Agnès Sorel: Mistress of Beauty

by HRH Princess Michael of Kent, HRH Michael of Kent

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

From HRH Princess Michael of Kent, bestselling author of The Queen of Four Kingdoms, comes the extraordinary second volume in the Anjou trilogy.

Yolande, the Queen of Four Kingdoms is dead. Agnès Sorel, beautiful, innocent, twenty years old, had arrived a year earlier with the court of Yolande's son, René D'Anjou, and remained with his mother at her request, knowing how much the King of France, her dissolute son-in-law Charles VII, would need wise guidance.

As a trusted confidant of Yolande, Agnès captivates everyone she meets, and in her role as a demoiselle to René's wife, Isabelle of Lorraine, Agnès finds herself firmly ensconced in the royal court. Soon though, whispers at court regarding Charles's burgeoning feelings for her begin to grow, and despite her best efforts to resist, Agnès is alarmed to discover that she too is in love.

Plagued by guilt but unable to deny her feelings for the King, Agnès is forced to choose between her love for Charles, and her duty to herself . . .

Praise for The Queen of Four Kingdoms:

'Meticulously researched and powerfully evoked.' Philippa Gregory

'Takes the reader to the heart of this glamorous, dangerous world, and holds them spellbound. I loved it.' Julian Fellowes

'Riveting . . . spellbinding.' Mail on Sunday

'A page-turning blend of epic battles, betrayal, seduction and heroism.' Hello

Release date: November 6, 2014

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

The Queen of Four Kingdoms is dead. A weak sun shines through the windows on to the face of Yolande d’Aragon, Duchess of Anjou, Queen of Sicily, etc., as she lies in state. In the chapel of the massive medieval Château of Angers, capital of her sovereign territory of Anjou, her catafalque stands open to receive the homage due to her. Outside, snow is falling, gently, steadily. Until today, 24 November in the Year of Our Lord 1442, winter has been slow in coming to this part of north-western France.

Too late to see his mother before she died, René, her second son and heir, kneels alone by her coffin, its stand draped in black velvet to the floor, a banner bearing the royal arms of Anjou hanging across it and down either side. Finally, the son she adored can confess his sorrow for the pain he caused her. ‘Do not let me die without seeing your dear face again,’ she asked when they last embraced; it was all she wanted, just one more sight of him. With a grieving heart he remembers the plea in those deep-blue eyes, now closed for ever.

Agnès Sorel, beautiful, twenty years old and modest, a demoiselle in attendance on Isabelle of Lorraine, René’s wife, stands in a corner of the chapel, her allure hidden by its shadow, watching as her kneeling lord weeps. His mother lies serenely on her bier as if asleep, swathed in white satin, hands folded – clasping a rosary.

She appears as perfect as her son remembered, a glorious, firm spirit, omnipresent throughout his childhood; wise, warm, ethereal and forever reliable.

Rising, René catches sight of Agnès. Wiping his eyes, he beckons for her to follow him out of the chapel.

‘Welcome back, Sire,’ she murmurs, eyes cast down as she curtseys.

‘Come, child,’ he sighs, ‘sit with me awhile. Tell me about my mother’s last year, while I was fighting in Naples – you stayed with her, I know.’

The girl moves quietly a little behind him, and at his bidding perches reluctantly on a window seat, unaccustomed to sitting in his presence.

‘Well, what did she say about me when she heard I had reached Marseilles?’ he asks almost brusquely, made impatient by guilt. René always considered Agnès Sorel to be the prettiest and most honest of his wife’s demoiselles, and now he can see that she has grown into a striking beauty.

Naturally reticent in the presence of her sovereign duke, Agnès holds back the truth. ‘Sire, she was most relieved to hear of your safe arrival in Marseilles,’ she says softly, eyes fixed on her hands in her lap.

‘Come now, Agnès, I have known you most of your young life. That’s not what I expect to hear from you of all people. How disappointed was she that I didn’t come straight to her after landing? What did she say on hearing I had lost my throne – after all the sacrifices she made for me? Did she protest when I did not come to her sooner? That I stopped at Pisa to see Florence? Was she upset, angry that I put my love of art before her? Oh, I should have come at once, I know I should.’

With that heartfelt lament, René d’Anjou gets up and paces back and forth before the girl. In Naples he was acknowledged by both the court and the people of his kingdom as the best of sovereigns: kind, sensitive to their needs, a truly heroic figure, and notably just. Now those same loyal people face the terrible wrath of their conqueror, Alfonso d’Aragon, the man they had spurned in favour of his cousin from Anjou. But René’s thoughts are solely with his mother at this time, and Agnès hastens to reassure him.

‘Sire, believe me, you have no need for such anxiety. Your lady mother was both relieved and content once she heard you had reached your port of Marseilles. She told me: “Thank God, he is safe – now you can return to Lorraine,” and sent me back to Nancy to help with the preparations for your arrival there. Sire, I promise that is all.’

‘Because she believed I would come north to Anjou at once,’ and René wrings his hands, his face etched with sorrow, his voluminous black robe swirling about him.

Isabelle of Lorraine, crowned Queen of Sicily, had gathered her children, the ladies of her court and her many pets and, at René’s insistence, sailed from their doomed Naples to Marseilles. No sooner had she docked than her party headed north to Anjou, to Queen Yolande’s Château of Saumur and the two children Isabelle had left in France – teenaged Jean, her eldest, ruling Lorraine for his parents, and Marguerite, her youngest, brought up by her grandmother. Yolande welcomed her daughter-in-law, her other grandchildren and the court with open arms. She tried not to show that it was her son she yearned to see again before she died, a day she felt edging nearer.

Now at last he is here – and she has gone. Agnès suffers for him, the agony of his guilt plain in his red-rimmed eyes. She sees to the new arrivals almost absent-mindedly, absorbed in her reminiscences. She is moving among the guests when she notices Queen Isabelle beckoning.

‘Have you seen him?’ her mistress asks anxiously.

Agnès knows the queen means her husband. Curtseying low, she nods.

‘Well, how is he? Is he distressed? Does he blame himself?’ and Isabelle answers her own questions, muttering softly, ‘Yes, of course he does,’ as she fiddles with her cloak’s fastening.

‘Agnès dear, hold the cloak for me – it’s warm with all these people and the fires – but be sure to dress me again before we enter the chapel. I must wear black and it will be cold in there. Is my hair in order?’ she asks nervously, pinching her cheeks to add colour. How she loves him . . .

‘You will see to the guests, won’t you, and order mulled wine for them all – they will be frozen, the new arrivals especially. And don’t stray far from me, please!’ So tense, poor lady, but excited to be seeing her husband again, despite the shame of his defeat.

René stops talking the moment he catches sight of Isabelle entering the Great Hall. Its walls are covered with the castle’s famous tapestries, their glorious reds and blues the perfect backdrop for the tall, slender young Queen of Sicily. Like her hair, Isabelle’s fine wool dress is the colour of ripe wheat. It hugs her body and reaches to the floor; several rows of Yolande’s pearls surround her throat, and a loose shawl of gossamer-thin burgundy wool hangs casually over one shoulder. René moves towards her with quick, light steps for such a large man, his face a mixture of joy, pain and relief, and his arms open wide as a bear’s to envelop his beloved wife. It has been only a few months since they last saw one another, on the dock in Marseilles when he arrived from Naples, but she was obliged to leave after a few days and return to Lorraine. As he embraces Isabelle, René’s heavy heart lifts, and he holds her in his arms for what seems an eternity. His return confirms what they both feared when she left Naples: the dream they once shared of ruling their Italian paradise is over. Their coffers are empty; they can never afford another attempt to oust Alfonso. Now they must face the challenge of building a new future at home in France.

Agnès, never far from her mistress, or her confidences, understands her joy – and her sorrow. It has been a long and painful journey for everyone who left Naples, but most of all for Isabelle, for she knows how much her mother-in-law sacrificed for her son, bankrupting herself and her family for a cause in which she never believed. So many memories have been left behind; of Isabelle’s ten children, six of them buried in Naples, another source of her sadness.

As his family gathers to pay their final respects to his revered mother, René, Duke of Anjou, sovereign Count of Provence, former King of Sicily, Naples and Jerusalem, embraces each and every one with a sad smile and a few quiet words. While he and Isabelle stand side by side in the Great Hall of Angers, the colourful tapestries a dramatic background for the black robes worn by most of the mourners, Agnès discreetly keeps her place behind her mistress, watchful, absorbing everything, memorizing faces, helping with the guests. She whispers instructions to the staff and exchanges quiet greetings with those visitors and their servants who come from Saumur. Others she recognizes from earlier days spent with the Old Queen at Angers and the various estates of the Anjou family.

‘Oh, my Lady Agnès, you cannot know how much Queen Yolande missed you when you returned to Lorraine,’ several tell her. ‘It’s a pity she sent you back – you should have remained with her until our duke arrived,’ says another. ‘She mightn’t have died if you’d stayed longer.’ What nonsense – how superstitious they are, but Agnès smiles politely while she busies herself with the mourners, discreetly calling on servants to satisfy every request but never losing sight of her mistress.

She arrived with Isabelle the day before, riding hard from Nancy with her escort and a number of her personal staff. Since none of the Anjou family had been in residence at Angers for some time, there was much to do inside the château to prepare for the guests who would assemble in the days to come. As the capital of Anjou, the great fortress of Angers was kept fully staffed and ready to receive visitors at all times, but without its mistress in residence, the many rooms needed dusting, fires lit, flowers added – at this time of year, autumn branches with gilded leaves. Plates of sweetmeats and dried fruits were laid out on counters, goblets lined up, and gallons of mulled wine heated in the kitchens to warm the travellers arriving after long, cold journeys.

‘Agnès, my dear, please see to everything, and make sure that guests are shown to the right rooms – you know what I mean,’ Isabelle told her, looking at her meaningfully.

The girl busies herself unobtrusively doing her mistress’s bidding to make the visitors comfortable. Wet clothes are removed to be dried, shoes changed, and guests taken to their rooms on Agnès’s direction before they descend again to the great reception rooms. There, fires burn high in the large chimney pieces, one in the middle of each wall, themselves covered with the famous tapestries. How well Agnès remembers her first visit to Angers, when Queen Yolande explained how the hangings had been commissioned by the late King Charles V, father of her beloved husband Duke Louis II of Anjou; how they were the largest series of tapestries ever made in France, their toiles painted by a master from Bruges to represent the Apocalypse. On this sad day, their glowing reds, ochres and cobalt blues transcend the greyness of the skies and of the occasion.

Isabelle has placed Agnès at the entrance to the Great Hall to receive the guests on her behalf while she mingles with those already there. Among the first to arrive is Charles, Count of Maine, the youngest of Yolande’s children, a handsome twenty-eight-year-old. He knows his mother’s demoiselle and greets her warmly.

‘My dear Agnès, more beautiful than ever, and such cheerful company for my mother during her last year – for which you have the gratitude of the Anjou family for ever.’ With those elegant words he kisses her hand – a most unexpected honour from a Prince of the Blood – which makes Agnès blush.

Like René, Charles is wearing the formal black robes of royal mourning, protocol allowing only the addition of a pearl or diamond pin. The brothers embrace, tears in their eyes. As they study one another, René sees how much his young brother has changed in their four years apart.

‘Why did I not come north to her the moment I landed in Marseilles? Why did I imagine she would live for ever?’ he pleads. Charles merely shakes his head while René continues: ‘My heart was so heavy; the shame of my defeat kept me in Provence – kept me from facing her. Can you understand, dear brother?’ And they embrace again, sobbing.

‘For years she gave me all she had, depriving you and our sister in order to sustain my army against our cousin, that usurper Alfonso d’Aragon – how I hate him! But even her colossal efforts were not enough.’ Charles remains silent, allowing René to expel his pent-up remorse. ‘You and I know she never believed in what she called this chimera of the kingdom of Sicily, a fantasy craved by our father and our brother Louis – and which killed them both. And yet she not only let me go, she financed my quest as well. She knew that she could never stop me wanting to rule our rightful kingdom. Tell me you understand,’ he beseeches.

Agnès sees Charles gently shake his head once more. What can he say, after all? He does his best to console René.

‘Calm yourself, dear brother. She heard you were safely home. It was enough. She wrote to me – and to our sister Marie – the moment she had word you had landed at Marseilles. Her joy and relief at your safe arrival was overwhelming, and indeed, she expected you to stay a while in the south. Yes, it is true. Be calm now, I beseech you. None of us was with her at the end. We were each in touch with her, sending letters by courier almost daily, and we believed she was well. You must console yourself that she was content to join Papa in Heaven.’

There are no more tears; both men know that Charles’s words were spoken to ease their joint sorrow. In Naples, Agnès often heard King René announce, with a combination of love and pride: ‘My younger brother Charles has always been cleverer than me – his will be a great career at the royal court of France.’ Looking at him now, this handsome, upright young courtier with his mother’s beautiful eyes, she thinks her lord may well be right.

There is no time for sentiment about Naples and the way of life they left behind. Those who sailed back to France with the young Queen of Sicily know that, just as do the remainder who arrived a year later with King René. This is their new reality, and here at Angers, René and Isabelle must take their places as the sovereign Duke and Duchess of Anjou and care for the many guests come to honour his mother.

When they hear their father has arrived, René and Isabelle’s two middle children, Louis and young Yolande, neither of whom René has seen for a year, rush into the Great Hall, tears of relief and happiness flowing freely at his safe return. Politely they greet their many relatives and family friends, speaking in low voices out of respect for their dead grandmother lying in the chapel next door. To think it was little more than a year ago that they arrived in Anjou and were merry with her at Saumur, chattering and playing with her many dogs. Then, to her parents’ delight, Marguerite, the five-year-old they left behind with Yolande when they sailed for Naples, enters the Great Hall. A tall and pretty twelve-year-old, she arrived from Nancy a day after her mother. Since Agnès’s is the face she knows best among the company, she rushes to the demoiselle.

‘It’s all right, dearest,’ whispers Agnès soothingly. ‘Go and greet your father, and don’t upset him by crying.’

Marguerite hugs Agnès before moving towards the father she has not seen for more than four years. Instantly he folds his youngest, darling daughter in his arms, choking with emotion. Words will have to wait.

What a strange way to meet again, thinks Agnès, through the death of one so loved by them both.

King René’s first born, his son and heir, Jean of Calabria, also barely knows his father. As he enters the Great Hall, he too immediately greets his mother’s demoiselle.

‘What a pleasure to see you here, beautiful Agnès, you who brought my grandmother such joy with your company. Every time I came to visit her during the last year, she told me so.’ And he embraces Agnès. How these children have grown and changed in such a short time.

René is startled to see that young Jean has grown into the image of Louis, his beloved older brother. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and strikingly handsome, Louis III, another victim of the Anjou family’s ‘chimera kingdom’. How often did Queen Yolande lament to Agnès of its magnetic grip on her husband and two sons?

Jean, a bright lad of seventeen, has made his parents proud by the way he governed Lorraine in their absence. ‘Ah, my son!’ booms René, cocooning him in his robes just as he did his wife and younger children. ‘I have heard nothing but good of your work for us. Do not think your labours are over with my return – I will still need you!’ He smiles proudly. ‘With Anjou, Lorraine and Provence to administer, I will require you to continue to play your part for me!’ And as they embrace, his eyes fill once again with tears of happiness.

‘Papa, dear Papa, it’s been such a long time without you,’ Jean says softly on his father’s shoulder. How tall he is – though not yet as tall as his father, nor has he his girth! ‘Papa, you do know, don’t you, that I visited Grandmère quite often – whenever I came to Anjou on your business. You know, even when we discussed the most serious problems or difficulties, she would insert a light word or anecdote to lift the gloom of our proceedings.’ He pauses in reflection, and then looks at his father. ‘How I admired her.’

‘I know, my boy, I know,’ says René, stroking his son’s head.

‘Then I am sure you know that all she ever wanted was for you to defeat our cousin of Aragon. Our focus was solely on finding ways to send you more men, money and supplies.’ Again they embrace. ‘I loved her, Papa, and in your and Maman’s absence, I relied on her wisdom.’

‘Yes, yes, I know, my boy, I know,’ René repeats almost absent-mindedly, ‘and yet despite her many sacrifices, I did not – could not – succeed in my quest.’ He turns away from his son’s all-knowing gaze, so like his grandmother’s. As an intimate of this family, Agnès has no sense of intruding on their personal grief. On the contrary, she shares it.

Once again the demoiselle has been alerted to stand by the entrance to the Great Hall, and on seeing the depth of her révérence, those nearby realize that the Queen of France has arrived with her son, the dauphin Louis. Queen Marie is René’s cherished older sister, and they too embrace, another warm meeting between loving siblings after many years apart, although they have remained close and in regular correspondence. Marie is not beautiful, but she has a smile and a pervasive charm that supplants beauty and her wisdom and goodness are universally admired. She will understand René’s misery better than anyone.

Discreetly, gently, Agnès takes Queen Marie’s black cloak from her shoulders and is pleasantly surprised by her grateful smile and greeting.

‘Are you not Agnès Sorel?’ she asks sweetly.

Agnès bobs and inclines her head.

‘Yes, my mother wrote to me often of you and the pleasure you brought her during her last year. I thank you for this with all my heart – and I know we shall see more of you when our court joins with that of Lorraine.’

It is their first meeting. Throughout the year Agnès spent at Saumur, Queen Marie never left Bourges, remaining near the king, who needed her, but Queen Yolande spoke so often of her daughter that Agnès feels she almost knows her. True, her face is long and narrow, her eyes small, and her nose too long, but the sweetness of her expression and the charm of her genuine smile attract her mother’s demoiselle.

‘Marie, dearest sister,’ René says softly after embracing her, ‘only you can have some idea how deeply her death affects me.’

‘Dear, dear René, not only do you and I and our brother Charles suffer her loss, but so does Louis my husband. As you well know, hers was the only voice he hearkened to, hers the only order he obeyed, throughout our shared childhood and after. Hers was the only wisdom he acknowledged. Whose wisdom can he count on now?’ she asks plaintively. ‘None of us have our king’s love or trust, certainly not I, his wife and queen, not in the way he gave it to her. None of us can replace her guidance of him – nor stem his follies and excesses, as she did.’ Then, to her surprise, Agnès hears Marie tell René quietly, sadly, ‘And somehow he still attracts the worst kind of people to his inner circle, as you well know.’

‘I expect my own position with the king will also suffer now that Maman is no longer here,’ René tells his sister pensively, ‘because you and I both saw how devotedly he loved our mother – far more than his own. Without her, he has less cause to care for us in spite of our shared childhood and relationship.’

‘How I wish Louis and I had been able to visit her at Saumur during the last year,’ sighs Marie. ‘Although Maman was not at court in recent times, you know that she never lost her influence over him, and he would often consult her by sending a courier with letters to seek her advice by return.’ René looks a little surprised, but she continues: ‘Dearest brother, you had your own battles to concern you, and I did not want to trouble you,’ adds this gentle Queen of France, his dearest sister, with resigned, downcast eyes.

Agnès knows much of Marie’s troubles, pieced together from little comments and confidences made to her by Queen Yolande. At the age of ten, Charles, then third in line to the French throne, came to live with the family of Anjou at Angers betrothed to the eight-year-old Marie. They have been friends throughout their lives, but Agnès knows they have never shared the passionate love of Marie’s parents, or that of René with Isabelle.

René shakes his head. ‘Yes, it’s true, our mother’s death marks the end of an era for us her children; although adult, somehow we were still hers to command, were we not? Where can we – and even more importantly, our king – find such guidance now?’ Although Agnès keeps her place behind her principals, she can hear every word, and since their mother trusted her completely, they have no need to be careful in their speech.

‘René, you are my dear brother,’ says Marie firmly, taking his hands in hers, ‘and you must heed my advice – which, sadly, my husban. . .