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Authors: Rosemary Hawley Jarman
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clinging to the saddle, and fell below it to the ground. There nine men hacked at him and he died.
Nearby a window was flung open, a light bloomed and a voice called sleepily. Quickly the leader doused his lantern and shouted through the murk.
‘The Watch here! All shut, blow out your candles!’ and the window went dark again. Nine red blades were sheathed. Nine riders set spurs and were gone. Louis lay still in his blood. A little runnel of it was moving, coming to rest beside the severed hand on the other side of the street.
By a strange irony, Violante of Milan had indeed been ill at Blois, and now in Paris she had a deathly appearance. With the Princess Isabelle she sat in the foremost carriage of a long mourning procession which wound north-easterly to the Hôtel de St Paul, where the King now resided. Isabelle had designed the cortège with as much care as her resources could muster. Seven black charrettes , each drawn by a pair of white horses, slowly moved, a magpie chain of grief, from the Porte St Jacques where at the south outer wall she had received Violante with tears. In the second of these carriages lay the black-clad body of Louis of Orléans, wearing his orders and jewels, with his left hand wrapped in cloth of gold and placed by his head. Following the corpse came the young Charles, his sword drawn and carried before his face. Behind him in the remaining wagons sat Isabelle’s retainers and those who were prominent in the household of Orléans. Word of the procession’s approach had leaped ahead and the streets filled with citizens craning for a long look at the murdered Duke. From the Abbey of St Victor, from St Geneviève and St Etienne the students and tutors came hurrying and followed the cortège into the Cité. As the slow black-and-white river moved over the bridge at the Petit Châtelet and into the shadow of Notre Dame, the crowd swelled. The bell was sounding, mingling with the rattle and ring of hooves and wheels. The train passed through the Porte au Blé into the precinct of St Paul where the Célestins bell joined that of the cathedral. Men bared their heads, looking awestruck on tiptoe at the Duke’s remains. A voice said loudly: ‘Whose evil work was this?’
Isabelle had no need to wonder; she was sure. The King’s words to Isabeau still haunted her. ‘ So shall I do to all your mountebanks, who fill your lust …’ She sorrowed for her uncle but her prime emotions were rage and revulsion. Bosredon’s killing had been bad enough, for all that he had only been an adventurer and a spy. Now this ambush in the dark brought to her the sick reminder of another dearer death. So had Exton’s assassins, on Bolingbroke’s orders, struck down Richard in the night at Pontefract. There were still the marks of cudgel and sword on the pillar in that dungeon in England’s north. Richard had managed to kill at least two of them, but had been defeated by numbers, the coward’s method. What despair for him, in the dark! Beside Isabelle, Violante sobbed, pressing a linen square to her eyes.
‘Do not weep, my lady,’ said Isabelle grimly. ‘I will be your champion. You shall see my father’s shame!’
At the gate of the Hôtel de St Paul the cortège halted. At the foot of the steps she turned to Charles, who shook his head, still holding his sword. ‘I must stay to guard my father.’ So she assisted the wid-owed Duchess upwards to the Hall, through the columns decorated with weird howling faces, into the presence of a large assembly. The King stood by his dais, Odette behind him. The Dauphin Louis, now tall at eleven years old, his younger brothers Charles and Jean, and Michelle were there, standing quietly. And there was Katherine, with the King’s hand resting on her shoulder: When she saw Isabelle she made to run forward, but halted at the expression on her sister’s face. Why in heaven has he taken her from Poissy? thought Isabelle. God knows I would not have had her witness what
Nearby a window was flung open, a light bloomed and a voice called sleepily. Quickly the leader doused his lantern and shouted through the murk.
‘The Watch here! All shut, blow out your candles!’ and the window went dark again. Nine red blades were sheathed. Nine riders set spurs and were gone. Louis lay still in his blood. A little runnel of it was moving, coming to rest beside the severed hand on the other side of the street.
By a strange irony, Violante of Milan had indeed been ill at Blois, and now in Paris she had a deathly appearance. With the Princess Isabelle she sat in the foremost carriage of a long mourning procession which wound north-easterly to the Hôtel de St Paul, where the King now resided. Isabelle had designed the cortège with as much care as her resources could muster. Seven black charrettes , each drawn by a pair of white horses, slowly moved, a magpie chain of grief, from the Porte St Jacques where at the south outer wall she had received Violante with tears. In the second of these carriages lay the black-clad body of Louis of Orléans, wearing his orders and jewels, with his left hand wrapped in cloth of gold and placed by his head. Following the corpse came the young Charles, his sword drawn and carried before his face. Behind him in the remaining wagons sat Isabelle’s retainers and those who were prominent in the household of Orléans. Word of the procession’s approach had leaped ahead and the streets filled with citizens craning for a long look at the murdered Duke. From the Abbey of St Victor, from St Geneviève and St Etienne the students and tutors came hurrying and followed the cortège into the Cité. As the slow black-and-white river moved over the bridge at the Petit Châtelet and into the shadow of Notre Dame, the crowd swelled. The bell was sounding, mingling with the rattle and ring of hooves and wheels. The train passed through the Porte au Blé into the precinct of St Paul where the Célestins bell joined that of the cathedral. Men bared their heads, looking awestruck on tiptoe at the Duke’s remains. A voice said loudly: ‘Whose evil work was this?’
Isabelle had no need to wonder; she was sure. The King’s words to Isabeau still haunted her. ‘ So shall I do to all your mountebanks, who fill your lust …’ She sorrowed for her uncle but her prime emotions were rage and revulsion. Bosredon’s killing had been bad enough, for all that he had only been an adventurer and a spy. Now this ambush in the dark brought to her the sick reminder of another dearer death. So had Exton’s assassins, on Bolingbroke’s orders, struck down Richard in the night at Pontefract. There were still the marks of cudgel and sword on the pillar in that dungeon in England’s north. Richard had managed to kill at least two of them, but had been defeated by numbers, the coward’s method. What despair for him, in the dark! Beside Isabelle, Violante sobbed, pressing a linen square to her eyes.
‘Do not weep, my lady,’ said Isabelle grimly. ‘I will be your champion. You shall see my father’s shame!’
At the gate of the Hôtel de St Paul the cortège halted. At the foot of the steps she turned to Charles, who shook his head, still holding his sword. ‘I must stay to guard my father.’ So she assisted the wid-owed Duchess upwards to the Hall, through the columns decorated with weird howling faces, into the presence of a large assembly. The King stood by his dais, Odette behind him. The Dauphin Louis, now tall at eleven years old, his younger brothers Charles and Jean, and Michelle were there, standing quietly. And there was Katherine, with the King’s hand resting on her shoulder: When she saw Isabelle she made to run forward, but halted at the expression on her sister’s face. Why in heaven has he taken her from Poissy? thought Isabelle. God knows I would not have had her witness what
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