He did not tell anyone about these fantasies, not even his mother, whom he loved more than anyone else. He was glad to sit close to her on winter afternoons when the corridors were dark and uneasy feelings lay in wait for him on the silent steps, in the empty doorways. His mother sat by the fire and played the harp or embroidered with golden thread. The light gleamed in the little colored jewels in her necklace and in her eyes; she told long stories which he found splendidly thrilling, although he did not completely understand them. Or she sang songs with her maidens, very sad songs. Often she sat silent. At those times she put her arms around her small son and held him close against her. An odor of honey and roses wafted from the deep folds of her dress. Charles looked close up at her sweet face, her narrow pale lips and her soft tresses. Her sighs made him feel sad. It was always something of a relief when she had the chess set brought to her so that she could play with Marie d’Harcourt, or when she told the librarian, Maitre Giles Malet, to fetch a book—one of her breviaries with little paintings in gold and azure, or the great book of King Arthur.
In the spring, Charles’ mother became livelier, but at the same time more restless; then she usually wanted to travel to castles as yet unvisited. The prospect of a carriage ride quickly reconciled Charles to the bustle in the inner rooms, the running back and forth of women and servants, the moving of pieces of furniture, carpets and other household goods. Later, when summer came, with sun and flowers and deep greenery, his mother hurried each day to leave the castle and sit outside on the grass, braiding garlands or gathering herbs. Often too she went horseback riding; the harness was studded with gilded knobs and embellished with tiny bells; golden tassels hung from caparison and saddlecloth. So she rode to the hunt with a falcon perched on her glove. Charles’ mother never looked so beautiful as when she returned home after such an outing, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. She talked a lot to Charles about his father, who was the King’s brother, a courageous knight and a splendid figure like the heroes of the romances.
That idea was strengthened on the few occasions when he saw his father. Surrounded by horsemen in armor, he came riding over the bridge and courtyard on a magnificent steed; when, with spurs jingling, he entered the great hall, he knelt to salute Charles’ mother, who waited for him in the seat of honor. When his father stayed with them, the castie overflowed with people, and each evening there was a feast; long tables were added to accommodate all the guests. After the meal the minstrels Colinet and Herbelin, who were always with his father, sang songs and Gilot the Fool somersaulted along the tables. Later, gifts, brought from Paris on donkeys, were brought in: mantles of silk and gold for Charles’ mother, household linen, fur and leather, silver dishes, books; for Charles and Philippe, mantles like the ones grown-ups wear, in green or black, embroidered with emblems: thisdes, vines, heraldic wolves. Once Charles was given a leather case which held three combs and a little mirror; he wore it proudly on his girdle.
Then during his father’s visits, there was hunting; that was quite a spectacle. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, a sleepy nursemaid held Charles, wrapped in a blanket, up to a window so that he could look down on the inner courtyard where torches burned, servants kept dozens of restless dogs together on long leashes, horses stood stamping and snorting. All day long the child could hear the blaring of the hunting horns in the forest, and the furious baying of the dogs. Later he found the deferred booty less attractive: he was filled with pity and revulsion when he saw the stiffly outstretched legs of the does, their great glazed eyes, the wild boar black with congealed blood, the limp bodies of the hares, and the dead birds, a heap of feathers stuck together.
Charles most admired his father when he blew on his hunting horn—no one made a prettier sound than he did. Sometimes, to please his little son, Louis, outdoors in the gallery or somewhere in the castle gardens, blew for him all the signals he knew, along with little melodies which he made up on the spot. These sounds remained linked in Charles’ memory with the image of a castle looming dark against the light of a pink evening sky, the twilight fragrance of herbs, flowers and earth. Always early in the morning his father was suddenly gone; each time these departures took Charles completely by surprise; he was angry then because no one had warned him.
Once—it was the middle of winter, when the trees stood frosty-white in the fields—there was a great feast. They were living then in a castle called Epernay: Charles remembered that because the journey there had required unusually long and full preparations. The castle was filled with so many tapestries and candlesticks, cushions and valuables, that Charles asked himself if it were Christmas, but no one seemed to have time to tell him anything. The Dame de Maucouvent kept her eye on the chamberwomen who folded and spread the linen; Charles’ mother supervised the polishing and display of the gold dishes and tankards; servants hammered in the stables; the court ladies embroidered crowned initials on a set of new bedcurtains. At last Charles was fetched to be fitted with a small cloak that glittered with gold and precious stones. Now he heard something about what was going on. The Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, Wenceslaus, was coming to see Charles’ parents; the Dame de Maucouvent told him this while she knelt before Charles to see if his state robes sat upon him properly.
“Emperor Wenceslaus, Wen … ces … laus,” she repeated. “Say that once, Monseigneur.”
“Wen … ces … laus,” said Charles hesitantly. The Dame de Maucouvent seemed to be very excited; her headdress was all on one side, which was not her usual custom, and her dress was rumpled. Later that evening his mother came to sit on the side of his bed; she laid her narrow, cool hand against his cheek.
“Tomorrow the Emperor is coming here, child,” she said.
“Wen … ces … laus,” whispered Charles quickly, to show that he remembered this remarkable name. His mother smiled. “Your father is bringing the Emperor to Epernay,” she went on. “The Emperor is coming to see you. Don’t forget that; be brave and carry yourself like a true knight. You are growing so big, my little son. Kneel before the Emperor when you are brought before him and say, Welcome, Sire.’”
“Welcome, Sire, welcome, Sire,” repeated Charles; he no longer knew whether he was dreaming or awake.
The day dawned with great hubbub and activity; from the kitchens where work had gone on all night, rose the odor of venison and fresh bread; servants in festive livery lit fires in all the halls. When clarion calls and the sound of trampling hooves were heard, Charles was not able to go and look out the window; he stood waiting in a corner of the great hall with the Dame de Maucouvent and his nurse Jeanne la Brune, both of whom wore new, fur-trimmed mantles in honor of this occasion. His father entered, followed by a train of knights and pages; he was leading a fat man with a red, smiling face to the seat of honor. For the first time in his life Charles saw his mother curtsey three times, very deeply; he held his breath. On the lake of the castle of Montils lived a black swan; in her rustling black dress, his mother curtsied the way the swan alighted with outspread wings on the surface of the water. After that he had to come himself. He did his best, kneeling before the fat man who chuckled looking down at him, and saying, “Welcome, Sire.” It was over in a moment. The Dame de Maucouvent brought him back to the nursery.
After the meal he was sent for again. The Emperor’s face was still redder than it had been in the morning; he hung back in the seat of honor and roared with incessant laughter. Even when Charles’ father rose to speak, he went on sniggering and chortling.
“Charles, my son,” said the Duke of Orléans, “it has pleased our lord, the Emperor, to promise you as your wife, his niece Elisabeth, the heiress of Bohemia.”
“Ja, ja, ja!” cried Wenceslaus in a hoarse voice, throwing himself back and forth in his chair, “Bravo, bravo!”
“Thank the Emperor,” Charles’ father went on calmly, but the child could see from the fixed look in his eye that he was displeased.
“A fine lad, a beautiful child!” Wenceslaus screa
med with laughter. “He must drink; wine, wine!” He flourished his goblet so that wine spattered over the table. Charles took a few hasty swallows from the beaker which his father held before him. He knew now that the Emperor Wenceslaus was dead drunk and he was afraid of drunkards. His mother signalled to him with a reassuring nod of the head that he could leave.
“Come, come, she is getting a handsome dowry!” roared the Emperor, pounding the pommel of his dagger on the edge of the table. “A hundred thousand livres—squeeze that in your fingers!” He spoke French like a street vagrant, with coarse sounds and words, richly interspersed with incomprehensible Polish exclamations and expletives.
“And you,” Wenceslaus went on, pointing at the Duke, “as for you, Orléans, I will do what I promised—that is why I came here. Pm really no braggart!” He lunged forward. “Pll call my bishops together—and I’ll say to them, by thunder, this is the way it must be! Use your influence in favor of the unity of the Church—the unity of the Church. Keep your eyes on France, I shall say. And I shall not neglect to stress what you have requested of me, Orléans!”
The Duke of Orléans interrupted him quickly with expressions of thanks. Wenceslaus was too drunk to notice the interruption; tears of affection had sprung to his eyes, he hit Louis unceasingly hard on the shoulder. “It’s good to talk with you, Orléans,” he said, while he tottered up from his chair. “Better than with that brother of yours, the King there in Reims. When he is sensible—I am boozy. When I am sober—he is crazy! But with you I can talk, Orléans, at any time of the day.”
Louis bit his lips; the dinner guests were nudging each other and laughing behind their hands. It was common knowledge that anyone who wanted to confer with Wenceslaus had to approach the Emperor before breakfast; that was the only time that he was sober enough to know what he was doing. Valentine, who found her guest’s behavior extremely painful, and who, moreover, gathered from Louis’ demeanor that the Emperor was busily spreading confidential information abroad, nodded to the musicians and minstrels who were waiting their turn at the back of the hall. Wenceslaus, however, paid no attention to music or poetry.
“Did you see the hateful looks that fat Bavarian was giving me during the conference? Well, did you?” he shouted loudly. “That brother of hers—Ludwig—he was around there too! What are these Wittelsbachers plotting? Do they want to pull tricks on me? What do you think, Orléans?”
Louis sighed impatiently, and shrugged. He knew that Isabeau had gone to Reims filled with suspicion, fearing that an alliance with France would save Wenceslaus from the fate which the Electors planned for him: to depose him in the near future. Although Louis considered the Emperor to be a drunken swine, he wanted to see him retain his throne. If Ruprecht, a Wittelsbacher, were to become Emperor, French interests—or at least French interests as Orléans perceived them—would undoubtedly suffer. A Wittelsbacher would under all circumstances follow Burgundy’s advice. In Reims Louis had in passing overheard Ludwig of Bavaria say to Isabeau, “Don’t worry, sister. The Drunkard has come here against the Electors’ will. He has given himself the death blow.”
Louis hoped that the Wittelsbachers were mistaken. In any case he had forged strong ties between Wenceslaus and himself by bringing about Charles’ betrothal to the Emperor’s little niece. That child could one day inherit the thrones of Bohemia, Poland and Hungary. That which had been denied to Louis might perhaps await his son: a Crown.
Orléans had gone to great trouble to get Wenceslaus to come to France. The Emperor, who was virtually the only foreign prince who had not refused to become involved in Church affairs, was pleasantly impressed by Orléans’ continual, overflowing hospitality. He preferred Louis’ conversation to the endless dull monologues of Maitre Gerson of the University; he certainly preferred Louis’ company to that of the mad Charles, the hostile Isabeau, the cold, haughty Burgundy. He said aye and amen to Louis at the meeting in Reims and promised him his support. Although Louis expected few results from Wenceslaus’s cooperation, he felt he had, at any rate, accomplished one thing: he had prevented the Emperor from becoming a tool in Burgundy’s hands.
The relationship between uncle and nephew had entered a dangerous phase. Until now they had thrashed out their disagreements under the surface; no matter how they despised each other’s actions and ideas, they had never become open enemies. At court they behaved toward each other with painful care, giving each other the prescribed marks of honor, and discussing things in a calm, courtly way while their blood boiled. Only occasionally in Council meetings they lost their self-control and attacked each other without mercy. Now, however, the rift between Orléans and Burgundy had deepened—it had become an abyss which no courtesy or appearance of good will could bridge.
In the course of the year France had received a royal guest: Henry Bolingbroke, Lancaster’s son, whom Richard II had banished from England. In Paris the fine details of the matter were not known, but the man who had chosen to spend his exile in France was received hospitably and with respect. The King of England reproached his father-in-law for his lack of tact in honoring a rebel who had acted against the execution of the warmonger Gloucester, his kinsman. France was making itself ridiculous by sheltering an enemy. These arguments might have convinced the French court to shun Bolingbroke if reports of the death of the old Duke of Lancaster had not reached Paris at almost the same time, followed nearly immediately by the news that King Richard had seized most of his property to discourage Lancaster’s heir from returning to England.
This information roused great indignation in the French court. Richard’s conduct was condemned as a breach of chivalry. Influenced by Orléans, who had sworn fellowship with Bolingbroke, many courtiers stood up openly for the exile in one of those bursts of knightly magnanimity which so often militated against their own interests. Saint-Pol donned mourning for the deceased Lancaster and masses were read for him. Then the Duke of Berry entertained the Englishman in his castle in Bicetre. Louis often spent a few days at Bicetre while Henry was there in the hope of deciphering his enigmatic character and winning him as a friend and, perhaps, as a future ally. However, during his last visit to Bicetre, the scales had fallen from Louis’ eyes. He was later to think back on those days with bitterness: once, after the hunting parties and banquets, which were exceptionally lavish—Berry inexhaustibly invented new amusements for his guests—Lancaster had unexpectedly betrayed himself over a perfunctory game of chess. He talked about Richard and his government in a way which, to the attentive listener, reflected nothing but hatred and jealousy. Louis kept his eyes fixed on the chess pieces while Lancaster, cold and self-possessed, spoke with apparent casualness—but, with a sensitivity sharpened by experience, Orléans perceived the passion which the other tried so carefully to conceal.
“The King of France is crazy,” said Henry of Lancaster harshly, “and that is bad. But there are those in England who consider Richard a more dangerous lunatic. I have never seen anyone risk his crown so recklessly as my worthy cousin. He doesn’t seem to understand the simplest elements of reigning—he himself destroys the pillars which support his throne. Only a madman would act like this. Since he became king, he has done nothing but antagonize the people whom he needs the most: the Church, Parliament, the nobility. He puts them off, he kicks them into a corner—he can do that very well. Now he accuses seventeen vassals of high treason, seizes their estates and possessions—and then he sells them back to the former owners because he needs money. Tell me if that makes any sense—apart from the fact that he is conducting a foreign policy which no one can understand.”
“I see,” said Louis in a courteous tone. But disappointment and distrust crept over him.
Burgundy too came to Bicetre a few times with a large retinue to visit the English guest. Orléans was sure now that his uncle was following a carefully prepared plan; he was seeking highly-placed allies who had reason, or thought they had reason, to turn against France. Despite all outward appearances, the atmosphere among the roy
al kinsmen was oppressive; the King, who had been in his right senses only a few weeks before, suffered from violent headaches and renewed fits of melancholy; the Queen was uneasy because there was no news from England—the last report she had was that many of Isabelle’s retinue had been dismissed and were on the point of returning home. To her brother-in-law, Isabeau was extremely cool—she knew that he supported Wenceslaus, and in Church matters followed a policy opposed to that of Bavaria and Burgundy. Her brother Ludwig had called her attention to the role played by Orléans; she understood fully for the first time that he was an adversary who should not be underrated. She had considered trying to win him over by pledges and promises, but she rejected the notion. She had—for the moment—strong support in Burgundy. A rapprochement with Orléans could alienate that powerful ally.
In Normandy the summer days went by slowly. The King sat in a cool dark chamber or rode, surrounded by nobles, on a gentle horse, through the vast forests. Louis d’Orléans alternated between his brother’s retinue and the Queen’s. The members of the House of Burgundy spent the summer in their own domains.
As a gift from the King, Isabeau had received an estate in Saint-Ouen with farmhouses, fields, meadows and livestock; there she spent the beautiful days with her children and her retinue. She wanted to recreate the rustic atmosphere of one of her father’s Bavarian mountain retreats, smelling of hay and pigs, where geese fluttered about the courtyard, and where she had run barefoot through the mud with milkmaids and stableboys. She had no desire, of course, to give herself up to these simple pleasures again, although she scattered barley and grain for the fowl with her own hand, and, attended by a procession of court ladies, gathered currants in the kitchen gardens.
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