In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  After their father’s death, both boys had drawn even more closely together, perhaps in reaction to the surveillance with which the Dukes had surrounded them behind a mask of courtesy. But the time for childish games was over for good; Charles fell prey to Burgundy’s powers of persuasion; seduced by the prospect of heroic deeds on the field of battle, he allowed himself to lead an army into Flanders to subdue the regions which had risen against French rule; thus, without being aware of it, he played into the hands of Burgundy, whose power in Flanders had been firmly established by French victories in Roosebeke and elsewhere. Louis had fervently hoped to go to war, too; he was wisely kept at a safe distance from the battlefield by sensible elements in the Council. They did not entertain the possibility that some accident would befall the young King; they thought only that it was prudent to keep the successor to the throne close at hand. Among the Marmousets, those ministers who had served his father and who had not been banished by the Regents, he found sharp-witted and objective advisors; one of them, Philippe de Maizieres, a man advanced in years, was uncommonly fond of Louis and only for his sake remained near the court which had lost the sobriety characterizing it during the reign of Charles V. Louis delighted in this wantonly sensual and luxurious atmosphere. He had too ebullient a personality not to be the first among those dancers, those devotees of Our Lady Love, addicted to gambling and hunting.

  Although he was still a boy, barely on the brink of manhood, Louis was quite aware of the impression which he made upon women. They seemed to be wherever he went, all sorts of women, with light and dark eyes, their hair done in a thousand different ways, in long graceful garments, sparkling with costly jewels, infinitely more beautiful than the cold, chaste saints who looked down upon him from altar panel and tapestry. Small wonder, then, that he soon became familiar with the games of the Courts of Love. And he dreamt meanwhile of other conquests as well. He was now fourteen years old and considered to have come of age. The young King gave him the Duchy of Touraine as well as many other estates and castles along with their titles and revenues. At the same time, a bride was found for him in Italy, an heiress to vast land holdings. Valentine, however, was nothing more than a name to the young man—a name linked to long negotiations about the dowry of 30,000 gold florins, the city of Asti and other citadels with mellifluous names: Montechiaro, Serravalle, Castagnole. Louis took active part in the discussions and helped to choose the officials who would represent him in his new dominions. He and Valentine exchanged gifts; they were now betrothed.

  Time did not hang heavily on his hands while he awaited the coming of his bride; in a campaign against the Duke of Gelre, Louis could at long last play a role. The boy had grown into a man; the sprighdy, quick-witted child had developed a diplomatic skill to be reckoned with. The eyes of the Duke of Burgundy fixed on his youngest nephew; he did not plan to lose sight of him again. He attempted to gauge the feelings of Louis’ friends, trying cautiously to discover causes of enmity toward him; he needed to know where the young man’s power and where his vulnerability lay. He considered the King to be a good-natured but rather muddle-headed young fellow, easily influenced and quickly distracted by all sorts of fantasies. In addition, Charles’ health was already affected by dissipation. Louis seemed to be without hereditary mental or physical taint; this, in addition to his popularity at court, made him a figure of great importance in the political theatre which Burgundy, the puppet-master, wished to control. However, it soon became all too apparent that Louis had no intention of dangling helplessly from Burgundy’s strings. The young man, courteous and urbane, went his own way. Those districts and provinces which he had over the years received from the King or had been able to acquire himself, seemed to cluster around the heart of France, a well-plotted zone of strategic bases upon which Burgundy looked with suspicion.

  In August of the year 1389, Valentine Visconti came to Melun to be joined to Louis in matrimony. It was there, outside the castle, amid the thick deep greenery of the midsummer meadows, that bride and bridegroom met each other for the first time, under the bright August sky filled with white drifting clouds. She had come to meet him, stepping forward from a group of Lombardy noblewomen; against the background of their flowing garments embroidered with gold and precious stones, she stood out in simple elegance, more sophisticated than any finery: in her deep scarlet bridal dress she appeared to rise up from the ground like a flame; the radiant light of the summer day seemed to burn within her, a bright glory behind her eyes and skin.

  Kneeling now on the cold stone floor before the statue of the Mother of God, Louis mourned the loss of that summer bliss, the pull of more gross pleasures which had taken him from Valentine’s arms. What did it matter that he respected her for the purity of her character, that he turned to her for her unfailing sympathy, that he considered her his kindred spirit, sharing his interests in the arts and sciences—if all that were not enough to pacify his restless heart? The amber and ivory of her beauty often seemed to pale for him—he looked for more glowing colors and voluptuous curves; he did not disdain the full ripe fruit beckoning in the foliage of the orchard, even though he held a lily in his hand.

  Apart from all this, Valentine’s dowry required too much of his attention. Galeazzo Visconti released the gold florins with great reluctance; the money reached his son-in-law only in driblets. In addition, matters did not go smoothly in Asti and the cities of Lombardy because the nobles there did not wish to pay Louis the homage of vassals. Thus it was imperative that Louis go to Lombardy. Once he arrived in Italy and came face-to-face with his crafty father-in-law, Louis became painfully aware that the possession of Asti and its surrounding countryside—and, even more, the relationship with the Lord of Milan—would embroil him in endless difficulties. Not only the interests, but also the enemies of the Visconti would be his; on the other hand, as lord of domains in Lombardy he was obliged to maintain good relations with all subjects and neighbors, even though this was not in accord with Galeazzo’s politics. Visconti was like a spider in a web of intrigue; left and right he seized what he liked; weaving, meanwhile, cunning new threads. He lay in wait for more important plunder than a handful of Italian cities; he had made a firm decision to utilize his relationship with powerful France.

  Louis was offered the prospect of a crown, a kingdom on the Adriatic Sea, artificially created by a group of ambitious men working behind the scenes: the Avignon Pope, Clement VII, who wished to move to Rome; Galeazzo, who wanted to be crowned king of Tuscany and Lombardy; the heirs of Anjou, who still hankered after the throne of Sicily; and, finally, Burgundy, who supported all these ambitions in return for certain compensations, for it would be most convenient for him in the future if Louis were safely tucked away on the Adriatic coast, far from Saint-Pol, far from France.

  It was to be expected that the attempted execution of these plans would encounter fierce resistance in Italy. The battle continued to rage in a series of skirmishes and negotiations between the involved parties: Florence, Bologna, Padua, Milan, the mighty city of Genoa as well as Savona—all threatened, directly or indirectly, by the intrigues of Gian Galeazzo, and by rapacity and treason within their own camps. Genoa, the city most torn by civic discord, was the one weak spot in all the turbulence; the conquest of Genoa would be a milestone on the road to the Adriatic kingdom.

  At this point the King, and Gian Galeazzo as well, shifted responsibility for the entire undertaking onto Louis’ shoulders—Charles because he was tired and sick, already touched by madness; and the Lord of Milan calculatedly. With gold and promises, Louis mustered an army of mercenaries and adventurous nobles with their followers. He sent messengers to everyone to hold themselves in readiness for the campaign; at the head of his troops he placed Enguerrand, Lord of Coucy, who for years had been one of his closest friends and who was one of the most able military commanders in the realm. At the same time, Louis pressed Pope Clement for a bull of authorization which would lend this enterprise the look of legality. The Prince of the Ch
urch in Avignon was not ready for this; to be sure, he wished eventually to pluck the fruits of the campaign and tread the path to Rome that Louis had cleared for him. But he did not consider it expedient at that time to announce his interests in the affair. Louis was disappointed but not surprised. He sent Enguerrand de Coucy to Lombardy.

  Many of the problems seemed on the point of being solved when suddenly the Western world was violently upset: in September the Avignon Pope, Clement, died unexpectedly. No stone thrown into an ant hill could have caused a greater commotion than this death caused in a shaken and divided Christendom. So many new problems piled up that Louis, dismayed, set politics aside for the moment. Impelled by a longing for inner peace, he went on a pilgrimage to Asnieres where he owned a castle in the neighborhood of a monastery and a church. However, Valentine’s approaching confinement brought him back to Paris toward the end of November.

  Kneeling in the chapel of his house, he remembered the many hours of meditation he had spent in Asnieres, far from war and ambition, far from the court and temptation. With a bitter smile he thought of the priests, urging him at confession to control his desires; it was easy enough to be chaste and disinterested within the white walls of his cell, listening to pealing bells and pious hymns. But who could engage in the life of the world outside without being caught up in passion? Louis had learned from the behavior of dignitaries of the Church in the environs of the court and especially from the conduct of Clement and his cardinals in Avignon that even the purple robes of prelates did not protect them against sin.

  Lust and greed, the Devil’s companions, often hid behind masks. There were moments when Louis felt almost choked by the wickedness of the world. At those times he lost the light cynicism with which he managed to adjust to every circumstance; he felt like the serpent which the sculptured Mother of God trampled under her small foot. Nor did his uneasiness cease in this hushed room redolent of incense.

  He crossed himself and rose to his feet. He knew that he was going to spend another sleepless night when he went to bed. The thought crossed his mind even in this sacred place, of an alternative; there were houses in Paris where, with women and dice, one could temporarily escape from reality. He struck himself scornfully on the mouth with his gloves, which he still held tightly in his hand. Then he quickly left the room.

  He walked to the door which led to his own private apartments, but paused with his hand upon the door-ring, staring at the sentry who stood leaning against the wall, asleep. The torches in metal brackets, placed at regular intervals along the walls of the corridor, burned with a soft crackling sound; the man stirred in his sleep.

  Orléans turned and moved cautiously to a low door at the other end of the passage, behind which a spiral staircase wound down through one of the many towers to the ground floor. The icy night air and the odor of damp earth rushed to meet him as he opened the door to the inner court. The wind had driven away the fog and the clouds; the moon stood reflected in pools of water left from early evening showers. Between the narrow cobbled footpaths which traversed the court in the shape of a star, small shrubs had been planted. In the center of the star stood a fountain.

  Louis stood leaning against a pillar of the gallery which bordered one side of the court and gazed at the blue slate roofs of Saint-Pol and its numerous towers, wings and galleries looking like a mysterious labyrinth in the cold moonlight. Behind a series of narrow windows a weak glow could be seen: these were the apartments of Valentine and the women. Louis sighed and with one hand began to hook closed the cloak which he had thrown over his shoulders after the banquet. He could feel the metal ring which Salvia had brought him that morning pressing against his breast beneath his shirt; he pressed it with his hand.

  He had caught only a glimpse of Mariette d’Enghien when he had visited his wife with the King’s retinue; when the girl became aware of his glance she had retreated behind a group of ladies of the court, like a deer fleeing into the wood to escape the approaching hunting party. He crossed his arms and hid his hands in the wide folds of his cloak. Startled by the sound of a light step on the stones of the gallery, he turned quickly. The moonlight, shining through the rosettes cut into the stone arches, cast a pattern of silvery patches onto the floor; in the light could be seen the face and figure of his squire, Jacques van Hersen, whom he had dismissed for the night when he left the table. The youth knelt. “My lord,” he said.

  “What is it?” Louis asked curtly. He was annoyed at the interruption.

  “Don’t you need me, Monseigneur?”

  “Now that you have found me, you can come with me.” Louis turned his back to the page and entered the garden.

  They passed under the arched gate into the gardens of Saint-Pol, which were surrounded by high walls. The young trees, planted only a few years before, stood in rigid rows along the paths; wrapped in straw against the winter cold they looked like grotesque figures, suppliants, assassins, dancers, stylites. In the summer, lilies grew here, and bright-colored columbines in flower beds; rosebushes and hawthornes divided the garden into small lawns adorned with fountains and bird houses. Now the hazy moonlight hung over branches and twigs, bare hedges and leafless arbors.

  The Duke walked rapidly; without slowing his pace he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. By now it was obvious to the page where they were going; the path Louis was taking led directly to the buildings of the Celestine monastery, a pile of towers and roofs outside the palace walls. Before the Duke opened the door in the garden wall which led to the monastery, the page turned to look back once more; but the spacious gardens lay deserted and almost shadowless in the moonlight. Seen from this spot the steep walls and peaked towers of the palace of Saint-Pol seemed almost unreal: an enchanted castle suspended between heaven and earth, a dream vision woven out of moonlight and clouds.

  “Come, young man,” said Louis impatiently from the darkness.

  Quickly, Jacques followed his master through the low arch and shut the door. They stood in a roofed passage, with small windows on one side, through which the moonlight cast elongated white strips onto the ground. The Duke was at home here. In this place he had his own prayer cell where he spent certain days each year leading the life of a monk, wearing cap and cord and walking barefoot on the stone floors. His old friend and councillor lived here, Philippe de Maizieres, who had retired among the Celestines shortly after Louis had been declared of age.

  Louis hesitated a moment before the door of the chapel which had been built onto the cloister walls. He did not enter, but walked in the opposite direction until, past stairs and corridors, he entered the nearly dark dormitorium. Abruptly he stopped, with a half-suppressed cry of terror.

  The page stepped forward quickly. “What is it, Monseigneur?”

  Louis laid a trembling hand on the young man’s shoulder, seeking support, but he spoke words of reassurance.

  The page let his dagger slide back into its sheath, but stood peering suspiciously into the darkness. There was only one patch of light in the hall, a square of moonlight under the little window cut high into the wall. But this bluish, misty light only intensified the surrounding darkness and silence. A cold shiver climbed between Jacques’ shoulderblades; for a moment he felt a blind urge to bolt. The Duke’s footsteps sounded quicker than before. They reached the door giving access to de Maizieres’ rooms. Louis tapped at the wooden door, his usual quick, short signal; he entered without waiting for a reply.

  The former councillor to the King occupied two adjoining white-walled cells with vaulted ceilings. A life-sized image of the crucified Christ hung directly opposite the door; in the flickering light of a perpetual lamp the wounds seemed to glitter darkly with coagulated blood. A soft rustling came from the adjoining cell; after a few moments de Maizieres appeared, an old man in a cowl.

  “Forgive me for arriving at this late hour,” Louis said before de Maizieres could speak. “If I had not known that you seldom sleep after midnight, I would not have come. I needed to talk to you.�
�

  The old man stepped aside and motioned him to enter.

  “You don’t look well, Monseigneur,” he said, pushing the manuscript he had been reading to one side of the table. “I cannot say that the rest in Asnieres has done you good. Nor has the celebration of your son’s birth. What’s the matter? Your hands are shaking,” he added, lapsing into that familiar tone with which he had sometimes addressed Louis the child.

  “Maizieres,” said Orléans softly, “if it is true that a man can foresee his end …” He paused. “I know well enough that I have been fortunate in my undertakings,” he continued, more softly still. “But now it seems I am running out of time. I do not believe I shall live long, Maizieres. I have seen Death himself tonight.”

  The old man raised his head quickly. He shaded his eyes with one hand against the glow of the candle which stood on the table between them and scrutinized Louis sharply.

  “In the dormitorium, Death passed before me,” Orléans said, while they stared into each other’s eyes. “If I had put out my hand, I could have touched him—he was so real. Don’t say that I imagined it—I was thinking about other things. Without wishing it, without being prepared for it, I suddenly felt the chill which emanated from him and I saw him too, although it was dark all around me. How else would I know that he can transfix one with a stare from eyeless sockets—that he whispers without tongue or lips?”

  “You came from a banquet, my lord. Drinking the wine and listening to the music, you had perhaps given no thought to the fleeting nature of pleasure. Death frequently surprises men at such moments. Perhaps it is as well that you were reminded of more important matters.”