Queen Blanche smiled in compassion. She saw through Valentine’s heroic attempt at self-deception.
“What is vexing you then, ma mie? I want nothing better than to help you … if that lies in my power. A sympathetic ear can also be a help, if no advice is possible.”
“The King,” whispered Valentine, with a sidelong glance at the ladies-in-waiting. “I worry about the King.” The older woman leaned forward; the lappets of her veil fell over the blanket.
“We do not need to pretend with each other. You know as well as I do that the King’s illness is incurable. It still amazes me that it took so long for the seizures to come upon him. I saw it in him when he was only a child — he was restless and filled with strange notions. Indeed, his mother, Queen Jeanne, also suffered from a weakness in her head; there were times when she could not remember anything, not even her own name, nor her rank, or recognize the faces of her children. She suffered terribly when she came to herself again and everyone suffered with her, for she was a sweet lady, Queen Jeanne; after her death her husband said of her that she had been the sun of his kingdom — a somewhat pale sun, perhaps.” She smiled, lost in memory. “But it was well put and it expressed what many people felt. She had grace and charm — two important qualities, which Monseigneur d’Orléans inherited from her.”
“The King does not want to recognize the Queen,” Valentine said, looking up at Blanche’s face. “The Queen suffers because of it. This afternoon when they were here — he thrust her away from him. My heart bled for her; she loves the King so much.”
“Loves …!” said Queen Blanche, not without mockery. “Pure madness. That is the love of the doe for the buck, the ewe for the ram. It is irresistible in the spring and when the leaves fall, it is over.”
Valentine shook her head.
“You cannot say that, Madame. I was with the Queen when they brought her the news of the King’s first attack of madness in the forest of Mans; I saw how the blow struck her. It was as though she had lost her senses herself. And doesn’t she do what she can for him? Each day while he was there, she sent a message to Creil to ask him if he wanted anything. I have heard it said that she stands weeping outside his door when he does not wish to see her. Oh, but I feel with her too,” she continued vehemently. “It is unbearable to know that someone you love is close by and unreachably distant and … gone …”
“The Queen has a staunch advocate in you, ma mie,” the older woman said shrewdly. “And she does not deserve it.”
A flush flooded into Valentine’s face; she lowered her eyes.
“I know very well that the Queen cannot abide me,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “That is also one of the things that pains me. I understand it — the discord between Bavaria and the Visconti …”
“And more yet…” Queen Blanche nodded significantly. “Much more yet — and that is worse. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, my God!” whispered the Duchess of Orléans; she raised both hands in a gesture of despair. “But I do not want that at all — I cannot help it. I love the King very much … he has always been kind and gentle to me … but surely no one would dare to say …”
She pressed the palms of her hands against her cheeks and turned her head slowly from side to side. “The Queen cannot think that, Madame; she knows there is nothing between the King and me but close friendship …”
“As far as that is concerned, you have certainly never given her cause for complaint,” Blanche agreed. “The King usually sought and found his pleasures far from the palace with wanton women and peasant girls — shabby amusement for a king! But the Queen could not be angry about that — no one is jealous of an hour’s nameless love. Oh no, ma mie, envy of you suits her convenience remarkably well; she wants to believe that she has a reason to blame you.”
Valentine raised herself slightly from the pillows; two bright red marks stained her cheeks.
“So much is being said,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to think. One of the chamberwomen overheard a story they are telling in the streets … They say I let a poisoned apple roll into the nursery while the Dauphin was playing with my little son.”
“Hush — that’s foolishness.” Blanche half-rose from her seat and pushed the young woman back among the pillows. “Lie still now, Valentine. Your face is glowing with fever. Don’t you know that kind of talk is meaningless? Why, your little Louis could have eaten the apple himself.”
She stroked Valentine’s cheek soothingly, but she kept her eyes cast down to conceal her look of alert disquiet. She had heard that strange story. Isabeau did not always do her work with caution. Valentine moved her head back and forth over the pillows as though she were in pain; her lips were dry from thirst. Queen Blanche noticed this and beckoned to one of the young women nearby; she asked her to bring a spiced drink.
“I feel danger everywhere,” whispered Valentine. “Perhaps I am imagining it, perhaps it is not true. God grant it is not true. But I don’t know … my feelings have never deceived me about things like that …”
“Yes, yes,” the older woman nodded, sighing, while she took the goblet from the waiting-woman and helped Valentine to drink. “Try to go to sleep now, ma mie. It wasn’t sensible of me to let you talk so long.”
“I can’t sleep now,” said the Duchess of Orléans. She waved the beaker away after she had taken a few sips. “I should like someone to read to me; that would distract me from my thoughts. I am too tired to read myself; perhaps the Dame de Maucouvent can come sit with me … with the Histories of Troy which I was reading before my confinement.”
“I shall send her.” Blanche rose. The ladies of her suite came up quickly, ready to push away the chair and to pick up the Queen’s long train when she descended from the dais. She bent over Valentine again. “Be brave,” she whispered within the shelter of the falling veil which hid both their faces. Then she left to enter the adjoining room.
A few of Valentine’s ladies stood around the wet nurse who was holding little Charles at her breast. The infant’s wrinkled, red head seemed smaller than the rounded breast from which he suckled. He moved his little hands aimlessly back and forth, and made loud smacking sounds, to the delight of the young women. As Queen Blanche entered the room, they moved aside and curtsied. The wet nurse made an effort to stand up.
“Please sit, la Brune,” Blanche said, with a wave of her hand. The child, who had lost the nipple, turned his head to left and right. He was bound to a small oblong cushion, stiffly wound about with bands of cloth.
“A healthy youngster,” said the wet nurse proudly. “And he suckles well, much better than Monseigneur Louis did at his age.”
Blanche smiled and brushed her forefinger lightly over the baby’s little cheek, as cool and soft as fine silk. She let her eyes travel over the room, which, like the lying-in chamber, was hung with green tapestries. Two beds of state stood there, richly made up with pillows, cushions and counterpane.
“Is the Dame de Maucouvent not here?” she asked one of the young women. “The Duchess would like someone to read to her.” The girl curtsied, colored with shyness and replied in the negative. The Dame de Maucouvent was in the nursery, putting Monseigneur Louis to bed. Queen Blanche frowned and cast a look of quick concern toward the lying-in chamber. She was about to send for the governess when another young woman stepped forward.