In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “In truth, I know your position,” he said in response to his father’s look of cold disapproval. “But I repeat once more: I am incapable of so much diplomacy. Wild horses could not have dragged me to that christening this afternoon.”

  “You’re a fool,” Burgundy said, rising from the bench onto which he had sunk. “And the future of your landed inheritance is very dim if you persist in carrying this attitude into other areas of your life. But I know you better than you know yourself. I have confidence in you—you’re shrewd and you’re capable of looking ahead. Like me, you learn from experience; you’re guided by the adage ‘what three know, the whole world knows’. But in God’s name, control yourself. Don’t let yourself be carried away by your emotions. I know what rage means, I know passion, but I’d sooner seal my mouth up with iron locks and my hands with chains than speak or act too quickly.”

  A semblance of a smile flitted over Jean’s clever, pointed face; he shrugged. In many respects he found his father too cautious; he felt more in sympathy with the Italian tyrants who did not hesitate to employ any means to get what they wanted. He hated not being able to express his urge to action; he cursed his indolence. His resdessness drove him to keep abreast of all news of events at home and abroad, all public disturbances, all military operations, preparing himself to choose sides and participate as soon as the opportunity arose. He considered it a serious deficiency that he had never won fame on the battlefield and looked for the chance to come into the flower of his manhood in that respect.

  “I waited here because I wanted to speak with you, Monseigneur,” he began, coming away from the hearth. Burgundy paused on his way to the door.

  “I have very little time,” he said crustily. He did not want to reveal how tired he was. His shoes, which had gotten wet during his ride home, were uncomfortable. And he had to change clothes for the christening fete. “I cannot avoid my obligations as easily as you do,” he said without turning around. “I must return to the palace.”

  “Too bad.” Jean laughed shortly. He waited a moment, but the Duke did not move. He knew his son; though he rarely allowed himself to be tempted into expressions of feeling, he was worried about Jean de Nevers. Their conversations were always somewhat formal; they never approached friendly intimacy. Nevertheless, he knew that Jean would never have asked for an interview if he did not already have a carefully-weighed plan of action. So Burgundy returned to the bench.

  “It’s not necessary for you to come to an instant decision.” Jean sat down opposite his father. “All I want is your opinion in principle.” He stopped a moment, rubbing his long, bony forefinger along his nose—a gesture which was also characteristic of Burgundy. “You are undoubtedly aware of what has been going on in Hungary. King Sigismund’s couriers have been visiting us too often recently, and their stories are too alarming to be ignored. Those messengers aren’t coming here for nothing, my lord. Actually, I have the impression that this business is being passed off too lightly at court.”

  “No wonder Sigismund is uneasy—if it is true that the Turks are massing on the Hungarian border. But what do you mean to imply? Surely this would be an exceptionally ill-chosen moment for France to send an auxiliary army to Hungary.”

  “I do not agree with you, Monseigneur.” Jean de Nevers leaned toward his father, with both hands on his knees. “On the contrary, I am convinced that there is great enthusiasm for a crusade against the Turks now. For the last few years there has been no military undertaking of any importance. And surely there are enough men in France who are eager to demonstrate their dexterity with weapons outside the jousting field. It would be really wicked to encourage our knighthood to believe that they should be contented with dancing, playing the lute and composing love songs.” He snorted derisively and laughed. Deep in thought, Burgundy stared at his son.

  “If we should be in a position to raise an army,” he said slowly, with the traces of a smile at the corners of his mouth, “presumably you do not intend to play a subordinate role.”

  “Then I will take the leadership upon myself. I consider that I am completely capable of it.”

  “No one could accuse you of false modesty, my son,” said Burgundy ironically. “But as I have already said, I am afraid that the moment is not auspicious. It requires a good deal of trouble and expense to gather the money and materials for that kind of enterprise. I don’t believe that I can permit a claim for new taxes now—there’s a limit to everything.”

  “I’m convinced that almost everyone who bears a name of any consequence will respond to the summons. This matter cannot be put off for long, my lord. Sigismund’s messengers who are here at the moment will shortly be leaving. I am eager to give them a satisfactory answer to take back with them. We have to anticipate that the Hungarians could be destroyed if the Serbian army perishes at Kossovo.”

  “Yes, yes.” Philippe nodded somewhat impatiently. “We will talk about this later at a more convenient time. Come to me tomorrow after early mass,” he said, saluting his son in farewell.

  Jean de Nevers bowed, and remained in that position until the Duke had left the room. Then he walked slowly back to the reading desk, his brow wrinkled in thought and his lower lip thrust forward. He trimmed a candle and resumed reading the letters of the Apostles, beautifully written on heavy parchment with the initial letters done in red and gold. The candles and the hearthfire cast a deep glow over the furniture, the dark carpets and the beamed ceiling.

  Queen Blanche, the widow of the King’s great grandfather, who had been dead for more than forty years, entered the lying-in chamber. She was the last descendant of the generation of the beloved and lamented Philippe the Fair who, as the first prince of the House of Valois, had now almost passed into legend. In a certain sense she was considered to be the head of the entire royal family. Although she lived in retirement in her castle at Neauphle in the province of Seine and Oise, the family listened to her advice, valued her judgment and kept her informed about everything that happened. She always attended the fetes of the royal family.

  Queen Blanche was about sixty-four years old, stately and beautiful in a way different from any other woman at court. The mourning which she had not laid aside in the forty years of her widowhood made her appearance all the more impressive. Past a row of deeply curtseying court ladies and chamberwomen, she walked to Valentine’s bed, her long mantle trailing after her.

  The Duchess of Orléans, refreshed after a deep sleep, lay on her back against the pillows, her face framed by two brown braids.

  “Well, Valentine?” said Queen Blanche cordially; she seated herself on a stool which the chamberwomen had placed hastily beside the bed. The Duchess smiled and attempted to sit up and kiss the older woman’s hand. Blanche held her back.

  “Lie still, darling. You must be tired enough after the reception here this afternoon. You are as white as a waxen votive image. Was it difficult this time?”

  “Ah, no.” Valentine shook her head. “Only I am so tired,” she added in a whisper. “I feel as though I will never find the strength to get up again. God knows it is a sinful thought… but sometimes I wish I had died in the childbed.”

  “Hush, hush, ma mie.” Queen Blanche leaned forward to block, from the ladies of her retinue who stood together at some distance behind her, the sight of tears gliding slowly down Valentine’s cheeks. “Don’t give in. Be brave. Life is hard for women—no one knows it better than I, ma mie; we must endure much sickness, grief and solitude before God delivers us. We are puppets; another will manipulates the strings, never our own. There is nothing for us except resignation and patience, Valentine, till the end of our days. Pray for strength to the Mother of God who had to bear more than any other woman on earth.”

  Valentine nodded; she could not restrain her tears.

  “And as far as my lord of Orléans is concerned,” continued the older woman softly, “there are worse husbands, darling. He is always courteous and obliging, and he does not neglect you—Harken to the tes
timony,” she added, smiling as the infant began to wail in the adjoining room. “All men are like that, ma mie—unruly and violent when they are young and foolish in their old age. A white neck, a pair of pretty eyes—no more is needed to bring their blood to a boil. Look at me, child, I know what I am talking about. When I was eighteen years old I was chosen by the King to be the Dauphin’s bride. I was pretty—prettier than these wax dolls here at the court. La Belle Blanche they called me in Navarre. My God, where does the time go?”

  Her smile deepened, wise, full of humor, and spread to the laughter lines around her bright, childlike eyes, black and round as Morello cherries.

  “The King had never seen me; he allowed me to come to Paris with my father to draw up the marriage agreement. I found my cousin the Dauphin not unpleasant—a little thin, but at least young and lively enough—and he was eager to have me; he made no bones about it. Then the King saw me and I did not become the wife of the crown prince; I became the Queen. My bridegroom was almost sixty years old. Do you think that I did not shed bitter tears, Valentine, when I had to stand beside that old man at the altar and still be silent? It pleased God to summon my husband two years after our marriage—perhaps you are thinking that I had little reason to complain about that. But my blood was young, even though I wore mourning—and I had no children. No, ma mie, you don’t know your own wealth.”

  “Don’t think that I am ungrateful, Madame,” said Valentine. She was a little livelier; color had come into her cheeks. “When I was a child I had already learned that there is not much sense in dreaming too much. In Pavia too, reality was hard and bitter. But within the last few years it seems as though everything happens at once. I hardly solve one problem before another one appears. It is not so much about the death of my children or about—about Monseigneur d’Orléans …” she went on quietly after a slight pause, while her fingers burrowed into the embroidery of the coverlet. “I believe that sorrow is the portion of all women … that does not make it easier to bear. But there are things one can learn to accept.”

  Queen Blanche smiled in compassion. She saw through Valentine’s heroic attempt at self-deception.

  “What is vexing you then, ma mie? I want nothing better than to help you … if that lies in my power. A sympathetic ear can also be a help, if no advice is possible.”

  “The King,” whispered Valentine, with a sidelong glance at the ladies-in-waiting. “I worry about the King.” The older woman leaned forward; the lappets of her veil fell over the blanket.

  “We do not need to pretend with each other. You know as well as I do that the King’s illness is incurable. It still amazes me that it took so long for the seizures to come upon him. I saw it in him when he was only a child—he was restless and filled with strange notions. Indeed, his mother, Queen Jeanne, also suffered from a weakness in her head; there were times when she could not remember anything, not even her own name, nor her rank, or recognize the faces of her children. She suffered terribly when she came to herself again and everyone suffered with her, for she was a sweet lady, Queen Jeanne; after her death her husband said of her that she had been the sun of his kingdom—a somewhat pale sun, perhaps.” She smiled, lost in memory. “But it was well put and it expressed what many people felt. She had grace and charm—two important qualities, which Monseigneur d’Orléans inherited from her.”

  “The King does not want to recognize the Queen,” Valentine said, looking up at Blanche’s face. “The Queen suffers because of it. This afternoon when they were here—he thrust her away from him. My heart bled for her; she loves the King so much.”

  “Loves … !” said Queen Blanche, not without mockery. “Pure madness. That is the love of the doe for the buck, the ewe for the ram. It is irresistible in the spring and when the leaves fall, it is over.”

  Valentine shook her head.

  “You cannot say that, Madame. I was with the Queen when they brought her the news of the King’s first attack of madness in the forest of Mans; I saw how the blow struck her. It was as though she had lost her senses herself. And doesn’t she do what she can for him? Each day while he was there, she sent a message to Creil to ask him if he wanted anything. I have heard it said that she stands weeping outside his door when he does not wish to see her. Oh, but I feel with her too,” she continued vehemently. “It is unbearable to know that someone you love is close by and unreachably distant and … gone …”

  “The Queen has a staunch advocate in you, ma mie,” the older woman said shrewdly. “And she does not deserve it.”

  A flush flooded into Valentine’s face; she lowered her eyes.

  “I know very well that the Queen cannot abide me,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “That is also one of the things that pains me. I understand it—the discord between Bavaria and the Visconti …”

  “And more yet…” Queen Blanche nodded significantly. “Much more yet—and that is worse. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, my God!” whispered the Duchess of Orléans; she raised both hands in a gesture of despair. “But I do not want that at all—I cannot help it. I love the King very much … he has always been kind and gentle to me … but surely no one would dare to say …”

  She pressed the palms of her hands against her cheeks and turned her head slowly from side to side. “The Queen cannot think that, Madame; she knows there is nothing between the King and me but close friendship …”

  “As far as that is concerned, you have certainly never given her cause for complaint,” Blanche agreed. “The King usually sought and found his pleasures far from the palace with wanton women and peasant girls—shabby amusement for a king! But the Queen could not be angry about that—no one is jealous of an hour’s nameless love. Oh no, ma mie, envy of you suits her convenience remarkably well; she wants to believe that she has a reason to blame you.”

  Valentine raised herself slightly from the pillows; two bright red marks stained her cheeks.

  “So much is being said,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to think. One of the chamberwomen overheard a story they are telling in the streets … They say I let a poisoned apple roll into the nursery while the Dauphin was playing with my little son.”

  “Hush—that’s foolishness.” Blanche half-rose from her seat and pushed the young woman back among the pillows. “Lie still now, Valentine. Your face is glowing with fever. Don’t you know that kind of talk is meaningless? Why, your little Louis could have eaten the apple himself.”

  She stroked Valentine’s cheek soothingly, but she kept her eyes cast down to conceal her look of alert disquiet. She had heard that strange story. Isabeau did not always do her work with caution. Valentine moved her head back and forth over the pillows as though she were in pain; her lips were dry from thirst. Queen Blanche noticed this and beckoned to one of the young women nearby; she asked her to bring a spiced drink.

  “I feel danger everywhere,” whispered Valentine. “Perhaps I am imagining it, perhaps it is not true. God grant it is not true. But I don’t know … my feelings have never deceived me about things like that …”

  “Yes, yes,” the older woman nodded, sighing, while she took the goblet from the waiting-woman and helped Valentine to drink. “Try to go to sleep now, ma mie. It wasn’t sensible of me to let you talk so long.”

  “I can’t sleep now,” said the Duchess of Orléans. She waved the beaker away after she had taken a few sips. “I should like someone to read to me; that would distract me from my thoughts. I am too tired to read myself; perhaps the Dame de Maucouvent can come sit with me … with the Histories of Troy which I was reading before my confinement.”

  “I shall send her.” Blanche rose. The ladies of her suite came up quickly, ready to push away the chair and to pick up the Queen’s long train when she descended from the dais. She bent over Valentine again. “Be brave,” she whispered within the shelter of the falling veil which hid both their faces. Then she left to enter the adjoining room.

  A few of Valentine’s ladies stood around th
e wet nurse who was holding little Charles at her breast. The infant’s wrinkled, red head seemed smaller than the rounded breast from which he suckled. He moved his little hands aimlessly back and forth, and made loud smacking sounds, to the delight of the young women. As Queen Blanche entered the room, they moved aside and curtsied. The wet nurse made an effort to stand up.

  “Please sit, la Brune,” Blanche said, with a wave of her hand. The child, who had lost the nipple, turned his head to left and right. He was bound to a small oblong cushion, stiffly wound about with bands of cloth.

  “A healthy youngster,” said the wet nurse proudly. “And he suckles well, much better than Monseigneur Louis did at his age.”

  Blanche smiled and brushed her forefinger lightly over the baby’s little cheek, as cool and soft as fine silk. She let her eyes travel over the room, which, like the lying-in chamber, was hung with green tapestries. Two beds of state stood there, richly made up with pillows, cushions and counterpane.

  “Is the Dame de Maucouvent not here?” she asked one of the young women. “The Duchess would like someone to read to her.” The girl curtsied, colored with shyness and replied in the negative. The Dame de Maucouvent was in the nursery, putting Monseigneur Louis to bed. Queen Blanche frowned and cast a look of quick concern toward the lying-in chamber. She was about to send for the governess when another young woman stepped forward.