In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  Legoix objected; he was afraid that the skinner and his friends would not leave willingly. However, after a brief consultation with Thibert and Saint-Yon, he ordered Caboche out of the butcher hall. Strangely enough, no one protested. Caboche left at once, followed by nearly all the workers and servants, the students and vagrants. Legoix led those who remained—no more than thirty or forty men—through a hidden passage to his own house which lay beyond the slaughterhouse and its adjoining stables and barns. He was not happy with the silent withdrawal of Caboche and his men. He kept asking himself what the skinner was up to: it seemed obvious that he was up to something—Simon Caboche had never yet shown a willingness to obey a command or fulfil a request without an argument or a show of reluctance. Legoix decided that something must be done about Caboche, even if it meant strangling him with his bare hands, if the skinner persisted by his bestial behavior in endangering the business of the burghers. Legoix had no intention of letting himself or his colleagues lose their authority to a brute who was interested only in his own profit.

  The common people, who until recently had looked up to the slaughterhouse owners as powerful protectors and trusted them as leaders, were tending more and more to support Caboche, because he appealed to their basest instincts. The dream of recovering prosperity, public order and moderate taxes under a fair administration would undoubtedly go up in smoke if Simon Caboche were allowed free rein to stir up the hungry mob.

  Legoix was forced, more quickly than he had expected, to make a decision about the fate of the skinner. Just before daybreak Maitre de Troyes came pounding on his door. The surgeon pointed to the glowing eastern sky.

  “That’s outside the city,” Legoix said. He threw a cloak over his shirt and went up the street with de Troyes. “The Armagnacs have set fire to another town.”

  “No no, Legoix,” the surgeon said despondendy. He sighed. “That’s the work of our friend Caboche. He convinced five or six hundred men with his wild talk. My apprentice told me that after dusk armed men were seen on their way to an unguarded spot in the city walls. Now they’ve come back—the ignorant idiots—and they’re bragging about their bravery. Instead of the Hotel de Nesle, they have sacked Bicetre castle—and set it on fire.”

  At dawn the streets of Saint-Jacques streamed with people who had taken part in the nocturnal expedition. Those who were not too drunk to talk—they had loaded vats of wine from Berry’s cellar onto carts and taken them along—were able to tell marvelous tales about the splendor of the ducal palace. They showed splinters of gold leaf which they had wrenched from the walls, and fragments of Berry’s precious stained glass windows. Gold and silver, however, were nowhere to be found—could it really be true that the Duke had stripped himself to the bone to aid Orléans in his struggle? The plunderers had found only the collections famed far and wide: books, stuffed animals, relics of saints in golden shrines. They had thrown the books and beasts into the fire, but they fell eagerly upon the relics. All day, laden with booty, singing and shouting, the butcher apprentices and their hangers-on marched through the streets of Paris, led by Simon Caboche, who had dressed himself in one of Berry’s scarlet ceremonial robes, heavy with golden ornaments.

  Repeatedly Legoix summoned the skinner to a meeting. At last, with his brothers and associates, he set off for the quarter where Caboche lived, but the skinner appeared only when he was surrounded by followers armed with knives and cudgels.

  After midnight more than 6,000 soldiers left Paris under the command of the Duke of Burgundy. While they advanced overland to Saint-Cloud, ships loaded with burning pitch floated down the Seine. So at daybreak the Armagnacs, within their hastily fortified village, found themselves threatened on two sides. The bridges over the Seine and the neighboring wooden barricades went up in smoke, creating a diversion which facilitated the invasion of the village by Burgundy’s troops. For hours there was bitter fighting in the village and in the neighboring fields. The garrison of Saint-Cloud—Bretons and Gascons from Armagnac’s army—was vasdy outnumbered and unprepared for the attack from the city. Burgundy’s troops left the dead and wounded on the battlefield to the wolves and ravens and chased the fleeing Armagnacs toward Saint-Denis.

  Charles d’Orléans spent the winter at Blois, depressed and embittered. He knew that he owed the failure of his campaign to Armagnac’s crude indifference, and to the irresolution and delay of his other allies. And once more Charles had borne the brunt of the defeat. Armagnac had made off with the gold of Saint-Denis. Once more Charles was compelled to raise wages for his soldiers and ransom for the prisoners in Saint-Cloud. The treasury of Orléans was empty: bankers and money-lenders came to Blois to view and appraise the valuables on display, which for the most part were trifles: crucifixes, mirrors, bound books, relic caskets, two gilded birdcages—all of which had belonged to the Duchess Valentine. The proceeds were not nearly enough. Charles had no alternative but to levy a huge tax on the wine and grain in the territory of Orléans so that he could have a substantial sum of money at his disposal.

  Now everything seemed to conspire against him. It was true that Burgundy, thinking of ice and snow, had voluntarily refrained from pursuing Orléans’ retreating troops, but the winter cold did not prevent the Count of Saint-Pol from occupying the territories of Valois, Beaumont and Coucy. It was impossible for Charles to mount a counter-attack: Bourbon and Alençon, equally threatened by Burgundy’s troops on the borders of their own domains, had their hands full. Armagnac wandered with his men as usual from district to district, plundering and destroying at will. Berry had retreated within the strong walls of Bourges, the capital of his feudal state. His couriers traveled weekly to Blois with news and letters; now that he had fallen again into disfavor at court, the old Duke appeared disposed to donate whatever energy and insight he possessed to his nephew’s cause.

  This time Berry was profoundly grief-striken and angry: the loss of his power and influence in Paris was nothing to him beside the wanton destruction of his collections. The knowledge that nothing remained of Bicetre except charred heaps of rubble, that precious manuscripts had been burned to a crisp, stained glass windows smashed, the relics stolen by vandals who could hardly comprehend the value of their booty—the thought of this tormented Berry night and day. In the course of his long life he had never been particularly truthful, upright or merciful; he had lied and deceived, betrayed and blasphemed without scruple whenever it suited his convenience. Now he wept like a child in impotent rage and bitterness over the loss of Bicetre.

  “Worthy Nephew,” he wrote to Charles in a private letter, “we cannot ffo on in this wav. You don’t have a sou left, and I am ruined. In order to fortify Bourges I have sold whatever valuables I owned here; my properties in Paris have been confiscated. My beautiful Bicetre was, as you know, razed to the ground by the rabble which still continue to rob and murder respectable citizens every day. Nephew, I have learned from a good source that they are preparing a new campaign against us: it is said that Burgundy will march upon Bourges after Easter. The Dauphin has been dubbed a knight in Paris; he will lead the army with Burgundy. We are enemies of the state, Nephew, our cause looks bad. That is why I wish to suggest something to you. I have been in touch with the King of England. He has reason to complain because of the manner in which Burgundy treated the auxiliary troops which were despatched to him a year ago from over the sea. Through the mediation of Armagnac and Brittany I have been able to learn the attitude of the King and Queen of England toward the situation in our kingdom. They are willing to send us some reinforcements under certain conditions. I enclose a draft of the treaty in which they list their demands. Think now, Nephew; we have no choice. Decide as quickly as possible; send couriers to Bourbon and Alençon and request them emphatically to do what I advise you to do. This will make probable a quick settlement of the matter. My clerks can fill in the text of the treaty later.

  “There is no time to lose, Nephew. Burgundy’s army stands at Melun. They have stopped there because t
he King is unwell, but it cannot be long before they reach Bourges. I expect a siege about Saint-Boniface’s day; I can offer resistance for—say—roughly two months, but no longer. Before that time has elapsed, I must have help. Do not delay, Nephew; remember, our cause stands or falls with Bourges. If I am defeated, it will be your turn next at Blois. Your allies cannot help you. Consider all this carefully, sign the blank document and forward it at once. Hurry.”

  Charles convened his council immediately: his brother Philippe, the Chancellor Davy, the Captains de Braquemont and de Villars, the Governor of Orléans, de Mornay. Hesitantly, with marked reluctance, he told them what the Duke of Berry had written. Amid a silence which held a sharper protest than any spoken argument, he read the points of the treaty: the King of England declared himself ready to despatch at once 8,000 foot soldiers and archers, provided that Orléans and his allies pledged themselves to help him regain Guyenne and Aquitaine to which the English Crown laid claim of old.

  The others remained silent even after Charles had finished the letter. They sat motionless around the table, without looking up.

  “I am waiting, my lords,” Charles said at last, attempting to cover his uneasiness with formality. “I am eager to hear your views on this proposal.”

  Philippe moved as though he were going to leap from his seat, but he controlled himself and remained sitting with his face averted. The others exchanged glances. Finally de Mornay rose to his feet with a sigh.

  “Monseigneur.” He paused and stared distractedly out the window at the blue-white, bright vernal sky. “Monseigneur, we have come to a sorry pass when a man must choose between hanging and drowning. I do not know what to advise you. I agree with the Duke of Berry that without swift, vigorous aid from abroad, your armies and your allies’ armies will be crushed before the year is out, because they are scattered and weakened and we know now that unity in action and obedience to a central authority are impossible. With the help of the English the party of Orléans would certainly win—for the present, at any rate. The English fight better in France than we do. You would be able to defend your rights yourself, Monseigneur, but at what cost? As for myself, I would sooner lose my life and all that I own than enter into a pact with the enemies of France.”

  De Braquemont rose too.

  “In any case,” he said, “what reason do these bastards have to meddle in our domestic disturbances? If they see that we are divided among ourselves, they will be all the more eager to wage war against all of us together. I advise you to let things take their course, my lord. How can you be sure that Burgundy will besiege Blois after Bourges falls? It seems more likely to me that he will turn back, especially now that he has the sick King with him. We will have time to plan then.”

  “And suppose that Burgundy seeks a reconciliation with England again?” De Villars remarked sharply. “He has already done that once before; is his daughter not half promised to an English prince? If the English come against us even once, we are truly lost—because a thousand of these bowmen fight better than the whole of Burgundy’s army.”

  The Chancellor Davy, however, shook his head.

  “It is those damnable conditions which make it impossible for us to sign the treaty. England wants our promises now, in black and white. They have learned from Burgundy what happens when one has no written agreement.”

  “But if we help the English conquer Guyenne—it is high treason!” Philippe exclaimed. He looked imploringly at his brother. “You cannot, we may not do that, Charles.”

  “Nay,” Charles said calmly. “I shall write my uncle of Berry that we cannot accept this proposal. Then we can only march to Bourges with all the men we have here.”

  That night Charles could not sleep at all: he let the candle burn on the table in his room, and when the tiny crackling flame finally threatened to go out at the bottom of the candlestick, he kindled a new one. He had not taken off his clothes and he could not sit still; with his hands clasped behind his back he paced back and forth from wall to wall, from bed to chest, from table to window. Around midnight there was a soft rap on his door; Charles pushed the bolt aside. From the darkness of the vaulted stairhead Dunois appeared, clad like his brother in doublet and hose.

  “What is it?” asked Charles, surprised and slightly annoyed; he did not want to be disturbed now.

  “I could not sleep, brother.” Dunois sat down on Charles’ clothes chest and pressed his hands together between his knees. “I could not help thinking about what you told us today. Is it really so bad with us? Will we lose our war against Burgundy?”

  “We will certainly lose,” Charles said, shrugging, “unless we get money soon and are able to persuade the soldiers in our service to obey our exact orders. It is our misfortune that our army has a half-dozen commanders who are constantly at loggerheads. If we had discipline and order among us we would not have been defeated so decisively at Saint-Cloud, brother. I don’t know where to hide from shame when I remember that day. No wonder our enemies call us empty braggarts.”

  In silence Dunois looked at his half-brother. Charles had grown thinner, his face had a yellow tint: his outdoor life had made his skin tawny so that he could not be called pale even now, when all the color had vanished from his face. Although he shaved closely, the blue shadow of his beard was always visible on his cheeks and chin. He was so accustomed to wrinkle his forehead in thought that even when he relaxed a crease remained between his eyebrows. He looked much older than his seventeen years: this was noticeable especially in his eyes. He had the weary, mournful, somewhat suspicious look of a man who has been frequently injured and disappointed. He had a habit of looking downward when he wanted to hide his uncertainty—he did this often.

  “What happens if we lose?” asked Dunois matter-of-factly.

  Charles glanced at him askance.

  “That depends. We are outlaws. They could kill us or send us into exile and claim all our possessions for the Crown again. I really don’t know, brother. But it does not look very promising.”

  “What would Monseigneur our father have done?” asked Dunois brusquely. Charles said nothing. He knew only too well that his father would never have allowed himself to become embroiled in such a hopeless and dismal situation; he would not have let Armagnac bully him; the Lords of Luxembourg and Picardy would never have deserted him. The thought of his father filled him with bitter shame; here he sat, the heir to a great name and to power and vast estates. How had he discharged his task? He had lost half of his lands and all his money and valuables; the blows he had received in his struggle against Burgundy had thoroughly dissipated the glory of the name of Orléans. He had not avenged his father’s death nor redeemed the vow he had made to his mother; there was no future for himself, his brothers, his small sister and his child; at best they would be poor exiles.

  “What is better now, brother?” asked Dunois in a clear voice. “To defeat Burgundy with the help of the English or to allow ourselves out of loyalty to the realm to be hacked to pieces by Burgundy? I know very well that the English are our hereditary enemies, but you have heard yourself how Burgundy let the butchers take over Paris, how they set fire to the churches and then drove women and children into the flames, how they plunder and murder to their hearts’ content. Wouldn’t the King prefer to lose Guyenne to the English rather than all France to fellows like the butchers and Ar-magnac’s men? If you win the struggle, brother, and are restored to honor, you will be powerful. If you were the King’s right hand you could issue laws to protect the people against rovers and free looters. Perhaps it would be easier then to maintain a vast, well-trained, orderly army to defend the land against foreign invasion, which is something Burgundy will never do.”

  Charles, who stood by the table, raised his head, startled, and looked attentively at Dunois. He had never heard the youth give so long a speech. Dunois was reticent by nature; he was also unaccustomed to express his opinion unasked. He was about twelve years old, but strong and sinewy as an adult; in his wide f
air face his grey-green eyes gleamed, remarkably clear, like the waters of the brooks which flowed through the city of Blois. His thick, sandy hair was clipped so short that he seemed almost bald. He sat in the same position on the chest, hands between his knees, his eyes fixed quietly on Charles.

  “So you think I would be no traitor if I did what Berry proposes?” Charles asked gravely, sitting down on the edge of the bed opposite Dunois. “It’s merely a question of whether the King will ever think as you do, brother!”

  Dunois laughed easily.

  “The King himself has eaten and drunk with the Earl of Arundel when he was in Paris,” he said. “I know that from La Marche, the Burgundian whom you took prisoner.”

  Charles sighed and nodded thoughtfully.

  “We shall still have to fight the English again for all that,” he said finally. “Everyone sees clearly that it must end sooner or later in war. That is why I find this alliance so dishonorable.”

  “Oh, but the English are perfectly aware of that too.” Dunois frowned slightly as though he were surprised that Charles could doubt him on that point. “It is certainly awkward that we need their help now. They will undoubtedly laugh at us because we cannot keep peace in our own lands. But don’t you think, brother, that Burgundy is more dangerous than the English?”

  Charles sent his half-brother to bed; but he himself remained awake until early morning. Doubt kept him company. He was se-credy ashamed of the desires which sometimes crept over him; he felt an urge to relieve himself as quickly as possible of the worries and burdens, the responsibility and unrest, which had fallen to his lot after his father’s death. What difference did it make whether he was defeated and exiled? He had demonstrated his good will; the circumstances were stronger than he was. He was always painfully aware of these and similar thoughts. He reproached himself for being cowardly, weak, ungrateful, unworthy. What sort of man was he that he seemed sometimes to lack utterly the will to persevere, the power to act, any impulse to heroism? Dunois’ words spurred him to persist anew. What the devil, this was politics; now he must demonstrate his ability as a diplomat. Burgundy had managed to use the English and skilfully move them aside when they had fulfilled their purpose. Must he fail where his enemy had succeeded?