King René d'Anjou and His Seven Queens

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?

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.

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”

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.

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.”

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]

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.