In a Dark Wood Wandering (34 page)

Late in the evening a troop of gypsies were seen passing through the outskirts of Paris; they declared that they had leave to spend the night in one of the fields near the ramparts. The following morning no trace of their camp was to be seen anywhere. At midnight the watch at the gate of Saint-Denis was alarmed by loud shouts and the sound of horses' hooves. The Duke of Burgundy, one of the riders said, had to leave the city hastily; Monseigneur did not wish to be interfered with. The watch, who had as yet received no orders to detain Burgundy, opened the gates; the Duke and his followers dashed out at full gallop in the direction of the city of Bapaume on the Flemish border.

While these events were taking place in Paris, Charles d'Orléans and his brother Philippe and half-brother Dunois, were traveling to the castle of Blois. Charles was attended by Maitre Nicolas Garbet and Messire Sauvage de Villers, his chamberlain and advisor, along with horsemen, servants and many members of the ducal household. Charles sat on horseback; his brothers, much against their will, had to ride in a carriage. There was so much to see that the boys almost forgot the mournful reason for their journey. The procession had to stop repeatedly in Orléans' domains so that delegations of the populace could greet the young Duke.

They came from everywhere to meet him; in carts along rural roads, by boat and raft over the Loire. Abundant gifts were offered to him: fat capons and beautiful pheasants, loaves of white bread and casks of country wine. Charles accepted the generous gifts and good wishes in as dignified a manner as possible. From his horse he looked down on the weather-beaten faces, the coarse hands, and the bent, warped bodies of the peasants; the dark, anxious looks of
the city dwellers. The people, staring at their young Duke, saw against the grey-blue winter sky, the slender figure of a boy in black mourning damask. Most people thought he had friendly eyes.

“Alas, Monseigneur,” they dared to say, “be kind to us. Times are hard, and they say it will be a bad winter. We are poor, my lord, we have heavy burdens. Taxes are high, my lord, we beg you to lower them. May God and all the saints bless you, Monseigneur; be generous with us.”

Jean of Burgundy's flight had made a deep impression upon the people of Paris who, long biased toward Burgundy, wanted to see in him a benefactor who had delivered them from imminent danger. They thought that the murder could have only good consequences: maintenance of the armistice with England—wasn't it enough that skirmishes took place repeatedly along the coast?—peace in the city; remission of a part of their taxes. There was great need for this, especially in light of the severe winter, which was one of the coldest in memory.

Meanwhile, Valentine, through her chancellor and advocate, demanded punishment of the murderers and especially of the instigator of the deed, a confession of guilt from Burgundy and various forms of compensation for her and her children. But Jean of Burgundy sat safely in Flanders: the snow and cold formed an almost insuperable barrier between him and his kinsmen in Saint-Pol. In addition, the court knew the mood of the people of Paris, who shouted from the rooftops that they eagerly anticipated the return of Burgundy, the defender of their interests, whom they would greet with enthusiasm.

Berry, Bourbon and the young Anjou consulted with Isabeau who, recovered from her illness and fright, participated again in all discussions. To the amazement of the Dukes she seemed to deplore only formally what had happened; she even forgot more than once that an unwritten law forbade one to speak ill of the dead. It was as though her memory of Orléans and her passion for him had died together—or so her behavior would lead one to believe. In reality, she felt secretly relieved; she often thought with remorse and shame that for the sake of a fleeting pleasure she had allowed herself to lose sight of her real interests. Once more messengers went back and forth regularly between her and Ludwig of Bavaria.

“Do not oppose Burgundy too strongly,” Isabeau's brother wrote
to her. “His situation merits your careful attention. He is Bavaria's ally in the question of Liege. He watches over all our commercial interests with England. Turn toward him, beloved sister, it is to your advantage. Try to hush up this murder business, it won't be much trouble for you because, if I am well informed, Burgundy is the hero of Paris. The opposition is extremely weak; you can handle those old scarecrows, Berry and Bourbon. What constitutes the House of Orléans now? A woman and a few underage, powerless children.”

Isabeau took this advice to heart. She could not openly champion Burgundy. Therefore she took the middle way; Berry and Bourbon, who were perplexed by the affair—how could they accuse and punish a kinsman before the whole world?—lent her a willing ear. Bourbon was old and suffered from rheumatism; he wanted nothing so much as to be left in peace. Berry was concerned about his collection; he was heartily tired of all the meetings, discussions and consideration of consequences.

“Speak to Monseigneur of Burgundy,” Isabeau said during a serious conversation; she sat, broad and heavy beside the hearth fire, in a dress glittering with gold. “Ask him to surrender the villains. Judge them as they should be judged and after that leave our nephew in peace. The
murderers
will be punished then, isn't that right?”

The Dukes agreed; partly from a desire to be rid of all responsibility and partly too from a secret fear of this woman who fixed her sly, unwavering eyes on them. Berry could not help thinking of a strange, revolting creature which someone had once given him for his collection: it had constantly increased in girth, swelling up to a monstrous thickness; it lay unstirring in its nest, devouring greedily whatever was thrown to it—rats, fish, refuse. It was interested only in food and more food. Bemused by memories of that peculiar beast, Berry offered to open negotiations with Jean of Burgundy.

So it was that Berry, accompanied by young Anjou, left for Amiens in the last days of February. Since the roads were in extremely bad condition, it was a slow and arduous journey, but at last Berry, with a great following, reached Amiens where Burgundy waited with his two brothers. The reception left nothing to be desired.

Burgundy appeared at the meeting as it had been arranged that he would, but he refused to acknowledge his guilt in any respect or to ask forgiveness, or even to surrender his hirelings. He pointed
to the emblem that he carried with him: two crossed spears, one dull and the other sharp and pointed.

“It's war or peace as you choose,” he said indifferently. “It's all the same to me. I'm ready.”

At the last, Berry had to be content with the promise that Burgundy would come to Saint-Pol very soon and plead his case before the King.

The citizens of Paris heard this news with great joy; the court and Council, however, received it with mixed feelings. Many thought that the world seemed turned on its head: was Burgundy coming as the accused or the accuser? Bourbon found it all too much for him; he left Paris. Valentine, deeply offended, made one final effort to approach the King. She received a refusal in Isabeau's name: the King was indisposed.

The Duchess's crepe-hung coaches were once again made ready for a long journey. With her children, friends, vassals and servants, Valentine traveled to the castle of Blois. One carriage contained Orléans' archives; the Duchess intended to seek herself the justice denied her in Paris.

In the first week of March, Jean of Burgundy arrived in the city as he had agreed that he would. He rode at the head of eight hundred horsemen and knights, all armed to the teeth but with uncovered heads as a sign of penance. The streets were crowded with jubilant people; here and there could even be heard shouts of “Noel, noel!” to the great displeasure of members of the King's court and household.

Burgundy took up residence in the donjon of the Hotel d'Artois; there he consulted with his advisors and advocates about the best way to present his defense. After due deliberation the spokesman was chosen: Maitre Jean Petit, professor of theology, member of the University, famous for his fierce eloquence. Day and night, for one whole week, he labored in the Hotel d'Artois on the text of his speech: a sharply focused indictment of Orléans under the rubric,
“Radix omnium malorum cupiditas
—cupidity is the root of all evil.” Placed at the professor's disposal was the person of the astrologer Salvia, the indefatigable collaborator who had, in disguise, accompanied Burgundy to Paris, and who was in a position to add a number of details to the known facts; he was, he asserted, better
able than anyone else to furnish evidence for one of the most significant points in Maitre Petit's accusation: that Orléans had endeavored, through sorcery, to kill the King and his children so that he himself could ascend the throne.

On the eighth of March, Jean of Burgundy set out for the palace of Saint-Pol. The ceremony would take place in the great hall: two platforms had been set up—one to the right and one to the left of the seats occupied by the royal family. The hall was completely filled with spectators; they stood packed together around the platforms, to the annoyance of the scribes and clerks of the court, who could barely ply their pens in the crush. Jean of Burgundy pushed his way with difficulty to the royal tribunal; the steely glint of armor could be seen under his ample scarlet overgarments. His lower lip protruded; his eyes were hard and scornful; the expression of contempt on his face belied his courtly salutations. The royal personages, dressed in gold and brocade, sat motionless, coldly attentive, under the canopy.

Maitre Petit rose, coughed several times and looked reassuringly at Jean of Burgundy who sat on a low chair in front of the royal benches. His scarlet garment had fallen open; the mail at his knees and elbows glittered in the light.

“May I,” began Maitre Petit in a calm, level tone, “may I, my lords, remind you how in antiquity Judith took vengeance upon Holofernes for the sake of Judea? How the archangel Michael expelled Lucifer from Heaven as we have been taught? Did Judith and Saint-Michael commit any crimes? No! Holofernes was a tyrant; Lucifer a rebel against God. Monseigneur of Burgundy is a loyal servant of the King; the welfare of France lies closer to his heart than to the heart of anyone else.

“You know, my lords, that Orléans was killed on orders from Monseigneur of Burgundy—what conclusions may we draw from that? That Orléans betrayed the King and did harm to France. I shall prove to you over and over that Orléans fully deserved to be labeled a criminal, and criminals deserve to be done away with. I shall now tell you everything the criminal Orléans did to destroy the King's life in so subtle and perverse a manner that no breath of suspicion would ever touch him.”

Petit then gave a long summary of the methods used by Louis d'Orléans to achieve his purpose; Salvia had supplied complete descriptions of strange incantations, dreadful magic formulae.

“The criminal Orléans,” continued Petit, “wore on his naked body a ring that had lain in the mouth of a hanged man. He did this so that he could impose his will on a woman who refused to let herself be seduced by his promises and sweet words. He wore that charm continuously, even on holy days—during Lent, Easter and Christmas. Ask me not, my lords, how Orléans came to commit these and similar crimes. Remember that he was related by marriage to a nobleman of Lombardy, whom the people there called the foster brother of Satan himself. Do not forget that Orléans' wife was greatly skilled in the black arts.”

Petit paused, waiting until the murmur in the room abated somewhat. Then he resumed, raising his voice:

“With the help of the Lord of Milan, Orléans attempted to penetrate the French throne. He had—right here in this court, among you, my lords—an accomplice, a certain Philippe de Maizieres, a man of thoughtful demeanor but of evil character. Through the pretense of piety he managed to gain entry to the monastery of the Celestines. Have they tried to fool you about Orléans' piety too? He went to the Celestines at night and at oudandish hours, but it was not to pray or hear mass. Together with de Maizieres in a quiet cell, he hatched plots to kill the King and bring France to perdition.”

Then the speaker described in great detail how during a palace feast, the King and his friends had been set on fire by Orléans. A murmur of approval went through the hall; the fine points of the affair had, it was true, been forgotten, but everyone remembered that frightful accident.

Maitre Jean Petit knew how to weave truth and fiction together artfully into a tale of human greed and wickedness, which his audience received in deep silence. Petit very cleverly left until the very last the argument aimed directly at the emotions of members of the University and the clergy. He oudined at length the miseries of the schism, the significance of the University's desire for cession. He informed his audience also that the only reason Orléans obstructed unification and supported the Pope in Avignon was because the latter had promised him the French throne in the future.

“All in all,” concluded Maitre Jean Petit, whose voice showed no sign of hoarseness after nearly four hours of talking, “I think that it follows clearly and irrefutably from the preceding that no blame should be attached to Monseigneur of Burgundy because he had had the aforementioned criminal Orléans put out of the way—on
the contrary, we are greatly in his debt because he rendered an invaluable service to King, land and people. He deserves to be rewarded with affection and marks of honor. The tidings of his loyalty and devotion should be proclaimed throughout the Kingdom and made known abroad through messengers and letters. So it may be in God's name
qui est benedictus in secuia seculorum
—who is blessed forever and ever. Amen! I thank you for your attention. I have finished.”

After these words, Petit knelt again before the royal personages, and asked Burgundy if he agreed with this argument. Burgundy uncovered his head and said, slowly and loudly: