In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  He thought of the King his brother, a defenseless invalid; of Valentine, to whom he had been faithful since the death of Manette de Cany. While he moved slowly into the room he stared at Isabeau: at her greedy mouth, her soft hands which would release only re-luctandy anything that came into their grasp. Stifling the great despondent sigh which welled up in him, he bowed deeply before the Queen, whose smiles could no longer be misconstrued.

  The next day he sent couriers to the city of Provins with a hundred golden ecus to buy roses for Her Majesty.

  When Jean of Burgundy learned that Orléans was approaching the city with an army, he ordered his horse to be saddled, and rode to the palace where the Council was assembled.

  “Well, Messeigneurs,” he called contemptuously to Berry and Bourbon who sat among the peers of the realm, “what I predicted is happening. Orléans is on his way to Paris with about 2,000 men; Alençon and Lorraine are with him, and the Queen rides in the procession. Don’t say now that he comes in friendship, although his reply to the lords of the University might perhaps have led you to believe that.”

  Bourbon rose, with some difficulty, and held up his hands in a placatory gesture.

  “No one can tell our nephew of Orléans not to gather men around him, now that you have armed half the city!”

  Jean of Burgundy kicked his long riding cloak to one side.

  “It is no accident,” he remarked, “that Orléans’ banners carry the motto ‘I challenge’ in defiance of my own device ‘I hold’. Well, this time he can count on a warm reception. Most quarters are fortified—the burghers have been given weapons and students who can handle pitch and stones as well as Latin are waiting outside the bridge. Yes, the brave citizens intend to defend themselves and me, my lords. They know where their interests lie!”

  Bourbon threw up his hands, looking helplessly about him, but Berry who, like an old bird of prey on a branch, surveyed the hall from his elevated chair, said ironically, “But that means civil war.” He declared himself ready to work with both sides to reconcile their differences. This attitude reflected the line he had taken since his illness.

  After due deliberations the Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, was sent as the head of a delegation to meet Orléans in the name of the Chancellor and the chairman of Parlement. De Tignonville and Louis had always gotten on well together and Louis, following de Tig-nonville’s advice, sent an announcement to Paris that, for the sake of the populace and in order to preserve peace in the Kingdom, he had voluntarily renounced armed conflict, although he had every right to attack. Jean of Burgundy, not wishing to hurt his reputation as the people’s benefactor, had no choice but to lay down his arms.

  Most of the troops billeted in and around the city were sent home. Once more Isabeau entered Paris, but this time the festive note was struck only by the gay trappings of her procession. The people stood in silence, darkly watching as the entourage wound through the streets. There were gold-brocaded palanquins, plumed horses, a plethora of banners and canopies, but the escort was armed to the teeth and the smiles of the beautiful ladies were joyless.

  On the following day the royal kinsmen proceeded to Notre Dame where, before the Queen, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon and a great number of dignitaries, Jean of Burgundy and Louis of Orléans shook hands in a formal show of mutual apology. From a distance it seemed a noble gesture, but those who stood close by were later to recall vividly not the handshake but the look in both men’s eyes.

  On the twenty-ninth of June, in the year 1406, Charles d’Orléans married his cousin Isabelle, once Queen of England. The wedding was celebrated in Compiegne; on the same day the King’s second son took to wife the small daughter of the Countess of Hainault. Charles, carefully coached by his mother about what he must say and do at the altar and at the great receptions, seemed a good deal more at ease than he had been a few years earlier at Senlis. His father’s presence gave him self-confidence; he could see now with his own eyes that his father was indeed the most powerful man in the Kingdom. The boy spoke little, but noticed everything; it was not natural for him to push himself forward.

  In a hall where, in the torch and candlelight, the pomp and splendor of the chivalric romances seemed to become reality, Charles met his bride for the first time. She stood amid queens and princesses, under a canopy embroidered with lilies; she was clad in gold, azure and purple. Charles, kneeling before her, dared not raise his eyes higher than the gleaming hem of her dress: she was so much older than he, weighed more than he did, and—most important—was already the widow of a king. He felt he could not possibly be worthy of this high and noble lady. He was—and he knew it better than anyone else—still a boy, and not accomplished in chivalry. He knew little of courtly behavior, and even less about dancing and love-making. The only women he knew were his mother and the ladies of her court and the beautiful queens about whom he read in his favorite books. In short, he was not yet thirteen years old, and deeply conscious of his disadvantages as a bridegroom.

  Isabelle greeted him courteously, but her voice lacked warmth and she did not smile. She was sixteen years old and almost a head taller than her intended husband. No one would ever know about the tears she had shed over the humiliation of this marriage to a small boy who was, moreover, her inferior in rank. Isabelle had been long accustomed to controlling her emotions in a royal manner; she was determined to conceal her dismay at any price, in order to avoid pity or ridicule. Pale and impassive, she stood once more in bridal finery among her ladies. Charles d’Orléans she ignored; she felt his embarrassed uncertainty, and this added to her irritation. Standing beside Isabelle, Charles did his best to follow his mother’s advice and make up in outward dignity for his insecurity.

  He was distracted momentarily when the heralds raised their trumpets to announce the approach of the Duchess of Holland and Hainault with her little daughter Jacoba of Bavaria, the bride of the King’s second son. The opulence displayed by the Princess from the Netherlands and her retinue surpassed anything ever seen at Saint-Pol—to the considerable annoyance of Isabeau, who was jealous of her kinsmen’s wealth. This rivalry went on during the entire week of festivities: where France was arrayed in silver, Hainault gleamed with gold; ten Flemish knights escorted the bridal procession to five French; and the largesse distributed among the attending populace at the request of the Bavarian bride was more than royal.

  For the first few days Charles enjoyed the crowds, the pageants, tournaments and solemn services; banquet followed upon banquet; the music did not seem to stop even for an instant. But finally the festivities tired the boy, who was accustomed to a life of routine, without much excitement or diversion. After the marriage ceremony, he sat, sleepy and silent, at the great banquet given in honor of the two young couples. Isabelle, seated beside him on the garlanded bench, did not speak; on the other side of the table were the prince and his bride, young children who barely understood what was happening. The adults at the royal table, after the obligatory speeches and toasts, wasted little more attention on the bridal couples. They became involved in lively conversations. It was rare for so illustrious a company to come together; there were many questions to be asked, and much to talk about and, after cups of wine, much to joke about and to argue about.

  The Countess of Hainault wished to take her small son-in-law to her castle in Quesnoy. Isabeau did not want her child to leave. The advantages and disadvantages of his departure were discussed in detail by the royal kinsmen.

  For Charles, who could scarcely keep his eyes open, the impressions flowed together; the red and gold of his father’s clothes, the women’s sparkling headdresses, the long purple row of clergy; the light of the setting sun glowing in the stained glass windows in the festive hall, the profusion of splendidly served dishes. He was just dozing off when Isabelle pulled roughly at his arm.

  “You cannot fall asleep now,” she whispered sharply; in her indignation she forgot all ceremony. “You will disgrace me. You must sit up straight and beha
ve properly, even though you don’t like it. We cannot run away!”

  Her words jolted Charles back to reality; he was wide awake instantly from sheer astonishment that the cold, elegant Isabelle could behave unexpectedly like the ladies of the court in Chateau-Thierry. Hastily he began to apologize, but stopped in confusion when he noticed that her eyes were filled with tears. She did not wipe them away but sat motionless, her lips compressed; she stared fixedly at the head of the table where Isabeau sat, as hostess, between Orléans and Burgundy.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Charles hesitantly. “I did not intend to offend you, Madame.”

  Isabelle shrugged scornfully; her eyes were still on her mother.

  I shall never forgive her for this, thought Isabelle, once Queen of England and now only Countess d’Angoulême. She has mortified me only to win the favor of Monseigneur d’Orléans. She would just as soon I go away—my eyes and ears are too sharp. I hate her—I hate her—and I will never forget it, not if I live to be a hundred.

  So thought Charles’ young wife in fury and despair. Her rage was not directed so much at her father-in-law as at her mother, although she knew that Orléans had become the Queen’s lover the previous autumn. He had always treated Isabelle with obvious affection. Only he had been willing to take arms to avenge her grief. True, Isabelle was bitterly disappointed in her childhood idol; but she blamed her mother, whom she thought hard and grasping, and who, once she had set her mind on something, refused to budge. With deep horror, Isabelle had witnessed the arrival at Saint-Pol of Odette de Champdivers, a young girl of her own age, born of a noble family, brought to share the King’s bed now that Isabeau had found love elsewhere.

  “Why are you crying?” asked Charles, tormented by guilt. “I promise I will not fall asleep again. I’m not sleepy any more anyway. Shall I tell you about Chateau-Thierry?”

  Isabelle nodded; anything was better than a yawning bridegroom and a weeping bride. There were enough jokes circulating about them already. Charles, delighted that he could evince his good will, spoke quickly.

  “I have magnificent books, Madame. Do you know the history of Perceval of Gaul? My tutor, Maitre Garbet, says no one in the Kingdom has a finer library than Orléans. Maitre Garbet has written a poem in Latin in honor of you and me on the flyleaf of my Sallustius. I can recite it to you, if you like.” Charles thought a moment—yes, he still remembered it. Flushed with excitement, he spoke the stately lines:

  “Anglorurn regno pro morte privata mariti

  Formoso moribus Ludovicifilio ducis

  Aurelimensis Karolo Compendii pulchra

  Francorum nupsit Isabellas filia regis

  Anno millesimo julii sexto

  Vicesima nona. Faveant superi precor ipsis …”

  He stopped when Isabelle sighed impatiently. Remembering Valentine’s wise advice, Charles tried another tack. “My mother has beautifully trained falcons, Madame. Four white ones are named after the four sons of Haimon. Are you fond of hunting? Did you bring your horse with you? In Chateau-Thierry, we have—”

  “I am weeping for the King my father,” Isabelle burst out fiercely. “Because he is ill and cannot defend himself. Because of what they do to him. Do you know what happened?”

  She wheeled sharply to face Charles and looked him straight in the eye. The youth was taken aback at her vehemence; he glanced quickly around him, but the guests were engrossed in wine and rich food; no one was paying any attention to the children. The Dauphin and little Jacoba of Bavaria were throwing food at each other and squealing with laughter, overjoyed because no one stopped them. Charles and Isabelle sat among their shrieking companions as though they were in an enchanted circle of solitude.

  “My father was so filthy, so filthy,” continued Isabelle with a shudder. “He got sick from it; he sat covered with boils and sores. If they speak to him kindly he lets them help him, but they treated him with violence. Men with blackened faces forced their way into his room—he thought the Devil had come to fetch him. I heard him scream. Alas, God, my poor father …”

  “Yes, Madame,” Charles said, with downcast eyes. Do all women speak of sorrow then? he thought, astonished. When he had come to Compiegne and seen the streamers fluttering in the wind, he had been inclined to think his mother was wrong; the world was not a vale of tears and grief. Now he was not so sure.

  “He cannot defend himself,” Isabelle went on in a rapid whisper. “He must look on while they rob and deceive him, my mother and your father.”

  With some satisfaction she saw the boy’s face turn pale with anger and fear. She read his ignorance in his eyes. So Madame Isabelle found suitable employment on her first day of marriage. She bent toward her husband and whispered for a long time into his ear; why should she feel sorry for a stupid boy and spare him suffering? No one had taken pity on her, no one had spared her suffering! Alas, it was a dreary tale she told Charles; he did not understand half of what she whispered to him.

  “It is not true,” he said at last, close to tears, but he knew it was true. Things his mother had said flashed through his mind; things which had been incomprehensible to him.

  “Not true?” Isabelle laughed. “Everyone knows it, everyone talks about how shameful it is. On Ascension Day—I was there myself—a priest from the University preached before the court in Saint-Pol; in front of everyone he rebuked my mother and my lord of Orléans for their adultery. My mother did not dare to punish the man—do you understand what that means? Do you think he would be alive now if he had lied?”

  Charles, upset by the picture she called up, pressed his fists to his eyes with a childish awkward gesture. But Madame Isabelle considered that the account was not yet balanced.

  “A few weeks ago they were together in the castle of Saint-Germain,” she went on, in that sibilant whisper which now filled Charles with dread. “Do you know they nearly died? Surely God wanted to punish them. A storm broke while they were out riding—the horses bolted; if someone had not thrown himself in front of the horses to stop them, they would have run into the Seine, carriage and all. Is that not a sign?”

  Charles could stand it no longer; he wanted to leap up and run from the table, escape—he did not know where—but not to Chateau-Thierry, not to his mother. He did not dare see her again, he thought, overcome by feelings of boundless misery. He wished that all this were not true, that he could wake up instantly as though from a nightmare, in his own bed with the green curtains or over an open book in the quiet reading room. How could he ever return there now that he knew that the tranquillity of his own small world was only illusory? He would never be alone again; everywhere and always Isabelle would be with him, because she was his wife forever. And wherever Isabelle was, there would always be the dreadful thing which she had just told him. He leapt up from the place of honor before Isabelle could stop him and ran from the table without a backward look; while he shoved his way through the crowd of nobles, pages and spectators, he heard behind him the loud, caustic voice of the Duke of Burgundy:

  “Look, look, my lord of Angoulême feels somewhat faint! Yes, one celebrates one’s nuptials only once …” and something else which he did not understand. The walls rang with their laughter.

  Charles did not know how long he had stayed hidden in the darkened room when suddenly he heard his father’s voice close by. Even in the gloom the boy could see the glimmer of the jewels stitched onto his tunic.

  “What is it, my son? Did you drink a little too much?” Louis bent over the boy. “Why have you crept in here? It is not polite to leave your bride. Do you still feel too sick to go back to the table?”

  “No, my lord,” Charles said in a stifled voice. He could hardly stand the warm touch of his father’s hand.

  “Have you quarrelled with your wife already?” Orléans laughed softly and pressed the boy’s head against his breast. The golden ornaments cut into Charles’ forehead; he clenched his teeth and tensed his body. “Come along now,” Louis said persuasively, “before people
start to talk. The Queen is becoming uneasy. What is the matter with you, lad? Are you bewitched? Come along now and amuse your wife. Does she know what sort of gift you have brought for her?”

  Silently, Charles allowed himself to be led back to the festive hall, to his place of honor beside Madame Isabelle, who sat staring at her plate. She wanted to make up for what she had done, but she knew it was too late. She had not anticipated the effect her words would have on her twelve-year-old husband. In a few hours the quiet, childish youth had changed: his head drooped slightly and his eyes seemed suddenly disturbingly wise. But it was impossible for Isabelle to express her contrition or sympathy; she was not capable of such selflessness. She contented herself with behaving in a less unfriendly manner during the remainder of the feast. While dessert was being served, Charles mentioned with hesitation the gift which he had brought her from Chateau-Thierry: a puppy dog, the pick of a choice litter.

  “He knows all sorts of tricks,” Charles said, revived somewhat by thinking of the dog. “He is snow white and his name is Doucet.”

  No one knew—Charles least of all—why Madame Isabelle burst into tears at that precise moment; a storm of violent, unquenchable weeping which cast a pall over the evening’s pleasure, and astonished the royal guests. Neither words of comfort nor reprimands, neither music nor fools’ play could calm her. Everyone but Isabelle had forgotten that King Richard had given her a white dog as a bridal gift, a white greyhound which once had been a trusted friend, but which had later—Isabelle still cringed at the memory—licked Lancaster’s hand.

  What was for many the high point of all the ceremonies occurred at the end of a week of celebration: in the presence of the Council, the clergy, nobles and lawyers, Louis of Orléans and Jean of Burgundy swore on the Cross and the Holy Gospels to be friends and brothers-in-arms from that moment on, to protect, assist and defend each other at all times and, so united, to strive against the English who, despite all armistice agreements, had taken possession of Calais, Brest and the other major ports.