CHAPTER II
YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA—“A GOOD MOTHER AND A GREAT QUEEN.”

Within the courtyard, about the royal apartments, and all through the precincts of the Presence, minstrels and poets thronged, as well as Ministers and officials; Queen Yolanda was the Queen of Troubadours, and the courtiers she loved best to have about her were merry maids and men—graduates of the “Gaya Ciencia.” The livelong night they had danced and postured, they had piped and sung. Each poet of the hilarious company had in turn taken up his recitative, printed by staccato notes, to be repeated in chorus and in step, until the fandangoes and boleros of the South were turned into the boisterous whirling jotas of Aragon. The first dawn of day brought into play lutes and harps, restrung, retuned cellos and hurdy-gurdies, and vihuelas de peñola, guitars with metal wires and struck with strong herons’ plumes, and so awoke the phlegmatic guardians of the castle. Sweet and harmonious Provençal voices blended with soft notes of melodious singers from Languedoc to the running accompaniment of the weird Basque music of the mountaineers.

The Queen, upon her massive curtained bed of state, heard the refrains and felt the vibration of the lilting measures, and smiled pleasantly as she laid awake expectantly. At length the great tenor bell up in the chapel turret gave out the hour of six. The last note seemed to hang, and many a devout listener bent a reverent knee and bared his head, whilst the women-folk uttered fervent Aves. One single stroke of the metal clapper was followed, alas! immediately by another. “Two for a Princess!” resounded from lusty throats, but there was a tone of disappointment in the cry. The glaring morning sun, however, made no mistake, impartial in his love of sex. Dancing upon the phosphorescent ripples of the rolling Mediterranean, he shot golden beams within the royal chamber, and crimson flushed the cheeks of the royal mother and her child. It was the red-hot sun of Spain, and the day was red, too—the feast of San Marco, April 25, 1380.

Christened within eight hours of birth—the custom in Aragon—and “Yolanda” named, the little Princess’s advent was speeded right away to distant Barrois, her mother’s home, by the Queen’s Chamberlain, trusty Cavalier Hugues de Pulligny. He had been summoned at once to the accouchement couch, and given to hold and identify the babe. With him he took the Queen’s mothering scarf—the token of a happy birth—and hied post-haste to lay it and his news at the feet of the anxious Duke and Duchess at Bar-le-Duc. His reward was a patent of nobility and 500 good golden livres.

Yolanda, Queen-consort of Juan I., King of the triple kingdom of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia—Violante de Bar—was the elder of the two daughters of Robert I., Duke of Bar, and his wife, Marie of France, daughter of King John II., “the Good.” Their Court was one of the chief resorts of the Troubadours and Jongleurs, who looked to the Duke’s famous mother, Princess Iolande of Flanders, as their queen and patroness. Bar, or Barrois, first gained royal honours when the Emperor Otto III., in 958, created his son and successor, Frederic, Count of Bar and Prince of the Holy Roman Empire. The succession was handed down for hundreds of years, and in 1321 Count Henry IV. married the Flemish Princess. Her jewels and her trousseau were the talk of half a century. Her gaiety, her erudition, and her skill in handicraft, were remarkable; her Court the most splendid in Europe.

Bar was, so to speak, the golden hub of the great humming wheel of Franco-Flemish arts and crafts. Bordered by Luxembourg, Lorraine, Champagne, and Burgundy, the fountain-heads of rich and generous vintages, she took toll of all, and the Barroisiens were the healthiest, wealthiest, and the merriest folk in the French borderland.

The influence of the bewitching and accomplished Princess-Countess Iolande was paramount, and she was ever adding to her fame by making royal progresses throughout her husband’s domains. Wherever she went, music and the fine arts, and every artistic cult and useful craft, prospered amazingly. Borne in a great swaying chariot, drawn by four strong white Flemish horses, the magnificence of her cortège led on one occasion, if not on more, nearly to her undoing. Travelling in the summer-time of the year 1361 to Clermont en Argonne, one of the ducal castles, she was, when not very far away from storied Laon, beset by an armed company of outlaws, who, however, treated her with charming courtesy. They caused the Princess and her ladies to descend from their equipage and step it with them as vis-à-vis under the greenwood tree. Then, not very gallantly, to be sure, they stripped their fair partners of their ornaments and despoiled the princely treasure, causing the Princess to sign a pardon for their onslaught. The adventure, however, did not end here, for Iolande was a match for any man, and on the spot she enrolled her highwaymen as recruits for Count Henry’s army!

The almost fairy Princess-Countess survived her consort many years, and lived to see the county of Bar raised to a dukedom, and to dance upon her knee a little namesake granddaughter, Violante de Bar. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than the floral games of the troubadours, and one of these fêtes galants was enacted in 1363 at the Ducal Castle of Val de Cassel, where Duchess Marie had just brought into the world this very baby girl. The poets chose their laureate—one Eustache Deschamps-Morel, and Princess Iolande crowned him with bays. The ballade he composed for those auspicious revels is still extant—Du Métier Profitable—wherein he maintains that only two careers are open to happy mortals.

The sights and sounds, then, which first greeted the pretty child were merry and tuneful. She was reared on troubadour fare, on troubadour lore. Violante had three brothers, Édouard, Jehan, and Louis, and a younger sister Bonne, married to Nicholas, Comte de Ligny, but alas! buried with her first-born before the high-altar of St. Étienne at Bar-le-Duc.

When Violante was in her seventeenth year, there came a royal traveller, disguised as a troubadour of Languedoc, to the Court of Love at Bar-le-Duc. His quest was for a bride. He was of ancient lineage; his forbears came from Ria, in a southern upland valley of the Eastern Pyrenees, and had ruled the land ’twixt barren mountain and wild seacoast for no end of years—Juan I., King of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia. He had just buried Mahaud d’Armagnac, the young mother of his little daughter Juanita, and there was a gaping wound in his amorous heart which yearned for healing. The royal Benedict looked for a Venus with a dash of Diana and a measure of Minerva, and chroniclers say he had drawn blank the Courts of Spain and Southern France. Moreover, they tell a pretty tale of him which must now again be told.

After wanderings manifold, the royal knight-errant found himself within the pageant-ground of Bar-le-Duc and at a “Court of Love.” There he broke shield and lance at tilt, and Prince Cupid pierced his heart. Mingling in the merry throng, King Juan found himself partnered by the most beauteous damsel his eyes had ever seen. She was the Princess Violante, daughter of the Duke. Before she realized what her gay vis-à-vis had said and done, he vanished. But upon her maiden finger glittered a royal signet-ring. Back to Zaragoza sped the gay troubadour, and in a trice a noble embassy was on its way to the Barrois Court to claim the hand of the fascinating Princess and to exchange the heavy ring of State for the lighter jewelled hoop of espousal.

The entry of Queen Yolanda (Violante) into Zaragoza was a resplendent function, and, despite their habitual taciturnity, the citizens hailed the lovely consort of their King with heartiest acclamations. In her train came minstrels and glee-maidens from Champagne and Burgundy, from Provence and the Valley of the Rhine and Languedoc. Such merry folk were unknown in phlegmatic Aragon. To be sure, they had their poets, their dances and their songs, but they were the semi-serious pastimes of the sturdy Basque mountaineers.

The Académie des Jeux Floraux of Toulouse,—newly founded in 1323, and better known there as the Collège du Gaye Sçavoir,—sent an imposing company of minstrels to greet the new Queen of Aragon at Narbonne—the city of romance and song—and to offer her a spectacular serenade beneath the balconies of the Archiepiscopal Palace, where she and her suite were accommodated. With them they bore golden flowers and silver with which Royal Violante should crown the laureates, and to Her Majesty they offered a great amaranth of gold, together with the diploma of a Mainteneuse. Acclaimed “Queen of Troubadours,” her motley train swept through the cities of the coast and crossed the Spanish frontier. One and all offered her their true allegiance—to live and dance and sing and die for Yolanda d’Arragona.

If the Aragonese were noted for stubbornness,—and of them was curtly said: “The men of Aragon will drive nails in their heads rather than use hammers,”—they have a sound reputation for chivalry. King Iago II. established this characteristic in an edict in 1327. “We will,” ran the royal rescript, “that every man, whether armed or not, who shall be in company with a lady, pass safely and unmolested unless he be guilty of murder.” Courting an alegra señorita, whether of Aragon, Catalonia, or Valencia, was the duty of every lad, albeit the fair one jokingly called it “pelando la pava” (plucking the turkey). The royal romance was a charming example for all and sundry, and many an amorous French troubadour had his wings cut by Prince Cupid and never went home again at all, and many a glee-maiden, to boot, plucked a “turkey” of Aragon!

King Juan threw himself unreservedly into the arms of his merry Minerva-Venus Queen: no doubt she “plucked” him thoroughly! A “Court of Love” was established at Zaragoza. All day long they danced, and all night through they sang, and at all times played their floral games, whilst dour señors scowled and proud dueñas grimaced. The revels of the “Gaya Ciencia” shocked their susceptibilities, until a crisis was reached in 1340, when the King sent embassies to all the French Courts to enlist the services of their best troubadours. A solemn session of the Cortes, wherein resided the actual power of the State,—the King was King only by their pleasure,—was called, “Podemos mas que vos”—“We are quite as good as you, or even better”—that was the moving spirit of Aragon. A resolution was passed demanding the suppression of “the feast of folly,” as the gay doings at Court were called, and the immediate expulsion of the foreign minstrels and their hilarious company.

Here was a fix for the easy-going King,—dubbed by many “l’Indolente,” the Indolent,—between the devil and the deep sea. The Queen point-blank refused to say good-bye to her devotés, and her wiles prevailed to retain many a merry lover at her Court, for the stoutest will of man yields to the witchery of beauty in every rank of life!

If Queen Yolanda was a “gay woman,” as historians have called her,—and no class of men are anything like so mendacious,—she was not the “fast” woman some of them have maliciously styled her. No, she was a loving spouse and a devoted mother. Perhaps, could she have chosen, she would have brought forth a boy; but, still, every mother loves her child regardless of sex or other considerations. She addressed herself zealously to the rearing of the little princess. No sour-visaged hidalgo and no censorious citizen was allowed the entrée to the nursery. Minstrels rejoiced at the nativity, and minstrels shared the rocking of the cradle. She was baptized at the old mosque-like cathedral of Sa Zeo, or San Salvador,—where the Kings her forbears were all anointed and crowned,—with the courtly ceremonial of Holy Church, whilst outside the people sang their well-loved ditties. Quite the favourite was “Nocte Buena”—

and many, many other verses. Zaragoza was famous for the splendour of her mystery plays, as many quaint entries in the archives of the archdiocese prove: “Seven sueldos for making up the heads of the ass and the ox for the stable at Bethlehem; six sueldos for wigs for the prophets; ten sueldos for gloves for the angels.”

The little Princess was not the only occupant of the royal nursery in Zaragoza; King Juan’s child Juanita greeted her baby companion with glee, but the Queen was not too well pleased that she should be allowed to remain there. Indeed, an arrangement was come to whereby Mahaud’s child was delivered over to a governante, and Princess Yolanda was queen of all she saw. Very carefully her training was taken in hand, with due respect to the peccadilloes of the Court; but her mother saw to it that her environment should be youthful, bright, and intelligent. Hardly before the child was out of leading-strings her future was under serious consideration, for the King had no son nor the promise of one by his consort, and Queen Yolanda determined to do all that lay in her power to circumvent the obnoxious clauses of the Salic Law.

The Princess grew up handsome like her father and bewitching like her mother. She was the pet of the palace and the pride of the people, and everybody prophesied great things for her and Aragon. The most important question was, naturally, betrothal and marriage. The King, easy-going in everything, left this delicate matter to his ambitious, clever Queen, and very soon half the crowns in posse in Europe were laid at her daughter’s feet.

The survey of eligible lads of royal birth was far and wide, but, with the tactful instinct of a ruling native, Queen Yolanda made a very happy choice. At Toulouse, three years before the birth of her little daughter, had been born a royal Prince, the eldest son of her uncle Louis of France, her mother’s brother, titular King of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem, Duke of Anjou, and Count of Provence. The boy’s mother was Countess Marie de Châtillon, the wealthy heiress of the ducal line of Blois-Bretagne. He was the husband-to-be of Princess Yolanda d’Arragona, Louis d’Anjou. King Juan cordially approved the selection of the young Prince: French royal marriages were popular in Aragon. An imposing embassy was despatched at once to Angers, with an invitation for the boy to visit the Court of Zaragoza under the charge of his aunt, Queen Yolanda. The King and Queen made the most they could of their interesting little visitor. With a view to contingencies, Louis was introduced at the session of the Cortes, and the King gave splendid entertainments to the ricoshombres and other members of the Estates in honour of his future son-in-law, the royal fiancé of the soi-disante heiress to the throne.

This notable visit came to an abrupt and unexpected end upon receipt of the news of the sudden death of King-Duke Louis at the Castle of Bisclin, in La Pouille, on September 20, 1389. His young son, now Louis II., was called home at once. Met at the Languedoc frontier by a kingly escort, the young Sovereign passed on to Arles, and thence to Avignon, where, on October 25, 1389, he was solemnly crowned in the basilica of Nôtre Dame des Dons by Pope Clement VII. A stately progress was made to the Court of Charles VI. in Paris, and the youthful King was presented to imperious Queen Isabeau,—his aunt by marriage,—the proud daughter of Stephen II., Duke of Bavaria, and Princess Thadée Visconti of Milan.

The chief object of this visit was the formal betrothal of the young King and the Princess Yolanda d’Arragona—a ceremony deemed too important for celebration either at Angers or at Aix, in the King’s domains. A notable function, in the grand metropolitan cathedral of Nôtre Dame, was held on, of all days the most suitable, the Feast of the Three Holy Kings, January 6, 1390, whereat assisted all the Princes and Princesses of the House of France, with Prince Ferdinand of Castile and Aragon as proxy for the bride-Princess, and an imposing embassy from King Juan and Queen Yolanda.

Back to Angers went, with his mother, Queen-Duchess Marie, the youthful bridegroom-elect, to be safeguarded and trained for his brilliant career. Everybody in Anjou and Provence loved their Duchess. She had won all hearts. Those were prosperous, happy days—the days of the gracious Regent’s kindly government.

Early in 1393 King Juan met with a serious accident whilst hunting in the mountains around Tacca, the ancient capital of Aragon. He was, by the way, a famous huntsman, and had gained by his keenness in pursuit of game the title of “El Cazador”—“The Sportsman.” Mauled by a wolf he had wounded in the chase, he never recovered from the loss of blood and the poison of those unclean fangs. Feeling his end approaching, and anxious about the future of his darling child, he proposed to Queen Marie and the Anjou-Provence Court of Regency that the nuptials of Louis and Yolanda should be celebrated without delay. This he did because he had determined to evade the restrictions of the Salic Law by proclaiming Louis and Yolanda heir and heiress together of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia.

Queen Yolanda most heartily seconded her consort’s project,—indeed, she it was who had first suggested that line of action,—and when, on May 15, the King breathed his last in the castle of his fathers in Zaragoza, she claimed the succession for her son-in-law and daughter. On the day following the King’s death she took the young Princess,—barely thirteen years of age,—accompanied by the whole Court and a crowd of sympathetic citizens, into the basilica of Sa Zeo, and placed her upon the magnificent and historic silver throne of the Kings of Aragon. Bending her knees before her, she kissed the child’s hand in homage to her sovereignty, and caused heralds to proclaim her “Yolanda Reina d’Arragona.” It was a bold step, but quite in accord with the ruling instinct of the royal house; moreover, it commanded the suffrages of very many members of the Cortes.

The Estates of the three realms met in plenary session, and before the deliberations were opened the little “Queen” was presented by her mother, who demanded a unanimous vote in favour of Louis and Yolanda. There were, however, other claimants for the crown, and the Cortes decided to offer it to Dom Martino, the late King’s only surviving brother, a next heir-male of the blood, whose consort was Queen Maria of Sicily. The new King treated his widowed sister-in-law and his little niece with the utmost consideration. He prevailed upon Queen Yolanda to retain the royal apartments at the castle, for he did not propose to reside there. He only stayed at Zaragoza for his coronation, and returned at once to Palermo.

The whole energy of the widowed Queen was now devoted to the education of her only child. Her widowhood weighed lightly upon her; her buoyant, happy nature soon shook off her grief and mourning. She was now perfectly free to cultivate her tastes. If the “little Queen” was not to be Queen of Aragon, she should succeed herself as “Queen of Hearts and Troubadours.” Accordingly she moved her residence to Barcelona, the sunny and the gay, and there at once set up a “Court of Love.” Catalonia was times out of mind the rival of Provence in romance and minstrelsy; her marts had quite as many merry troubadours as serious merchants. The corridas de toros—bullfights—of Barcelona were the most brilliant in Spain, whilst the people were as independent and as unconventional as they were cultured and industrious. The two Queens very soon became expert aficionadas of the royal sport.

Queen Yolanda never for a moment lost sight of the future of her daughter, and preparations for her marriage to Louis d’Anjou occupied very much of her busy, merry, useful life. Queens’ trousseaux were something more than nine days’ wonders; besides, the ambition of the mother-Queen knew no bounds to her daughter’s horizon. She must go forth at least as richly clothed and dowered as any of her predecessors. Goldsmiths, glass-blowers, cabinet-makers, saddlers, silk-weavers, and potters,—none more accomplished and famous in Europe than the artificers of Barcelona and Valencia,—were set to work to fill the immense walnut marriage-chests of the bride-to-be. Her jewels were superb,—no richer gold was known than the red gold of Aragon,—the royal gems were unique, of Moorish origin, uncut. Years passed quickly along, and Princess Yolanda kept her eighteenth birthday with her mother in Barcelona. She was on the threshold of a new life.

II.

One glorious autumn morning in the good year 1399,—“good” because “the next before a brand-new century,” as said the gossips of the time,—a gallant cavalcade deployed down the battlemented approach to the grim old castle of Angers. At its head, mounted upon a prancing white Anjou charger, rode as comely a young knight as ever hoisted pennoned lance to stirrup-lock. He was dressed in semi-armour,—the armour of the “Lists.” His errand was not warlike, for knotted in his harness were Cupid’s love-ribbons: he was a royal bridegroom-elect speeding off to bring gaily home from distant Aragon his fair betrothed. He had been knighted ten years before by his uncle, Charles VI., at his coronation in Nôtre Dame in Paris, at which solemnity he had,—a slim lad of twelve,—held proudly the stirrup of the Sovereign.

Louis II. d’Anjou, born at the Castle of Toulouse on October 7, 1377, succeeded his father, Louis I., in 1389, and, like him, bore many titles of sovereignty: King of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem; Duke of Anjou, Calabria, Touraine, and Pouille; Grand Peer of France; Prince of Capua; Count of Provence, Maine, Forcalquier, and Piemont; Lord of Montpellier; and Governor of Languedoc and Guienne. His grandfather was the brave but unfortunate King John “the Good” of France; his grandmother, the beautiful but sorrowful Queen Bonne of Luxembourg and Bohemia.

The boy-King carrouselled through the lumbering gates of Angers that brilliant October morning between two trusty knights of his household,—loyal lieges of their late King now devoted to the service of the son. As valiant in deeds of war as discreet in affairs of State were Raymond d’Agout and Jehan de Morien. All three bore the proud cognizance of Sicily-Anjou,—the golden flying eagle,—and their silken bannerets were sewn with the white lilies of the royal house of France. A goodly retinue of mounted men followed the young King, guarding the person and the costly bridal gifts which accompanied the royal lover’s cortège.

Queen-Duchess Marie, his mother, had kept as Regent unweariedly her long ten years’ watch, not only over the business of the State, but also over the passions and the actions of her lusty, well-grown son. Many a maid,—royal, noble, and simple,—had attracted the comely youth’s regard, and had flushed her face and his. Women and girls of his time were, as an appreciative chronicler has noted, “franches, désintéressés, capable d’amours, épidémentés, elles restent naïve très longtemps, parceque les vices étrangères n’ont point pénetrés dans les familles.”[A] Louis had responded affectionately and loyally to his mother’s solicitude; he was famed as the St. Sebastian of his time, whose chastity and good report had no sharp shaft of scandal pierced.

The royal cavalcade pranced its way warily over the wide-rolling plains and across the gently cresting hill-country of Central France, making for the Spanish frontier. The whole of that smiling land was ravaged by foreign foes and overrun by native ne’er-do-wells, but, happily, no thrilling adventures have been recorded of that lengthy progress. Near upon the eve of St. Luke, King Louis II. and his suite were cordially welcomed in his royal castle of Montpellier, which the two mother-Queens, Marie and Yolanda, had indicated as the trysting-place. There the royal Court was established, whilst d’Agout and de Morien were despatched, with a lordly following, to Perpignan and across the frontier of Aragon to greet, at the Castle of Gerona, the two Yolandas—who were already on their way from Barcelona—and thence escort them to their Sovereign’s presence.

The young “Queen” was quite as anxious to meet her affianced husband as he was to embrace her, and no undue delay hindered the resumption of the queenly progress. It was a notable cortège, for Queen Yolanda, holding as she did tenaciously that her daughter was, at least, titular Queen of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia, travelled in extravagant royal state. Besides the great chariot, with its tapestries and furniture of richest Hispano-Moorish origin, were others almost as sumptuous for the lords and ladies of the suite. All these had their guards of honour—trusty veterans of King Juan’s time, and devoted to their “Queen.” Great tumbrils, laden with costly products of Zaragoza, Barcelona, and Valencia,—the royal trousseau and magnificent offerings for King Louis and his widowed mother,—accompanied by well-mounted cavalry, rolled heavily along the ancient Roman road to France.

The whole of Languedoc agreed to pay honour to the royal travellers, and they revelled in the floral games and fêtes galants offered by every town and castle by the way. From Toulouse, the birthplace of the bridegroom-elect, came quite appropriately a phalanx of maintaineurs to Montpellier to recite and sing poems and melodies of the “Gaya Ciencia.” The green rolling hills of Languedoc gave back in sweetly echoing refrains the tuneful music of the shell-sown shores of the rolling sea, the sun-kissed Mediterranean: all sang the “Loves of Louis and Yolanda.”

There is a quaint and suggestive story anent the meeting of the august young couple which calls to mind the adventures of King Juan at the Court of Bar-le-Duc. The young King had timely warning of the approach of his royal bride-elect, and, hastily donning the guise of a simple knight, he mingled in the throng of enthusiastic citizens, unrecognized, at the entrance of the town. Both Queens leaned forward in their chariot to acknowledge the loyal greetings; and the bride,—arrayed in golden tissue of Zaragoza, and wearing Anjou lilies in her hair,—smiled and laughed and clapped her hands in ecstasy, the animation adding immensely to her charms of face and figure. King Louis was enraptured, and, falling head over ears in love, approached the royal carriage; and kneeling on his berretta, he seized the youthful Queen’s white, shapely hand, and implanted thereupon one ardent kiss. The impact sent the hot blood coursing through his veins, and it was as much as his esquire could do to drag his master back and hurry him to the palace in time to change his costume and receive his royal guests with courtly etiquette. The young Queen was conscious of this outburst of love; she, too, coloured, and tried in vain to penetrate the disguise of her impassioned lover. The mother-Queen instinctively guessed who he was, and quietly remarked: “You will meet your gallant knight again, and soon—and no mistake.”

Montpellier was all too small to accommodate such a numerous and such a distinguished company, so King Louis gave his royal visitors barely time to recover from the fatigues of the long coach-ride out of Spain when he hurried on the royal train to Arles, in Provence. Queen-Duchess Marie was already waiting at the great Archiepiscopal Palace to give the royal visitors a cordial greeting. After having waved her son adieu from the boudoir-balcony of the Castle of Angers, she, too, set out for the south. She had chosen Arles for the royal nuptials, as being the capital of the third great kingdom of Europe and the most considerable city in her son’s dominions.

No better choice could have been made from a psychological point of view, for have not the Arlésiennes been noted for all time for their perfect figures,—Venus di Milo was one of them,—their graceful carriage, and surpassingly good looks? They, with their menfolk, animated and merry, have always eaten well and well drunk. The delicious pink St. Peray is a more generous wine than all the vintages of Champagne. Physical charms and fin bouquets were ever incentives to love and pleasure, and Mars of Aragon yielded up his arms to Venus of Arles. Arles—la belle Grecque aux yeux Sarrazines! Perhaps the becoming, close-fitting black velvet chapelles, or bonnets, and the diaphanous white gauze veils, did much to express la grâce fière aux femmes!

It was indeed a gorgeous function at which the royal couple were united in the bonds of matrimony, that morrow of All Saints, 1399. The ancient basilica of St. Trophimus was one vast nave, no choir,—that the royal brothers Louis and René built a generation later,—but it was too circumscribed for the marriage ritual; consequently, under a gold and crimson awning, slung on ships’ masts beyond the deeply recessed chief portal, with its weird sculptures, the clergy took up their station to await the bridal pageant. The Cardinal-Archbishop, Nicholas de Brancas, joined the two young hands in wedlock, and Cardinal Adreano Savernelli, the Papal Legate, gave the blessing of Peter, whilst the two mother-Queens looked on approvingly.

The royal bride,—in white, of course,—had an over-kirtle, or train, of gemmed silver tissue—a thing of wonderment and beauty worn by her royal mother, and her mother, Marie de France, before her, and coming from the Greco-Flemish trousseau of the famous Countess Iolande. Her abundant brown-black hair was plaited in two thick ropes, with pearls and silver lace reaching far below the jewelled golden cincture that encompassed her well-formed bust. Upon her thinly covered bosom reposed the kingly medallion of her father, King Juan, with its massive golden chain of Estate, the emblem of her sovereign rank. Upon her finger she wore the simple ruby ring of betrothal, now to be exchanged for the plain golden hoop of marriage.

“Yolande is one of the most lovely creatures anybody could imagine.” So wrote grim old Juvenal des Ursins, the chatty chronicler of Courts. She brought to her royal spouse a rich dowry—much of the private wealth of her father and many art treasures, among them great lustred dishes and vases of Hispano-Moorish potters’ work, with the royal arms and cipher thereon. Four baronies, too, passed to the Sicily-Anjou crown: Lunel in Languedoc—famed for vintages of sweet muscatel wines—Berre, Martignes, and Istres, all bordering the salt Étang de Berre, in Provence, each a Venice in miniature, and rich in salt, salt-dues, and works. The royal bride’s splendid marriage-chests were packed full of costly products of King Juan’s kingdoms: table services in gold from Zaragoza and finely-cut gems; delicate glass arruxiados, or scent-sprinklers, and crystal tazzas from Barcelona—more famous than Murano; great brazen vessels from Valencia and richly-woven textiles.

The same veracious historian has painted a picture in words of the youthful Yolande. “Tall,” he says, “slim, erect, well proportioned in her frame, her features of a Spanish cast, dark lustrous hair, the Queen-Duchess has an intrepid heart and an elevated spirit, which give animation and distinction to her charming personality. She is remarkable for decision, and commands obedience by her authoritative manner.”

The Court did not tarry long at Arles, for, in spite of the beauty of the women and the gallantry of the men and its other notable attractions, it was, after all, somewhat of a dull, unhealthy place. A move was accordingly made,—before, indeed, the festivities were quite exhausted,—to the comfortable and roomy manoir of Tarascon, a very favourite country residence of all the Provence Princes. The gardens were famous, and laid out in the Italian manner, and the extensive park and fresh-water lakes were well stocked with game and fish. The fêtes galants of Louis XV. and “La Pompadour” here had their model. The bridal couple, with their guests and retainers,—often as not in the guise of shepherds and shepherdesses,—thus kept there state for three merry months, until the warmer spring weather hurried them off to Angers, in the north.

The pretty legend of St. Martha of Bethany appealed to the young Queen-Duchess. In the crypt of the principal church of Tarascon is the tomb of the saint, and on the walls is her story sculptured. Once upon a time a deadly dragon,—called by the fearful country-folk “Tarasque,”—dwelt in a hollow cave by the Rhone shore, and fed on human flesh. News of the devastation wrought by the monster reached the ears of Lazarus and his sisters at Marseilles, and St. Martha took upon herself to subdue the beast. With nothing in her hand but a piece of the true Cross of Christ and her silken girdle of many ells in length, she sought out the deadly dragon in his lair. Casting around his loathsome body her light cincture, she enabled her companions to slay him. The girdle of St. Martha became the mascot of all the Tarasconnais, and everybody wore a goodly belt or bodice à la Marthe. Such a girdle, in cloth of gold and tasselled, was offered to the young bride by the loyal townsfolk.

The state entry of the Sovereigns into Angers,—the major capital of the King-Duke’s dominions,—was just such another pageant as that which greeted Queen Isabeau of Bavaria in Paris in the summer of 1385. From ancient days Angers had been a place of note—the Andegavi of Gallo-Roman times, a municipium and a castrum combined. In the Carlovingian era the Counts—then Dukes—of the Angevines,—founders of the great Capet family,—and their vigorous consorts nursed stalwart sons, who were the superiors of their neighbour rulers in Frankland. From Geoffrey Plantagenet, titular King of Jerusalem, sprang our English Kings. Louis IX.,—St. Louis of blessed memory,—bestowed the duchy of Anjou upon his brother John with the title of King of the Two Sicilies; hence came the sovereign titles of Louis II. and Yolande.

The Castle of Angers in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries was one of the most imposing in France. Flanked by eighteen great donjon towers, shaped like dice-boxes, it had the aspect of a prison rather than of a palace. The royal apartments were between two great bastions, Le Tour du Moulin and Le Tour du Diable. The drawbridge spanned the deep, wide moat to the esplanade called Le Pont du Monde; beneath were dark dungeons and odious oubliettes. To honour their King and Queen, the castle household hung great swaying lengths of scarlet “noble cloth,”—newly purchased from the Florentine merchants of the “Calimala,”—to cover up the black slate-stone courses of the masonry of Le Diable, whilst they concealed the rough masonry of Le Moulin by strips of gorgeous yellow canvas of Cholet d’Anjou. These were the heraldic colours of Aragon. All the gloomy slate-fronted houses of the city,—“Black Angers” it was called,—were decorated similarly, and gay Flemish carpets and showy skins of beasts were flaunted from the windows. The citizens kept holiday with bunches of greenery and early spring flowers in their hands to cast at their new liege Lady.

Queen Yolande waved her gloved hand,—a novelty in demure Angers,—in friendly response to the plaudits of the throngs, and refused no kiss of bearded mouth or cherry lips thereon as she rode on happily by the side of her royal spouse. At St. Maurice,—the noble cathedral, with its new and glorious coloured windows,—the royal cortège halted whilst Te Deum was sung, and the bridal pair were sprinkled with holy water and censed. Another “Station” was made where the ascent to the castle began, for there pious loyal folk had prepared the mystery-spectacles of the “Resurrection of Christ” with “His Appearance to His Virgin Mother.” The Saviour’s features, by a typical but strange conceit, were those of the King-Duke, St. Mary’s those of the royal bride!

The banquetings and junketings were scenes of deep amazement to the new Queen. In Aragon and Barcelona people ate and drank delicately,—their menus were à la Grecque,—but in cold and phlegmatic Anjou great hunks of beef and great mugs of sack,—quite à la Romain,—were de rigueur. An old kitchen reporter of Angers records the daily fare at the castle: “One whole ox, two calves, three sheep, three pigs, twelve fowls.” The only artistic confection was “hippocras, seasoned with cloves and cinnamon.” Pepper, ginger, rosemary, mint, and thyme, were served as “delicacies.” Another harsh note on the fitness of things which struck the royal bride as extraordinary was the loud laughter indulged in by the gentlemen of the Court and their coarse jests; le rire français had nothing of the mellowed merriment of the “Gaya Ciencia.”

Alas! the rejoicings and the feastings of the Angevines and their guests were suddenly arrested, and the enthusiastic shouts of welcome were drowned by harsh hammerings of armourers and raucous military commands. The King-Duke was summoned to take his position among the captains of France, in battle order, in face of the foreign foe, and the Queen-Duchess, young and inexperienced as she was, assumed the government of Angers and the care of the citizens. All France was ravaged by the English, and State after State fell before their onslaught. Yolande addressed herself to the strengthening of the defences of the castle and the city. Imitating the tact and prudence of Silvestro and Giovanni de’ Medici at Florence, she ordered the levying of a poll-tax, rated upon the variations of land-tenure and the varying incomes of the craftsmen: a tenth of all rateable property,—shrewdly spread over three years, with a credit for immediate needs,—was cordially yielded by the Angevines.

Probably this impost was made upon the advice of worthy councillors, but, all the same, the manner in which the young châtelaine Lieutenant-General in person superintended its operation was an eloquent testimony to her force of character and her true patriotism. She disposed of many personal belongings, and submitted to many acts of self-denial, an example quickly followed by great and small. She sent also to Zaragoza for master-armourers to refurbish old and temper new weapons of various sorts. Some of these craftsmen she ordered to give instruction to native workers; so very shortly her armoury was efficient, not alone for home defence, but for the rearming of the King’s forces in the field.

Not content with these warlike preparations, Queen Yolande gave time and money for the distraction and amusement of her people in their time of stress. Castle fêtes, town sports, and church mystery plays, were bravely carried through. The Queen herself was everywhere—now mounted for the chase, now tending sick folks, now at public prayers. Born daughter of a grand race, and full of dignity, she had inherited her mother’s happy disposition. She charmed everyone in town and country, and endeared herself to her loving subjects by many a homely trait.

A pretty tale has been preserved about her whilst King Louis was standing shoulder to shoulder with Charles VI. and his other peers of France. One afternoon,—according to her wont when not hindered by affairs of State or claims of charity,—she sallied forth to the royal park of L’Vien, her dogs in leash. Let loose, they put up a rabbit, which made directly for their royal mistress, and sought refuge in the skirt of her green velvet hunting-kirtle. Reaching down her hand, she fondled the little trembling creature, when, to her immense surprise, she discovered upon its neck a faded ribbon, with a medallion bearing an image of the Virgin. The incident occurred in a woody dell within the ruins of a half-buried hermit’s cell. Yolande did not for a moment hesitate in her interpretation of the incident. She noted the date,—February 2, the Feast of the Purification,—and she set to work to restore the holy house in honour of St. Mary. Upon the portal, by her command, was sculptured the charming episode, with the legend: “Nôtre Dame de Sousterre, l’amie et la protectrice des âmes en danger.”[A]

The same year, 1401, found Louis d’Anjou and Yolande upon their way to Paris, where she, as Queen of Jerusalem, Naples, Sicily, and Aragon, made her state entry at the Court of Charles VI. and Isabeau. Doubtless the young Queen was struck with Isabeau’s extraordinary freedom of manner. Her own training, both at Zaragoza and Barcelona, in the rigid conventions of a semi-Moorish Court, had taught her restraint and aloofness. The dress of the French Queen astonished her, for in Aragon and Catalonia physical charms were enhanced by semi-concealment, whereas Isabeau exposed her painted arms, shoulders, and her breast, right down to her cincture; whilst her low waist at the back was pinched by a cotte hardie, so that the bust was enlarged to the degree of distortion: une taille de guêpe—“wasp-like” indeed! The etiquette of the Court of her father, as well as that of Anjou, kept men out of the bedchambers of the fair, but Isabeau, décolletée and en déshabillée, was the centre of a crowd of flatterers and fawners at her daily se lever. The dressing-room of Isabeau was the factory of gossip and intrigue. Perhaps she gave utterance to the aphorism: