The Queen Of Four Kingdoms

by HRH Princess Michael of Kent, HRH Michael of Kent

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

At the age of nineteen, Yolande of Aragon is sent away from her family, her friends, and everything she knows, to marry the young Duke of Anjou, King Charles VI's first cousin. Their marriage has been arranged to form an alliance between the previously warring kingdoms of Aragon and Anjou, and is politically fraught in a time of great danger and unrest. Yet the union between Yolande and Louis becomes not only a great love story, but also sets in motion events which will change the course of history.

As Louis spends more and more time and money fighting in Italy for his claim to the Kingdom of Naples, Yolande is left alone with their six children to govern their lands. But through her charm, fierce intelligence and the clever use of her spies, she becomes the saviour of not just her kingdoms but also of France.

Her Royal Highness Princess Michael of Kent unveils this seldom told story, enriched by her own insider's perspective of royal life. The Queen of Four Kingdoms is the epic true story of a rich and riveting period of French and English history, all witnessed by the captivating and complex heroine Yolande.

Release date: October 17, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 160

Sample

This book began with my wish to tell the true story of Agnès Sorel, a girl born in fifteenth-century France. She became the mistress of Charles VII, the king crowned with the help of Joan of Arc, and came to my attention as the mother of Charlotte de France, legitimised and beloved half-sister of the next king, Louis XI.

In my last book, The Serpent and the Moon, Charlotte de France appears briefly as the wife of Diane de Poitiers’ father-in-law, Jacques de Brézé. When he caught his wife in flagrante with his Master of the Horse, he ran the couple through with his sword ‘at least one hundred times’, it was said at his trial. Contemporary chroniclers wrote that Charlotte was as beautiful as her mother Agnès Sorel, a name which meant nothing to me at the time but, intrigued, I began searching for her story. It was during this process that I discovered the remarkable Yolande, ‘The Queen of Four Kingdoms’, and the subject of this book.

My manuscript, decreed too long, became two books – the first dedicated to Yolande’s story, the second to that of her pupil, Agnès. Both stories included frequent appearances of a remarkable man whom Yolande had met on her first visit to Bourges in central France. Jacques Coeur was a young merchant of the town; curious, intelligent, enterprising, charming. She marked him well and found in him a reliable friend and then a most essential asset – to herself, her family and especially to her son-in-law, Charles VII. Through his genius and business entrepreneurship, Jacques Coeur became the richest man in France – a dangerous position in an absolute monarchy and one which had dramatic consequences! The twists and turns of his story involve most of the characters in the first two volumes. The wars with England continue as well as the contradictions of treachery/loyalty; cruelty/kindness. His story is too long and intense to be excluded from either the first or second volumes. On the advice of fellow writers, I decided to make him the subject of the third volume.

It was only in the last three years that I learned – through a pathology analysis by a well-known medical expert – that a principal character in my story was found to have died full of poison, and felt the need for some historical improvisation. Difficult to solve a crime some 550 years later! Nor would I claim to have done so, but there are a number of possible clues and much circumstantial evidence that point to a potential villain, at least in the eyes of an unimpeachable character. If the reader agrees with him, then we have found the murderer, but I am afraid the story only ends within the last pages of the third book!

As the early-morning sun reaches the tops of the towers of Saragossa, the time has come for Yolande, only surviving child of the King of Aragon, to leave her home, and her country, to marry the French king’s cousin, Louis II, Duke of Anjou. By this union, it is hoped her people and his will cease fighting over the Kingdom of Naples and Sicily, which both Aragon and Anjou claim as their inheritance. She is nineteen years old and beautiful, they say – but flattery is commonplace in her world and she pays it no mind.

‘Juana, dear one, help me dress carefully,’ she asks her companion – once her nursemaid, then her governess, now her closest confidante. ‘I want everyone here to remember me as I look today. Who knows if I will ever return?’

Juana fiddles nervously with the ties on Yolande’s bodice. Perhaps she, too, doubts that her mistress will return.

‘I thank the Lord that you are coming with me to Provence, dear Juana. I will need your dear familiar face in my new life.’

‘You should thank your mother – it is she who is insisting I go with you.’ Her tone is not exactly joyful.

‘I wonder what it will be like, our new home.’

Juana knows that Yolande is musing to herself, since she has no more idea than her mistress of what awaits; she also knows that her charge is more curious about her betrothed than about the lands of which he is the ruler.

‘You must be excited, my treasure,’ she murmurs comfortingly as she starts to braid the girl’s long blonde hair. ‘After all, you have been waiting for this moment for nine years.’

It is true; it has been a very long engagement. Yolande sighs and tries to hide her anxiety.

‘Yes, and he may well look like a frog; portraits can be misleading . . . Perhaps he has even been disfigured in some way, fighting for so long in Naples for his crown.’

‘Then our spies would have told us. Stop fretting. Think only of the advantages you will bring to Aragon by this marriage.’

Yolande smiles and thinks: Juana always talks like this – as if she were a great old sage when she is only ten years older than me.

Juana’s capable hands do their work and calm Yolande a little. But still . . . half of her is excited by the journey, while the other half shrinks from it. How can she be a good, dutiful wife to a man whose subjects have been fighting her countrymen for years? She takes comfort in the sight of her wolfhounds, Ajax and Hector, stretched out by the fire. They will come to France with her. Never leaving her side, they answer only to her call.

‘Do you think they may still be permitted to sleep by my bed as they have always done?’ she asks

‘I hope so.’ Juana smiles. ‘That will depend on your husband, won’t it?’

Juana stands on a stool to help the princess into a white linen chemise, her riding habit of brown serge, a white shirt with frills showing at her neck, and a dashing broad-brimmed hat the colour of sand, pinned up on one side, trailing a red ostrich feather. She might not listen to flatterers, but since early childhood Yolande has been conscious of her appearance – and rather vain.

She turns around to gaze at her room, the cradle of her life until this day – the comfortable furnishings, the bright reds and blues of the large Agra carpet, the table where she sat daily at her lessons, the high bed with its red velvet curtains and huge pillows, the view from the tall windows across the plains towards the distant hills. As yet, the sun touches only their peaks. She takes one last look at her room, whispers, ‘Goodbye, sweet childhood’, and blows a little kiss as she opens the door, Ajax and Hector at her heels.

Downstairs, her mother is waiting with the ambassadors from Anjou who will accompany her on the journey. Juana senses the girl’s reluctance and takes her arm. Although Yolande is normally afraid of nothing, she is glad of the familiar touch.

As Yolande d’Aragon descends into the Great Hall of the castle, she can smell the heady scent of amber on burning logs, and sees her mother beckoning her into her private chamber. The Queen of Aragon is as tall as her daughter and worn thin from anxiety, having ruled Aragon alone for the past six years, ever since her much older and dearly loved husband died here in her arms. The queen still retains her proud features: the intelligent eyes, fine nose and sharp jaw line; she is a mature forty, well past her childbearing years, and never had any intention of remarrying.

‘My darling child, come sit with me for our last moment alone together before we greet the ambassadors and your escort.’ With a sweet smile that belies her firm grasp, she takes her daughter by the hand. Yolande is the only one left of her three daughters, and it is hard to see her go.

‘I have dreaded this moment – and yet I rejoice in it too,’ she confesses. ‘I came here to Aragon from the royal house of France to marry your father, and now you are to be married back into France, to the king’s cousin.’ And she sighs as if she is thinking of her homeland. She has not set foot there since her wedding.

Yolande remains silent, looking into her mother’s eyes as if to read her mind.

‘I know you are aware of this, my darling, but as your mother, it is my duty to say it again, for the last time. Never forget the purpose of this union – to bring an end to fifteen years of fighting between Aragon and Anjou.’

Darling Maman, thinks Yolande, trying to keep me a little longer by telling me what I have heard over and over since my betrothal so long ago – and she smiles despite feeling her tears gathering. Her mother continues.

‘As you know, I have corresponded with your bridegroom’s mother for nine years now. I feel I know her – and her son – through her letters, and because of this, I have no anxiety about your future family.’ Suddenly she clasps Yolande tightly. ‘But do not forget your home and all whom you love here, and fill your life with that dedication and spirit I have tried to instil in you.’

Yolande is torn between sadness and excitement, and she finds that she cannot say anything. Her mouth is dry and she presses her lips tightly together to stop herself from crying out. Her mother kisses her, then holds her away from her and gives her a long, searching look. They both know it is their last private moment. Then they leave the room and go out to face their futures – her mother’s here, alone, and Yolande’s in a foreign country.

Tall, blonde, and confident in her beauty, the Princess of Aragon takes a deep breath, fixes her smile and greets the fine dignitaries from Anjou one by one; bowing slightly to each as she meets their eyes, trying to read them, her hand and voice steady until she reaches the end of the line. There stands her remarkable mother, head held high. They have said their goodbyes a dozen times this morning, but now, in full view of the court and the ambassadors, they embrace again, tears running down their cheeks, and her mother says proudly for all to hear:

‘It pains me to see you leave, child of my heart, but never forget, you are part Valois through my family, which makes you half French already. To marry into the royal house of France is your destiny, just as it was mine to leave France and become Queen of Aragon. Remain true to your heritage; fulfil your father’s dream of reconciliation between our two lands. May he rest in peace, knowing that through your marriage, the endless, fruitless wars between Aragon and Anjou will be over.

‘Beloved daughter, go on your way with my blessing. Write often and put your staunch and joyful heart into all you do. I know you will not disappoint the memory of your father who loved you dearly; or me; or Aragon.’

And Yolande curtseys to her slowly, her head lowered, whispering words of commitment and love.

The royal escort is impressively large and would normally fill her with curiosity and delight, but today her heart is aching. Ajax and Hector bark loudly as if they too are bidding their home farewell, running in circles around her horse with excitement.

She turns back time and time again, until she can no longer see those familiar towers of Saragossa.

During the days of the slow journey towards her wedding in Provence, riding over fields and through forests, along streams and across rivers, meeting other travellers on the road, Yolande finds it hard to hold back the flood of childhood memories. In particular, she remembers the long-ago events that, years later, would set her on this journey.

She can still hear her mother’s voice calling from the parapet of their great fortress of Montjuic at Barcelona: ‘Yolande! Yolande!’ and again, ‘Yolande! Child, where are you? The ambassadors from Anjou are here!’

Even at the tender age of seven, Yolande considered herself an adult, and knew that she had to behave as a young lady to make her parents proud of her. Tall for her age, she stood one step beneath where they sat on their thrones. The first ambassador addressed them with a low bow.

‘Your Majesties! We know you are aware of our mission, and we thank you for the welcome you have extended to our suite.’

Nods and smiles were exchanged.

‘We have travelled some hundred and twenty leagues from distant Anjou in western France on behalf of our widowed duchess, the Lady Marie de Blois. Our mission, and we believe yours, sire, is to bring to an end the long conflict between Aragon and Anjou over the kingdom of Naples and Sicily.’

More nodding, and serious faces.

‘Our duchess sees the betrothal of her only son, our new Duke Louis II, to your daughter, the Princess Yolande, as a means of achieving peace and securing thereby our joint interests.’

Then they were all smiling as Yolande’s mother stroked her long blonde curls, kissed her forehead and asked Juana to lead the princess off to bed. Everyone seemed happy with the outcome of the ambassadors’ visit.

In fact, Louis II d’Anjou was not the only candidate for Yolande’s hand in marriage. Her breeding and her substantial dowry made her a desirable match, as did her beauty, which the trouvères and poets had lauded since her childhood.

It was on her fifteenth birthday that two ambassadors from Richard II of England came to Aragon to press their king’s suit on Yolande. She was naturally delighted with this illustrious proposition, but when the King of France heard of it, he was not pleased at all. His choice of consort for the English king was his own six-year-old daughter, Isabelle. Since the English were always interested in forging a closer union with France to increase their holdings there, they readily accepted Charles VI’s offer and forgot about the princess of Aragon.

A year later, when Yolande was sixteen, the sudden death of Aragon’s king out hunting changed everything. Her beloved father, who had made her youth such a pleasure, was no more, and his younger brother, her uncle Martin, inherited the throne of Aragon. After her father’s death, the subject of the Angevin embassy came up again in conversation at court.

‘Darling child, come, sit by me,’ her mother had invited, patting the cushion next to her while stroking her small grey levrette, Mignon, curled up on her other side. And she had told to her again about what Yolande already knew through and through – how her marriage must be a part of the matrimonial game of chess played by the royal houses of Europe – arranging unions between their children to the mutual gain of their territories. That although these could be increased through conquest, it was better to win them peacefully, through alliances sealed by the dowry and the connections of a princess. These were the real bargaining tools of power. And despite her beauty and character, for all that she was the daughter of the king, in this game Yolande was a pawn. These things she had known from her infancy.

‘Dearest child,’ her mother had said again, and Yolande knew that whenever Maman began a conversation like that, the explanation would take time and not please her. ‘You are the only one left of our three girls, and were always the most spirited. Have you not heard it said time and again that Aragon is the first power in the Mediterranean?’

Hesitantly, Yolande had nodded.

‘Our other kingdom of Naples and Sicily has been beyond our control for too long because of Anjou – whose sovereign dukes have continually challenged our right to rule there. Your union with their young Duke Louis would solve this problem to the benefit of both our houses.’ And there she had paused, sensing that the girl had heard enough for the time being.

Stroking her hair, she told her soothingly, ‘My darling, I know how happy you are at our court, but if and when you leave, you might find an even greater paradise than the one you have here. And if not, you have enough experience to create one for yourself.’

As she rides alongside Juana, Yolande smiles a little sadly at the memory. There is no one else in her entourage she wishes to talk to as much as Juana, and chooses to pass these golden autumn days in her familiar company.

Many years ago, Juana’s father died while trying to save the horses when a fire broke out at the stables in Saragossa. In her distress, her mother took her own life, and their child was brought into the castle household. Intelligent and honest, it was not long before Juana made herself useful. When the king married, Juana was appointed to attend his bride, and following Yolande’s birth, her good sense and ability put her in charge of the nursery, which would soon house three little girls. They all adored her and she was totally devoted to them and to their parents. With the king and queen often occupied with affairs of state, it was Juana who cared for the children when they were ill, Juana in whom they confided their secrets and who was always their ally, even in their mischief-making – provided it did not go too far.

When first one, and then the second of Yolande’s younger sisters came down with smallpox, it was Juana who nursed them night and day, ignoring the danger to herself. When they died, her grief was heartbreaking. She had refused to allow Yolande to stay in the same house, which probably saved her life, and thereafter she devoted herself to Yolande’s daily care. It is no wonder that the princess has always trusted her more than anyone else. Juana is the only person to whom she feels able to voice her deepest concerns.

Now, as the two of them travel further and further from home, Juana’s Catalan way of speaking is soothing, and her chatter fills the hours as their procession winds its way through deep forests with occasional rays of sunlight breaking through the trees. Only when they come to open ground do they spur their horses to a canter or gallop. How Yolande loves to race the spirited grey Andalusians she is bringing with her to France. People gape at the sight of the proud, arched carriage of their heads, their thick manes flying in their riders’ faces, their long, full tails streaming behind. The princess and Juana are accustomed to long journeys on horseback, opting to ride rather than use litters or carriages when travelling.

No matter how tightly Yolande ties on her hat, it will slip back around her neck when she breaks into a fast canter or gallop. The exhilarating feeling of the wind in her loosened hair has he close her ears to Juana’s admonitions, her calls to tie her hat and think of her complexion. As she spurs on her horse, the girl cannot help wondering whether she will ever be able to ride with such abandon again.

*

Early each morning when the mist slowly lifts and the sun breaks through, Yolande can hear the birds calling and listens to the snorting and shaking of the horses being prepared for another pleasant day’s ride. Around midday they find a shady place to sit and refresh themselves with water mixed with a little wine and bread with cold meat. She stays with Juana, a little apart from the others, blankets on the grass and cushions against a tree for comfort. She loves looking up at the red, yellow and gold of the leaves mingled with the dark evergreens overhead – it is her favourite time of year. The air has a special scent, a mix of pine and the fresh smell of leaf decay.

Their route is well planned and not too tiring. Every evening they halt at sunset, spending the night at a welcoming castle or manor. Sometimes, after washing and changing their clothes, the Princess of Aragon will appear before the local people; at other places they just eat and sleep. A number of their hosts have arranged for singers to entertain them while they dine, everyone acknowledging Yolande as the grand lady she is, and as the queen she will become on her marriage.

What will it be like, this new kingdom of hers? And the household she will join? Yolande knows that her mother considers Marie de Blois, her future mother-in-law, to be a lady like herself, shrewd, yet caring for her country and her children. Her husband died long ago, fighting on the Italian peninsula, leaving her all those great lonely castles, huge estates to administer – so much responsibility on her shoulders to preserve the inheritance of her two young sons. And as if that was not hard enough, a cousin of her husband’s – Charles de Duras – actively encouraged the great cities of Provence to turn against the Anjous, their acknowledged rulers.

Yolande has heard, Marie de Blois left Anjou and rode to Avignon to consult with Pope Clement VII. It was a courageous act, and it succeeded – the Pope confirmed the sovereign rights of Yolande’s betrothed, Louis II d’Anjou, to Provence, Naples and Sicily. Next, and without hesitation, Marie de Blois pawned her jewels and her silver, and with the proceeds she raised a substantial army. When she realized it would still not be strong enough for a definitive victory against Charles de Duras, she used her head. Famous for her charm, she travelled throughout Provence with Louis, wooing the towns, ensuring their loyalty to her son. And where charm failed, she used her money. A good lesson: charm first, and if that fails, bribe!

As for her husband-to-be – Yolande’s thoughts are both full of him, and shy away from him: he is too large a presence in her mind.

One evening after supper, Yolande and Juana sit before the fire in their cosy rooms at the old stone inn where they are spending the night. Juana knits. She sees Yolande draw a piece of paper from her bag, something she always carries: it is the draft of the first letter she ever wrote to Louis, with Juana’s help. With a gentle little nudge of her foot to make Juana look up, Yolande begins to read:

My lord, my dearly betrothed husband-to-be, my lady mother has told me of your difficulties in your land of Provence and of the efforts your good mother has made on your behalf to regain your inheritance. What a splendid and inspiring lady she must be and how I look forward to knowing her – as I do you, my lord. Please write and tell me of your struggles in the south of France, a place I know little about. If you will allow, I would like to write to you of my life here in Aragon so that you may know something about me, but mine is as nothing in comparison with the excitement and dangers of your life. Your devoted bride-to-be, Yolande d’Aragon.

Juana chuckles – she chuckles often. ‘Well, that first letter did not inspire a reply for some time, did it?’

She is right. It was not until Christmas that his answer came.

My dearest Yolande – may I call you so?

In view of the distance that separates us, and will continue to do so for some time, let us know one another through our letters.

I am pleased to be able to give you good news. The people of Provence have sworn loyalty to me and accepted me as their sovereign. No, do not think me a hero or a conqueror.

This past autumn, I made my official entry into Aix, the capital of Provence, and now I am recognized throughout the country as the people’s rightful sovereign. So, my dear future wife, this too will be your territory to reign over with me.

Now my indefatigable and brave mother has turned her attention to my other certified inheritance, Naples and Sicily. Will my struggles never cease so that I may come home and marry you?

Reading Louis’ letter, Yolande too wondered how long it would take for him to marry her. And what was he like? She was bursting to know. Her mother, who had eyes and ears everywhere, had managed to make some significant discoveries, and reported her findings:

‘Louis, at thirteen, is already a young man: tall, strong, confident, his ambitious mind firmly fixed on his objective. He has learnt from his mother’s skill and tenacity in reclaiming part of his father’s inheritance; he has watched her use charm and diplomacy to regain the loyalty of Provence. Now, with a large navy recruited from his faithful sovereign state, he has set sail for Naples.’ But until Louis could reconquer the rest of his legitimate inheritance, their marriage would have to wait.

During the years that followed, her mother spoke often of Louis as she shared Marie de Blois’ correspondence with her. Yet Yolande longed for more details. How did he manage, this lad with fire in his veins and a will of iron? Who advised him in Naples? Who were his companions? After years spent in and around that large territory – most of the lower half of the Italian peninsula – surely there must be much to tell her? How did the people look? Dress? Eat? What flowers grew? What birds flew in the sky? Did they have songbirds? Good horses? Music? Troubadours or their like? Was the famous Bay of Naples as beautiful as the poets claimed? The mighty volcano, Vesuvius, was it erupting? Would Louis come for her? Or was she to be sent for? Would they marry in Naples? She bombarded him with letters full of questions, but none came back from Louis, only from his mother to hers.

Then one day, about three years after her father’s death, she heard her mother calling her name in a way that she felt was important.

‘A package has arrived for you from Naples!’

At last! Anxiously, she tore it open. A letter, a long letter, from Louis:

‘My dearest future wife,’ it began. ‘Finally, after nine years of constant skirmishes and intermittent fighting, my enemy here, a cousin of mine called Ladislaus de Durazzo, as the Italians call the Duras family, the senior branch of the Anjous, has defeated my forces in a definitive battle.’ She sat stunned. ‘I am coming home, there is no more I can do here for the time being. We shall marry at last and I will show you my other beautiful territories of Anjou, Guyenne, Maine and Provence – you will especially love Provence. Wait for me.’ And he signed himself: ‘Your Louis.’

She had smiled bravely at her mother and said in a small voice, ‘How wonderful – I shall be married at last.’

But Juana knew her heart – and she could not hide some of her disappointment from her faithful governess. Her knight in shining armour had failed to bring her a kingdom, one that she had taken very much for granted. Aragon’s right to Naples and Sicily was in her blood, just as much as Louis d’Anjou’s rights to that kingdom were in his blood. Complicated as it seemed when she was betrothed, she had long ago learned to understand the situation between Aragon and Anjou. The last queen of Sicily, Giovanna II, a frightful harridan, had named an Aragon cousin as her heir, but disinherited him in favour of another cousin, Louis D’Anjou, before dying herself. Yolande even knew the story that it was the disinherited Ladislaus Duras, or Durazzo, who was said to have smothered Queen Giovanna between two feather mattresses, so that there would be no mark on her body. He then claimed the throne of Sicily, but died, and Louis I inherited the kingdom. It was indeed a most complicated story and the conflict continued between the Durazzo heir and her Louis’ father until he mysteriously died in that faraway kingdom. As soon as he was able, her Louis II went back to Naples and spent the next nine years following his betrothal, fighting to hold onto what he considered was his. And now, after all those years, he was on his way back and she as to appear pleased to marry the loser of her adolescent dreams? Neither the warm looks from her mother nor the excitement of the wedding preparations could lift her mood. Not even her little girl-dwarf Pepita – no matter how much she tried to make Yolande smile as she rubbed her back and shoulders, brushed her long hair into a plait that reached down to the back of her knees or wound it around her head to make a crown – could stop her thinking hard about her destiny.

Yolande had followed every move of the two protagonists through Louis’ mother’s letters for the past nine years, and she had never doubted his ultimate success. He sounded so positive, so strong in his character and beliefs, so sure of his right to this kingdom, that she had convinced herself he would win. She had often imagined herself there with him in Naples, secure in their position as king and queen. During his time on the Italian peninsula he had won a number of battles, and then, like a thunderclap, had come the final, unexpected defeat. Was it over, or was his return home no more than a respite? Was their planned marriage merely a means of acquiring reinforcements – through her substantial dowry – for yet another attempt at regaining his Italian kingdom?

She realized that she did not know this man at all. Was he still the bold, fearless, young god she had believed in for so long? Or was he a loser, someone she could not admire?

The leaves are still golden and falling gently as they reach Perpignan, Yolande’s last stop on home soil. To her surprise, she is not nervous now; instead she feels a strange and agreeable expectation – or is it just the beauty of the season and the light wind making her favourite mare skittish?

Yolande has heard so much about Aragon’s city of Perpignan as a centre of excellent craftsmanship, and of its complicated history as it passed continually between Aragon and France, that she gazes fascinated about her and almost forgets why she has come. But as the Princess of Aragon enters France, she is fast reminded by the appearance of her bridegroom’s younger brother, Charles d’Anjou, Prince of Tarente, who has come to be her escort across Languedoc. He arrives with a large suite of elegant courtiers on fine horses – horses always catch her eye – and the French courtiers follow his lead in paying her their respects.

‘Greetings, fine princess, my soon-to-be sister-in-law,’ he begins with an impish smile and a low sweep of his multi-plumed hat as he bends over the neck of his magnificent steed. He rights himself with a jolly laugh. When he bows almost lower to Juana with a more mischievous grin, Yolande is delightfully surprised and barely stifles a laugh. Juana catches her eye and gives Yolande her most knowin