King René d'Anjou and His Seven Queens

by Edgcumbe Staley

I.

The Queen was in labour, and shivering groups of robust citizens and sturdy peasants were gathered in front of the royal castle of Zaragoza, eagerly awaiting the signal of a happy deliverance. The fervent wish of King Juan for a male heir was shared by his subjects, for his brother Martino, next in succession, was in delicate health; moreover, he had only one son, and he was a cripple. The succession to the throne was a source of anxiety to all good Aragonese. To be sure, there was a baby Princess already in the royal nursery, but whether her mother had been a lawful wedded wife, or no more than a barragana of the Sovereign, few knew outside the charmed circle of the Court. In the opinion of the men and women of the triple kingdom generally, this mattered little, for natural children were looked upon as strengthening the family; hijos de ganancia they were called. The Salic Law, however, barred the female heirs of the royal house, so little Juanita was of no importance.

YOLANDA D’ARRAGONA

(KING RENÉ’S MOTHER)

From Coloured Glass Window, Le Mans Cathedral

To face page 30

Within the courtyard, about the royal apartments, and all through the precincts of the Presence, minstrels and poets thronged, as well as Ministers and officials; Queen Yolanda was the Queen of Troubadours, and the courtiers she loved best to have about her were merry maids and men—graduates of the “Gaya Ciencia.” The livelong night they had danced and postured, they had piped and sung. Each poet of the hilarious company had in turn taken up his recitative, printed by staccato notes, to be repeated in chorus and in step, until the fandangoes and boleros of the South were turned into the boisterous whirling jotas of Aragon. The first dawn of day brought into play lutes and harps, restrung, retuned cellos and hurdy-gurdies, and vihuelas de peñola, guitars with metal wires and struck with strong herons’ plumes, and so awoke the phlegmatic guardians of the castle. Sweet and harmonious Provençal voices blended with soft notes of melodious singers from Languedoc to the running accompaniment of the weird Basque music of the mountaineers.

The Queen, upon her massive curtained bed of state, heard the refrains and felt the vibration of the lilting measures, and smiled pleasantly as she laid awake expectantly. At length the great tenor bell up in the chapel turret gave out the hour of six. The last note seemed to hang, and many a devout listener bent a reverent knee and bared his head, whilst the women-folk uttered fervent Aves. One single stroke of the metal clapper was followed, alas! immediately by another. “Two for a Princess!” resounded from lusty throats, but there was a tone of disappointment in the cry. The glaring morning sun, however, made no mistake, impartial in his love of sex. Dancing upon the phosphorescent ripples of the rolling Mediterranean, he shot golden beams within the royal chamber, and crimson flushed the cheeks of the royal mother and her child. It was the red-hot sun of Spain, and the day was red, too—the feast of San Marco, April 25, 1380.

Christened within eight hours of birth—the custom in Aragon—and “Yolanda” named, the little Princess’s advent was speeded right away to distant Barrois, her mother’s home, by the Queen’s Chamberlain, trusty Cavalier Hugues de Pulligny. He had been summoned at once to the accouchement couch, and given to hold and identify the babe. With him he took the Queen’s mothering scarf—the token of a happy birth—and hied post-haste to lay it and his news at the feet of the anxious Duke and Duchess at Bar-le-Duc. His reward was a patent of nobility and 500 good golden livres.

Yolanda, Queen-consort of Juan I., King of the triple kingdom of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia—Violante de Bar—was the elder of the two daughters of Robert I., Duke of Bar, and his wife, Marie of France, daughter of King John II., “the Good.” Their Court was one of the chief resorts of the Troubadours and Jongleurs, who looked to the Duke’s famous mother, Princess Iolande of Flanders, as their queen and patroness. Bar, or Barrois, first gained royal honours when the Emperor Otto III., in 958, created his son and successor, Frederic, Count of Bar and Prince of the Holy Roman Empire. The succession was handed down for hundreds of years, and in 1321 Count Henry IV. married the Flemish Princess. Her jewels and her trousseau were the talk of half a century. Her gaiety, her erudition, and her skill in handicraft, were remarkable; her Court the most splendid in Europe.

Bar was, so to speak, the golden hub of the great humming wheel of Franco-Flemish arts and crafts. Bordered by Luxembourg, Lorraine, Champagne, and Burgundy, the fountain-heads of rich and generous vintages, she took toll of all, and the Barroisiens were the healthiest, wealthiest, and the merriest folk in the French borderland.

The influence of the bewitching and accomplished Princess-Countess Iolande was paramount, and she was ever adding to her fame by making royal progresses throughout her husband’s domains. Wherever she went, music and the fine arts, and every artistic cult and useful craft, prospered amazingly. Borne in a great swaying chariot, drawn by four strong white Flemish horses, the magnificence of her cortège led on one occasion, if not on more, nearly to her undoing. Travelling in the summer-time of the year 1361 to Clermont en Argonne, one of the ducal castles, she was, when not very far away from storied Laon, beset by an armed company of outlaws, who, however, treated her with charming courtesy. They caused the Princess and her ladies to descend from their equipage and step it with them as vis-à-vis under the greenwood tree. Then, not very gallantly, to be sure, they stripped their fair partners of their ornaments and despoiled the princely treasure, causing the Princess to sign a pardon for their onslaught. The adventure, however, did not end here, for Iolande was a match for any man, and on the spot she enrolled her highwaymen as recruits for Count Henry’s army!

The almost fairy Princess-Countess survived her consort many years, and lived to see the county of Bar raised to a dukedom, and to dance upon her knee a little namesake granddaughter, Violante de Bar. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than the floral games of the troubadours, and one of these fêtes galants was enacted in 1363 at the Ducal Castle of Val de Cassel, where Duchess Marie had just brought into the world this very baby girl. The poets chose their laureate—one Eustache Deschamps-Morel, and Princess Iolande crowned him with bays. The ballade he composed for those auspicious revels is still extant—Du Métier Profitable—wherein he maintains that only two careers are open to happy mortals.

“Ces deux ont partout l’avantage,

L’un en junglant, l’autre à corner.”

The sights and sounds, then, which first greeted the pretty child were merry and tuneful. She was reared on troubadour fare, on troubadour lore. Violante had three brothers, Édouard, Jehan, and Louis, and a younger sister Bonne, married to Nicholas, Comte de Ligny, but alas! buried with her first-born before the high-altar of St. Étienne at Bar-le-Duc.

When Violante was in her seventeenth year, there came a royal traveller, disguised as a troubadour of Languedoc, to the Court of Love at Bar-le-Duc. His quest was for a bride. He was of ancient lineage; his forbears came from Ria, in a southern upland valley of the Eastern Pyrenees, and had ruled the land ’twixt barren mountain and wild seacoast for no end of years—Juan I., King of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia. He had just buried Mahaud d’Armagnac, the young mother of his little daughter Juanita, and there was a gaping wound in his amorous heart which yearned for healing. The royal Benedict looked for a Venus with a dash of Diana and a measure of Minerva, and chroniclers say he had drawn blank the Courts of Spain and Southern France. Moreover, they tell a pretty tale of him which must now again be told.

After wanderings manifold, the royal knight-errant found himself within the pageant-ground of Bar-le-Duc and at a “Court of Love.” There he broke shield and lance at tilt, and Prince Cupid pierced his heart. Mingling in the merry throng, King Juan found himself partnered by the most beauteous damsel his eyes had ever seen. She was the Princess Violante, daughter of the Duke. Before she realized what her gay vis-à-vis had said and done, he vanished. But upon her maiden finger glittered a royal signet-ring. Back to Zaragoza sped the gay troubadour, and in a trice a noble embassy was on its way to the Barrois Court to claim the hand of the fascinating Princess and to exchange the heavy ring of State for the lighter jewelled hoop of espousal.

The entry of Queen Yolanda (Violante) into Zaragoza was a resplendent function, and, despite their habitual taciturnity, the citizens hailed the lovely consort of their King with heartiest acclamations. In her train came minstrels and glee-maidens from Champagne and Burgundy, from Provence and the Valley of the Rhine and Languedoc. Such merry folk were unknown in phlegmatic Aragon. To be sure, they had their poets, their dances and their songs, but they were the semi-serious pastimes of the sturdy Basque mountaineers.

The Académie des Jeux Floraux of Toulouse,—newly founded in 1323, and better known there as the Collège du Gaye Sçavoir,—sent an imposing company of minstrels to greet the new Queen of Aragon at Narbonne—the city of romance and song—and to offer her a spectacular serenade beneath the balconies of the Archiepiscopal Palace, where she and her suite were accommodated. With them they bore golden flowers and silver with which Royal Violante should crown the laureates, and to Her Majesty they offered a great amaranth of gold, together with the diploma of a Mainteneuse. Acclaimed “Queen of Troubadours,” her motley train swept through the cities of the coast and crossed the Spanish frontier. One and all offered her their true allegiance—to live and dance and sing and die for Yolanda d’Arragona.

If the Aragonese were noted for stubbornness,—and of them was curtly said: “The men of Aragon will drive nails in their heads rather than use hammers,”—they have a sound reputation for chivalry. King Iago II. established this characteristic in an edict in 1327. “We will,” ran the royal rescript, “that every man, whether armed or not, who shall be in company with a lady, pass safely and unmolested unless he be guilty of murder.” Courting an alegra señorita, whether of Aragon, Catalonia, or Valencia, was the duty of every lad, albeit the fair one jokingly called it “pelando la pava” (plucking the turkey). The royal romance was a charming example for all and sundry, and many an amorous French troubadour had his wings cut by Prince Cupid and never went home again at all, and many a glee-maiden, to boot, plucked a “turkey” of Aragon!

King Juan threw himself unreservedly into the arms of his merry Minerva-Venus Queen: no doubt she “plucked” him thoroughly! A “Court of Love” was established at Zaragoza. All day long they danced, and all night through they sang, and at all times played their floral games, whilst dour señors scowled and proud dueñas grimaced. The revels of the “Gaya Ciencia” shocked their susceptibilities, until a crisis was reached in 1340, when the King sent embassies to all the French Courts to enlist the services of their best troubadours. A solemn session of the Cortes, wherein resided the actual power of the State,—the King was King only by their pleasure,—was called, “Podemos mas que vos”—“We are quite as good as you, or even better”—that was the moving spirit of Aragon. A resolution was passed demanding the suppression of “the feast of folly,” as the gay doings at Court were called, and the immediate expulsion of the foreign minstrels and their hilarious company.

Here was a fix for the easy-going King,—dubbed by many “l’Indolente,” the Indolent,—between the devil and the deep sea. The Queen point-blank refused to say good-bye to her devotés, and her wiles prevailed to retain many a merry lover at her Court, for the stoutest will of man yields to the witchery of beauty in every rank of life!

If Queen Yolanda was a “gay woman,” as historians have called her,—and no class of men are anything like so mendacious,—she was not the “fast” woman some of them have maliciously styled her. No, she was a loving spouse and a devoted mother. Perhaps, could she have chosen, she would have brought forth a boy; but, still, every mother loves her child regardless of sex or other considerations. She addressed herself zealously to the rearing of the little princess. No sour-visaged hidalgo and no censorious citizen was allowed the entrée to the nursery. Minstrels rejoiced at the nativity, and minstrels shared the rocking of the cradle. She was baptized at the old mosque-like cathedral of Sa Zeo, or San Salvador,—where the Kings her forbears were all anointed and crowned,—with the courtly ceremonial of Holy Church, whilst outside the people sang their well-loved ditties. Quite the favourite was “Nocte Buena”—

“La Vergin se fui’ in lavar

Sui manos blancas al rio;

El Sol sequedó parado,

La Mar perdio su ruido,” etc.

“To the rivulet the Virgin sped,

Her fair white hands to wash;

The wandering Sun stood still o’erhead,

The Sea cast up no splash,” etc.

and many, many other verses. Zaragoza was famous for the splendour of her mystery plays, as many quaint entries in the archives of the archdiocese prove: “Seven sueldos for making up the heads of the ass and the ox for the stable at Bethlehem; six sueldos for wigs for the prophets; ten sueldos for gloves for the angels.”

The little Princess was not the only occupant of the royal nursery in Zaragoza; King Juan’s child Juanita greeted her baby companion with glee, but the Queen was not too well pleased that she should be allowed to remain there. Indeed, an arrangement was come to whereby Mahaud’s child was delivered over to a governante, and Princess Yolanda was queen of all she saw. Very carefully her training was taken in hand, with due respect to the peccadilloes of the Court; but her mother saw to it that her environment should be youthful, bright, and intelligent. Hardly before the child was out of leading-strings her future was under serious consideration, for the King had no son nor the promise of one by his consort, and Queen Yolanda determined to do all that lay in her power to circumvent the obnoxious clauses of the Salic Law.

The Princess grew up handsome like her father and bewitching like her mother. She was the pet of the palace and the pride of the people, and everybody prophesied great things for her and Aragon. The most important question was, naturally, betrothal and marriage. The King, easy-going in everything, left this delicate matter to his ambitious, clever Queen, and very soon half the crowns in posse in Europe were laid at her daughter’s feet.

The survey of eligible lads of royal birth was far and wide, but, with the tactful instinct of a ruling native, Queen Yolanda made a very happy choice. At Toulouse, three years before the birth of her little daughter, had been born a royal Prince, the eldest son of her uncle Louis of France, her mother’s brother, titular King of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem, Duke of Anjou, and Count of Provence. The boy’s mother was Countess Marie de Châtillon, the wealthy heiress of the ducal line of Blois-Bretagne. He was the husband-to-be of Princess Yolanda d’Arragona, Louis d’Anjou. King Juan cordially approved the selection of the young Prince: French royal marriages were popular in Aragon. An imposing embassy was despatched at once to Angers, with an invitation for the boy to visit the Court of Zaragoza under the charge of his aunt, Queen Yolanda. The King and Queen made the most they could of their interesting little visitor. With a view to contingencies, Louis was introduced at the session of the Cortes, and the King gave splendid entertainments to the ricoshombres and other members of the Estates in honour of his future son-in-law, the royal fiancé of the soi-disante heiress to the throne.

This notable visit came to an abrupt and unexpected end upon receipt of the news of the sudden death of King-Duke Louis at the Castle of Bisclin, in La Pouille, on September 20, 1389. His young son, now Louis II., was called home at once. Met at the Languedoc frontier by a kingly escort, the young Sovereign passed on to Arles, and thence to Avignon, where, on October 25, 1389, he was solemnly crowned in the basilica of Nôtre Dame des Dons by Pope Clement VII. A stately progress was made to the Court of Charles VI. in Paris, and the youthful King was presented to imperious Queen Isabeau,—his aunt by marriage,—the proud daughter of Stephen II., Duke of Bavaria, and Princess Thadée Visconti of Milan.

The chief object of this visit was the formal betrothal of the young King and the Princess Yolanda d’Arragona—a ceremony deemed too important for celebration either at Angers or at Aix, in the King’s domains. A notable function, in the grand metropolitan cathedral of Nôtre Dame, was held on, of all days the most suitable, the Feast of the Three Holy Kings, January 6, 1390, whereat assisted all the Princes and Princesses of the House of France, with Prince Ferdinand of Castile and Aragon as proxy for the bride-Princess, and an imposing embassy from King Juan and Queen Yolanda.

SOLEMN ENTRY OF A QUEEN INTO THE CAPITAL OF HER SPOUSE, FIFTEENTH CENTURY

See Froissart’s Chronicles and “L’Album Historique de France”

To face page 40

Back to Angers went, with his mother, Queen-Duchess Marie, the youthful bridegroom-elect, to be safeguarded and trained for his brilliant career. Everybody in Anjou and Provence loved their Duchess. She had won all hearts. Those were prosperous, happy days—the days of the gracious Regent’s kindly government.

Early in 1393 King Juan met with a serious accident whilst hunting in the mountains around Tacca, the ancient capital of Aragon. He was, by the way, a famous huntsman, and had gained by his keenness in pursuit of game the title of “El Cazador”—“The Sportsman.” Mauled by a wolf he had wounded in the chase, he never recovered from the loss of blood and the poison of those unclean fangs. Feeling his end approaching, and anxious about the future of his darling child, he proposed to Queen Marie and the Anjou-Provence Court of Regency that the nuptials of Louis and Yolanda should be celebrated without delay. This he did because he had determined to evade the restrictions of the Salic Law by proclaiming Louis and Yolanda heir and heiress together of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia.

Queen Yolanda most heartily seconded her consort’s project,—indeed, she it was who had first suggested that line of action,—and when, on May 15, the King breathed his last in the castle of his fathers in Zaragoza, she claimed the succession for her son-in-law and daughter. On the day following the King’s death she took the young Princess,—barely thirteen years of age,—accompanied by the whole Court and a crowd of sympathetic citizens, into the basilica of Sa Zeo, and placed her upon the magnificent and historic silver throne of the Kings of Aragon. Bending her knees before her, she kissed the child’s hand in homage to her sovereignty, and caused heralds to proclaim her “Yolanda Reina d’Arragona.” It was a bold step, but quite in accord with the ruling instinct of the royal house; moreover, it commanded the suffrages of very many members of the Cortes.

The Estates of the three realms met in plenary session, and before the deliberations were opened the little “Queen” was presented by her mother, who demanded a unanimous vote in favour of Louis and Yolanda. There were, however, other claimants for the crown, and the Cortes decided to offer it to Dom Martino, the late King’s only surviving brother, a next heir-male of the blood, whose consort was Queen Maria of Sicily. The new King treated his widowed sister-in-law and his little niece with the utmost consideration. He prevailed upon Queen Yolanda to retain the royal apartments at the castle, for he did not propose to reside there. He only stayed at Zaragoza for his coronation, and returned at once to Palermo.

The whole energy of the widowed Queen was now devoted to the education of her only child. Her widowhood weighed lightly upon her; her buoyant, happy nature soon shook off her grief and mourning. She was now perfectly free to cultivate her tastes. If the “little Queen” was not to be Queen of Aragon, she should succeed herself as “Queen of Hearts and Troubadours.” Accordingly she moved her residence to Barcelona, the sunny and the gay, and there at once set up a “Court of Love.” Catalonia was times out of mind the rival of Provence in romance and minstrelsy; her marts had quite as many merry troubadours as serious merchants. The corridas de toros—bullfights—of Barcelona were the most brilliant in Spain, whilst the people were as independent and as unconventional as they were cultured and industrious. The two Queens very soon became expert aficionadas of the royal sport.

Queen Yolanda never for a moment lost sight of the future of her daughter, and preparations for her marriage to Louis d’Anjou occupied very much of her busy, merry, useful life. Queens’ trousseaux were something more than nine days’ wonders; besides, the ambition of the mother-Queen knew no bounds to her daughter’s horizon. She must go forth at least as richly clothed and dowered as any of her predecessors. Goldsmiths, glass-blowers, cabinet-makers, saddlers, silk-weavers, and potters,—none more accomplished and famous in Europe than the artificers of Barcelona and Valencia,—were set to work to fill the immense walnut marriage-chests of the bride-to-be. Her jewels were superb,—no richer gold was known than the red gold of Aragon,—the royal gems were unique, of Moorish origin, uncut. Years passed quickly along, and Princess Yolanda kept her eighteenth birthday with her mother in Barcelona. She was on the threshold of a new life.