In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “Is it true that Brittany has deserted us?” Dunois looked worried; he had heard the news from de Braquemont.

  “Yes, he wants to remain aloof.” Charles sighed again. “But meanwhile I have paid all his men.”

  “If only he does not go over to Burgundy now, the coward!” Dunois banged his clenched fist on the table. But Charles shook his head and said:

  “I believe he has enough reason not to do that.”

  Dunois, who had immediately fallen silent out of courtesy when Charles began to speak, had more to say. He did not want to seem disrespectful, but he could not be quiet.

  “Why don’t you follow the advice of Messires de Villars and de Braquemont?” he asked. “Why don’t you let men come from Lom-bardy and Lorraine? You can get as many as you want.”

  “Listen, Dunois, you must leave that to me.” Calmly, Charles began to roll up his parchment. “Don’t forget that I gave my word of honor at Bicetre that I would not begin anything until Easter. I—at any rate—intend to keep my word. How can I justifiably complain to the King if I do not obey his wishes? It was to be expected that Burgundy would violate the provisions; thus my case is strengthened.”

  Philippe and Dunois stared down at the table in some embarrassment. They were surprised at Charles’ tart tone. It was unlike him. Their silence was more eloquent than any objections they could raise. For his part Charles already knew their arguments by heart.

  “I do not feel responsible for the actions of Monseigneur d’Armagnac,” he said curtly. It troubled him deeply that he could not sever his ties with his father-in-law. “He refused to take part in the discussions at Bicetre; he insists that the treaty has nothing to do with him. It is bad enough that he drags the name of our party in the gutter—I do not see why I should be held accountable for his behavior. Damn it! I have warned him enough—not a day passes that I do not beg him to curb his troops. I believe he is afraid that they will desert if he forbids them to loot and rape. And indeed, alas, words of honor, promises, vows … these make little difference to Armagnac—to him they are just meaningless words. By Chrisfs wounds! What a pity that I fare so ill with the man whom I need most.”

  He saw his brothers’ bowed heads. They sat silently together, three youths dressed in mourning. This is now my family council, Charles thought despondendy. He rose with a sigh. These are the only people I can really trust. And for their sakes I must persevere; they are still minors, they have no protector except me. No one but I will fight for their inheritance—no one will put out a hand to restore to them what has been taken from them.

  “Forgive me, Dunois, if I spoke harshly to you. I did not mean to do it, brother. I know very well that nothing lies closer to your heart than the honor of Orléans.”

  Charles walked around the table and patted his half-brother’s shoulder. “The world is divided unfairly, Dunois. Our cause would have fared far better if you had stood in my shoes and I in yours.”

  On the twenty-fifth of July, 1411, the Herald of Orléans appeared before the gate of the Hotel d’Artois; when he was admitted to Burgundy’s presence he read the following challenge in a loud voice:

  “ We, Charles, Duke of Orléans and Valois, Count of Blois and Beaumont, Lord of Coucy; Philippe, Count of Vertus and Jean, Count of Angoulême, to you, Jean, who call yourself Duke of Burgundy. Because of the treacherous and premeditated murder committed by hired assassins upon the person of our greatly revered and beloved lord and father, Monseigneur Louis, Duke of Orléans, despite your vows and expressions of friendship, and because of the further betrayal and crimes committed by you against the respect and honor of our sovereign Prince and King, and against us, we do advise you that henceforward from this hour we shall strive against you with all our power in every possible way. May God be our witness.’ ”

  “You see, Saint-Pol, they put the noose around their necks themselves,” said Burgundy. He sat in the room where he received his friends and indmates. Depicted on the heavy Flemish tapestries covering the walls were the birth of Mary, the Annunciation, the sorrowing mother under the cross. Burgundy stood straddle-legged, staring at the splendor of line and color; his hands were clasped behind his back and his underlip, as usual, protruded pensively. He was speaking to the man whom he considered his most valuable collaborator: Waleran, Count of Saint-Pol, descended from the royal family of Luxembourg, Burgundy’s right arm, commander of armies and, recently, a captain of the garrison of the city of Paris. The Count of Saint-Pol was a stocky man with a broad, florid face; despite his weight, he moved with the buoyant elasticity of a man who exercises regularly. Stories circulated about the remarkable strength of his hands. He stood with his hands at his sides, listening to Burgundy, his face impassive.

  “You accepted the challenge immediately, Monseigneur?” he asked.

  Jean de Burgundy laughed curtly and drew a rolled sheet from his sleeve; silently he offered it to Saint-Pol.

  “ ‘We, Jean, Duke of Burgundy, Count of Artois, etc., etc.,’ “ the Luxembourger read half-aloud; he held the parchment at arm’s length and squinted slightly—he was myopic—” ‘to you, Charles, who call yourself Duke of Orléans; to Philippe, etc, etc, who have sent us your challenge, etc., etc., know then that in order to put an end to the crimes, conspiracies, sorcery, etc., of the late Louis, your father, and thereby to protect our Sovereign Lord the King, we caused the said Louis to be killed, etc. Since you and your brothers intend manifestly to tread the same pernicious and ruinous path as your late father, we take upon ourselves the task, pleasing to God, of bringing you to your senses and chastising you duly as the liars, rebels and braggarts which you are. In witness thereof we sign these papers with our own seal, and so forth.’ Precisely.” Saint-Pol rolled up the parchment and returned it to Burgundy. “Precisely. This time you are really in earnest, my lord?”

  “This time I am really serious, so help me God,” replied Burgundy.

  It was clear to Saint-Pol that the Duke was delighted with the situation; it was to his advantage that Orléans had begun by sending him a challenge.

  “I am ready,” Burgundy continued, always with that secret laughter in his voice and that air of enjoying someone else’s discomfiture. “So far as I am concerned, Orléans could not have chosen a better moment. Our troops stand ready. Paris is prepared for a siege. Let them come—I shall receive them warmly.”

  “Hm.” Saint-Pol ran his palm over his lips and chin. Burgundy looked at him with a frown. “Don’t you agree with me, Saint-Pol? Out with your objections if you have any.”

  “Hm,” repeated the Luxembourger; he sniffed a few times and gazed pensively at the scenes on the tapestries before him. “Are we really so sure of Paris, Monseigneur? Believe me, this matter has been carefully planned. Orléans’ challenge indicates that he feels pretty confident.”

  “Do you doubt my influence over the Parisians?” Burgundy demanded irritably. “Wait and see whom they will choose if it comes to that.”

  Saint-Pol thrust his hands under his broad girdle and put his head back as though he saw something fascinating on the sculptured beams of the ceiling.

  “Things are no longer as they were. In fact I would almost say that you have squandered the most auspicious moment when you could have sent Orléans packing. In the course of the last two years you have made too many enemies. The University too is no longer well disposed toward you. You have become too powerful, and—with that power—a little too careless. It is no use to strike me,” he continued impassively, as Burgundy whirled quickly toward him with upraised hand. “What I say is the truth. You would do better to acknowledge it.”

  Burgundy lowered his fist, strode to the other end of the room and sat down. Saint-Pol did not move. He seemed to be studying the tapestries with close attention.

  “What are you driving at, Saint-Pol?” Jean spoke brusquely; he tapped the table top angrily with his fingers. “What are you trying to say? Must I bring more troops into Paris, must I imprison or exile Orléans’ people, mus
t I buy the support of certain men—and if I must—who are they? Do not come to me now with vague hints. Facts, Saint-Pol, facts, if you please. But tell me only what I do not know myself.”

  “Monseigneur.” Saint-Pol leaned toward Burgundy with both hands on the table. “So far as I can tell, two hostile groups are facing each other in the city: on the one hand the officers, magistrates and merchants—in short, everyone who used to enjoy power and a certain respect; on the other, the people from Saint-Jacques’ quarter—the butchers, flayers and tanners with their partisans and all the adventurers and vagrants on the other bank of the Seine. Now my advice to you is this: you must take advantage of this mutual hostility. If you support the Saint-Jacquards, you don’t have to fear that the officers and merchants will bring the Armagnacs inside. The butchers and tanners and all the idle rabble will preserve you from any possible traitors in their own camp. Enlist the butchers’ guild on your side, my lord, and you have a vigilant army always at your command.”

  Burgundy frowned, and thrust forward his lower lip in thought. His father’s words kept darting through his mind: keep the people as your friend, the people can make and break rulers; never underrate the power of the mob; seek your strength in public favor, my son.

  “Arm those fellows of Saint-Jacques then, but do it quickly,” he said to Saint-Pol. “Organize the guilds into troops, give them money, ask them their grievances, and make them promises; I don’t doubt that you will be able to find your way through those districts. Give them gifts, greet them with courtesy. Evidently you know what pleases those people most. But see to it that they receive weapons and instructions before Saint-Lawrence’s day.”

  “Monseigneur, I think it advisable that you make this request for cooperation yourself,” said Saint-Pol mildly, but with determination. “You can accomplish more by personal sympathy than I can accomplish by promises or gifts. There are people, Monseigneur, who will go through fire and flame for a leader. They need to follow, to cling to something. You can be their leader if you approach them in the right way.”

  Burgundy sniffed contemptuously.

  “I have never heard that a member of a royal House had to beg for an alliance with butchers,” he cried, leaping to his feet. “A Duke of Burgundy does not beg for a treaty with butchers.”

  Saint-Pol shrugged and bowed.

  “It shall be as Your Grace desires,” he said formally. “I thought only that a personal appearance would fully restore the confidence in you which had been somewhat dispelled in the course of the year. The people are still well-disposed toward you, Monseigneur, but already there are many who ask themselves why you have not gone forward with the reforms in the Audit Chamber, why you have not revised the taxes, why you have not restored order in municipal affairs during your administration. You know how difficult it is to keep the people as a friend. But perhaps I do not see these things in their proper light, my lord. In that case I beg you to forgive me. A few days ago I heard a couple of small children singing in the street—The Duke of Burgundy! May God keep him happy!’ I hope that will always be the wish of Paris, Monseigneur.”

  He bowed once more and walked backward to the door; as he passed he took his riding gloves from a chest. Burgundy watched him, overcome by an uncomfortable feeling of having made a mistake—worse still, of having made himself ridiculous. He knew that in matters like these, Saint-Pol was seldom wrong; the Luxembourger was a shrewd judge of people, a disinterested and devoted counselor.

  “Stay, Saint-Pol,” he said curtly even before the other had reached the door. “Sit down here and let us discuss this matter thoroughly.”

  Saint-Pol put his gloves down again and briskly approached the table. Burgundy told him that he intended to communicate personally with the Legoix brothers. No twitch in his face, no flicker of his eyes, no irony in his voice betrayed his satisfaction as Saint-Pol replied, “Of course. I endorse your plans heartily. I shall execute your instructions at once.”

  Charles d’Orléans awoke from a deep slumber; it had been a long time since he had enjoyed such a sound, dreamless, undisturbed sleep. He turned onto his back and stretched. What he saw around him in the dusk brought him quickly back to a realization of time and place. He raised himself at once on his elbows and peered through the dawn, listening intendy. He lay on the camp bed in his tent. He could hear his pennant fluttering overhead in the wind, horses neighed nearby; further away someone blew a horn. Charles’ squire lay curled up on a heap of straw before the curtain which covered the entrance to the tent. Charles leaped from the bed and nudged the sleeping youth.

  As the squire sat up, Charles pulled the curtain ropes; a cold morning wind blew in his face. Grey light filtered into the tent.

  “Dry weather, clear sky,” he muttered. “God be praised. We can finally begin to do something. We have had two days now without rain. I hope the terrain has become a little less swampy. Over here!” he called out to the youth who, still half-blind from sleep, came carrying the leather doublet which was worn under the armor. While his arm and leg pieces were being buckled on, Charles looked outside.

  The morning star sparkled over the horizon; the tents of his allies and vassals stood to the left and right of Charles’ pavilion, outlined against the clear sky. Banners and ensigns floated from their tops; shields with escutcheons hung over each entrance. As it grew lighter, the colors and armorial bearings painted or enamelled on the flags and shields could be distinguished: the lions, falcons, lilies, crosses and stars in saffron, sable, argent and lapis lazuli. Behind the city of tents lay the army camp. The men had spent the night in the open air, in deserted barns on the field, or under hastily constructed shelters made of twigs, straw and hides. The great fires, which the soldiers had kindled after sunset to protect them at least partially from the night cold, were still burning. An odor of roast meat drifted over the camp. Directly opposite Charles’ tent on the other side of the field, rose the roofs of Saint-Denis, a suburb of Paris; above the houses stood the heavy walls and towers of the abbey.

  For a week Orléans’ troops had besieged Saint-Denis—or rather they had camped around the town, for storm and rain had prevented them from launching an assault. Paris had denied them an entry; the gates were closed, soldiers stood on the ramparts. Armagnac, who had been thoroughly informed of the conditions around Paris, led the army to Saint-Denis; if the village fell, they would have an advantageous base for operations. The people of Saint-Denis had not been fully prepared for the arrival of Orléans’ troops. They had not expected that anyone would desecrate by siege so holy a place which held both an abbey and a cathedral. They acted in great haste, pulling down the market stalls to use the wood for shooting weapons and slings. Heavy rainfall brought a welcome postponement of hostilities.

  While Orléans’ people waited for the sky to clear, the burghers consulted with the Abbot of Saint-Denis. They felt obliged to defend their village for the sake of the people of Paris: bread, firewood and seafish could reach Paris only through Saint-Denis. On the other hand, the Abbot feared that the church and monastery buildings would suffer irreparable damage if there were a siege. He felt responsible for the treasures and objects of art which were stored in the abbey. For that reason the Abbot counseled voluntary surrender. Inside Saint-Denis, opinions on this matter varied widely: the people’s terror mounted when somebody on the ramparts reported that Orléans’ army was preparing for an attack. It was rumored in the village that the assault would be led by the Armagnacs, who were feared and detested everywhere.

  Orléans now donned his armor. Taking his helmet under his left arm, his sword in his right hand, and followed by his squire, he walked past the tents to the great pavilion where he and his allies met early to eat and talk. Here he found his brother Philippe and Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Alençon, surrounded by nobles of their retinues, already assembled. The Constable d’Albret and Armagnac were not yet present; since dawn they had been busy calling up and instructing the men.

  “The weather holds wel
l, my lord,” remarked Bourbon after greeting Charles. He was a tall, plump man of middle age, with an affable, but rather weak, face. He had narrow shoulders, bad posture, and looked somewhat ineffectual in a hauberk and coat of mail. His allies considered him something of a dead weight on them; he was excessively cautious, worried constantly, seeing danger or bad luck everywhere; moved slowly and was distinguished by a striking sluggishness in thought and action. In the most favorable circumstances he showed himself to be calm and reliable, just as his old father had been before him; it was perhaps also because of this quality that he had not allowed himself to be swayed by the recent effort of the opposition party to win him over, with his troops and resources, to Burgunds cause.

  “I have just left Monseigneur d’Alençon,” continued Bourbon hesitantly, in a low voice, while he bowed to Charles. “We ask ourselves continually whether it is really wise of you to let Armag-nac’s men lead the attack on Saint-Denis. It is true that they know the neighborhood much better than we do, but after the failure at Ham and the events last year …”

  Followed by Bourbon, Charles walked to the table which stood in the middle of the tent and let himself be served with bread and meat. Bourbon’s words troubled him because they expressed a doubt which he himself shared almost constantly. It had indeed been Charles’ intention to let Saint-Denis be taken under the command of de Braquemont and de Villars. He now had a strong, well-equipped army, substantially larger than the previous year, for it had been reinforced by companies from Lombardy and Lorraine. When he had met his father-in-law again in Beauvais a few weeks before, he had believed at first that he was finished with the latter’s recklessness for the present. Armagnac’s soldiers were more squalid and gaunt than ever, their ranks notably diminished, their knapsacks and carts empty, because they had been forced to leave their booty behind at Ham and had had little time for plunder during the flight.