In a Dark Wood Wandering (33 page)

“Rien ne m'est plus, plus ne m'est rien.” “Nothing has meaning any more.”

—Motto of Valentine of Milan

On the tenth of December, 1407, the Duchess of Orléans returned to Paris after an absence of eleven years. She arrived in a carriage draped in black, drawn by six black horses; beside her sat her youngest son, Jean, and her daughter-in-law, Madame Isabelle, the King's daughter. Valentine's carriage was followed by an almost endless procession of riders: among them, along with officers of the ducal household, were many of Orléans' vassals with their armed soldiers, friends and intimates.

Valentine was solemnly greeted at the city gate by the most exalted nobility; Berry and Bourbon showed the widow the honor which they had all too prudently withheld from their nephew's wife when she had departed the city years earlier. The Duchess of Orléans sat motionless in the carriage. She was white as snow; her staring eyes were vacant. Isabelle clutched her hand, more terrified by her mother-in-law's icy calm than she had been by the outbursts of despair and savage grief to which Valentine had abandoned herself when she had heard the tragic news. Isabelle had not believed it possible that a noble lady would carry on so, screaming and weeping, lying on the ground in torn clothing. Valentine had been like a
madwoman; she had refused food and drink and beat her forehead against the earth, which will never give up its dead.

The small children had been too frightened to come to her; but Isabelle and Charles had kept the Duchess company day and night in the chapel of the castle. Kneeling on either side of the despairing woman, they prayed aloud, not eating, not sleeping, like Valentine herself. Isabelle, who prided herself secretly on having learned to bear suffering while she was still a child, maintained an exemplary attitude like a martyr on a tapestry; even during the long hours of kneeling, she betrayed no sign of weariness. She held the tips of her fingers firmly pressed together, her head erect, her eyes fixed upon the altar.

Charles could not control himself that well; the hoarse sound of his mother's weeping filled him with bottomless horror and compassion. He was tormented also by shame because he could not share her grief—it was true that his father's death had frightened him dreadfully, but he was upset for completely different reasons from his mother. Who had planned this outrageous murder? What was behind all this—was it possible that his father was once more somehow to blame? Charles no longer saw the Duke as a fearless hero without blemish, as he had done in his childhood. No, not since Compiegne. But with the knowledge of his father's faults had come a certain sobriety; he had lost his childish ways forever. He was in a difficult transitional period—he was no longer a boy and not yet a young man. He felt everything passionately, but at the same time he was constricted by the armor of his own clumsiness. He looked with trepidation toward the new, weighty duties which were about to descend upon him.

At the moment when, for the first time, members of his family and servants, bowing deeply, called him Duke of Orléans, a chill seized his heart. He was the head of the family, lord of great and important domains; the dignity of his House rested wholly upon his shoulders.

While his mother, beside herself with misery, lay on the cold flagstones of the chapel, there was chaos and alarm in the castle of Chateau-Thierry; no one knew what to do, no one issued orders. Charles realized that it was up to him to act—but what did they expect of him? Often during the long, mournful vigil he looked timidly at Isabelle. How could she pray so calmly and with such dignity? This strangely mature maiden was his wife—they shared
happiness and sorrow; he wished she could give him some helpful advice. But when he dared to open his mouth, she gave him such a look of warning reproach that he stopped, shamefaced.

After three days Valentine rose from the ground; she sat stony-faced and dressed in black in the great hall and issued commands: messengers were sent to summon Orléans' friends and vassals, while two groups of horsemen and servants were ordered to prepare immediately for a journey—one group to escort the Duchess to Paris, the other to bring Monseigneur Charles and his brothers Philippe and Dunois to the fortified castle of Blois where, during their mother's absence, they would be safe from Orléans' enemies.

Silent, Valentine sat in the carriage during the long journey through the wintry countryside; silent she rode into Paris without a glance at the city which she had left with so much regret eleven years before. Isabelle did look about her: she saw the faces of the people along the way. With curiosity tinged with grim satisfaction, the people of Paris watched Orléans' widow ride slowly through the streets to Saint-Pol.

The Provost de Tignonville and Jean Juvenal des Ursins, the Advocate-Fiscal, waited in the King's anterooms, surrounded by clerks and lawyers; they would tell the Duchess what they had discovered about the murder before she put her affairs in the King's hands. Valentine sat down without a word. Her chancellor and spokesman remained standing behind her. The Dukes of Berry and Bourbon exchanged concerned, even alarmed, glances. At last Berry ended the oppressive silence by asking de Tignonville to speak.

“Madame,” began the Provost in a voice that betrayed his emotion, but he swallowed his expressions of sympathy before this woman petrified with grief. He began slowly and precisely to relate the results of the inquiry.

“We have thoroughly interrogated, Madame, the two eye-witnesses: the wife of a ropemaker and a servant from a manor house. Both testified that the assailant seemed to have come from the place called the House of the Effigy of Our Lady—in fact a fire broke out there directly after the crime, but it was quickly extinguished. We know that the premises in question had been unoccupied for many years; a few months ago, however, the owner rented them to a person who said he was a student at the University. He was described as an extremely thin man with long hair, who wore a brown tabard. And the eye-witness, Jacquette Griffart, has told us that the assault
was led by a thin, long-haired man in a dark cloak. We have learned that a stranger in a red bonnet gave the command to flee. This same man was subsequently seen in the neighborhood of the Hotel d'Ar-tois.”

At these words Valentine raised her head; the Duke of Berry coughed nervously. The Provost calmly met the Duchess's penetrating gaze, and continued.

“Now it is my opinion, Madame, that we can suspend the investigation in the city itself. It would be better, it seems to me, to question the servants and officials of the royal palaces. The King has already granted me full authorization to enter with my officers wherever I see fit. I have just received similar permission from Mes-seigneurs Berry and Bourbon.”

Valentine nodded; she had not spoken a single word since her departure from Chateau-Thierry. Escorted by the Dukes and followed by her chancellor and the lords and ladies of her retinue, she walked to the hall where the King would receive her; she held Jean and Isabelle by the hand. At the end of the hall, under a blue and gold canopy, sat a small, wizened man, his nearly toothless mouth half open. His face was covered by a rash, his raised hands trembled, but around his shoulders lay the ermine of royalty. The sight of him affected Valentine as nothing else had—not Isabelle's thoughtfulness, the Dukes' kindly welcome nor the words of de Tignonville. Her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears. She took a few steps toward him, and sank upon her knees. Jean and Isabelle followed her example.

“Justice, Sire,” said Valentine in a choked voice. “In God's name, justice!”

In response to Valentine's return, the Council assembled the following Saturday in the Hotel de Nesle, the Duke of Berry's house. Most members were already present in the designated hall; the hour of meeting drew near and expired—it could not begin because the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy and young Anjou, who had returned from Italy as King of Sicily, were talking together in a side room.

“Well, nephew, what do you have to tell me that is so important that it cannot possibly be put off?” Berry asked, annoyed at the unexpected delay. “Make haste, the Council sits waiting for you next door.”

Jean of Burgundy seemed extremely restless; he could hardly stand still; he struck his thigh repeatedly with one of his gloves. “What does it mean, Monseigneur,” he burst out suddenly with passion, “that Messire de Tignonville and his officials request permission to search my home and subject my household to interrogation? How is it possible that you and Monseigneur de Bourbon could have lent your approval to such a senseless and insolent undertaking?”

Young Anjou, who stood at the window, quickly raised his narrow, dark face. “Now that we have given de Tignonville permission to search our residences, you cannot refuse without endangering your good name,” he said quietly.

Jean of Burgundy cursed and threw his glove on the floor. He stood motionless for a few seconds, staring straight before him; then he fixed his dark eyes on Berry. “Now then,” he said harshly, “why postpone the execution? I did it. You can't have expected anything else; God knows I never tried to hide my hatred of Orléans. I had him killed by a couple of fellows in my service.”

“Holy Mother of God!” Berry lifted his hands to his head in horror; he gave a low moan.

“Oh God, Monseigneur, how could you have done that?” Anjou turned hastily from the window. “Not even twenty-four hours after you went together with Orléans to communion and swore on the body of Christ to make peace!”

Jean of Burgundy shrugged.

“The Fiend entered into me,” he answered indifferently, with contempt. “A man isn't answerable for his actions when that happens, Monseigneur. You know that.”

“Nephew, nephew,” said Berry, trembling with emotion. “You have burdened yourself with a dreadful sin—that blood cannot be so quickly wiped away!”

“I haven't filthied my hands with it.” Burgundy spoke harshly, holding his hands palm up. “Other enemies of Orléans did that for me. Messire de Courteheuse, the King's valet, lured him into an ambush. The attack was led by Arnaud Guillaume of Guyenne, and the whole plan was devised and worked out by a very clever and useful man whom I can certainly recommend to you for similar things—Messire Ettore Salvia of Milan.”

“Orléans' astrologer?” cried Berry, aghast. “I refuse to believe it!”

“Ah come.” Jean laughed shortly and bent to pick up his glove. “For money everything and everyone is for sale, Monseigneur de Berry.”

“My God,” continued Berry, “why didn't Orléans listen to me and have the criminal from Guyenne hanged when he had him in his power? Where are they now, the villains?”

“In safety,” replied Jean of Burgundy. “It's no use attempting to find them, my lord. They stand under my protection.”

Berry, who had been pacing back and forth, stopped before his nephew again. He looked suddenly very old and tired. “Do you realize what this means?” he asked in a low voice. “You must place yourself at the King's disposal. We must deliberate seriously about this …”

Burgundy cut him off rudely. “Monseigneur, you had better stick to your stuffed animals and your collection of holy relics,” he said. “Don't meddle in my affairs. I would regret it if you too had to learn to your sorrow that one does not stand in Burgundy's way with impunity.”

He spat on the floor before Berry and unceremoniously left the Hotel de Nesle, stamping and swearing. Inwardly, he was far from confident; he cursed himself for his imprudence. Now that the Duchess of Orléans was in Paris, he considered it not unlikely that the King would order his arrest. After a furious ride through the city, he arrived at the Hotel d'Artois and went at once to the tower which he had had built in the inner courtyard, a donjon made from massive blocks of stone, where he could entrench himself against impending danger.

In a room on the highest floor he found the men who only a few weeks before had fled in wild haste from the rue Vieille du Temple; Salvia and Arnaud Guillaume were there as well. Most of them lounged on straw mattresses; three or four were playing a listless game of dice. The enforced stay in the donjon had begun, after two weeks, to bore them thoroughly.

“Men,” said Jean of Burgundy, “pack up—disguise yourselves and get out of the city. The truth is known; I expect very shortly a visit from the Provost and his bailiffs. Seek shelter in my domains, preferably in Flanders, it won't be difficult for you there. But clear out before it gets dark. Talk to Messire Salvia about the how and when; he knows all about escapes and disguises.”

Salvia approached cringing humbly before his new master; the flaps of his red bonnet hung down loosely on either side of his sly, sallow face.

“Where are you sending us, Monseigneur?” he asked tensely.

Burgundy thought for a moment. “Go to the castle of Lens in Artois,” he said at last. “Wait there until you hear from me. No, don't bother me with questions,” he added irritably as the astrologer bowed again. “Save yourself; conjure up the Devil if you must—it's all the same to me.”