In a Dark Wood Wandering (31 page)

“Why are you crying?” asked Charles, tormented by guilt. “I promise I will not fall asleep again. I'm not sleepy any more anyway. Shall I tell you about Chateau-Thierry?”

Isabelle nodded; anything was better than a yawning bridegroom and a weeping bride. There were enough jokes circulating about them already. Charles, delighted that he could evince his good will, spoke quickly.

“I have magnificent books, Madame. Do you know the history of Perceval of Gaul? My tutor, Maitre Garbet, says no one in the Kingdom has a finer library than Orléans. Maitre Garbet has written a poem in Latin in honor of you and me on the flyleaf of my Sallustius. I can recite it to you, if you like.” Charles thought a
moment—yes, he still remembered it. Flushed with excitement, he spoke the stately lines:

“Anglorurn regno pro morte privata mariti

Formoso moribus Ludovicifilio ducis

Aurelimensis Karolo Compendii pulchra

Francorum nupsit Isabellas filia regis

Anno millesimo julii sexto

Vicesima nona. Faveant superi precor ipsis …”

He stopped when Isabelle sighed impatiently. Remembering Valentine's wise advice, Charles tried another tack. “My mother has beautifully trained falcons, Madame. Four white ones are named after the four sons of Haimon. Are you fond of hunting? Did you bring your horse with you? In Chateau-Thierry, we have—”

“I am weeping for the King my father,” Isabelle burst out fiercely. “Because he is ill and cannot defend himself. Because of what they do to him. Do you know what happened?”

She wheeled sharply to face Charles and looked him straight in the eye. The youth was taken aback at her vehemence; he glanced quickly around him, but the guests were engrossed in wine and rich food; no one was paying any attention to the children. The Dauphin and little Jacoba of Bavaria were throwing food at each other and squealing with laughter, overjoyed because no one stopped them. Charles and Isabelle sat among their shrieking companions as though they were in an enchanted circle of solitude.

“My father was so filthy, so filthy,” continued Isabelle with a shudder. “He got sick from it; he sat covered with boils and sores. If they speak to him kindly he lets them help him, but they treated him with violence. Men with blackened faces forced their way into his room—he thought the Devil had come to fetch him. I heard him scream. Alas, God, my poor father …”

“Yes, Madame,” Charles said, with downcast eyes. Do all women speak of sorrow then? he thought, astonished. When he had come to Compiegne and seen the streamers fluttering in the wind, he had been inclined to think his mother was wrong; the world was not a vale of tears and grief. Now he was not so sure.

“He cannot defend himself,” Isabelle went on in a rapid whisper. “He must look on while they rob and deceive him, my mother and your father.”

With some satisfaction she saw the boy's face turn pale with
anger and fear. She read his ignorance in his eyes. So Madame Isabelle found suitable employment on her first day of marriage. She bent toward her husband and whispered for a long time into his ear; why should she feel sorry for a stupid boy and spare him suffering? No one had taken pity on her, no one had spared her suffering! Alas, it was a dreary tale she told Charles; he did not understand half of what she whispered to him.

“It is not true,” he said at last, close to tears, but he knew it was true. Things his mother had said flashed through his mind; things which had been incomprehensible to him.

“Not true?” Isabelle laughed. “Everyone knows it, everyone talks about how shameful it is. On Ascension Day—I was there myself—a priest from the University preached before the court in Saint-Pol; in front of everyone he rebuked my mother and my lord of Orléans for their adultery. My mother did not dare to punish the man—do you understand what that means? Do you think he would be alive now if he had lied?”

Charles, upset by the picture she called up, pressed his fists to his eyes with a childish awkward gesture. But Madame Isabelle considered that the account was not yet balanced.

“A few weeks ago they were together in the castle of Saint-Germain,” she went on, in that sibilant whisper which now filled Charles with dread. “Do you know they nearly died? Surely God wanted to punish them. A storm broke while they were out riding—the horses bolted; if someone had not thrown himself in front of the horses to stop them, they would have run into the Seine, carriage and all. Is that not a sign?”

Charles could stand it no longer; he wanted to leap up and run from the table, escape—he did not know where—but not to Chateau-Thierry, not to his mother. He did not dare see her again, he thought, overcome by feelings of boundless misery. He wished that all this were not true, that he could wake up instantly as though from a nightmare, in his own bed with the green curtains or over an open book in the quiet reading room. How could he ever return there now that he knew that the tranquillity of his own small world was only illusory? He would never be alone again; everywhere and always Isabelle would be with him, because she was his wife forever. And wherever Isabelle was, there would always be the dreadful thing which she had just told him. He leapt up from the place of honor before Isabelle could stop him and ran from the table without a
backward look; while he shoved his way through the crowd of nobles, pages and spectators, he heard behind him the loud, caustic voice of the Duke of Burgundy:

“Look, look, my lord of Angoulême feels somewhat faint! Yes, one celebrates one's nuptials only once …” and something else which he did not understand. The walls rang with their laughter.

Charles did not know how long he had stayed hidden in the darkened room when suddenly he heard his father's voice close by. Even in the gloom the boy could see the glimmer of the jewels stitched onto his tunic.

“What is it, my son? Did you drink a little too much?” Louis bent over the boy. “Why have you crept in here? It is not polite to leave your bride. Do you still feel too sick to go back to the table?”

“No, my lord,” Charles said in a stifled voice. He could hardly stand the warm touch of his father's hand.

“Have you quarrelled with your wife already?” Orléans laughed softly and pressed the boy's head against his breast. The golden ornaments cut into Charles' forehead; he clenched his teeth and tensed his body. “Come along now,” Louis said persuasively, “before people start to talk. The Queen is becoming uneasy. What is the matter with you, lad? Are you bewitched? Come along now and amuse your wife. Does she know what sort of gift you have brought for her?”

Silently, Charles allowed himself to be led back to the festive hall, to his place of honor beside Madame Isabelle, who sat staring at her plate. She wanted to make up for what she had done, but she knew it was too late. She had not anticipated the effect her words would have on her twelve-year-old husband. In a few hours the quiet, childish youth had changed: his head drooped slightly and his eyes seemed suddenly disturbingly wise. But it was impossible for Isabelle to express her contrition or sympathy; she was not capable of such selflessness. She contented herself with behaving in a less unfriendly manner during the remainder of the feast. While dessert was being served, Charles mentioned with hesitation the gift which he had brought her from Chateau-Thierry: a puppy dog, the pick of a choice litter.

“He knows all sorts of tricks,” Charles said, revived somewhat by thinking of the dog. “He is snow white and his name is Doucet.”

No one knew—Charles least of all—why Madame Isabelle burst into tears at that precise moment; a storm of violent, unquenchable
weeping which cast a pall over the evening's pleasure, and astonished the royal guests. Neither words of comfort nor reprimands, neither music nor fools' play could calm her. Everyone but Isabelle had forgotten that King Richard had given her a white dog as a bridal gift, a white greyhound which once had been a trusted friend, but which had later—Isabelle still cringed at the memory—licked Lancaster's hand.

What was for many the high point of all the ceremonies occurred at the end of a week of celebration: in the presence of the Council, the clergy, nobles and lawyers, Louis of Orléans and Jean of Burgundy swore on the Cross and the Holy Gospels to be friends and brothers-in-arms from that moment on, to protect, assist and defend each other at all times and, so united, to strive against the English who, despite all armistice agreements, had taken possession of Calais, Brest and the other major ports.

Those who knew him well were amazed that Burgundy would enter into such an agreement, but most of the witnesses of the ceremony were delighted that the feud between the two kinsmen seemed to have ended.

After the ceremony, the Queen and Council returned to Paris; Burgundy departed with his entourage for Flanders and Louis d'Or-leans brought his son and Isabelle to Chateau-Thierry where Valentine received her daughter-in-law festively. At first Isabelle had thought that it would be extremely difficult to live in amity with a woman she had been taught from her childhood to despise. But her hatred of her own mother made her feel close to the Duchess of Orléans—were they not both the victims of Isabeau's lust for power?

The girl noticed with admiration Valentine's dignified and forbearing attitude toward her husband; but after Louis departed, Isabelle, purely by accident, saw the collapse of Valentine's defenses against her pent-up misery. For one whole night the two women wept in each other's arms, each for herself and for the other. Both profited from this: Valentine was able to articulate her grief; Isabelle was no longer surly.

While this went on Charles slept unaware in his childhood room; within the green curtains of his familiar bed the fears which he had brought home with him from Compiegne faded into half-forgotten dreams. As he had done before, he listened attentively to the lessons
taught by Maitre Garbet, and as he had done before, he immersed himself with pleasure in his books while Philippe, Jean and Dunois, strong, agile and cheerful children playing around him, treated their older brother with a mixture of respect and good-natured derision.

“If you had a tonsure now, brother,” Philippe called from the door during Charles' lesson, “I could not tell you from a monk. And you are married, too.”

Yes, surely he was married. At first he often forgot to show Isabelle the chivalrous deference that was her due at table or when they were entering or leaving church or chapel. But gradually he came to look upon her as a member of the family and to regard her also as his mother's trusted friend and relative. Isabelle lived and slept near Valentine; together they sat embroidering or reading and together they went hunting or tended the flowers in the castle garden.

The Duchess of Orléans thought it was time that her oldest son learned something about his father's affairs. She talked to him about everything that had happened in the past, explained the governance of the varied domains both inside and outside France, and gave him all the news which she received regularly from Paris. Thanks to the discussions in Compiégne, Charles understood something of the political situation; he knew now too that his father with an army of 6,000 men was besieging the city of Bourg, which was occupied by English invaders, and that the Duke of Burgundy was mustering men and weapons at Saint-Omer so that he could advance upon Calais. Although Charles did not share his younger brothers' fierce fascination with military exploits, he followed the development of these events attentively.

He was disappointed to learn that his father had been forced after three months to lift the siege of Bourg; the city seemed impregnable and a plague had broken out among Orléans' men. But he was completely astonished by the news that the King and Council, who from the outset had given Burgundy every conceivable encouragement, had suddenly declared that the preparations at Saint-Omer must cease, and had gone so far as to send threats and warning letters to Burgundy's vassals to stop them from participation. Valentine smiled oddly when she heard these tidings; she and Isabelle exchanged an understanding glance. Charles was indignant; he was certain that Burgundy would be deeply offended by these actions. “Monseigneur of Burgundy sits in Saint-Omer with a whole army,”
he said. “Much time and money have been spent to gather men and weapons. That order from the King and Council is senseless; what will happen in the city of Calais now?”

“Hush, boy,” Valentine replied with unusual tartness. “It is not proper for you to blame the King. I think there is a good reason for these measures; we shall learn soon enough why the Duke of Burgundy was prevented from laying siege to Calais.”

The residents of Chateau-Thierry were to learn these reasons; but not until much later, and in deeply tragic circumstances.

On the twenty-second of November in the year 1407, Louis of Orléans and Jean of Burgundy met once more in the house of the Duke of Berry, the Hotel de Nesle. This banquet concluded a ceremonial rapprochement between the two cousins. Since the aborted expedition against the English the previous year, they had quarrelled incessantly in private, in the presence of kinsmen, at Council meetings, in writing and through the words of couriers. Burgundy charged Louis with having prompted the King to forbid his laying siege to Calais out of sheer jealousy because his own enterprise had come to nothing. Orléans denied this with the same stubborn conviction. Their behavior caused the kinsmen to fear a fresh outbreak of hostilities.

Berry allowed himself to be persuaded to act as peacemaker; with reluctance he took leave of Bicetre and his beloved collection for a while and set out for the Hotel de Nesle, where his young wife usually resided. After long discussions, many admonitions and much advice, Berry finally brought his nephews to the point of declaring themselves ready to conclude a new treaty of peace and friendship, and this time forever. Once more they stood together before the altar, swore an oath and took communion. Berry, not a little relieved to have acquitted himself well of a painful charge, invited Orléans and Burgundy to a banquet; they drank from the same goblet and sat side by side in the seat of honor, Burgundy wearing Orléans' emblems and Orléans in the colors of Burgundy. At the end of the feast Louis invited his cousin to be his guest the following Sunday, and Jean accepted with courtesy.