brittany had his own responsibilities and cares. The only wealthy
member of the Sicily-Anjou family was the Queen of Naples, and she was
financing King Louis III. and his conflict with the King of Aragon.
Nevertheless something had to be done, and René and Isabelle together put
their pride into their pocket and made approaches to their unlovely relative.
Queen Yolande and Duchess Margaret also backed up the appeal.
René embarked at Marseilles directly Queen Giovanna’s reply reached
him, for she demanded that his request for assistance should be made in
person at Aversa. It was not a very pleasant prospect that presented itself to
the Duke of Bar-Lorraine. The ill-fame of the Queen of Naples had by no
means been lessened by her attempted liaison with his elder brother, King
Louis. Nevertheless, René was prepared to pay a high price for the 20,000
saluts d’or, but Isabelle had no fear for his honour. The mission was a
failure. The Queen’s price was impossible; and although René remained in
dalliance upon her, and played the part of a complete courtier, so far as was
possible for him to do, she dismissed her relative with a sneer and a refusal.
News of René’s failure reached Nancy before his own arrival, and
resourceful Duchess Isabelle immediately set to work upon an alternative
plan for securing the liberty of her consort. The city of Basel was then
preparing to receive the Fathers of the Ecumenical Council of the Roman
Church, and with them the citizens were required to welcome the Emperor
of Germany, under whose protection they were. Sigismund was the son of
Marie de France, sister of Louis I. of Sicily-Anjou. Moreover, he had
married the Princess Elizabeth of Bavaria, a sister of Duchess Margaret.

A ROYAL PATRONESS AND A ROYAL PATRONESS OF
WOMEN-WORKERS IN WOOL HANDICRAFTS
From a Miniature, MS. Fifteenth From a Miniature, MS. Fifteenth
Century, “Des Clercs et Nobles Century, “Des Clercs et Nobles
Femmes.” British Museum Femmes.” British Museum

Isabelle despatched a notable embassy to greet her uncle the Emperor,
and at the same time to crave his sympathy and help. A very favourable
reply came quickly back to Nancy, and with the returning Lorraine envoys
travelled two Chamberlains of the Imperial Court, sent by the Emperor to
escort René to Basel. Sigismund furthermore cited the Comte de
Vaudémont to appear before him and state his case. A most patient hearing
was granted by His Majesty to the arguments of the victorious Count, but
on April 24 Sigismund ascended the imperial throne in the Cathedral of
Basel, and there solemnly gave his judgment. He decreed that René was
lawful Duke of Lorraine, that he should not be required to return to prison,
and that further grace should be allowed for the payment of the ransom.
With scant reverence for the sacred edifice, and with much discourtesy to
the Emperor and the dignitaries who sat with him as assessors,—the Papal
Legate and the Patriarch of Constantinople,—Vaudémont indignantly

refused to accept the imperial ruling, and demanded the immediate payment
of the 20,000 saluts d’or or the prompt return of Duke René to Bracon.
Duchess Isabelle, who had courageously accompanied her husband, fell
upon her knees before their stern, irreconcilable enemy, and pleaded with
him to extend knightly magnanimity towards his prisoner. No! Vaudémont
would have the duchy or René’s money or his person. René, gently raising
his loving spouse, led her from the scene, and then, tenderly embracing her,
he returned to where he had left Vaudémont scowling. “See,” said he, “here
I am: take me at once to Dijon.” Before leaving the Imperial Court the
Emperor beckoned to him, and, directing him to kneel, formally invested
him with the temporalities of the duchy of Lorraine, and upon Isabelle he
bestowed with the Papal benediction the honour of the “Golden Rose.”
Torn from the bosom of his family once more, René bore his misfortune
like a man, and Isabelle rose superior to her trouble. Their noble bearing
gained further the respect and good-will of all the Sovereigns and peoples
of Europe, whilst the spleen and meanness of Vaudémont rendered him
odious everywhere. René submitted obediently to the newly-imposed
discipline. He beguiled his time by adorning the walls and windows of his
chamber with sketches and paintings. What a thousand pities it is that none
of those treasures have been preserved! Alas! France has suffered more than
any other land from the suicidal tendencies of her people. Over and over
again national passion has swept away works of art and historical
memorials. King René’s frescoes have, with the fortress of Bracon, wholly
disappeared. Music, too, and poetry, formed for him consolations. He
composed ballades, he sang songs, sacred and profane. He played the viol
and zither, and so whiled away some of the tedium of his captivity. “Les
Chroniques de Lorraine,” note that “il a sçu la musique, et marier la voix
aulx doulx accents d’un luth, gémissant sous ses doigts.”[A]
[A] “He knew music, and how to modulate his voice to the notes of a lute,
striking it with his fingers.”

At Bracon was the Duke of Burgundy’s splendid library, to which René
was freely admitted. There he studied painstakingly classical works in
Greek, Latin, and Hebrew.
Cut off as he was entirely from intercourse with his family, friends, and
subjects, at times he gave way to melancholy, and regarded himself as
unjustly treated by Providence. He craved to behold his children, and this

longing was assuaged by the chivalrous consideration of the Duke of
Burgundy, who permitted the little Princes Jean and Louis to visit their
unhappy father in his prison.

II.

The years 1434 and 1435 were full of tragic happenings for René and
Isabelle. Death claimed three important personages near of kin. All Lorraine
mourned the saintly Duchess Margaret. She died in her devoted daughter’s
arms during the feast of Pentecost, and they buried her beside her consort,
Charles II., in the ducal tomb at St. George-by-the-Gate. Her quiet influence
had been all for good, both upon her children’s account and upon the morals
of the Court and nation. She could, as we have seen, act the heroine as well
as the devotee. Isabelle missed her mother’s goodly counsels more than she
could express in words. René’s greatest loss was undoubtedly his brother,
Louis III., King of Sicily-Anjou and Naples. This bereavement wholly
changed the position and prospects of the Bar-Lorraine ducal family; for
Louis dying without surviving issue, all his honours, titles, and dominions,
were inherited by his next brother, René.
This event, and what it meant for René, were the climax of his career.
The proclamation of the new King was a tragedy and a travesty combined.
The pathos of his position was emphatic. The news stunned him—
powerless and wellnigh nerveless, hopeless and wellnigh demented. He had
not regained his equanimity, when the mockery of his fate was borne still
more cruelly upon him in the intelligence that reached him on February 2,
1435, in the Tour de Bar, of the demise of Queen Giovanna II., whose will
named him her successor as King of Naples.
Louis died of fever at Cosenza, the capital of Calabria, on November 15,
1434, lamented by his enemies as well as by his friends. His devoted
mother was not with him. She was broken-hearted at the news which
reached her at Angers. Alas that so gallant a soldier-King should be cut off
so suddenly and so prematurely in the first bloom of his manhood! Cast
down with grief unspeakable and mute, his girl-wife—still a bride—
Marguerite, consoled his last hours. No child had come to bless their union,
and the palpitating passion of the honeymoon was naturally cooling. The
stress, too, of martial movements separated all too soon and too frequently

the bridal couple. Still, Queen Marguerite ministered tenderly to her sick
spouse, and her love burst forth in undiminished fervency as she realized
that death would so cruelly part them. Very nobly and unselfishly, Louis in
his will,—very strangely, made exactly to the day a year before,—required
all honour to be paid to his widow, for his sake as well as for her own, and
left her the bulk of his private property—alas! greatly diminished by the
expenses of his military campaigns. Moreover, he expressly directed that
she should be free to go where she would,—if not to Anjou, then to her
home again in Savoy,—and he besought her, “for the love she bore him, not
to pine away in sadness, but to choose some good man and marry him, for
the relief of nature and for the love of God.”
Marguerite buried Louis with the burial of a King, and built a monument
to his memory in the cathedral, and she directed that the sword of Lancelot,
the British knight whom Louis had unhorsed at tilt and slain, should be
suspended over the royal burying-place. Then she speeded back to her
father’s Court, not adventuring herself at Naples, where Queen Giovanna
lay a-dying. Good and true wife that she was, she kept her sorrow silently
and unaffectedly for twelve long years, and then she married another Louis
—Louis IV., Duke of Bavaria. Short was again this second union, for after
another two years’ widowhood she married, for a third time, Ulric VII.,
Count of Würtemberg, in 1452. At Stuttgart, after so many tragic changes,
Queen-Duchess-Countess Marguerite settled down, and lived seventeen
years in peace and happiness, drawing her last breath upon the very day of
November, the 15th, which had witnessed the marriage vows of Louis III.
and herself just thirty-six years before.
Duchess Isabelle de Lorraine, now Queen of Sicily-Anjou and Naples,
with her accustomed promptitude, despatched a messenger to the King in
prison, announcing her instant departure for Naples. She sapiently
understood that her presence in Italy was essential if the crown of Naples
was to rest securely upon her husband’s head. She would receive the
allegiance of the Neapolitans in his name, and administer the government as
his Lieutenant-General. On November 28 she left Nancy with her second
son, Louis, Marquis of Pont-à-Mousson, and travelled post-haste into
Provence. Again her presence kindled the most enthusiastic expressions of
commiseration for the lot of the King and Count, and of devotion to his

person and to herself. Men and money poured in upon her. She welcomed
all, and accepted gratefully everybody’s contribution.
From Marseilles the Queen and her following sailed to Genoa, where the
Doge and the nobles gave her a right royal reception, and volunteered help
and amity. Thence to Milan the intrepid traveller took her way, where she
gained over the Duke, and he made René’s cause his own. In Rome, Pope
Eugenius IV. blessed her and her son, and conjured all the Italian States to
lend their aid. Her arrival at Naples was so entirely unexpected by the
Alfonsists that they were not only checkmated in their attempt on King
René’s inheritance, but were thrown into a panic, from which they were
unable to rally.
The Neapolitans of every grade and class welcomed their new Queen and
her five great galleys, filled with the flower of Provence, Milan, and Genoa,
with every manifestation of joy and loyalty. Her charms of person
transported them, her intrepidity roused them, and her gracious words
delighted them. The old love of Naples for the House of Anjou returned,
and every adherent of the Spanish King was cast out. Queen Isabelle had
very soon more serious work in hand than graciously acknowledging the
salutations of the enthusiastic citizens. King Alfonso was at the gates of
Naples with a strong force on land and sea. She in person assumed
command of the loyal troops in the capital, appointed trusty commanders,
and placed Naples in a good state of defence. Besieged rigorously by the
Spanish army, the Queen directed sorties which were perfectly successful,
and the enemy retreated to a more respectful distance. In one of these
affrays, Dom Pedro, brother of the King of Aragon, was slain, and Queen
Isabelle, with a spirit of chivalry worthy of a noble knight and a
magnanimous Sovereign, offered his dead body royal sepulchral rites in the
cathedral.
During Queen Isabelle’s absence from Lorraine, King René named their
eldest son, Jean, now Duke of Calabria,—the traditional title of the heir to
the throne of Naples,—as his Lieutenant-General in Barrois and Lorraine,
child though he was, not yet ten years old. Nominally he was placed under
the tutelage and guardianship of Queen Yolande, who made a progress to
Nancy to assist in carrying out her son’s command, and to look after the two
little “orphaned” girls, Yolande and Marguerite, her granddaughters. Most
prudently she abstained, as might have been expected from her high-toned

character, from interfering in any affairs of State in these two eastern
duchies of her son’s dominions. Four high officials she selected to direct the
policy of the palace and safeguard the crown, all men of proven probity and
loyal disinterestedness, and to them she, by René’s wish, delegated the
actual charge of the young Duke: Jehan de Fenestranger, Grand Marshal;
Gerard de Harancourt, Seneschal; Jacques de Harancourt, Bailli or Mayor
of Nancy; and Philippe de Lenoncourt, tutor to the young Princes.
Queen Yolande having seen all these matters settled, and having named
Anne, Countess of Vaudémont, governante of the two young Princesses, she
took her departure to Provence and Marseilles, there to await the course of
events in Naples. The appointment of a Vaudémont must have struck most
people as extraordinary. The Countess was mother of the implacable Count
Antoine, and it was due to Queen Yolande’s remarkable foresightedness that
she was chosen. She saw the perils ahead caused by the number and
dispersion of the dominions of the crowns unfortunate King René had not
yet put upon his head. It appeared to her that Naples and Sicily would be
the chief appanage, and require the presence of the Sovereign almost
continuously. Anjou and Provence might fall to the government of René’s
second son, and then Bar and Lorraine would go to his daughters, perhaps
upon their marriage. Vaudémont would never relax his efforts to gain
Lorraine. Might not a matrimonial alliance between a son of his and a
granddaughter of her own, thought the Queen, solve amicably and
profitably a very vexed question?
All the while that Queen Isabelle was holding Naples for her consort and
keeping Alfonso of Aragon in check, nothing was neglected which might
hasten the release of the royal captive. With commendable astuteness
Isabelle made overtures to her namesake Isabelle, Duchess of Burgundy,
and her efforts were seconded on the spot by Queen Yolande. Isabelle of
Portugal was in disposition and tastes very much like the late lamented
Duchess of Lorraine—much affected by religion, by charity, by pity. The
separation of the King of Sicily-Anjou and Naples from his family, and the
sorrows of his Queen, appealed to her womanly sympathy. She talked long
and well to Duke Philippe, and at last succeeded in gaining his signature to
a decree of pardon and an order of release for the distinguished captive.
Under her persuasion the amount of the ransom was halved, and René’s
liberty was unlimited.

King René of Sicily-Anjou and Naples was set free from durance vile at
Bracon on November 25, 1436. No doubt this achievement was greatly due
to the urgent pressure of all the Sovereigns of France, headed by King
Charles VII.; indeed, the Duke of Burgundy had hardly any choice in the
matter, for Arthur de Richemont, brother of the Duke of Brittany and
Constable of France, who was the bearer of the united royal protest, gave
him plainly to understand that the retention of René at Bracon would mean
the immediate invasion and devastation of the duchy.
René went off at once to Nancy and Bar-le-Duc, there to be welcomed by
his subjects and to thank personally his many warm friends and helpers.
After embracing his children, he hurried on to Angers, where Queen
Yolande greeted him tenderly and made him rest and refresh himself. She
had been busy, as was her wont, in more matrimonial adventures, and now
she broached the subject of the betrothal of the young Duke of Calabria, her
eldest grandson. The bride she had chosen for him, with Queen Isabelle’s
approval, was the Princess Marie, a daughter of the Duke of Bourbon, a
little motherless girl who had been under her care for some time. She was a
granddaughter of King John II. the Good, and niece and ward of the Duke
of Burgundy, who dowered her with 50,000 écus d’or.
There was, however, not much time for King René to waste in festivities.
He set off to thank King Charles, the Duke of Brittany, and all the other
friendly Princes who had so greatly aided his deliverance. Then he hastened
by water,—the usual method of quick transit,—down to his favourite
Provence, where the transports of delight with which he was welcomed
surpassed all former demonstrations. He wanted men and money,—and
Provence was never backward in contributions for her Count,—for his next
move was to be to Naples, to embrace his noble Queen and relieve her of
her heavy responsibilities.
The usual course was taken by the royal galley. Genoa was the
rendezvous, as of old. The Genoese gave their visitor a splendid reception.
His romantic career had greatly affected them, and now that they beheld his
gracious person their delight knew no bounds. Never had a royal visitor
such an ovation in Liguria. The famous Tommaso Fregoso, the Doge,
lodged him in the Ducal Palace, the streets were wreathed in spring
greenery, and all the maids and matrons of the proud city combed out their
rich brown, lustrous locks of hair, jauntily fixed their white lace veils with

jewelled pins, and put on their best attire and massive chains of gold. At the
entrance of the Piazza di San Lorenzo one hundred of the fairest of the fair
scattered flowers before King René’s white steed of state, and six of the
prettiest and the noblest were dedicated to his personal wish and
disposition. This indeed was a Scriptural and a patriarchal custom, but
always duly observed in decorous and sensuous Genoa. But again pleasure
had to give way to business, and King René had the satisfaction of sailing
out of that famous harbour followed by a goodly flotilla of fighting ships
well found.
René was received at Naples tumultuously as lawful King and Sovereign.
Mounted on a great black charger, crowned and habited in cloth of gold and
covered with the royal mantle of state of crimson velvet and ermine, the
sword of St. Januarius in his hand, he rode through people, flowers,
banners, and huzzahs, right into the nave of the cathedral; there Queen
Isabelle received her consort exultingly, and with him knelt lowly for the
benediction of the Mass. That day marked an amazing contrast in the
fortunes of two men—King René, the prisoner of Bracon, seated upon the
ancient throne of Naples, and King Alfonso, the conqueror of Aragon,
pacing uneasily his prison chamber at Milan!
The reunion of the royal couple was a happy thing indeed, so often parted
had they been and so sadly. Isabelle had acted the part of a good woman
and a faithful spouse despite splenetic insinuations to the contrary. Her
position had been most trying in anxious times, and among ill-disposed
aspirants for her favour. She knew intuitively who to trust of those that
expressed themselves most devoted to her service, and no one ever was
more zealously preoccupied with the interest of her friends than she. Now
came the time to award honours to the faithful and the true, and King René
deputed his Queen to bestow the royal favours. The first to profit by the
new dispensation was, naturally, the widowed Queen Margaret, who after
the burial of her consort, King Louis III., had sought refuge in Naples,
under the sheltering wing of her royal sister-in-law. Still resplendent in her
beauty and possessed of every youthful grace, the young Queen was the
object of deep solicitude and affection.
The condition of the Two Sicilies was parlous; almost every commune
was divided against itself on the subject of the succession to the throne, and
almost daily were recorded deeds of cruelty and aggression, pointing to the

outbreak of serious hostilities all over the dual kingdom. The blue and white
ensign of Anjou and the red and yellow banner of Aragon were reared, not
in friendly contest, but in deadly feud. Under these circumstances René
judged it expedient for the Queen and their little son Louis to go back to
France, and Queen Margaret refused to be separated from her sympathetic
sister-in-law. It was a pang to both again so soon to part, but rulers of States
are not like ordinary mortals; for public duties must take precedence of
private interests. Isabelle’s brief rule at Naples had done wonders in the way
of conciliation, and Étienne Pasquier did not exaggerate her virtues when he
wrote: “Cette vraye Amazone, que dans un corps de femme portoit un cœur
d’homme, fist tant d’actes généraux pendant la prisonment de son mari, que
ceste pièce este enchassée en lettres d’or dedans les annales de Lorraine.”
All Naples shed tears at their beloved Queen’s departure. Margaret they
hardly knew, but the last Queen they had known, Giovanna, was hated quite
as thoroughly as Isabelle was adored.
The galley bearing back to Marseilles those whom he most loved had
hardly passed beyond the horizon of the Bay of Naples when René took
action. On September 22 an Anjou herald appeared in the camp of King
Alfonso, and threw down King René’s bloodstained glove as a challenge,
first to a personal encounter between the two Kings, and then to a combat à
l’outrance between the two armies. On the part of Alfonso, who was on his
way from his Milan prison, the challenge was accepted by his chief of the
staff, who indicated the locality for the trials of chivalry and force,—the
level country between Nola and Arienzo, at the foot of Vesuvius. Single
combat was denied by Alfonso, and then René attacked his rival with all the
forces at his command. Numerically again, as at the stricken field of
Bulgneville, the Angevine army was much the stronger, for under René’s
banner marched the Milan-Genoese contingent, with Francesco Sforza,
Duke of Milan, at its head. René’s fleet, too, was at anchor in the bay,
commanded by the intrepid Admiral Jehan de Beaufort, to act in
conjunction with the land forces of his King. The Spanish army was better
disciplined and better furnished with artillery, and King René once more
had to bow to circumstances, and to look in vain for Fortune’s smile. His
forces were cut in two and slaughtered right and left, and he himself
wounded and all but captured, for he was not a leader to skulk behind his
men: he led the van, and was ever in the thick of the fight. His appeal,
“Anjou-Cecile! Amor Chevaliers!” was of no avail. He was beaten, and fled

with only two knights, and shut himself in Castel Nuovo. A truce was
signed, and the King of Naples went off to report his defeat at Rome,
Florence, and Genoa.

1. “EMBARKMENT OF ‘CUER’ FOR THE ‘ISLAND OF
LOVE’”
2. “‘CUER’ READING THE INSCRIPTION ON THE
ENCHANTED FOUNTAIN”
From “La Conqueste de Doulce Mercy.” Written and
illuminated by King René. National Library, Paris
To face page 130

Pope Eugenius IV. and the Emperor Joannes Paleologos, who were both
at Florence, received the royal fugitive ardently, blessed him, and awarded
him and his heirs, disregarding the victory of King Alfonso, the right to
govern the Two Sicilies in perpetuity. The Medici and other Florentines of
mark and wealth offered subsidies for the recovery of the Neapolitan
throne, and at Genoa and Milan men and supplies were to be had for the
asking; but René had had his fill of war, and bloodshed was now to him
abhorrent. “Too much blood,” he remarked, “has been shed already. We will
rest awhile, and ask God to pardon our sins.” René returned to Marseilles in
1442 a sadder and a wiser man. There he met once more his Queen, to
rejoice his stricken heart; but that heart, and hers too, tenderly bled again
and again, for not only did the melancholy news of his good mother’s death
in Anjou shatter him, but Isabelle and he had the terrible grief of parting
with their dearly-loved second son, the Marquis of Pont-à-Mousson. Prince
Louis, so promising, so handsome, and so loyal, they buried sadly: he was
his mother’s favourite child, the companion of her triumphs and her trials.
King René was called from his grief over the tomb of his young son to
Tours by Charles of France. To the French Court had come Ambassadors,
with the Earl of Suffolk at their head, to treat for peace between the two
conflicting kingdoms. The French King, with his usual lassitude, deputed to
King René the conduct of the deliberations, which ended honourably for all
parties concerned, in the guarantee of two years’ cessation of hostilities,
with the acknowledgment of in statu quo. Nearer home, however, matters
were not so stable; the state of the allied duchies was deplorable. So
insecure were the roads in Lorraine,—infested by wandering bands of
discontented peasantry and ill-affected townspeople,—that travelling was
attended with the utmost danger. The higher the dignity of a wayfarer, the
greater the eagerness to attack and pilfer. Queen Isabelle was herself the
victim of a dastardly outrage. Journeying forth soon after her dear son
Louis’s death, to pray at his grave at Pont-à-Mousson, her cortège was
attacked by a party of marauders from Metz. They compelled her to leave
her litter, with its cloth of gold curtains and luxurious cushions, and
subjected her to rough treatment in spite of her protestations.
“You villains!” she cried, “you know perfectly who I am. How dare you
offer this gross insult to your Sovereign! Begone, and let me pass. You shall
richly pay for your temerity.” Jeers and offensive remarks greeted this

haughty command. They cared nothing for Isabelle nor her consort; indeed,
they were unrighteous allies of the Count of Vaudémont. The Duchess was
stripped of her jewellery, her coffrets were rifled, and her servants beaten,
and then the miscreants made off.
The Queen hastily returned to Nancy, and laid the matter before the
Council, demanding satisfaction. “Unless you, my lords,” she said, “at once
make a strong representation to the Governor of Metz, I will set off to
Anjou, and bring the King back to recompense the miscreants.” All the
chivalry of France was shocked at this amazing outrage, and King Charles,
with Arthur de Richemont and a strong force, hurried into Lorraine from
Dauphiné, determined to make an example of the gross behaviour of the
Messins. The city barricaded her gates, sounded the tocsin, and prepared to
resist, if might be, the united forces of France. The besieged held out for six
months, flinging taunt on taunt against the King and Queen. At last it fell,
and the price the rebels had to pay was onerous, besides the forfeiture of all
their charters and privileges. A general amnesty was granted on February
27, 1445, in Barrois as well as in Lorraine. The Messins signalized their
deliverance by offering to their liege Lord complete allegiance, together
with 25,000 écus d’or enclosed in a splendid gold and enamelled vase.
René now for the first time in his thirty years of public service and
command found himself in the possession of that rare blessing, Peace, and
he prepared to celebrate it adequately. Isabelle, too, was only too thankful
for the respite; her sorrows and anxieties had wellnigh broken her
courageous heart. After she parted with her husband in the Bay of Naples,
she landed at Marseilles, and made all haste to Angers, too late, indeed, to
soothe the last moments of her noble mother-in-law, but drawn there by the
tranquillity of Anjou. There she gave herself to the education of her two
young daughters, to whom she was happily reunited—Marguerite just
thirteen, and Yolande a year younger. René again joined his spouse, whom
he loved so fondly, and in whose honour he had adopted a new royal motto
and cipher, “Ardent Désir,” below a burning brasier. They gave themselves
up to religious exercises, and led a calm and retired life—precious to them
both after the alarums of the past. The world was still very young for them
both—René no more than thirty-seven, and Isabelle two years his junior.
The most delightful ingredient in their full cup of joy was the home-
coming of their son and heir, Prince Jean, Duke of Calabria and Lieutenant-

General of Barrois-Lorraine. During eleven strenuous years he and his
devoted parents had rarely met. He had zealously, after their brave example,
addressed himself to his public duties, and had won golden opinions from
the loyal subjects of the throne. He was nearing his majority, and with him
came his young wife Marie, whose marriage had been but lately
accomplished. They were stepping bravely together along the marital way,
which their grandparents and their parents had traversed, unscathed by
scandal and beloved by all.
Great festivities were organized at Angers, Tarascon, and Nancy, to
celebrate the general peace, and in particular the betrothal of Princess
Marguerite d’Anjou. A magnificent tournament was held between Razilly
and Chinon in the summer of 1446, which attracted all the most famous
knights in France and beyond the frontiers and an immense crowd of
spectators. One there was, and she one of the fairest of the fair, came riding
beside her father, one of King René’s dearest friends, Count Guy de Laval;
and the King for the first time set eyes upon lovely Jehanne, who was
destined to mingle her destiny with his right on to his dying day. René
caused “Le Châtel de Joyeuse Garde” to be built of wood richly adorned
with paintings, tapestries, and garlands, and for forty days jousts and floral
games engaged the attention of the gallant and beauteous company. A very
singular and popular custom was inaugurated at the King’s suggestion. Four
knights of proved probity crossed their lances in the roadway beyond the
Castle of Chinon. Cavaliers, accompanied by their ladies fair, were made to
fight their way through and carry safe their sweethearts. A faint heart lost
his lady, a knight unhorsed his horse, and a victorious competitor his sash of
knighthood, which was immediately tied to the crupper of his fair one’s
palfrey. The King himself took his place in the “Lists” in black armour; his
mantle was of black velvet sewn with silver lilies of Anjou, and his well-
trained charger was black also. Queen Isabelle and her ladies occupied a
flower-decked tribune, and with her was poor young Queen Marguerite and
her son’s child-wife, Marie. They were the Queens of the Tournament, but
the damosel Jehanne de Laval was “Queen of Beauty,” scarce thirteen years
old.
Alas! a deadly “bolt shot out of the blue.” The Duchess of Calabria had
but just risen from childbed; she was not strong enough to bear the
excitement and the toil of such tumultuous gaiety, and upon the last day of

the tournament she fainted in the royal tribune, and breathed out her brief
life before she could be borne to couch. Thus into life’s sweetest joys comes
sadly too often the relentless bitterness of sorrow. Faces which only a few
short hours before were wreathed in smiles were furrowed with the ravages
of grief ere the curfew sounded. The tournament ended in a “Triumph of the
Black Buffaloes.” Happily, perhaps, the child died too, and both sweet
bodies were consigned to one flower-decked grave in the chapel garden of
the Castle of Saumur,—“la gentille et la bien assise,”—a paradise of
fragrant trees and pleasant prospects.
Dire news, too, reached Angers from Provence. A winter of unparalleled
inclemency was followed by a famine and a pest, which decimated people
and domestic animals, and wrought havoc with the crops. René and Isabelle
took boat once more for their southern province, and their “le bon roy,” as
he was now called affectionately by his subjects, laid himself out to
alleviate his people’s sufferings. Taxes were remitted, the poor fed and
clothed, and farms restocked. “La bonté,” he said, “est la première
grandeur des roys.” People noted the King’s grey hair—hair “white less by
time than white through trouble,” as chroniclers have written. Trouble
makes all the world akin: the King and Queen bore their people’s, and they
humbly shared their rulers’ griefs.
The clouds cleared off that sunny land, and birds once more sang in the
meadows, and men and maids were gay. Then it was Tarascon’s turn to
celebrate the virtues of the Count and Countess of Provence. A Provençal
tournament was a celebration ne plus ultra, and René made that of 1448
famous and unique by his institution of the knightly “Ordre du Croissant.”
To be sure, it was established at Angers, whose warrior-patron, St. Maurice,
was honoured as guardian and exemplar of chivalry, and in whose cathedral
church the banners of the knights were hung. The King himself drew up the
statutes of the Order. With characteristic and chivalrous modesty, he named,
not himself First Master, but chose Guy de Laval for that honourable post.
Conditions of membership were dictated by religion, courtesy, and charity,
in harmony; only knights of goodly birth and unblemished reputation were
eligible. They were enjoined to hear Mass daily and to recite the daily
“Hours.” Fraternal love was to be exemplified in all dealings with their
fellow-men at large. An impious oath or an indecent jest was never to pass
their lips. Women and children were in a special sense committed to their

care. The poor and ailing were to engage their best offices. Debts of every
sort and gambling under every guise were absolutely forbidden. With
respect to the fair sex, the code of rules had in golden letters the following
order: “De ne mesdire des femmes de quelques estats quelles soient pour
chose qui doibue d’advenir.” The knights first impanelled, having taken
their oaths of obedience and accepted service, departed from Anjou, and
made their rendezvous at the King’s Castle of Tarascon on August 11. René
himself again entered the “Lists,” but champion honours were carried off by
his son-in-law, Ferri de Vaudémont, and Louis de Beauvais; and the Queen-
Countess Isabelle placed floral crowns upon their brows, a golden ring upon
their right hands, and received a kiss of homage upon her still smooth and
comely cheek.
Nancy was the scene of the most magnificent gaieties Lorraine had ever
beheld. The espousals of the Princess Marguerite and King Henry VI. were
solemnized in the ancient Gothic church of St. Martin at Pont-à-Mousson
by Louis d’Harcourt, Bishop of Toul. The King was represented by the
gallant Earl of Suffolk, one of the most famous Knights in Europe. The
ecclesiastical ceremony was rendered all the more auspicious by the joint
nuptials of the Princess Yolande and Count Ferri de Vaudémont. All France,
—Sovereigns, ladies, nobles, citizens,—thronged around the King and
Queen; their congratulations were, however, restrained until the actualities
of the Vaudémont marriage were revealed. To marry a dear child to the son
of a man’s worst enemy appeared quixotic at the least, and few called to
mind that strange clause in René’s charter of release from Bracon. The King
was, as Duke Philippe of Burgundy had styled him, a man of his word; and
if proof were wanted, then the appointment of the young bridegroom’s
mother, the Countess, as governante of René’s daughters furnished it.
Besides this, the presence of the Count himself at the marriage of his son
exhibited not only the reconciliation of the two rivals for the throne of
Lorraine, but emphasized the innate chivalry of both. To be sure, Antoine de
Vaudémont was in ill-health, his fighting days were over, and he was
searching for comfort and absolution before he faced his end; and, in truth,
that end was nearer than he thought, for he died six months after he had
given his blessing to Ferri and Yolande.
A pretty and characteristic story is told of the loves of Ferri and Yolande.
King René was wishful that his daughter and future son-in-law should attain

more mature age before the consummation of Count Antoine’s wishes
concerning them. The young knight, “who was,” wrote Martial, “regarded
among men and youths much as Helen of Troy was among her
companions,”—a very handsome fellow,—chafed at delay, and,
emboldened by the vows of his fiancée, one dark, windy night he with two
trusty comrades broke into her boudoir, where she, ready for the signal,
awaited her lover. Romeo carried his Juliet away to Clermont in Argonne,
and held her till her father consented to their marriage. This story is
contained in an old manuscript, the handiwork of Louis de Grasse, the Sire
of Mas.
Splendid fêtes covering eight full days followed the Church ceremonies.
The “Lists” were held in the Grande Place of Nancy, in the presence of the
right worshipful company, headed by Kings Charles and René and Queens
Isabelle, Marie, and Margaret. Quaintly Martial d’Auvergne wrote in “Les
Vigiles de Charles VII.”:

“Les Roynes de France, Sécille,
La Fiancée et la Dauphine,
Et d’autres dames, belles filles,
Si en firent devoir condigne.”
“The Queens of France and Sicily,
The Bride and the Dauphine,
And many other dames of honour,
Compelled the homage of the men.”

All the châtelaines forsook their manoirs and took the field-marital in force.
Mars had come in strength, Venus would join the fray, and victory was
never doubtful. If comely, gallant, doughty knights fell not in deathly
conflict in those “Lists” of love, their hearts were captured by fair
vanquishers all the same.

“En gagea sans retour
Son cœur et sa liberté,”

describes those battle-fields of Cupid’s warfare!

The pageantry of the tournament over, the panoply of the encampment
claimed the knightly company of Nancy, and a mighty cavalcade—ladies,
too, in litter and on palfrey—ambled off serenely to the great wide plains of
Champagne, where René and Charles reviewed at Châlons-sur-Marne the
united armies of all the crowns. It was a sight which stirred all the best
blood in France, and spoke to her Sovereigns and her statesmen of a new
age, when the artifices of war should give place to the arts of peace. Alas!
when human things appear to promise peace and joy, there ever comes over
the scene the pall of Providence. War again broke out between France and
England, but now the French held their own and more; and King René,
revived in military ardour, led the victorious vanguard, and crowned his
bays of triumph by new palms of peace.
Sad news came to him, however, when in Normandy, from his ancestral
Angers. His devoted and dearly loved Queen, Isabelle, was laid low with
illness. Stalking fever had crossed the castle moat and fixed its baneful
touch upon the royal châtelaine. Do what she would,—and her will to the
end was vigorous enough,—she could not shake off the deadly visitant. She
felt that her end was approaching unrelentlessly, and with admirable piety
the noble, high-toned Queen controlled her pains, and patiently prepared
herself to face her last foe with courageous resignation. Her children were
gathered by her bedside—Jean and Yolande in person, Marguerite in spirit,
and perhaps Louis, too, from his tomb at Pont-à-Mousson. Quietly and
prayerfully on February 28, 1453, she passed away to join her babes in
Paradise, and “Black Angers” was plunged in deepest mourning.
The death of a great Queen deeply affects men and women everywhere.
Isabelle’s name, like that of “good Queen Yolande,” had become a
household word in Europe far and wide. Everywhere tokens of bereavement
were displayed, and King René, the royal widower, hastening home too late
to close his fond wife’s eyes in death, wrote in his tablets: “Since the life of
my dear, dear wife has been cut off by death, my heart has lost its love, for
she was the mainspring of my consolations.” In every one of his “Livres des
Heures,” and in other books and places, the artist in the Sovereign painted
and drew the features and the figure of his Queen.
Their married life,—chequered as it had been,—had been as happy as
could be. Devoted to one another with a rare force of faithfulness which
knew no flaw, René and Isabelle were examples for their generation. No

stone has ever been cast at either of them. Nine children were born to them:
four, Charles, René, Anne, and Isabelle, died in infancy; Nicholas, their
third son, was a twin with Yolande, born in 1428; he had the title of Duke of
Bar, but died before his majority. Good Queen Isabelle was buried in the
Cathedral of Angers, where nearly forty years later René’s bones were laid
beside her ashes, to mingle in the common decay till the last trump shall
sound to wake the dead.
There cannot be a better summing up of her gifts, her graces and her
virtues than in the words of the sententious life’s motto she herself
composed, and wrote in golden letters upon parchment, and gave to each of
her dear children:

“Si l’Amour fault, la Foy n’est plus chérie;
Si Foy périt, l’Amour s’en va périe;
Pour ce, les ay en devise liez
Amour et Foy.”
“If Love fails, Faith becomes more precious;
If Faith perishes, Love dies too;
Whence Love and Faith together are my device.”

CHAPTER V
JEANNE D’ARC—“LA PUCELLE,” “LA BLANCHE REINE
DE FRANCE”

I.

“Give me Duke René de Barrois, the noble son of good Queen Yolande,
to guide me into France.” The request was made by a simple village maiden
aged not more than seventeen years, and the personage she addressed was
Charles II., Duke of Lorraine. It was an extraordinary request; the occasion,
too, was extraordinary.
Born on the Feast of the Epiphany in the year 1412, of worthy peasants,
at Domremy, in Alsace,—Jacques d’Arc and Isabelle Romée, his wife,—
Jeanne was the younger of their two daughters; she had three brothers older
than herself. Domremy was a squalid little hamlet, like many another upon
the Meuse, boasting of the mother-church of the commune—a grim old
building, but glorified by many figures of holy saints in its coloured
windows. The nearest village was Maxey, upon the borders of Lorraine. The
villagers were in constant feud—Domremy for the King of France and her
own Duke at Nancy, Maxey for the Duke of Burgundy and the hated
English. Sieur Jacques d’Arc and his three stalwart, hard-working sons
were as ready with the pike as they were handy with the plough. Mère
Isabelle and her two daughters were zealous backers of their menfolk.
Sieur Jacques was, as peasant farmers went, a man of substance and well
connected. He had saved a goodly sum of money, and owned, perhaps, the
biggest flock of sheep in the country-side. Milch cows and fattening oxen
grazed his wide meadows. He was a man of probity, and had served the
ancestral office of Maire of Domremy for many a year. Mère Isabelle
excelled in stitchery as well as in the rearing of poultry and the cultivation
of her fair garden plot. When about to be delivered of her youngest child,
she dreamed three times that she should bear a girl, and that she should
become famous in her country’s history. The narrative goes on to say that

many unusual circumstances attended her child’s nativity: a fierce
thunderstorm shook the dwelling, and mysterious voices uttered the strange
cry: “Aux secours! aux secours de la France!”
Jeanne, the little daughter, was duly christened by the curé, and from her
mother’s womb she was a child of dedication—St. Catherine and St.
Margaret were her spiritual sponsors. Precocious from her weaning, both in
physical growth and mental development, she grew up a devotee at Mass
and shrine. She sought solitude and silence, and declined to share her
playmates’ games. Other children thought her odd, and old crones shook
their heads and pitied Sieur Jacques and his worthy spouse. Jeanne’s
favourite resort was a thicket near her parents’ home,—Le Bois Chènus it
was called,—an oak-wood grove where her father’s pigs greedily sought for
acorns. The Bois had, however, a weird repute; it had been, centuries
before, a sacrificial site of heathen worship, and the village folk avoided it
at night, for they said they saw strange figures under the trees and heard
strange sounds,—in fact, the wood was haunted.

JEANNE D’ARC
From a Fresco by E. Lepenveu. Pantheon, Paris
To face page 144

One summer’s day in July, 1424, Jeanne d’Arc was seated, as was her
wont, upon an ancient fallen menhir at the verge of the coppice. She was
shelling peas, and she also had her knitting by her. The hour of the day was
nearly that of the “Angelus,” when the frightened damsel heard an unusual
rustling of the oaken branches overhead, and somewhere out of the tree or
out of the sky voices sounded faintly upon her ear. At the same time a
strange lurid light gleamed between her and the church-tower across the

meadow. Laying aside her occupation, she listened breathlessly, almost in a
trance, to what the “Voices” said; they were pitched in soothing female
treble accents.
“Jeanne soit bonne et sage enfant,” said one; and another went on: “Va
souvent à l’église.” Surely the heavenly speakers were Jeanne’s holy
guardians, St. Catherine and St. Margaret. Jeanne was riveted to the spot,
and moved not till the twilight brought her sister looking for her. Jeanne
said nothing, but for seven days in succession she sat as at the first, and
heard the same solemn words repeated; then on the seventh,—it was
Saturday,—another wonder appeared to her: a very glorious holy one and a
watcher,—the great St. Michael, God’s warring archangel, in shining
armour,—stood before her under the great oak-tree, and bade her give heed
to what he said. He told her eloquently and convincingly the story of the sad
state of France—devoured by enemies, torn by factions, her King a fugitive
uncrowned. When the heavenly visitant had finished his impassioned
narrative, he bade Jeanne kneel, and, touching her shoulder with his
flashing sword, said: “Jeanne va toy aux secours du roy de France.”
The girl swooned as soon as her ghostly visitor had vanished, and so was
found, and borne to her couch by her brothers in alarm. In delirium for days
and nights, she kept on repeating what the archangel had said, until, amid
broken-hearted sobs, her grieving parents counted her as mad. All the
gossips of the village and those from more distant homes shook their heads
sadly, and said more fervently their Ave Marias. Jeanne was not mad, and
after she had recovered her usual demeanour she related to her doubting
father and mother and the good curé her mysterious story. The good priest
proposed to exorcise the evil spirit which he was convinced was in her. Her
father,—a matter-of-fact sort of man, and serious-minded, like all the
peasant-folk of France,—thought a good thrashing was her deserts; her
mother sided with her: she remembered the strange cry at her Jeanne’s birth.
Jeanne heard all they had to say, and kept silence, her protestations only
adding fuel to the fire of denunciation. She resumed her usual avocations,
but daily sat to hear the “Voices,” as she called her ghostly visitants, and
daily they repeated their strange instructions. She spent much time upon her
knees in the church, and at last the curé, good man, gave heed to her
infatuation. “If this be from God,” he said to himself, “no man may stay

her.” He wondered, naturally, how this quiet and devout village girl could
ever be the Divine instrument for the deliverance of France.
Jeanne’s simplicity and sincerity, her earnestness and good behaviour,
however, gradually silenced unfriendly critics; and although most folk
regarded her as mad, many believed her story and watched developments.
The strange revelation of the maid of Domremy travelled far and wide, and
brought many a neighbour and many a stranger to question her. Among the
rest came Sieur Durand Laxaert, her mother’s uncle by marriage—a man of
means, too, and well known the country round. He questioned Jeanne, he
questioned her parents, he questioned the village curé, and then he went off
and told the amazing story to his friend, Chevalier Robert de Baudricourt,
the Captain of Vaucouleurs, a market-town in Champagne, not far from
Domremy. The gallant Captain listened attentively, but when the story was
completed he burst out laughing. “Why, man,” said he, “you and all of them
are crazy! Just go back and box the child’s ears soundly; that’s the way to
treat this sort of nonsense.”
The matter dropped so far as the Chevalier was concerned, but again, in
the following January, Sieur Laxaert approached Baudricourt, and asked
him to see his young niece. He consented, and Jeanne, wearing her coarse
red homespun kirtle and heavy wooden shoes and her village girl’s coif,
was introduced to the unbelieving Captain. He was dumbfounded by her
appearance, for the lass was no village hoyden. Her figure was slender, her
features refined; her great brown eyes,—staring into his face,—told only of
simple faith and untarnished honour. Her voice was low and sweet, and
there was a something eerie and incomprehensible about her which struck
the good man, and made him feel uncomfortable. When he asked her what
she wanted, she promptly replied: “I want to be led to the King of France.”
“My child,” de Baudricourt replied, “that I cannot do; but, if you wish, I
will willingly take you to Nancy, and lead you to the Duke, your sovereign
lord and mine. Prepare yourself at once for the journey.”
Amid the tears and protests of her parents and her friends Jeanne started,
as she was, upon her eventful pilgrimage. At St. Nicholas de Pont,—a little
town two leagues from Nancy,—she asked to be allowed to spend three
hours in devotions in the church. When she reappeared, her face was wet
with tears, and her long brown hair hung dishevelled over her shoulders.

She did not seem to care. Her gaze was heavenward, and the only words she
uttered were: “En avant!” With Sieur Laxaert was a comrade, a young man,
Jehan de Novelonpont, better known as Jehan de Metz, of good birth and
knightly carriage. He offered Jeanne his sword. She touched the hilt, and,
smiling sadly, said: “Alas! young sir, that blade will be required erelong to
slay thy country’s foes and God’s.” Thus they entered the capital of
Lorraine.
Duke Charles received his strange visitor somewhat reluctantly. He was a
man of shrewd common-sense, intolerant of superstition, and impatient of
feminine assumptions—as his consort, Duchess Marguerite, learnt to her
undoing. He asked curtly about her home and her occult powers, and
jokingly invoked her aid in the cure of gout, to which he was martyr, and
from which he was then suffering acutely. “This,” said he, “shall be the test
of your pretensions to save France. Remove my pain, and I will take you to
the King.” Jeanne shed tears, and, straightening out her rough woolsey skirt,
she looked sadly up to heaven. At last she spoke: “Take me not, noble
Duke, for a common jongleuse. First of all, noble Duke, I implore you to
become reconciled to the Duchess, your wife; as for me, I am the unworthy
instrument of God to set King Charles of France upon his throne and to
scatter his enemies.” The Duke dismissed the maid with a wave of his hand.
“Take her away,” he said; “be kind to her; maybe I will see her again
shortly.” “Jeanne,” he added, “in a day or two you shall tell your tale before
some noble lords.”
All over Lorraine and Barrois internecine war was rife; noble rose against
noble, and yeoman and peasant joined the fray. The most serious was the
rivalry of René, the young Duke of Bar, and Antoine, Count of Vaudémont,
concerning the rights of succession to the dukedom of Lorraine. Metz, into
which de Vaudémont had thrown himself, was invested by the Barrois
troops, splendidly led by the boy-warrior—he was but twenty years of age.
A messenger from Charles requested a truce, and invited both commanders
to join him at Nancy to take counsel with their peers upon the strange
claims of a shepherd-girl from Domremy. With Duke René rode a score of
knights and nobles; Count Antoine was accompanied by a like company.
Upon the morrow of their arrival at the capital, Duke Charles assembled
them and others in the great courtyard of the castle, and sent for Jeanne,
who, still attired in her peasant garb, knelt at his feet and kissed his hand.

Then she surveyed the assembly furtively, as though prepared for insult or
worse, and quietly repeated her strange story amid general scoffs and
impatience. One noble knight alone gave serious heed,—René, Duke of
Bar. Duke Charles taunted her with her inability to mount a horse, much
more to lead an army.
“Jeanne,” said he, “thou hast never bestridden a charger, thou canst not
bear a lance!”
“Sire,” she replied, “mount me, and see if I cannot both ride and hold my
own.”
A quiet palfrey,—the property of Duchess Marguerite,—was led into the
courtyard by its groom, but Jeanne refused to mount. “Give me,” she
demanded, “the charger of that Prince yonder,” pointing to René of Sicily-
Anjou and Bar. The Prince lifted her into the saddle, and his gentleness,
reverence, and good looks, differentiated him from the rest of that knightly
assemblage.
“What is thy name, brave Prince?” she asked.
“René de Bar,” he said.
“What!” the Maid replied, “the noble Duke of Bar, the gallant son of
good Queen Yolande of Anjou. You shall be my escort into France.”
With that she laid firm hold of the heavy lance, offered by a young
esquire, placed it correctly in stay, and smartly gathered up the reins.
Saluting Dukes Charles and René, she drove the heels of her wooden shoes
into the horse’s sides, and dashed round and round the courtyard, the lance
in position, and then out into the open. Astonishment marked each noble
countenance, and then loud applause greeted this quite unexpected display;
it enlisted to her cause most of the spectators, who had meant to cry down
the girl’s ineptitude, but now were perfectly ready to follow her. With
difficulty Jeanne reined in her mount, and slowly cantered into the
courtyard again. Saluting in correct knightly fashion the Duke, her
Sovereign, and beckoning René once more to her side, she dismounted with
his help, rendered up her lance, and fell at Charles’s feet.
The Duke gently raised the palpitating, girlish form, and aloud
exclaimed: “May God grant the accomplishment of thy desires! I see thou
hast both courage and intelligence.” Jeanne then turned to René, and, laying

her trembling hand upon his arm, looked up innocently but intently with her
great brown eyes, into his open, truthful face, and said: “You, my Prince,
will help me, I am sure. There is none other here in whom I know I can put
my whole trust. You are like the blessed Michael who speaks to me and
strengthens me. You are a Christian knight; you will lead me into France.”
The Maid’s partiality for René de Bar gave rise, unworthily, to evil gossip
with respect to their mutual relations. She was attracted to him by the tales
of the country-side. Domremy was so near to the scenes of his military
achievements in Lorraine that news of him and his prowess affected greatly
the younger folk. The fact that he was the husband of their Princess
Isabelle, “the Pride of Lorraine,” greatly added to his local fame.
The noble company at the castle moved into the hall of audience, and
there Jeanne laid before them fully all her loyal aims—heaven-directed, as
she said. She told them, too, the story of the “Voices,” and craved their
assistance in her enterprise. “We will traverse France together,” she
exclaimed, “until we find King Charles. We will crown him at Reims, and
we will then cast out our country’s enemies. Saints Michael, Catherine, and
Margaret, will protect us and our homes!”
This amazing speech by a young country girl roused general enthusiasm,
and the mysterious magic of her voice and manner disarmed all opposition.
Each belted knight drew forth his steely blade, and, tossing it on high,
swore to be her henchman. “Vive la nostre Royne! à bas les Anglois!” they
cried aloud together. These acclamations hurtled stridently through gallery,
way-ward, and postern, and away they flew in increased volume past the
portcullis, till every citizen in Nancy and the labourers in the fields around
joined in the ecstatic chorus: “Vive la nostre Royne Jeanne!” Rich and poor,
noble and simple, and the children, too, pressed into the castle precincts to
catch a sight of the humble yet brave messenger of God, and perchance to
touch her person or her dress, seeking infection from the virtue and valour
which possessed her. Jeanne’s reception and recognition at Nancy Castle
attained the proportions of a Bretagne pardon. Church-bells clanged for her,
priests blessed her, and relics of saints were exposed with the Blessed
Sacrament on her behalf.

JEANNE D’ARC EXPELLING GAY WOMEN FROM HER CAMP
From an Illuminated MS. National Library of Paris
To face page 152

Duke René, on his part, showed no hesitation in accepting the high
honour the inspired Maid had paid him. He kissed her hand, a peasant’s
hand,—strange act for a royal knight!—smitten with the girl’s piety and
devotion; he, too, was religiously affected. Jeanne became an heroic figure
in his estimation. What clean-minded lad is there, or has ever been, who is
not marvellously affected by a handsome, dashing girl, irrespective of her
rank in life? What traces some have seen of a tenderer passion still than

youthful admiration were surely hard to diagnose in that first burst of
emotional romance: it may have bloomed later, but René’s heart was in the
safe-keeping of Isabelle. Times and manners then lent colour to the
insinuation, possibly, for love and lovers were freer then than now from
social conventions. René departed for Bar-le-Duc, to prepare for the
expedition. He gave immediate orders to raise the siege of three fortresses,
Metz, Vézelise, and Vaudémont, and, calling off the troops encamped there,
he returned quickly to Nancy, to escort Jeanne to the King of France. He
found her arrayed in quasi-armour, with spurs on her mailed boots; her head
alone was uncovered, save for the glory of her abundant hair. She wore a
sash of white silk, the gift of Duchess Marguerite; her horse, too, had white
silken favours. The cavalcade started from the castle, René and Jeanne
riding side by side in front. Through byways they went,—an ever-
increasing host of armed men and camp-followers,—avoiding notice as best
they could, marching by night, resting by day, to avoid the scattered bands
of English foemen.
The pilgrimage,—for such it really was,—partook not only of a religious
and a warlike character,—for Jeanne insisted on attending Mass en route,
and prevailed upon her escort to say their daily prayers,—but it exhibited
elements of gaiety; with Duke René rode a company of minstrels, with
Jehan Durant of Bar as their leader. To him René paid 30 gold florins a
month—“to make warlike melody for keeping up my men’s brave hearts,”
he said. At Troyes, Jeanne and her escort were received rapturously; the
Bishop placed in her hand a white silken oriflamme, a banner made by
ladies of the city, and censed and blessed her, and so they won their way to
Tours.
Before entering that ancient loyal city,—under the special charge of the
holy warrior St. Martin,—Jeanne requested René to send to the
neighbouring village of Fierbois, and “ask the curé of the Church of St.
Catherine for a sword which hangs,” she said, “over the high-altar.” It was a
famous weapon, although the doughty knight whose it had been was
unremembered. The blade was of finely tempered steel, and richly
damascened with golden crosses and silver lilies—the emblems of Jeanne’s
spiritual sponsors. The sword itself, in size and shape, was like St.
Michael’s own. She told René that the “Voices” had revealed this relic to
her, and had bidden her hang it on her hip. At Tours, also, René had news of

the whereabouts of the King, who, sad to say, was a fugitive in and out of
his own dominions and those of his neighbours. Charles VII. was at Chinon,
safe in its majestic castle—much like that of Windsor in extent, position,
and distinction.
It came certainly as a grievous shock to all that enthusiastic expedition to
find the King,—“poor as a church mouse and defenceless as a rabbit,”—
engaged in frivolities and excesses. The Court at Chinon was the maddest
and the merriest in France. Duke René, true to his promise, at once sought
out the King, and arranged an interview with the Maid of Domremy,
although His Majesty at first refused “to be troubled with a country wench.”
The meeting was held in the Grand Logis of the enceinte of the Château du
Milieu. Chinon, indeed, had three castles connected with one another: The
Château de St. Georges was a sort of advanced fortress, built by Henri
Plantagenet (Henry II. of England) in the twelfth century, but greatly
dilapidated 300 years later; the Château du Milieu, the most important part
of Chinon, contained the royal apartments; and the Château de Couldray,
the most ancient, dating from the time of the heroic Thibaut le Tricheur,
early in the tenth century. Henry II. died in the Grand Logis, where King
Charles VII. had his temporary residence. In the Salle du Trône, with its
vast chimney-piece of sculptured stone and its famous painted windows, the
King summoned his courtiers, and, disguised as an ordinary noble of the
Court, he mingled with them, giving out as his reason that he should “test
the wench’s power of divination. If she picks me out at once, then I will
hear what she has to say; if not, I won’t have anything to do with her.”
Jeanne was brought into the splendid apartment, filled with the pageantry
of France, and dazzling enough to have disturbed any ordinary girl’s
equanimity. She made, taught by René, an obeisance to the empty throne,
and then he told her she must find the King among the company. Without a
moment’s hesitation she went straight up to the Sovereign incognito, bowed
low, and said softly: “Sire, you are Charles the Dauphin.” Very much
astonished by Jeanne’s appearance and demeanour, and still more by her
certainty as to his identity, Charles acknowledged himself, and, leading the
unabashed damsel with René aside into the embrasure of a window, he
asked her to give him her message. This Jeanne did with candour and
emphasis, and furthermore astounded “the Dauphin,” as she persisted in
calling him,—he had not been crowned King, of course,—by “revealing,”

as he told René afterwards, “certain secrets known only to myself and
God.” What these “secrets” were has puzzled curious inquirers. Probably
they concerned happenings during the King’s youth, and affected the
question of his legitimacy. He, too, was at one time proposed as the
husband of the “Pride of Lorraine,” the heiress Isabelle. Anyhow, as known
to Jeanne d’Arc, they were the usual exaggerations of Court and country
gossip. Kings, knights, and ladies, and their doings, ever cause peasants
topics for discussion.
“Gentle Dauphin,” the Maid said, “I am sent to you to tell you that you
shall be crowned at Reims.” The Court was divided; part held with la
Trémouille, the Chancellor, against Jeanne’s pretensions, some of the baser
sort attempted to make sport of her rusticity, but the majority sided with
Duke René, who was now more than ever impressed with the bearing of his
“Queen.”

II.

All sorts of plans were propounded to test the virtue and the devotion of
the young Domremy shepherdess. René and those of his following
denounced most of them as indecent and preposterous, but he allowed two
inquiries to be instituted: one with reference to Jeanne’s orthodoxy in
religion, and the other with respect to her personal chastity. The King
approved both these expedients, and confided to René,—youth though he
was,—their superintendence and execution.
Still acting as Jeanne’s escort, René took her and a number of Court
chaplains, together with the worthy Curé of Domremy and Sieur Laxaert,—
both of whom had been sent for from Lorraine,—to Poitiers, for
examination by a special conclave of Bishops and theologians. Poitiers was
famous for its divinity schools and its École de Droit, wherein thousands of
students were instructed in doctrinal matters and subjects of metaphysical
science. The Holy See had there an office of the Congregation of Rites and
a permanent secretariate of hagiology. The quaint old capital of Poitou was
also renowned for the shrine of St. Radegonde, which attracted annually
vast numbers of pilgrims to kiss Le Pas de Dieu, Christ’s footprints, where
he stood communing with his gentle servant. Radegonde and Jeanne had

ground for mutual sympathy. Perhaps Jeanne knew the story of her
prototype.
Do what they would, the holy men of Poitiers could not make Jeanne
deviate ever so little from the thread of her story. “The Voices,” she said,
“speak to me daily, and I feel that my three saints are with me constantly.”
She answered all their questions fearlessly, and very greatly were they
impressed by her sincerity and amazed at her knowledge of divinity. No
flaw was to be discovered in her orthodoxy, nor did she yield at all to
insinuations of witchcraft. Indeed, the whole assembly was affected by her
religious enthusiasm, and a careful précis was preserved of all that
transpired during the examination. This was, in truth, the first step to the
beatification of St. Jeanne d’Arc.
Returning to Chinon, the Maid awaited her second ordeal—the
inquisition by a panel of matrons. This delicate business was taken in hand
by Queen Yolande and certain ladies well known for probity and prudence.
Jeanne submitted herself gladly enough to the “good mother” of her true
knight, René d’Anjou and Bar. They speedily reached a decision respecting
the character of the Maid of Domremy. Emphatically they repudiated all
suggestions of immorality, and declared that Jeanne d’Arc was a virgo
intacta, “as chaste in mind and body as the Holy Virgin herself.” “La
Pucelle,” as they styled her, “is,” they affirmed, “a child of God, the
peculiar charge of St. Catherine and St. Margaret, whose saintly virtues she
desires to cultivate. She is no witch, nor in the pay of any evil-minded
persons. She is directly inspired by God, and St. Michael is her protector.”
This testimony Queen Yolande delivered personally to King Charles, and
persuaded him to see the Maid once more and converse more fully with her.
The result of this intercourse was amazing: Charles became another man.
The persuasions of his faithful and devout consort, Queen Marie, had
completely failed to rouse him, and the exhortations of Queen Yolande had
no more than excited his curiosity, but the village maid from Lorraine
succeeded in inspiring the trifling, inept Sovereign with new life and
energy. He sent for René, and named him his lieutenant, and recommitted
“La Pucelle” to his care. With the young Duke was his trusty friend and
Mentor, Armand Barbazan, one of the most perfect soldiers and gentlemen
in France, the precursor of another knight “sans peur et sans reproche”—
Bayart. Together they elaborated a plan of campaign which would be in

obedience to the mysterious “Voices” of “La Pucelle.” This they submitted
to la Trémouille, Dunois, “le Bâtard,” and La Hire, Charles’s trusted
counsellors. It was the latter, probably, who uttered that veiled rebuke to the
King: “Sire, I never knew any Prince so happy in his losses as you!”
These sapient commanders agreed that the first move in the new
operations was the raising of the siege of Orléans. The King acquiesced; he,
too, had done his part, for he had, upon his own initiative, detached the
Duke of Burgundy from his alliance with the English, and had thus very
materially prepared the way to Reims and his coronation. Jeanne d’Arc was,
of course, apprised of this decision, and she was asked what part she
proposed to take. After a night-long vigil in the grand old church of St.
Maurice, where she held communion with the “Voices,” she told René that
she should be by his side “as leader of the vanguard.”
The Maid had done very much upon the forced march from Nancy to
Chinon to reform the discipline and the freedom of the soldiers. She forbade
swearing and the use of strong drink. Gambling of every kind, and resort to
fortune-telling mummers, she penalized, as well as every other illicit
distraction. She expelled in person les filles de joie—the gay women who
hung upon the fringe of the army and demoralized both officers and men.
Daily she insisted upon Mass being celebrated on the field of march, and
moved each man to offer his own orisons upon his bended knee. Among her
immediate attendants were priests and acolytes—strange comrades,
perhaps, for Duke René’s minstrels; but, then, the two cults,—Religion and
Chivalry,—were ever in intimate affinity: all-honoured Blessed Mary first,
and the saints of God, and all respected the persons of the weaker sex
around them.
It was a well-found, well-disciplined, and well-led army that left the
sheltering battlements of Chinon on April 29, 1429—it was a momentous
move. Some in river barges, some in saddle, some afoot, traversed the
lovely spring-smiling valley of the Loire. Forest echoes were awakened and
church-bells set chiming in response to holy litanies of Church and lilting
songs of chivalry. Peasants put lighted candles on the lintels of doors and
windows of their rude hovels; every castle and manoir displayed their
banners and boomed their guns en route. In the churches the Host was
exposed on decorated altars, and Miserere sung.

Before bidding farewell to King Charles, La Pucelle,—fully armed, cap-
à-pie, in burnished steel armour of Zaragoza damascened with gold,
wherein she had been clothed by Queen Yolande’s royal hands,—took her
place upon the foot-pace of the high-altar of St. Maurice. She placed her
white oriflamme and her crimson-sheathed sword of Fierbois upon the
sacred stone for episcopal benediction, and then, dedicating her mission and
herself once more solemnly to the God of battles, assumed her trophy and
her weapon. Led by René, she slowly passed down the nave of the grand
old church, and out by the great portal, whence, mounting her strong white
charger, she rode off amid enthusiastic plaudits and many hearty prayers, to
put herself at the head of the French host, and thus awaited the signal to
advance.

JEANNE D’ARC AT THE SIEGE OF ORLÉANS
From a Fresco by E. Lepenveu. Pantheon, Paris
To face page 160

What a thrilling scene it must have been! Nothing in modern warfare
could ever equal in circumstance and emotion that pageant pilgrimage. It
was the last hope of France going forth to conquer or to die, led by a young
shepherd-girl and a youthful royal knight. La Pucelle’s absolute reliance on
the help of God, her remarkable courage, and the spell she had cast over the
King, his army, and his Court, were all rendered more convincing to the
common mind by the magic of her personal appearance. She was hailed as

“Nostre Royne en blanche!” The bright sun shone upon her resplendent
white armour, and the sharp breeze unfurled her snow-white banner; her
white charger, too, enhanced the tout ensemble. She rode the most
conspicuous object in that dazzling cavalcade, and no wonder her followers
regarded her as almost supernatural.
At Tours and at Blois “Stations” were made for absolution, and from the
latter place Jeanne caused René, in her name, to write an ultimatum to the
Duke of Bedford, the English Regent of France and Generalissimo of the
English army. She ordered him and his co-commanders to cease devastating
fair France, sorely stricken as she was, and to avoid the clash of arms by
retiring before her Heaven-directed forces. “Thou hast had,” she said,
“noble Duke, thy fill of human bleed. Seek now the Divine pardon, for
nothing shall stay me till I have planted my banner upon the walls of
Orléans. Give back to me the keys of all the towns you have seized, destroy
no more property, repent and retire.”
Alas for human foresight! human quarrels mar heroic achievements: la
Trémouille, Dunois, and La Hire were not at one with one another—each
sought his own; but that being impossible, all three determined that they
would master René, Barbazan, and Jeanne. La Pucelle had made up her
mind to approach Orléans from the right bank of the Loire; but her rivals
led their troops to the other side, whence the fortifications could only be
reached by crossing the impregnable bridge or by boat. Jeanne, however,
was not to be denied, and she determined to make an assault at once and at
all costs. Seeing herself misled, she summoned René once more for council,
and Guy de Laval, a young knight,—second only to René in devotion to La
Pucelle,—joined the deliberations. A storming-party was chosen,—
regardless of the opposition of the three churlish commanders,—and Jeanne
put herself at its head without any hesitation. Confidence and enthusiasm
prevailed: Jeanne stood upon the broken bridge whilst René and Guy
hammered at the portcullis; and thus upon May 8 Orléans was captured.
Among the wounded was the Maid herself, not severely, to be sure, but the
sight of her blood lent frenzied prowess to her soldiery. With her escort she
rode through the streets crowded with famished, suffering people, who
blessed,—nay, almost worshipped,—her. She halted at the cathedral of
Sainte Croix, and held communion with the “Voices,” and then she went to
rest awhile in the humble abode of Sieur Jacques Bouchier, an honest

citizen attached to the suite of the Duke of Orléans. René lodged at the
ducal palace.
The English withdrew to Paris, where a truce was agreed to by Louis,
Cardinal de Bar, in the name of his nephew, Duke René—a very singular
arrangement, but it was the efficient cause of a general suspension of
hostilities. Charles VII. called a council of war at Blois, which decided that,
as the way was now absolutely open, La Pucelle should fulfil her
mysterious but triumphant mission by conducting “the Dauphin” to his
coronation.
A great wave of patriotism swept over France. Men asked one another
whether this was not the prelude to deliverance from 300 years of foreign
aggression, and the first step towards the reformation of civil disorder.
Charles rose to his magnificent opportunity, and rallied all the French
Sovereigns in a league of peace and stability. Even the implacable Duke of
Burgundy, who hated René de Bar and Charles de Lorraine irreconcilably,
was minded to join in the general rapprochement. La Pucelle dictated a
letter to him, conjuring him to renounce his petty jealousies for the love of
Christ and St. Mary, to make his peace complete with King Charles of
France, and to turn his hand against the common enemy. “Come,” she said,
“with us to Reims, there to cement the good-will of all good men in
France.” The Duke actually made some preparations for the journey, but at
the eleventh hour pride got the better of his reason, and his hand never
grasped those of his brother Sovereigns nor that of La Pucelle.
Notwithstanding all France was en route to Reims that July, attracted
magnet-like by the Maid’s white steel mail and oriflamme.
The Cathedral of Reims,—whose marvellous “Glory of Mary” over the
great western portal Viollet le Duc called “the most splendid piece of
Gothic architecture in the world,”—had been the coronation theatre of all
the Kings of France since Henry I. in 1027; but no such ceremony had
equalled in interest and in grandeur that of July 17, 1429. The summer sun
awoke betimes the loyal citizens and the thousands of strangers within their
gates; the genial morning breeze ruffled out gay banners and pageant
garlands which decorated lavishly each house and street, and soon the
world and his wife were on foot to the cathedral.

There was certainly very much more than a mere suspicion of fin bouquet
in that fresh morning air; each worthy had filled his flask with generous vin
de la montaigne, with which to quaff jovially the good healths of Charles
and Jeanne and René, inseparable in the popular mind. “Le Roy, La Pucelle,
et le preux Cavalier”—that was the toast.
What a motley crowd it was! Some, too, of the hated English were there,
courageously incognito; but, then, Reims was quite as cosmopolitan in the
fifteenth century as she is in the twentieth, with her 30,000 Yorkshire and
Worcestershire wool-weavers. Probably, however, no forced Yorkshire
rhubarb found its way then, as now, into the vats of the vintners!
It was a well-dressed crowd, for St. Frisette,—one of the patrons of the
city,—has all along had her devotees, and no coiffeurs are so famous as
those of her romantic cult. Indeed, her influence in fashion is for ever
memoralized by the costumes and headgear, correctly chiselled, of the
statues of the cathedral.
Saints, prophets, kings, and queens, in stone, high up in the galleries of
the exterior of the cathedral, looked down approvingly, or the reverse, upon
the rare show and its spectators. The gargoyles of Reims were ever famous
for their unusual benignity. They were all animation and sparkled in the
sunshine; merriment became emphatic within the floriated arches of the
buttresses. In each a laughing angel in stone was exercising her witchery
and adding heavenly hilarity to the general good-humour. The whole sacred
building was en fête; it is still the merriest building in Christendom; its
sculptured stones have imbibed the effervescence of rare champagne for
centuries!
Within the sacred building all was solemn and restrained. Resplendent
gem-like glass of the thirteenth century, skilfully leaded in the clerestory
windows of the nave, produced a chiaroscuro of scintillating coloured light,
wherein the spirits of the mighty and the beauteous dead were mustering to
take, unseen, their sympathetic parts in the gorgeous functions of the day.
Freshly-worked tapestries, covering the aisle walls, shared with the vitreous
glories the telling of pageant stories of religion and romance.
The “Sacré,” or coronation, of King Charles was an unique ceremonial.
Supported upon either hand by the most distinguished Sovereign Princes of
France,—Louis III., King of Sicily and Duke of Anjou, and his brother

René, Duke of Barrois and heir-consort of Lorraine,—he passed
majestically up the nave under the heavy golden canopy of state. Another
Anjou Prince, Charles, Duke of Maine, nephew of Louis and René, bore the
monarch’s train—his cousins all. The Grand Peers, with one exception,
Burgundy, marched alongside in sovereign dignity and pride. Strange it was
that no royal ladies graced the auspicious sacring. Queen Marie bore no
part; she, indeed, remained at Bourges, and recited her “Hours” in solitude.
Neither Queen Yolande of Sicily-Anjou nor Duchess Isabelle of Bar-
Lorraine was present, but the place of First Lady was, for all that, occupied
by a “Queen,” the Queen of the coronation—“la Royne blanche—Jeanne.”
Such a “Queen” had never stood beside a Sovereign kneeling for his crown
before the high-altar of Reims. The fabled fame of saintly Queen Clotilde
paled before the brilliant triumph of plain Jeanne d’Arc. How she bore
herself in this her hour of miraculous victory, and what part she took in the
stately ceremonial, historians have scantily related, and painters only
imaginatively recorded: no précis has come down to us, no artist made a
sketch upon the spot.
Immediately after the King and his royal supporters walked with dignity
La Pucelle, in her flashing white armour. In her right hand she bore, at the
salute, the crimson-sheathed sword of St. Catherine of Fierbois. Her head
was bare, save for her lustrous locks of hair; but some pious souls thought
they saw a saint’s nimbus around her brow; it was, perhaps, a ring of sunny
halo—a reflection from her mail of steel, or a coronal of coloured glories
shot through the stained-glass windows. By the Maid’s side marched her
young and true esquire, Louis de Contes, bearing unfurled her magic
oriflamme.
It was said that Jeanne had not intended to take any part in the actual
coronation of her Sovereign; it was quite enough for her that Charles and
she had entered Reims together. She was resting quietly and prayerfully,
communing with her patron saints, and listening, as was her daily wont, of
course, to the “Voices,” within her modest chamber in the humble hostelry,
—now the Maison Rouge,—where her parents from Domremy had put up,
when René and a Sovereign’s escort clattered up to the door and
commanded in the King’s name the Maid’s presence within the cathedral.
At once she donned her armour, and, giving René her hand, she walked
with him across the cathedral place to where the King was awaiting her.

“The people,” it is recorded, “looked on with awe and wonder. Thus had
actually come to pass the fantastic vision that floated before the eyes of the
young village girl of Domremy, and had thrilled all France.” When La
Pucelle had taken up her station on the royal daïs, she grasped her white
silken banner in her right hand, saying to those around her: “This oriflamme
hath shared the dangers: it has a right to the glories!” That ensign of victory
still towers up aloft in the nave of Reims Cathedral, above the very spot
where Jeanne stood and Charles was crowned—an abiding mascot of faith
and chivalry. We may well imagine the heroine casting her eyes over that
splendid temple of God and its occupants, and resting at last mesmerically
upon the glorified figures of her three beloved holy ones beaming down
upon her from the choirs of saints in the clerestory windows. St. Michael,
St. Catherine, and St. Margaret, were all there, and their Master, too, for out
and away from the empyreal realm, and beyond the burning sun of heaven,
for the coronation of Charles VII. of France at Reims was the apotheosis of
Jeanne d’Arc of Domremy. “The glory of God,” as some said who saw her,
“there transformed the village maid into a bride of Christ”—a substantial
Queen of Heaven.
Immediately after the anointing, the coronation, and the other ritual acts,
were complete, Jeanne knelt down before her King, her eyes brimful of
tears, and said softly to him: “Gentle King, now is fulfilled the pleasure of
God. I pray you thank Him humbly with me, and let us thank, too, the good
saints Michael, Catherine, and Margaret, who have so wonderfully aided us.
Now my mission to you, my King, is fulfilled, I pray you release me, that I
may depart with my parents to my simple home. One thing only I crave: it
is that my beloved village shall be free for ever from taxation, and that their
land and tenements shall be retained by my people. Sire, I bid you
farewell.”
A few days subsequent to the coronation, Charles held a council of war at
Reims to decide the plan of operations against the enemies of France, and
he again sent René to the Maid’s lodging to bid her attend. “You have,” said
the King to Jeanne, “not yet quite fulfilled the task you set yourself. The
English still possess our gates. I need your presence and your services to rid
France of her foes.” The Maid, sad at heart that more bloodshed had to
deluge the soil of the devastated land, had no choice but to resume her
martial garb, and once more to mount her war-steed. The council was

divided in opinion: some agreed with la Trémouille, Dunois, and La Hire,
and others sided with René and Barbazan,—with them was Jeanne,—and
they prevailed. An advance in force on Paris was the order of the day. Upon
August 13 René, with Jeanne, led the vanguard of the King’s forces across
the Marne. At Montpiloir a pitched battle was fought, wherein Jeanne
wrought terror in the breast of superstitious foemen, and René covered
himself with glory. The pick of the English army, under the Regent himself,
the Duke of Bedford, was worsted, after knightly encounters of noble
champions and prodigies of valour on both sides had been keenly scored.
Wherever the white oriflamme of La Pucelle chanced to be advanced, there
was panic; the English regarded her as a supernatural being whom no
human bravery could withstand. Defeat became a rout, and ten days after
leaving Reims the victorious French army followed Jeanne and René into
St. Denis and recovered the royal sepulchres.

THE CORONATION OF KING CHARLES VII. AT REIMS
CATHEDRAL
From a Fresco by E. Lepenveu. Pantheon, Paris
To face page 168

Next to popular and soldierly estimation of the heroism of La Pucelle,
was universal admiration for the courage and resourcefulness of the young
Duke de Barrois. He with his brother, King Louis of Sicily, were also the
champions of the knightly “Lists,” although Jeanne had prayed her warrior
not to risk his neck in such encounters. René, indeed, was the hero, as
Jeanne was the heroine, of that wonderful campaign. Only half the truth

was told of his abilities in that saying of the Maid: “René de Bar is worth
more than a squadron of cavalry!”
During these sanguinary operations two royal ladies, each in her castle
boudoir,—at Angers and at Nancy,—were devoured with anxiety and
apprehension: the mother and the wife of René—“good” Queen Yolande
and “fair” Duchess Isabelle. Their part was to watch and pray, for each was
exercising a lieutenant-generalcy for her absent hero. Very well could they
each have donned their coats of mail, like Jeanne d’Arc, for each was to the
manner born; but the closer ties and dearer of motherhood could not be
renounced. Queen Marie also played nobly the woman’s part; she had her
family cares also, and, now that her consort was like a lion roused, her tact
and love had much to do to restrain his ardour. Charles was not a soldier
born, nor had he been trained in military command, so his presence in the
field was fraught with risk and danger; his forte was in reserve. Whilst
Marie grasped the bridle of his charger, Agnes Sorel loosened the girdle of
his mail, and he quietly reposed at Loches.
La Pucelle now assumed another rôle. By heavenly advice she had been
content to guide the destiny of Charles; now her “Voices” bade her
command in person the army of France against the foe. The experienced
military leaders, one and all, were discounted, and on September 8 she took
actual command-in-chief, and opened the attack on Paris. It was on the
waning of that fête-day of the Virgin that Jeanne, in all her flashing panoply
of war, scaled the first ladder raised against the Port St. Denis; but, alas!
before she could place her foot upon the battlement her thigh was pierced
by an arrow, and she fell. Shades, too, of night were falling, and René
sounded the retreat, whilst many a gallant heart trembled more for La
Pucelle than for the temporary check. Helped by Guy de Laval and Jean de
Clermont, as constant as himself, the young chief of the staff placed
tenderly the wounded Maid upon a sumpter-horse, and himself led her to
the nuns’ quarters at the Chapelle de St. Denis hard by, and assisted to dress
her wound.
René rallied the flower of the French forces, and many a grizzled warrior
and many a beardless recruit felt the influence of his enthusiasm—whilst all
were ready to lay down their lives for La Pucelle, and mingle their blood
with hers. A quaint couplet says:

“La dit il mante la fière bande
Que le fier Prince René commande!”

Paris fell, and Charles came to his own, whilst René bade farewell to La
Pucelle, and hurried off to Bar-le-Duc, where brave and fair Isabelle was
holding her own and his with difficulty against unscrupulous and
unpatriotic factions. Jeanne felt the absence of her most trusty ally keenly,
and missed his energetic counsels; but she bravely resumed the conduct of
the war, instructed by her heavenly patrons. A crisis, however, was
approaching—a crisis which was momentous in its consequence for herself.
Called to give siege to Compiègne on May 24, 1430, she was taken
prisoner, and the hopes of France were wrecked. Without La Pucelle the
fight was impossible, and René had gone too!
The rest of the story of La Pucelle is, alas! soon told. What she said to
Charles, Duke of Lorraine, at the outset of her mission might well be said of
her now that she was hors de combat: “La lutte sera vive, mais j’ai le plan
précis pour triompher!” (The struggle will be fierce, but I have a plan of
certain victory!). It was said that Jeanne was captured by some archers from
Picardy, who crept unseen between the legs of her escort. By them handed
over to John, Duke of Luxembourg, she was sold to the English. The Tour
de la Pucelle still marks the spot. Not a hand in France was raised to rescue
the holy maiden. Charles himself, who owed all to her, seems to have
forgotten her very soon after his return to Loches and to the arms of his
“belle des belles,” Agnes Sorel. René was fighting for his own in Lorraine
and Bar, and could do nothing for his heroine. La Pucelle was taken from
fortress to fortress, each prison being more fearsome than the last. She was
subjected to insult and injury, treachery and outrage, and, deserted by
everyone, she remained reliant only upon God. Her trial as an enemy and a
sorceress was a mockery; even her own people turned against her; her
straightforward answers and her superhuman fortitude baffled her judges.
At last she was condemned and shut up in a cage of iron, her feet fettered
with irons, and her body stripped almost to nakedness. Alas that God,
whose devoted servant she was, should have destined her to this last stage
of despair! Through all her bitter trials and sufferings she maintained an
undaunted demeanour. Were her “Voices” hushed now that she prayed for
death? When some English bigots approached to taunt her, she answered

meekly: “Je sais bien que les Anglois me feront mourir” (I know perfectly
well that the English will put me to death).
A year’s captivity and cruelty, harsh and revolting, found the spotless,
unselfish, and pious “Maid of Orléans” in her twentieth year—alas! so
young to die—a human wreck; but, mercifully, an end was put to her
sufferings at Rouen on May 30, 1431. Burnt to death in the market-place,—
calling upon Jesus, Mary, Michael, Catherine, and Margaret,—her fiendish
murderers hardly allowed the fire to cool before they raked up her poor grey
ashes, and then cast them with maledictions into the swirling Seine. So
perished Jeanne d’Arc, the child of God, the deliverer of her country. Now
her place is among the saints: she is St. Jeanne d’Arc.
It was said that her heart was found intact after the fire had burnt itself
out, and that as one stooped to pick it up a white dove fluttered before his
face!
Ill news travels apace. René de Bar et Lorraine heard of the tragedy at
Rouen, and was broken-hearted. He dismissed his captains, his courtiers,
and his minstrels, and shut himself up in his castle at Clermont, where he
chided his soul with tears and fastings. His was the bitter cry: “Ma Royne
blanche, Jeanne, est mort—helas! ma Royne est mort!”
The heart, too, of Charles, the King, reproached him before he died; he
could never really have forgotten La Pucelle. A little girl was born to him
and Queen Marie six months after Jeanne’s martyrdom; her name was
“Jeanne,” as he said, “en reconnaissance et pour mes péchés.”
In the Register of Taxes the space against Domremy was left vacant until
the great revolution, except for the entry: “Néant, à cause de la Pucelle.”
Her parents’ cottage is still preserved, although the Bois Chènus is no more.
The memory of Jeanne d’Arc will never die.

CHAPTER VI
MARIE D’ANJOU—“LA PETITE REINE DE BOURGES”

I.

“The little Queen of Bourges,”—so called partly in derision, partly in
pity,—but all the same one of the noblest and best Queens who ever shared
the sovereign throne of France: “noble,” not so much in gradation of rank as
in distinction of character; “best,” or “good,” not in the sense of mock
righteousness, but in the interpretation of whole-heartedness.
Marie d’Anjou was the eldest daughter of King Louis II. and Queen
Yolande of Sicily-Anjou-Naples-Provence. Born at Angers, October 14,
1404, she and her younger brother, René, four years her junior, grew up to
love one another almost distractedly. So intense was this fraternal affection
that their solicitous and resourceful mother viewed it with apprehension,
fearing its consequences,—if left unchecked or undiverted into a more
natural channel,—the cloister. It was no part of the excellent training the
Queen provided for her offspring to hide their futures under the garb of
religion; she had lofty ambitions for all her children, and those ambitions
she lived to see realized.

MARIE D’ANJOU
From a Painting of the School of Jean Fouquet (1460). National Gallery,
London
To face page 174

Marie d’Anjou’s betrothal and marriage to Charles de Ponthieu, Dauphin
of France, in 1422, was a supreme master-stroke of statecraft which only
such a remarkable mother and Queen as Yolande of Sicily-Anjou could
effect. She, with all her prescience, could not have forecast the future of
France proper and her many sovereign sister States, which was, in its happy

fruition, due to that far-seeing nuptial contract. Marie’s son, Louis XI.,
made France one nation much as she is to-day.
When Queen Yolande so anxiously took charge of the young Dauphin,
and had him educated with her own children, she was quite prepared for
any mental and physical development in her son-in-law which might be
expected to result from his unhappy parentage. No doubt she did what was
possible to correct faults of heredity and to develop such latent excellencies
as had not been wholly vitiated in the child’s infancy. Still, we may be sure
she had a heart full of trouble as she witnessed the degeneration of her son-
in-law from paths of probity and virtue.
In truth, the marriage of Princess Marie was, in a strict sense, a sacrifice
and an oblation. The mating of her dearly loved daughter, a girl of unusual
promise, with a youth of evil ancestry and unworthy predispositions must
have cost the devoted mother much.
Marie was remarkable for rare beauty of person—pale, with perfect
features; tall, with a graceful figure, and distinguished by her regal carriage.
In personal appearance Charles was unattractive: his figure was
insignificant and ill-formed; his head was unduly large; he had large feet
and hands, whilst his legs were short and bowed, and this caused an
ungraceful gait; his face was sickly-looking and pock-marked, with a
prominent nose, a wide and sensual mouth, and a heavy jaw; his eyes were
small and somewhat crisscross; he had coarse dark hair and heavy
eyebrows. If his destiny had not been a throne, he might just as well have
found his career in a stable. With all these personal disadvantages, Charles
was naturally warm-hearted and affectionate; he was possessed of a cool
judgment, very affable and considerate, and, when roused, a very lion in the
way. The marks of his evil mother’s influence never left him; the crushing
of his natural inclinations and opportunities in childhood warped and
unbalanced his mental calibre.
It was said scoffingly of him by those who were bereft of feeling: “Le
Dauphin est un fou, fils d’un insensé et d’une prostituée.”[A] Jean Juvenal
des Ursins perhaps went too far in the opposite direction, for in 1433 he
wrote in his “Chronicle” concerning the King: “Sa vie est plaisante à Dieu;
il n’y-a-en aucun vice.”[B]

[A] “The Dauphin is a poor fool, the son of a madman and a prostitute.”
[B] “His manner of life is pleasant to God; he has no vice.”

The first notice we find of the life of Marie d’Anjou, however, does not
refer to her union with Charles VII., but her betrothal, when only five years
old, to Jehan de Beaux, Prince of Taranto, her kinsman. He was the son of
the Prince of Taranto who accompanied King Louis II., Marie’s father, on
his romantic journey to Perpignan, in 1399, to welcome Princess Yolanda
d’Arragona. Descended in direct line from Charles, first Duke of Anjou,
younger brother of St. Louis IX., his grandfather was Philippe, second son
of Charles III. and Marguerite of France. Through the last-named Princess a
sad stain besmirched the shield of the silver lilies. Jehanne and Blanche de
Luxembourg, daughters of Otto IV., Count of Burgundy, married
respectively King Philippe the “Tall” and King Charles the “Fair” of
France. Charged with witchcraft, they were imprisoned for life in the
Château de Dourdan, where they were tonsured, scourged, and tortured—
although they were the most beautiful and most highly cultured women of
their day—together with their sister-in-law Marguerite, but she returned to
her husband in 1314. Their terrible experiences were made traditional in the
family, and, naturally, did not conduce to success in courtship.
No doubt the idea which fixed itself in the minds of Louis II. and
Yolande with respect to this betrothal was the strengthening of the claims of
Anjou, of the younger line, upon the crown of Naples, by the alliance of the
two branches of the house. Why this arrangement was set aside, or when, it
is hard to say. Some chroniclers aver that the young Prince was drowned at
sea off Taranto; others, that he had different views; and, more likely than
all, others attribute the renunciation to the action of Queen Yolande, who,
directly she had obtained charge of the person of the young Dauphin
Charles, determined a more brilliant match politically, if a less attractive
one psychologically.
Possibly Queen Yolande hardly realized, at the date of that auspicious
marriage, how its consummation would affect herself. High-toned as she
was, and assertive of Anjou’s prestige, she could not know that Queen
Isabeau’s absolute declension from rectitude would, by force of contrast
alone, throw her own worthy aims into emphatic prominence. That marriage
was the opening of the portals of imperial interest to the personal guidance
of the strongest mind and will in France. She became actually the power on

the throne, not behind it. Her hand directed the issues of life and death
between the rival Powers—France and England. Yolande became at once
the ruler of France and the dictator of her foreign policy. What has history
to say about all this? Nothing, or next to nothing. Historians,—the most
narrow-minded and most easily biassed of writers,—have not cared to trace
and teach the ethics of the personality of this ruler of men and States.
The genesis of the paramount influence of women in the public and
private life of France was undoubtedly in the reign of Charles VII. He was
successively in the hands of Isabeau, his unworthy mother; of Yolande, his
noble mother-in-law; of Marie, his much-enduring wife; and of Agnes
Sorel, his inspiring mistress. Happily for him, he was withdrawn early from
the immediate care of Queen Isabeau, but her intrigues later on brought out
the latent bad elements of his character. What saving grace was his, was his
through Yolande of Sicily-Anjou. His wife and his chief mistress were
given him for two distinct purposes: Marie kept the wolf from the door and
emboldened her faint-hearted spouse, whilst Agnes cheered his troubled
spirit and impelled his motive-power. There is a quatrain of Francis I. which
is interesting from the fact that his versification leaves it doubtful whether
Marie or Agnes was actually his good genius: he names both in the first
line:

“Gentille Marie (Agnès), plus d’honneur tu mérite,
La cause étant de France recouvrer;
Que ce que peut dedans un cloître ouvrer—
Close nonain ou bien dévot hermite.”
“Gentle Marie (Agnes), thou hast gained all honour,
Of France the new life thou wast inspirer;
But thou wast born to adorn the cloister,
Encloséd nun or dedicated sister.”

Marie and René d’Anjou and Charles de Ponthieu were educated
together, and for four years or more were inseparable companions. The
betrothal of Charles and Marie was effected at the Palace of the Louvre,
December 18, 1413, in the presence of the King and Queen of France and
of the King and Queen of Sicily-Anjou. Charles VI. was then still King of
France, and fully in possession of his senses. His troubles, political and

mental, ranged from 1417 to 1422, when he had become no more than
nominal Sovereign, driven from place to place, crushed, depressed, and
suffering. Until his malady became hopeless, he was noted for his nobility
of endurance, his chivalry of deportment, and his unselfish devotion to his
duty. His Don Quixotic sort of life, however, was a mixture of smiles and
frowns—joys and sorrows. Such a wife and mother as Queen Isabeau
proved herself to be was quite enough to shatter the patience and the peace
of the most stolid of men. There was not a more unhappy family in all
France than that of its principal Sovereign, nor a more miserable home than
that of its King.
Still, there were not wanting human touches which paint the character of
King Charles VI. in sympathetic colours. In the King’s room at the Castle of
Blois is a superb piece of tapestry, among many others, embroidered with
the “Story of the Seigneur and Châtelaine de Courrages.” The “Annales
Français” recount the following narrative: “The Seigneur de Courrages was
called upon by the Parliament of Paris to fight in the ‘Lists’ with a certain
Knight, Jehan Le Gris, for the honour of his wife, the Dame de Courrages.
During the absence of her spouse in the Holy Land, the fair châtelaine gave
her favours to an urgent lover, the Seigneur Le Gris, and he made love to
her, quite naturally, in return. King Charles VI. was presiding at a
tournament, and he noted the presence of the lady in question, but was
amazed at her effrontery; for she was seated, superbly attired, in her state
chariot, in view of the whole assemblage, whereas the custom of the time
should have found her upon her knees in her closet, praying for her good
man. The King despatched a herald to the impudent hussy, with a message
that ‘it is inconceivable that anyone lying under so grievous a reproach
should assume herself to be innocent till such time as that innocence shall
have been made apparent.’ The brazen dame was ordered at once to
dismount from her carriage and retire to her manoir. She was unwilling to
bow to the royal command, and, hearing of this, the King sent another
messenger, who was instructed to conduct the fair and frail delinquent
beneath a scaffold, where she was ordered to cry aloud to God for mercy,
and to the King for clemency. In the issue of arms, luckily for her, fortune
favoured her husband, who unhorsed his adversary, and, after pinning him
to the ground with his sword, compelled him to confess the villainies he had
committed with his wife. Then the unfortunate man was hurried off to the
scaffold,—beneath which Dame de Courrages was humbly kneeling,—and

there and then hung up by the neck by way of justification of his miserable
sweetheart.” What happened to the frail woman the chronicler has failed to
tell; probably the Seigneur de Courrages took his erring wife home and
administered a well-deserved flagellation in the privacy of his bedchamber,
and condemned her to a period of imprisonment in the family dungeon
upon a spare diet of bread and water! Such was the wholesome discipline
for marital infidelity in the days of chivalry!
The marriage of Charles, Count of Ponthieu, and Marie, Princess of
Sicily-Anjou, was solemnized at St. Martin at Tours, January 15, 1422. It
was a year of rejoicing in France, for on May Day her King by descent,
Charles VI., and her King by conquest, Henry V., entered Paris riding side
by side in a splendid triumph of peace. Charles’s reason had returned to him
with the return of happier days, and although the spectre of Isabeau was
beside him, he managed to retain his senses and his vigour until October 21,
when death mercifully heralded a new reign and a new régime in Paris.
The Dauphin and Dauphine spent their short honeymoon at Loches and
Bourges, whence they were called to attend the Kings in Paris, and there
they remained till Charles VI. died. Thereafter troubles once more
devastated fair suffering France: the peace was broken, and a broken band
of fugitives fled the capital. The Court sought refuge at Bourges.
“The King by misfortune in the warres grew so behindhand, both in fame
and estate, that amongst other afflictions hee was subject to reproach and
poverty, so that he dined in his small chamber attended only by his
household servants. Pothou and La Hire, coming to Châteaudun to ask for
succour, found him at table with no more than a rump of mutton and two
chickens. He had neither wine nor dessert, and only two attendants, whilst
his carriage had no relay of horses and only two grooms. He was
reproached for his love of fair Agnes (Sorel), but the Bishop of St. Denis
reported that hee loved her onely for her pleasing behaviour, eloquent
speech, and beauty; and that he never used any lascivious action unto her,
nor never touched her beneath the chin.”
The Comptes de la Royne Marie record that the King and Queen were
reduced to eat their meals off common pewter dishes, that they had little or
no change of linen, and that the Queen sold all her jewels to purchase food
and other necessaries. The townsfolk of the neighbourhood as well as the

nobility contributed liberally to their Sovereigns’ wants. Jacques Cœur of
Bourges in particular rendered them hospitality, for he was accustomed to
send in daily the royal supper at his own expense. Cœur was a merchant, a
jeweller, and a wine-grower, and waxed rich in trade, but never wavered in
his loyalty. He became Charles’s treasurer, but after advancing him nearly
300,000 gold crowns, he was for some unknown reason cast into prison and
condemned to execution and the confiscation of his goods. Queen Marie
pleaded for their faithful subject, and gained his reprieve, but Jacques Cœur
never recovered his liberty nor his property.
A gory stain was dashed upon the lily shield of France when the Duke of
Burgundy was basely slain by Tanneguy de Châtel in the King’s presence.
He had been one of Charles’s most devoted adherents, for he it was who, in
1418, carried off the youthful Dauphin, wrapped in a piece of arras, for
safety to the Bastile, and whence he was allowed to escape to Poitiers. It
was a time of terrible disaster. Paris was in open revolution, and all the
possessions of the Crown were threatened with destruction. The English
were marching all over France unopposed, for the French Court and
Government were divided by the feuds of rival leaders. On June 12 the
starving populace of the capital burnt the Hôtel de Ville, the Temple, and
prison. Women were seized, outraged, and killed, and 1,600 murdered
bodies were scattered in the streets and squares. The Count of Armagnac
was the chief supporter of the Dauphin’s party, but Queen Isabeau joined
hands with Jean “sans Peur,” Duke of Burgundy, against her husband,—
alas! now quite imbecile,—and her only son.
A peace was patched up, and it was arranged that the Dauphin and the
Duke should meet for mutual satisfaction at Montereau. The latter had no
suspicion of foul-play, and Charles had no inkling of what was in de
Châtel’s mind. The meeting was arranged upon the stone bridge crossing
the Seine, on September 10, 1419. There the Dauphin, in full armour,
awaited his rival’s approach. The Duke passed the two barriers on the
bridge assured by the words: “Come if you please, Monseigneur. Fear not;
the Dauphin is awaiting you.” At the young Prince’s feet the proud Jean
knelt and did homage, but Charles put out no hand to raise him graciously
nor paid him any compliment, but brusquely exclaimed: “Monseigneur, you
and the Queen have disgraced France and me. I command you to leave that
wicked woman alone and go back in peace to your dominions.”

The Duke, astounded, rose, and was about to offer some
uncomplimentary reply, when he was struck down by Tanneguy de Châtel
with his battle-axe, as he hissed out: “Thou art a traitor! Go thy way, base
Burgundy!” Twenty swords leaped from their scabbards and finished the
dastardly deed, and Charles, shocked beyond expression, mounted his horse
and galloped off. Queen Isabeau was at Troyes, where she had been exiled
by her son’s advisers, and the tragic death of her confederate roused the
whole fury of her nature. She assembled the chief citizens, and made them
an impassioned harangue:—
“Consider the horrors, faults, and crimes, perpetrated in this kingdom of
France by Charles, soi-disant Dauphin of Vienne. It is here and now agreed
that our son Henry, King of England, and our dear nephew, Philippe, Duke
of Burgundy, shall not enter into relations with the said Charles.”
The assassination of the Duke of Burgundy weighed heavily upon the
conscience of Charles; he never concealed his wish that his mother’s
colleague should come by his end, but he never put his desire into exact
words.
The year 1422 saw Marie d’Anjou seated, at least metaphorically, upon
the throne of France. Both Kings of France died soon after her marriage,—
Henry V. on August 31, and Charles VI. on October 21,—and Charles VII.
and Marie were proclaimed King and Queen of France at Mehun-sur-Yèvre
in Berry on November 10 following. They were crowned in Poitiers
Cathedral on Christmas Day, where the new King had established his
Parliament.

A BESIEGED CASTLE IN FRANCE
From a Miniature, MS. Fourteenth Century, “Valeur Maxime” British
Museum
To face page 184

The King and Queen made many progresses through their circumscribed
dominions. The first was in the summer of 1423, when they made a state
entry also into Angers, and heard Mass at the Cathedral of St. Maurice.
They presented to the Chapter two superb pieces of tapestry, depicting the
Old and New Testaments. The Queen’s brother, Louis III., was of course in
Italy, but the Duke of Bar-Lorraine and the Duchess Isabelle were there

supporting the Queen-mother Yolande in rendering gracious hospitalities;
the citizens provided a mystery-play, and the Court a tournament. The royal
couple were lodged in the castle, from the gateway of which Queen Marie
addressed the assemblage of people: “Vos citoyens et habitans de la ville
d’Angiers soyeant toujours loyaux et fidèles à vostre sovereyns, et aussi des
beaulx amis vers la couronne de France, laquelle je porte moi même.”[A]
Vociferous plaudits hailed this declamation, and both Queen Yolande and
Duke René made patriotic addresses.
[A] “You noble citizens and good inhabitants of this worthy city of Angers
were ever famous for loyalty and fidelity to your Sovereigns, and, moreover, the
best of friends to the Crown of France, which you see I wear.”

Five years later Charles and Marie entered Anjou and took up their
residence at Saumur, where the King received the homage of no less a
fellow-Sovereign than the Duke of Brittany, this being due to the tactful
policy of the Queen-mother. Charles also had a request to place before the
loyal Angevines: he wanted money and men to carry on the ceaseless
warfare against the English. In this he admirably succeeded, and through
Duke René he gained help from Lorraine and Bar besides.
Marie, though the consort of a fugitive penniless King, had a suite
worthy of herself and of her parentage and rank; the Queen-mother saw to
that. Her Controller was Hardoin de Mailly, and her Master of Horse
Jacques Odon de Maulevrier, a devoted friend of her brother, Duke René.
The Queen’s four Dames d’Honneur were Catherine Bourgoing, Aimée de
Beauvais, Philippe de la Rochefoucault, and Jeanne Sorel. Her Maids of
Honour were Marie du Couldray, Jeanne de la Grosse, Catherine de
Beauvais, Jeannett la Garrelle, Hervée Catherine de Montplaie, and Jehanne
Biardelle, with three quite young girls whose Christian names alone have
been preserved—Felize, Geffeline, and Jacquette—perhaps pet names.
Duke René, ever a liberal-minded and open-handed Prince, gave each of
his sister’s ladies a robe of richest aigneaulx fur, with crimson satin lining,
and twenty skins of martens for bordering their kirtle bodices. Each robe
cost 16 florins (= £12), and was supplied by the Queen-mother’s furrier at
Angers, one Martin Chebiton.
The immodest fashions set by Queen Isabeau and the ladies of her Court,
and their outrageous modes of headgear, did not go unrebuked by the better
sort of clergy. A very famous preaching friar, one Thomas Correcte, a

Carmelite monk from Brittany, in particular inaugurated a crusade against
feminine extravagances through the North of France and in Flanders during
the second decade of the fifteenth century. He further strenuously
denounced the dignified clergy who kept fashionable mistresses. He was
welcomed heartily by the burghers of the towns through which he passed,
and conducted to a special pulpit erected in the market-place, adorned with
rich hangings and a gigantic crucifix. Guards of honour and musicians were
at his service, and, in spite of opposition and natural predilections, the
clergy fell into line with the popular fancy, and rang their bells on his
arrival. His denunciations were quite in accord with the feelings of the
people, but they incited the rougher element to take the law into their own
hands. Squads of youths paraded the public thoroughfares in search of
errant dames, and no sooner had their gaze alighted upon a lady of degree,
coiffured à l’outrance, than a flight of stones, deftly aimed, quickly made
havoc of her headgear. The popular cry, “Un hennin! un hennin! à bas les
hennins!” produced a panic, so that the women dared hardly sally forth
from their own doors. It was said that the friar personally organized these
demonstrations, and even paid the lads to disenchant the fair sex by forcibly
pulling down their hideous superstructures. At all events, women with
dishevelled heads and disordered attire ran hither and thither helpless and
defenceless. The worthy and enthusiastic evangelist had, however, an
alternative fashion with which modest women might cover their heads and
breasts. He prescribed the universal habit of wearing plain chapelles, the
ordinary caps of peasant women. The raid, however, ceased to terrify the
determined votaries of eccentricity in dress, and, as Monstrelet, the
historian, pithily puts it, “Snails, when anybody passes near them, draw in
their horns; but when the danger is past they put them forth again.” The
hennin, so called by Friar Correcte, became still more gigantic and
grotesque, although Queen Marie, backed by her good mother, Queen
Yolande, made loud protests and refused their favours to transgressors.
With respect to indecency in dress, the preacher insisted upon running a
thick cord between the men and women of his audiences. The mixing of the
sexes in public he gravely denounced, and the bareness of women’s breasts
and the tightness of men’s hose excited his most eloquent tirades. The
reason of the cord he quaintly phrased: “I perceive that sly doings will be
going on!” The King of Sicily, Louis III., and Duke René, were quite in
accord with the friar’s philippics; but the “King of Bourges” was another

sort of man, and much of the coolness which existed between himself and
Queen Marie was due to her moderation in dress and quietness of manner.
Charles, it was said, chanced to hear the friar one day at Ponthieu, where he
was in residence, and ordered him to keep silence and depart. The friar
retired to his monastery after a year of eloquence and exertions, but his
animadversions upon the lives of the higher clergy led to his being
summoned to Rome, to answer to certain charges of breach of monkish
discipline and errors of doctrine. The poor man seems to have felt his
position keenly, so keenly, indeed, that to escape judgment he jumped out of
the window of his cell and decamped. Being quickly captured, he was
arraigned before the Holy Office of the Inquisition, and condemned to be
burnt as a heretic. Perhaps he deserved punishment for his unguarded
language, but he paid dearly indeed as a reformer of gay women’s fashions
and gross parsons’ passions!
The years 1427 and 1428 saw France plunged in warfare. King Charles
shook himself, metaphorically, and registered a vow that he would drive out
every “desecrating English dog.” He bestirred himself, and led forlorn
hopes here and there, only to meet with disaster; and then he gave way to
despair, and declared that he would do no more for France or for himself.
Queen Marie, with true Anjou-Aragon grit, chided him with his faint-
heartedness, and one day she surprised him greatly by appearing in a full
suit of armour and armed, and declared that “If you, Charles of France, will
not lead your troops, I will!” Her example was contagious, for within a
week scores of loyal, devoted women assumed mail and stood for the weal
or woe of France. These heroic doings were noised abroad, and possibly
they had effect in a very unexpected quarter, for in 1429 another heroine
appeared in armour from the eastern frontier of France, and made good
woman’s claim to military prowess. Thus quaintly wrote Monstrelet of her:
“In the course of this year (1429) a young girl called Jehanne, about
twenty years of age, and dressed like a man, came to Charles, King of
France, at Chinon. She was born in the village of Droimy, on the borders of
Burgundy and Lorraine, not far from Vaucouleurs. She had been for some
time an ostler and chambermaid at an inn, and had shown much courage in
riding horses to water and in other feats unusual for young women to do.
She called herself a ‘Maiden inspired by the Divine Grace,’ and said that
she was sent to restore Charles to his kingdom.”

Very little has been recorded of what Queen Marie felt and said
concerning that strange visitor. Nobody in all that recklessly gay Court at
Chinon viewed the coming of the maid of Domremy more eagerly or more
hopefully than did she. She had failed to rouse the King to strike a new
blow for his throne, it is true, but she anxiously prayed that this heaven-sent
village girl might be the means of doing so. The Queen gave La Pucelle a
most sympathetic welcome. The mysteries of devotion and the dictates of
religion had in her a very reverent disciple. Apartments were prepared for
Jeanne’s reception quite near her own boudoir and private oratory, and its
priest was placed at her disposal.
If Jeanne was dumbfounded at the spectacle of a King wholly apathetic
to the duties of his high station, and of a Court abandoned, in the midst of
dire disaster, to all the frivolities of the idle and the dissolute, she had at
least one solace. The beautiful and serious face of the young Queen was to
her a comfort and a stay. Looking from one bedizened beauty to another in
that fatuous assembly, her eyes fastened themselves upon the one figure that
was dissimilar to the rest,—the figure of a good woman, the daughter of the
good Queen Yolande. She looked to her like what she conceived of her own
saintly Margaret, of the Bois de Chènus. Marie received her unsophisticated
visitor with emotion. She entered fully into her story, and conversed daily
with her in private about herself, her home, her mission, and her “voices,”
and thus she gained the girl’s confidence and her love. If Jeanne had
conceived profound veneration for Queen Yolande,—she even called her
“my St. Catherine,”—her sentiments towards Queen Marie were those of
the most tender affection. Marie, so near her own age, so modest, so simple,
and so true, became Jeanne’s confidant and loving patroness. To Marie the
mere sight of the girl and her frank, girlish ways was quite sufficient, had
she sought for proof positive, to dispel from her mind any suspicions which
may have been forced upon her about Jeanne’s relations with her dear
brother, René de Bar. Of course, she knew him far too well to credit any
tales of faithlessness or dishonour on his part. He and she had been, till he
was carried off to Bar-le-Duc by the good Cardinal Louis de Bar, the very
dearest and most intimate of playmates in and out of school. Their
intercourse had never ceased; such never fails between kindred souls,
though parted by hemispheres. René was a just man still, and a true knight.
Jeanne likened him to her own St. Michael.

All through Jeanne’s ordeals,—first the open scoffs of the courtiers and
servitors at Chinon, then the covert jeers of the divines and busybodies at
Poitiers, and lastly the base insinuations of libertines and adventurers,—the
Queen stood by La Pucelle. Queen Yolande’s panel of matrons found
Marie’s tribute of the utmost value; she staked her royal prerogative upon
the girl’s absolute chastity, and the prying, posturing Court bowed to her
decision.
If Queen Yolande clothed the maid in shining armour within the great
Hall of Audience of Angers Castle, on the eve of the advance upon Orléans,
Queen Marie knelt with her in prayer in the solemn choir of Angers
Cathedral from Vespers to Compline. How much of her strength of will and
the promptness of her action Jeanne d’Arc gained from the whole-hearted
favour of these two good Queens the world may never know, but this much
we all can apprehend: that unselfish human sympathy is a more mobile
force than the uncertainties of Providence.
We can never know why Queen Marie was denied the satisfaction of
witnessing and sharing in the coronation of Charles at Reims. She was
living quietly at Bourges when the King set off for the metropolitical
cathedral under the conduct of La Pucelle and of her brother René. She was
prepared for the expedition, and her robes of state were ready for the
ceremony, when suddenly Charles commanded her to remain where she
was, saying that the march was full of dangers and quite impossible for the
Queen and her ladies. La Pucelle begged the King to recall his prohibitions,
saying that Queen Marie was quite as worthy as was he to receive a crown.
The poor Queen put by her finery,—perhaps not altogether sorrowfully,—
and went to reflect awhile at Gien upon the untowardness of human affairs
in general and the inconsequences of Charles in particular. Her parting with
Jeanne was affecting; Queen and peasant embraced each other
affectionately—and never more they met.

II.

After the disastrous battle of Bulgneville, Duchess Isabelle of Lorraine
set off to Vienne in Dauphiné, a province which ever remained faithful to
the royal house of France, where the Court of Charles VII. was established,
to claim his aid for her captive husband languishing at Bracon. In her train

went her fairest Maid of Honour, Agnes Sorel, just twenty years of age; she
was Mistress of the Robes to the Duchess. She made an immediate
impression upon the jejune King, who urged Isabelle to allow her to be
transferred to the suite of his consort—perhaps by way of quid pro quo.
Queen Marie added her entreaties to the monarch’s suit. She had failed
completely to rouse her husband; perhaps she thought Agnes would be more
successful. The Duchess would not hear of the arrangement, and the
beauteous Maid of Honour was anything but eager to be the creature of so
unattractive a master.
Happier days, however, dawned both for King René and for King
Charles, and jousts, pageants, and mystery-plays, were in full fling
everywhere. At Angers, in particular, everything was gay and merry for the
welcome of King René to his ancestral home,—after his duress at Tour de
Bar,—and of Queen Isabelle. Agnes Sorel was still attached to her royal
mistress, and, although unmarried, she numbered her lovers by the score.
Agnes Sorel, or Soreau, was born at Fromenteau, on the verge of the
forest of Fontainebleau, on May 17, 1409. Her father was the Sieur Jehan
Soreau, and her mother Catherine de Maignelais, who were quiet country
people and occupied in agricultural pursuits. She had a younger sister,
Jehanne, to whom she was devoted, and mothered her when Dame
Catherine died. Her uncle, Raoul de Maignelais, followed the profession of
arms, and made himself a name as a dauntless warrior in the service of King
Charles VI. He had an only daughter, Antoinette, born 1420, who, her
mother dying when she was very young, was confided to the care of her
aunt, Catherine Soreau, and was brought up by her with her own little
daughters. Nothing is positively known about Agnes’s girlhood, but in 1423
the two cousins entered the service of Isabelle, the Duchess of Bar-
Lorraine. Bar-le-Duc, ever since the advent of the famous Countess Iolande,
had been remarkable for the number of lovely damsels and comely youths
from all parts of France attached to the “Court of Love,” under the
patronage and maintenance of the Dukes and Duchesses. The young
Duchess appears to have taken a particular fancy to fair Agnes, due no
doubt to the girl’s physical beauty and mental brilliance. Few maidens at
that merry Court excelled her in good looks, grace of figure, and distinction
of deportment. Bourdigne, the Court chronicler, says “she was the most
lovely girl in France.” She sang divinely,—a natural gift,—and danced

bewitchingly, and gave promise of a splendid career. She was welcomed at
Chinon with delight both by the King and Queen.
Perhaps one reason why Agnes’s presence was so grateful to the taciturn
and indolent monarch was that she dressed so superbly, and yet so
tastefully. The Queen and her ladies were subject to strict Court sartorial
conventions, but the Demoiselle de Fromenteau knew no such restrictions.
One day “la Belle des Belles,” as everybody called her, appeared as
“Cleopatra,” another as “Diana,” and a third as “Venus,” and so on. Her
costumes were of the richest and the thinnest. Her abundant beautiful brown
hair, too, she dressed not only for the hennin à la mode,—bunched over the
ears or gathered into a chignon,—but à la calotte galonnée: frizzed out, or
en simple résille—in a net, or à tours, thrown round and round her head in
massive coils. Agnes was short of stature, but she made up for this by
wearing Venetian zilve, or high pattens, beautifully embroidered with silk
and pearls. Her decollétage was never vulgar or immodest, like that of the
King’s mother, but her well-formed bust was covered lightly by white lace
or thinnest gauze. A string of pearls usually embraced her well-shaped
throat. One article of clothing was peculiarly her own invention. Whilst the
ladies of the Court, and even Queen Marie herself, wore serge chemises,
hers were of fine Flemish linen. Very many of her tasteful fancies were
taken up by the ladies about her, and Queen Marie herself followed suit by
discarding the daily use of the hennin and the stiff and heavy fur borders of
her kirtle. She, too, had hair as fair as that of Agnes, and she was privately
quite as proud of it as was her Dame d’Honneur, for so “la Belle des
Belles” had become.

KING RENÉ AND HIS COURT
From a Miniature by King René in his “Breviary.” Musée de
l’Arsenal. Paris
To face page 194

A pretty story is told of “la Belle des Belles” with respect to the
melancholy moods of King Charles. One day Charles was more than
usually depressed, and, try how she would, Queen Marie could not cheer
him; so she sent for Agnes, who at once ran to her mistress, and, then
entering the King’s presence, knelt at his feet and fondled his knees. “Sire,”
she said, “when I was a very little girl a soothsayer told my mother that I

should be the plaything of a King who would be the most valiant in Europe.
I thought that your Majesty was such an one, but I find that I am mistaken.
Perhaps I ought to have sought the Court of Henry rather than that of
Charles!” The King frowned, but the bantering words had struck home, and
he raised himself and Agnes, and, kissing her affectionately, replied: “No,
my sweet, you have no need to seek Henry. I am your valiant King!”
Agnes held Charles under a spell. She was his “Queen of Hearts”; he
denied her nothing, her will was his. Her influence was complete, and if the
poor neglected Queen had thrown upon her frail shoulders the heavy weight
of sovereignty, it was fond Agnes’s fair hair that wore the light crown of
gaiety. Her tact and unselfishness were remarkable; every domestic
squabble and every State imbroglio were quietly and swiftly settled when
she joined the fray. Charles could not do enough for his sweetheart. Besides
costly presents of jewellery and clothes, he bestowed upon her the county of
Penthièvre, the lordships of Roquecesière, Issoudon, and Vernon, with the
Castle of Breauté and its great woods of pine-trees.
Agnes had by Charles four daughters; the youngest died in infancy, but
the rest grew up, like their mother, famed for good looks and attractive
manners, and were legitimatized and married well. Catherine de France, the
eldest, wedded, in 1464, Jacques de Brézé, Comte de Maulevrier, and
became the accomplished châtelaine of his splendid castle near Saumur.
Alas for the joys of married life! the Count, himself unfaithful and
intolerant, grew suspicious of his wife’s conduct,—she had attracted the
attention of King René, among others,—accused her of adultery, and
stabbed her as she was sallying forth one dark November day, 1477, bent
upon an errand of charity. Their son, Louis de Brézé became the husband of
the celebrated Diane de Poitiers, in 1515, before her liaison with King
Henry II. Marguerite de France married, in 1458, Seigneur Olivier de
Coëtivi, and died in 1473; and Jeanne de France became the wife of
Antoine de Benil, Comte de Sancerre, and received from the King, her
father, a dot of 40,000 écus d’or.
These three daughters were born and educated as Princesses of the Royal
House, in conformity with the existent code of morals. Queen Marie not
only made no demur at their status, but, acting upon the advice of good
Queen Yolande, her mother, treated them in every respect as she did her
own offspring. When Agnes’s second daughter was married, the Queen

stood by her and gave her rich wedding presents. Certainly she was not
subjected to the indignity of sharing hearth and home with her husband’s
mistress. Dame Agnes Sorel resided at her own Castle de Breauté-sur-
Marne, and there she bore him her family. The castle was a bijou residence,
—a great favourite of Charles,—and Agnes made it a habitation of beauty,
adorned not alone by her own gracious presence, but by the attendance of a
brilliant Court, quite outrivalling that of the modest Queen, and filled her
rooms and galleries with the countless beautiful and costly gifts of her
former devoted mistress, Duchess Isabelle.
Agnes’s ascendancy over Charles VII. was purely erotic. She exercised
no influence whatever upon the affairs of state, or, indeed, upon anything
but what ministered to his personal pleasure and amusement. However, she
was useful, and indeed invaluable, on more than one occasion of danger and
suspicion. Unreservedly devoted to her paramour, she was sensitive of any
dereliction of duty and of any appearance of intrigue. To her was solely due
the detection of the conspiracy of 1449, which, fomented by the Dauphin,
threatened the life of the King.
Marie inspired the fervent love of her son, Louis the Dauphin, as she did,
in truth, the devotion of all her children. When a stripling of fourteen, he
championed his mother against his father’s mistress; and when Agnes made
a disparaging remark affecting the Queen, the lad immediately boxed her
ears, and warned her never to repeat the offence in his hearing! From that
day Louis hated “la Belle des Belles,” and never tired of checking her
assumptions. He even dared to protest personally before his father against
the King’s neglect of the Queen and his partiality for her Lady of Honour.
Charles on one occasion took his son’s strictures seriously to heart, sent for
Marie, bewailed his infidelity, and craved her pardon. But the wanton
monarch’s day of righteousness was short, for he very soon forgot his son’s
vehemence, and went on fondling his favourite.
“La Belle des Belles” died in childbed on February 18, 1450. Her end
was quite unexpected, for she had gone on a visit of pleasure to her cousin,
Antoinette de Maignelais, the Baroness of Villerequier, at the Castle of
Mesnil la Belle, near the far-famed Abbey of Jumièges in Normandy. Her
husband, André de Villerequier, was Chamberlain to Charles VII., who
presented her at her bridal, as a wedding gift, the three islands, Oléron,
Marennes, and Auvert, at the mouth of the River Charente. Floral games

and spectacles were engaging the attention of the merry party assembled at
the castle, and Agnes Sorel was the gayest of the gay, but unfortunately,
tripping upon the sash of her gown, she fell heavily to the ground. She was
carried tenderly to her chamber, and at once her life was despaired of. She
had barely time to make her confession, and then, calling to mind the
example of St. Mary Magdalen, she called aloud to Heaven for pardon of
her sins and for the prayers of those standing by. She heard Mass and
received the Last Sacraments, and painfully passed away in her cousin’s
arms. The distracted Baroness laid the dead head of the lovely Agnes gently
upon the pillow, closed the eyes which had spell-bound King Charles and
many more besides, and, weeping bitterly, exclaimed: “The good God has
taken away my Agnes because He feared she would never lose her beauty.”
King Charles was not with his sweetheart in her death, but he grieved and
rocked himself in woe. “Because she was what she was,” he sobbed, “for
that I mourn.” He hastened to Jumièges, and with every mark of sincere
affection he assisted in placing his Agnes in her coffin. Her heart he had
enclosed in a costly gold vase, which he carried about with him wherever
he went, and when he died it was deposited by his command beneath a
black marble slab in front of the high-altar of Jumièges, with the simple
epitaph: “Agnes Seurelle—Dame de Breauté.” Fair Agnes’s body, still
comely in death, was ultimately translated by Charles to Loches, and
interred in the basement of the King’s Apartments. Her tomb, surmounted
by a statue, was erected by her royal lover. Upon a block marble bed
reclines a white marble effigy of “la Belle des Belles,” evidently sculptured
after life. The fascinating features with her sweet smile are beautifully
chiselled, and the graceful figure lightly covered by a long chemise
admirably exhibits her exquisitely-proportioned form.
Agnes, in a will she made a year before her death, directed that her body
should rest at Jumièges, and she bequeathed 1,000 écus d’or (= £500) to the
monastery for Masses for the rest of her soul. She had for years been a
munificent benefactress to the clergy of the abbey. When Charles had joined
his sweetheart in the Paradise of Love, the ungrateful monks were desirous
of removing Agnes’s heart and its memorial tablet, on the score that she had
led an immoral life; but Louis XI., in spite of his fierce hatred of his father’s
mistress, reproved the religious, and warned them that, if they determined
to cast out her remains, they must also divest themselves of the gifts and

legacies of their patroness. “If you,” the new King said, “disturb her ashes, I
shall expect you to hand over to me the gold écus.” Needless perhaps to say,
the worldly-wise Canons kept the money and the heart.
The death of Agnes Sorel had a terrible effect upon the subsequent life of
Charles the King. She and Queen Marie between them had managed to keep
him free from amorous imbroglios, but now, with only his wife’s
protestations to guard him, he gave way to immoderate indulgences, and he,
to quote the French,—“enlardit sa vie de tenir males femmes en son
hostel!”

III.

“Everything must be sacrificed for the glory of France!” was no empty,
echoing cry in a desert; it was the pleading and persistent cry of a devoted
wife and a patriotic Queen. Into the ears of the King of France and into the
ears of everybody who was even in the smallest degree likely to be able to
do anything at all for her beloved country, the admirable Queen Marie
poured her complaint. She stood for the expulsion of the English invaders
of her native soil, and for the composure of the feuds and jealousies of the
French Sovereigns and nobles. “God and reason,” she went on to exclaim,
“are on my side; rouse you like men and fight!” Surely he is a coward or a
simpleton in whose heart a woman’s voice and a woman’s taunts fail to
enkindle enthusiasm. All France flocked to do homage to the “little Queen
of Bourges,” to kiss her hand, and to lay their swords at the feet of the King.
From Loches to Chinon and Tours, right down the river valley of the
Rhone, and throughout Dauphiné, that voice went echoing. The new
campaign was hers, hers the credit, hers the glory, for great deeds were done
that shamed men’s apathy.
Alas! her enthusiasm found faint response in Charles. A skit of the time
denounced him thus: “Nouvelle du Roy nullement; ne que se il fust à
Romme oue Jherusalemme!”—“The King is of no use whatever; he might
as well be at Rome or at Jerusalem!” Still, the Queen did not fail for loyal
soldiers nor for consummate captains; first and foremost was her beloved
brother René, now King of Sicily-Anjou.
But now enemies more terrible than the hated English, more insidious
than the squabbling Princes, stalked the broad plains of suffering France—

the three fell sisters, famine, flood, and fever. The price of foodstuffs rose
portentously; wheat, butter, oil, and cheese, were a hundred times dearer
than their usual cost. Men grovelled like pigs for offal, and women and
children laid themselves down to die just where they were. Queen Marie’s
tender heart grieved sorely for her people’s misery. She sold what jewellery
she had left, and pawned her available property to minister to the prevailing
want. And then a new terror seized the land—the rivers were in flood, and
what stocks and crops the famine had left were washed away, and beggary
stared the nation in the face. The Queen instituted pilgrimages of women to
celebrated shrines, and she herself put on the deepest mourning and spent
her time in prayer. All seemed to be of no avail to stay the afflicting hand of
Heaven, for no sooner were the waters abated than the scourge of fever was
let loose on the devoted land of France, and corpses were flung out of
echoing doorways and left for chance burial, or to be the prey of scavaging
dogs. Had the Day of Judgment dawned? men asked each other, whilst they
promptly covered their mouths against the infection. Delirium would have
seized all the remnants of the population had not the intrepid Queen ridden
up and down, risking her own precious life and appealing to one and all to
be courageous, bear all, and hope for better days.
Marie had happy days and proud to cancel days of gloom and penury.
Toulouse was en fête; it was the month of May, 1435, best loved of all the
children of Mary; and she made a stately entry into that ancient, loyal city
with the King by her side. Oddly enough, she was mounted on pillion
behind her young son, the Dauphin Louis, then a lad of twelve. Her vesture
was superb—a blue brocaded satin robe, bordered heavily with royal
ermine. She was décolletée, her bosom covered with jewels and chains of
gold. Upon her head, rising out of a regal diadem of flashing gems, she
wore a chaperon, a hood of fine white cambric shaped like a crescent,
raised at the points, and lightly covered with a thin white gauze veil. Her
hair was bunched over her ears, and carried in a golden jewelled net. Her
feet were shod in white, gold-embroidered kid, and she wore, after her
mother’s fashion, jewelled white kid gloves. Four Chamberlains, also
mounted, held a state canopy of cloth of gold and white plumes over their
royal mistress and her white charger.
A bright day dawned for Queen Marie. It was the Festival of the
Forerunner, June 24, 1436, and the ancient and loyal city of Tours was

decked for the royal nuptials of the Dauphin. The King and Queen of
France with the good Queen Yolande and their suite awaited at the Château
du Plessis-lès-Tours the arrival of the young bridal couple. Louis had gone
to meet his bride at Saumur; he was but a boy of thirteen, small, ill-looking,
and not too clever. Princess Margaret, daughter of James I. of Scotland,
with a following of Scottish nobles and Maids of Honour, a tall, sprightly
girl of twelve, vastly enjoyed her voyage, and clapped her hands delightedly
at the flowers and fruits of Anjou. She embraced her little husband-to-be,
and took him by the hand as they stepped on board the state barge in
waiting at the river quay.
Among the bevy of fair maidens who welcomed the royal bride was
Jehanne de Laval, who was attached to the suite of the Dauphiness. The
grand hall of the castle and state-rooms were hung with tapestry and lengths
of cloth of gold. There the Sovereigns were seated on a canopied daïs,
wearing their crowns and robes of state. The little Princess entered the
Presence somewhat nervously, still holding the hand of the young Dauphin,
and chaperoned by her Scottish Mistress of the Robes. Making a graceful
obeisance, Margaret advanced with childlike confidence, and Queen Marie,
rising, went to greet her young daughter-in-law; she embraced her tenderly,
and introduced her to the King and to Queen Yolande. The courtiers pressed
forward to kiss the Princess’s hand, and many costly gifts were laid at her
feet. Wearied at length with the ceremonies, Queen Marie conducted her
interesting visitor to her own apartments, where dinner was served.
The bells of all the churches in Tours set up merry janglings at dawn next
day, and the cathedral was crowded by a goodly company of wedding
guests. The King and the two Queens were seated on their thrones. Charles
wore a black velvet doublet and hose, his berretta was of red, and he bore
round his neck a decoration sent from the King of Scotland. The Queen was
arrayed in crimson velvet and ermine. She wore an abbreviated hennin with
a fine lace fall; her hair was embroidered with gold. The young Prince was
in blue and silver, his bride in bridal white. Everybody bore wedding
favours—Scottish heather and French lilies entwined with white satin
ribbons. The Archbishop of Reims performed the ceremony, accompanied
by a number of Bishops and dignified clergy.
Margaret at once became a great favourite with the King and Queen. Her
Northern vigour and sweet manners were good credentials; but, unhappily,

the young bridegroom from the first took a dislike to his consort. She was
never happy when he was present, and her furtive eyes searched in vain for
tokens of affection and camaraderie. “There was no one,” wrote Philippe
de Commines a few years later, “in all the world whom she dreaded more
than the Dauphin.” Her life was indeed a sad one; neglected by her
husband, misunderstood and disesteemed at Court, the poor young
Dauphiness passed her time mostly with Queen Marie and in futile regrets
for her dear, dear home in Scotland.

QUEENS AND JUDGES INSPECT KNIGHTS BEFORE THE “LISTS,” SAUMUR
TOURNAMENT, 1446
Painted by King René. From “Le Livre des Tournois”
To face page 204

Her death came about most unexpectedly, for she was discovered
poisoned,—rumour had it by her spouse,—in her boudoir at Sarry-le-
Château, on August 16, 1444, an ill-used wife of no more than twenty years
of age. Princess Margaret’s fate was as sad as sad could be—too young to
die. Her last words,—the most pathetic ever uttered by an unhappy woman,
—were addressed to her faithful chaperon: “A curse on life! don’t speak to

me about it!” No child, perhaps happily, was born of that ill-starred
marriage.
No one wept more bitterly at this mischance than tender-hearted Queen
Marie. She loved her son to distraction, and he loved her as greatly in
return; and she had learned to love Margaret too, but nothing that she could
say moved Louis to love, honour, and comfort, his young wife. Calm,
crafty, and selfish, like his father, and vindictive, Louis’s character may be
succinctly stated as he himself wrote it: “The King knows not how to rule
who knows not how to dissemble.… If my cap should know my thoughts, I
would burn it!”
Queen Marie’s other son, Charles, Duc de Berry, the last of all her
surviving children, born December 28, 1446, was a Prince of no strength of
character. Easily led by others, he became involved in endless imbroglios,
and aided and abetted his elder brother the Dauphin, in his unfilial conduct
towards their father. Created Duke of Guienne and Duke of Normandy in
1469,—after the expulsion of the English,—he was a source of constant
anxiety and trouble to his mother. The Queen of Sicily-Anjou, Isabelle de
Lorraine, his godmother, with King René, took the young Prince in hand,
but he did not well repay their solicitude. Immoral, dissipated, and in debt,
Charles de Berry spent his time in debauches and intrigues; he was own
grandson of Isabeau the Infamous. Among his many mistresses, Derouillée
de Montereau, widow of Louis d’Amboise, exercised the greatest influence.
She, too, was the cause of his death, for at lunch one day she placed a peach
in his wineglass, and she challenged Charles to bite the fruit with her. Her
half she swallowed, and she fell dead in a few minutes, whilst her royal
paramour lingered in acute suffering for three whole days, and at last
succumbed to the poison on May 28, 1472. Whether she caused the fruit to
be poisoned we know not; most likely she knew all about it, and only
followed in the steps of those whose immorality turns love to hate and
sanctity to madness. This was a characteristic of society in the Renaissance,
the cloven hoof of the old Adam showing beneath the sumptuous garments
of the new man.
As might very well have been expected at a Court of self-seekers and
sycophants, the integrity and unselfishness of the Queen were goads to
slander and aids to hypocrisy. She was assailed on account of her absolute
faithfulness to the marriage bond and for her want of personal ambition.

Roués could not understand her; mondaines would not tolerate her; the
King’s favourites and mistresses,—not Agnes Sorel, be it said,—strove all
they could to poison his mind against his consort. The names of many
prominent Princes and courtiers were linked scandalously with the Queen’s.
Arthur de Richemont, son of Duke Jehan VI. of Brittany, the Constable of
France; Pierre de Giac de la Trémouille, Captain of the King’s Guards;
Étienne Louvet, President of the Privy Council; and the Count of Dunois,
better known as the “Bastard of Orléans,” were all said to have shared the
Queen’s confidences and her favours. The latter was thrown, indeed, very
much with Her Majesty, and ranked among the Princes of the Royal House.
Son of the assassinated Duke of Orléans by an unknown mother, the
Duchess brought him up along with her own children, and she hoped he
would live to avenge his father’s death. The “Bastard” was the playmate of
the children of King Louis II. of Sicily-Anjou and Queen Yolande, and he
and the Princess Marie were much drawn to one another.
The two young people were one day in the gardens of the Hôtel de St.
Pol along with the Comte de Ponthieu,—Charles VII.,—and the Princes and
Princesses of Sicily-Anjou, when the Count, wearied of his forced
attentions to the Princess Marie, sauntered away by himself. Xaintrailles
followed him and remonstrated with him for his coolness to his fiancée.
Charles replied that they were not fully betrothed, and that he did not
admire and did not love Marie. Xaintrailles told Dunois what the Count had
said, and Dunois, with a scornful laugh, exclaimed: “One must be dull and
blind indeed not to be smitten by her eyes—the most beautiful eyes in the
whole world, and quite incapable of seeing the faults of others.” Dunois
was very much in love with the Princess, and did not conceal his passion, so
much so that when he kissed her hand, as he often did, he also lifted the
hem of her skirt and implanted a kiss there, as a lover’s token of humility.
Dunois contrived têtes-à-tête as often as he could with his sweetheart, as
he called Marie d’Anjou. One day, it is said, Charles passed down a
sheltered path in the gardens, and his companion pointed out to him a
couple love-making in a secluded arbour. They chided him with the
feebleness of his suit, and told him it would serve him right if Marie
married Dunois. He said he did not care a bit if she did or if she did not.
They were all mere children—the Count sixteen, Marie fifteen, and Dunois
of a like age. The intimacy between the Princess and her lover became

embarrassing to the whole Court, but time went on, and developments were
awaited by the curious and intriguing. A summer’s day came when some
ladies of the Court went wandering about searching for shady shelters.
Right away from the palace, near a springing fountain, they came upon a
crossing in the path, and there in the sandy dust they read, written by a stick
or something:

“Destin qui va m’unir d’une éternelle chaîne
A l’object de ma haîne—
Cruel destin, arrache de mon cœur
Une trop vive ardeur.”
“Fate which would rivet me with a perpetual chain
To the object of my deep disdain—
O, cruel fate! which would snatch from my poor worn heart
A passion full of ardour on my part.”

Puzzling over the meaning of this strange verse, the ladies beheld the
Princess hastening to where they stood. With heightened colour she asked
them: “What are you doing here? Why are you not with the Queen of
Sicily?” Then effacing the writing with her foot, she added: “I cannot think
why I did not efface those words; I have committed an indiscretion. But
take note I did not name the unhappy person who wrote them.” The
romance went on unchecked. Dunois, still under age, very adroitly
contrived to remove the suspicions his conduct had aroused in the mind of
Queen Yolande, and Marie took dutifully and silently the maternal reproofs.
Then came the death of Charles VI., and Princess Marie was proclaimed
Queen of France. With more than a sigh,—almost a broken heart,—she set
herself to play her part as a virtuous woman and as a loyal spouse. Dunois
did not renounce his devotion to the Queen, and she never forgot the love
she had borne him—a Prince the very antithesis of her husband, remarkable
for personal beauty and mental accomplishment, just the sort of man all
women love. Daily she poured out her soul before the altar of her private
chapel for strength to be true and faithful, and victory was hers; but it cost
her dear.

“Car en vertueuse souffrance,
Au temps du commun desarroy,
Elle a monstre plus de vaillance
Que sage prince ou fier roy.”
“In point of virtuous suffering,
At times of deep alarms,
She exhibited more daring
Than wise prince or king in arms.”

This fascinating story of the loves of Count Dunois d’Orléans and
Princess Marie d’Anjou was worked up by fanatics into a culpable liaison
of the Queen. It grew in vile misrepresentation, and swelled in garbled facts
until it became abhorrent in the ears of all decent-minded people. Some of
Charles’s legitimate children were said to have been fathered by the Count.
The Queen very wisely refrained from making replies to the evil stories, the
only sensible way of dealing with them. “Exempt,” as wrote Varillas, “not
only from the faults of the Court, but still more from suspicion that she had
any part therein, she had all the same to suffer from the poison of calumny.”
On the other hand, Marie suffered in patience the disdain and unfaithfulness
of the King, and returned his evil with her good. Her entire life was a scene
of sacrifice and an arena of benevolence.
Marie, in her quiet, unobtrusive way, did very much for the correction of
morals in Court and country. Due to her representation, Charles at Toul
abolished the obscene Fête des Fous, which was observed through his
dominions. It was a scandalous exhibition, an indecent orgy, shared in alike
by laity and clergy. The latter chose a local Pope or Bishop, to whom for the
time the actual Bishop of the diocese rendered up the attributes of his office.
The mock prelate was enthroned in the cathedral, and then a wild scene of
profanity was witnessed. Men and women dressed as buffoons, many
exposing their nakedness without shame, joined in licentious dances and
blasphemous songs, and gorged themselves with roast pork and other coarse
viands and intoxicating beverages served upon the altars. In the holy
censers were burnt common corks and bits of leather; the holy-water stoups
were used for nameless indecencies; and promiscuous prostitution made
each sacred edifice a brothel and a Gehenna.

Early in the year 1457 Ambassadors from Duke Ladislaus of Austria
came to France to ask from Charles VII. the hand of his youngest daughter,
Madeleine, a girl of fourteen, and dowered with beauty if not with wealth.
Passing through Lorraine and Bar, King René greeted them, entertained
them handsomely, and accompanied them to Tours. The King and Queen of
France were at the castle with their three daughters,—Jeanne; Yolande, the
wife of Amadeo IX., Duke of Savoy; and Madeleine,—and a numerous and
distinguished suite. In the Grand Salle twelve long tables were placed, each
seating seven guests. At the first were the two Kings and the Queens with
the three Princesses and the Duke of Savoy. The Masters of Ceremonies
were the Counts Gaston de Foix, Dunois, and de la Marche, with the Grand
Seneschal of France. It was a typical entertainment—lavish, long, and
laborious. The first course consisted of white hypocras and “rosties”—hors
d’œuvres(?)—served in crystal vessels. The second course offered grands
pâtes de chapons à haute grasse, with boars’ tongues, and accompanied by
seven kinds of soup—all served on plates of silver. The third course
presented all kinds of game-birds with venison and boars’ heads served on
silver dishes. The fourth course was des petites oyseaux on toast and spit,
with prunes and salads, set forth on dishes of silver gilt. The fifth course
consisted of tarts, orange trifles, candied lemons, and many sorts of
sweetmeats, beautifully arranged on plates and stands of coloured jewelled
glass. The sixth and last course was hypocras again, but red, served with
oublies—perhaps macaroons and wafers.
The wines which accompanied this regal menu, unhappily, are not
mentioned by the chronicler, but the name of Tours in connection with
delicacies of the palate has always been a cachet of excellence; its cuisine
and its cellars are still unsurpassed in France. The banquet was
accompanied by minstrelsy and masque. King René himself arranged the
musical programme; indeed, he brought with him some of his famous
troubadours. After dinner the august company disposed themselves, some to
the merry dance, some to the quiet têtes-à-tête, and some to cards—then so
fashionable and so much beloved by the King and Queen of France. A very
famous pack was used, the Queens of the suit being Isabeau for “Hearts,”
Marie for “Clubs,” Agnes Sorel for “Diamonds,” and Jeanne d’Arc for
“Spades,” Kinged respectively by Charles VI., Louis III., Charles VII., and
René; and the Knaves, Xaintrailles, La Hire, Dunois, and Barbazan—a
quaint conceit!

Upon the death of Louis III., his sister, Queen Marie, came in for a
considerable fortune—renounced, be it said, by that most loving of all
brothers, René, in her behalf. It was said that the new Duke assigned the
whole of his revenues from Anjou to the use of his sister. He settled certain
estates upon her which she very quickly and cleverly turned to good
account. In person the Queen visited her new properties, dressed plainly in
black and without ceremony, inquired into the condition of the labourers
and the promise of the harvest, and then, calling to her assistance the well-
known financier of Bourges, Jacques Cœur, opened out business relations
with England. The vineyards of Anjou—at least, those bordering the Loire
—were among the most fruitful in France. These the Ministers of the Queen
exploited, and opened out a very profitable export trade from the port of La
Rochelle. The sweet white vinous brandies of Annis became established
favourites of English palates. Anjou cheese, too, was excellent; it still is
made from milk of Anjou cows and goats. Crême de Blois was famous long
before Roquefort, Cantal, or Brie, came into request, and with fresh butter
was exported largely to Southampton, much to the profit of Queen Marie’s
exchequer.
These homely touches introduce the student of “La Vie Privée des
Français” to a charming hobby of the good Queen Marie—her love of
animals and birds. In the Comptes de Roy René is a letter to the Agents of
the Audit; it is dated July 16, 1458, and is as follows:
“By Command of the Queen.
“Well-beloved and Right Trusty,
“We have noted that our brother the King of Sicily (René)
has in his house at Rivetes, of which you, Guillaume
Bernart, have the superintendence, some cocks and hens of
good strain, and that they are very fine, as we have seen. If
you are well disposed, then, the messenger can bring us a
cock and a hen, with a broody hen and her chicks. You will
see that they are in good condition. Do not be at all fearful
of displeasing our royal brother, for we shall make him both
pleased and happy.
“Dearly beloved, may Our Lord protect you. Written at
our Castle of Chinon, XVI. day of July, 1458.

“Marie.”
King René had a farm at Rivetes, and from an inventory dated November
12, 1458, we learn that he had—“69 chés d’animaille (heads of stock), 1
jument (mare), 1 poulain (colt), 42 chés de pourceaux (pigs), and much
poultry.” Rivetes, with its forest of chestnuts, was situated between the
rivers Loire and Anthion, at no great distance from Angers. René had also
wild beasts and birds—a vast menagerie at Rivetes and Reculée. His keeper
of lions and leopards in 1476 was Benoist Bagonet, and of his eagles and
peacocks, Vissuel Gosmes. He had also at Reculée a Court fool, Triboullet.
They were all very pleasant fellows, and helped to amuse the King and
Queen and their guests.
King Charles VII. died at his favourite castle of Mehun-sur-Yèvre, July
22, 1461. He had suffered for a considerable time from an incurable ulcer in
his mouth, which denied him the pleasure and necessity of eating. In his last
illness Marie was at Chinon; he cried piteously for her to come to him:
“Marie, ma Marie!” She hastened to Mehun, and was in time to hold his
hand and moisten his heated brow, and quietly he died in her arms—the
arms of the truest of wives and noblest of queens. Charles was buried in the
royal vaults at St. Denis, and Louis XI., his son, reigned in his stead.
Devoted to his mother, her widowhood was lightened by his affectionate
regard. His father’s death made no difference in her royal state; the King
placed his mother before his wife—Charlotte of Savoy.
Queen Marie bore her consort twelve children; six died in infancy. Her
two sons were Louis and Charles; her daughters, who survived, Catherine,
Jeanne, Yolande, and Madeleine. She survived Charles but two short years.
Enguerrand de Monstrelet speaks thus of her death, which occurred near
Poitiers, November 23, 1463: “There passed away from this world Marie of
Anjou and France.… She bore all through her life the character of a good
and devout woman, ever generous and patient.” Her death was not
unexpected, for through trouble, sorrow, and fasting, her frame had become
emaciated and her pulse beat slow; she died actually from prostration. Her
end was very peaceful in the silent cloisters of the Abbey of Chastilliers in
Poitou. She had but just returned from a pilgrimage to the Gallician shrine
of Santiago da Compostella. Her body was embalmed and translated in
solemn guise to St. Denis, and laid beside that of her husband. Her devotion
to him had not ceased at his death, for she had endowed twelve altars in the

chief cities of France proper for the offering of Masses for the repose of his
soul. Every month she made the practice of visiting the royal tomb at St.
Denis to hear Mass and pray for him. At Bourges, of sad and chastened
memory, the widowed Queen founded in honour of her consort three
considerable benevolent institutions—a hospital for the sick poor, a refuge
for poor pilgrims, and an orphanage for illegitimate children.
Queen Marie’s transparent faithfulness and absolute unselfishness is
outlined in a famous saying of hers with respect to her relations with King
Charles: “He is my lord and master; he has entire power over all my
actions, and I have none over his.” Her whole-hearted devotion and her
heroic courage have raised Marie d’Anjou far above the ordinary level of
her sex, and have elevated her to the very highest throne among the Queens
of France.

CHAPTER VII
GIOVANNA II. DA NAPOLI—“SI COMME A REGINA
GIOVANNA!”

I.

“Like Queen Giovanna” was, alas! a common saying in the Two Sicilies
what time Giovanna II. was Queen of Naples. A term of immeasurable
reprobation, it implied the stripping of the woman of every shred of moral
character, the baring of the Queen of every claim to honour. If Isabeau of
Bavaria was the worst Queen-consort, then Giovanna II. was the worst
Queen-regnant, perhaps, the world has ever seen. Her story needs telling
truthfully with care.
Giovanna II., Queen of Naples, was the only surviving daughter of
Charles III., “Carlo della Pace,” King of Naples and Count of Provence.
Her mother was Margaret, daughter of her great-uncle Charles, Duke of
Durazzo; hence her parents were cousins, and were both in the direct line of
succession from Charles I., Count of Anjou, the fourth son of King Louis
IX.,—St. Louis of France,—who had married Beatrix, Countess of
Provence in her own right. Giovanna had seven brothers and sisters, all of
whom died in infancy except Ladislaus, born in 1376; she was his senior by
five years, having first seen the light of day on April 27, 1371.

GIOVANNA II. DA NAPOLI AS THE VIRGIN MARY
From a Painting by Antonio Solario (“Lo Zingaro”). (Circa 1420.)
National Museum, Naples
To face page 216

The Queen’s father’s predecessor as occupant of the throne of Naples had
been his second cousin, Giovanna I., the eldest surviving grandchild of
King Robert, “Roberto il Buono e Saggio.” She died childless in 1382,
although twice married, first to Andrew, King of Hungary, and secondly to
Lodovico, Prince of Taranto. By her will she purposely passed over the
Princes of the Durazzo family, and named as her successor Louis II.

d’Anjou, King of Sicily and Jerusalem and Count of Provence. The Queen’s
first marriage was celebrated September 24, 1333, when she was only seven
years old, her boy-husband being fifteen. The Pope created Prince Andrew
King of Naples six years later, upon his succession to the throne of
Hungary. Without the slightest compunction, Charles, son of Lodovico,
Count of Gravina, seized his cousin’s empty throne, and maintained himself
thereupon for five years, his little daughter Giovanna being just ten years of
age. The death of Queen Giovanna I. was due to the instigation of Charles.
He entered Naples at the head of a strong force of cavalry, seized the palace,
and took the Queen prisoner. She was conducted to the Castle of Muro,
overlooking the road from Naples to Melfi, and there, with her lover, Otto
of Brunswick, suffocated under a feather bed by two Hungarian soldiers.
This outrage was committed in revenge for the death of King Andrew,
which was ordered by Giovanna I., his consort.
Charles III., King of Naples, died in 1386, leaving to his son Ladislaus
the royal succession, with his widow, Queen Margaret, as Regent. They
with the Princess Giovanna, sixteen years of age, were fugitives from castle
to castle, pursued by the troops of Louis d’Anjou. Nevertheless, Margaret
was an astute mother, for when Ladislaus was eighteen years old she
espoused him to Constance, daughter of the Count of Clermont in Sicily, a
very wealthy heiress. What matrimonial projects were hatched or addled on
behalf of Princess Giovanna during her father’s lifetime we know not, but
almost the first matter taken in hand by King Ladislaus was an
advantageous marriage for his sister. This was a very complicated business.
First of all, neither he nor she cared very much for matrimony; he was a
libertine, and she shared his freedom and his depravity. Next, each suitor for
the hand of Giovanna retired disgusted by the loose morals of the
Neapolitan Court and by the avarice of the King and his sister. However, at
length a match was arranged between the Princess and Prince William, son
of Leopold III., Duke of Austria. The actual nuptials, however, were
postponed for one reason or another until 1403, when Giovanna had
reached the considerable age of thirty-two. The princely couple went off to
Austria, where they remained more or less unhappy until 1406, when the
Prince died suddenly and suspiciously, many said by the hand or direction
of his ill-conditioned wife.

The widow returned at once to Naples to fill the place of honour vacated
by her brother’s wife, his second consort, Maria di Lusignan. Queen
Constance he had divorced in 1391, and married the daughter of the King of
Cyprus the same year. The ostensible reason for rejecting Constance was
the failure of her father to pay her dowry. She was a lovely girl and
virtuous,—a rare quality at that time,—and became the idol of the Court.
Queen Maria had scarcely been seated on the throne, when she also fell
from her high station. Ladislaus said she was delicate and in consumption,
and no wife for him. One day, when she and the King were assisting at
Mass in the cathedral, she heard with the utmost astonishment and dismay
the Archbishop read a Bull of Pope Boniface IX. annulling her marriage
with Ladislaus. At the conclusion of the citation the prelate advanced to the
Queen’s throne and demanded her wedding-ring. Too stupefied to resist, the
pledge of her married state was torn from her finger, and she was carried
away to a remote convent under the care of two aged nuns. Three years
after this outrage the King relented of his cruelty, and married her to one
Andrea di Capua, one of his favourites. He took a third wife in 1406, Marie
d’Enghien, the widow of Raimondo d’Orsini, some six months after the
return of his sister from Austria. She is said to have survived Ladislaus.
Some letters of hers are preserved at Conversano, near Bari, in the
Benedictine convent.
The advance of Louis d’Anjou upon the capital roused Ladislaus to
action, and he hastily gathered together an undisciplined army, and set forth
to withstand his rival to the throne. A decisive battle was fought at Rocca
Secca, May 19, 1411, wherein Ladislaus’s troops were routed, but Louis
failed to follow up his advantage, and Ladislaus retained his throne and
continued his debauches.
Early in 1412 Queen Margaret, mother of the King and of Giovanna, died
somewhat suddenly. She and her entourage had taken refuge from a
visitation of plague, which spared neither prince nor peasant, at her villa at
Acquamela, six miles from Salerno. She was buried privately in the
Cathedral of Salerno, in the crypt over against the marble sarcophagus
which contained the ashes of St. Matthew. Whatever influence she may
have exerted during the youth of her son and daughter for their good was
speedily dissipated, and as soon as Ladislaus had obtained the crown he
took steps to circumscribe the liberty of his mother. She appealed to her

daughter Giovanna for sympathy, but found none, and the poor old Queen,
who had survived her consort, Charles, for six-and-twenty years, was
consigned to the Convent of the Annunciation, “so as to be out of the way
of mischief,” as her daughter phrased it. The natural rôle of mother was
entirely out of place in a palace or at a Court ruled by a libertine and a
prostitute.
Ladislaus died sadly and alone. His unnatural sister refused to be with
him, and all his butterfly courtesans gave to themselves wing when sickness
and death entered the royal palace. He died August 6, 1414, leaving no
lawful offspring by his three wives, but a numerous family of natural
children. No Salic Law governed the succession to the throne in the
kingdom of Naples, consequently Giovanna became Queen.
The widowed Queen Giovanna had not married again, although she
counted lovers by the score; but within a few months of her accession she
took steps to ally herself with a Prince who should be the handsomest and
wittiest of the time. This determination of Giovanna was noised abroad all
over the capitals and Courts of Europe, and forthwith a troop of eligible
suitors passed through the ports of Marseilles and Genoa, each bent on
taking the ribald Queen at her word. The romance reads like a fairy tale, for
each princeling and prince was put through his paces to show his
qualifications in person and in purse; for, desperately wicked as she was,
the Queen had a commercial sense, and her exchequer stood sorely in need
of replenishment. Taken for all in all, Juan d’Arragona, son of King
Ferdinand, was the champion of physical beauty, knightly courtesy, and
financial competence; but he was no more than a precocious lad of
seventeen, whilst the Queen was forty-five. A matrimonial union was ruled
to be impossible, and the pride of Aragon would not suffer a scion of her
royal house to become the plaything of a lewd Queen.
Giovanna very unwillingly transferred her affections to an older suitor,—
the champion, if we may so write, of the heavy weights,—Jacques de
Bourbon, Comte de la Marche, of the Royal House of France, and their
nuptials were celebrated in the Cathedral of Naples on August 10, 1415. He
very soon discovered that, strong man as he was, he had a wily woman to
contend with. He began to assert his marital rights, and required Giovanna
to accord him equal honours with herself; at the same time he utterly failed
in the reformation of the conduct of his wife. She served herself upon him

as she willed, but she mostly willed to serve him not at all, and to transfer
her favours, as before their marriage, indiscriminately to whilom
paramours. Like a lion wounded in his den, Roy Jacques,—for so he called
himself,—struck out at his supplanters, and, with his past-master
knowledge of the rapier and its uses, he pricked to death not one but many
lovers of the Queen. The Neapolitans were man for man with Giovanna,
and indignant with her consort. Strange to say, perhaps, for us who read the
story of the time, evil royal communications had wholly corrupted the
morals and the manners of all classes in the realm.
Incited by toadies and sycophants, Giovanna at last took the upper hand
against her spouse, and on September 13, 1416,—little more than a year
after their marriage,—she ordered his imprisonment in the Castella dell’
Ovo, a fortress of such strength that Froissart said: “None but the devil can
take it!” Thence, however, he escaped, but with a price upon his head,—
fixed by his inconstant mistress,—and took up his residence at Besançon,
with the white cord of St. Francis d’Assisi round his loins. There he died,
having renounced the world, the flesh, and the devil, a wiser and a
disillusioned man, in 1436.
Giovanna, released from the bonds of matrimony, greatly to her relief,
gave herself unreservedly into the arms of every man dare-devil enough to
risk the consequences. Of these, perhaps the first whose name and
maldoings chroniclers have preserved was Pandolfo Alopo, a base-born
athlete, a very handsome fellow, and a seductive guitarist to boot. He
responded to his royal mistress’s amours, and she appointed him Seneschal
of the kingdom, with authority to use her signet-ring. Very soon, mentally
and morally undisciplined as he was, he exceeded the length of Giovanna’s
tether, by exciting her jealousy with respect to her Maids of Honour. Short
was his shrift. Seized, bound, and tortured with nameless indignity and
cruelty, his mutilated body was cast into the sea off the fair island of Nisida,
where the vicious vixen held orgies equal in atrocity and bestiality to those
of Tiberius in Capri.
Sforza da Colignola stepped gaily in the bloody footmarks of Alopo. He
was the chief of the Queen’s pages, and had been reared under her eye and
at her will; he had, moreover, a fell influence over his mistress, as witness
time out of mind, ever since his teens, of her enormities. He, indeed, gained
the upper hand of Giovanna, and, being an adept in martial exercises, held

his own against all comers. For a time he left the intimate service of the
Queen, and became a soldier of fortune, winning laurels and prizes all along
his way. Secretly he sympathized with the claims of the House of Anjou,
judging shrewdly enough that under the white lilies of Louis he would have
a better hold upon his position at the Court of Naples than he would under
the red bars of Alfonso of Aragon.
Giovanna felt the thraldom of Sforza’s strength of character and his
knowledge of her past, and because no one seemed willing to take her at her
word, and rid her of his presence, she turned herself about and fixed her
confidence on Sergianni Caracciolo. Upon him she showered riches and
honours, but in return he made himself her master.
The Queen’s choice of favourites was not, however, confined to men of
merit or of high degree. Every good-looking youth or well-favoured man
upon whom her eyes chanced to rest was enrolled in her household. She
frequented athletic meetings incognita to view the personal qualifications of
vigorous youths, and spent her evenings in surreptitious visits to her stables
and her kennels. The men of her choice were offered no alternative, but
when the guilty intercourse was consummated the lucky-luckless
companion of her couch was expected to commit suicide or for ever leave
his home on pain of imprisonment and torture if he tarried four-and-twenty
hours.
Perhaps no figure of a man fascinated Queen Giovanna more completely
than did the handsome person of Bartolommeo Colleone of Bergamo. His
family had become impoverished by the bitter feuds of the Guelphs and
Ghibellines, so at eighteen the young lad bid his parents farewell and started
off to win his way in military adventures. He travelled south to Naples, and
at twenty was as lusty and as strong as any man he met. Of a strict habit of
body, he performed feats none others dared. Giovanna sent for the good-
looking stranger, and pitted him against the ablest youths of Naples. In
leaping, running, and casting of heavy weights, no one could surpass him.
Instantly the Queen fell in love with him, and appointed him her esquire,
with ready access to her boudoir, where she denied him nothing. His final
reward was the cloister of St. Francis d’Assisi, which became his prison,
and his mouth was sealed. How he escaped torture no one has recorded.

It would be long, and certainly distasteful, to give a full list of all those
who shared the vampire caresses of the peccant Queen; but brief is her story
of how Giovanna destroyed the fair fame of her house and the honour of her
country. Of her it was written: “Ultima Durazza fiet destructio regnum”
(“The last Durazzo shall destroy the kingdom”).

II.

Whilst Giovanna was thus prostituting herself and her kingdom, and
Alfonso of Aragon was biding his time, a movement was on foot in Anjou
and Provence, under the strong hand of Queen Yolande, to win back the
rights her husband had abandoned to the succession of the Neapolitan
crown. Her eldest son,—a boy not yet out of school,—should place that
crown once more upon the head of an Angevine Sovereign or perish in the
attempt. Men and arms and allies were all requisitioned, and elaborate
preparations were made at Marseilles and Genoa for the embarkation of the
“army of Naples.”
The expedition of Louis III. to Naples was hurried forward in
consequence of the breach between Queen Giovanna and the nobles of
Naples. Her disregard of their allegiance, and her appointment to all the
more important posts under the Crown of men of obscure origin who had
commended themselves to her by their physical charms and coarse
obscenities, caused a disruption in the political economy of the kingdom.
The Queen was deaf to the expostulations of her Barons, and ordered them
severally to their estates, where, fuming with indignation, they armed their
retainers and stood ready for any emergency. The arrogance of King
Alfonso drove many would-be adherents into the camp of his Angevine
rival, and an influential deputation of aggrieved dignitaries made its way to
Marseilles to tender to Yolande, the Queen of Sicily and the mother of
Anjou, their homage, and to assure her of their cordial support for the
youthful King if only she would permit him to show himself at the head of
an overawing force before the capital.
There is a romantic story concerning King Louis’s journey to Naples told
by Jehan Charantais, esquire to the King, in a letter to Queen Yolande. The
fleet of Genoese and Provençal galleons was driven by adverse winds, it is
related, and sought refuge under the high cliffs of Sicily. Whilst weather-

bound, the young Prince landed with a company of knights in search of
adventures. As they came ashore a number of girls greeted them with
showers of roses, and tossed them handfuls of kisses. One, more daring than
the rest, ran up to the youthful Sovereign, wholly ignorant of his identity,
and gave him a nosegay of crimson blooms tied with a lovers’ knot of blue
ribbon. Accepting the good-omened offering, Louis loosened his surcoat to
insert the fragrant spray, when his kingly medallion fell out at the foot of
the damsel. She at once picked it up and ran away, laughing provokingly.
The Prince followed her, caught her, recovered his badge of sovereignty,
and gave his captive in exchange a sounding kiss. But Leonora,—such was
her name,—had discovered who he was.
That same day a missive was brought aboard the flagship by a Sicilian
fisherman. It was in Leonora’s handwriting, and bore her signature. She told
him she was about to be sent to Naples by her parents as a Maid of Honour
to the Queen. She had very much disliked the idea, and had refused to go,
because Giovanna was the daughter of a usurper, as was reported, and
because she bore so evil a character. “Now,” she added, “that I have seen
and spoken to my King, and have received his embraces, I am ready to go at
all hazards and do my utmost in his cause.”
Louis dillydallied with his Sicilian mermaid, and their loves continued
for wellnigh a fortnight before his fleet was ready to put to sea again. Fair
Leonora, too, took her departure, saying, as she bid adieu to her lover: “We
shall meet, dear Prince, again in the Queen’s boudoir.”

KING RENÉ RECEIVING THE HOMAGE OF A VASSAL, 1469
From a Miniature, MS. Fifteenth Century. National Library, Paris
To face page 226

Louis III., a well-grown lad of seventeen, and as manly as he was fit
mentally, arrived off the city of Naples on August 15, 1420, to maintain his
right to the throne more bravely and more successfully than either his father
or his grandfather had done. He had just fallen in with the fleet of the King
of Aragon, but in defeating his hereditary enemy his own flotilla was so
greatly worsted that he was unable to take the city by storm. He landed,
however, and betook himself to Aversa to present his homage to Queen

Giovanna. Shocked by her lustful overtures, he departed precipitately to
Rome, and there bided his time. The Queen’s failure to seduce the young
Sovereign threw her once more into the arms of King Alfonso, whom she
formally proclaimed her heir on September 24 the same year. Three years
passed whilst the adherents of the House of Anjou suffered forfeiture of
goods, liberty of person, and many cruel punishments and tortures.
Alfonso, a natural son of King Ferdinand the Just, King of Aragon and
Sicily, was forty years of age, remarkably handsome, talented and capable,
ambitious, but generous and devoted to the fair sex. He was, however,
entirely unresponsive to the amorous approaches of the Queen. His
rejection, his scorn, and his independence of action, roused in Giovanna
keen feelings of resentment. She had named him heir to Naples; she could
just as easily disinherit and discard him. On June 24, 1423,—good St. John
the Baptist’s Day, a festival of major obligation in the Church,—the Queen
caused proclamation to be made at Mass and in the markets that, “owing to
the incompetence and pretensions of the King of Aragon, he is thereby
disinherited, and is no longer to be recognized as successor to the throne of
Naples.” A plot, indeed, or more correctly plots, were revealed to Giovanna
whereby Alfonso was implicated in a conspiracy to seize the Queen’s
person, imprison her, and ultimately to poison her. On May 22 of the same
year he had taken the bold step of arresting Gianni Caracciolo, the Queen’s
chief favourite. This roused Giovanna to action. She ordered Caracciolo’s
immediate release, and bade Alfonso quit Naples at once, or remain at his
peril. Greatly to her surprise and relief, he took his departure, and left the
field open to his youthful rival.
The Queen’s next step was to send to Rome, and invite her “beloved
cousin,” as she called Louis, to return to her assistance in driving the
Aragonese out of Naples, and to accept the succession to her throne. She
bade him to have no fear of misunderstandings of the past, but to regard
herself as nothing more than a well-intentioned relative.
Louis, now grown to manhood, with ripened experience of warlike
tactics and political strife, and, be it said, of women and their ways, entered
Naples in state on April 10, 1424. His arrival in Southern Italy cheered the
desponding spirits of the Angevine party and roused their zeal. Adherents
flocked to the banner he set up, and men and arms were ready at his beck
and call. A very important personage allied himself with the young King-

adventurer—none other than Sforza, the famous condottiere. He gathered
around him a considerable number of distinguished malcontents and
disappointed favourites of the Queen, who in no way concealed their
intention of revenging the insults she had heaped upon them, as soon as
they gained a promising opportunity. News of this determination very soon
reached Giovanna’s ears, and she shut herself up in her palace with her
maidens and her toadies, and declined to receive King Louis or his envoys.
At the same time she summoned to her presence Braccio Fortebraccio di
Mantova, another of her renowned condottieri, and Constable of Sicily, the
avowed rival and enemy of Sforza, and suffering under a decree of
excommunication of Pope Martin V.
Leonora, immediately in attendance on the Queen, managed very
skilfully to convey intelligence of all that passed in Giovanna’s secret
councils to her royal lover. She told him that, in spite of her recent
proclamation, the Queen had sent her favourite Court Seneschal, Gianni
Caracciolo, to the King of Aragon to implore him to come and rescue her,
and put the coalition to flight. She asked Alfonso to accept the title and
estates of Duke of Calabria, as appertaining to the heir-presumptive to the
Neapolitan throne. This daring courtier pressed his attentions upon the
Queen, demanding not only a share of her bed, but a share of her throne.
Leonora told Louis all the ins and outs of this intrigue, and warned him to
be on the alert; for should Caracciolo’s presumption become known in
Naples, there would be a general revolution. Sforza, on his side, was not
prepared to allow his rival Hercules an unquestioned victory at Court. He
demanded admission to the palace, and an interview with the Queen, before
whom he challenged Caracciolo to mortal combat.
Giovanna was delighted that such redoubtable champions should worst
each other on her account. Her vanity was flattered—and that is a happy
condition for a scheming woman. Undoubtedly she most favoured
Caracciolo, but Sforza’s fine physique appealed to her irresistibly, and she
fanned his passion. If Caracciolo was for the moment master of her heart,
Sforza was master of her future, and she was happy. One day she invited the
rivals to join her in the chase, and she rode between them. She cared little
for hunting save as an incentive to amorous relations. Tiring soon of the
exercise, she expressed a wish to dismount and saunter in the forest glades,
but her mood lead to an extraordinary contest. Caracciolo threw himself at

once off his mount, and gave the Queen his hand to rid her of her pommel.
Sforza, seeing his advantage, pressed his horse against the Queen’s and
seized her other hand. Each hero pulled his hardest, until Giovanna was
compelled to cry aloud for pain! Then, slipping quietly down, she ordered
Sforza to release her. This token of non-preference excited the condottiere’s
passion. “If Caracciolo,” he hissed out, “had not been so clumsy, your
Majesty would not have been so greatly disarranged!”
“It is not you,” replied the Queen, “that should dare to regulate my
conduct, or, for the matter of that, your rival’s. Hold your tongue and leave
me; your presence is not grateful just now!”
“As you will, madam,” said Sforza fiercely. “Yes, I will leave you with
the favourite of your heart, but you ought to know that you cannot treat thus
a man like me!” Then he turned to Caracciolo, and exclaimed in a tone of
scornful disdain: “As for you, I advise you to use all your wits and all your
resources, for you will stand in need of them!”
Giovanna was on that day absolutely overcome by her physical passions.
She cared for nothing, and the last sight the enraged Sforza had of her was
locked in her lover’s arms and reclining on a mossy bed, lost to the world
around. The erring Queen speedily came to her senses with respect to the
position Sforza had taken up; and when she learnt that he had thrown in his
lot for better or for worse with Louis III., under a pretext, she despatched
Caracciolo to Rome to claim the Papal reversal of his excommunication,
and to assure the Pope of her filial devotion to the Holy See. Before he
departed, Giovanna required him to deliver up his sword as Seneschal of the
kingdom, which she promptly offered as a bribe to Sforza.
Meanwhile Leonora had not been idle. She had spoken to the Queen
often and passionately about the comeliness and the gallantry of her hero,
contrasting his buoyant physical excellences with the blazé proportions of
Alfonso,—not knowing that he had rejected Giovanna’s lustful overtures,—
until she expressed herself desirous of confirming his appointment as her
heir. Leonora wrote thus to King Louis: “Come not yet to the palace; but
arm your fleet, and recruit what troops you can. Sforza is loyal, but
Caracciolo is your enemy, and he is powerful. Besides him you have to
reckon with Braccio and with King Alfonso. You have need of prudence
and daring.”

The position of affairs, so far as the Queen was personally concerned,
was perilous in the extreme. On one hand, the King of Aragon did not hide
his intention of capturing her, and consigning her and her maidens and men
to a castle in Catalonia, and then he would be absolute master of the
kingdom of Naples. On the other hand, Louis, aided by Sforza, whom she
had so grievously outraged, was determined to win back his ancestral
inheritance, Queen or no Queen, but he in no way threatened her life or
liberty. The Queen fled with her Court to the Castle of Capua, and there
established herself. Sforza followed her, and, whilst avowedly protecting
his Queen, made her his prisoner, and then, with the assistance of the fleet
of King Louis, caused Alfonso, who with Braccio was investing the city of
Naples, to seek refuge in Castel Nuovo, whence he set sail to Aragon for
reinforcements and supplies.
Leonora,—still with the Queen and still devoted to the cause of King
Louis,—wrote to him again, bidding him adventure himself to Aversa,
whither Giovanna retired after the departure of King Alfonso. There Louis
found her, and, in spite of advancing years and the disordered life she had
led, noted her good looks, her grace of manner and of speech, and her
general attractiveness. “Her eyes,” wrote Leonora, “flashed wonderfully,
and her cheeks reddened passionately directly she beheld again her good-
looking young cousin.” Giovanna greeted him at the top of the grand
staircase of the palace, and addressed him in gushing terms: “The brave
deeds you have accomplished, gallant Prince,” she said, “have added
greatly to your renown. Enter, victorious King, my peaceful abode, take a
well-merited repose, and receive from me, your devoted admirer, the
homage of a thankful Princess, who is greatly charmed at beholding you in
full possession of your lawful estate.” Extending her hand, she led the
young King to the apartments which had been prepared for him.
Louis, bowing profoundly, deprecated the services which had gained
such honours as the Queen had bestowed upon him. “I have achieved
success in your name, Madam, and for your pleasure,” he replied. They
supped together, and then, bidding all the company and the servants to
withdraw, she conversed with her visitor upon every subject that came
uppermost in her mind, but eventually laid herself open to receive the
supreme pleasure she had in contemplation. Louis was inflexible, and all
her tenderness and affection found no response. At last she said: “I do not

know what more I can do. You, Sire, accept gladly the rights your arms
have won, but what is more precious still you refuse—these arms of mine
which are ready to do your will and pleasure.”
Giovanna then lowered her gaze and sat mute, awaiting Louis’s reply
with palpitating breast. She might very well have hummed the kissing song
of Ronsard:

“On soit d’un baiser sec, ou d’un baiser humide,
D’un baiser court, ou d’un baiser qui guide
L’âme dessuz la bouche, et laisse tréspasser
Le baiseur.”
“Maybe the kiss is cold, maybe it’s warm;
A kiss and off, or a kiss that clings,
And guides the ardent lover ’neath the lips
Till he finds no way to escape.”

“No, madam,” at last spoke the young Prince, greatly embarrassed by the
Queen’s words and looks, “it shall never be said that I seek the means for
impairing your royal prerogative; you shall retain that, I pray, in its entirety
so long as Providence sees good to preserve you to your people.” Then he
politely withdrew from the chamber and sought his own lodging. Again on
the morrow the King and Queen dined together privately. Giovanna was
dressed superbly in royal robes and wore priceless jewels, but her manner
was strangely marked by languor and vexation. Their conversation was
forced and restrained in turn. After the repast they adjourned together to the
lovely gardens of the palace, which were brilliantly illuminated and filled
with a numerous and festive company. The best musicians, of the capital
and the most excellent jongleurs of foreign and native fame forgathered to
do honour to the royal guest. Dances and flirtations were the order of the
evening, and among the Queen’s maidens was the lovely girl from Sicily,
Leonora. Louis saw her immediately, and it was not very long before they
were tête-à-tête in a grotto hidden from public gaze.
The royal romance reached a climax when Louis avowed himself the
devoted admirer and lover of the girl. He even proposed a clandestine
marriage, but Leonora begged him with tears not to press his suit. She
revealed to him the real character of her mistress, and warned him that if
Giovanna became conversant with the liaison, then she herself would be
done to death, and he, Louis, would probably be assassinated. “You may,”
she said, “refuse to marry the Queen, but she will never pardon you if you
marry anybody else.”
Again, the third day of Louis’s visit to Aversa, the Queen arranged meals
and meetings alone with the Prince, whose morals and whose manhood she

was striving so consumedly to seduce. The Queen’s eyes had in them not
alone the lure of lust, but the flash of passion and the flame of resentment.
Louis again excused himself her presence, and, making his way to his tryst
with Leonora, heard as he approached the grotto the high-toned voice of
Giovanna beating down the frightened protests of his innamorata—they
were together in the grotto! The Prince revealed himself, only to meet the
scornful invectives of the jealous Queen. She demanded to know the nature
of Louis’s relations with her serving-maid, and when she had heard the
story she turned upon Leonora like a tiger. Louis stepped before the terrified
girl, and bade Giovanna abate her fury and not lay hands upon a woman
whom he loved. “Leonora has done more than you, madam,” he exclaimed,
“to mount me on the throne of Naples, and you shall not cause me to
descend therefrom!”
The Queen, at last realizing the manner of man with whom she had to
deal, was intimidated by his boldness, and presently she left the grotto.
Leonora still refused Louis’s proposition, and before the day dawned she
had taken her flight from Aversa, and was well on her way to Rome, to
claim sanctuary. She wrote a farewell letter to her royal lover, which a
faithful dependent of her father safely conveyed to Naples. King Louis
offered the old man every possible inducement to reveal the hiding-place of
his young mistress, but he never broke the seal of secrecy which Leonora
placed upon him, and Louis and Leonora never met again.
Louis managed to evade the embraces and the advances of the Queen. He
had been espoused to the Princess Margaret of Savoy, and although he used
the liberty of a vigorous and a level-headed young manhood under the
silver-feathered ægis of Prince Cupid, he was not forgetful of his troth.
Having broken the back of the opposition of Alfonso of Aragon, and being
confident of the support of Genoa and Milan, he lived in comparative
comfort and peace; but he withdrew into Calabria, where he was for a time,
at all events, safe from the intrigues of Giovanna. During this interval the
young King made repeated visits both to Angers and Chambéry, to greet his
devoted mother, revive the sweet memories of his boyhood, and to cultivate
the love of his fiancée Margaret, now growing rapidly to womanhood.
The whole of France was once again in a ferment. The English, driving
all before them, captured almost all the possessions of the Crown. Charles
VII. was a fugitive, and his consort Marie, Louis’s beloved sister, broken-

hearted. René, his younger brother, was fighting for his own in Bar and
Lorraine. With the chivalry and self-sacrifice which distinguished all the
children of Louis II. and Yolande, he placed his sword at the disposal of his
brother-in-law, and fell into line with the defenders of his native soil. None
of the French King’s allies held themselves more stoutly, nor were anything
like so dependable, as was the young King of Sicily and Naples. His royal
person and his coroneted helmet were ever foremost in the battle; his
bravery was inspiring. When matters seemed to be hopeless and the flame
of France’s honour appeared to be extinguished, the miraculous mission of
the Maid of Domremy cheered the hearts of all true patriots. She chose
René as her preux chevalier, and her place was at the head of the troops
under his orders. Louis III. had another post of danger to fill; he and his
command were told off to keep watchful eyes upon the movements of the
Duke of Burgundy. By his excellent strategy he kept the English apart from
their allies, and rendered the co-operation of the Burgundians impossible.

KING LADISLAUS AND QUEEN GIOVANNA II.
From a Monument by A. Ciccione. Church of San
Giovanni a Carbonara, Naples
To face page 236

The relief of Orléans was followed by the amalgamation of the two
French armies, led so brilliantly by the Angevine royal brothers, and the
victorious hosts of France swept Charles and his Court along with them
triumphantly to his Sacré at Reims. Released from his duties as coadjutor to
the King of France, Louis returned south again, and at Geneva he and
Margherita di Savoia were united in the bonds of matrimony. The royal

couple left immediately for Marseilles, and sailed away to Naples,
accompanied by a strong squadron of war-galleys of Venice and Genoa; for
the Venetians, recognizing the courage and the ability of the young King,
and desirous of gaining some of the commercial profits of Neapolitan trade,
joined their forces to the banner of the Angevine King of Naples.
Once more in his capital he discovered Queen Giovanna wholly under
the influence of Gianni Caracciolo, who had assumed regal attributes, and
was personally carrying on an intrigue to supplant his authority. Louis
immediately sent for the usurper, asked him about his pretensions, and
warned him that if the Queen, as he said, had named him her Lieutenant-
General, he (Louis) was his undoubted Sovereign. Caracciolo took the
King’s assumption of his kingly rights quite nonchalantly, and replied
insolently that as long as Giovanna lived he was the mouthpiece of her
Government.
The favourite of the Queen was not a persona grata at her Court. His
arrogance and presumption raised up enemies on every side; in particular,
the old nobility looked askance upon a courtier of his low origin. Sergianni
was by name a Caracciolo, by birth the son of a common woman—so it was
said. The Queen’s Mistress of the Robes was Covella Ruffo, Duchess of
Sessa,—her husband was a pretender to the crown,—and she voiced the
palace discontent. She boldly demanded of Giovanna the immediate
disgrace of her Seneschal, and proclaimed the Court preference for King
Louis and his fascinating consort Margherita. The Queen indignantly stood
by Caracciolo, and forbade the Duchess to name the matter again. Within
ten days,—it was August 25, 1432,—the body of the favourite was picked
up by brethren of the Misericordia and given decent burial. In the dead
man’s heart, plunged up to the hilt, was the jewelled poniard of the Duchess
of Sessa! The incident passed, for the Queen deemed it inexpedient to ask
for explanations; besides, she had become wearied by the obsequiousness of
her Minister, and she had other fish to fry! With rare commercial acumen,
she seized all Caracciolo’s belongings,—most of them he had received from
herself,—and actually, with feminine inconsequence, shared them with the
Duchess!

III.

Whilst Louis was strengthening his position at Naples, Duke René of Bar
and Lorraine was languishing in the Tour de Bar at Bracon, vanquished at
Bulgneville and crushed by the Duke of Burgundy. Louis added his protest
against his brother’s retention in captivity to that of all the Sovereigns and
peers of France, and his appeal was carried by Queen Margherita to her
father, the Duke of Savoy, whose influence was great with the Court of
Burgundy. René’s release on parole for a year was largely due to the
intercession of his brother. Giovanna expressed a wish to see “my other
cousin of Anjou,” as she put it, and Louis pressed his brother to bend his
steps to Naples and recruit his health and spirits in the sunny, merry South.
The Duke’s first step, however, was to hurry off to Nancy to fold his heroic
wife Isabelle and darling children to his breast; here, too, to regulate many
affairs of State awaiting his decision. To Angers next he boated, to pay his
filial homage to his courageous, resourceful mother, Queen Yolande, and to
relieve her of some of the worry of government. René, too, had much
business to do at the Court of King Charles of France, and his loyal,
devoted subjects in Provence demanded his presence. So passed nearly the
whole of his twelvemonth’s grace.
Giovanna’s reception of her “cousin” was affectionate in the extreme,
and she was warm in her admiration of “another handsome Prince of
Anjou.”
Nothing, however, would suit her until René became her guest, and as
such he went through all the weird experience of his elder brother. It
mattered not to the Queen that he was a married man with a loving wife and
dear children; what mattered to her was that he was good-looking, brave,
and gallant. To be sure, René’s serious manner disconcerted her, and his
artistic tastes bored her, but under his studious courtesy she tried to believe
that he was hiding a lively response to her amorous advances. In the
presence of “il galantuomo Re,”—by which term she always saluted Louis,
—Giovanna named René second heir to her kingdom, and successor to the
title and estates of the duchy of Calabria. She carefully refrained from
inquiries about Duchess Isabelle; indeed, she ignored her existence
altogether, and in this line of conduct she was quite consistent, for she had
declined to receive the young Queen Margherita when Louis entered Naples
with her in state.

René, however, was instrumental, whilst under the fascination of Queen
Giovanna, in effecting two matters of importance for the kingdom of Naples
and its people. She had instructed Giovanni Capistrani, a perfervid son of
Rome, and at the same time an admirer of the Queen, whom she had
appointed Court Chamberlain, to persecute the Jews and drive them away
from Naples; all such as refused exile he was ordered to put to death. René
interposed in the interpretation of these decrees, and gained the Queen’s
consent to allow the persecuted race to remain on two conditions: (1) That
they should not exact unjust usury; and (2) that they should be marked by a
yellow cross to differentiate them from the Christian subjects of the Crown.
René further suggested to Giovanna that the Church needed her patronage,
that she herself would go the way of all flesh, and that some
accommodation with Heaven was very desirable. The Queen laughed his
counsel to scorn, and badgered him for a crusader and a churchling, but his
words went home even to her hardened, sensuous heart. Capistrani’s
unexpected action, moreover, greatly moved her; he resigned his Court
offices and emoluments, and meekly entered a monastery of St. Francis
d’Assisi.
Duke René returned to his prison at Dijon, and King Louis took his bride
off to Cosenza, the capital of Calabria, where a second marriage was
celebrated on August 15, 1433, to allay the scruples of prejudiced adherents
of the Neapolitan throne. A rumour had been spread,—originating, it was
said, with the Queen herself,—which affirmed that Margherita was not the
wife, but the mistress, of the royal Duke! Eighteen short months of marital
bliss were enjoyed by Louis and Margherita, broken, alas! by a fresh attack
by Alfonso in force on Naples. A naval battle off Gaeta, 1434, ended
disastrously for the fleet of Aragon. Arrayed against it were the allied forces
of Genoa, Venice, Florence, and Milan. Alfonso and his brother Juan were
taken prisoners, and carried off to Milan by Duke Filippo Maria. Then a
blow fell on the young Queen and upon the whole kingdom of Naples,
which made itself felt even in the morbid heart of Queen Giovanna. King
Louis caught fever besieging the city of Taranto, and was borne swiftly off
to Cosenza, where he died, in his own fond Queen’s arms, on November 15,
1434. Few Princes have made themselves so universally loved as Louis III.
of Sicily and Naples, and never were there so many sad hearts and tearful
eyes in the kingdom of Naples as when his beloved body was laid out for
burial in the Cathedral of Cosenza.

Giovanna never again recovered her spirits; to be sure, she did not
renounce her evil ways, but she set about in a hurry to put into execution
Duke René’s suggestions. Among belated pious deeds, she rebuilt and
refounded the Church of Santa Maria dell’ Annunziata by way of penance
for her bad life, and there she was buried in front of the high-altar. A simple
slab of marble points out, in the absence of a grandiose monument, the
place of her sepulture. She died February 2, 1435, and no woman wept for
her, and no man felt grieved. If it is true that “the evil which men do dies
with them,” then we must not rake up the tainting memories of an evil past.
Giovanna II., Queen of Naples, has passed to her last account, and before
Heaven’s tribunal will she stand, alongside with the victims of her vampire-
love. Faraglia, in his “Storia della Regina Giovanna II. d’Angio,” makes a
brave attempt to whitewash the character of the Queen, and he records
many interesting details in her daily life. “Every morning,” he says, “she
rose with the sun, spent one hour at Mass and private devotions; then she
applied herself to the study of music and literature; at noon she breakfasted,
generally alone, the afternoon she gave to exercise, and before dinner she
bathed in a bath supplied with the milk of one hundred asses.” Apparently
the Queen gave no time to affairs of State, and she had not much leisure for
company. Undoubtedly Queen Giovanna was the friend of art and craft, but
only so far as their exponents helped to enhance her own attractions and
luxuries. Antonio Solario—“Il Zingaro”—was her favourite painter, and, by
the oddest of irrational conventions, he has represented her in an altar-piece
as the Virgin Mary with the Infant Christ, and surrounded by a court of
saints!
With what feelings the news of the death of Louis III. at Cosenza was
received by René in his prison chamber at Tour de Bar we may well
imagine. The hold of his house upon the kingdom of Naples was, of course,
of the weakest; and if the late King upon the spot, free to move what troops
and stores he had at will, was unable to retain command of Naples, how
could a captive Prince away in Burgundy hope to enforce successfully his
claim as his brother’s heir?
In Provence and Anjou and beyond the borders of his dominions, with
Bar and Lorraine, and with the sympathy and assistance of friendly
Sovereigns and Princes at home and abroad, he had, of course, numberless
loyal subjects, friends, and allies, but among them all not one could enthuse

his cause as he could himself in person. Three devoted Princesses,—
Yolande, Isabelle, and Marguerite,—were doing all they could to free him
from his captivity. Their efforts were in the schools of sympathy and
politics, but they could not lead troops or command a victorious army. No
doubt René was depressed and in despair at the apparent paralysis of all
effective assistance. Then came the crushing intelligence that Giovanna, the
Queen of Naples, was dead, and that he (René) was de facto King. This
must have made him desperate. He had no resources, and there appeared no
possibility of his obtaining possession of his rights. How he chafed and
fumed as he paced his spacious chamber, and how defiantly he must have
gazed through its barred windows and at its closed door! Duke René’s brain
must have reeled.
Relief, however, came in quite an unexpected sort of way. One morning
the bolts of his door were noisily shot back, and upon the threshold he
beheld two foreign gentlemen unknown to him. They knelt and kissed his
hand; then they offered him a permit from the Duke of Burgundy, a sealed
letter from Duchess (now Queen) Isabelle, and a great official despatch
from the lately deceased Queen Giovanna. The two emissaries were
devoted adherents to the House of Anjou-Provence—Baron Charles de
Montelar and Signore Vidal di Cabarus. They came, as their credentials
ordered, directly from the deathbed of the Queen, to tell him from her that,
“for the sake of the love I had for King Louis,—now, alas! departed,—I
chose his noble brother René as my heir and successor. Long live King
René!” Into his hand the two gentlemen delivered the Sovereign’s
medallion and its royal chain of gold, and again they did obeisance to their
new Sovereign.
René accepted their homage chivalrously, if sorrowfully, but his eye
wandered to the smaller packet held by di Cabarus, for he saw it was
addressed to him in his dear wife’s handwriting. Tearing open the cover, he
read with tears in his eyes the startling news that—
“Even whilst thou, my fond spouse, readest these
presents, I, thy loyal wife and royal consort, am setting off at
once, well mounted and numerously attended, to Marseilles
to take shipping for Naples, there to receive in thy name the
homage of the Estates and to assume the government. I am
taking with me our second boy, Louis, with Yolande and

Marguerite, to show them to thy Neapolitan subjects, but
Jean I shall send to thee to comfort thee, by the grace of the
Duke of Burgundy. My sweet mother will accompany him to
cheer thee and to tell thee of my good estate. Fare thee well,
beloved.
“Your Isabelle.
“At Nancy, 1434.”
Isabelle had learned promptness and wisdom from her good mother-in-
law, Queen Yolande, as well as decision and courage from her father, Duke
Charles, and all these royal virtues she exhibited magnificently at this
extraordinary juncture. The two Neapolitan envoys had, it appeared, gone
direct to Nancy to learn their new Queen’s pleasure, and had thus become
the bearers of her exhilarating mandate. René received the intelligence of
the masterful action of his spouse with mixed feelings. He knelt at his prie-
dieu, and thanked God and the saints for the noble self-sacrifice of his wife;
then, rising proudly from his knees, he embraced his two visitors, bestowed
upon each a ring from his own fingers, and gave them instructions to carry
his duty to the Duke of Burgundy, praying for his instant release, and then
to proceed to Marseilles to convey to Queen Isabelle his blessing and his
approval of her splendid enterprise. No sooner was he left to himself once
more than he collapsed, weeping like a child and chiding his Maker and his
captor in language lurid and forcible. The irony of his position nearly drove
him mad.
Queen Isabelle landed at Naples in due course, and became the object of
an extraordinary outburst of enthusiasm. Hailed as Queen, and with King
René’s name ever reverberating from loyal lip to loyal lip, she made no
mistake, she had no illusions, for she faced the fact at once that there were
other claimants for the vacant throne and the uneasy crown. The King of
Aragon she knew as a traditional rival, and with him she had to deal most
seriously and methodically. He, indeed, directly news of the Queen’s death
reached him, had seized the Castle of Gaeta, and thence had issued a
proclamation claiming the vacant throne. The Duke of Sessa, the husband
of Queen Giovanna’s favourite confidante, Duchess Sancia, claimed the
throne as representing,—in descent from Robert, Count of Avellino, her
second husband,—Maria of Calabria-Durazzo, sister of Queen Giovanna I.

The Prince of Taranto, grand-nephew of Giovanna I.’s third husband and of
her sister Maria’s third spouse, the Emperor of Constantinople, entered his
claims to the whole kingdom. He pretended also that King Louis III.,
René’s brother, had before his death at Cosenza made him his heir of all
Calabria. From a distant kingdom came still another claimant. The King of
Hungary, Andrew, first consort of Giovanna I., had by her a son, it was
affirmed, but who it was alleged had died in infancy. This child, it was
maintained, was living, now grown to man’s estate. The child who died, and
was buried as the Queen’s son, was the son of a servant in the royal suite,
whilst the young Prince was removed from his mother’s care and carried off
to Hungary, and thus reared.
Isabelle brushed all these claims aside,—save that of Alfonso, who alone
of the pretenders to the crown was prepared to take up, as he had done for
years, the rights of Aragon in Naples, by force of arms. Everywhere
throughout the kingdom the Anjou dynasty was popular; the country people
swore by Louis III., and acclaimed the proclamation of René. The army
alone was disaffected, and was corrupted by Spanish gold. The royal
treasury at Naples was empty, the pay of the loyal troops was in arrears;
corruption and fraud filled every department of State. The country gentry
and peasantry were ruined; they had been taxed and supertaxed by the
minions of Queen Giovanna II. From Provence and Anjou not much
monetary help could be expected, and Lorraine and Bar were impoverished.
All France was suffering from the wreck of the Hundred Years’ War. René’s
ransom required almost every penny Yolande, Isabelle, and Marguerite,
could raise by love and threat. What could be done?

GUARINI DA VERONA PRESENTING HIS TRANSLATION OF
STRABO’S WORK ON GEOGRAPHY TO KING RENÉ
From a Miniature by King René. Albi Library
To face page 246

The new Queen had come to Naples to claim and hold the kingdom for
her husband, and she made up her mind that she would try every expedient
to that end, cost what it might. To steal and to borrow were not lines of
conduct that appealed to her, but she could beg, and beg she did. Upon this
circumstance historians have fastened, and have written more or less
eloquently in praise of a dauntless Queen. After making up her mind to this

course of action, Isabelle at once put it into operation, and an immense
sensation was created in the city when their beautiful and virtuous Queen,
clothed simply in native Neapolitan garb, without jewels or marks of
royalty, took her place morning by morning outside the palace, in the open
square, a macaroni basket in her fair, white, ringless hands, and there
pleaded eloquently, in her sweet and musical voice, for contributions for the
honour of the King and for the defence of the city. By her side, clad in
Neapolitan costumes, were her three little children—innocent, fresh, and
comely. “It was,” wrote a chronicler, “a spectacle to move the heart and
soul of a marble statue—if such it hath. A Queen of high degree and
impeccability humbling herself for her new country’s good. Looking upon
her and her children, one conjured up the base contrast offered to our
outraged nature by the late Queen, of infamous memory.”
Money flowed in fast and full, and the wicker cash-box daily carried
almost more weight of copper and silver, and of articles of jewellery, than
the fine strength of the virago Queen could support. Isabelle set about a
thorough overhauling of the resources of the national exchequer. She
personally rallied troops, and inspected militarily her recruits; arrears of pay
were forthcoming, and the better-disposed men of affairs she intuitively
selected, and thus purged the seats of government. The King of Aragon,
amazed at Isabelle’s courage and ability, refrained from attacking Naples.
“I’ll fight with men,” he said, “not with a woman!” he exclaimed. “Let us
see what she will do.”
The state of Naples in general, and of the Court in particular, was worse
than that of any Augean stable. Indeed, of Court, strictly speaking, there
was none, for the less disreputable nobles had long ago gone away to their
country estates, taking the seeds of corruption with them to sow among
their tenantry. The coteries which gathered around the abandoned Queen
like eagles round a carcass were split up into murderous, lustful parties, and
divided among evil-conditioned brothels. Every man was every woman’s
prey, and every woman at the mercy of a libertine. The whole city was a
colossal orgie, and its inhabitants sunk in the slough of unmitigated filth.
The turpitude of Pompeii found a parallel in the unrighteousness of Naples.
To pull aside the veil which merciful Time has placed over those years of
banality and crime would be a sacrilege.

“Down among the dead men let them lie!”

Queen Isabelle, aghast, pulled her veil more closely over her fair
features, fixed her teeth, and clenched her hands. Giovanna and all her
doings were taboo to her, and by the example and precept of a good woman
she gradually accomplished what appeared to be a Herculean task—she
brought the Neapolitans to their senses. Mind, in those rapidly pulsating
Southern natures, quickly controls action, and the human animal is not all
bad even when so predestined by Providence. Isabelle’s administration of
the kingdom of Naples during the three years of her sole government was
by way of being a moral renascence of humanity, and, when René joined his
noble consort, the roses which decorated his triumphal entry were richly
perfumed by his wife’s sweet culture.
The prisoner of Bracon was set unconditionally free in 1437, and he
hurried away to Marseilles, passing through his beloved country of
Provence, hailed everywhere and by everyone with ecstatic devotion. At his
port of departure for Naples he was met by Queen Yolande. Never was there
a more affecting scene: the mother,—still bearing traces of her early beauty
and grace,—bowed down with grief and aged prematurely; the son grown
older than his age under the rigours, mental and physical, of his long
imprisonment, but still devoted, grateful, and chivalrous. Yolande had fain
pressed René to remain in France and comfort her declining years, for, were
they parted, she felt that she never more should fold him to her heart—a
heart pierced deeply by the premature death of Louis. Yet she played the
Spartan mother, not spectacularly but sincerely, and, hushing the sobs of
parting, she bravely waved the King of Naples her last farewell. His father
and his brother had both traversed the way René was taking; their
experience would doubtless be his.
René had a great reception at Naples, and his joy was unclouded when he
embraced his noble wife and his four young children, with tears coursing
down his cheeks. His recognition as Sovereign was celebrated in the
cathedral. There he and Isabelle knelt hand in hand in thankful confidence.
Not long did the new King remain in the bosom of his family. Alfonso
broke his parole, and prepared a fresh expedition to attack Naples. René
went off at once to Rome, Florence, Venice, Genoa, and Milan, to rally help
in his emergency. During his captivity the King of Aragon had played the

cards so adroitly that he had succeeded in detaching the Duke, his captor,
from the triple alliance. Moreover, he gained over to his side Pope Eugenius
IV. by promising to make Sicily a fief of the Church. The Aragonese attack
failed, though the forces at King René’s command suffered terribly.
At this juncture Queen Isabelle and her children, except the heir to the
throne, returned to France, much against her will, but obedient to her royal
consort’s wishes. Jean, Duke of Calabria, now a promising lad of nearly
thirteen, remained with his father at the post of danger. Alfonso was by no
means discouraged; he intended to be master of Naples cost him what it
might. In 1440 and 1441 he made fresh assaults on Naples and other
seaports of the Calabrian peninsula. All of these René resisted triumphantly,
but at Troia, on October 21 in the latter year, Alfonso in person defeated
René’s army under the command of Sforza and Sanseverino, and made
good his footing in the kingdom of Naples. He further pressed home his
attack upon the capital by seizing the island of Ischia, where he compelled
the women, whether married or not, to wed his victorious soldiers. René
wearied of the contest; he had been warring for twenty years, and he
yearned for repose. The Neapolitans quickly took his measure, and his
indecision and slackness of energy disheartened his principal supporters.
His troops fell away from him, and when, in May, 1442, the King of Aragon
once more summoned the capital to surrender, René meekly handed over
the keys to his enemy, and made his escape to Marseilles. Alfonso on June 2
entered Naples in triumph, and put an end to the rule of the Angevine
Kings.
Alfonso has been styled “the Magnanimous”; perhaps “the Philosopher”
would fit his character better. He was a student of metaphysics and a
classicist to boot, and, moreover, he had a ready wit. He hated dancing and
frivolity, and once remarked that “a man who danced only differed from a
fool because his folly was shorter!” An ideal domestic menage appeared to
him to be “a blind wife and a deaf husband.” His treasurer was one day
giving out scrip for 20,000 ducats, when an officer standing by exclaimed:
“Alack, if I only had that amount I should be a happy man!” “Take it,”
replied the King!
Nevertheless, Alfonso was hated by his new subjects quite as thoroughly
as René had been beloved. The war dragged on; in Calabria the Prince of
Taranto raised once more the banner of Anjou, and Giovanni Toreglia, a

cousin of Lucrezia d’Alagni, Alfonso’s last mistress, seized Ischia for Jean,
Duke of Calabria, René’s eldest son. René himself made two more attempts
to regain Giovanna’s inheritance: in 1458 and 1461; but Charles VII. and
Louis XI. each failed him in turn with reinforcements. Last of all, Jean,
Duke of Calabria, was decisively defeated at Troia in 1462 by Ferdinand I.,
Alfonso’s bastard son, who succeeded to the throne of Naples after his
father’s death in 1458, a man treacherous and vindictive, and a libertine.
“Sic transit gloria mundi” may be written as a footnote to the story of
Naples in the fifteenth century.

CHAPTER VIII
MARGUERITE D’ANJOU—“THE MOST INTREPID OF
QUEENS”

I.

“Margaret of Anjou was the loveliest, the best-educated, and the most
fearless Princess in Christendom!” High praise indeed, but not more than
her due, and universally accorded her by every historian who has
undertaken to chronicle her character and career.
Born at the Castle of Pont-à-Mousson,—one of the finest in all Lorraine,
and a favourite residence of her father and mother,—on March 23, 1429,
Margaret was the youngest child of René, Duke of Bar, and Isabelle of
Lorraine his wife. Her father was far away from his home when this pretty
babe first smiled upon her sweet mother. He was escorting La Pucelle to
Chinon, and leading the troops of Charles VII. to victory. Her mother was
Lieutenant-General of the duchies—a devoted and heroic spouse. The little
girl’s cradle was rocked amid the rivalries and hostilities of the Houses of
Lorraine and Vaudémont. She was the child of Mars. She was baptized by
Henri de Ville, Bishop of Toul, who had just been created, by the Emperor
Sigismund, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire. The Bishop was a trusty
friend of Duke René in shower and shine.
That ducal nursery, where faithful Théophaine la Magine bore maternal
nursing sway, was a merry one; for Margaret’s brothers Jean, Louis, and
little Nicholas,—twin with her only sister Yolande,—were all vigorous
youngsters. Then, besides these legitimate children, the Castle of Bar-le-
Duc sheltered another Jean and Blanche and Madeleine, born to their father
out of wedlock. The ducal sepulchre had given rest to two other baby boys,
Charles and René, own brothers to little Margaret.
Margaret’s experience of the joys and sorrows of the world began at a
very early age. Her doting father was a captive away at Dijon under the
rigorous hand of the Duke of Burgundy, and Duchess Isabelle was up and

about seeking his deliverance. René and she had succeeded Charles II. as
Duke and Duchess of Lorraine the same year that saw the Tour de Bar
receive its distinguished prisoner, and upon Isabelle fell all the
complications and difficulties attending the succession. To be sure, she had
the very able help of the Dowager Duchess, her own dear mother
Marguerite, godmother of her little girl, but the first consideration in her
mind was her husband’s liberty. Handing over the reins of government to
Duchess Marguerite and the Council of State, Isabelle betook herself to the
Court of Charles VII. to claim his assistance and interference. With her she
took her two little daughters—Yolande, only three years old, and Margaret,
but two. Her sons were sent to Burgundy to stand as hostages at the Duke’s
orders, and little Nicholas remained with his grandmother at Nancy.

MARGUERITE D’ANJOU
From a Miniature by King René, in “Le Livre des Heures”
To face page 254

At Vienne, where the French Court was at the time, having gone south
from Reims and the coronation, the King gave his brother-in-law’s consort a
very hearty greeting, but he hesitated to commit himself to action which
might ferment once more evil blood between his people and the
Burgundians. Isabelle held by their hands, as she pleaded for her dear
husband, her two baby girls, and Charles’s indecision was overcome by
little Margaret, then a dauntless infant, who ran up to him and insisted upon

being nursed upon his knee and kissed. A child’s instinctive
disingenuousness is affected by magnetic natures regardless of conventions
and proprieties; how often and often again is this proved to be axiomatic!
That interview was memorable for the meeting of Charles with a woman—
to be sure, then a girl—who would in after-years affect him and his
considerably. Agnes Sorel was in attendance upon the Duchess Isabelle.
Charles beheld her for the first time, and her face and figure haunted him
for good and ill many a long day.
Not content with winning over the King of France to intercede for the
liberation of her consort, the Duchess returned to Lorraine, and went off at
once to Vaudémont to plead with Count Antoine, the Duke of Burgundy’s
brother, in the same cause. Vaudémont agreed to assist his kinswoman, but
upon one chief condition, among others—that she would consent to
Yolande, her eldest daughter, being betrothed to his eldest son Ferri. There
was, of course, method in this extraordinary proposal,—for the child was
only three years of age,—and it was this: He, the Count, claimed Lorraine,
by the Salic Law, as first heir male against Isabelle. Whatever might
eventuate, his son married to René’s daughter would be an additional lien
upon the duchy. This policy also commended itself to Isabelle’s prudential
mind, and she gave a qualitative consent dependent upon confirmation by
Duke René later on. The Count added a rider to the stipulation, and that was
the committal of the girl to the care of his wife, the Countess, for education
and training. This, too, the Duchess accepted, although it cost her sore to
part with her dear child. Margaret and Nicholas alone remained to solace
her; but Isabelle was far too strong a character to spend much time in
comforting or being comforted. Whilst René was in durance vile she could
not remain idle; so off she went, taking Margaret and Nicholas with her, to
the Castle of Tarascon, in order to enlist the sympathies and services of
René’s devoted Provençals.
Isabelle’s coming into Provence provoked remarkable demonstrations on
the part of the warm-hearted and loyal subjects of the county. Troubadours
and glee maidens flocked to the Rhone shore; they sang, they danced, they
ate, they drank, and laid floral offerings and votive crowns at the feet of
their Countess and her tender children. Bonfires blazed from shore to shore,
and echoes of the rejoicings might have been carried by the warm south
wind right into the dungeoned ears of their beloved Count. Whilst Duchess

Isabelle was in residence at Tarascon negotiations were already on foot for
the betrothal of little Margaret. An eligible suitor arrived, the young Pierre
de Luxembourg, eldest son of the Count of St. Pol, whose esquire, by a
singular coincidence, happened to be the recipient at Bulgneville of Duke
René’s sword. Arrangements for the ceremony of espousal were, however,
rudely interrupted by a serious outbreak of plague, and Isabelle and her
children fled to Marseilles, where they remained till René joined them,
released upon a year’s parole.
When René was proclaimed King of Sicily, Naples, and Jerusalem, Duke
of Anjou, and Count of Provence, upon the premature death of his elder
brother, Louis III., at Cosenza, Isabelle was again at Marseilles, on her way
to take possession of her husband’s rights in Naples. Such pageants and
spectacles at those exhibited in her honour by the exuberant Marseillais that
city had never seen. She rode through ranks on ranks of cheering citizens, in
a great state chariot covered with crimson and gold, and wearing a queenly
crown upon her head, and with her were Jean, her eldest son, and Margaret
and Nicholas. The little Princess captivated everybody by her naïveté and
the graceful kissing of her little hand. Margaret sent kisses flying through
every street, winning all men’s loyalty and the love of all the boys.
Queen Isabelle and her children took up their residence at the Palace of
Capua. Queen Giovanna offered her the new royal palace in Naples, but
Isabelle’s instinct was not in error when she chose to dwell a little distance
from the royal hussy. There King René joined his family, bringing with him
both Louis, his second son, and Yolande. The reunion was the happiest that
could be. Upon the King devolved, of course, the onus of government, with
the co-operation of Queen Giovanna. Queen Isabelle, relieved from the
trammels of the executive, had now a much-longed-for respite in which to
give attention to the neglected education of her children. She constituted
herself their teacher-in-chief, but called to her assistance the very noted
writer of French romance, Antoine de Salle. Alas! it was a brief interlude
indeed, for the studies had hardly had time to affect the young pupils when
the King of Aragon resumed his hostile demonstration against the Angevine
dynasty, and René and his were locked in the grip of war. Very unwillingly
Queen Isabelle agreed to return to France with her children, Naples being
an armed camp and the whole country in a turmoil. They wended their way
leisurely to Anjou, and not to Lorraine. Two reasons dictated this course.

Angers was the capital par excellence of the dominions of the King of
Sicily-Anjou, the ancestral seat of his house, and Anjou was more
favourably conditioned than Lorraine or Bar for the completion of the
training of the royal children. Queen Yolande was only too delighted to
welcome her brave daughter-in-law and to caress her beloved
grandchildren. She went off to the Castle of Saumur, her favourite
residence, and the walls of the grim Castle of Angers once more resounded
to the merry laughter of childish games. Sadly enough those joyous sounds
yielded place to saddest dirges when Prince Nicholas, not yet ten years old,
died suddenly of poison. This was the first break by Death into that home
circle.
The King and Queen were again in residence at the Castle of Tarascon in
1443, and there, on February 2, they received an imposing mission from the
Duke of Burgundy, headed by Guillaume Harancourt, Bishop of Verdun, the
Seigneurs Pierre de Beauprémont and Adolphe de Charny, with Antoine de
Gaudel, the Duke’s principal secretary. They came to Tarascon to negotiate
a marriage between the Duke’s nephew, Charles de Borugges, son of
Philippe, Count of Nevers, and the Princess Margaret. This bridegroom
expectant had been very much in the matrimonial market before accepting
the choice of his uncle. His first fiancée was Jeanne, daughter of Robert,
Count de la Marche; she gave place to Anne, Duchess of Austria; and she in
turn was passed over before the greater charms of the Angevine Princess.
The contract of betrothal with Pierre de Luxembourg was cancelled, and
Charles de Nevers was the choice of René and Isabelle.
The date for signing the marriage contract was fixed, February 4, and to
all the articles the King and Queen readily assented. The dowry was 50,000
livres, but how that large sum was to be raised neither René nor Isabelle had
the slightest idea; they had exhausted their exchequer in the fruitless fight
for Naples. The Duke of Burgundy, acting as next of kin to the bridegroom-
elect, promised to settle a jointure of 40,000 livres on Margaret. René had
put forward a plea that the Duke should forego 80,000 écus d’or, which was
due on loans, and Philippe agreed, receiving as further security and
indemnity to the towns of Neufchâteau, Preny, and Longwy,—already in
pawn to him,—the Castles of Clermont, Varennes, and Renne, all in
Argonne. A secret clause was, however, at the eleventh hour foisted upon
the Angevine Sovereigns—a proceeding quite in accordance with the

proverbial cunning of the Court of Burgundy. It stipulated that the children
of Charles and Margaret should be heirs-presumptive of Sicily-Anjou-
Provence, Lorraine, and Bar, to the exclusion of the issue of Ferri and
Yolande de Vaudémont.
The judicial mind of King René would not let his consent to this article
be recorded until he had consulted both the Count de Vaudémont and King
Charles of France. The former indignantly interviewed the Duke of
Burgundy, and stated his determination to oppose the proposed marriage.
Charles resented the stipulation upon the ground of its injustice, and warned
his brother-in-law not to agree to any such proposals. The marriage contract
was not signed, and, whilst acrimonious negotiations were carried on both
at Dijon and Vienne, another and a very much more illustrious suitor of the
hand of Princess Margaret appeared upon the scene, no less a person than
Henry VI., King of England and France.
When the matter was first mooted, it was thought nothing of by the King
and Queen of Sicily, because Henry had been all but betrothed to Isabelle,
the daughter of the Count of Armagnac, to whom he owed so very much in
earlier days. Indeed, the gossip went so far as to link the English King’s
name in turn with all three daughters of the Count—the loveliest girls in
France: “Three Graces of Armagnac” they were called. Henry had sent his
favourite painter, Hans of Antwerp, to paint the three comely sisters, and his
handiwork was so acceptable to the royal young bachelor that he sat and
gazed at them for long, changing the order of their arrangement to see
which face of the beauteous three made the most passionate appeal. The
Armagnac marriage was backed by all the influence of the Duke of
Gloucester, the younger of the King’s uncles, and lately Lord Protector of
England.
What drew Margaret of Anjou into the orbit of Henry of England was
that she had gone on a visit to her aunt, Queen Marie of France, and had at
the French Court created quite a sensation. She was nearly fourteen years of
age, and gave fascinating indications of those charms of mind and person
which made her “the most lovely, the best-educated, and the most fearless
Princess in Christendom.”
Cardinal Beaufort was also a visitor at King Charles’s castle at Chinon,
and was immensely moved by Margaret’s appearance and

accomplishments. He also detected her latent strength of character, and
certain traits therein which marked her unerringly as the counterfoil of his
royal pupil and master’s mental and moral weaknesses. The Cardinal
returned to England full of the charms of the young Princess, and descanted
upon them so enthusiastically to the King that Henry was in a perfect fever
to behold the beauteous Princess for himself. His amorous appetite was
further stimulated by conversations he quite accidentally had with one Jules
Champchevier, a prisoner of war on parole from Anjou, lodging with Sir
John Falstaff, in attendance upon the King. Champchevier was sent off to
Saumur to obtain, if possible, a portrait of the bewitching young Princess.
The King wished her to be painted quite simply and naturally “in a plain
kirtle, her face unpainted, and her hair in coils.” He required information
about “her height, her form, the colour of her skin, her hair, her eyes, and
what size of hand she hath.”
Champchevier was taken prisoner on landing in France, and threatened
with death for breaking his parole whilst executing the royal commission;
but news reaching Charles VII. of the unfortunate fellow’s predicament, he
laughed heartily at the situation when he learned the reason of his mission,
and forthwith ordered his release. The idea of a matrimonial contract
between his royal rival and his royal niece opened His Majesty’s eyes to
possibilities created thereby of a satisfactory peace between the two
countries. Once more,—and how many times before and since!—a royal
maiden’s heart contained the key to great political issues.
The portrait was painted exactly to order—perhaps, and quite correctly,
with a little artistic embellishment. The beauty of Nature is always
enhanced by the decorative features of art. Henry was charmed with the
sweet face he gazed and gazed upon, quite putting into the shade the other
reigning beauties of his heart. He was himself as comely as might be, just
four-and-twenty, highly educated, his mind unusually refined. In thought
and deed he was pure and devout, and very shy of strange women. Upon the
latter head he was emphatic, for when at Court or elsewhere he beheld
women with open bosoms à l’Isabeau de Bavière he was shocked, and
turned away his face, muttering: “Oh fie! oh fie! ye be much to blame!” His
earnest wish was marriage, not concubinage. The King’s choice very soon
became noised abroad, and the Court became agitated and divided. The
Duke of Gloucester, the King’s next of kin and heir-presumptive to the

throne, championed the Armagnac match, whilst Cardinal Beaufort and the
Earl of Suffolk decided for Margaret of Anjou.
There was, however, an obstacle in the way, quite consistently with the
proverbial rugged course of all true love; the Count of Nevers refused to
release his fiancée. He was prepared, he averred, to cancel the contentious
clause in the marriage contract, made at Tarascon, and not to insist upon
anything derogatory to the dignity of King René and his elder daughter, the
Countess Ferri de Vaudémont. The prospect to René of such an auspicious
union, however, which would place his daughter upon one of the greatest of
European thrones, was too dazzling to be ignored, and the outcome of the
imbroglio was the assembling in January, 1444, of a mixed Commission,
representing England, France, Anjou, and Burgundy, at Tours, whereat two
protocols were framed: a treaty for a two years’ peace, and a marriage
agreement between the King of England and the Princess of Anjou. This
was signed on May 28 of the same year. The marriage contract thus drawn
out was very favourable to the House of Sicily-Anjou: Henry asked for no
dowry, but required only the rights transmitted to King René by Queen
Yolande with respect to the kingdom of Minorca. Henry further agreed to
the retrocession of Le Mans and other points in Anjou held by the English.
To the Earl of Suffolk, the leading English plenipotentiary, was mainly
due the successful issue of the conference. Henry created him Marquis and
Grand Seneschal of the Royal Household. The King furthermore despatched
to him an autograph letter to the following effect: “As you have lately, by
the Divine favour and grace, in our name, and for us, engaged verbally the
excellent, magnificent, and very bright Margaret, the second daughter of the
King of Sicily, and sworn that we shall contract marriage with her, we
consent thereto, and will that she be conveyed to us over the seas at our
expense.” Arrangements were forthwith made for the immediate marriage
of the Princess. Suffolk,—one of the handsomest and most cultivated men
of the day, though now verging on fifty years of age,—headed a majestic
embassy to Nancy, where the Sicily-Anjou Court was in residence. He bore
with him a dispensation from his royal master to act as his proxy at the
nuptial ceremony, and to receive in his name the hand of his fascinating
bride. It was indeed a notable function, and held in the ancient cathedral of
Tours, whereat all that was royal, noble, brave, and beautiful, forgathered.
The witnesses for Margaret were the King and Queen of France, the King

and Queen of Sicily-Anjou, and the Duke and Duchess of Calabria, with the
Dauphin Louis. The Princess’s supporters were the Duke of Alençon, the
most gallant and most accomplished Prince in France, and the Marquis of
Suffolk, the premier noble of England. Upon the latter’s consort, the clever
Marchioness, devolved the duties of Mistress of the Robes.
That day,—February 27, 1445,—was a red-letter day in the annals of all
three kingdoms. Louis d’Harcourt, Bishop of Toul, was chief celebrant,
assisted by half the prelates of France, and Cardinal Beaufort was in choir
to administer the Papal benediction. The young Queen’s Maids of Honour
were the two most lovely girls in France—Jehanne de Laval, in the suite of
Queen Marie, and Agnes Sorel, in that of Queen Isabelle. It was a singular
and delightful coincidence that these two lovely damsels were in evidence
on that auspicious day; for were they not the charming cynosures
respectively of two pairs of kingly eyes—René and Charles!
The interest and the importance of the celebration was heightened
considerably by the fact that there was a double wedding: Count Ferri de
Vaudémont and Princess Yolande of Sicily-Anjou were united in the bonds
of matrimony immediately after the nuptials of the new Queen. Fêtes and
festivities were carried out right royally for eight whole days and nights.
The “Lists” were held in the great wide Place de Carrière in Nancy. Charles
and René met in amicable conflict, but it was the former’s lance which was
tossed up, and René gained the guerdon, which he presented gallantly
enough to his sister, the Queen of France. The champion of champions,
however, was none other than Pierre de Luxembourg, the earliest fiancée of
Queen Margaret, and he had the happy satisfaction of receiving the victor’s
crest of honour from her hands—now another’s! Minstrelsy and the stage
also lent their aid to the general rejoicings. King René was already styled
the “Royal Troubadour,” and he rallied his melodious, merry men in a
goodly phalanx, whilst he himself led the music in person and recited his
own new marriage poem. The theatre proper had only very recently been
established in France. Church mysteries and pageant plays had had their
vogue, when, in 1402, Charles VI. granted his charter to “La Confrèrerie de
la Passion,”—a company, or guild, of masons, carpenters, saddlers, and
other craftsmen, and women,—which he established at the village of St.
Maur, near Vincennes. These merry fellows introduced to their
distinguished audience, in the Castle of Nancy, secular travesties of the

well-worn religious spectacles, and won the heartiest applause. King René
personally, through the gracious hands of the royal bride, decorated the
actors with gay ribbons and medallions.
The dress of the right royal company was, as may well be supposed,
sumptuous in the extreme; but among the wearers of rich attire a pathetic
note was struck, when it was mooted that royal Margaret had been dressed
for her bridal by Queen Marie, her aunt, because her own parents were too
much impoverished to supply suitable marriage robes! The bride’s dress
was mainly that worn by Queen Marie herself, twenty-three years before, at
her own nuptials with Charles VII. The kirtle was of cloth of gold cunningly
embroidered with the white lilies of France—the same for Anjou; the robe
of state was of crimson velvet bordered with ermine, which also formed the
trimming of the stomacher she wore. Her hair was dressed à l’Angloise, its
rich golden coils being crowned with a royal diadem, almost the only jewel
of Queen Yolande’s treasury which had not been sold or pawned. The little
Queen was slight of build and short of stature for her age; very fair of skin,
with a peachy blush; her eyes light blue, her hair a golden auburn; her
whole face and figure lent themselves to delightful expression and graceful
pose. Above all, she was very self-possessed, and gave all beholders the
impression of ability and decision beyond the average.
With respect to King René’s inability to provide a fitting trousseau for his
daughter, there is an entry in the Comptes de Roy René which indicates that
he was not unmindful of the sartorial requirements of his family. Under date
September 11, 1442, is an order, addressed to Guillaume de la Planche,
merchant of Angers, for 11 aulnes of cloth of gold, embroidered in crimson
and pleated, at 30 écus per aulne, with a suite of trimming to cost 30 livres.
At the same time François Castargis, furrier of Angers, is directed to supply
ten dozen finest marten skins at a cost of £15 7s. 6d., and to pack and
despatch them to the care of the Seigneur de Precigny at Saumur, “for
dresses for Madame Margaret.” This de Precigny was Bertrand de Beauvau,
who married King René’s natural daughter Blanche d’Anjou.
At the wedding of Henry VI. and Margaret at Tours and Nancy, the
courtiers were very richly attired in short jackets or tunics of pleated
brocade trimmed with silk fringes; their body hose was of parti-coloured
spun silk to match their tunics. Their shoes were made long, of white kid
with high heels, and were laced with golden thread. Calves where skimpy

were padded, and narrow shoulders were puffed out. They wore long
pendent sleeves, pricked and furred. Their hair, generally worn à la
Nazarene, hung in thick straight locks upon their shoulders, cut square over
the forehead. A small berretta, with a heron’s plume and a jewelled brooch,
completed the costume. Chains of gold and jewels were worn at will. The
ladies of the Court wore short kirtles or petticoats, with long bunched-up
trains of silk brocade in two contrasting colours; cloth of gold was reserved
for dames of royal degree. Strict rules were observed in the wearing of fur
—its quality and its breadth; ermine was reserved for royalty. Their gloves
were long-fingered, and their shoes long-toed, the points of each being
caught up with thin golden chains to their garters—“un chose ridicule et
absurde,” as Paradin wrote. The salient mark adopted by the ladies of
fashion was noted in their coiffures. The popular name, or, rather, the name
of scorn,—thanks to Father Thomas of Brittany,—for the astounding
headgear à la mode, “hennin,” was in select circles called en papillons
—“butterflied.” Some ladies had double horns like the mitres of Bishops,
some had round redoubts “comme les donjons,” some were half-moon
shape, and some like hearts, whilst many goodly dames made themselves
still more ridiculous by wearing miniature windmills! All these erections
were made of white stiffened linen, built up on frameworks of wicker and
carton. Over all floquarts,—thin gauze veils,—were gently cast. Collars of
jewels and ropes of pearls were de rigueur, and most of the ladies wore
badges of chivalry—the guerdons of their lords and sweethearts. One very
pretty conceit was introduced at the time of Queen Margaret’s marriage—a
dainty holder for the necessary pocket-handkerchief. This took the shape of
a small heart of gold suspended from an enamelled white marguerite, and
hung at the side of the jewelled cincture. The ladies’ shoes were richly
embroidered with seed-pearls and gold thread. Rings were worn outside the
gloves.
Among the suite sent by Henry to attend upon his bride were the
Countess of Shrewsbury and the Lady Emma de Scales, with five Barons
and Baronesses of the realm. In attendance, too, was Scrivener William
Andrews, Private Secretary to the King, who acted as juris-consult at the
signing of the marriage registers. In his diary he wrote: “Never have I seen
or heard of a young Princess so greatly loved and admired.”

EMPANELLING THE KNIGHTS BEFORE THE “LISTS,” SAUMUR TOURNAMENT, 1446
Painted by King René. From “Le Livre des Tournois”
To face page 268

Upon the ninth day after the marriage ceremony Queen Margaret took a
tearful but brave farewell of her fond parents and of the princely company,
and King René committed her proudly, yet regretfully, to the care of the
Marquis of Suffolk. An imposing cavalcade accompanied the parting
Queen; indeed, all Nancy, noble and bourgeois, rich and poor, turned out to
do honour to Her Majesty. King Charles and Queen Marie went as far as
Toul, and then bade their niece adieu. Charles was strangely sad, and said
with a deep-drawn sigh: “I seem to have done nothing for you, my well-
beloved niece, in placing you upon one of the greatest thrones in Europe,
but it certainly is worthy of possessing you as Queen.” Queen Marie’s
farewell was very affecting: “I bid you God-speed, my best-loved niece. I
am sure I do not know what we shall do without you. I weep for you, my
child!”
King René and Queen Isabelle travelled with their dear daughter right on
to Bar-le-Duc, where the cortège was enthusiastically received, and where a

rest was called over the Sunday, and parents and daughter partook of the
Communion. Then, on the morrow, Margaret broke down completely at the
parting, and both René and Isabelle gave way to sobs and tears. If the
prospect of the royal marriage had been pleasant to them all, its realization
and the future filled their hearts with apprehension. A dearly loved child
was now to make her way all alone among strangers—too young to go so
far from home, but too good to err.
“Je fais peur pour vous, ma fille,” cried the sorrowing father, “en vous
plaçant sur un des plus grands trônes de Chrétienté; que le bon Dieu vous
gardiez. Pour moi et pour vôtre mère, nous sommes tous les deux
désolés.”[A] Queen Isabelle’s heart was too full for words. She folded her
child to her bosom, and the two wept together. It was Margaret who first
dried her tears, and said bravely: “N’ayez aucun regret pour moi; je serai
vôtre fille la plus devouée pour jamais. Si mon corps veçut en Angleterre,
mon âme restera tousjours en France avec la vôtre.”[B]
[A] “I am fearful for you, my daughter, in placing you upon one of the
mightiest thrones in Christendom; may the good God protect you. As for me and
your mother, we are filled with desolation.”
[B] “Do not feel any regret for me; I shall be always your most devoted
daughter. If my body dwells in England, my soul shall rest always in France with
yours.”

Bare-headed, King René stood at the castle portal till Margaret and her
escort had faded from his sight; then he and the Queen shut themselves up
in their apartments and gave way to their pent-up feelings. Travelling as the
Queen of England, Margaret had now for her supporters her brother, the
Duke of Calabria, the Duke of Alençon, and the courteous Marquis of
Suffolk. Leisurely enough the company traversed the fertile fields of
Champagne, ever aiming for the north French coast. Besides a strong escort
of soldiery, in the royal train were seventeen knights and two esquire-
carvers, sixty-five esquires, twenty grooms, and 174 servitors of all kinds,
and with them serving-maids and dressers. At every stopping-place heartiest
greetings awaited the young Queen, and Princes and nobles knelt to pay
their homage. The English garrisons en route were forward in their loyal
salutations; their new Queen was the pledge of a greatly-yearned-for
entente cordiale.

At Nantes the Duke of York, King Henry’s near kinsman, and the
representative of the older line of the English Royal House, received the
Queen, and entertained her in the castle of the French Kings. On March 23
the royal progress ended at Rouen, where a week’s rest was called.
Bicknoke, in his “Computus,” has enumerated several curious items in the
bill of costs which covered the lengthy journey from Lorraine. The Barons
and Baronesses of the Queen’s suite received each four shillings and
sixpence a day, the knights had half a crown each a day, and, at the tail of
the following, the grooms were paid no more than fourpence per diem. At
Rouen the Queen paid four shillings and ninepence for fourteen pairs of
shoes to give to certain poor women of the town. She also made many
purchases of second-hand silver plate from a silversmith, Jean Tubande by
name. The articles were chiefly cups and plates which bore the arms of
Henry, Count of Luxembourg, father of her first fiancé. These escutcheons
the Queen had removed, and in place of them marguerites were engraved.
The Queen, moreover, came short of ready cash, so she pawned some of her
real silver wedding presents to the Marchioness of Suffolk, that she might
have the wherewithal for gifts to the seamen on her transport to England.
The royal party embarked in river boats, and made for Honfleur, where
the Cokke John, a great galley, was waiting off the port. Such a stormy
passage as that which was the prelude to Queen Margaret’s triumphant
progress to the English capital had hardly been exceeded for fury in the
memory of the most ancient mariners. Thunder and lightning and sheets of
ice-cold water threatened to destroy the stately craft and to engulf her lordly
fares. After beating about in the Channel for one whole day and night, with
utmost difficulty the harbour of Porchester was attained on April 10.
It was rather hard upon the Queen’s impoverished exchequer that she
should have been called upon to pay £5 4s. 10d. for her pilot, £13 6s. 8d. for
new hawsers, and £9 7s. for alterations and repairs in the vessel.
The terrified young Queen had never beheld the angry sea before nor
tasted its misery, and she was utterly prostrated in her state-room, and wept
and cried for her mother and to God for help. The Marquis raised her
inanimate form gently in his arms, and wading bravely to land through the
scudding sea-foam, he bore his precious burden, marching manfully along
the fresh-rush-strewn streets of the little fishing town. King Henry was at
Winchester, anxiously awaiting couriers who should gladden his ears by the

news of his royal bride’s arrival, and he galloped off at once to greet her at
the Goddes House of Southwick, whither she was borne for rest and
treatment. Unhappily, Margaret had contracted some infectious complaint,
—perhaps chicken-pox,—and, very tantalizing for herself and Henry, their
meeting was postponed until her illness had abated.
At the priory church of St. Mary and All Saints the ceremony of the
English espousal was celebrated by Cardinal Kemp, and Henry placed upon
Margaret’s finger the ring which he had worn at his coronation in Paris
eighteen years before. If the King was charmed by the portrait of his Queen,
he was transported with joy and passion when he beheld and embraced
beauteous Margaret. The half of her excellence had not been revealed in
pigment; she was more, much more, lovely and attractive than he had
imagined. Preparations for the state nuptials were hurried forward, and also
for the coronation of the Queen, and Henry with his bride rowed on to
Southampton, saluted as they passed by all the shipping in the Solent. Two
Genoese galleys in particular were gaily festooned and manned, and as the
royal barge swept by seven trumpeters blew a wedding fanfare, and then the
crews shouted their loud “Evviva.” Margaret insisted on sending for the two
captains of the foreign crafts, and gave them £1 3s. 4d. “for plaieing so
merrielie my musique”—so the Queen phrased it. Another heavy item in the
cost of her progress was her doctor’s fee; Maistre François of Nancy
claimed £5 9s. 2d. for his professional services upon the journey. A further
delay was caused in the completion of the nuptial arrangements by reason
of the poverty of the Queen’s wardrobe. Her trousseau was quite unworthy
of her rank, and Henry, although himself as poor as a King might be,
despatched messengers to London to summon Margaret Chamberlayne, a
famous tire-worker, and a number of craftswomen with sumptuous
materials for the wedding gown. The King, indeed, had to pawn his own
jewellery and plate to furnish sufficient funds for the double ceremony.
Henry of England and Margaret of Anjou were married by Cardinal
Beaufort in the abbey church of Titchfield on April 22. The bride was just
sixteen years of age—already a woman, but with the heart of a man. Most
extraordinary presents were showered upon the young Queen: a lion in a
cage, a score of hedgehogs, a dozen thick all-wool blankets, two tuns of
English wine, a suit of bronze silver armour, several chairs,—two of state,
—five young lambs’ fleeces, and so forth. Then the royal progress began to

the capital. Halfway between Fareham and London the Duke of Gloucester,
with 500 armed and superbly mounted retainers, greeted the King and
Queen, and conducted them to the palace at Greenwich. Triumphal arches
spanned the road, and maidens scattered spring blossoms before the royal
couple.
On May 30 the King and Queen quitted Blackheath for Westminster,
passing many notable pageant spectacles—“Noah’s Ark,” “Grace,” “God’s
Chancellor,” “St. Margaret,” the “Heavenly Jerusalem,” and so forth—all
marshalled in their honour. Somewhat wearied by the dust and the shaking
of her chariot, and deafened by the plaudits of the crowds, Margaret was
handed down by the King, at the great west door of the royal abbey. Her
entry was accompanied by minstrelsy, for King René had sent over for the
ceremonial a large company of the troubadours and glee maidens of Bar,
Lorraine, and Provence, under the orders of his Groom of the Stole, Sire
Jehan d’Escose. The cost of this expedition ran up to nearly £100, a great
sum for the poor King of Sicily to disburse.
King Henry spared no expense, but ran still more heavily into debt to
make the crowning of his Queen magnificent. Rarely had such a gallant and
splendid company gathered for a royal wedding. Everybody wore the
Queen’s badge—a red-tipped daisy. Three days were set apart for
tournaments between Palace Yard and Broad Sanctuary, whereat the new
Queen presided, wearing the Queen-consort’s jewelled crown of England.
Margaret was now de facto and de jure Queen of England and mistress of
her destiny—her husband’s, also. What a unique elevation it was for a
young girl of sixteen, all alone among strangers, rivals, and adventurers! A
false step seemed inevitable; indeed, absolute rectitude and tactfulness of
conduct under the exigeant circumstances which surrounded her would
have tried the grit of the stoutest mind and the grasp of the strongest hand.
Dubbed “La Française” by men and women jealous of the King and of
herself, she had to steer her course amid endless pitfalls placed in her way.
Warfare and politics were the two chief contentions of the day. As for the
first, she (Margaret) was its mascot, and warriors laid down their arms at
her feet; but with respect to the wordy warfare of parties and their intrigues
and plots the young Queen danced upon the thinnest ice, and unconsciously
she slipped. She gave herself into the hands, quite naturally, of the party
which held first to the King and herself, as opposed to that which sought

initially self-interest. The Duke of Gloucester was the leader of the loyal
section of her lieges, and to him the young Queen turned for light and
leading.
Very soon the impress of Margaret’s strong character made itself felt in
every quarter. She spared neither the Duke of York himself, nor any other
rival to her own Lord and King; but what could a child still in her teens do
against the cabals of crafty and influential foes? Henry was as weak as
water; he hated political questions, caring very much more, of course, for
peaceful intercourse with his fascinating spouse, and for the delights of
leisure and learning, than for the turmoil of Parliament and the vexed
questions of the day. York held Henry in his hand, but Margaret was a
doughty nut to crack, and she kept him in his proper place.
Letters written from Sheen and Windsor to Queen Isabelle by her loving
daughter show how happy was her state. Henry’s passionate love she
returned as passionately, and their loves made for peace both at home and
abroad. Literary pursuits and benevolent aims were in both their minds: the
King founded Eton College, and King’s College, Cambridge, in 1446; the
Queen, Queen’s College, Cambridge. Together they invited Italian, French,
and Flemish craftsmen to settle in England, and teach their ignorant but not
unwilling subjects some of the arts of peace. The poor were relieved, the
naked clothed, the hungry fed; but when all estates of the realm seemed
secure and in prosperity, the dark spectre of sedition rose at the beck and
call of the Duke of York. King Henry had to rouse himself and lay low the
insurrection of Jack Cade and 30,000 mislead Kentish men. This was the
beginning of troubles.

II.

For some little time Margaret had detected signs in her consort’s speech
and manner that caused her the gravest solicitude. She had witnessed the
mental depression and lassitude of her uncle, the King of France, and she
had grieved for her beloved aunt’s (Queen Marie’s) anxieties. The insanity
of King Charles VI., too, had been one of the sad family histories of her
school days in Anjou. Now she was faced with a trouble far away more
terrible than any of these. In 1453 the King’s memory began to fail, he was
bereft of feeling, and gradually he lost his power of walking. The malady,

indeed, had shown itself during the Christmas revels at Greenwich. The
Queen was already broken-hearted by the news she received from France of
the critical state of her mother’s health, and when, on March 5, she heard of
her death, poor Margaret was indeed disconsolate. In pain she turned to
Henry for comfort, but he failed to comprehend her sorrow. All around were
men and women intriguing against herself and him; alone she had to bear
her trouble, and the trouble was intensified in pathos by the fact that she
was at last enceinte. Would her child be stillborn, she asked herself many a
time; how could she expect otherwise when so utterly cast down? Then she
realized the loneliness of a throne. The menace of the Duke of York was a
scourge to wear her down, and his denunciation of her barrenness an
unspeakable affront.
Crushed indeed she was, and yet she had to play the man; for she was
both King and Queen of England, and while she lived she determined that
none should sap her authority. Henry subsided into imbecility, but
Margaret’s will matched and vanquished York’s, although he was
proclaimed “Protector of the Realm and Church.” The year sped on, but it
brought joy to the sad heart of the lonely Queen, and the whole nation
shared her happiness. On October 11 she brought forth her first-born child,
a son and heir, a fact of the vastest importance for all concerned, friend and
foe. York at once denounced the child for a changeling; but the nation
would not have it so, and he was christened Edward publicly at
Westminster, and created Prince of Wales, so named because his birthday
was that of the holy King St. Edward.
Alas! the King could not be roused sufficiently to recognize his son, nor,
indeed, his wife, and this was construed by York and his party as proof
conclusive against the truth of the Queen’s accouchement. At the same time
they threw out insinuations against her character with respect to relations
with many prominent men of her entourage.
The chivalrous spirit of the Queen felt York’s false imputations
crushingly. Her convalescence was retarded, and when she came to be
churched at the Abbey of Westminster, she was almost too prostrate to go
through the ceremony. Like the noble woman that she was, she roused
herself; and when she beheld the distinguished and numerous suite awaiting
her,—the forty most influential peeresses in the land,—she took heart, and
was herself once more. She assumed her costly churching robe. It was of

white, gold-embroidered silk and was bordered with 500 sable pelts, and it
had cost £554 16s. 8d.
The Duke’s despicable conduct was flouted when Christmas next came
round, for on the Feast of the Nativity the Queen presented herself holding
her babe in her arms before the King. To her unspeakable joy, Henry held
out his hands and drew her and the infant Prince to his breast, and out loud
thanked God for the recovery of his reason and acknowledged the child as
his. York was away on mischief bent, and Margaret did not fail to make use
of the opportunity for checkmating his unworthy aspirations. She took the
King to the Parliament, then sitting, and at his command and in his presence
the decree appointing York Protector of the kingdom was revoked, and
Henry, Margaret, and Edward, assumed their orthodox positions. This step
was the first move in the great war game which devastated the whole realm,
and ended, alas! in the absolute undoing of the King, the Queen, and the
Prince. York, hearing what had transpired at Westminster, hurried from the
Welsh border with 5,000 armed followers. The King met him at St. Albans,
and ordered him to disband his troop and salute the royal banner. The Duke
refused to obey only on impossible conditions.
But what of King René and Queen Isabelle? Their hearts were torn
asunder, we may be sure, at the contemplation of their Margaret’s peril.
They were powerless to assist her save by their whole soul’s sympathy;
besides, they were faced by a contrariety of facts. The all too brief “truce of
Margaret” was broken in 1449, and René was summoned to support King
Charles and fight against the servants of her consort,—her subjects too,—
for, spite of being “La Française,” she had won all hearts in bonnie
England. A beautiful girl and a brave is unmatchable! Fortune of war
favoured the French-Anjou colours, and Charles became master of
Normandy and all English-held North France. Guienne, too, was yielded to
the valiant young Duke of Calabria. Moreover, the war-galleys of “Le Petit
Roy de Bourges” scoured the Channel, and gained prizes and renown for
Charles and René off the English coast.
Somerset’s defeat was a loss of credit, however, to Queen Margaret, and
York of course made the most of it. He boasted that, “as Henry was fitter for
a cell than a throne, and had transferred his authority to Margaret, the affairs
of the kingdom could not be managed by a Frenchwoman, who cared only
for her own power and profit.” To placate this arrogance the Queen made a

tactless move: she named the Duke Governor of Ireland, thus adding to his
prestige and opportunity. Talbot’s death at Albany further weakened the
King’s authority and Margaret’s strategy.
Upon the death of Queen Isabelle, so deeply mourned, not alone by her
daughter in England, but by all the chivalry of France, René devolved his
authority in Bar and Lorraine upon Jean, Duke of Calabria, intending to
withdraw gradually from the responsibilities of government. His efforts,
however, were discounted by the entreaties of Francesco Sforza, Duke of
Milan, and his Florentine allies, that he should again take up arms and
appear in the field against King Alfonso of Aragon and the Venetians who
were supporting him. René was victorious, but the palm of triumph was
withered in his hand by the news that reached him on his way back to
France: civil war had broken out in England, and Margaret was in command
of the Lancastrians. Margaret, so lovely, so cultivated, and so fearless, was
adding lustre to the heroic deeds of the House of Anjou—but what terrible
risks she ran! The initial victory at Wakefield was tarnished by the irony of
circumstances, and, though decreed by her in the moment of her emphatic
triumph, York’s grey head speared upon the walls of York must have
shocked her sense of magnanimity.

KING RENÉ WRITING HIS POEM, “LE MORTEFIEMENT DE VAINE
PLAISANCE”
From the Frontispiece painted by King René
To face page 280

Margaret led her troops in person,—they worshipped the ground she trod,
—but her splendid courage was of no avail at the second battle of St.
Albans. Henry was deposed, and York’s eldest son, the Earl of March, was
proclaimed King as Edward IV. Margaret never accepted defeat; she quailed
not, but off she went with her little son, who was never parted from her
side, to Yorkshire and the North.

“Love Lady-Day” was the quaint if somewhat hypocritical name
bestowed by general consent upon March 25, 1458. On that auspicious
Lady-Day a very notable assemblage gathered together at the Palace of
Westminster. The Queen had personally summoned the leaders of the rival
factions to meet the King and accompany him and herself in procession to
St. Paul’s, to crave from on high the spirit of conciliation. The streets were
crowded with loyal and appreciative citizens, whose delight knew no
bounds as they witnessed pass before them the King in his crown, his
horse’s bridle held by a “White Rose” knight and a “Red.” Then followed
the Queen in a litter, escorted by the new Duke of York, Somerset hand in
hand with Salisbury, Essex with Warwick, and others in order of
precedence. No man was armed, no woman feared, and joy-bells tossed
themselves over and over again, swung by stalwart ringers. Te Deum was
sung, but as the progress turned westward rumblings of thunder made wise-
acres shake their heads,—and in sooth they had good cause, as matters
chanced,—at the dire omen.
Warwick was the bête noire of the reconciliation. By instinct and
preference a plotter-royal, he incurred the Queen’s suspicion by a system of
sea-piracy he established, and because of inconsiderate language about the
elder line of Plantagenet. An unfortunate street fracas led to Warwick’s
imprisonment. He was too proud to plead guilty, the Queen too jealous to
release him. York and Salisbury at once enrolled their retainers, and stood
ready to deliver Warwick. The fruits of the reconciliation fell instantly to
the ground, and the complement of “Love Lady-Day” was renunciation and
conflict à l’outrance. Before the fresh outbreak of hostilities, whilst the
King retired for rest and quietude to St. Albans Abbey, the Queen,
accompanied by the baby Prince, made a progress through the Midlands.
The child’s winning ways touched every heart, and when he distributed to
struggling hands everywhere the cognizance of his patron saint, St. Edward,
—little silver swans,—everybody swore to be his henchman and to stand by
Henry and Margaret. Salisbury hung upon the skirts of the Queen’s cortège,
and Margaret inquired his business. His curt reply determined her to
demand his body, alive or dead. At Bloreheath adherents of both sides met,
and then Margaret had her baptism of blood; her own was tinged with
warriors’ strains from Charlemagne of old, and in her veins the old lion
sprang up phœnix-like. Margaret saw red. She offered two courses only to

her rebellious and disaffected subjects, submission or death—no quarter.
Alas! her experience was the common one, the faithlessness of friends.
The Battle of Northampton, on July 10, 1460, was lost by the treachery
of Lord Grey de Ruthen. The Queen and Prince were posted upon an
eminence to view the fight, and her military instinct detected the base
defection whereby Warwick was enabled to take the King’s army in the rear.
Henry was captured before her eyes, and Margaret, powerless to retrieve the
disaster, fled with her boy at once to the North. By a circuitous route they
reached the impregnable walls of Harlech Castle. Henry was led in mock
triumph to the Tower, whence Warwick had the effrontery to demand the
custody of the persons of the Queen and Prince. Margaret expressed her
indignation at the insult emphatically, but, waiting not to bandy useless
words, she hurried off to Scotland to seek sympathy and assistance.
Meanwhile the Duke of York formally claimed the crown. Margaret’s
response was impressive. Without difficulty she roused Scottish enthusiasm,
—generally so slow to move,—and, sweeping across the border, she
gathered in her train an army of 60,000 men, and appeared before the gates
of York. There she called a plenary council of lords, to whom she expressed
her determination “to rest not till I have entered London and set free the
King.”
York, taken by surprise, hastened to meet the valiant Queen, and found
her encamped at Wakefield. Warned of his approach, she sent heralds to his
quarters, who in her name defied the Duke “to meet her in honest, open
fight.” He held back, and then she poured the vials of her scorn upon his
head: “Doth want of courage,” she exclaimed, “allow thee to be browbeaten
by a woman—fie on thee, thou traitor!” The battle was joined on December
30, and gained in less than half an hour. A troop of horse, headed by young
Lord Clifford,—and followed immediately by the Queen, mounted and
armed,—made an impetuous dash to where the Duke’s standard hung heavy
in the still, damp air. It they captured, and forthwith threw it over
Margaret’s knees, and with his sword Clifford struck the rebel leader down
from his horse, and slew him as he lay at Margaret’s feet. In a trice he had
severed the head of her mortal enemy, and upon his knee he offered the
ghastly trophy to his Queen. “Madam,” he said, “the war is over; here is the
King’s ransom!” The Queen turned sick at the terrible sight, and
hysterically sobbed and laughed alternately, and she screamed aloud when

soldiers stuffed the blood-dripping head into a common chaff-sack. Lord
Clifford she knighted on the spot, using his own gory sword; then she
ordered York’s head to be carried off to York, and placed on the city’s
southern gateway.
Salisbury was also hors de combat, wounded and a prisoner, and by the
Queen’s orders he was beheaded on the field of battle,—for he would not
yield his sword and word,—and his head was placed by the side of his
leader’s. In a moment, too, of justifiable vengeance, the Queen directed that
space should be left on that carrion portal for two other traitors’ heads—
Warwick’s and March’s. “There,” she said, “they all four shall dangle till
the rain and the sun and the birds have consumed them—warnings to all
and sundry who shall hereafter raise voice and hand against their liege.”
Margaret pushed south, and at St. Albans, on February 17, met Warwick,
with the King in his camp. The issue was soon decided; 2,000 Yorkists were
slain, and Henry and Margaret were united once more. Lord Montague
discovered him alone seated under a tree. Clifford galloped off to the Queen
to tell her the good news, and, bereft of kirtle and veil and every sign of
royalty, she rushed as she was to where the King was awaiting her. He bade
her kneel before he embraced her, and gave her then and there the knightly
accolade, as well as to his son, who had run as hard as he could after his
mother, and he also knighted sixty worthy, loyal gentlemen. All entered the
abbey church for Te Deum and Benediction, and then the royal pair sought
the monastery for rest and food. Leaving Henry at his devotions, and the
Prince to cheer him, Margaret again mounted her charger and marched
straight on London, where York’s eldest son, Edward, Earl of March, a lad
of eighteen, had been proclaimed King as Edward IV. Perhaps over-
confident, and at all events uncompromising in her intention to punish the
disloyal and rebel citizens, she failed to post her army advantageously,
although she had 60,000 men against Warwick’s 40,000. At Towton the
fates were once more against her, and she, with the King and the Prince,
fled for their lives to Newcastle, and over the border to the friendly Court of
the Queen Regent, Margaret. Henry was established in royal state at
Kirkcudbright, and the Queen and Prince at Dunfermline, and there the little
fellow, just eight years of age, was betrothed to the young King’s sister,
Margaret.

Margaret was really happy in her new home, and, resourceful as she was
and never cast down, she turned her attention to peaceful pursuits, and in
particular interested herself in the local industry of wool-weaving. She had
seen her father’s and her mother’s interest, in her happy days in Lorraine
and Anjou, in the craftsmen and craftswomen about them, and her own
skilful fingers had busied themselves in homely, peaceful avocations.
Margaret endeared herself to her Fifeshire friends, as she usually did to all
who were fortunate enough to be thrown into contact with her, and they
sang of her:

“God bless Margaret of Anjou,
For she taught Dunfermline how to sew.”

It was said, too, of Margaret, that “if she had not been destined to play
the rôle of Bellona, she would have glorified that of Minerva.” The Earl of
March,—to whom she never allowed the style of Edward IV.,—was wont to
repeat his quaint joke: “Margaret is more to be feared when a fugitive than
all the leaders of Lancaster put together!”
On April 16, 1462, Queen Margaret bade adieu to her consort at
Kirkcudbright, and with her son and suite, in four well-found Scottish
galleys, set sail for France. She landed at Ecluse in Brittany, after more
perils on the sea, and was cordially welcomed by Duke Francis, who gave
her 12,000 livres. Thence she made straight to Chinon,—of happy
memories,—to interview King Louis, who had just been crowned at Reims,
upon the death of his father, Charles VII. There she was folded in the loving
arms of her dear aunt, Queen Marie; and what a meeting that was for both
royal ladies! They had not seen each other since that auspicious wedding-
day sixteen years before. Then they were both in the heyday of prosperity;
now both were crushed by Providence—Marie flouted by her ill-
conditioned, jealous daughter-in-law, Charlotte de Savoy, now Queen-
consort of France, and Margaret a fugitive!
Louis played a double game—a cruel one indeed, and insincere so far as
Margaret was concerned. He spoke to her fairly, but his mind was with the
usurping King of England. Under one pretext or another he delayed his
reply to her plea for assistance, but at length, in desperation, Margaret
pledged Jersey with him for 2,000 French bowmen. King René was in

Provence, but, taking a hint from Louis that his presence would be
undesirable just then in Anjou, he sent for his daughter to join him at Aix.
This was impossible; for Margaret time was all too valuable, and she set sail
for Scotland on October 10. With her went a few single-hearted knights, but
of all the hosts of admirers and loyal followers of sixteen years before, only
one of mark wore his badge of chivalry consistently—the gallant and
accomplished Pierre de Brézé, a preux chevalier indeed, the forerunner of
Bayart, and like him “sans peur et sans reproche.”
Again the elements were not only unpropitious, but malevolent. Escaping
the vigilance of Edward’s cruisers, and the rebel guns of Tynemouth, basely
trained upon their Queen, her ships were wrecked on Holy Island. There
500 of her troops were massacred, and Margaret and de Brézé, and a very
meagre following, put to sea in a fisherman’s open boat which landed them
on Bamborough sands. The banner of Henry of Lancaster, once more raised
aloft by Margaret, magnet-like drew all the northern counties, and in spite
of Somerset’s desertion the Queen soon found herself at the head of a
formidable army, with the King beside her and the Prince. Once more at
Hexham fickle fortune failed the intrepid Queen. Henry was again a
captive, but Margaret and Edward made good their escape over the Scottish
border.
How often, when human affairs appear most desperate, and all hope and
effort are thrown away, help comes from some unexpected quarter! So it
was in Queen Margaret’s experience. There is a romantic tale with respect
to her flight from Hexham’s stricken field—the story of the robber. Whether
one or more outlaws waylaid and robbed the fugitives it matters not, but,
stripped of everything but the clothes they wore, Queen and Prince were in
dismal straits. Wonder of wonders! a messenger followed Margaret from no
less a person than the Duke of Burgundy, the inveterate enemy of her house,
the friend and ally of the English in France. The message was in effect an
invitation to the Queen and Prince to Flanders—the splendid appanage of
ducal Burgundy. Margaret’s implacable foes,—the winds and seas,—were
waiting for their prey, and nearly secured their quarry as she tossed to and
fro across the wild North Sea on her way to meet Philippe. Landing on the
Flemish coast on July 31,—when storm and tempest should never have
appeared,—with utmost difficulty, the Queen presented a sorry figure. No
badge or symbol of royalty marked her worn-out figure; she was clad

meanly in a coarse short worsted skirt—robette—without chemise or shawl,
her stockings low down on her heels, her hair dishevelled and unveiled.
Who could have recognized in that chastened traveller “the loveliest woman
in Christendom”?
True to his loyal devotion, Sieur Pierre de Brézé was with his Queen poor
as herself, he had, he said, “spent 50,000 crowns for nothing”—and a
faithful valet, Louis Carbonelle, and no more than seven women-dresses. At
once the Duke was apprised of Margaret’s coming; but, being on a
pilgrimage to Our Lady of Boulogne, he sent his apologies by Philippe Pot,
Seigneur de la Roche and a Knight of the Golden Fleece, bidding the Queen
welcome, and saying that he would present his homage to her shortly if she
would proceed direct to Bruges.
That progress was a nightmare, an “Inferno,” a masquerade—what you
will: the Queen of England clad in rags, her hair untied, seated in a common
country bullock-cart, drawn by a pair of sorry steeds, mocked all the way
along as “Une Merrie Mol!” “Une Naufragée!” “Une Sorcière de Vent!”
The Comte de Charolois, heir to the duchy, met her Majesty at the digue,
saluted her with all reverence, and conducted her to the Castle of St. Pol.
On the morrow the Duke of Burgundy arrived, and at once went to the
Queen’s lodgings to pay his homage. Right in the middle of the street,
where Margaret stood to greet him, with a courtly bow he swept the ground
with the drooping plume of his berretta, whilst the Queen curtsied in her
abbreviated gown twice majestically. Never was there a finer piece of royal
burlesque enacted!
Margaret caught the Duke by the arm as he was about to give the kiss of
etiquette. “Thanks, my cousin,” she said; “now I am, perhaps, in no fit mind
for compliments. I seek your aid for Henry and our son, and I beseech you,
by the love of Our Lady, not to credit the abominable tales which have been
circulated touching me.” The Duke did not commit himself, but generously
gave his “sweet cousin” 2,000 golden crowns,—wherewith “to fit your
Majesty with proper raiment,” he said,—and a fine diamond to wear for
him. The next day the Duchess of Bourbon, Philippe’s sister, visited Queen
Margaret, and in her she found a sincere and sympathizing confidante. She
set before the Duchess all the sad facts of her impoverished condition, and
told her all about the hardships she and her spouse and son had met with in
England. “We were reduced,” she said, “on one occasion to one herring

among three, and not more bread than would suffice for five days’
nourishment.” She went on to say that once at Mass, at Dunfermline, she
had no coin for the offertory, and she asked an archer of the King of
Scotland, kneeling near her, for a farthing, which he most reluctantly gave
her.
“Alas!” replied the weeping Duchess, “no Queen save your Majesty has
been so hardly dealt with by Providence; but now we must offer you, sweet
cousin, some consolation for your sufferings.” One more affecting speech
of the heroic Queen must be recorded. “When on the day of my espousal,”
she said, “I gathered the rose of England, I was quite well aware that I
should have to wear it whole with all its thorns!”
The Duchess, true to her word, organized splendid fêtes at the Castle of
St. Pol in honour of the royal refugees, and Margaret, now attired as became
her lofty station, put on one side her cruel anxieties, and yielded herself to
the pleasures and humours of the festivities. They put her in mind of the gay
tournaments in her happy home—the Court of her good father, King René.
Henry was all the while a prisoner in the Tower, and Margaret’s tender
heart bled on his account. She for the moment was without resources, and
she had to bide her time. She knew that that time would come, and never for
a moment did she lend herself to unprofitable despair. The Duke stood by
her, a friend in need, and bestowed both money and an escort upon his royal
visitor. In the spring of 1463 she and the Prince were welcomed in Bar-le-
Duc by King René and his Court, though it cost Margaret a pang to see her
one-time Maid of Honour, Jehanne de Laval, in her dear mother’s place.
Six months passed all too swiftly under the hospitable roofs of her
brother Jean, Duke of Calabria, and now actual Duke of Lorraine as well,
and of her sister Yolande, Countess of Vaudémont. Then widowed Queen
Marie sent an urgent summons for her favourite niece to pay her a visit at
Amboise in Touraine, and there most happily Margaret forgot her troubles,
and looked more hopefully than ever to the future.
King René’s affairs were in hopeless confusion, and his interests and
resources were drained by his son’s campaign in Italy. He could offer
nothing but a loving father’s whole-hearted love and protection to his
unfortunate daughter and his little grandson, the pride and joy of his life. He
breathed out his deep feelings in two elegant canticles eloquent of

Margaret’s woes. His example set all the poets singing sweetly of the
Lancastrian Queen; her beauty and her accomplishments, her troubles and
her fortitude, appealed to them mightily. They sought, too, to cheer the
riven soul of their liege lord and poet leader:

“Rouse thee, King René! rouse thee, good René!
Let not sorrow all thy spirits beguile.
Thy dear daughter, brave spouse of King Henry,
Tho’ sadly she wept still she coaxes a smile.”

All that René was able to do for his royal daughter was to establish her
and her son at his castle of Kuerere, near St. Mihil’s by Verdun in Lorraine,
with 2,000 livres to carry on the education of the Prince. Sir John Fortescue,
a soldier of fortune, was appointed his tutor. He was a devoted adherent of
the Red Rose. “We are,” he wrote, “reduced to great poverty, and the Queen
with difficulty sustaineth us in meat and drink.”
Louis XI., who had refused to have anything to do with his unfortunate
cousin, Queen Margaret, at last agreed to meet her at Tours in December,
1469, and with her he invited King René; Jean, Duke of Calabria and
Lorraine; and her sister Yolande, with her husband, Ferri, Count of
Vaudémont, “to consider,” as he put it, “what may or may not be done.”
Louis treated Margaret with scant ceremony. Whilst discussions were going
on, startling news came from England which very much altered the
situation. The North and Midlands had again risen against Edward, and
Warwick had gone over to the Lancastrians. Edward was a prisoner at
Middleham Castle, and Warwick was virtually King of England! The
diversion was, however, of short duration, for in a few weeks Edward
managed to escape. And now it was Warwick’s turn to fly. He sought the
French Court, and confided in Louis, who, sinister and scheming as he was
always, saw a way to help Margaret and still be on the winning side. The
King proposed an interview between the Queen and the Earl, with a view to
a reconciliation. Margaret rejected indignantly the proposal. “The Earl of
Warwick,” she exclaimed, “has pierced my heart with wounds that can
never be healed. They will bleed till the Day of Judgment. He hath done
things which I can never forgive.”

AGRICULTURAL PURSUITS
From a Miniature, MS. Fourteenth Century, “Livre des Proprietez des Choses”
British Museum
To face page 292.

The King was, however, determined that his idea of a rapprochement
between the Lancastrians and the wing of the Yorkists who looked to
Warwick for light and leading should be realized, and he urged his view so
emphatically upon Margaret that at last she agreed to meet Warwick, but
upon one condition: that “he shall unsay before your Majesty and the King
of Sicily, my father, all that he has foully uttered about me and the Prince,
and shall swear to repeat the same at Paul’s Cross in London later.”
Warwick, to the amazement of Louis, agreed to this condition, and
forthwith presented himself most humbly to the Queen upon his knees.

Swordless, gloveless, and uncovered, he sought pardon for his evil conduct,
and prayed her to accept him as her true henchman and devoted lieutenant.
Margaret seemed stunned by this extraordinary volte-face, and kept the Earl
upon his knees quite a long time before she vouchsafed a reply. At last she
extended her hand for him to kiss, and he, further, servilely kissed the fur
hem of her robe. Then he laid his plans before the august company for
releasing the King and placing him once more upon his throne. He next
called on King Louis and King René to stand surety for the performance of
his purpose. He said he could command immediately 50,000 men to fight
under his orders, and he craved the presence of the Queen in the saddle by
his side.
With Warwick was the Earl of Oxford and other leaders of his party, who
all knelt in homage to the Queen and craved her clemency. To Oxford she at
once extended her hand. “Your pardon, my lord,” she said, “is right easy.
What wrongs you have done me are cancelled by what you have borne for
King Henry.” The conference at Tours was adjourned, and resumed at the
Castle of Angers; and then Louis had another startling proposition to lay
before Queen Margaret: no less than the betrothal of Prince Edward,—now
a well-grown and handsome lad of seventeen,—to the Earl of Warwick’s
daughter Anne! Margaret flared up at once. “Impossible!” she said. “What!
will he indeed give his daughter to my royal son, whom he has so often
branded as the offspring of adultery or fraud! By God’s name, that can
never be!”
For a whole fortnight Margaret stood her ground. She could not agree to
this extraordinary proposal; but then the peaceful, fatherly insistence of
René caused her to relent, but not before she roundly rated her good sire for
his pusillanimity and too ready credence. Meanwhile the Countess of
Warwick and her daughter had arrived at Amboise, and had been most
ostentatiously received by King Louis. Then happened, by happy
coincidence, an event vastly important to the King of France—the birth of
an heir. Queen Charlotte was delivered of a son, the future Charles VIII., on
June 30. Nothing would content the King but Prince Edward and Anne
Neville must be among the child’s sponsors. At the same time, to influence
Queen Margaret, Warwick, at Louis’s suggestion, made a solemn
asseveration in the cathedral church of Angers: “Upon this fragment of the
True Cross I promise to be true to King Henry VI. of England; to Queen

Margaret, his spouse; and to the Prince of Wales, his true and only son; and
to go back at once to England, raise 50,000 men, and restore the King to his
honours.” Louis gave him 46,000 gold crowns and 2,000 French archers,
and at the same time asked Queen Margaret to accept the charge of his
young daughter Anne whilst he was away.
Margaret could not stand out any longer, and so, immediately after the
baptismal ceremony,—where she herself held her little royal nephew at the
font,—Edward, Prince of Wales, and Anne Neville were betrothed with
gorgeous ceremonial in the Chapel of St. Florentin, within the Castle of
Amboise, in the presence of nearly all the Sovereigns of France and their
Courts.
“The Prince,” so said the chroniclers, “is one of the handsomest and most
accomplished Princes in Europe, tall, fair like his mother, and with her soft
voice and courteous carriage, was well pleased with his pretty and sprightly
fiancée.” People sought to belittle the match, and called it a mésalliance;
but the bride’s great-grandmother was Joanna Beaufort, daughter of Prince
John of Ghent, Edward III.’s third son. She married the Earl of
Westmoreland. In Queen Margaret’s estimation, what certainly did weigh
very considerably was the fact that her daughter-in-law-to-be was one of the
wealthiest heiresses in England. The august company went on to Angers
after the double ceremony, at the desire of Queen Margaret, who insisted
that a Prince of Wales could only be married in his ancestral dominions. She
cited the intention of King René to leave to her and her heirs the duchy of
Anjou, and so she claimed it as already English territory. Louis acceded to
her whim. He could afford to wait and watch the course of events. The
marriage of Prince Edward and the Lady Anne was consequently
solemnized, on August 15, in the Cathedral of St. Maurice, which had
witnessed so many royal functions.
The Earl of Warwick, accompanied by the Duke of Clarence, grandson of
King Henry IV., departed immediately for England, to make good his brave
words and prove his loyalty. His proclamation in favour of Henry, Margaret,
and Edward, produced an immense sensation, and in a couple of days he
found himself in command of 70,000 men, all crying, “A Henry! A Henry!”
Edward IV. immediately left the capital and sought the friendly shores of
Holland, and Warwick was, without a blow being struck, master of the
kingdom. His first step was to send the Bishop of Winchester to the Tower,

to clothe King Henry in regal robes, and conduct him with the Sovereign’s
escort to the Palace of Westminster. On October 13 the King went to St.
Paul’s, wearing once more his crown. Louis ordered Te Deum to be sung in
every church in France, and went in person to the Castle of Saumur to
salute Queen Margaret. Early in November the Queen, with the Prince and
Princess of Wales and a very distinguished following, set out for Paris, on
their way to London. Every town through which the royal cortège passed
was gaily decorated, and the hearty plaudits of the thronging inhabitants
were mingled with the joy peals of all the bells.
Harfleur once more was fixed upon as the port of passage, and once more
the Channel churned and a tempest fell upon the royal flotilla. Nobody has
been able to explain why Margaret of England was so persistently
persecuted by the divinities of the weather. Twice they put back to port, and
then, after tossing about for sixteen whole days and nights, they made
Weymouth,—a passage ordinarily of no more than as many hours,—and
landed on April 13. That day was indeed ill-omened for the cause Queen
Margaret had at heart, and for which she had suffered such appalling
vicissitudes. The Battle of Barnet was fought and lost; Warwick was killed,
and King Henry was again a prisoner. Verily, Queen Margaret’s star was a
blaze of disasters!
The terrible news staggered the courageous Queen; she swooned, but
soon recovered her usual equanimity, although out of the bitterness of her
soul she sobbed: “Better die right out, methinks, than exist so insecurely!”
She appeared to have no plan of action, for such a disaster seemed to be
impossible; so, to gain time for thought and effort, she moved herself and
those she loved into the safe sanctuary of Beaulieu Abbey. There Somerset
and many other notable fugitives forgathered. To them she counselled
retreat—“Till Providence,” she said, “ordereth better luck.” The Prince now
for the first time asserted himself, and, with his mother’s daring, gave an
emphatic “No.” At Bath a goodly array of soldiers rallied to the royal
standard, and Margaret determined to cross the Severn and join her forces
to Jasper Tudor’s army of sturdy loyal Welshmen. The Duke of Gloucester
opposed her advance, and so she turned aside to Tewkesbury, and there
encamped.
The morrow (May 4, 1471) was to be the darkest in all the chequered
career of Margaret of Anjou and England. Sweet Pentecost though it was,

the spirit of comfort belied, failed the fated Queen once more. With early
dawn fell aslant the springtide sunbeams a rain of feathered hail. Battle was
joined, each man at his post—save one, the perjured Lord Wenlock. His
command, in the centre of Queen Margaret’s forces, lacked its leader, and
Somerset rode off to find him. At a low brothel he discovered the miscreant
drinking with and fondling loose wenches. “Traitor!” cried the Duke; “die,
thou scoundrel!” And he clove his head in two. This defection caused
irretrievable disaster; still, the Prince of Wales did prodigies of valour, and
so did many more; but he was felled from his horse, and the “Hope of
England” was lead captive to victorious Edward’s tent. Received with every
mark of discourtesy, the heart of the chivalrous young Prince must have
quailed as he stood before the arch-enemy of his house, but he had very
little time for reflection.
“How durst thou, changeling, presumptuously enter my dominions with
banners displayed against me?” demanded Edward.
“To recover my father’s crown, the heritage of my ancestors,” bravely
replied the Prince.
“Speakest thou thus to me, thou upstart! See, I smite thee on thy bastard
mouth!” roughly exclaimed the conqueror, and with that he demeaned
himself and the crown he fought for by cowardly and savagely striking with
his mailed fist the unsuspecting and unarmed Prince. This treacherous blow
was the signal to the titled scoundrels standing by for a murderous attack
upon the Prince of Wales. He fell crying fearlessly: “A Henry! A Henry!”
pierced by many daggers. It was a dark deed and dastardly; its stain no
course of years will ever cleanse, and Edward IV. is for all time “Bloody
Edward.”
Queen Margaret, seeing the hopelessness of the conflict, and fearing the
worst had happened to the Prince,—for he never came to cheer her,—took
the Princess and fled to a convent hard by the battlefield, and there lay
concealed. Edward, yielding to the base instincts of a cruel nature, very
soon got news of Margaret’s hiding-place, and with a demoniacal scowl,
“Ah, ah!” he cried out, “we’ve settled the cub; now for the she-wolf!”
The Queen was dragged from her hiding-place, and borne to Edward’s
quarters, where, like the brute he was, he reviled and insulted her.

“Slay me, thou bloodthirsty wretch, if thou wilt! I care not for death at
thy desecrating hands! May God strike thee, as He will!” she exclaimed.
Margaret was sent to the Tower, but not to her husband; they were kept
apart, and the Princess of Wales was delivered over to the care of her uncle,
the Archbishop of York. But even so Edward’s malice was not exhausted.
The Queen was conducted without honour, or even decency, in the suite of
Edward on his return to the capital. At Coventry,—of all places for further
outrage, a place so greatly agreeable to Henry and herself,—ill-fated
Margaret was subjected to personal insults from her vanquisher. In reply she
reviled him, and thrust him with abhorrence from her. In revenge he ordered
her to be fastened upon a common sumpter horse, and he ordered a placard
to be placed on her breast, “This is Queen Margaret, good lieges,” and her
hands were tied behind her back. Thus was the most valiant, most unselfish,
and most loyal Queen that England ever had led to grace the mock triumph
of a royal murderer. She was thrust into the foulest dungeon of the grim
Tower, and there remained, bereft of food, of service, and wellnigh of
reason, too, for seven dreary, weary months.
The day after her incarceration King Henry’s dead body was discovered
in his cell. Gloucester, it was said, had killed him; but Edward was, if not
the actual murderer, privy to the deed. Queen Margaret, hearing in her dark,
foul den the heavy tramp of men-at-arms, scrambled up to the bars of her
little window, and beheld,—what probably Edward meant she should,—the
corpse of her slaughtered husband borne past for burial. No ceremony of
any kind accompanied that mournful passing. At St. Paul’s, Henry’s body
was exposed in a chapel of the crypt, and then it found merciful sepulture in
the God’s-acre at Chertsey Abbey.
That her beloved son,—her one and only hope,—was dead as well, heart-
broken Margaret gathered amid ribald blasphemies of the intoxicated
soldiery as she was borne to London in that “Triumph.” Now was she bereft
indeed, and nothing seemed so desirable as death; indeed, she resigned
herself, and prepared herself for execution at any moment, at any savage
hint of her consort’s supplanter on England’s throne—accursed Edward! It
was, however, not to be supposed that King Louis of France or King René
of Sicily-Anjou should silently condone the unhalting cruelty of a
bloodthirsty monarch, especially when the person and the honour of a
French Princess were at stake.

III.

Efforts were made, more or less feeble, for the delivery of the
incarcerated Queen by Louis,—fearful of offence to the Yorkist King,—and
by René, who had no resources with which to back up his appeal. Anyhow,
Margaret was, at the Christmas following the fatal battle, released from
durance vile, and consigned to the care of the Duchess-Dowager of
Somerset,—one of her earliest friends,—and went to live under her wing at
Wallingford. Edward made her the beggarly grant of 5 marks weekly for the
support of herself and two maid-servants! There Margaret remained for five
years, each one more intolerable than its predecessor.
At the Peace of Picquigny, August 29, 1475, between Louis and Edward,
the latter agreed to accept a ransom of 50,000 gold crowns for the widowed
Queen. This compact was not an act of grace on the part of Louis so much
as a quid pro quo. He insisted upon René ceding Provence to the crown of
France, upon his death, by way of payment of the ransom. Still, in this
matter Edward was as good as his bond, and directly the first instalment of
the amount was paid in London to John Howard, Edward’s Treasurer,
Margaret was conducted to Sandwich, not without indignity, and placed
upon a common fishing-boat. Landing at Dieppe, January 14, 1476, she was
taken on to Rouen, where she received the following affecting letter from
her sorrowing father, King René:
“Ma fille, que Dieu vous assiste dans vos conseils, car
c’est rarement des hommes qu’il faut en attendre dans les
revers de fortune. Lorsque vous désirerez moins ressentir
vos peines, pensez aux miennes; elles sont grandes, ma fille,
et pourtant je vous console.”[A]
[A] “My child, may God assist thee in thy counsels, for rarely do men render
help in times of fortune’s reverses. When you desire to resent your trials the
least, think of mine; they are great, my child, and therefore I wish to console
you.”

True enough, the troubles and reverses of King René were more than fall
to the lot of most men of high culture and degree; but what of Queen
Margaret’s shipwreck? For nearly thirty years she had endured experiences
which had tried no other Queen half so hardly; and all the while she had set
a unique example of devotion, loyalty, courage, and endurance, unexampled

in history. There never was a truer wife, a more self-sacrificing mother, a
more intrepid and a nobler Queen, than Margaret of Anjou.
From Rouen the Queen sent a message to King Louis, desiring to see
him; but he, knowing well her desperate case, and seeing no likelihood of
profit accruing to himself, coward-like, evaded an interview. His miserable
aunt might forage for herself, for all he cared, and go where she listed, but
not to Paris nor Amboise. With bent head and slow feet, the great heroine of
the Wars of the Roses, broken like a pitcher at a fountain, took her lonely
way no more in gallant cavalcade, but almost in funereal cortège, to Anjou
and Angers—the cradle of her race.
At Reculée father and daughter once more embraced each other. Alas,
what a sorrowful meeting that was, and how mixed their feelings!
Margaret’s filial duty conquered the reproaches she had prepared, and
René’s tears and silence spoke more loudly than words of regret could do.
Providence had been cruel to them both. René loved Reculée for its peace
and solitude, and there Margaret should repose awhile and recover mind
and body. No prettier resort was there in all Anjou than the Maison de
Reculée—“Reculée” René named it, a place of “recoil” from the buffetings
of fate. He had purchased the estate, in 1465, from one Colin, an Angers
butcher, for 300 écus d’or, and had greatly enjoyed laying out the estate and
erecting a bijou residence. His paintings and his sculptures, his books, his
music scores, his miniatures, and all his artistic hobbies, he lavished there
for himself and fair Queen Jehanne. They often dropped down the Maine in
a pleasure barge, and landed in the sedges, full of warblers and wild life.
Reculée was but a league or two from Angers. Hard by the manoir was the
sheltered and picturesque hermitage of La Baumette,—a shrine of St.
Baume, patroness of Provence,—and hither René and Margaret resorted
daily for prayer and meditation.
Margaret’s home-coming was sad enough, but her demeanour was rather
that of defiance than of patience. Her pride had been laid low by her
sufferings and ill-treatment, but not slain; and when she heard of the
treachery and chicanery of the King of France in entering Angers in force,
and proclaiming himself Sovereign of Anjou, her scorn knew no bounds,
and she chided her father for his pusillanimity, and reproached him for his
dilettante life. His sedentary pleasures and his artistic tastes bored her
cruelly; she despised his peaceful handiwork, and craved his strong arm

once more in the fight. If England was lost to her, Anjou and Provence
should not be; this was her grim determination, and she roused herself for
action and foray. Like a lioness at bay, she fought out to a finish strenuously
her troubled life, away from stricken fields and gruesome dungeons. René
felt his daughter’s strictures more acutely than he said; indeed, they fell like
blows of sharp poniards upon his wounded heart. The deaths of all his near
relatives, sons and daughters, and his son-in-law, Ferri de Vaudémont,
saddening as they were, were as nothing to the vituperations of Margaret—
now almost a frenzied recluse. King René sank at last, wearied, heart-
broken, yet trustful in his God, into his mortal resting-place, and Queen
Margaret retired to the Castle of Dampière, near Saumur, the modest
manoir of a devoted servant of her father’s house,—the Sieur François de la
Vignolles, of Moraens,—to end her dire days of woe.
Her father left her what he could, impoverished as he was: 1,000 gold
crowns and the Castle of Queniez—an inconsiderable estate between
Angers and Saumur. René wrote to Louis a few months before his death,
commending Margaret to his care and charity, and this is how the King of
France executed the trust, so characteristic of his greed and cunning. He
negotiated with Margaret the sale of her reversionary rights in Lorraine,
Anjou, Maine, Provence, and Barrois, for an annual income of 600 livres.
The deed was executed at Reculée, November 19, 1480, but Louis never
paid the annuity! One purpose Margaret had in view in this arrangement
was the recovery of the bodies of her husband and son, that she might give
them decent burial. Edward IV. would not allow this seemly duty, and the
bones of the illustrious dead were left dishonoured and unnoted.
Margaret’s nature would not allow of comfort. She was devoured with
regret and consumed by revenge; she spent the last two years of her stormy
life in fretting and fuming over the disasters of her family. Her whole
appearance and her manner changed. No longer lovely, as when she stepped
on England’s inhospitable shore, she became shrunk, aged, and pallid. The
ravenings of her spirit had indeed transformed her into the “grim grey wolf
of Anjou.” She became leprous and hideous—“the most hideous Princess in
Europe,” one might write. Gently but firmly she had to be restrained, lest
she should do herself some harm and injure others. Alas! Margaret of Anjou
came to her death, not in the halo of sanctity, but in the mist of mental
obscurity, and thus she died alone—perhaps unlamented, and certainly

misjudged by posterity. Near her end languor and paralysis seized her, and
she passed away unconsciously on August 25, 1482.
Above the chief portal of his castle De la Vignolles put up this epitaph:
“In the year 1480 Margaret of Anjou and Queen of England, daughter of
René, King of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem, forced to abandon her
kingdom after having courageously borne herself in a great number of
encounters and in twelve pitched battles, deprived of the rights of her
family, spoiled of all her possessions, without means of support and without
help, found a resting-place in this manoir, the home of François de la
Vignolles, an old and faithful servant of her father. She died here August 25,
1482, aged no more than fifty-three years. Upon whose soul may Christ
Jesus have pity.”
All that remained of this remarkable woman was interred without
ceremony in the Cathedral of Angers. She was laid, it was said, by her
father’s side, but no inscription, no mark of any kind, records the fact. No
one knows exactly where to bow the head in reverence and bend the knee in
homage to the memory of Great Queen Margaret. In a very few words,
however, are summed up in the “Paston Letters,” No. 275, the character of
Margaret d’Anjou: “The Queen is a grete and stronge laborid woman, for
she spareth noo peyne to save hir things.”

CHAPTER IX
JEHANNE DE LAVAL—“THE LADY OF THE CREST”

I.

There are roses at Christmas as well as at midsummer, and although the
pale single blossoms of the winter festival have not the fragrance of the
floral queens of the month of May, they are roses all the same. All roses,
though, have thorns, or their petals are crinkled and their leaves torn. In the
Temple Gardens, as the story goes, once on a time two rival warriors met,
and plucked, one a white, and one a red, rose from the bushes. They stuck
them in their caps, and so carried them to battle, fierce and long—the
deadly Wars of the Roses. The story of the rose heroine of those troubled
scenes, the intrepid Queen Margaret, we have learnt; now we must read the
narrative of another Queen of Roses, La Demoiselle Jehanne de Laval, and
of her nigh fifty-years-old bridegroom, le bon Roy René, a Christmas rose.
“May and December” we call such nuptials. But never mind. The
monarch and the maid went very well together, and for them literally came
true, “Roses, roses, all the way.” He the great red standard rose of Provence,
she the nestling, creeping, sweet wild-rose of Laval, mingled their renown
and charm for the pleasure of all ages.

JEHANNE DE LAVAL
From a Painting by King René, finished by Nicholas de Froment (1475-76)
at Aix Cathedral
To face page 306

Jehanne, or Jeanne, de Laval, “a very beautiful woman and superbly
dressed”—this is a succinct and alluring description of one of the most
fascinating beauties, as lovely in mind as in body, be it said, who ever took
her gracious path across the pages of sentimental biography. Born at the
Castle of Auray,—of which now not a stone is standing,—in Brittany,
overlooking the tempestuous Atlantic and the Druid fable-land of Carnac-

Locmariaker, on November 10, 1433, Jehanne was the fifth child of Guy
XIII., Count of Laval, and his wife, Isabelle de Bretagne, whose father was
Jean VI., Duke of Brittany, and mother Princess Joanna of France, sister of
Charles VII. The House of Laval was very famous in the annals of
mediæval France, and linked by auspicious marriages to all the Sovereign
Princes of the land. The first Count was a Baron of Charlemagne—a “Guy,”
the unalterable prenominate of all the line. Their castle was founded by that
King of romance and chivalry, King Arthur, and each succeeding occupant
made good his claim to the gilded spurs of knighthood either on a stricken
field or in a crusade to Palestine; they were war-lords all. Laval was their
principal stronghold, midway between Rennes and Le Mans, where the
machicolated donjon of the Seigneurs of La Trémouille, upon its isolated
rock, dominates the smiling country-side.
The full title of the lordly Guys was Counts of Laval, Vitré, Gaure, and
Montfort—all in Brittany. Count Guy XIII. had ten children by his consort
Isabelle: Guy, who succeeded him as Guy XIV.; Pierre, Duke and
Archbishop of Reims; Yolande, sponsored by Queen Yolande of Sicily-
Anjou, and twice married, last to Charles of Anjou, King René’s brother;
Françoise, who only survived her birth fourteen days; Jehanne, or Jeanne;
Anne, died in infancy; Artuse, who died unmarried at Marseilles in 1467;
Hélène, wife of Jehan de Malestroit, son of the Bishop of Nantes by his
mistress, Isabel Kaër; and Louise, who married Edward, Count of
Penthièvre. Guy XIII., inconsolable for the loss of the mother of his
children, sought comfort in another matrimonial venture, and for his second
wife took Françoise, daughter of Jacques de Dinan, Seigneur of
Châteaubriant and Grand Butler at the Court of King Charles VI. She bore
him three children,—Pierre, François, and Jacques,—so Jehanne was a
member of a large and, we may presume, a happy family. Little Jehanne
was baptized in the Audience Hall of the Castle of Auray by Amaury de la
Motte, Bishop of Vannes.
There is rarely very much to record of the early years of any girl’s life,
and Jehanne de Laval was no exception. A maiden was only made
conspicuous by an early betrothal, and for that her parents worked
assiduously. Jehanne was an exception to the rule of precocious marriages,
for no one appears to have claimed her hand and heart until she was past her
majority, and suitors probably regarded her as a negligible quantity.