In a Dark Wood Wandering (46 page)

He forgot that he sat in his quiet room between his bed and his bookcase, that the snow fell silently and unceasingly behind the small window panes, that his feet, near the charcoal grate, were warm, but his fingers stiff from cold. He saw himself in the dark alley where his father's bloody body lay in the mud; later at the funeral mass he saw Burgundy, dressed in mourning, holding the edge of the pall; he saw his mother kneeling in humble entreaty for justice; he relived the empty ceremony in the cathedral of Chartres.

“… And therefore, my Prince and Sovereign, we implore you—nay, we insist that you give us leave to obtain satisfaction ourselves in every possible way for the murder of our dearly beloved father and lord, may God forgive his sins. We are obliged to do so, we cannot leave it undone with impunity. There is not a man alive, no matter how humble he may be, who will not pursue the murderers of his father to the death. We therefore beseech you to stand by us and help us, as much as it lies in your power, to punish the murderer, liar and traitor. All this I have truly written, so help me God…”

The snow had melted and the tepid spring rain was falling when Charles had carefully signed his name to this long and detailed letter. He told his brothers the contents and asked them if they wished to sign their names beside his. This they did, gathered on a spring afternoon in the chamber they habitually used; the silver letters gleamed dully against the black background on the walls: ‘Rien ne m'est plus, plus ne m'est rien.” Philippe, Count de Vertus, was fourteen years old now, a sprightly youth with charming manners. Durine Charles' absence Philippe had acted ably as lieutenant-general
of Orléans' estates. He patterned himself wholly after his elder brother whose commissions he punctiliously fulfilled. He accepted Charles' decisions without questions; all his life he had heard that Charles was the more thoughtful and sharp-witted of the two. Charles, on his side, found support in Philippe; his brother's carefree disposition, his continually stimulating humor, formed a desirable counterweight to his own retiring, somewhat melancholy nature. But it was his youngest brother, Jean, whom he loved best; Jean, who reminded him strongly of his mother. The nine-year-old was rather small for his age and not particularly robust. He stood somewhat apart from the others—too old for the nursery, too young to take part in business affairs like Philippe, and at the same time not vigorous enough to do as Dunois did and exercise daily in the courtyard of Blois with the soldiers. Louis' bastard son differed from his half-brothers in every respect; he was broad and strongly built, with sandy hair and light eyes. He lacked to a degree the courtliness, the innate dignity which Charles and Philippe possessed. But he lacked also Charles' inclination to melancholy and vacillation and Philippe's easy carelessness.

Dunois consciously followed a well-chosen path: he intended to become a skilled warrior, to lead men in battle, to lay siege to fortresses. He intended when he was older to serve the House of Orléans in this way, so that his half-brothers could devote themselves to matters of state. Already he saw his tenacity rewarded: men praised him for his facility with sword and bow and his proficient horsemanship. Toward Charles and Philippe, Dunois behaved with respect and with a certain reserve: he was only too aware of the difference between his position and theirs. Nevertheless, he showed no trace of humility or envy. Nor was he at all ashamed of his illegitimacy: he was proud to be a son of Orléans; he asked no greater favor of fate than some day to be able to avenge his father's death. Although he did not add his name to the letter, he was present. The others—and he himself too—considered it quite natural that he should enter in all discussions and give his opinions on everything.

“Do you think the King will read your letter now?” Philippe asked after he had carefully written his name, adorning the P with intricate, interwoven lines.

Dunois looked up and asked quietly, “Is Monseigneur de Berry for us or against us this time?”

“I don't know.” Charles siehed and shruffed. “He always defends
his viewpoints so well that I am inclined afterwards to agree with him. He writes me that he considers himself an outpost in the enemy camp. He believes he can do more for us by exercising influence in the Council and with the Dauphin than by siding with us openly if it comes to hostilities again. I cannot deny that there is truth in what he says. The citizens of Paris have always had high regard for Monseigneur de Berry.”

“Is it true that Brittany has deserted us?” Dunois looked worried; he had heard the news from de Braquemont.

“Yes, he wants to remain aloof.” Charles sighed again. “But meanwhile I have paid all his men.”

“If only he does not go over to Burgundy now, the coward!” Dunois banged his clenched fist on the table. But Charles shook his head and said:

“I believe he has enough reason
not
to do that.”

Dunois, who had immediately fallen silent out of courtesy when Charles began to speak, had more to say. He did not want to seem disrespectful, but he could not be quiet.

“Why don't you follow the advice of Messires de Villars and de Braquemont?” he asked. “Why don't you let men come from Lom-bardy and Lorraine? You can get as many as you want.”

“Listen, Dunois, you must leave that to me.” Calmly, Charles began to roll up his parchment. “Don't forget that I gave my word of honor at Bicetre that I would not begin anything until Easter. I—at any rate—intend to keep my word. How can I justifiably complain to the King if I do not obey his wishes? It was to be expected that Burgundy would violate the provisions; thus my case is strengthened.”

Philippe and Dunois stared down at the table in some embarrassment. They were surprised at Charles' tart tone. It was unlike him. Their silence was more eloquent than any objections they could raise. For his part Charles already knew their arguments by heart.

“I do not feel responsible for the actions of Monseigneur d'Armagnac,” he said curtly. It troubled him deeply that he could not sever his ties with his father-in-law. “He refused to take part in the discussions at Bicetre; he insists that the treaty has nothing to do with him. It is bad enough that he drags the name of our party in the gutter—I do not see why I should be held accountable for his behavior. Damn it! I have warned him enough—not a day passes that I do not beg him to curb his troops. I believe he is afraid that
they will desert if he forbids them to loot and rape. And indeed, alas, words of honor, promises, vows … these make little difference to Armagnac—to him they are just meaningless words. By Chrisfs wounds! What a pity that I fare so ill with the man whom I need most.”

He saw his brothers' bowed heads. They sat silently together, three youths dressed in mourning. This is now my family council, Charles thought despondendy. He rose with a sigh. These are the only people I can really trust. And for their sakes I must persevere; they are still minors, they have no protector except me. No one but I will fight for their inheritance—no one will put out a hand to restore to them what has been taken from them.

“Forgive me, Dunois, if I spoke harshly to you. I did not mean to do it, brother. I know very well that nothing lies closer to your heart than the honor of Orléans.”

Charles walked around the table and patted his half-brother's shoulder. “The world is divided unfairly, Dunois. Our cause would have fared far better if you had stood in my shoes and I in yours.”

On the twenty-fifth of July, 1411, the Herald of Orléans appeared before the gate of the Hotel d'Artois; when he was admitted to Burgundy's presence he read the following challenge in a loud voice:

“ We, Charles, Duke of Orléans and Valois, Count of Blois and Beaumont, Lord of Coucy; Philippe, Count of Vertus and Jean, Count of Angoulême, to you, Jean, who call yourself Duke of Burgundy. Because of the treacherous and premeditated murder committed by hired assassins upon the person of our greatly revered and beloved lord and father, Monseigneur Louis, Duke of Orléans, despite your vows and expressions of friendship, and because of the further betrayal and crimes committed by you against the respect and honor of our sovereign Prince and King, and against us, we do advise you that henceforward from this hour we shall strive against you with all our power in every possible way. May God be our witness.' ”

“You see, Saint-Pol, they put the noose around their necks themselves,” said Burgundy. He sat in the room where he received his
friends and indmates. Depicted on the heavy Flemish tapestries covering the walls were the birth of Mary, the Annunciation, the sorrowing mother under the cross. Burgundy stood straddle-legged, staring at the splendor of line and color; his hands were clasped behind his back and his underlip, as usual, protruded pensively. He was speaking to the man whom he considered his most valuable collaborator: Waleran, Count of Saint-Pol, descended from the royal family of Luxembourg, Burgundy's right arm, commander of armies and, recently, a captain of the garrison of the city of Paris. The Count of Saint-Pol was a stocky man with a broad, florid face; despite his weight, he moved with the buoyant elasticity of a man who exercises regularly. Stories circulated about the remarkable strength of his hands. He stood with his hands at his sides, listening to Burgundy, his face impassive.

“You accepted the challenge immediately, Monseigneur?” he asked.

Jean de Burgundy laughed curtly and drew a rolled sheet from his sleeve; silently he offered it to Saint-Pol.

“ ‘We, Jean, Duke of Burgundy, Count of Artois, etc., etc.,' “ the Luxembourger read half-aloud; he held the parchment at arm's length and squinted slightly—he was myopic—” ‘to you, Charles, who call yourself Duke of Orléans; to Philippe, etc, etc, who have sent us your challenge, etc., etc., know then that in order to put an end to the crimes, conspiracies, sorcery, etc., of the late Louis, your father, and thereby to protect our Sovereign Lord the King, we caused the said Louis to be killed, etc. Since you and your brothers intend manifestly to tread the same pernicious and ruinous path as your late father, we take upon ourselves the task, pleasing to God, of bringing you to your senses and chastising you duly as the liars, rebels and braggarts which you are. In witness thereof we sign these papers with our own seal, and so forth.' Precisely.” Saint-Pol rolled up the parchment and returned it to Burgundy. “Precisely. This time you are really in earnest, my lord?”

“This time I am really serious, so help me God,” replied Burgundy.

It was clear to Saint-Pol that the Duke was delighted with the situation; it was to his advantage that Orléans had begun by sending him a challenge.

“I am ready,” Burgundy continued, always with that secret laughter in his voice and that air of enjoying someone else's discomfiture.
“So far as I am concerned, Orléans could not have chosen a better moment. Our troops stand ready. Paris is prepared for a siege. Let them come—I shall receive them warmly.”

“Hm.” Saint-Pol ran his palm over his lips and chin. Burgundy looked at him with a frown. “Don't you agree with me, Saint-Pol? Out with your objections if you have any.”

“Hm,” repeated the Luxembourger; he sniffed a few times and gazed pensively at the scenes on the tapestries before him. “Are we really so sure of Paris, Monseigneur? Believe me, this matter has been carefully planned. Orléans' challenge indicates that he feels pretty confident.”

“Do you doubt my influence over the Parisians?” Burgundy demanded irritably. “Wait and see whom they will choose if it comes to that.”

Saint-Pol thrust his hands under his broad girdle and put his head back as though he saw something fascinating on the sculptured beams of the ceiling.

“Things are no longer as they were. In fact I would almost say that you have squandered the most auspicious moment when you could have sent Orléans packing. In the course of the last two years you have made too many enemies. The University too is no longer well disposed toward you. You have become too powerful, and—with that power—a little too careless. It is no use to strike me,” he continued impassively, as Burgundy whirled quickly toward him with upraised hand. “What I say is the truth. You would do better to acknowledge it.”

Burgundy lowered his fist, strode to the other end of the room and sat down. Saint-Pol did not move. He seemed to be studying the tapestries with close attention.

“What are you driving at, Saint-Pol?” Jean spoke brusquely; he tapped the table top angrily with his fingers. “What are you trying to say? Must I bring more troops into Paris, must I imprison or exile Orléans' people, must I buy the support of certain men—and if I must—who are they? Do not come to me now with vague hints. Facts, Saint-Pol, facts, if you please. But tell me only what I do not know myself.”

“Monseigneur.” Saint-Pol leaned toward Burgundy with both hands on the table. “So far as I can tell, two hostile groups are facing each other in the city: on the one hand the officers, magistrates and merchants—in short, everyone who used to enjoy power and a certain
respect; on the other, the people from Saint-Jacques' quarter—the butchers, flayers and tanners with their partisans and all the adventurers and vagrants on the other bank of the Seine. Now my advice to you is this: you must take advantage of this mutual hostility. If you support the Saint-Jacquards, you don't have to fear that the officers and merchants will bring the Armagnacs inside. The butchers and tanners and all the idle rabble will preserve you from any possible traitors in their own camp. Enlist the butchers' guild on your side, my lord, and you have a vigilant army always at your command.”

Burgundy frowned, and thrust forward his lower lip in thought. His father's words kept darting through his mind: keep the people as your friend, the people can make and break rulers; never underrate the power of the mob; seek your strength in public favor, my son.