On a windy day in early spring, Valentine rode out of the gates of the Hotel de Behaigne. The people, packed together in the streets, watched silently as the procession filed past them toward the royal palace. The Duchess remained invisible behind the closed curtains of her coach. At the great inner court of Saint-Pol she alighted; Louis d’Orléans greeted her there and escorted her to the Queen’s anterooms. The demoiselle who had carried Valentine’s train now adjusted its heavy folds over her mistress’s arm. Without attendants, the Duchess of Orléans bade her formal farewell to Isabeau.
The Queen sat on a chair beside a made-up ceremonial bed, surrounded by a large number of high-born women: Margaretha of Burgundy, Marguerite de Nevers and the young Duchess of Berry stood in order of rank beside her. In a deep silence Valentine made the three curtsies prescribed by etiquette. She was dressed in heavy mourning; in September Louis, her oldest son, had died from an intestinal ailment. Isabeau released the Duchess of Orléans from her third curtsey more slowly than was customary; only after some minutes did she reluctantly extend her hand to her sister-in-law as a sign that she could rise. There was a brief pause; then Margaretha of Burgundy stepped toward Valentine to render her, for the last time at the court, the homage due to the second lady of France.
“Well, my fair sister.” When the long ceremony had been properly executed, the Queen spoke, with some hauteur. “I hear that you are going to leave us, to visit the lands and territories of Monseigneur d’Orléans.” This was the official reason for Valentine’s departure.
“Yes, Madame,” replied the Duchess of Orléans in a low but steady voice. “I am going to the castle of Asnieres in Beaumont. It must be really lovely there in the spring.”
Isabeau smiled, not without malice, and ran her thick ringed fingers over the arm of her chair. “When do you plan to return?” she asked sweedy. Margaretha of Burgundy looked up quickly and frowned in disapproval.
“Madame, that rests with God alone,” Valentine said calmly.
The Queen looked away; the sentences she had so carefully prepared, the words which, under the cloak of ceremonious friendliness, had been intended to wound, would not leave her lips. She was conscious that she could scarcely hurt that slender woman with the sorrowful eyes who stood before her, and who bore a deeper grief than any insult could inflict. A vague feeling of shame stirred in Isabeau; for one lightning moment, she almost wished she could undo the enmity that she had roused against Valentine, that she could take back the slander.
Curtseying three times once again, Valentine prepared to leave the Queen; the ladies curtsied to her, each in their turn. Among them was the Dame de Cany, Mariette d’Enghien, who had, since her marriage, entered the Queen’s service. Valentine smiled at her, but with a heart filled with pain; she knew that Louis desired the chaste, faithful wife even more fiercely than he had the shy maiden of the past.
In the anteroom the damsel again took up Valentine’s heavy train; the Duchess of Orléans left the palace of Saint-Pol on her husband’s arm. Before she climbed into the coach, she looked up once more at the rows of windows, the galleries and battlements. Somewhere within those grey walls was the King, raving with fever and madness, kept like a ferocious animal behind bolted doors. She had not seen her brother-in-law since the day of the christening, a year and a half ago. She whispered a farewell, her eyes dimmed with tears. Then she seated herself in the carriage; she pushed aside one of the leather curtains so that she could see Louis, who would accompany the procession on horseback part of the way.
Riders and carriages began to move; slowly the heavy vehicles rolled over the inner court; the restless horses strained forward. The people who had gathered outside the palace stared in silence at the handsome painted carriages, the armed horsemen, the standard-bearers and heralds. They caught a glimpse of Valentine’s pale profile; they saw Louis who, clad in gold and black, rode on a spirited horse. Finally, in one of the coaches a small child could be seen, who sat prattling on his nurse’s lap, unaware of the uproar around him — the sole surviving child of Louis and Valentine, their last born, Charles d’Orléans.
The departure of the Duchess of Orléans created less disturbance than had been initially expected. Before long the minds of the royal court, of the city of Paris, of all France, were engrossed with a more important event: the army which was to fight against the Turks marched out of Paris, commanded nominally by Jean de Nevers but in actuality by Enguerrand de Coucy. The army consisted of groups of knights and barons, accompanied by squires, bowmen and foot soldiers. Nobles without retinues and able-bodied men without leaders could also be found among the troops. The largest contingent of followers belonged to the four Princes of the blood, Comte d’Eu the Constable, and the Sires de Coucy and Boucicaut. Most of the nobles, especially those who had never before been to war, had spared no expense on equipage for themselves and their retinues. The ranks brisded with banners and gleamed with caparisons embroidered with gold; silk tents and silver dinnerware were conveyed in processions of wagons; ships came down the Danube laden with victuals and vats of good wine. A train of camp followers brought up the rear.
In October, the young Queen of England — the child Isabelle, who had been married by proxy to Richard II — departed for Calais, where she would meet her husband and embark with him for England. Never had there been a more splendid exodus. All royal personages and nobles of high rank at the court set out for Calais in the bridal train. Richard, having stayed on in France for a few months to settle the details of the marriage contract, had been, with his retinue, the guest of the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy in Saint-Omer. In addition to the Dukes of Rudand and Nottingham, who had come the previous year as envoys, the English King was attended by the Dukes of Lancaster and Gloucester who fiercely opposed peace with France; they delayed the negotiations at every turn.
Burgundy did not view this without concern; the war party in England was becoming more powerful every day — of what benefit would the royal marriage be, and the peace treaty provisionally set until 1426, if the princes and the people still strongly wanted war?
Accompanied by her father — the King was at this time relatively calm, if he could not be called lucid — and by the Dukes of Orléans, Berry and Bourbon, Isabelle reached the coast. On the beach, a city of tents had been set up, glittering with gold, azure and purple, decorated with banners. Four hundred English, and four hundred French knights in armor, bared swords in hand, formed a double hedge between the two tents of the Kings.
At ten o’clock in the morning the Kings went bareheaded to meet each other, Charles attended by Lancaster and Gloucester, Richard by the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy. The King of France, who looked very ill, kept his eyes fixed on the ground before him; the glint of sunlight on the swords and armor of the guard of honor was making him uneasy. After they had dined, Isabelle was delivered to her husband. Surrounded by duchesses and countesses of the two kingdoms, she appeared in the tent, a small eight-year-old girl, pale with excitement. When she placed her hand in her father’s, the King seemed to realize for the first time where he was and why he was there. He cast a timid glance at those present.
“I regret,” he mumbled, “I regret that our daughter is still so young. If she were fully grown, she and our son from England could celebrate this day with greater joy.”
Isabelle looked up uncertainly. The royal kinsmen and their wives stifled smiles. Richard saw the child’s confusion; he found the little girl charming in her state dress covered with golden lilies. He replied quickly, “Father-in-law, we are exceedingly pleased with the age of our new wife. If France and England should ever be united in love as I hope I shall one day be with my wife, no power on earth could ever disturb our peace.”