She waited for him to go on and he hesitated. He had no desire for such a union. Isabelle might say it would be advantageous and in any case they dared not offend the Duke of Burgundy, but René did not want to see his daughter married to an old man. Margaret should have someone young and beautiful like herself.
He sighed. He must not be foolish. He had been foolish so many times.
‘He suggests that you should give your hand in marriage to his nephew Charles, Count of Nevers.’
‘I see,’ said Margaret.
‘He will be a good husband. He has already proved that to his first wife. It will be good for us to form such a close alliance with the House of Burgundy and the great Duke himself wishes the match to take place. In fact it is he who has proposed it. I think we should rejoice in this. Your marriage has long been a subject which has absorbed your mother and myself. Now here is the solution.’
He was looking at her anxiously, wanting her not to be upset by the proposal. She knew this and she smiled at him reassuringly although she was feeling very uneasy.
She had often thought of marrying, but a middle-aged husband did not fit in with her dreams. She had visualized someone young and handsome, someone who needed her to lean on, someone like her father—clever, charming, pleasant to be with and yet at the same time needing her care. A middle-aged Count, a nephew of great Burgundy, did not fit in with her dreams.
‘It is really a very good match,’ said René.
‘Yes, my lord, I suppose it is.’
‘What an important lady you will be. Countess of Nevers.’
‘I am a Princess already.’
‘A Princess... Yes, your father is a King. It is rather a hollow title but a King nevertheless. They are asking a dowry of fifty thousand livres.’
‘You will never be able to pay that!’ cried Margaret with a hint of relief.
‘Oh, we will think about that when the time comes,’ said René with customary abandon.
So it seemed that Margaret was destined to marry the Count of Nevers.
It was a few days later when there was a visitor at the castle of Tarascon. He came with two manservants only. He had ridden far, he said, and craved a bed for the night.
Such travellers were never turned away and this one proved to be an entertaining gentleman.
He was Guy de Champchevrier, a gentleman from Angers. He entertained them as they sat at the table with his stories of the war in which he had served for some years until he had been captured and taken prisoner. He had been held to ransom by an English soldier, Sir John Fastolf. Did they know of him? They would have heard of the Battle of the Herrings outside Orléans. He had been the hero of that little adventure.
‘His one claim to fame,’ said the visitor. ‘Unless the other was capturing Guy de Champchevrier...’
He had been in England for some time and had been at the Court there. He had conversed with the King of England, who had seemed to take a fancy to him. ‘He liked to hear me talk of France,’ he said.
‘And what manner of man is this Henry of England?’ asked René.
‘A good man...very religious. Handsome in a way, though not like the Plantagenet Kings with their long legs and their yellow hair. He does not bluster or swear, nor does he make sport with the women. I would say that first of all Henry of England is a good man.’
‘They will be seeking a wife for him soon,’ said Isabelle.
‘Oh yes, my lady, negotiations are going afoot. It will be a daughter of the King...or a daughter of the Count of Armagnac. A French marriage. It will be a seal on the peace.’
‘There is nothing like a marriage between two enemies to make a peace,’ said René.
‘Yet Henry the Fifth married Katherine of France and there was nothing but war after,’ Margaret reminded them.
‘That was a shameful marriage,’ said her mother. ‘Our poor crazy King gave away France at that time.’
‘Well, we’re winning it back,’ said Champchevrier, ‘and a marriage will put an end to war. I know that a painter has been sent to the Court of Armagnac for the express purpose of painting the Count’s daughters. There are three of them and they say the King will take the one most to his taste. I know the painter well. A Dutchman named Hans who has a deft hand with the brush. He has had instruction that they shall be painted in simple garments just as he sees them and in no way is Hans to think of making pretty pictures, but to paint exactly what he sees.’
‘Ah, it seems as though the King is serious. And he will take the one he Likes best.’
‘It’s humiliating,’ said Margaret. ‘If I were one of the Count of Armagnac’s daughters I should refuse to be painted.’
‘What, my lady, and deny your chance of being Queen of England?’
‘If it meant submitting to such a test, yes.’
‘My lord, you have a spirited daughter,’ commented Champchevrier. Then he went on to delight them with stories of the Court of England and it was a very agreeable evening.
He left early next morning with many protestations of gratitude. It was a few days later when René discovered that a picture he had painted of Margaret was missing.
It was a charming portrait of the girl in a simple gown with her lovely hair falling about her shoulders and showing to perfection those reddish tints. It was one of René’s favourite paintings.
His anger quickly passed and he became highly amused.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I think that rogue Champchevrier stole the picture of Margaret. He must have been very much impressed by her.’
Guy de Champchevrier was congratulating himself on the manner in which he had achieved what he had set out to do. The King would be pleased with him. It was a delightful picture; and what was more important than the King’s approval would be that of my lord of Suffolk. William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, was, after the Cardinal, the most powerful man in the land; the great enemy of both the Duke and the Cardinal was the Duke of Gloucester and every day the latter was becoming more and more ineffectual.
No, it was the Cardinal who ruled England with Suffolk close on his heels and so it would be for although England had a King and he was now past twenty years of age he was not meant to be a ruler. He was too gentle to his enemies; he hated the sight of bloodshed; he never wanted to harm his enemies; he liked to be with his books and he was constantly engaged in prayer. He showed no interest in the ladies of the Court many of whom would not have hesitated to indulge in a Little frolic with the King and when he had seen some of them, as he thought, immodestly dressed he had turned shuddering away crying for shame.’ His strongest oath was ‘Forsooth and Forsooth’, and ‘By Jove’. He would have made a better priest than a King, thought Champchevrier.
And as he was riding along he suddenly realized that he was being followed. He called to his servants to move faster and they broke into a gallop, but it was not long before they were surrounded.
Champchevrier protested but he was told that he was arrested in the name of the King.
‘The King of France...’ cried Champchevrier.
‘Indeed the King of France. What other King could there be on French territory?’
Champchevrier said: ‘I can explain.’
‘That you are an escaped prisoner. We know that already. It is on that count that you are now under arrest.’
There was nothing Champchevrier could do but submit.
But when he reached the Court he managed to assure his captors that he was engaged on a mission of some secrecy and one which he could only divulge to the King himself.
‘You are mad if you think the King will see you,’ he was told.
‘You will be in trouble if you refuse to take my message to the King. I come from the King of England.’