In a Dark Wood Wandering (30 page)

While he busied himself with these and similar matters, a delegation from the University was announced. Louis received them in a frame of mind that was anything but humble. The learned doctors, who had expected to find him cast-down and intimidated by Burgundy's actions, quickly realized their mistake. Considerably sobered, they recited their petition, taking care to greatly soften its lofty and peremptory tone.

“The University hopes with all its heart,” said the spokesman in a low voice, with downcast eyes, “hopes with all its heart that peace will prevail in the Kingdom. In short, it desires nothing so ardendy as a reconciliation between Monseigneur and the Duke of Burgundy.”

Louis, who had listened impassively, let them wait before he answered. Finally, looking over their heads, he said coldly, “In my opinion it was not wise of you to express so openly your approval
of the conduct of my cousin of Burgundy. You know that he acts against me. I do not need, surely, to remind you that I am the King's brother, and that in view of the state of his health and the Dauphin's extreme youth, it is I whom you must obey. It seems to me that you would do well to restrict yourselves to intellectual and spiritual concerns; you can safely leave the administration of the government to members of the royal House and the Council.”

He paused and snapped his fingers impatiently. The learned doctors of the Sorbonne remained motionless, staring at the floor. They felt it expedient to assume a chastened demeanor.

“And as for a reconciliation between my lord of Burgundy and me … I was not aware that my cousin and I were at war. Where there is no war, gentlemen, there is nothing to reconcile. You have my permission to withdraw.”

He waited, his face averted, until the delegation had left the room. Then he set out for Isabeau's apartments, to tell her his plans. He intended to return with her to Paris the following Saturday, accompanied by his entourage of allies and vassals amounting to more than a thousand men.

Isabeau, who suffered in warm weather from swollen, painful limbs, sat before the open window while her maid Femmette massaged her feet. Louis had become accustomed over the course of the year to being admitted to the Queen's presence without ceremony; he was struck now by Isabeau's obvious embarrassment, by the haste with which the maid straightened her mistress's garments. While he stood on the threshold of the chamber making gallant littie jokes to put Isabeau at her ease, a thought struck him, swift and blinding as a flash of lightning.

He had treated the Queen with the familiarity, the camaraderie, of a kinsman; with a gallantry that was perhaps not always brotherly or simply friendly, but quite natural between a man and a woman of their age. Louis had noticed with some satisfaction how the Queen had revived in his company, he rejoiced with her over the return of her enjoyment of life and profited from it himself. He had known in advance that their friendship would be blown out of all proportion; given the facts of court life, a love affair between the Queen and him would seem only too credible. He knew that Isabeau was extremely offended by this slander, but he considered her sensible enough to put up with a little annoyance if her self-interest was involved.

However now, on entering the Queen's chambers in Melun, Louis suddenly realized the real reasons for the Queen's contentment as well as for her rages—her blush, her glance, something indefinable about the way she quickly concealed her large swollen feet under the hem of her dress—these told him, more plainly than words. The discovery filled him with horror; he knew only too well what the consequences would be if he wanted to continue in her good graces. Nothing is more dangerous than the disappointment of a woman who thinks that she is in love, especially when her nature is essentially hard and wilful. Burgundy was waiting with Isabeau's brother in the fortified city of Paris; the Queen's inner uncertainty, moreover, was evident. If Orléans did not manage to bind her to him, he would drive her irrevocably into the camp of the enemy; he knew her too well not to fear the ease with which she could leap from one extreme to the other.

He thought of the King his brother, a defenseless invalid; of Valentine, to whom he had been faithful since the death of Manette de Cany. While he moved slowly into the room he stared at Isabeau: at her greedy mouth, her soft hands which would release only re-luctandy anything that came into their grasp. Stifling the great despondent sigh which welled up in him, he bowed deeply before the Queen, whose smiles could no longer be misconstrued.

The next day he sent couriers to the city of Provins with a hundred golden ecus to buy roses for Her Majesty.

When Jean of Burgundy learned that Orléans was approaching the city with an army, he ordered his horse to be saddled, and rode to the palace where the Council was assembled.

“Well, Messeigneurs,” he called contemptuously to Berry and Bourbon who sat among the peers of the realm, “what I predicted is happening. Orléans is on his way to Paris with about 2,000 men; Alençon and Lorraine are with him, and the Queen rides in the procession. Don't say now that he comes in friendship, although his reply to the lords of the University might perhaps have led you to believe that.”

Bourbon rose, with some difficulty, and held up his hands in a placatory gesture.

“No one can tell our nephew of Orléans not to gather men around him, now that you have armed half the city!”

Jean of Burgundy kicked his long riding cloak to one side.

“It is no accident,” he remarked, “that Orléans' banners carry the motto ‘I challenge' in defiance of my own device ‘I hold'. Well, this time he can count on a warm reception. Most quarters are fortified—the burghers have been given weapons and students who can handle pitch and stones as well as Latin are waiting outside the bridge. Yes, the brave citizens intend to defend themselves and me, my lords. They know where their interests lie!”

Bourbon threw up his hands, looking helplessly about him, but Berry who, like an old bird of prey on a branch, surveyed the hall from his elevated chair, said ironically, “But that means civil war.” He declared himself ready to work with both sides to reconcile their differences. This attitude reflected the line he had taken since his illness.

After due deliberations the Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, was sent as the head of a delegation to meet Orléans in the name of the Chancellor and the chairman of Parlement. De Tignonville and Louis had always gotten on well together and Louis, following de Tig-nonville's advice, sent an announcement to Paris that, for the sake of the populace and in order to preserve peace in the Kingdom, he had voluntarily renounced armed conflict, although he had every right to attack. Jean of Burgundy, not wishing to hurt his reputation as the people's benefactor, had no choice but to lay down his arms.

Most of the troops billeted in and around the city were sent home. Once more Isabeau entered Paris, but this time the festive note was struck only by the gay trappings of her procession. The people stood in silence, darkly watching as the entourage wound through the streets. There were gold-brocaded palanquins, plumed horses, a plethora of banners and canopies, but the escort was armed to the teeth and the smiles of the beautiful ladies were joyless.

On the following day the royal kinsmen proceeded to Notre Dame where, before the Queen, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon and a great number of dignitaries, Jean of Burgundy and Louis of Orléans shook hands in a formal show of mutual apology. From a distance it seemed a noble gesture, but those who stood close by were later to recall vividly not the handshake but the look in both men's eyes.

On the twenty-ninth of June, in the year 1406, Charles d'Orléans
married his cousin Isabelle, once Queen of England. The wedding was celebrated in Compiegne; on the same day the King's second son took to wife the small daughter of the Countess of Hainault. Charles, carefully coached by his mother about what he must say and do at the altar and at the great receptions, seemed a good deal more at ease than he had been a few years earlier at Senlis. His father's presence gave him self-confidence; he could see now with his own eyes that his father was indeed the most powerful man in the Kingdom. The boy spoke little, but noticed everything; it was not natural for him to push himself forward.

In a hall where, in the torch and candlelight, the pomp and splendor of the chivalric romances seemed to become reality, Charles met his bride for the first time. She stood amid queens and princesses, under a canopy embroidered with lilies; she was clad in gold, azure and purple. Charles, kneeling before her, dared not raise his eyes higher than the gleaming hem of her dress: she was so much older than he, weighed more than he did, and—most important—was already the widow of a king. He felt he could not possibly be worthy of this high and noble lady. He was—and he knew it better than anyone else—still a boy, and not accomplished in chivalry. He knew little of courtly behavior, and even less about dancing and love-making. The only women he knew were his mother and the ladies of her court and the beautiful queens about whom he read in his favorite books. In short, he was not yet thirteen years old, and deeply conscious of his disadvantages as a bridegroom.

Isabelle greeted him courteously, but her voice lacked warmth and she did not smile. She was sixteen years old and almost a head taller than her intended husband. No one would ever know about the tears she had shed over the humiliation of this marriage to a small boy who was, moreover, her inferior in rank. Isabelle had been long accustomed to controlling her emotions in a royal manner; she was determined to conceal her dismay at any price, in order to avoid pity or ridicule. Pale and impassive, she stood once more in bridal finery among her ladies. Charles d'Orléans she ignored; she felt his embarrassed uncertainty, and this added to her irritation. Standing beside Isabelle, Charles did his best to follow his mother's advice and make up in outward dignity for his insecurity.

He was distracted momentarily when the heralds raised their trumpets to announce the approach of the Duchess of Holland and Hainault with her little daughter Jacoba of Bavaria, the bride of the
King's second son. The opulence displayed by the Princess from the Netherlands and her retinue surpassed anything ever seen at Saint-Pol—to the considerable annoyance of Isabeau, who was jealous of her kinsmen's wealth. This rivalry went on during the entire week of festivities: where France was arrayed in silver, Hainault gleamed with gold; ten Flemish knights escorted the bridal procession to five French; and the largesse distributed among the attending populace at the request of the Bavarian bride was more than royal.

For the first few days Charles enjoyed the crowds, the pageants, tournaments and solemn services; banquet followed upon banquet; the music did not seem to stop even for an instant. But finally the festivities tired the boy, who was accustomed to a life of routine, without much excitement or diversion. After the marriage ceremony, he sat, sleepy and silent, at the great banquet given in honor of the two young couples. Isabelle, seated beside him on the garlanded bench, did not speak; on the other side of the table were the prince and his bride, young children who barely understood what was happening. The adults at the royal table, after the obligatory speeches and toasts, wasted little more attention on the bridal couples. They became involved in lively conversations. It was rare for so illustrious a company to come together; there were many questions to be asked, and much to talk about and, after cups of wine, much to joke about and to argue about.

The Countess of Hainault wished to take her small son-in-law to her castle in Quesnoy. Isabeau did not want her child to leave. The advantages and disadvantages of his departure were discussed in detail by the royal kinsmen.

For Charles, who could scarcely keep his eyes open, the impressions flowed together; the red and gold of his father's clothes, the women's sparkling headdresses, the long purple row of clergy; the light of the setting sun glowing in the stained glass windows in the festive hall, the profusion of splendidly served dishes. He was just dozing off when Isabelle pulled roughly at his arm.

“You cannot fall asleep now,” she whispered sharply; in her indignation she forgot all ceremony. “You will disgrace me. You must sit up straight and behave properly, even though you don't like it. We cannot run away!”

Her words jolted Charles back to reality; he was wide awake instantly from sheer astonishment that the cold, elegant Isabelle
could behave unexpectedly like the ladies of the court in Chateau-Thierry. Hastily he began to apologize, but stopped in confusion when he noticed that her eyes were filled with tears. She did not wipe them away but sat motionless, her lips compressed; she stared fixedly at the head of the table where Isabeau sat, as hostess, between Orléans and Burgundy.

“I'm dreadfully sorry,” said Charles hesitantly. “I did not intend to offend you, Madame.”

Isabelle shrugged scornfully; her eyes were still on her mother.

I shall never forgive her for this, thought Isabelle, once Queen of England and now only Countess d'Angoulême. She has mortified me only to win the favor of Monseigneur d'Orléans. She would just as soon I go away—my eyes and ears are too sharp. I hate her—I hate her—and I will never forget it, not if I live to be a hundred.

So thought Charles' young wife in fury and despair. Her rage was not directed so much at her father-in-law as at her mother, although she knew that Orléans had become the Queen's lover the previous autumn. He had always treated Isabelle with obvious affection. Only he had been willing to take arms to avenge her grief. True, Isabelle was bitterly disappointed in her childhood idol; but she blamed her mother, whom she thought hard and grasping, and who, once she had set her mind on something, refused to budge. With deep horror, Isabelle had witnessed the arrival at Saint-Pol of Odette de Champdivers, a young girl of her own age, born of a noble family, brought to share the King's bed now that Isabeau had found love elsewhere.