In a Dark Wood Wandering (48 page)

“I repeat,” Charles said slowly, “I repeat that I will not tolerate pillage in Saint-Denis. I give you my word of honor, Messires. My troops will occupy the city, but we shall buy our provisions from you.”

Armagnac burst into loud, malicious laughter, shoved the listening nobles to one side and hurried to the entrance of the tent, his spurs jingling and his sword striking against his thigh.

“With your leave, son-in-law,” he remarked, “you will not go far as a captain if you wage war continually in this way. Buy! Pay! Come, d'Albret. Don't they say that insanity is hereditary in the House of Valois?”

Armagnac and his companions went off through the tents to the soldiers' camp. Charles remained standing silently until the sound of heavy footsteps had died away. He waited until he had completely regained his self-control. The citizens of Saint-Denis still knelt before him. They did not feel as certain as they would have liked. They believed that young Orléans had acted in good faith, but they were not pleased by the Gascon's attitude: he who behaved so brashly toward his superiors in rank would probably pay little attention to a direct command.

“Return to the city and tell them that during the course of the day I shall enter the gates with an army of occupation,” said Charles in a more severe tone. “Prepare the Abbot of Saint-Denis for my arrival. You may go now.”

The leader of the delegation humbly thanked the Duke of Orléans for his kindness; however, the men left the camp with heavy hearts.

After their departure there was a momentary silence in the tent; Charles stood motionless, staring with knit brows at the ground. Alençon approached him.

“For a moment I thought I heard your father speak, Monseigneur,” he said. “He would not have spoken differently to Monseigneur d'Armagnac.”

Charles looked up. “Please leave now, my lords. I request all those who belong to my troops to call their men together. Keep yourselves ready. We are going to enter Saint-Denis within the hour.”

“We grant your demands, Monseigneur,” said the Abbot of Saint-Denis. He stood with bowed head before the table in the abbey refectory, surrounded by a group of clergy. The Duke of Orléans and his brother, their counselors and captains and the Archbishop of Sens occupied the high benches along the wall. “We shall provide shelter for Monseigneur de Sens and his followers in the abbey,” the Abbot went on. “Have I understood you correctly that you, Monseigneur, and the princes who have arrived here with you, will not take residence in Saint-Denis?”

“We shall spend the night in our tents,” replied Charles, “and station our troops in the local villages and hamlets. Only the army of occupation will remain outside your gates. Now send me some men so that I can arrange to buy provisions.”

The Abbot bowed again. He moved his hands uneasily inside the wide sleeves of his cassock and glanced at his priests as though seeking support. “Monseigneur,” he began hesitantly, “may we then rely completely on your promise, your assurance, that the valuables in the abbey and in our treasury will be safe?”

“Of course you may.” Charles frowned, displeased. The Abbot had already broached this subject several times during the discussion. “It is my intention to hear mass with my allies on the eighth day of the feast of Saint-Denis,” he concluded, rising. His colleagues followed his example. “At that time I will be glad to view the holy relics and the tombs of the kings.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.” The Abbot approached, sighing, to lead
the young man out. At that moment there came from the inner court the loud, confused hubbub of galloping horses, shouts, the clash of arms and the creaking of doors being thrown violently open. Charles and his knights stood stunned; a few fumbled for their swords.

“To the doors!” shouted Archambault de Villars. “Guard the entrances! This may be a trap, my lord. The people of Saint-Denis have admitted Burgundy.”

The Abbot attempted to refute these accusations, but there was no need for explanations. At the end of the long passageway which led from the refectory to the first buildings, Armagnac appeared, closely followed by a thick crowd of men from his retinue. With jingling spurs they invaded the refectory. Armagnac was holding his whip; he slammed it against the corridor walls so that the statues trembled in their niches. The Abbot and the brothers retreated to the table. Charles put up his sword and waited until his father-in-law had entered the refectory.

“I came to lend you a hand, Orléans,” Armagnac called. He was laughing boisterously, but his eyes were keenly fixed upon Charles. His followers had entered the room behind him; they stood ranged around their commander in a half-circle and smirked at Orléans' men.

“I thought it was clearly understood that I was to come here alone today.” Charles made an effort to speak calmly, although the pounding of his heart almost took his breath away. “Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Alençon both understood that.”

“Certainly.” Armagnac's bright eyes strayed over those present; he stood before his son-in-law, his legs apart, striking the palm of his hand repeatedly with the blade of his sword. “Yes, certainly, Orléans, but don't you really think it an outrage to treat your companions like this? I would not want you to lose the support of my men for anything in the world. I know them, believe me, I know how to deal with these rascals, I know how to make them fierce fighters and keep them pugnacious. Let them fill their bellies and their packs—then you will have the best soldiers, son-in-law.”

“What are you trying to tell me by this?” asked Charles. Armagnac and he faced each other, standing on the tiles which shaped a cross in the middle of the refectory, as though they were in an arena.

“Well,” Armagnac raised his voice, “I have just given my men
permission to take whatever they need from the public granaries. They did not have to be told twice. How those rascals can run!”

It was as though something exploded suddenly in Charles' brain; he did not know what he was doing. He raised his sword in both hands and sprang forward. Steel slid against steel; Armagnac's sword parried Charles'. They stood motionless for a moment, square against each other, their weapons crossed. De Braquemont and the Archbishop of Sens came between them before Charles could strike again.

“Monseigneur,” said the prelate in a stifled voice, “this is senseless.”

Charles dropped his sword and took a step backward. He shrugged; it was not clear whether he sighed or shivered.

Armagnac snorted a few times to demonstrate his indifference; he was secretly delighted at the looks of dismay on the faces of Orléans' men.

“Come, come, I was only jesting,” he said loudly. “Monseigneur d'Orléans does not take this seriously, surely. He will see that I mean well by him, when he hears the news which my scouts have just brought from Paris.” He paused for a moment, smacking his lips. Charles stood without moving, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“My lords,” continued Armagnac; with pleasure he heard his voice reverberate against the beams of the ceiling. “Know then, my lords, that four days ago an English army landed in Calais. It can reach Paris in a quick day's march. Nay, gentlemen, this time it is not a matter of fighting against the Kingdom; these are auxilliary troops which Burgundy, it seems, requested urgently as soon as he saw that the Flemings had deserted him.”

“Monseigneur de Berry has been promised impartiality by England,” said Charles dully. Nothing could amaze him now. Armagnac shrugged.

“Come, son-in-law, promises … ! However that may be, it is a strong, well-armed troop. We shall thus have something to do speedily, I think. Under these circumstances you will agree with me that we must leave no stone unturned to provide ourselves with money, food and equipment. No one knows how long we shall remain in the field. Look here …” He walked past Charles to the Abbot of Saint-Denis, who stood leaning against the table. “We strive for a good purpose: justice and the restitution of honor. That must ring gloriously in your ears, doesn't it? These are still Christian concepts,
whatever you may say. They have cost us—me and all our confederates here—handfuls of money, Monseigneur. A greater and better army than ours does not exist anywhere. We will surely gain the victory. But now we are hard up, and we need a trifle to pay our men.”

The Abbot made an involuntary gesture.

Armagnac tossed his head back and burst into a roar of laughter. “You have a sharp nose. You smell what I want already.” He laid his large, iron-gloved hand on the Abbot's shoulder. “I am well informed; don't attempt to deny it: you are guarding the Queen's treasure in your cellar vaults. Better give me the keys of your own volition—believe me, my methods of persuasion are far from pleasant.”

“I forbid it, Armagnac!” Charles cried vehemently, pulling his father-in-law by his riding coat. “This is contrary to all rules. The Queen's treasures are inviolate. Moreover, I have sworn that we would not touch the valuables or the abbey.”

“Come, and how shall we conduct war then?” Armagnac asked over his shoulder, without releasing the Abbot. “How will you defeat Burgundy, son-in-law, how do you propose to keep your soldiers friendly? We have sustained enough losses: the English always shoot home like Death itself. You are still inexperienced, Orléans; for once trust the judgment of a man who knows what's necessary. Let me negotiate quietly with these brave gentlemen here. Monseigneur d'Orléans will give you a receipt, naturally,” he said to the Abbot of Saint-Denis. “But I wager that Her Majesty will raise no objections when she hears how well her money has been spent. Come forward then: where are the keys?”

In the vaults of the abbey, on the steps which led down there, and even in the inner courtyard, a bitter struggle was already raging among the plunderers; Charles, looking at the colors of the tunics amid the screaming, fighting, half-crazed horde, saw many of his own men—chiefly Lombards from Asti, German soldiers from Wen-ceslaus' armies, and mercenaries of divers nationalities, who had offered him their services at the last moment. Brutally, the knights had cleared a path to the lowest, most carefully concealed cellars, for themselves and their lord. In the light of the torches the glitter of gold and precious stones could be glimpsed between the shifting
bodies of the fighting men: a chest fell open; flashing coins streamed forth. A Gascon who tried to escape unseen, his arms filled with golden candelabra and chalices for the mass, was compelled at knife point to relinquish the booty. The men fell over each other in their haste to snatch the treasure from one another.

In the vault where Isabeau's treasure lay concealed, Armagnac was busily giving directions. The men could not come in here: it was Armagnac's intention to see personally to the chests and their contents. He stood with his arms akimbo before a pile of gold dishes. It was a king's dinner service which Isabeau had earlier stolen from Saint-Pol. The luster of jewels hovered like a brilliant mist over the open chests of treasure. The discovery surpassed even Armagnac's expectations. That his son-in-law stood there watching him did not please him at all. He raised his brows and squinted sideways at the young man who, pale and unmoving, supported himself on his sword as though he were dazed. Suddendy Armagnac grinned; he stooped and snatched from one of the chests a crown adorned with golden lilies, a king's crown worn by the Valois in an earlier time.

“Here, Orléans,” said Armagnac. “Here, boy, do not say now that your welfare and prosperity do not lie close to my heart.”

He moved quickly toward his son-in-law and pressed the crown upon his head. “If it depended upon me, I would soon call you ‘Sire, my Sovereign', and have the king of France as my son-in-law.”

Charles snatched off the crown and flung it among the gold dishes and goblets. Armagnac, who had bent his knee before him, made a gesture of mock surprise.

“He throws away the Crown of France as though it were a wilted garland,” he said. “I see that Monseigneur still has much to learn.”

In the first week of November, a meeting took place in the slaughterhouse of Sainte-Geneviève under the chairmanship of the owners, the three brothers Legoix. In honor of the event the flagstones of the great room had been purged of blood and filth, the slaughtering blocks and tubs scoured clean. Pickaxes hung in the background. But the stench could not be driven away—the brackish smell, the sharp odor of thousands of pigs and catde which had been driven in here over the course of time.

The long, narrow slaughterhouse was crowded: by the bleak light of the November day which filtered through the windows
mounted high in the wall, the participants in the gathering greeted one another: butchers and skinners, sausage fillers, pastry makers and peddlers, fell-mongers, cobblers and leather-workers; not only the bosses and masters, but also journeymen, servants and apprentices, bare-armed in grimy aprons.

A plank had been laid over a few slaughtering blocks; on it stood those in charge here: Thomas Legoix and both his brothers and the butcher bosses, Saint-Yon and Thibert of the great slaughtering houses.

The oldest Legoix, a giant of a man with a full florid face, kept his eyes fixed intendy on the door. From time to time he saluted those who entered with a distracted gesture and shook his head impatiently when his neighbor Thibert nudged him; it was obvious that he expected someone who had not yet arrived.

“Begin now, Legoix, before it gets too dark,” said Thibert. “Surely you can still open your mouth. God knows the surgeon must be drawing blood somewhere. An hour from now we won't be able to see each other's noses here.”

Legoix continued to shake his head.

“What do I have torches for?” he asked sourly. The answer awoke interest; one of the men who stood around the plank—a peddler—shouted loudly, “Where do you get your torches from, Legoix? There isn't a chip of wood anywhere in Paris. The people in my neighborhood are burning doors and window sills. Do you wander off to Saint-Denis to get kindling wood?”