In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  The children’s nurses were busily raking up the hearthfire; they quit their work when the Queen entered, and paid her proper homage. Apart from that, there was a deep silence in the darkened room. Isabeau walked to the bed in which the Dauphin slept and thrust aside the curtains. The child lay on his back in the center of his bed; damp hair clung to his forehead. His mouth was open; he breathed heavily, wheezing. As usual Isabeau told herself that the child’s pallor, the shadows under his eyes, his whistling breath were symptoms of a passing indisposition, not sickness or even weakness. With almost childish obstinacy she dismissed the words of the doctors who compared the child’s health to the King’s. The child stirred in his sleep, perhaps disturbed by the light which the Queen held aloft. His lids flickered, showing the whites of his eyes. At that moment he bore a remarkable resemblance to the King as she had seen him the previous evening, writhing in Burgundy’s arms. Isabeau quickly dropped the curtain.

  Passing through the adjoining room where the governess still lay sleeping, Isabeau entered the princesses’ room. Isabelle and Jeanne lay together in a large bed like a scarlet tent; the reflection of the freshly raked hearth fire on the red cloth cast a glow on their small faces under their tight muslin nightcaps. Marie, the youngest, about a year old, slept in her cradle; her arm covered her face so that Isabeau could not see it. Marie had been born at a time when the King seemed recovered, and had been dedicated, out of gratitude, to the service of Our Sweet Lady of Poissy; a small pawn placed on Isabeau’s chessboard, not for wordly gain this time, but to buy God’s favor for the King of France.

  The dawn had colored the horizon a bright pink above the hills and fields of Saint-Pol when the Duke of Orléans left the chapel, followed by Jacques. The morning mist drifted low over the lightly frozen ground; the palace rose from the gardens as though from a hazy gray sea. The Bastille, at the extreme edge of the city, stood oudined steep and dark against the lightening sky. The park of Saint-Pol lay exactly in the sharp angle formed by two municipal walls on the right bank of the Seine; behind the Celestine monastery flowed the river, bisected by the island of Louviers. In the west loomed the city, with its dozens of churches, cloisters and castle towers, the irregular roofs of the houses crowded closely together on both sides of the narrow streets. Paris had been silent before the church bells began to ring; now the city was awake.

  In the early morning those who were employed in the fields surrounding the ramparts walked out to them through the countless gates; the day’s work began in the streets, in the marketplace, on the quays along the Seine, in the offices of the Provost, in the shops, granaries, mills and slaughterhouses, and in all of the 4,000 taverns of Paris.

  In the Hotel d’Artois—the residence of the Duke of Burgundy—it was the custom to arise at dawn. Philippe and Margaretha, out of an unswerving devotion to duty, attended early mass; in addition, the Duke chose to receive the officials of his household and to handle the countless matters connected with the provinces in the early morning hours. Also, on this November morning the room adjoining the reception hall was filled with waiting people: burghers, merchants, farmers, clergy, lawyers, many holding petitions in their hands. Behind a tall wooden partition stood a few peasants from the domains in Burgundy; they had been called to account because they had been negligent in paying the taxes due on the vintage. The grey light filtering through the small, high windows made the room seem bleaker and colder than it was. The more self-assured among those who waited walked back and forth, stamping softly now and then, and rubbing their hands. But those who were here for the first time stood, intimidated, against the walls, shivering in their best clothes.

  It took longer than usual for the first visitor to be called in; the Duke’s scriveners and secretaries glanced curiously at the door which led to Burgundy’s apartments. The Duke did not come; he was talking with his wife. Margaretha sat in a deep window niche, staring through small, slightly cloudy panes at the land behind the adjacent city wall. The autumn morning light lay pale on the hills of Mont-martre. Burgundy stood, hands behind his back, one foot on the step leading to the seat in the window niche.

  “It was too late to begin yesterday. There are a few things I am eager to learn, Madame.”

  “Do not forget, my lord, that people are waiting for you,” remarked the Duchess, her eyes still on the hills.

  Burgundy frowned. “Am I master in my own house or not?” he asked testily.

  The corners of Margaretha’s mouth moved in an imperceptible smile, more eloquent than any answer. She folded her hands in her lap, a sign that she was ready to listen.

  “In the first place,” Burgundy began coldly, “I am anxious to hear how it happens that the Queen can speak privately with so loathsome a fellow as the beggar from Guyenne, about whom you have no doubt heard.”

  The Duchess of Burgundy shrugged placidly, looking at her husband from the corner of her eye.

  “I thought we had agreed at the time,” Burgundy continued, “that every contact between the Queen and the outside world would take place through you. You have the opportunity to observe everything that happens in Her Majesty’s apartments.”

  “The Queen is not a child,” said Margaretha. “I cannot lie down like a watchdog on her threshold. But there is no reason to be dissatisfied with me; I do what I can.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Philippe now stood on the step of the window niche. “And as a matter of fact no harm was done, this time. But that does not mean that similar visits will be harmless in the future. After the Queen, you are the first lady at court, Madame.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but I am not,” said Margaretha. Her small mouth seemed to become smaller, her glance sharper, a sign that Burgundy’s dart had found its mark with malice aforethought. He bowed his head as though suddenly aware that he had made a mistake.

  “Good. You are right, Madame, ma mie, you are only the third lady of France—but it lies in your power to be the first, if you wish.”

  “I do what I can,” Margaretha repeated. She turned her head away and stared unseeing at the buildings which lay between the Hotel d’Artois and the ramparts. She thought of the humiliation she had endured at the court: at each more or less official function where both she and the Duchess of Orléans had been present, Margaretha had duly given precedence to the much younger woman, with deep curtsies. She punctiliously observed protocol, but the deferential words lay like gall and wormwood on her tongue and the faultlessly executed curtsies were torture to her. That Valentine invariably treated her with kind respect only exacerbated her resentment. She could not forgive the Italian woman for her amiable disposition and her honorable character which made every intrigue against her seem tasteless and reprehensible. Margaretha was only too well aware that the task she had taken upon herself—to drive a wedge between the royal family and Orléans—demanded from her words and actions of which she was secretly ashamed. This feeling of guilt lay deep within her. It gnawed at the roots of her self-esteem and created a constant state of discontent which was reflected in the drooping corners of her mouth.

  “I know you do everything in your power,” Burgundy said, somewhat less coldly. “Yesterday I had an opportunity to observe that the Queen is firmly convinced that Madame d’Orléans is an accomplished practitioner of the black arts. But we must take care that the Queen does not choose Orléans’ side now; on the contrary, it is desirable that the same shadow should fall over husband and wife. I would like to know if my meaning is clear to you.”

  The Duchess of Burgundy gave him a sharp look; two luminous points lay motionless in her black pupils.

  “I understand perfectly,” she replied at last. “But I fear it will not be easy. Do not forget that the Queen’s aversion to Madame d’Orléans is almost innate. Furthermore, it is seldom difficult for one woman to hate another—reasons can always be found. And the role which Monseigneur d’Orléans fills for the Queen cannot be taken by anyone else. She needs him; therefore he will remain in her favor—even if he we
re the foul fiend himself. The Queen has a real hunger for pleasure and amusements; who would help her prepare all those masquerades and balls if Monseigneur d’Orléans were not there?”

  “I am only amazed that he still finds time for another less harmless pastime,” said Burgundy drily. He walked across the room where, on the opposite wall, hung a Flemish tapestry, depicting the birth of Mary. He stood motionless before it, filled, as always, with deep pleasure; not so much because he was struck by the splendor of crimson, peacock blue and red gold, but because this precious work of art belonged to him.

  “Alas, what a pity,” said Margaretha from the window niche, “that our son Jean shows so little interest in affairs at court. The Queen does not like him, although she does her best to hide it. That makes Orléans’ position considerably stronger.”

  Burgundy frowned, nodding; he ran his finger along the letters stitched in gold thread on the lower edge of the tapestry.

  “Now is also the time to discuss Jean,” he said, without turning. “He has asked me to allow him to lead a crusade against the Turks. Do you know about this?” he broke off to ask, and saw her nod.

  “Not directly from him. And not in detail, but enough to know that we must encourage the venture as strongly as possible.”

  “I think so too.” Philippe walked back to her across the tiled floors, with measured steps. “It will mean great expense, but we must raise the money. Naturally, I am not opposed to it; I see the substantial benefits of such an enterprise. Besides, Basaach is a danger to Christendom; he is not a man, but a ravenous beast. And now it seems that Orléans promised help to the Hungarians some time ago—a considerable sum of money, if I am correctly informed, and also various gentlemen of his court with their men.”

  “Orléans cannot possibly leave now.” Margaretha smiled and smoothed her wide sleeves. “Though that might possibly be a solution …”

  The Duke of Burgundy stood and looked at her.

  “That is foolishness “ he said sharolv. “You know that it is impossible for me to exert any influence here, especially now that the King’s condition leaves so much to be desired. I wish Jean to go; I have thought a great deal about it and I believe it would be unwise to neglect this opportunity. He must take the best men who can be found. I am thinking of sending messengers to Enguerrand de Coucy in Italy. He is the only one who knows what a campaign in the East means.”

  Margaretha looked up quickly, like a greyhound pricking up its ears.

  “But the Sire de Coucy leads Orléans’ troops in Italy,” she said. “His return would cause considerable delay there. I thought the state of affairs in Italy had your full support, my lord.”

  “Yes, so it did. But Pope Clement is dead and without him this Italian venture has little purpose. In any case, I need the Sire de Coucy now. I can offer him better employment for his abilities—the best is not good enough for me, now that a son of Burgundy marches off to war.”

  “This will create a great sensation,” said Margaretha thoughtfully, “especially in England.” She paused to arrange her long, fur-trimmed train carefully about her feet; a cold draught had swept across the floor. Then, casually, she gave him the news which she considered the most important part of the conversation.

  “Froissart has returned from England,” she said. “He has petitioned the Queen for an interview. Quite by accident I heard something about the intelligence he brings. It should be of interest to you, my friend.”

  “What are the important tidings which have reached your ears, my dear wife?” Burgundy sat down in the window niche next to her. The Duchess folded her long, rather bony hands over each other; on her forefinger was the ring engraved with the Flemish motto of the Burgundies: “Ic houd”. I keep.

  “King Richard wishes to remarry,” she said slowly. “He asks if an embassy would be well received here. It seems to be his intention to ask the King for the hand of the small Isabelle. My informant was quite certain of his business.”

  The Duke of Burgundy sat quietly; he gazed at his wife, absorbed in thought.

  “If that is really true,” he said at last, “then it is the best news I have heard in a long time. A marriage between France and England would make war impossible—or at any rate most undesirable. We cannot underestimate the advantages, ma mie. A war with England would cause the interests of France and of Flanders to be so diametrically opposed to each other that I would have to tear myself in two to satisfy both. I may assume then that you will support Froissart’s errands whole-heartedly and that you will point out to the Queen the advantages of the proposal. For my part I shall speak with the King myself—at least so far as that is possible.”

  “And … Orléans?” asked Margaretha, rising. She liked order and punctuality; she was annoyed that her husband had delayed his audiences. The Duke helped her descend the step from the window niche and walked slowly with her to the door.

  “Orléans will undoubtedly be against it,” he said. “For that reason it is extremely important that decisions be made before he can exert any influence.”

  The Duchess stopped and drew the long, rustling train of her dress over her arm.

  “Such things usually reach his ears more swiftly than I would wish. Orléans is on his guard.”

  “I know it.” Philippe thrust aside a tapestry to let his wife through the door. “And he does not hide his knowledge, as you may have noticed last night. I shall have to put up strong barriers against him.”

  “God be with you, my lord,” said the Duchess of Burgundy ironically.

  She was gone, dropping the curtain while Philippe was still making his formal bow. Donning his velvet hat, the Duke strode to the audience chamber.

  At dawn Louis d’Orléans sank onto his bed fully clothed, hoping to snatch a few moments of sleep. But because he lay quiet, breathing regularly, his valet Racaille assumed that he was sleeping; he approached cautiously and began to pull off Louis’ muddy shoes. The fire roared in the hearth, for the morning wind was blowing into the chimney; early sunlight gleamed through the small round cut glass window panes. While the servant busily loosened the laces of the Duke’s clothing, loud insistent voices could be heard in the anteroom; a chair was pushed noisily aside.

  Racaille went quickly to the door, fearing that Louis’ friends had come to remind him of a pre-arranged morning ride, repast or hunting party. Two gentlemen-in-waiting, along with a page, panting from having raced up many flights of stairs, were standing in the anteroom.

  “Where is Monseigneur?” demanded one of the gentlemen. He seemed excited, and attempted to peer past Racaille into the bedroom.

  “Monseigneur d’Orléans is asleep,” the servant replied curtly. He was angry at this invasion, but angrier still at the carelessness of Monseigneur who seemed to think he could live without sleep, wandering God knew where while sensible people were getting their good night’s rest. But the gentlemen insisted on an audience.

  Louis heard the voices through a dreamy mist. Although he did not wish to be disturbed, he opened his eyes and called, “What is it, Racaille?” The gentlemen appeared in the doorway.

  “My lord,” said one, “a courier has just arrived from Lombardy with a message from Messire Enguerrand de Coucy.”

  “Well?” Louis heaved himself onto his elbow.

  “The city of Savona has surrendered, Monseigneur, even before a siege could begin.” The courtier spoke in a loud, important voice. “The city fathers wish to conclude an alliance with you regardless of Genoa’s position.”

  Louis sat up and swung his legs onto the step next to his bed. Racaille hurried to bring him clean, dry shoes. The two noblemen, who had expected expressions of pleasure, or at the least, approval from the Duke, stared at him in surprise. Louis sat expressionless while Racaille tightened the buckles on his shoes.

  “So,” he said finally, “very pretty. A success for Chassenage and Armagnac’s mercenaries. Although the Gascons will be sorry they could not use force of arms. If all this had happened in t
he spring or during the summer,” he continued, standing up, “I would have had more reason to rejoice.” He walked to the window: the gleam of the morning sun on the blue roofs of the towers was almost blinding. He squinted, but did not turn; he had no wish for further conversation with the two noblemen who stood uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Send the courier to me when he is ready,” Louis said, with a dismissive gesture.

  Later in the day Louis set out for his wife’s apartments. As always, he felt the need to share important events and considerations with her. Some time had passed since he had last talked seriously with Valentine; in recent months he had not wanted to tire her with discussions about the Italian campaign or the matter of the papal elections.

  The Duchess of Orléans lay propped up on pillows in the large state bed; two damsels stood on steps on either side, plaiting her hair into braids. She had slept better than she had for days and felt refreshed insofar as she could in the stuffy air of the hermetically sealed chamber. A smile glimmered in her eyes as soon as she saw her husband enter; the court ladies withdrew immediately to an adjoining room. Louis greeted her with more warmth than he had shown in a long time. His eagerness for a willing ear and loving attention woke an almost reluctant surge of affection in him. Valentine’s bright golden brown eyes were fixed upon her husband as he moved a bench beside her bed and sat down; her cheeks were flushed and a smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. She folded her hands before her on the coverlet. She was filled with deep contentment bordering on bliss because he had come to her; although at the same time she was conscious, to her sorrow, that he had not sought her so much as the comfort of her counsel.

  Although Gian Galeazzo’s daughter was by no means in full agreement with Milan’s policies, she had no choice but to endorse the plans made or inspired by her father—especially those in which Louis was involved. The Tyrant of Milan had tried repeatedly to use Valentine to exercise influence on both his son-in-law and the King, but she refused to allow herself to be used in that way, although she was willing to involve herself in negotiations or make recommendations. She knew that appearances were against her, especially in the eyes of Isabeau and her Bavarian kinsmen—it seemed almost unnatural that the daughter should not blindly serve the father’s interests.