In a Dark Wood Wandering (52 page)

Burgundy thrust out his lower lip. He had deliberately encouraged the young man's taste for luxury by helping him to live extrava-gandy in order to control him; now it looked as though the youth's demands were getting out of hand. They had reached the end of the small strip of passable ground bordering the swamp; they retraced their steps. Two hundred paces away stood the platform
adorned with flags and banners and divided in half by a wooden railing.

“That is all well and good,” said Burgundy roughly, “but you cannot disregard the decisions of the Council and negotiate by yourself. Don't forget that the opposition party has been declared outlaw. And don't forget, too, Monseigneur, how much has happened over the past year. By God, you cannot ignore me and my grievances any longer!” he exclaimed abruptly, stopping before the Dauphin. “This whole plan for negotiation is ridiculous, son-in-law. What is there to discuss? De Bar is behind this, I'm sure of it! He is the traitor, he has a brother in Berry's retinue. I've always thought that that alone laid him open to suspicion!”

The Dauphin flushed angrily.

“De Bar stands under my protection,” he said excitedly, with a catch in his voice. “I forbid you to attempt to act against him in any way. He is no traitor. No one is going to hurt you, you don't need to disgrace yourself. Now I want to conclude a peaceful treaty with Monseigneur de Berry and my cousins. I have no inclination to carry on your wars. Go and fight to your heart's content without me. The people of Orléans are my kinsmen; they belong to my retinue and should be in my court. Why should I behave in a less honorable way than princes and monarchs in other countries simply because you have a mind to quarrel? I don't have to live like a country bumpkin just because my father is crazy and sick!”

The Dauphin gave an angry shrug and walked more quickly to escape his father-in-law. At that moment the gates of Bourges opened, the drawbridge dropped over the moat and a long procession of horsemen rode out. Burgundy made no effort to overtake the Dauphin; he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully while he watched his son-in-law: the silk tunic, gold breastplate and plume made the heir to the throne appear more helpless and clumsy than he actually was. The armor hindered him; he waddled when he walked. The armor plate on his legs forced him to keep his knees stiff. Burgundy grinned. He always felt angrily ashamed of his own physical shortcomings; it pleased him to notice the imperfections of other men. He ascended the platform behind the Dauphin. Advisors and armed soldiers closed in around both princes. There, protected by a double railing, they awaited the arrival of Berry.

The old Duke approached, with scorn and resentment written
clearly on his features. His opponents had protected themselves from him as though he were a ferocious beast. When he learned what precautions were being taken against him by Burgundy, he had decided to behave in a similar way. He brought only his own advisors to the platform; the horsemen and soldiers who had accompanied him from Bourges remained standing at the same distance in the field as Burgundy's men. For the occasion Berry was clad in armor from head to toe; he refused to give Burgundy the satisfaction of sneering that his uncle was too old and too fat to wear armor. He wore a crowned casque and held axe and sword in his hands. A broad, heavy cloak studded with silver daisies dragged over the ground behind him. Although he could scarcely breathe under the burden of steel and leather, he managed, through great effort, to maintain a stiff, dignified bearing. It was certainly promising that he had been invited to this discussion before a single arrow had been shot or a single stone hurled. The English auxiliary troops had not yet arrived; a postponement of hostilities was certainly welcome. He had no idea what Burgundy and the Dauphin had in mind, but he knew, alas, they had little reason to fear him.

Berry was seventy-four years old. He could not help but notice that his strength was no longer equal to the task which, in rage and bitterness, he had taken upon himself. He was no longer capable of waging war. In God's name, they must cease hostilities at once and if any reasons cropped up for future action, he would not be one of the parties. He had had his fill; he wanted to spend the rest of his life peacefully in a comfortable castle somewhere far from politics and court intrigues. The more he thought about it, the more desirable it seemed to him to setde this matter swiftly. He had doubts—it was not in fact so simple as it seemed and the peace was built on quicksand. But what happened later would not concern
him
anymore, thank God. Orléans could do as he chose; if he received the same conditions that Berry had, he could stop fighting. What the devil, that feud could well be forgotten!

Berry swore solemnly that he would persuade Charles d'Orléans and his brothers to accept the truce; he then handed the keys of the city of Bourges to the Dauphin through two bars in the railing. This action made him heartsick; he could not restrain his tears.

“My uncle is in his second childhood.” Burgundy shrugged, looking after Berry—the old man walked somewhat unsteadily back
to his escort. “YouVe had your own way, Monseigneur,” he continued loudly to the Dauphin, who was as captivated with the keys of Bourges as a child with a new toy.

In the city of Blois consternation prevailed; two reports had arrived simultaneously: that peace negotiations were being conducted in Bourges, and that the English reinforcements under the leadership of the Dukes of Clarence and Cornwall had landed on the coast. Charles sent desperate letters and envoys to his great-uncle in Bourges who was preparing to leave for Paris. The reply which he received was brief: Berry washed his hands of the whole affair; he had done his best to aid his nephew. If complications had arisen now, it was not his fault. He advised Charles to reach an accord with Clarence and Cornwall as quickly as possible: they would probably be willing to cancel the treaty in return for certain financial considerations. “And come to Auxerre as quickly as possible, Nephew, in order to negotiate the peace personally: if you word it wisely you need not singe your wings at all,” Berry concluded.

After he had read the letter Charles sat motionless for a long time with his hands pressed against his eyes. He fancied he saw small, multicolored shapes revolving against a dark background: stars, rings, spheres. They whirled off and on, burst asunder into sparks or shrivelled into dots. Inside his heart it was utterly empty and cold; faith and hope, never completely dispelled despite reverses, had gone now for good, along with his youthful dreams.

Toward his councillors he used a tone which they had never heard from him before: harsh and indifferent; the tone of a gambler who rashly stakes everything he owns on a weak hand. Through the mouths of Mornay and Davy he began negotiations with the English, who from day to day advanced more deeply into the country, roaming aimlessly, plundering with impunity now that they could no longer be sure of war and its booty. Clarence replied that he had never seen so disorderly and riotous a situation as in the Kingdom of France; never had he dealt with such irresolute allies. He would regard this affront to him as healed if he and his men were paid 150,000 ecus. The amount made Charles dizzy. Although he did not know yet whether he would be able to raise that sum, he quickly replied that he agreed to the terms, provided the English put to sea before New Year's Day, 1413.

“Agreed. Before January first,” replied Clarence, smelling the possibility of a greater profit, “but in that case I must request 60,000 ecus more from Your Grace.”

Charles wrote bluntly that he saw no chance of collecting such a vast sum; but the cold, matter-of-fact Englishman managed to find a solution, thanks to his advisors. He demanded important hostages who would be freed when the money had been paid. Charles agreed to send hostages at once, on the condition that Clarence's troops would cease their looting during their retreat to the coast. But agreement to this stipulation carried a further price: the English demanded a final hostage, a brother of the Duke of Orléans, of his own choice.

In the presence of loyal friends and members of his household, Charles read aloud Clarence's most recent letter. He hardly dared raise his eyes from the parchment; he could not endure the embarrassed, solicitous, disheartened expressions on the faces of his friends and aides.

‘I must send seven hostages,” he said at last, returning Clarence's letter to his secretary, Garbet. “Six men from my immediate entourage and one of my brothers.”

“Yes, Monseigneur.” De Mornay stepped forward. “I know that I speak in the name of all of us when I request that you make a choice
now”

Charles looked, almost in supplication, at the row of faces. He saw that they still stood motionless, waiting: the captains, the Chancellor, the Governor, his chamberlains, the nobles of his retinue, old Garbet, beside whom sat Philippe and Jean. Philippe tugged at the lacings on his sleeve in ill-controlled excitement. He didn't want exile—he didn't want to go! But he was afraid that he
had
to go and he could not oppose Charles.

“Is there anyone among you who wishes to be excluded, who has urgent reasons?” Charles asked slowly in a low voice, as though each word cost him great effort. The men remained silent.

“Yes, forgive me, but I cannot do it,” Charles said suddenly. He made a short, violent gesture of desperation. “I cannot choose.”

Archambault de Villars stepped out from the group; he bowed stiffly to Charles and stood at the foot of the table.

“I place myself at your disposal,” he said shortly. “I request five others to follow my example. Each knows best for himself what he must do.”

Almost immediately Chancellor Davy stood beside him; the Chamberlain des Saveuses and three knights joined Davy. Others who had stepped forward moved back when they saw that the required number had been reached. Charles thanked the volunteers. He knew there was little he could say to them; he was only too well aware of the hopelessness of their position. He might never be able to pay the ransom money: under even the most favorable circumstances, many years of exile awaited them. The silent group at the foot of the table had made a great sacrifice for his sake. He could offer them nothing in return—not even a promise or a word of hope.

He turned to his brothers: he saw Philippe's deep flush and compressed lips; the pale, suddenly adult face of Dunois, who felt himself to be an accessory in the matter and suffered because he knew he could not atone here. The Bastard of Orléans was not highly regarded enough to be a hostage. But now Charles met the dark, tranquil gaze of his youngest brother, Jean.

“Let me go, Charles,” said the youth. His voice was still childish. “You can't spare Philippe. You don't need me here. At least this way I can serve you and our House. Let me go, brother, I won't give you any reason to complain about me.”

Philippe quickly raised his head and looked at his brother with tense expectation. He saw in Charles' eyes that his elder brother agreed that he could not be spared. Philippe knew he was not going into exile; he thanked all the saints for his deliverance.

Charles went up to Jean and embraced him, pressing the youth's head against his shoulder.

On the day of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, in a monastery outside the city of Auxerre, peace was restored once more between the parties of Orléans and Burgundy. In the presence of princes, nobles, citizens and prelates, representatives of the Council, Parle-ment and Audit Chamber, and deputies from all the great cities in the land, Charles dissolved his allegiance with Berry, Bourbon, Alençon and Armagnac, and cancelled the treaty with England, which had just come to light. In his turn Burgundy swore that he would negotiate no more with the enemies of the Kingdom.

On the fields and highways near the monastery of Auxerre, the inhabitants of nearby towns and villages stood in groups, looking
at the noble travelers, the horses and wagons, the flags and equipment, at the banquets in the open air, at the sham fights held by the high lords inside an arena cordoned off with gaily colored ribbons. The spectators were gloomy; they could not believe that their anguish and distress had ended. And now the region was afflicted by a pestilence; people said it came from the armed camp before Bourges. All that babble of eternal peace could not dispel the knowledge that every hour men and beasts were dying in the farms and houses in the countryside. For over a century the fear of disease, hunger and war had sunk deep into the hearts of the people. Better times are promised in Heaven, said most men, but Paradise lies far away—we sinners know not where.

To reassure and pacify the crowds huddled in the fields of the monastery, Burgundy and Charles went outside together; they passed back and forth between the decorated tables, sat together on the same horse at the Dauphin's request—Burgundy in front, Charles in back—and rode, amidst the acclaim of the spectators, around the arena. From the monastery chapel, choirboys emerged holding burning candles in their hands. They sang “Glory to God in the Highest” and now the bystanders and participants finally joined this strange game of princes with the most beautiful of songs: “Peace on earth to men of good will, hallelujah, hallelujah!” at first hesitantly, but growing gradually louder, stirred by the pealing bells, the burning tapers, the voices of the choir and the magnificent banners.

Meanwhile the plague raged, the mercenaries of Burgundy and Orléans and all their allies, dismissed from their bond of service, plundered everywhere; Armagnac with his Gascons proceeded to harass the regions between the sea and the Loire, and the English, already in possession of the hostages they had demanded, withdrew to their ships, robbing and burning despite the agreements and promises. “Peace on earth,” sang the people, not knowing what the morrow would bring; “Men of good will,” hummed the powerful with uneasy and distrustful hearts. “Hallelujah, hallelujah,” they shouted all together; bonnets and hats flew off, banners fluttered in the wind. The horse which bore Burgundy and Charles began to rear, frightened by the noise; he had to be held fast so that both riders could dismount without mishap.