In a Dark Wood Wandering (64 page)

The King of Scotland—as they called him—was a scholarly man who spent his days writing and Studying. He used more candles than any other prisoner because he sometimes lay in bed reading all
night long. He wrote poetry too; his wardens could overhear him rhyming aloud when they put their ears to the door. A singular silent friendship arose between Charles and the unfortunate monarch in those autumnal days. They greeted each other in the morning, at noon and in the evening, mimed a conversation on the weather, their respective states of health and other matters which could be communicated in that way. Charles held up one of his few books and indicated that he wanted more to read. A few days later his valet brought him, with a great show of secrecy, a well-thumbed leatherbound copy of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. A verse had been written on one of the flyleaves in a language which Charles guessed to be Scottish, since he did not recognize any of the words as English. He was sorry that he could not read the lines; he would have liked to know what thoughts the imprisoned King expressed when his spirit took flight inside those four walls of his chamber. Boethius' book was the first and last token of friendship Charles received from James Stuart. Around All Souls Day his neighbor was missing from the window; when day after day passed without anyone stirring behind the bars, Charles cautiously inquired of his servant whether the King of Scotland was perhaps ill. The man replied that that was not the case; at King Henry's command the prisoner had been sent to Windsor Castle.

Once, Charles received permission to visit his brother Jean. They had not seen each other for four years—years which seemed as long as a man's life. During that time Jean d'Angoulême had grown to manhood; the frail child had developed into a taciturn youth with a troubled look. The brothers sat together for a few hours, talking about the affairs which absorbed them: their hopes and their prospects as well as their past—Blois, their parents and the struggle which had cast so long a shadow over their youth. To Jean, Charles could talk uninterruptedly of Bonne; here was someone who did not know her, but who listened with sympathy. She seemed to Charles nearer, more real, now that he could speak of her and describe her. In the solitude of his room it often seemed to him that she had slipped away from him; desperately he strove to hold her image in his mind's eye to remember the sound of her voice, her laughter. Sometimes he woke at night blithe and light-hearted from a dream which he tried later to evoke once more, but without success.
He felt then that Bonne had been close to him while he was sleeping; he thought he could feel in the darkness the warmth of the place where she had lain, smell the fragrance of her hair upon the pillows. Fruitless were his efforts to call her back, futile his prayers, his agitated thoughts, his seeking for forgetfulness; nothing remained with him except the bitter taste of loneliness. Desperately he buried his head in the pillows.

He could tell these things to his brother Jean—that brought him a measure of relief. However they had no time to indulge themselves for long in such personal conversations; they were not sure they would meet again soon. They had to take advantage of each precious moment.

From a letter from King Henry V of England to His Most Christian Majesty, Sigismund, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. January, 1417:

“And so it is a great satisfaction to Us to inform you that Our unquestionable right to the Crown of France has been acknowledged by Jean, Duke of Bourbon, presently a captive living in Our Kingdom and Arthur, Count de Richmont; that the aforementioned Jean, Duke of Bourbon, has declared in Our presence during his stay in Our domain—that We, Henry, have valid claims to the throne of France; that he has bound himself under oath to stake his entire person to realize the terms set forth in the Treaty of Bretigny in the year of Our Lord 1360; that finally he, the aforenamed Jean, Duke of Bourbon, will give vassal service to Us, Henry, as his only lawful and sovereign Lord and Prince and that he will deliver his lands and domains into Our hands if Our demands are not granted by the government of France.”

Charles sat writing at the table; without turning his head he asked, “What is it, Chomery?” He had heard the door open and close again. He assumed it was Jean Chomery, his French valet, who often came in and out of the room in this way.

“God be with you, Monseigneur,” said a voice behind him.

“Cousinot!” Charles leaped up from his chair, pleased and surprised. “Cousinot, why didn't anyone announce your arrival? Not long ago I received a letter from my brother—he wrote that someone
was bringing me money, but not that you were coming. This is a great joy for me!”

“I must speak with you quickly, Monseigneur,” the advocate said, in a low agitated voice. “I have been able to get to you by showing the safe-conduct pass they gave me last year when I was in London, but the knight who supervises your wardens was hesitant about it. This time I did not ask for permission to visit you, because I was certain that King Henry would not allow it.”

Charles led the Chancellor to the chair under the window, the only spot in the room which—in the summer at any rate and then only around noon—received any sunlight.

“I know that King Henry has not been favorably disposed toward me since I refused to acknowledge him as my sovereign,” he said slowly. “He removed me to this room which is definitely darker and gloomier than the one I had, but apart from that I haven't noticed any sign of the King's displeasure. I realize that I may expect few visitors or letters because of the war.”

“You know nothing then; I did not think that you could possibly know anything.” Cousinot glanced at the door. Outside there was as usual the sound of footsteps and soft jingling; a couple of soldiers passed back and forth before Charles' door. Charles looked attentively at his Chancellor: he had rarely seen such excitement in that habitually controlled face.

“Monseigneur,” said Cousinot softly and urgently, “I shall try to tell you everything as briefly as I can. I fear they will come to fetch me away at any moment. The Dauphin died a week ago in Compiegne; your father-in-law the Sire d'Armagnac requested me particularly to inform you that the Dauphin had a fistula in his left ear; he would not want you to believe the rumors which are going round the English and Burgundian camps. Our new Dauphin, Monseigneur de Viennois, is in Paris under the personal protection of the Sire d'Armagnac whom he considers his advisor and confidant in every respect.”

Charles took his Chancellor firmly by the elbow.

“Cousinot,” he said, “do not tell me what Armagnac has instructed you to say. Tell me what you think of all this yourself. In God's name speak plainly.”

Cousinot kept his searching eyes fixed on Charles; the corners of his narrow pale lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

“I do not believe in the fistula, Monseigneur,” he said. “I believe
that the Sire d'Armagnac felt the reins of power slipping from his grasp and that he resorted to a damnable, unworthy means of reassuring himself of that power. Burgundy held all the cards, because the Dauphin was completely under his influence—it was precisely then that Armagnac remembered that he too had one of the King's sons near him—Monseigneur Charles, the youngest. The new Dauphin is still only twelve or thirteen years old, I believe, and his wife's kinsmen, the princes of Anjou, have become, as you know, increasingly disposed toward Armagnac in recent years. Now Armagnac holds the Dauphin before him like a banner.”

“The King has no more sons,” Charles said, in soft surprised dismay. “No other successor to the throne except this …” He remembered the new Dauphin well; he had met him in Paris after the siege of Arras: an uncommonly ugly child, with a large head and the same rickety legs as his brothers. In the features of Messeigneurs de Guyenne and de Touraine could be seen at least something of the charm which Charles VI had had as a boy, but the youngest son was, bluntly, ugly. He had a high globular forehead, prominent ears and bulbous despondent blue eyes. That the fate of France should rest in the hands of this timid, uncertain youth seemed to Charles little less than a catastrophe; he had heard years ago that the King's youngest son had inherited his father's feeble nervous constitution. Those who said this then were able to supply many occurrences which bore out their point. Charles remembered their words with fear and horror.

“I realize fully what this means, Cousinot,” he said slowly at last to the advocate who sat looking at him with attentive concern. “The shift of power will bring with it such great, far-reaching consequences that I hardly dare to think about it. So my father-in-law of Armagnac is expecting that those who support the Dauphin will join the Armagnac party. If he succeeds he will be a singularly powerful man.”

“Monseigneur, do you realize what this means for you? Armagnac's party is yours. You can be carried on this stream to the throne of France. You must not forget that the Dauphin is weak in body and very probably also weak in mind. King Henry has undoubtedly also drawn this conclusion. Every day you become a more dangerous opponent for him, and by the same token a more valuable prize. Believe me, Monseigneur, we must bend all our efforts to effect your release. We must not reject a single effort, no matter how trifling
it may seem. But you must understand that Burgundy will do anything to stop you from returning. Listen!”

Quick booming footsteps could be heard in the corridor outside Charles' room, along with jingling spurs and the harsh voice of Sir Robert Waterton, the nobleman who commanded the guard. Cousinot rose from the bench.

“Give me the order, my lord, to communicate some important information in your name to the King of England. Trust me now, I am your devoted servant; I know very well what I am doing. Monseigneur, if you love liberty, give me the order, for as surely as Christ died for us, they will not release you under any other terms.”

For a moment the images flashed past Charles which had floated temptingly before his eyes night and day since Agincourt: the ship cutting quickly through the waves on the voyage home to France, the yellow coastline of Calais, the welcome on native soil, the cities and fields of the He de France, Paris, the hills along the Loire, the shape of Blois against the sky, the pointed towers of Saint-Sauveur, the battlements of the donjon, his entry over the drawbridge, over castle yard and inner court to the gate where Bonne was standing, weeping and laughing and beaming …

Now he saw Robert Waterton enter the room, followed by the officers of the guard; he saw Cousinot's tense, almost supplicating look. The word “yes” was on his lips, but still he hesitated. Swear fealty to King Henry for reasons of diplomacy? But this is high treason, he thought, confused, and remained silent. With an eloquent gesture of despair, Cousinot left the room at Waterton's command.

From a written command from King Henry V of England to the knight Sir Robert Waterton, June, 1417:

“…we charge you to convey immediately,under heavy guard, Charles, Duke of Orléans, at present a prisoner of war confined in the Tower of London, to Pontefract castle in York, where he will remain for an indefinite period …”

The sand flows through the hourglass, a ruddy mist, forming at first a barely visible layer and then gradually a growing hill. Before one fully realizes it, the lower globe is completely filled; an hour
has gone by, a long precious hour of a life which seems suddenly to consist of a terrifying number of such hours. He whose life it is sees the sand slipping away with comingled feelings of fear, regret, impatience and despair; he sees that the passage of time is at once pitilessly slow and unmercifully fast. In those glass spheres his hours are counted out, the precious wasted hours. The lost hours become days, the days flow into weeks, the weeks create months and before long the months have turned into a year.

To one who thinks in that way the winds, clouds, rain, sunshine and moonlight can be only dismal portents. The gleam of stars comes and goes behind the window, a ray of the sun, a streak of moonlight creeps over the walls. The seasons change; he sees the leaves of the great trees wither and fall in the field outside the castle; he sees the trees standing for four long months like branched candelabra under the wintry sky; on a certain day in spring he sees a light green cloud hovering between the grey branches, and finally he sees, in the midst of summer, the heated air quivering about the full-crowned trees.

All this the prisoner of Pontefract sees when he stands before his window. He can see over the outermost wall of the castle. Between the double row of battlements there is a passage where a sentry, wearing a storm hat and with the red cross of England on his breast, paces continually back and forth, back and forth.

Many different men take their turn at guard duty there; the garrison at Pontefract is a large one. When the prisoner at his window begins to recognize the faces of individual sentries he realizes with bitterness that he has come full circle once more, that time has once more stolen a piece of his life away. Every six hours another watch … He has seen the same men repeatedly; he thinks, There goes the Redhead, there's Black Beard—there's Scarcheek, there's More-Than-Six-Feet-Tall… How many hours, how many hours, in God's name, how many hours must have passed before he could learn to recognize these people?

He searches, as he looks out the window, for something that will not change, something that cannot measure time. No, the sky will not do: clouds float by, gleaming white, radiant in the summer—perhaps they are the same clouds which will sail later over Blois, perhaps throwing a swift shadow over Bonne's upturned face. In the autumn the clouds are more shapeless: torn, scudding low over the land; occasionally they are too heavy with rain to reach the horizon; they break over Pontefract and cause the recluse in his
tower chamber the further torment of listening for hours or days to the murmur of falling water, a sound which brings only a deceptive oblivion. He dreams with open eyes and thinks he is elsewhere—he hears someone laughing and someone sobbing; the sobs form a melody that he sang long ago—Madame, je suys plus joyeulx, Madame, I am overjoyed. He puts his hands over his ears so that he can no longer hear the sound of the rain, but he cannot banish that gentle, incessant tapping which becomes Bonne's voice, bewitching him by night even more distinctly than by day.