In a Dark Wood Wandering (62 page)

With great emotion, Charles studied the tapering letters of her signature. They stood on the yellow page beneath the text of the letter, as straight, slender and blithe as Bonne herself. She had embellished the signature by drawing a curling line around it, filled with flourishes. Undoubtedly Garbet had urged her to do that, but it was obvious that she had no talent for calligraphy. However, although the embellishment was a failure, the tiny awkward lines, circling to left and right like festive groups at a procession, inspired him with warmth and hope.

Cousinot's clerk unpacked the shipment; Charles recognized with delight his own worn cases with their shaving blades, combs, scissors, nail files and knives for bleeding. Bonne's nougat, prepared according to a southern recipe, had suffered somewhat in the passage, but never in his life had Charles received a gift with as much joy as he received the sweet white delicacy. Apart from the shipment, Cousinot confirmed what Charles had already learned from Vittori and de Tuilleres: that it would be possible to put together a ransom only if lands and castles were sold.

Cousinot advised Charles to mortgage that part of his possessions which were under consideration, and at the same time to hold back for one year the wages and subsidies of his officials and courtiers; to reduce drastically the salaries of the commanders of the garrisons at the castles of Orléans. These suggestions Charles found shocking; he would have thought such actions would be considered only as a last resort.

“Pardon, Monseigneur, do not take it amiss, but you have already reached your last resort,” Cousinot responded gravely to Charles' objections. “It is difficult, I know. I myself have always been part of your household. But everyone who is devoted to you and who sincerely wishes your release will accept these actions. We can only hope that you will be able to compensate us in the future. Without these measures you will not be able to accomplish anything, Monseigneur. And certainly your burdens are heavy enough. Everyone in your service is fed and clothed at your expense—you give them shelter and care for them; you have throughout the country a personal retinue of almost one thousand men, my lord. To be sure, that is substantially less than in the time of Monseigneur your late father, but for your purse it is still too large an amount. I am afraid that you
must
sign these documents; it is in your own interest.”

While the advocate watched him with friendly concern, Charles, heavy-hearted, signed them. Cousinot saw that the young man was pale; there were dark shadows under his eyes. Cousinot glanced about the chamber. The lodging was decent: tapestries, curtains, silver on the table, enough candles and a good fire in the hearth. He shook his head, sighing and swept his palm over his face. If he found the place depressing during one short visit, how then could Monseigneur keep his spirits up, accustomed as he was to go horseback-riding, to make journeys and stroll through the series of halls
of Blois and Saint-Pol? Through the small windowpanes he saw a narrow strip of light, the grey lusterless February sky which presaged rain, rain, always more rain. The small waves of the Thames beat on the embankment with a hissing sound; the cries of boatmen and seamen sounded over the river along with the incessant shrieks of the seagulls skimming across the water in search of food. Cousinot was much impressed with the impregnability of the Tower; a prisoner here was more removed from the world than an exile in Ultima Thule. A real labyrinth of gates and corridors closed off by double doors led eventually to the inner court encircled by the main buildings. Everywhere one could see only high walls, battlements, towers, pinnacles. The citadel was full of guards armed with lances and pikes and wherever one looked one saw heavy bars and doors studded with iron.

“How goes it in Paris, Cousinot?” Charles asked abruptly, shoving the documents aside. “You can speak freely. They brought me news several times last week. I infer from that that King Henry isn't going to keep me ignorant any longer of events in France.”

Cousinot folded his narrow, bony hands and nodded agreement.

“How much do you know, my lord?”

“I know that Burgundy lies in wait with an army before Paris, near the village of Lagny,” Charles answered slowly, “but that he cannot lay siege to Paris because my father-in-law has fortified the city with his troops from Gascony. I know that Burgundy's men have been beaten time and again in scuffles and skirmishes.”

He paused, and looked sharply at the Chancellor.

“I wonder how my father-in-law controls the city of Paris, how he runs things now that he has become Constable.”

Cousinot did not look up.

“Monseigneur d'Armagnac rules as tyrants rule in Milan and Venice,” he said calmly. “That is to say, the hangman is his right hand and his Gascon hirelings make up his official corps. There are daily executions; when he doubts anyone's reliability, he makes short work of him. The new laws have been abolished. His provost, Messire Tanneguy du Chatel, is a puppet who blindly obeys Armagnac's commands. The citizens have had to give up their weapons—anyone seen with a knife is hanged. Don't misunderstand me, Monseigneur, I don't deny that these kind of actions are the only ones that are respected by certain elements among the people of Paris. We have
seen for ourselves what happens when the mob has its way: Armagnac has dissolved the great butchers' guilds—the guildmasters have lost their power. He imprisons, drives out, murders those in Parlement, the Audit Chamber and the University whom he dislikes. Monseigneur d'Armagnac is a savage, but he is intelligent and he is a man of action.”

Charles looked skeptical. “Really, you do not have to praise Armagnac because he is my kinsman,” he remarked dryly. “I ask myself what possible consequences these vigorous actions can have.”

“There have been consequences already, my lord. A pro-Burgundy party has been formed again in Paris—probably larger and more powerful than before, because the new Dauphin belongs to it. For that matter, the Duke of Burgundy is seeking supporters everywhere in the Kingdom; I have heard it said that he goes even to cities which were recently in
our
hands.”

“Yes, I have heard that too.” Charles sighed and, lost in thought, absently pushed one of the rolls of parchment back and forth over the table top.

“Monseigneur,” said Cousinot softly, “have you any idea about what King Henry of England intends to do? I mean, do you think it possible that he will cross the Straits of Calais again soon—or do you think that he will try to reach an agreement either with our King or with Burgundy?”

Charles replied that he had rarely been able to see the King; although he and Richmont and Bourbon had endlessly discussed Henry's possible plans, anything he could say would rest solely on conjecture.

“The King is a riddle to me,” he said with a shrug. “At first he treated us like guests. But later we were confined here and forbidden to write or talk to advisors. Now suddenly these privileges have been restored to us. This
must
be connected in some way with the Emperor Sigismund's visit. Do you know anything about that, Cousinot?”

The Chancellor frowned heavily. “The Emperor arrived in Paris the day before I left,” he replied. “I saw him for a moment.”

“What sort of man is he? He was my father's friend and ally.”

Cousinot sniffed. “I can scarcely believe it, Monseigneur. The Emperor Sigismund is cut from the same cloth as his kinsman, Wenceslaus of Bohemia: always drunk, always surrounded by women. When I took ship at Calais I heard it said that he would
rather sit in the Parisian bathhouses than with our King in the council hall. I do not expect much from his mediation: he has neither dignity nor influence. Moreover, Monseigneur,” Cousinot fixed his piercing dark eyes on Charles and gestured tensely, “moreover I suspect and I fear that King Henry sees you not only as a source of income, but also as a stepping stone in his efforts to gain the Crown of France.”

“Me?” asked Charles, fiercely.

“Yes, Monseigneur, you. You and your brother and Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Richmont. I think that King Henry is a bit displeased that the new Dauphin has absorbed Burgundian attitudes along with his mother's milk. Does it seem likely to you that Burgundy will support Henry's claims to the French throne when he can sit on the throne himself through his puppet the Dauphin? No, my lord, I cannot believe it. So thinking of all this, I wonder—what is King Henry going to do?”

Charles had asked himself that question repeatedly since his arrival in England. However, the King remained as enigmatic a personality to the young man as he had been in the tent at Maisoncelles—obliging and gracious, but at the same time coldly disapproving; averse to pomp and splendor but, on his return to London, jealously observing ritual and ceremony; according to his own words determined to make peace with France, determined on a high-minded resolution of all differences, but in reality—this could not be hidden—filled with extreme hostility and some pride. From the day after Agincourt he had steadily maintained that he was nothing more than an instrument of God, but nevertheless he willingly accepted the adulation of his people, and the praises of his entourage.

Charles remembered moment by moment the triumphant procession through the streets of London, so ignominious for him and for his companions in distress; in his mind's eye he saw Henry still, with a large glittering crown on his head, riding slowly along under a red and gold canopy. Exultant crowds blocked his way at every turn; at each street corner, each square, they welcomed him with song, presented allegorical tableaux in his honor, offered him gifts. At long last the procession reached St Paul's cathedral; kneeling amongst armed soldiers, Charles and the French nobles had to
watch their conqueror perform his devotions for hours in the glow of candles and against a background of the singing of hymns; a gilded angel dropped from the arched roof to hover in the air above his head swinging a censer. In Westminster Charles had attempted respectfully to engage the King in conversation, but Henry had only bowed courteously and inquired about the progress of a falcon hunt or the response to a stroll in the castle park.

Cousinot's words led Charles anew to deep reflection, the more so since the Chancellor was not content with vague intimations during his next visit to his lord.

“I take it that freedom is worth a great deal to you, Monseigneur,” he said, looking attentively at Charles. “Perhaps liberty lies within your grasp if King Henry, like his father before him, should seek a reconciliation with our party because he hopes in that way to achieve his purpose sooner than he could dealing with Burgundy. If that is the case—and I myself am convinced that it is—you have the game in your hand.”

Charles did not speak for a while; he went to the window and stood staring out. Rain hovered over the river like a mist.

“I know very well what you mean, Cousinot,” he said at last, without turning round. “A few months ago I would probably have welcomed the opportunity to deal my cards so profitably. I long for France, Cousinot, for Blois, for my wife. But since I have been here I have thought a good deal and I see now that Orléans and Burgundy and all their supporters and partisans have together robbed and betrayed France—that we have brought the Kingdom to ruin either wittingly or through ignorance. France is dying, Cousinot. Yes, perhaps I could purchase my freedom by giving that sick country a death-blow; I never thought about such things before. God knows I have used my time badly. But now I am not sure that freedom is worth that much to me.”

“Let it be so, Monseigneur,” Cousinot replied, after a pause. “Whatever you decide to do, you can count on me. Do you wish me to stay a while longer in London so that I can help you with advice if you need it—in case new information should come up about the Emperor's visit?”

Charles was finally summoned to Westminster where King Henry's own state rooms were being readied for the royal visitor. Surrounded
by armed men—as though it were a festive escort, he thought bitterly—he rode to the King's palace. The people in the streets stared at him with curiosity: wasn't that one of the French lords who had mocked King Henry on the night before Agincourt? Why hadn't the foreigner been beheaded?

Charles stared straight before him. It had been weeks since he had been outside in the country air: the fresh wind, the pale March sunshine did him good. The districts along the Thames smelt of fish and damp rope, of river water and silt. Many people were abroad: hawkers and boatmen, warehouse workers and market-goers. Charles, who no longer found the English tongue so strange, heard a few familiar words—the same enticing cries and shouts of peddlers which had reached him in his prison chamber.

King Henry received him in one of the council halls at Westminster. The King sat in a chair under a canopy of carved wood; counsellors and courtiers drew away as the King greeted the Duke of Orléans. There remained nearby only Henry's Chancellor, the Archbishop of Durham, the Dukes of Northumberland and Westmoreland and the Marquis of Kent, all kinsmen and trusted friends of the King. Henry saluted Charles in the usual manner, with a kiss on the cheek; then he gestured him to a seat beside the throne. The high lords stood quietly to one side. Their demeanor, as well as King Henry's, made it obvious that this courtesy was only a prelude to a serious business discussion. Although Henry was plainly dressed, he wore the narrow royal diadem, presumably so that there would be no doubt about the nature of this audience. His light eyes seemed harder and brighter than the stones in the gold band.

“Fair cousin,” said Henry in his careful French, “we shall not squander our time in formalities. There is no need for me to inquire after your welfare. I am well informed about your life in the Tower. I know that you eat little, seldom go out, rarely seek the company of your noble companions in distress. May I deduce from this that you find your stay there unpleasant and that a change of surroundings would not be unwelcome to you?”