In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  Silent and surprised, Charles looked at the infant; he felt nothing at all for this little creature, red, naked and helpless as the young earthworms which appear when spring rains disturb the earth. The Dame de Travercin led Charles to a corner of the chamber where some garments were spread out on a chest: the beautifully embroidered mantles which Isabelle had planned to wear after her confinement.

  “What do you wish me to do with these, Monseigneur?” whispered the lady. Charles looked at the finery, now so meaningless: gold on green, silver on violet.

  “Give them as gifts in my name to the priests of Saint-Saveur,” he said after a pause, turning away. “Let them make chausables and dalmatics from them. Perhaps you will be so good as to give me in the near future the names of all the women and maidens who have served Madame d’Orléans. I shall have pensions and annuities paid to them.”

  The Dame de Travercin curtsied; she would have liked to utter objections, suggest alternatives, but the tone of Monseigneur’s voice, the look on his face, imposed silence upon her. Charles left the lying-in chamber. His little daughter began to wail in a thin but penetrating voice; he quickened his step, his head drooping in deadly exhaustion.

  In the month of February of the year 1410, Charles set out with a great entourage of armed soldiers for the castle of Gien-sur-Loire; he had chosen the place for a rendezvous with all the great lords and their vassals who had pledged to serve the cause of Orléans. The environs of the castle looked like an army camp; countless tents stood in the fields. Farmsteads and houses were cleared out to serve as lodging for the warriors and stalls for their horses. The peasants who lived there had fled or been driven away from garden and farmyard; the cattle and stores of wine and grain which they had left behind served the always-hungry soldiers as food and drink. The tents and camps swarmed with Gascons, Bretons and Provencals—for the most part rough, brutal men, difficult to control, unreliable, fond of looting and arson and, in battie, truly ferocious cruelty.

  When on the bitter cold, misty morning of the twenty-fourth of February, Charles rode through the fields to Gien, he had ample time to review these troops; he knew that the majority of men assembled here were in the service of his new ally, the Count d’Ar-magnac, with whom he had negotiated since October of the previous year by means of letters and couriers. De Braquemont and de Villars were wont to say that one could know a general by the appearance and conduct of his soldiers; if this were true, thought Charles, he could hope for littie good to come from this meeting with Bernard d’Armagnac.

  The soldiers who lined the way to watch Orléans’ men enter Gien were filthy and unkempt. They were singularly arrayed in parts of old armor, worn-out leather, mantles and coats of mail raggedly pulled together. As they lounged before the houses they had taken over, their demeanor was insolent or indifferent; some wandered in groups over the fields, trying to see what poultry they could catch; others squatted around the great fires which burned here and there among the tents and huts.

  The road to Gien was nearly impassable; the horses hurt their legs on sharp crusts of frozen mud, or slipped on ice-covered pools. A stinging cold mist hovered over the land, making it difficult to see. Charles, at the head of his slowly riding, silent escort, saw himself as a traveler in Virgil’s underworld—the dark, misty borderland of Hell, filled with faint spectres whom it was wise to leave undisturbed. Charles closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders; the edge of his mantle touched the bottom of his bonnet, giving him the illusion, at least, of shelter against the penetrating damp cold.

  Since Isabelle’s death he had made no more effort to evade the fate which had apparently been reserved for him. He had resumed operations. His captains de Braquemont and de Villars had at first been suspicious of his air of grim resignation, but later they observed his resumption of operations with growing satisfaction: the garrisons were strengthened, the vassals and their men who had started for home had been recalled, messages had been sent to the allies, the Dukes of Brittany and Alençon. Now that Isabelle’s retinue, her maidens and servants, had left the castle, now that her clothes had been given as gifts, her jewels and trinkets put away, and the morning slippers which still stood under the marriage bed had been quickly removed, so that the sight of the small red shoes would not cause Monseigneur sorrow—now that all reminders of the short existence of the young Duchess had vanished, Blois looked more than ever like a fortress, a barracks, with the inner courts and outbuildings filled with archers and foot soldiers. A few women still occupied the series of apartments on the south side of the castle: the old Dame de Maucouvent and some maidservants who looked after the two little girls, Mademoiselle Marguerite, Charles’ three-year-old sister, and his daughter Mademoiselle Jeanne. They lived there in a world of their own with scarcely any attention paid to them: two little maidens who could not play a role of any significance in this drama of hatred and revenge.

  Charles had reacted to Isabelle’s death more with bitter amazement than with grief. Gloomily he asked himself if this were to be his life then: a long journey with no resting places except those of mourning and catastrophe. He had found some verses among the papers which had belonged to his father; he remembered when Herbelin the minstrel had set these words to music: “En la forest de Longue Attente, Chevauchant par divers senders… In the forest of Long Awaiting, Biding along its many paths…” When he was a child, Charles had not understood the imagery; now he was struck by the metaphor and he found the verses harmonious; they awoke a feeling in him which he could not name: they gave him comfort but also profound pain and uneasiness. He often repeated the beginning of the song in his thoughts, or in an undertone. He did not know why he did this; it gave him a feeling of peculiar gratification.

  However, he had little time to indulge himself in these kinds of thoughts. He worked together with his captains to raise the army which had been called together after his father’s death. And he had many letters to write to the Lords of Coucy and Luxembourg to remind them of their vows of fealty and immediate support in case of need. In January he received assistance from an unexpected source: the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon wrote to him in detail, informing him that they had severed all ties with Burgundy and were disposed to help Orléans’ cause. Now that they had publicly proclaimed their withdrawal from the Council and affairs of state, they felt they could justifiably offer Charles their counsel. Burgundy’s indifference and insults had driven both old Dukes to frenzy; however, they had had to give way to him. Berry especially was stimulated to renewed activity by the jeers leveled at him. He had initiated the idea of approaching young Charles, who could not oppose Burgundy without experienced assistance.

  “He is too young and we are too old to raise and lead armies,” said Berry to Bourbon during one of the numerous discussions they held after their resignation. Wrapped in furs and velvet, they sat, two gouty, corpulent old men, facing each other by the hearthfire in one of the halls of the Hotel de Nesle. Bourbon, who was a trifle dazed and lax, said little; Berry talked a great deal. His small, piercing eyes sparkled; his hands, loaded with jewels, did not rest for a second.

  “We have the experience and the ability to open negotiations with the people whom we will need most. He has the name of Orléans and full reason to go to war. What we need now are a few fellows who can fight and a list of ringing names to give substance to the whole undertaking.”

  Berry was not satisfied with words alone; thanks to his efforts, Bourbon’s son, the Count de Clermont, and the Constable d’Albret declared themselves ready to support Orléans in the struggle against Burgundy. Berry’s son-in-law, Bernard d’Armagnac, seemed an even more valuable acquisition. Berry congratulated himself on his cleverness in winning over the Gascon to his nephew’s side. The counts of Armagnac and their troops were known, and for good reason, far and wide: for more than half a century they had served as mercenaries, both at home and abroad, to anyone who paid them well and did not look too closely at their methods. The Gascons had fought for Florence twenty
years before; without scruple they had afterward deserted to the troops of Gian Galeazzo and Louis d’Orléans. Under the leadership of their captain, de Chassenage, they had finally forced Savona and a number of other cities to surrender to France.

  Bernard d’Armagnac lent a willing ear to Berry’s summons; he was attracted for a number of reasons by the offer to become a pivotal force in Orléans’ army. Although he belonged to the oldest and once most powerful family in the Kingdom, the Count d’Ar-magnac enjoyed little respect; the princes and members of the royal family looked upon him as a brigand, an adventurer, the leader of a pack of plundering brutes. He had never appeared at court; his peers avoided him. When he was not fighting abroad, he was to be found in one of his fortresses in Armagnac, everywhere and always surrounded by troops of soldiers. Although he frequently and loudly proclaimed that a good understanding with his peers did not interest him, Armagnac secretly felt himself to be an outcast. Berry’s proposal gave him the chance to get his foot firmly into circles which until that moment had been closed to him. He wanted to nestle perma-nendy into the world of powerful men.

  When, therefore, young Orléans, in a personal letter, requested that he come to Gien-sur-Loire, he did not hesitate for a moment. At the head of a constantly expanding army, he rode to the meeting place. In the ranks which followed him there were well-equipped horsemen, many heavily armed, pugnacious battlers who for the most part had been in the service of Armagnac for twenty years or more—but there were also bands of adventurers eager for plunder and murder; vagrants, escaped criminals and half-grown young fellows who would do anything rather than run behind a plow. Like one of the plagues of Egypt they moved through the land, leaving a trail behind them of demolished farms, barns stripped bare and carcasses of slaughtered cattle. So Bernard d’Armagnac came to Gien, where he found the Dukes of Berry, Bourbon, Brittany and Alençon and the Count of Clermont. They awaited only Charles d’Orléans. On the morning of the twenty-seventh of February, a messenger rode into Gien with the news that Monseigneur was approaching; he would reach the castle before the midday meal.

  “I say, fight!” Bernard d’Armagnac placed both palms flat on the table and looked at his confederates. His yellow-brown eyes glinted in his weather-beaten face, which was full of lines and scars, a face that looked as though it were carved from wood, with high cheekbones and a heavy lower jaw. Among his companions he looked like a giant, taller than they, with a broader, coarser frame. He did not care about his appearance or his behavior: his thick grey hair hung to his shoulders; he wore a stained leather jacket, worn-out boots, a coat of mail on which the lions rampant of Armagnac were already faded. Around him hovered an acrid odor of hay, dogs and horses, of smoke and sweat. He reminded Berry of a beast of prey: the blazing yellow eyes, the hairy wrists and sharp eyeteeth could scarcely be termed human.

  The lords sat in one of the empty chambers of the castle of Gien. The castle was seldom occupied and was neglected: the furniture and tapestries which Charles had sent from Blois could not make the cheerless shabby rooms more comfortable—moreover, it was very cold and draughty. The allies had been meeting together since the midday meal. The misty day had passed unperceived into night; for a long time candles had been burning on the table. Leaning forward, Bernard d’Armagnac inspected the other members of the company, one by one: the almost toothless, white-haired Berry, despite his old age keen and ready for fierce repartee, dressed up like a strutting peacock; the young Orléans who spoke little but listened all the more attentively; the Constable d’Albret; Bourbon’s son Clermont; the Dukes of Alencon and Brittany. Methods of bringing about Burgundy’s downfall had been discussed in great detail; Bourbon, his son and Brittany advocated indirect action: a letter signed by all of them and directed to the King demanding compensation and rehabilitation of Orléans’ honor as well as Burgundy’s punishment and exile. Berry and the Constable d’Albret held that dispatching such a petition was a waste of time; it would never reach the King’s eyes. The Queen and her Council would dismiss it or, in the most favorable circumstances, table the matter indefinitely with vague promises and evasive answers. Bernard d’Ar-magnac loudly supported Berry.

  “I say, fight!” he repeated. “That is our only chance. We must batter Burgundy to a pulp. I am not afraid to risk a fight, my lords. I have stood with my Gascons before hotter fires. Besides, we are in good shape; for more than three years we’ve been fighting against the English in Bordeaux, and the English-loving Bretons in our midst. Give my men the chance to march against the Flemish peasants—they want nothing better, Messeigneurs. And as for me …”

  He raised his hands and then dropped them back on the table with a thud. “I have offered my services here; I do nothing halfway.” He looked at Charles d’Orléans; his brown chapped lips split into a crooked smile. “I have an interest in the matter too. Burgundy’s ally, Navarre, is my hereditary enemy as well as yours, my lord.”

  “Yes, yes, I know it.” The old Duke of Bourbon sighed impa-tiendy. “Fight—that is easily said—but Burgundy’s strong; he has powerful allies. He has bought our cousin of Anjou. Ludwig of Bavaria supports him and the Queen protects him.”

  Berry burst into laughter, the malicious chuckle he often emitted when Isabeau’s name was mentioned. “Ah, the Queen,” he said with apparent casualness, “she will find that she has been deceived. She imagines she has done something clever by entrusting the Dauphin to Burgundy’s care. Like all mothers, she is vain and she is blinded by that vanity; she thinks she controls the Dauphin and through him, Burgundy. Sooner or later she will regret this stupidity. I am completely in accord with my worthy son-in-law Armagnac. We must attack Burgundy, Messeigneurs.”

  “Orléans hasn’t spoken yet,” remarked the young Duke of Brittany; he shot a glance from under his heavy black eyebrows at Charles, who sat at the head of the table. “His vote must turn the scale—we are now three against three …”

  Berry, who had been keeping a sharp eye on his grandnephew—why didn’t the boy speak, what did he have in mind?—began to talk quickly, cutting Brittany off.

  “The miserable state of the Kingdom, Messeigneurs, calls for acts, not intermediate negotiations. We are all bound to the King by ties of blood; we all owe him fealty and respect. Therefore we are chosen first for the great work I propose to you: we must fight to defeat the King’s enemies—fight for the welfare of the Kingdom—that is the task set out for us, my lords! That is why it is our duty, our obligation as honorable men to defend the good name of our late nephew and kinsman, Monseigneur d’Orléans …”

  “In my opinion that is the principal purpose of this enterprise,” said Armagnac, interrupting Berry’s flow of words. “So far as I am concerned, Orléans, I will readily admit that I would rather fight for the restoration of the honor of Monseigneur your father than for the King or the people of Paris. I knew your father well. At first I thought of him as only a courtier, an elegant lord without much backbone—but I finally had to admit that he knew what he was doing—he could ply a sword with the best of us, if it came to that, and he had a clever tongue. I never had to wait for pay and compensation for expenses when I fought for Orléans in Italy!”

  He flung his whip on the table and moved closer to Charles. “We often agreed about a lot of things,” he went on, staring at the young man from the corner of his eye, “Together with your father, I also turned against the English and with good results, believe me. I drove them out of more than sixty villages and they never returned. You buy no pig in a poke when you buy my services, worthy friend; let me manage this business of Burgundy for you. Fight, young man, fight! I don’t see any other way for you to achieve your purpose.”

  He slapped Charles on the shoulder. Then he folded his arms and looked with glinting eyes at the row of faces before him. He prided himself secretly that he was the only real man in this elevated company. Berry and Bourbon were old; Alençon and Clermont both insignificant; d’Albret and Brittany two hotheads, and finally young Orléans
—a quiet youth, still almost a child. It seemed a foregone conclusion to Armagnac that he himself would be the leader here—followed and obeyed by men who bore the most impressive names in France, he could ascend a steeper path than ever he would have dared to choose.

  All eyes were now fixed upon Charles d’Orléans; he sat erect, in the seat of honor, thinking about all this. He had heard and seen enough by now to know that none of his allies was motivated by overwhelming neighborly love; he had had to buy the support of the Constable d’Albret, just as his father had once had to buy the support of Alencon. Brittany wanted to spite Navarre and Burgundy. Bourbon and Clermont who, under the rule of Burgundy, had had little opportunity to play an important role, hoped that after a victory of Orléans’ party they could move again to the forefront. Finally Berry, furious because he had been driven from office, nursed even more rancor against the hated House of Burgundy; the old Duke wanted to settle accounts once and for all with the son for the abuse he had taken for so many years from the father. And as for Armagnac, Charles had watched him during the discussions; he considered him a crafty, callous man, one who would not hesitate to take advantage of the circumstances if there should be war between Orléans and Burgundy.

  Charles was afraid that he would lose the friendship of many of his supporters if he chose the troops of savage Gascons to defend his cause. De Braquemont and de Villars had already warned him against it, and what he had seen with his own eyes on the way to Gien did not make him any the less uneasy. However, he knew that it was impossible to get rid of Armagnac now that they had accepted him as an ally and informed him of their plans. It was a matter of controlling him; it had not escaped Charles that Bernard d’Armagnac wished to be lord and master here. The young man realized that he must be very clever if he were not to be deprived of power. He was not yet entirely certain of what to do, but he knew he must speak. He stood up, with his hands resting on the edge of the table before him. In order not to let his attention be diverted, he did not look at the row of faces illuminated by candlelight. He fixed his eyes instead on the escutcheons hanging on the opposite wall.