“Everything must be sacrificed for the glory of France!” was no empty, echoing cry in a desert; it was the pleading and persistent cry of a devoted wife and a patriotic Queen. Into the ears of the King of France and into the ears of everybody who was even in the smallest degree likely to be able to do anything at all for her beloved country, the admirable Queen Marie poured her complaint. She stood for the expulsion of the English invaders of her native soil, and for the composure of the feuds and jealousies of the French Sovereigns and nobles. “God and reason,” she went on to exclaim, “are on my side; rouse you like men and fight!” Surely he is a coward or a simpleton in whose heart a woman’s voice and a woman’s taunts fail to enkindle enthusiasm. All France flocked to do homage to the “little Queen of Bourges,” to kiss her hand, and to lay their swords at the feet of the King. From Loches to Chinon and Tours, right down the river valley of the Rhone, and throughout Dauphiné, that voice went echoing. The new campaign was hers, hers the credit, hers the glory, for great deeds were done that shamed men’s apathy.
Alas! her enthusiasm found faint response in Charles. A skit of the time denounced him thus: “Nouvelle du Roy nullement; ne que se il fust à Romme oue Jherusalemme!”—“The King is of no use whatever; he might as well be at Rome or at Jerusalem!” Still, the Queen did not fail for loyal soldiers nor for consummate captains; first and foremost was her beloved brother René, now King of Sicily-Anjou.
But now enemies more terrible than the hated English, more insidious than the squabbling Princes, stalked the broad plains of suffering France—the three fell sisters, famine, flood, and fever. The price of foodstuffs rose portentously; wheat, butter, oil, and cheese, were a hundred times dearer than their usual cost. Men grovelled like pigs for offal, and women and children laid themselves down to die just where they were. Queen Marie’s tender heart grieved sorely for her people’s misery. She sold what jewellery she had left, and pawned her available property to minister to the prevailing want. And then a new terror seized the land—the rivers were in flood, and what stocks and crops the famine had left were washed away, and beggary stared the nation in the face. The Queen instituted pilgrimages of women to celebrated shrines, and she herself put on the deepest mourning and spent her time in prayer. All seemed to be of no avail to stay the afflicting hand of Heaven, for no sooner were the waters abated than the scourge of fever was let loose on the devoted land of France, and corpses were flung out of echoing doorways and left for chance burial, or to be the prey of scavaging dogs. Had the Day of Judgment dawned? men asked each other, whilst they promptly covered their mouths against the infection. Delirium would have seized all the remnants of the population had not the intrepid Queen ridden up and down, risking her own precious life and appealing to one and all to be courageous, bear all, and hope for better days.
Marie had happy days and proud to cancel days of gloom and penury. Toulouse was en fête; it was the month of May, 1435, best loved of all the children of Mary; and she made a stately entry into that ancient, loyal city with the King by her side. Oddly enough, she was mounted on pillion behind her young son, the Dauphin Louis, then a lad of twelve. Her vesture was superb—a blue brocaded satin robe, bordered heavily with royal ermine. She was décolletée, her bosom covered with jewels and chains of gold. Upon her head, rising out of a regal diadem of flashing gems, she wore a chaperon, a hood of fine white cambric shaped like a crescent, raised at the points, and lightly covered with a thin white gauze veil. Her hair was bunched over her ears, and carried in a golden jewelled net. Her feet were shod in white, gold-embroidered kid, and she wore, after her mother’s fashion, jewelled white kid gloves. Four Chamberlains, also mounted, held a state canopy of cloth of gold and white plumes over their royal mistress and her white charger.
A bright day dawned for Queen Marie. It was the Festival of the Forerunner, June 24, 1436, and the ancient and loyal city of Tours was decked for the royal nuptials of the Dauphin. The King and Queen of France with the good Queen Yolande and their suite awaited at the Château du Plessis-lès-Tours the arrival of the young bridal couple. Louis had gone to meet his bride at Saumur; he was but a boy of thirteen, small, ill-looking, and not too clever. Princess Margaret, daughter of James I. of Scotland, with a following of Scottish nobles and Maids of Honour, a tall, sprightly girl of twelve, vastly enjoyed her voyage, and clapped her hands delightedly at the flowers and fruits of Anjou. She embraced her little husband-to-be, and took him by the hand as they stepped on board the state barge in waiting at the river quay.
Among the bevy of fair maidens who welcomed the royal bride was Jehanne de Laval, who was attached to the suite of the Dauphiness. The grand hall of the castle and state-rooms were hung with tapestry and lengths of cloth of gold. There the Sovereigns were seated on a canopied daïs, wearing their crowns and robes of state. The little Princess entered the Presence somewhat nervously, still holding the hand of the young Dauphin, and chaperoned by her Scottish Mistress of the Robes. Making a graceful obeisance, Margaret advanced with childlike confidence, and Queen Marie, rising, went to greet her young daughter-in-law; she embraced her tenderly, and introduced her to the King and to Queen Yolande. The courtiers pressed forward to kiss the Princess’s hand, and many costly gifts were laid at her feet. Wearied at length with the ceremonies, Queen Marie conducted her interesting visitor to her own apartments, where dinner was served.
The bells of all the churches in Tours set up merry janglings at dawn next day, and the cathedral was crowded by a goodly company of wedding guests. The King and the two Queens were seated on their thrones. Charles wore a black velvet doublet and hose, his berretta was of red, and he bore round his neck a decoration sent from the King of Scotland. The Queen was arrayed in crimson velvet and ermine. She wore an abbreviated hennin with a fine lace fall; her hair was embroidered with gold. The young Prince was in blue and silver, his bride in bridal white. Everybody bore wedding favours—Scottish heather and French lilies entwined with white satin ribbons. The Archbishop of Reims performed the ceremony, accompanied by a number of Bishops and dignified clergy.
Margaret at once became a great favourite with the King and Queen. Her Northern vigour and sweet manners were good credentials; but, unhappily, the young bridegroom from the first took a dislike to his consort. She was never happy when he was present, and her furtive eyes searched in vain for tokens of affection and camaraderie. “There was no one,” wrote Philippe de Commines a few years later, “in all the world whom she dreaded more than the Dauphin.” Her life was indeed a sad one; neglected by her husband, misunderstood and disesteemed at Court, the poor young Dauphiness passed her time mostly with Queen Marie and in futile regrets for her dear, dear home in Scotland.