“And what did Henry say to that?”

“It was an absurd challenge in the first place, and Orléans must have known that it would never have been accepted. Henry’s reply was cold and dignified. There was no example in history, he said, of a crowned king’s fighting a duel with a subject, however high that subject’s rank might be. As for the implication that he had been responsible for Richard’s death, God knew how or by whom his death was brought about, and if the Duke of Orléans implied that it had been brought about by his, Henry’s, order, the answer was that he had lied. I knew that was the end of my fears and that I should not be sent to England. It was a great relief, sister, I can assure you.”

“And Charles of Orléans?”

“I fear it may come to marriage with him. You see, I am of an age to be married…and that is the fate of all princesses.”

She was right. I did not see her for some time, but Odette, who came to see us frequently while our father was sleeping, told me that our sister Isabelle was now betrothed to her cousin, Charles of Orléans.

“He is a gentle boy,” said Odette. “Quite a poet. I pray they will be happy together.”

I prayed too. So did Marie and Michelle; and we listened eagerly to the stories we heard of the fêtes and banquets which took place at Compiègne where Isabelle, in the company of our mother, joined up with the Duke of Orléans and his son.

Isabelle was nearly twenty years old and Charles was younger.

It was five years since she had left England, but I knew, for she had made it very clear to me, that she still mourned Richard.

It was about this time that an event took place which shocked the entire country and changed the course of our lives.

It was a dull November evening. The Duke of Orléans had been with my mother, as he often was. It was eight o’clock and he was returning to his hôtel in a very merry mood, probably thinking that all was going well for him. His brother, the King, was never going to return to complete sanity and his relationship with Queen Isabeau gave him the position for which his ambitious heart had always craved; he was, in all but name, ruler of France.

It was not the sort of night when many people would be out unless it was necessary, and the streets were deserted. He had two squires with him, and one or two servants on foot, carrying torches. Suddenly some twenty armed men sprang upon him. The squires’ horses took fright and bolted, and, brandishing their swords, the armed men fell upon the Duke.

“Do you know that I am the Duke of Orléans?” he is reputed to have demanded.

“Yes,” was the reply. “You are the one we want.”

One of his men attempted to defend him but was immediately struck down. Another was badly wounded and crawled into a nearby shop.

Everyone was talking about the murder of the Duke of Orléans. We had heard so much of our Uncle Orléans. He was the most discussed man in the country. His liaison with my mother, his usurping of his brother’s rights…it had all been common knowledge and everyday gossip; so even the children could not be prevented from hearing of it.

Odette told us a little of what had happened. She was wise and I believe she thought it would be better for us to know something near the truth rather than form our opinions from the random gossip which would undoubtedly be circulating.

“Who killed him?” I asked.

“That is something which has to be discovered,” replied Odette.

“Why did they kill him?” Michelle wanted to know.

Odette surveyed us for a moment and then she said: “A man in the Duke’s position would have many enemies. They will discover why in time.”

“Why was he out in the streets at night?”

“He had been dining with the Queen, they say.”

“He always dines with our mother,” said Michelle.

“Did no one see who did it?” asked Marie. “They must have heard the noise.”

“There were one or two people who peeped out. We heard through them that a cobbler’s wife opened her window and shouted that murder was being committed. She was told sharply to be silent, and shots were fired at windows where lights appeared. A woman said that there were men with masks over their faces and they shouted to all in the houses to keep away from the windows and put out the lights.”

“And did they?” Louis wanted to know.

“They dared do no other…and when the men had gone away and there was silence in the streets, some of them crept out and saw the Duke lying dead on the cobbles. They carried him into the church of Blancs-Manteaux. Now the question is, who did it?”

There was great consternation when the instigator of the crime was discovered. He confessed to it himself. We could not believe it, and what seemed so strange was that he should have confessed.

The murderer of our Uncle Orléans was our father’s cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, known as Jean the Fearless.

He said: “I confess, so that none may be accused of putting the Duke of Orléans to death. It was I and none other who caused the doing of what has been done.”

There was upheaval everywhere.

“This is no ordinary murder,” Odette told us. “The effect of this will be felt throughout the entire country.”

And she was right.

Burgundy, after making his confession, returned to his mansion, the Hôtel d’Artois, and then, taking six of his most trusted men with him, made for the Flanders frontier. The Duke of Bourbon was angry, because, so stunned had everyone been, no one had attempted to arrest him.

The shock had brought my father temporarily out of his madness. It surprised everyone that the moment this happened he seemed to pick up the threads and behave as though he had not been away from his state duties.

He was deeply disturbed by the death of his brother—though many of the servants wondered why, since Orléans had taken over not only his authority but his wife, and had hardly shown himself to be his friend.

We were avid for news. Surely Burgundy would be captured and brought back for trial? He had committed murder and, although he himself had not actually carried it out, it had been done at his command.

The Duke’s widow came to Paris to demand justice. She was very sad, which was surprising, for he had been a neglectful and faithless husband to her.

It was December and bitterly cold, I remember, and one of our main concerns at that moment was keeping warm. The Duke’s widow was the daughter of the Duke of Milan; she was a quiet, peace-loving woman and had been completely subservient to her husband; but when such people’s determination is aroused, it can be surprisingly firm. Thus it was with Valentine Visconti, Duchess of Orléans.

She came to the King, begging him on her knees to avenge her husband’s murderer. He must be brought to trial, she said.

My father assured her that this should be done and said that he regarded what had been done to his brother as though it had been done to himself.

Soon after, however, my father lapsed into insanity again. There was a halfhearted attempt to raise a cry against Burgundy; but people were now remembering the overbearing attitude of the Duke of Orléans, and his extravagances, and he was fast ceasing to be one of those heroes whom the dead become—particularly when they are cut off in the prime of their manhood.

Christmas came and, although people were still talking about the murder, nothing was done to bring Burgundy to justice.

And then…I remember the day well—a cold February day with clouds scudding across the sky and that dreaded wind seeping into all the rooms. There was excitement in the streets. Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, came marching into Paris, with a thousand men at arms. The people came rushing into the streets in spite of the cold. They were shouting. I heard them clearly: “Long live the Duke of Burgundy!”

Crowds followed him to the Hôtel d’Artois, which was strongly fortified. It was soon clear that no attempt would be made to arrest him. The people, for one thing, would not allow it. Moreover, Burgundy had his fighting force with him. The people did not want battle in the streets of Paris.

There was consternation in the Hôtel de St.-Paul when Burgundy did not so much ask as demand an audience with the King.

How could our poor father confront his warlike cousin? He was deep in the delusion that he was made of glass and it was time someone shattered him, which was what he wanted more than anything.

My little brother Louis was frightened. He was twelve years old and he was the Dauphin, so, since the King was not fit to see Burgundy, the duty fell to him.

Odette tried to comfort him. “You will not be alone with him, my love,” she soothed. “The princes and the lords and the counselors…they’ll all be there. They’ll tell you what to say.”

Louis was trembling when he went to face Burgundy.

Of course, there was none of them who could stand up against Jean the Fearless. I had heard it said that everything would be different in France if Burgundy had been King. And that was what he wanted, of course…and Orléans had wanted the same for himself.

Burgundy’s case was stated with eloquent fervor by a monk whom the Duke had chosen to speak for his defense.

Yes, he had had Orleans killed. Orléans had been a criminal and a tyrant whose aim had been to take the throne from the King and his children and keep it for himself and his own. In this the Queen had aided him. The killing of Orléans had been a justifiable act, and it had been undertaken in the interests of the welfare of France.

As soon as Burgundy had entered Paris it had been seen that the people were with him; and when Valentine Visconti had come to Paris to avenge her husband, they had not shown any great sympathy for her; and when the scandals about Orléans and his incestuous relationship with the Queen were remembered…it seemed inevitable that Burgundy, instead of being condemned for what he had done, would be hailed as the country’s savior and a hero.

Burgundy had prepared a paper for my father to sign. In this he had laid down that he, Burgundy, and his heirs should live at peace in the realm in respect of the death of the Duke of Orléans and all that followed concerning it; and that from the King’s successors and all people, no hindrance to the affairs of Burgundy should be offered at this time or that to come.

My father—lucid again—was prevailed upon to sign the document. He did say that, although he himself canceled the penalty, he could not answer for the resentment of others, but it would be for him, Burgundy, to defend himself against revenge from some quarters which might be inevitable.

To this Burgundy graciously replied that all he cared for was the King’s good graces. As far as other men were concerned, he feared nothing.

Nor did he. He was, after all, Jean the Fearless. He had cleverly rid himself of the man most dangerous to his own interests and managed to make of the deed a virtuous act performed for the good of the country.

My mother might have been deeply saddened by the loss of her lover, but she had greater concerns, for if he were regarded as a menace to the country, what of herself, who had worked and lived side by side with him?

When my father signed the letters exonerating Burgundy from blame, it was tantamount to admitting that the murder of Orléans had been a just act committed against a man who was a danger to the state.

The day after the signing, in the late evening, six men and women arrived at the Hôtel de St.-Paul.

My father was in his room, sunk in melancholy, calling out for someone to kill him, so it was no use appealing to him.

We were all in the schoolroom with our governess when Odette came hurrying to us. Guillemote was just behind her. I knew something dramatic was going to happen because Odette was distraught and Guillemote looked frightened.

“The Queen’s men are here,” said Odette. “We must obey…but it will be all right. You must not be afraid. The boys are to be taken to her.”

“Not to our mother!” cried Louis.

“You see…there is unrest in Paris…she wants to take care of you”

“I won’t go,” said Louis.

“My dear,” said Odette quietly, “you are frightening the little ones. No harm will come to you. Your mother wants to look after you. It’s natural.”

“It is not,” insisted Louis.

“You will be all right. Please…Louis…remember little Charles. Look after him. You must take care of your little brothers.”

“I will,” said Louis. “I will look after them, but I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you, Odette.”