Виктория Холт - The Queen’s Secret

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Louis was trembling when he went to face Burgundy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not to our mother!” cried Louis.

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

“I won’t go,” said Louis.

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

“It is not,” insisted Louis.

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

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

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

Louis said no more.

And the boys were taken away.

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

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

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

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

“Are you coming with us?” I asked.

She shook her head.

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

“Is Guillemote coming?”

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

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

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

Life was different at Poissy—more quiet and orderly. The nuns were severe, but kind; we were fed and clothed adequately and our education, which had hitherto been somewhat neglected, received immediate and assiduous attention. Marie was very happy. She was in her natural element. She was one to whom life would bring exactly what she wanted, and she knew then that she wanted to become a nun. It was different for Michelle and me. Michelle was already betrothed to the eldest son of the Duke of Burgundy; for me, nothing had so far been arranged.

We rose early—about five in the morning—and the rules of the convent were that every one of the hours between that time and darkness, when we retired, must be spent in some useful occupation. For Michelle, Marie and myself it was mostly lessons. We learned Latin, and English and music lessons were given every day. We had to learn to converse intelligently, and great stress was laid on good manners at table…and elsewhere, of course. The Mother Superior was a deified figure. She was benign yet aloof and we all were in great awe of her. We would walk in the gardens where we learned the names of flowers and herbs and their uses, and were allowed to grow some of our own, and when we wandered through the sequestered paths of the gardens we could chatter a little.

It was a very different life from that which we had lived in the Hôtel de St.-Paul. Here we were shut away. In the Hôtel there had been a smattering of gossip to give us ideas—if vague ones—of what was happening. To the uncertainty of life there had been added a whiff of excitement. We had never known when our father was going to recover and our lifestyle change for a while. Then his lapses into madness had been equally unpredictable. Now life in the convent fell into an ordered routine. One knew what one would be doing at any moment of the day.

Occasionally visitors were allowed, and Isabelle came to see us.

She had now been married to our young cousin Charles who, on the death of his father, had become the Duke of Orléans. He was younger than she, and I could see, merely by looking at her, that she was not exactly unhappy in the marriage, so that that which she had so much dreaded had turned out to be tolerable after all.

“Charles is very gentle and sweet-natured,” she told me. “Of course he is very young, but he loves me. Isn’t that wonderful, Katherine…for he was forced into this marriage…even as I was. He writes poetry. It’s really very good. It is not only I who says so. I think I have been fortunate in having two good, kind husbands.”

I knew all would be well with her now because, although she referred to Richard, she did not look downcast as she had before.

I said to Michelle later: “I believe she is quite happy. She seems different.” And Michelle agreed.

It was from Isabelle that I learned something of what was happening outside the convent walls.