Crown in Candlelight by Rosemary Hawley Jarman Read Free Book Online Page A

Orléans, he saw distantly his own manor, castles, churches, farms, his own fief with peasants toiling there. Somewhere in one of those misted towers was his wife, the patient pale Violante. Bearing and raising his children, uncomplaining of his adventures and thus enhancing his guilt. He thought of her with sudden sad regret, and rode fast through the county of Blois, trying not to look behind.

    Charles of France was well at ease. Nothing could alarm him now. He felt as if all his dormant wits had renewed themselves, bright, like fine old armour carefully stored. Standing firm amid a swirl of diminished anxieties, he was a worthy successor to St Louis, to Philip-Augustus. His dangerous calm was ruthless. He knew through his agents that Isabeau would come to Paris. He could anticipate her every scheme. From his high plane of megalomania he saw her powerless beneath his will. He did not recognize his grand euphoria as the fragile thing it was. Thoughts of revenge made him grin like a schoolboy and kick his heels against the silk step of his dais.
    He moved between palace and château-fort , and had again taken up his quarters in the Palais. From his raised throne he could see through a window the mast-tips of river craft and the bastions of the Grand Châtelet, crammed with treasure and prisoners, most of them Isabeau’s adherents, victims of his recent purge. From above he could hear the sound of choristers in the royal chapel. Jean sans Peur was in there, listening, praying. Yes, Burgundy was under the King’s roof, cousinly and subservient, daring no harm. Charles sighed contentedly, as he sat beneath the banners of Damascus cloth embroidered with lifesize birds and beasts. His amiable gaze moved over the three young people kneeling before him.
    ‘Be pleased to rise, my dears,’ he said.
    Isabelle got up, her hand still firmly held by Charles of Orléans.
    ‘And you, my prince, come closer to me.’
    The Dauphin Louis mounted the dais. His robe was heavily embossed with gems and his pointed ermine-trimmed sleeves dragged on the ground. Lately he had cultivated a certain smile—more of a sneer; it sat on his soft mouth like that of a wicked old man.
    ‘Isabelle,’ said the King, ‘soon you will marry.’
    ‘Sire.’
    ‘You will bear fine princes.’
    ‘And,’ burst out the Dauphin, ‘I will make every one a chevalier of honour … when I am king!’
    Charles continued to smile. ‘Yes, but not for many years. And you, my lord of Orléans, will you cherish our jewel?’
    The youth said fervently: ‘I shall love her as Our Lord loved the world.’
    His fingers clenched tighter on Isabelle’s and she gave a hiss of pain. The King looked up at the sparkling banners. On one of them was a pelican, blood on its breast, from which its young fed.
    ‘They drink their mother’s life,’ said the King, and for an instant his eyes became opaque. Then he shook himself like a dog from a river, saying forcefully:
    ‘Yes, you will be happy. I’ll give you great estate. Better, eh, Belle, than marrying the English prince?’
    ‘Rather death,’ said Isabelle softly.
    ‘Did you know that Henry of Lancaster sent word that he was willing to abdicate the English throne should you wed his son, so think of that, Belle! You can sway kingdoms! He laughed a little too high, too long.
    ‘Sire,’ said Charles of Orléans, ‘is it true that Henry seeks to invade us, being so thwarted?’
    ‘All threats and wind. Henry Bolingbroke is sickly, leprous, finished. As for Harry his son …’
    ‘A coxcomb,’ said Isabelle viciously. ‘Who leches with men and women both. Who chases the matchless spirit of Glyn Dwr through Wales and calls it war! Yet who dares to aspire to my hand and my sister … even Marie, a bride of Christ! Michelle, Katherine … I know all about him—brawling with his brothers in the London stews …’
    ‘But surely, Madame,’ said Charles of Orléans, still holding her hand, ‘he was with King Richard in