In a Dark Wood Wandering (51 page)

De Braquemont rose too.

“In any case,” he said, “what reason do these bastards have to meddle in our domestic disturbances? If they see that we are divided among ourselves, they will be all the more eager to wage war against all of us together. I advise you to let things take their course, my lord. How can you be sure that Burgundy will besiege Blois after Bourges falls? It seems more likely to me that he will turn back, especially now that he has the sick King with him. We will have time to plan then.”

“And suppose that Burgundy seeks a reconciliation with England again?” De Villars remarked sharply. “He has already done that once before; is his daughter not half promised to an English prince? If the English come against us even
once,
we are truly lost—because a thousand of these bowmen fight better than the whole of Burgundy's army.”

The Chancellor Davy, however, shook his head.

“It is those damnable conditions which make it impossible for
us to sign the treaty. England wants our promises now, in black and white. They have learned from Burgundy what happens when one has no written agreement.”

“But if we help the English conquer Guyenne—it is high treason!” Philippe exclaimed. He looked imploringly at his brother. “You cannot, we may not do that, Charles.”

“Nay,” Charles said calmly. “I shall write my uncle of Berry that we cannot accept this proposal. Then we can only march to Bourges with all the men we have here.”

That night Charles could not sleep at all: he let the candle burn on the table in his room, and when the tiny crackling flame finally threatened to go out at the bottom of the candlestick, he kindled a new one. He had not taken off his clothes and he could not sit still; with his hands clasped behind his back he paced back and forth from wall to wall, from bed to chest, from table to window. Around midnight there was a soft rap on his door; Charles pushed the bolt aside. From the darkness of the vaulted stairhead Dunois appeared, clad like his brother in doublet and hose.

“What is it?” asked Charles, surprised and slightly annoyed; he did not want to be disturbed now.

“I could not sleep, brother.” Dunois sat down on Charles' clothes chest and pressed his hands together between his knees. “I could not help thinking about what you told us today. Is it really so bad with us? Will we lose our war against Burgundy?”

“We will certainly lose,” Charles said, shrugging, “unless we get money soon and are able to persuade the soldiers in our service to obey our exact orders. It is our misfortune that our army has a half-dozen commanders who are constantly at loggerheads. If we had discipline and order among us we would not have been defeated so decisively at Saint-Cloud, brother. I don't know where to hide from shame when I remember that day. No wonder our enemies call us empty braggarts.”

In silence Dunois looked at his half-brother. Charles had grown thinner, his face had a yellow tint: his outdoor life had made his skin tawny so that he could not be called pale even now, when all the color had vanished from his face. Although he shaved closely, the blue shadow of his beard was always visible on his cheeks and chin. He was so accustomed to wrinkle his forehead in thought that even when he relaxed a crease remained between his eyebrows. He looked much older than his seventeen years: this was noticeable
especially in his eyes. He had the weary, mournful, somewhat suspicious look of a man who has been frequently injured and disappointed. He had a habit of looking downward when he wanted to hide his uncertainty—he did this often.

“What happens if we lose?” asked Dunois matter-of-factly.

Charles glanced at him askance.

“That depends. We are outlaws. They could kill us or send us into exile and claim all our possessions for the Crown again. I really don't know, brother. But it does not look very promising.”

“What would Monseigneur our father have done?” asked Dunois brusquely. Charles said nothing. He knew only too well that his father would never have allowed himself to become embroiled in such a hopeless and dismal situation;
he
would not have let Armagnac bully him; the Lords of Luxembourg and Picardy would never have deserted
him.
The thought of his father filled him with bitter shame; here he sat, the heir to a great name and to power and vast estates. How had he discharged his task? He had lost half of his lands and all his money and valuables; the blows he had received in his struggle against Burgundy had thoroughly dissipated the glory of the name of Orléans. He had not avenged his father's death nor redeemed the vow he had made to his mother; there was no future for himself, his brothers, his small sister and his child; at best they would be poor exiles.

“What is better now, brother?” asked Dunois in a clear voice. “To defeat Burgundy with the help of the English or to allow ourselves out of loyalty to the realm to be hacked to pieces by Burgundy? I know very well that the English are our hereditary enemies, but you have heard yourself how Burgundy let the butchers take over Paris, how they set fire to the churches and then drove women and children into the flames, how they plunder and murder to their hearts' content. Wouldn't the King prefer to lose Guyenne to the English rather than all France to fellows like the butchers and Ar-magnac's men? If you win the struggle, brother, and are restored to honor, you will be powerful. If you were the King's right hand you could issue laws to protect the people against rovers and free looters. Perhaps it would be easier then to maintain a vast, well-trained, orderly army to defend the land against foreign invasion, which is something Burgundy will never do.”

Charles, who stood by the table, raised his head, startled, and looked attentively at Dunois. He had never heard the youth give so
long a speech. Dunois was reticent by nature; he was also unaccustomed to express his opinion unasked. He was about twelve years old, but strong and sinewy as an adult; in his wide fair face his grey-green eyes gleamed, remarkably clear, like the waters of the brooks which flowed through the city of Blois. His thick, sandy hair was clipped so short that he seemed almost bald. He sat in the same position on the chest, hands between his knees, his eyes fixed quietly on Charles.

“So you think I would be no traitor if I did what Berry proposes?” Charles asked gravely, sitting down on the edge of the bed opposite Dunois. “It's merely a question of whether the King will ever think as you do, brother!”

Dunois laughed easily.

“The King himself has eaten and drunk with the Earl of Arundel when he was in Paris,” he said. “I know that from La Marche, the Burgundian whom you took prisoner.”

Charles sighed and nodded thoughtfully.

“We shall still have to fight the English again for all that,” he said finally. “Everyone sees clearly that it must end sooner or later in war. That is why I find this alliance so dishonorable.”

“Oh, but the English are perfectly aware of that too.” Dunois frowned slightly as though he were surprised that Charles could doubt him on that point. “It is certainly awkward that we need their help now. They will undoubtedly laugh at us because we cannot keep peace in our own lands. But don't you think, brother, that Burgundy is more dangerous than the English?”

Charles sent his half-brother to bed; but he himself remained awake until early morning. Doubt kept him company. He was se-credy ashamed of the desires which sometimes crept over him; he felt an urge to relieve himself as quickly as possible of the worries and burdens, the responsibility and unrest, which had fallen to his lot after his father's death. What difference did it make whether he was defeated and exiled? He had demonstrated his good will; the circumstances were stronger than he was. He was always painfully aware of these and similar thoughts. He reproached himself for being cowardly, weak, ungrateful, unworthy. What sort of man was he that he seemed sometimes to lack utterly the will to persevere, the power to act, any impulse to heroism? Dunois' words spurred him to persist anew. What the devil, this was politics; now he must demonstrate his ability as a diplomat. Burgundy had managed to
use the English and skilfully move them aside when they had fulfilled their purpose. Must
he
fail where his enemy had succeeded?

Standing before the window, Charles watched the stars fading in the morning sky. He had made up his mind to sign the English treaty.

On a certain day in the middle of June, the army which had arrived in Bourges under the command of the King and Burgundy, prepared for a ceremonial meeting of both parties. A wooden structure, a platform divided in two by a railing, had been erected on the marshy field outside the ramparts of Bourges. Towards noon the Duke of Burgundy and the Dauphin left the royal tents attended by armed nobles, priests and advocates in official robes. Since the mounted heralds, stationed in the field to announce the approach from the city of Berry and his retinue, made no attempt to blow their trumpets, Burgundy and his royal son-in-law continued to pace up and down over the swampy grassland, watched from a respectful distance by their gentlemen-in-waiting. The sun stood high in the sky; it was unusually warm. The Dauphin sighed incessantly; he would gladly have exchanged his heavy gilded cuirass for the silk clothes which had cost him so much money in Paris, but since he had to appear here as a surrogate for his father—they had, after second thoughts, sent the King home—he had to continue playing the soldier. Under the large blue and white plumes which adorned his helmet, in the opening of his visor, the Dauphin's face looked childishly small and peaked. He walked ahead of his father-in-law with a peculiar, exaggerated gait like a strutting young cock with stiff tail feathers.

Burgundy, arrayed as usual in his scarlet mantle, followed, looking surly. For the past few days he had been sorely irritated by the Dauphin's behavior—the fact that this sixteen-year-old brat held an official post did not give him the right to interfere high-handedly in Burgundy's plans and affairs. Burgundy wanted to raze Bourges to the ground, batter it to rubble, force Berry to submit to the paying of tribute, and then march directly on Blois. He had no intention of returning to Paris until he had squared accounts with his enemies thoroughly and for good.

The march to Bourges had not been easy. The army had had to stop repeatedly because of the King's health. Then there were prob
lems with feeding the troops and providing them with war materiel. When he finally reached the walls of Bourges, Burgundy had sent Berry a formal challenge. The old Duke had replied curtly that he was always willing to open the gates to the King and the Dauphin, but not to certain malevolent persons into whose power the King and the Dauphin had unfortunately fallen. The soldiers and burghers crowding onto the ramparts of the city expressed agreement with this in no uncertain terms. They shouted curses at the Burgundians, accused them of holding the King captive, and called them filthy traitors.

Burgundy felt he had good reason to use drastic measures: he ordered battering rams and catapults made ready for an attack; the tall buildings and towers directly behind the ramparts made an excellent target. But opposition to this came from an unexpected source: his son-in-law the Dauphin, who until now had always supported Burgundy's decisions, had resolutely opposed the use of heavy artillery.

Burgundy swore under his breath; the sun burned on the steel of his armor, on the mail covering his neck and arms. With a jerky movement he flung back his heavy red cloak and walked quickly up to his son-in-law.

“Monseigneur,” Burgundy said, making an effort to be courteous, “I wish to draw your attention once more to the fact that your method of procedure is dramatically opposite to the resolution which the Council adopted before our departure. As you will undoubtedly recall, we agreed then that we would make every effort to carry this action to a successful conclusion.”

“Yes,” said the Dauphin impatiently. “That's quite true. But now I wish to put an end to the struggle between you and Messeigneurs, our kinsmen. I find it extremely tedious. It costs an appalling amount of time and money. What kind of life do we actually lead? I have no desire to sit in tents and armed camps for the rest of my life. If my father should suddenly die, I should be saddled with nothing but burdens.”

“Are you opposed to purging the Kingdom of rebels and traitors?” Burgundy asked, sneering. “What we do here is in your interest too.”

The Dauphin laughed, the shrill, affected titter so characteristic of him.

“Ah, come,” he remarked, glancing sideways at his father-in-law
under raised brows. It was, thought Burgundy, the selfsame glance which he had always found unbearable in Queen Isabeau. “Ah, come. I fight against kinsmen because they demand satisfaction for the murder of my father's only brother. That is really rather strange, don't you agree?”

Burgundy stood motionless for a moment and then took his son-in-law roughly by the arm.

“Are you with Orléans now?” he asked, with a quick suspicious glance at the group of dignitaries and nobles who stood waiting around the wooden platforms, chatting among themselves. Their armor flashed; their purple and violet state robes and mantles reflected the sunlight. Burgundy reviewed the ranks: he felt suddenly uncertain. The Dauphin had loyal friends and followers. Who of the prelates and knights were traitors, serving Orléans' cause? The thought had already flashed through his mind that the meeting between the Dauphin and Berry might be a trap. He had to be ready for anything and take measures accordingly. A group of trustworthy councillors and proven knights from his own suite would be with him at all times during the discussions; moreover, horsemen and soldiers whose loyalty he could equally trust, stood stationed a short distance from the rendezvous.

“Father-in-law, you search for too many meanings behind my actions,” said the Dauphin, annoyed. “How often have I told you that I do not wish to see Bourges destroyed!” He made a long face to let Burgundy see that his patience was at an end, and ratded off his reasons once more in a bored monotone. “Berry has no son; after his death his estates revert to the Crown and I shall get them—that is already decided, as you know. Bourges is a beautiful city; the churches and towers are valuable—it cost a lot of money to build them. I'm not interested in receiving a gift of heaps of rubble, which I should have to clear away and rebuild at my own expense. I have nothing now but barren fields and blighted vineyards. So how can I raise taxes? No thanks; I have no desire for poverty. I see daily from your example how important it is to own thriving estates.”