In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  By royal decree all of France was compelled to contribute, for three years, a sum equal to what had been raised for Isabelle’s dowry. This time, however, the clergy, who had previously been spared, were not exempted. Their indignation knew no bounds. Burgundy, who was already offended because he had not been consulted in the matter, did not hesitate to support the clergy. In his own domain he did not encourage the populace to raise the tribute—quite the contrary, in fact. He continually encouraged them not to pay it.

  The Parisians had become alarmed by the presence in and about the city of bands of soldiers—Picards, Luxembourgers and armed men from Gelre who said they served the Duke of Orléans, and other troops from the Burgundian dominions of Artois and Flanders. The Elector of Liège, Johann of Bavaria, was Burgundy’s guest in the Hotel d’Artois; the army he had brought—chiefly archers and lansquenets—were lodged in the quarters of the city near the palace. Fear of civil war mounted with each passing day.

  The city of Paris sent a delegation to the King petitioning him to put an end to this disorder. The population was assured, in the name of the King, that the troops quartered in the city were not dangerous in any way; their support was paid for, and any infraction of discipline would be severely punished. In spite of these assurances, the city lived in constant fear; many departed but most armed themselves and laid in provisions, as though they were preparing for a siege.

  And now a new kind of life began for Charles d’Orléans. His time as a small child had ended; playtime, with no obligation except the faultless recitation of morning and evening prayers, was over. The nine-year-old was taken from the care of the Dame de Maucouvent; he was now too old to have a governess.

  The Duke of Orléans sent his secretary, Maitre Nicolas Garbet, who had studied theology, to the Chateau-Thierry, where Valentine lived with her children for increasing periods, to tutor Monseigneur Charles, Count of Angoulême. Charles eagerly awaited the arrival of Maitre Garbet; for a long time he had been impatiently waiting to learn to read. He thought that there could be no pleasure greater than to be able to decipher the rows of beautiful characters in the books which his mother had had so carefully illuminated and bound—unless it was plying the pen. He drew figures in the sand with a stick, pretending that he was writing a story across the enormous page of the courtyard. For hours he would study the densely written leaves of King Arthur’s Histories, of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, or the Gospels. He did not know what was written there, but he was filled with deep satisfaction at the sight of the rectangular pages covered with letters surrounded with gaily colored tendrils, the initials against the gilded background. He obeyed with reluctance when his mother urged him to go out and play with his brother.

  “You have time for learning, child,” Valentine said. “You can find pleasure in books when you have forgotten how to play.”

  So he rode hobby horse with Philippe in the courtyard or hopped on the pavement of the corridors and halls. Little Jean watched his brothers from the sidelines but Dunois, who was not vet four years old, always wanted to play. He plunged headlong between his older brothers without fear of stumbling or falling, a resolute child with sturdy legs and strong little hands. He spoke little and never cried, but when he wanted to accomplish something, his will was inflexible. Charles and Philippe thought of him as being as old as they; from time to time they remembered with surprise that their indefatigable playmate was younger than Jean, the timid, apprehensive toddler. They did not seem to care that Dunois was only their half-brother and a bastard to boot. He was part of the family, sharing their food and clothing; he slept in bed with Jean and was treated by strangers and inferiors with the same respect accorded the other children of the Duke. Valentine loved him uncommonly well; she was proud of his healthy good looks, his thriving body and spirit.

  Her own sons were less robust, paler and more easily tired than he. Charles was short-winded; she found him too quiet, too introspective for a nine-year-old boy. Inclined to day-dream herself, she wanted to spare him the fate that befalls sensitive natures; it was better for him, she thought, to be able-bodied and alert. However, the arrival of Maitre Garbet meant that Charles’ spirit had to be guided into other channels, at least for a time; in a sense she was forced to abandon him.

  With flushed cheeks the child watched while the tutor opened his leather bag of books. They were placed on the table in the study room: the Katholicon, Latin grammars, the works of Cato, Teren-tius, Sallustius and Cicero, the Doctrine of Alexander de Villedieu. Nicolas Garbet, a thin, vivacious man not much taller than Charles himself, rushed about, chattering incessantly. He directed the servants who carried the books, told Charles what the thick leather covers contained, recalled aloud what Monseigneur d’Orléans had told him to tell the Duchess. His sleeves fluttered as he made short, choppy gestures. Charles noticed that his shoes were worn down—that did not surprise him, for Maitre Garbet did not stand still for a moment.

  The lessons began the following day. Valentine had insisted that Philippe be there too; she hoped that the presence of the younger child would slow things down somewhat and put a necessary rein on the enthusiasms of Maitre de Garbet and the studious Charles. So seated side by side at the long table, the brothers became acquainted with the ABCs; slowly they read psalms from a little book which Hugues Foubert, illuminator of manuscripts, had made for them at Valentine’s request. Above their little black cloaks—they wore in mourning for their grandfather Gian Galeazzo, who had died suddenly in Milan—their young faces were taut and grave as they wielded the pen stiffly, the tips of their tongues between their teeth.

  Before long they began to learn Latin words, followed by conjugations, declensions and what-not. Then logic, rhetoric and arithmetic. Charles, especially, made rapid progress. Philippe was more playful; he wanted to be done so that he could go out and amuse himself. When lessons were over, Charles usually lingered in the room filled with books and writing implements. Maitre Garbet, always busy himself—he was writing a theological treatise in poetic form—encouraged the boy to remain. The shouts and laughter of the younger boys echoed outside; they stormed and defended sand hills, threw stones and shot arrows at wooden targets or leapt breathlessly over barricades of sticks, while Charles sat on in the quiet study, his arms resting on the edge of the table.

  He was continually overcome by amazement that a world filled with adventure and beauty could rise from behind the black letters; that within a single page, a life could unfold, that death and heroism could be enclosed in a few strokes on the paper. He read a line aloud as soon as it was taught to him: there rode Perceval through the forest; on the mountaintop could be seen the citadel of Montsalvat. The words “mountain” and “forest” called up a variety of images for the boy: he saw leaves hanging, dark and gleaming, and heard the splashing of a hidden brook; the horses’ hooves left deep tracks in the moss. The sunlight glowed red on the mountainside, and glinted on the windows of the castle, an eagle rose screaming from his craggy nest.

  Reading in the study, Charles lost all track of time; he was completely immersed. In the summer he did not notice the flies buzzing along the walls or the scratching of Maitre Garbet’s pen. In the winter he did not hear the wood crackling on the hearth and he never remembered the exact moment when a kindly hand had set a candle down beside him.

  The many journeys and processions had ended; they lived now almost the whole year around in Chateau-Thierry. During this period Charles and his mother became very close. They talked and read together, and enjoyed the minstrel’s songs. For the first time the boy realized something of his mother’s unhappiness. He knew now that she had been exiled from the court in Paris and why; he knew too that she had fresh reasons to be sad. Although she never complained and talked about herself with reluctance in his presence, Charles sensed with the sharp intuition of a precocious child what oppressed her spirits.

  His father came to visit them very often now, always with a large entourage, usually attended by lords from his provinces
or from Luxembourg. But Louis paid little attention to his sons when he stayed at Chateau-Thierry; there was so much to discuss with Valentine and important guests that no time was left for the children. Charles, observing him from a distance, admired him greatly. He had never seen such a handsome and splendidly dressed man as his father—he could not help identifying him with the heroes of the romances, with Perceval, Lancelot, Arthur and Aeneas. He knew his mother felt that way too. Often he saw her looking at her husband—the glow in her eyes was almost frightening.

  As a rule the Duchess chose to dress in black; she rarely wore jewels. But when Monseigneur visited Chateau-Thierry, she appeared dressed like a princess, wearing necklaces of precious stones. The child Charles observed the transformation breathlessly; at these times he became aware that his mother was an uncommonly beautiful woman, tall and slender—her hair was golden brown, like leaves in October. The Duke greeted her with courtly elegance, and behaved toward her throughout his stay with deference and gallantry—but in his eyes the boy never saw the look of burning ardor which he sometimes detected in the eyes of his mother.

  In the course of time another child had been born, a girl, baptized Marie d’Orléans. But she did not lie long in the green-curtained cradle; even before their mother had risen from the lying-in bed, Charles and Philippe were called to take leave of their sister, who lay in the folds of her shroud like a pale wax doll.

  In the spring of 1404, the Duchess of Orléans received a letter from her husband containing important news, especially for Charles. Louis and the former Emperor Wenceslaus had agreed to nullify the marriage agreement between Charles and the young Elisabeth von Goerlitz. A new bride had been found in the person of Madame Isabelle, the fourteen-year-old widow of King Richard of England. The marriage would, it was true, be put off for several years because of the youth of the groom, but the betrothal would be announced as soon as the formalities had been concluded.

  The Pope consented to this marriage between cousins; the King declared that Isabelle’s dowry would be 100,000 gold florins, two-thirds of which Orléans would use to buy territory in France.

  In the autumn Louis d’Orléans took his oldest son with him to Senlis for the hunt, and to meet the royal personages at the court. Dressed in handsome garments which were—as usual—heavily embroidered with thisdes, crossbows and netdes, the boy walked beside his father between rows of high-placed lords. Never had he seen such a magnificent display of horses, carriages, pennants, colorfully-clad servants and pages. The counts and barons and their wives glittered with gold and precious stones; under a red silk tent the King sat, Charles’ uncle and godfather.

  The boy was disappointed. He knew quite well that the King was sick, but still he had expected a more impressive figure than this thin, shrunken man with waxen face and red-rimmed, restless eyes. However, the King greeted him with great geniality; he called Charles first ‘Svorthy nephew” and later “our son”; he gave him beautiful gifts and the promise of an annuity. Charles thanked him with downcast eyes, a little flustered because everyone was looking at him. It was precisely this boyish embarrassment which roused admiration; people found him a well-made, mannerly youth. They said he had his father’s nose and mouth, but Valentine’s eyes. The Duke of Orléans was pleased with the impression his son had made; he gave the boy a signet ring and a horse as souvenirs of his days at Senlis.

  That winter brought much snow and rain; in early spring the swollen rivers overflowed their banks; the wind was raw. During the bad weather a new illness broke out, characterized by violent headaches and loss of appetite. Almost no one escaped this sickness but only a few died of it. Among these few was the Duke of Burgundy.

  On an evening in the spring of 1405, a great number of people were gathered in the rooms of The Golden Stag, a tavern in the rue Barre du Bee, not far from the Hotel d’Artois. The doors were barred so that no one else could enter; inside, only a couple of torches were burning. The innkeeper was called Thibault the Dice-Player because he could always manage to provide a sequestered room where one could drink wine and gamble undisturbed for any conceivable stakes. If he was paid well and prompdy, Thibault asked no questions—his rooms were notorious as a gathering place for those who wished to amuse themselves or transact business without attracting attention. The sheriffs servants were reluctant to enter there; Thibaulfs tavern was frequented by armed people who, day or night, were all too ready to draw a knife. Scuffles usually became bloodbaths; no one bothered to distinguish between opponents and companions-at-arms, they went at each other for the sheer enjoyment of the fight itself and the chance to cut some purses and steal some valuables. Those who had no business there avoided not only The Golden Stag, but the rue Barre du Bee because of it.

  On the evening in question the gathering in Thibault’s rooms had a prearranged character: the men sat or stood almost one on top of the other around a table which served as a rostrum, listening to an orator who, despite his off-putting appearance, possessed to a high degree the ability to enthrall his audience. His filthy rags were held together by a rope about his middle; his long hair hung over his shoulders. There in the tavern no one was present who would find it in his interest to inform the officials that Arnaud Guillaume was preaching rebellion against Orléans; he had therefore pulled off his bonnet. However, his two companions who sat at the table did not want to be recognized: their cloaks were pulled up over their chins, they had drawn the lappets of their hats down across their cheeks. Without moving, silent, they sat staring at the men around them. Arnaud Guillaume spoke in the style that had served him so well throughout his earlier career: slowly, in a low voice that appeared to quiver with deep emotion. Thus had he practiced exorcism over the head of the sleeping King.

  “… And what happened to the gold which you fellows paid at the cost of so much sacrifice, brothers?” asked Guillaume, with upraised hands. This question ended a long speech in which he had once again described the misery caused by taxes imposed the previous year. He waited a moment; an angry murmur rose from among his listeners.

  “Was it really spent on those things which the tax collector knew how to list so nicely? Are the forts strengthened, the troops armed, the winter stores laid in? And even if that should have chanced to happen—I doubt it seriously, brothers, but suppose that they are—what then? How will you fellows fare in a new war, with robbery and murder … your houses looted, your cattle stolen, your fields laici waste, your wives and daughters dishonored and you yourselves perhaps strung up on the nearest tree? For so it goes always, men, so it goes, where there is war, and the plunderers are mosdy the soldiers who are supposed to protect you! It is you people who are the victims, brothers, you who will be defeated, not the enemy, for they strike back! Do you want to see your good money used for your own destruction? No, men, no, you don’t want that. You don’t, but Orléans does—the warmonger who will serve his own interests with your lives!”

  “But—” a voice called from the densely packed crowd—”you said that our tax money is not being spent for anything.”

  “Precisely, friend; well put. Your gold pieces have gone in another direction.”

  A man raised his hand and cried, “Gone, gone? They lie heaped up in a tower room in the Louvre!”

  “They did,” continued Guillaume, raising his voice, “but two nights ago a wagon drove up in front, guarded by armed men. They loaded the gold onto the wagon, friends, not a single ecu is left lying in the tower of the Louvre. Who did that, brothers? Come, think about it, who can always use money for himself and his royal sweetheart?”

  “Come, come,” mocked a young man who sat astride a stool directly below Guillaume. “Make us believe that you have looked at the King in bed!”

  The adventurer from Guyenne had expected such an objection. Pronouncing an oath loaded with frightful curses—which one dare not misuse—he declared that he had indeed enjoyed that privilege. This raised great interest, and great suspicion. One of Guillame’s companions nudged him and in a s
harp tone added some words the spectators did not understand. The ascetic began to speak again.

  “Who has seriously endangered your salvation, brothers, by forcing you to give obedience to the Anti-Christ at Avignon? Couldn’t the wise and pious scholars at the Sorbonne have shown you a better way to true grace? It seems clear now from all the facts that neither Orléans nor Avignon has any intention of complying with the conditions which our clergy at the Sorbonne had put forward. The old order reigns; he who kisses the ground before Avignon’s feet is rewarded with high office and decks himself in purple. And the priests and bishops who remain loyal to the True Faith would rather perish from hunger and thirst then deal with you, friends, for you are being driven straight into the DeviPs arms. And who is responsible for this?

  “It’s not necessary—is it?—for me to name the adulterer and sorcerer who wants to involve you in a war with England out of his own self-interest… who lines his purse with your hard-earned money… who means to destroy the Dauphin and all the King’s children so that he can place one of his own brood on the throne … who carries on openly with the Bavarian, and helps her to drain the country’s treasury to get clothes and valuables!”

  He paused to catch his breath and looked about him with glittering eyes. It had become quiet under the smoke-blackened beams of the ceiling; the flickering torchlight played on the faces of his listeners. There were men there from every layer of the population, but whatever their occupation or business, they all had reason to feel dissatisfied or fearful. “Come,” Guillaume said, after a brief conversation with his companions. “You yourselves have so righdy complained with bitterness about the way you were forced to pay tribute. The sheriffs men follow the tax collectors, in order to drag anyone who refuses to pay off to prison. On your doors and shutters are painted the arms of Orléans, your lord and master, who, draped with a fortune in gold, hunts or dances, while you sweat. And what can you do about this? May I remind you of Messire Jean Gilbert de Donnery, who last week in the presence of Orléans’ officials dared to say that it would be better to hang Monseigneur than to allow him to govern? Now Messire Donnery hangs from the gallows and the Duke of Orléans has gone with the Queen to the castle of Saint-Germain. What is he doing there, brothers?”