The Red Rose of Anjou by Jean Plaidy Page B

the balls, the players who were called in, the singing, the dancers, it was one spectacle after another. Yolande threw herself into the arrangements with such enthusiasm that at the end of the day she could scarcely stagger to her bed. Margaret knew this, for one night she had gone to her room to take her one of Theophanie’s possets. ‘I used to give it to the children now and then,’ the nurse said. ‘My lady will know what it is. She’s doing too much, that she is.’
    Theophanie was right because when Margaret went to her grandmother’s room she found her stretched out on her bed, her eyes closed and a look of utter weariness on her face. She was not pleased with Margaret and made that clear. It was not, as she said, because it was unseemly of her to do a servant’s work, it was because she hated her granddaughter to see her exhaustion.
    It was true that Yolande was feeling her age. She could tell herself that she had become too excited, had thrown herself too energetically into the task of entertaining the royal party, but a few years ago these activities would have provided nothing but stimulation.
    Sixty! It was a great age. And Yolande had till now unconsciously believed herself to be immortal.
    How much longer was left? There were things she would like to see before she died. René settled. Well, she had given up hoping for that. She knew René. He was greatly loved but he was somehow ineffectual. She often wondered how she could have given birth to such a son. No, she was a realist. She must not hope for the impossible. What she wanted more than anything was to see France free and she wanted Charles to bring about that happy state. Some strange instinct within her had always known that he could do it. There had been a time when that would have seemed absurd to some, but it never had to her. She had been drawn to the King when as Dauphin he had married her daughter. He had felt similarly attracted to her. It was a strange relationship having in it none of the elements which the King usually felt towards women. It was an abiding friendship, a rare devotion. If she had been younger perhaps she should have been his wife. No, it was better so. She had watched his progress from afar and she had rejoiced, and she felt that she had had some small part in the surprising advance which he had made.
    She was determined to have a private talk with Agnès Sorel because she felt that she could learn a great deal from her, but first she wished to speak to her daughter.
    It was not like Yolande to feel uneasy about her actions. She was almost always certain that she was right and that she had been in this case was proved. The change in Charles had been little short of miraculous and Yolande had a shrewd idea of how it had been brought about.
    She was on the point of sending for her daughter when she remembered that even she did not send for the Queen of France. Instead she requested her daughter to come to her.
    Marie came at once. Like her husband she had the greatest respect for Yolande.
    ‘Dear child, I will forget you are the Queen for a time and remember only that you are my daughter,’ said Yolande. ‘It is so rarely that I have a chance to be with you alone. Tell me, Marie, how are the children?’
    ‘In good health, thank you. Mother.’
    ‘And Louis?’
    The Queen lifted her shoulders. ‘Louis will always go his own way.’
    ‘Something of a trial to his father,’ said Yolande.
    ‘Poor Charles, he has troubles enough without a rebellious Dauphin.’
    ‘It is a pity,’ agreed Marie; but Yolande had not brought Marie here to speak of the Dauphin’s behaviour. She went on: ‘Charles has become a different man. That gives me great pleasure.’
    ‘Oh yes. France is emerging victorious all over the country. We shall soon have driven the English out.’
    Yolande nodded. ‘And how do you feel about...Agnès Sorel.’
    Again that lift of the shoulders. ‘Charles has always had mistresses,’ said the