In a Dark Wood Wandering (23 page)

“Welcome, Sire, welcome, Sire,” repeated Charles; he no longer knew whether he was dreaming or awake.

The day dawned with great hubbub and activity; from the kitchens where work had gone on all night, rose the odor of venison and fresh bread; servants in festive livery lit fires in all the halls. When clarion calls and the sound of trampling hooves were heard, Charles was not able to go and look out the window; he stood waiting in a corner of the great hall with the Dame de Maucouvent and his nurse Jeanne la Brune, both of whom wore new, fur-trimmed mantles in honor of this occasion. His father entered, followed by a train of knights and pages; he was leading a fat man with a red, smiling face to the seat of honor. For the first time in his life Charles saw his mother curtsey three times, very deeply; he held his breath. On the lake of the castle of Montils lived a black swan; in her rustling
black dress, his mother curtsied the way the swan alighted with outspread wings on the surface of the water. After that he had to come himself. He did his best, kneeling before the fat man who chuckled looking down at him, and saying, “Welcome, Sire.” It was over in a moment. The Dame de Maucouvent brought him back to the nursery.

After the meal he was sent for again. The Emperor's face was still redder than it had been in the morning; he hung back in the seat of honor and roared with incessant laughter. Even when Charles' father rose to speak, he went on sniggering and chortling.

“Charles, my son,” said the Duke of Orléans, “it has pleased our lord, the Emperor, to promise you as your wife, his niece Elisabeth, the heiress of Bohemia.”

“Ja, ja, ja!” cried Wenceslaus in a hoarse voice, throwing himself back and forth in his chair, “Bravo, bravo!”

“Thank the Emperor,” Charles' father went on calmly, but the child could see from the fixed look in his eye that he was displeased.

“A fine lad, a beautiful child!” Wenceslaus screamed with laughter. “He must drink; wine, wine!” He flourished his goblet so that wine spattered over the table. Charles took a few hasty swallows from the beaker which his father held before him. He knew now that the Emperor Wenceslaus was dead drunk and he was afraid of drunkards. His mother signalled to him with a reassuring nod of the head that he could leave.

“Come, come, she is getting a handsome dowry!” roared the Emperor, pounding the pommel of his dagger on the edge of the table. “A hundred thousand livres—squeeze that in your fingers!” He spoke French like a street vagrant, with coarse sounds and words, richly interspersed with incomprehensible Polish exclamations and expletives.

“And you,” Wenceslaus went on, pointing at the Duke, “as for you, Orléans, I will do what I promised—that is why I came here. Pm really no braggart!” He lunged forward. “Pll call my bishops together—and I'll say to them, by thunder, this is the way it must be! Use your influence in favor of the unity of the Church—the unity of the Church. Keep your eyes on France, I shall say. And I shall not neglect to stress what you have requested of me, Orléans!”

The Duke of Orléans interrupted him quickly with expressions of thanks. Wenceslaus was too drunk to notice the interruption; tears of affection had sprung to his eyes, he hit Louis unceasingly
hard on the shoulder. “It's good to talk with you, Orléans,” he said, while he tottered up from his chair. “Better than with that brother of yours, the King there in Reims. When he is sensible—I am boozy. When I am sober—he is crazy! But with you I can talk, Orléans, at any time of the day.”

Louis bit his lips; the dinner guests were nudging each other and laughing behind their hands. It was common knowledge that anyone who wanted to confer with Wenceslaus had to approach the Emperor before breakfast; that was the only time that he was sober enough to know what he was doing. Valentine, who found her guest's behavior extremely painful, and who, moreover, gathered from Louis' demeanor that the Emperor was busily spreading confidential information abroad, nodded to the musicians and minstrels who were waiting their turn at the back of the hall. Wenceslaus, however, paid no attention to music or poetry.

“Did you see the hateful looks that fat Bavarian was giving me during the conference? Well, did you?” he shouted loudly. “That brother of hers—Ludwig—he was around there too! What are these Wittelsbachers plotting? Do they want to pull tricks on me? What do you think, Orléans?”

Louis sighed impatiently, and shrugged. He knew that Isabeau had gone to Reims filled with suspicion, fearing that an alliance with France would save Wenceslaus from the fate which the Electors planned for him: to depose him in the near future. Although Louis considered the Emperor to be a drunken swine, he wanted to see him retain his throne. If Ruprecht, a Wittelsbacher, were to become Emperor, French interests—or at least French interests as Orléans perceived them—would undoubtedly suffer. A Wittelsbacher would under all circumstances follow Burgundy's advice. In Reims Louis had in passing overheard Ludwig of Bavaria say to Isabeau, “Don't worry, sister. The Drunkard has come here against the Electors' will. He has given himself the death blow.”

Louis hoped that the Wittelsbachers were mistaken. In any case he had forged strong ties between Wenceslaus and himself by bringing about Charles' betrothal to the Emperor's little niece. That child could one day inherit the thrones of Bohemia, Poland and Hungary. That which had been denied to Louis might perhaps await his son: a Crown.

Orléans had gone to great trouble to get Wenceslaus to come to France. The Emperor, who was virtually the only foreign prince
who had not refused to become involved in Church affairs, was pleasantly impressed by Orléans' continual, overflowing hospitality. He preferred Louis' conversation to the endless dull monologues of Maitre Gerson of the University; he certainly preferred Louis' company to that of the mad Charles, the hostile Isabeau, the cold, haughty Burgundy. He said aye and amen to Louis at the meeting in Reims and promised him his support. Although Louis expected few results from Wenceslaus's cooperation, he felt he had, at any rate, accomplished one thing: he had prevented the Emperor from becoming a tool in Burgundy's hands.

The relationship between uncle and nephew had entered a dangerous phase. Until now they had thrashed out their disagreements under the surface; no matter how they despised each other's actions and ideas, they had never become open enemies. At court they behaved toward each other with painful care, giving each other the prescribed marks of honor, and discussing things in a calm, courtly way while their blood boiled. Only occasionally in Council meetings they lost their self-control and attacked each other without mercy. Now, however, the rift between Orléans and Burgundy had deepened—it had become an abyss which no courtesy or appearance of good will could bridge.

In the course of the year France had received a royal guest: Henry Bolingbroke, Lancaster's son, whom Richard II had banished from England. In Paris the fine details of the matter were not known, but the man who had chosen to spend his exile in France was received hospitably and with respect. The King of England reproached his father-in-law for his lack of tact in honoring a rebel who had acted against the execution of the warmonger Gloucester, his kinsman. France was making itself ridiculous by sheltering an enemy. These arguments might have convinced the French court to shun Bolingbroke if reports of the death of the old Duke of Lancaster had not reached Paris at almost the same time, followed nearly immediately by the news that King Richard had seized most of his property to discourage Lancaster's heir from returning to England.

This information roused great indignation in the French court. Richard's conduct was condemned as a breach of chivalry. Influenced by Orléans, who had sworn fellowship with Bolingbroke, many courtiers stood up openly for the exile in one of those bursts of knightly magnanimity which so often militated against their own interests. Saint-Pol donned mourning for the deceased Lancaster
and masses were read for him. Then the Duke of Berry entertained the Englishman in his castle in Bicetre. Louis often spent a few days at Bicetre while Henry was there in the hope of deciphering his enigmatic character and winning him as a friend and, perhaps, as a future ally. However, during his last visit to Bicetre, the scales had fallen from Louis' eyes. He was later to think back on those days with bitterness: once, after the hunting parties and banquets, which were exceptionally lavish—Berry inexhaustibly invented new amusements for his guests—Lancaster had unexpectedly betrayed himself over a perfunctory game of chess. He talked about Richard and his government in a way which, to the attentive listener, reflected nothing but hatred and jealousy. Louis kept his eyes fixed on the chess pieces while Lancaster, cold and self-possessed, spoke with apparent casualness—but, with a sensitivity sharpened by experience, Orléans perceived the passion which the other tried so carefully to conceal.

“The King of France is crazy,” said Henry of Lancaster harshly, “and that is bad. But there are those in England who consider Richard a more dangerous lunatic. I have never seen anyone risk his crown so recklessly as my worthy cousin. He doesn't seem to understand the simplest elements of reigning—he himself destroys the pillars which support his throne. Only a madman would act like this. Since he became king, he has done nothing but antagonize the people whom he needs the most: the Church, Parliament, the nobility. He puts them off, he kicks them into a corner—he can do that very well. Now he accuses seventeen vassals of high treason, seizes their estates and possessions—and then he sells them back to the former owners because he needs money. Tell me if that makes any sense—apart from the fact that he is conducting a foreign policy which no one can understand.”

“I see,” said Louis in a courteous tone. But disappointment and distrust crept over him.

Burgundy too came to Bicetre a few times with a large retinue to visit the English guest. Orléans was sure now that his uncle was following a carefully prepared plan; he was seeking highly-placed allies who had reason, or thought they had reason, to turn against France. Despite all outward appearances, the atmosphere among the royal kinsmen was oppressive; the King, who had been in his right senses only a few weeks before, suffered from violent headaches and renewed fits of melancholy; the Queen was uneasy because there was no news from England—the last report she had was that many
of Isabelle's retinue had been dismissed and were on the point of returning home. To her brother-in-law, Isabeau was extremely cool—she knew that he supported Wenceslaus, and in Church matters followed a policy opposed to that of Bavaria and Burgundy. Her brother Ludwig had called her attention to the role played by Orléans; she understood fully for the first time that he was an adversary who should not be underrated. She had considered trying to win him over by pledges and promises, but she rejected the notion. She had—for the moment—strong support in Burgundy. A rapprochement with Orléans could alienate that powerful ally.

In Normandy the summer days went by slowly. The King sat in a cool dark chamber or rode, surrounded by nobles, on a gentle horse, through the vast forests. Louis d'Orléans alternated between his brother's retinue and the Queen's. The members of the House of Burgundy spent the summer in their own domains.

As a gift from the King, Isabeau had received an estate in Saint-Ouen with farmhouses, fields, meadows and livestock; there she spent the beautiful days with her children and her retinue. She wanted to recreate the rustic atmosphere of one of her father's Bavarian mountain retreats, smelling of hay and pigs, where geese fluttered about the courtyard, and where she had run barefoot through the mud with milkmaids and stableboys. She had no desire, of course, to give herself up to these simple pleasures again, although she scattered barley and grain for the fowl with her own hand, and, attended by a procession of court ladies, gathered currants in the kitchen gardens.

It was during one of these visits to the Hotel de la Bergerie, as Isabeau called her estate, that Louis wandered away from the company and strolled into the forest. From there, among the tall bushes, under the trees, he could see the lords and ladies amusing themselves on the lawn which sparkled in the sunlight. At some distance from the others, one woman stood alone, staring at the edge of the forest. Louis wished that he, like the magician in the old ballad, knew a charm which could bring Mariette de Cany to him to remain always, without a backward glance. Concealed behind the foliage, he watched her. What did she possess that kept his desire for her alive, undiminished, even after long years of fruitless waiting?

Behind the fence which separated the lawn from the field, stood
grimy, half-naked children, staring at the glittering spectacle; the children were called again and again by the peasants in the fields, who had been told that the high-born company did not wish to be stared at. Louis laughed softly, glancing at the orchard where Isabeau, dressed in silk and gold, sat eating fruit. The court had come to enjoy country life; they had no interest in country people. He turned away and walked slowly through the long, dark green grass in the shadow of the trees. He could not help but think of two conversations he had had in the past year: one with Boucicaut, newly returned from Turkish captivity; the other with his old friend Philippe de Maizieres while he lay on his deathbed. Both had asked him the same questions, reproached him in the same way, asking him whether he sought power to serve his own interests or to look after the welfare of the people.

To Boucicaut Louis had given an evasive answer, but he had been speechless before the old man in his death agony. It was the contest with Burgundy that weighed upon him more than anything else; more than once in the course of the last two years he had even considered seizing the Crown himself so that he could put Burgundy in checkmate. The King's attacks of madness were growing longer and more violent; no one believed now that he could recover.