“Hm.” Henry raised his thin, sandy eyebrows. “I will give you good advice, fair cousin. Eat what is set before you. It is stupid to go hungry because of regret or shame. I believe that God has given me the victory, not because I am so deserving, but because he wanted to chastise the French. For now it is generally known that this kingdom is a true witches’ cauldron of sin and immorality. You probably know better than I what a pack of ruffians the French government is. No one can really be surprised that this situation has aroused God’s wrath. In this case I have been only God’s instrument, fair cousin.”
Henry said all this matter-of-facdy, although he raised his voice slightly. He kept his cold bright eyes fixed steadily upon Charles, who at first looked straight before him. But when the King fell silent, Charles gave him a quick, curious glance. He asked himself if Henry really believed what he had just said: the King spoke so dispassionately. There was no emotion in his words, only a chilly pedantry.
‘There is nothing more to be said,” the King added, thinking that Charles wished to raise some objection. “So it must be from now on, fair cousin. Therefore, he down.”
“Are you taking me back to England with you, Monseigneur?” asked Charles. He could think of nothing else to say. The King’s gaze became brighter and more penetrating.
“It is so,” he said. “But we will not speak of it now,” he continued, when he saw that Charles was about to ask more questions. “We shall give our personal attention to the question of your captivity in due time, in London. I intend to have a serious discussion with you, fair cousin. Perhaps we can reach an understanding.”
“Monseigneur,” Charles began. He wanted, while preserving the respectful attitude which was Henry’s due, to make him understand something of his own anxiety and desires. The King must listen to him. But deep in his heart he knew very well that all attempts to win the Englishman over would be futile. So finally he said only, “Will you release my squire, Monseigneur? Add his ransom to mine, I pray you; it can hardly make a difference to so large an amount. I am eager to send a message to Madame d’Orléans before I take ship for England.”
“That is true, you are married.” Henry raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at Jean de Nery, who stood at respectful attention behind his lord. “Is this your squire? You can let him go as far as I am concerned.”
The young man could not suppress a start of surprise. King Henry frowned and turned away with a half nod from which Charles inferred that the interview was over.
Charles was awake all night. He ordered de Nery to repeat over and over all the messages meant for Bonne. On reflection, however, he asked his shieldbearer to accompany him to Calais, where it would be easier for him to find a horse, and where Charles could get pen and paper; he wanted to write a letter himself.
Along with his companions in distress—a dreary group—Charles made the long journey to Calais on horseback. From the hills above Maisoncelles, they surveyed the battlefield once more: the peasants of the district had flocked to Agincourt in great numbers to search for serviceable pieces of clothing and weapons among the half-naked corpses.
In front marched the archers, the red cross of England upon their breasts; they went bowed under the weight of their booty. Henry led the procession, surrounded by flagbearers and heralds. In the rear at the very last the rows of prisoners walked with dragging footsteps and bowed heads, guarded by horsemen. Calais, long in the hands of the English, waited, arrayed in festive finery.
On All Saints Day King Henry entered the city. The noble captives were lodged in a castle close to the harbor. From the narrow grated window of his room, Charles saw, for the first time in his life, the sea, a turbulent grey-green and white stretch of water, a marbled wasteland. A fierce wind was blowing, foggy clouds floated swiftly through the colorless sky. In the harbor Henry’s ships lay at anchor, a forest of masts.
Now Jean de Nery prepared for his journey. At Charles’ request he was given some money and a horse by King Henry. Charles gave the young man a letter for Bonne and letters for his brother Philippe, for de Mornay, the Dauphin and Bernard d’Armagnac. When de Nery was on the point of departure, Charles took from his own finger a ring intended for his wife: a ring of gold and blue enamel, on which was engraved the words, Dieu le scet—God knows. His father and mother had both worn the ring; day and night it had reminded them of their grievances against Burgundy. Now for the first time the motto acquired another meaning for Charles. He no longer thought about Burgundy; he thought only of Bonne with all the desperate yearning of his twenty-odd years. Dieu le scet. God knows. God knows how much I love her. God knows what I suffer. Only God knows what will happen to me.
On the fifteenth of November, King Henry’s sailors hoisted the sails of the ships, which were heavily laden with soldiers, prisoners and booty. Even before they had left the harbor of Calais, an uncommonly strong wind sprang up. Suddenly storm clouds appeared in the northeast; the waves, crowned with foam, rose high. Despite the sailors’ warnings, Charles remained on deck. He saw the black-green water swell and fall, he heard the hissing of the spray as it swept past him, the wind whisding through the ropes. The coast of France sank away behind the horizon and with it, forever, Bonne and his youth.
SECOND BOOK:
The Road to Nonchaloir
I. EXILE
Paix est un trésor qu’on ne peut trop louer.
Peace is a treasure which can not be praised too highly.
— Charles d’Orléans
estminster, Windsor, the Tower of London—other names, but everywhere and always the same walls, the same narrow windows. Wall hangings, warm blankets and silver dining utensils were not lacking, but armed men stood before the door and silently accompanied one when one left the comfortable rooms for brief walks. In Westminster and Windsor, one could still fancy oneself a guest in a princely palace, but the sojourn in the Tower carried, despite tapestries and cushions, the unmistakable stamp of imprisonment. Those of royal blood—namely the Dukes of Orléans and Bourbon and the Count de Richmont—had been quickly separated from their less notable comrades in distress. This was hard on Charles, who missed Boucicaut: during the first week of exile a warm friendship had blossomed between the Marshal and himself. Boucicaut’s tranquil dignity set a standard for Charles; in Basaach’s Turkish dungeons the older man had learned how to endure suffering.
In fact, the Marshal had had an uncommonly interesting life: he could boast of having known the most important men of his time: Charles the Wise, du Guesclin the great Constable, Philippe of Burgundy, Louis d’Orléans, Gian Galeazzo of Milan and so many others—popes and princes, captains and statesmen from all parts of the world. He had seen the East, the remote territories beyond the Danube, Constantinople, Acre, the holy city of Jerusalem; he could give spellbinding descriptions of everything for he was a courtier and a man of letters as well as a soldier. Writing verse was his favorite avocation.
“I always have time for it in prison or during the long day’s march in a campaign.” He had said this with his calm, kindly smile when Charles had surprised him at that pastime in Windsor Castle. Charles, who lapsed into melancholy when he had nothing to distract his thoughts, began to compose commendably intricate couplets; before long he had reached the point where he and Boucicaut, when they were not playing chess, frequently held pleasant conversations in ingenious verse forms. The proficiency in rhyme which Charles had demonstrated as a child came to his aid now—often in Blois in the last few years he had composed couplets in Bonne’s honor for his minstrels to set to music. The lines flowed so swiftly from his pen that Boucicaut, a painstaking versifier, remarked in amazement, “You have undoubtedly inherited the gift from your father, Monseigneur. I remember very well that he could write a really melodious verse when the mood was on him.”
Charles thought of the song about the Forest of Long Awaiting and was silent; he could never hear mention of his father’s poetry without remembering how Herbelin had sung, how his mother had left the
room with unsteady steps, how Dunois had come to them. It was not long before Boucicaut realized that Charles was secretly ashamed of his father, that he listened to praise of the dead man with lowered eyes. Deep in his heart Charles doubted the innocence and good faith of the father for whose vindication he had struggled incessantly for eight long years. From Marshal Boucicaut he heard for the first time an objective portrayal of his father: the Marshal, who had been with Louis d’Orléans almost daily, succeeded in calling up the father for the son, evoking an image infinitely sharper and more convincing to Charles than the one created by Valentine’s passionate words or the whispers of courtiers. And for the first time Charles heard an objective evaluation of Jean of Burgundy. Boucicaut had had ample opportunity to become familiar with Orléans’ enemy during their long confinement in Turkish dungeons.
Because of these conversations with Boucicaut, Charles began to view the events of the last ten years in a different light. Sometimes it seemed to him that France hung before him like a brightly embroidered tapestry. He looked at the figures from a distance. He saw the men and women of France moving against a background of cities, forests and rivers, vineyards, meadows and fields. He saw that those who wore the crown and mitres, who held a sharp sword or a full moneybag, who were lords over the life and death of the people, paid scant attention to the endless multitudes who stood with hands lifted in entreaty in the shadow of the castles and cathedrals. Those in authority contested each other’s crown and scepter; they were motivated only by greed. That wolves devoured the flock, that brigands plundered the pilgrims, that thieves and murderers did their work, that famine and pestilence destroyed the people with sharp scythes—these were no concern of princes and prelates. The more Boucicaut talked to him about the obligation of monarchs and nobles to protect the defenseless people, the more Charles thought he saw the reality depicted in glaring colors; an intense fear for the future of his country crept over him. He had found King Henry’s words of condemnation painful, but he knew that Boucicaut spoke from intimate knowledge. His talks with the Marshal gave Charles ample food for thought—this helped him during the first weeks of his captivity to combat the doubt and despair which tortured him as soon as he was left to himself.
Boucicaut forced him by his conversation to think of other things besides his longing for Bonne. The Marshal knew from his own experience the suffering which Charles was enduring, but he knew also that intellectual exercise produces a temporary relief. He feared that the young man had to prepare himself for a prolonged exile; it would do no harm to show him how one hardens oneself for such an ordeal. However, Charles was soon deprived of Boucicaut’s company. King Henry assigned most of the prisoners to nobles of his personal entourage; for the present he kept Charles, Bourbon and Richmont for himself. Holding prominent foreign noblemen provided an additional and by no means despicable source of revenue for the great English peers; along with the ransom money, the prisoners were required to pay substantial sums for food and lodging. They could also, if they wished, take a follower into service or have clothing or other useful items brought in from their native country—for an extra consideration. Charles knew that his brother Jean was still a guest of the Duke of Clarence. Despite Charles’ efforts they had not yet met, although Jean had sent letters and messages. Clarence, who was out to get whatever he could, demanded an exceptionally high price for his hospitality.
Charles had received permission to transact business through Giovanni Vittori, the Florentine banker who lived in London. Vittori seemed willing to advance Charles large sums of money. But what did four or even six thousand gold ecus matter, compared to the fortune, greater than the richest royal dowries, which they would undoubtedly demand as ransom for his brother and himself? Vittori had begun negotiations with Charles’ treasurer and solicitors in Paris and Orléans; he had received assurances that everything possible would be done to collect the money for the Duke. Charles was convinced of the good faith of his councillors and officials, but he knew better than anyone else how difficult it would be to raise the money. He tried to think of ways to get it. He made a list from memory of the valuables, tapestries and furniture in his various castles; he even considered selling his properties in Asti. But how were all these things to be arranged?
Vittori was a great businessman with a sharp mind, but he was not the most suitable representative for matters linked to politics. Urgently Charles sought permission to negotiate and to make contact with his Chancellor, secretaries, advocates and advisors. He received no consent to his written applications, but he did receive a promise that some of his officers would be called to a meeting so that he could arrange his affairs—under surveillance, of course.
Now that he had had to give up Boucicaut’s company, Charles found it extremely difficult to get through the long days without fits of melancholy and despair. In Westminster and Windsor they had allowed him some distraction—a falcon hunt, strolls in the misty parks, horseback rides. But the Tower was a maze of massive stone walls; a little grass and a solitary tree grew in the courtyard. He had heard that executions had taken place here. “That is why the grass is short and brownish,” said Richmont. “The ground is saturated with blood.” Charles did not often go to the inner courtyard. Walking in the chill, damp air made him feel even more gloomy, if possible, than staying in his chamber.
A room had been prepared in which Bourbon, Richmont and he could come together to talk or play chess. The narrow chamber had no windows but, high in the walls, some holes had been cut and fitted with shutters. Under the wide chimney burned a good fire, barely dispelling the cold which swept over the flagstones. The only furniture was a table, a bench and a sideboard on which candles burned at high noon. A dozen armed soldiers were always present, under the command of the captain of the watch; a clerk in monk’s garb who understood French sat, during the meeting of the princes, on a small bench against the wall, his eyes cast down, his hands concealed within his sleeves. The presence of this silent but immovable auditor irritated the captives more than the clatter of weapons or the stamping, coughing and subdued conversations of the guards who stood in the farthest corner of the room.
Charles found the meetings with Bourbon and Richmont neither diverting nor comforting. It seemed to him that he had never known these men with whom he had associated for so many years. One’s true character becomes apparent under adversity—that old saying acquired meaning for Charles for the first time. Bourbon, always cautious and somewhat timid by nature, spent the greater part of the day staring vacantly before him; he was polite and affable to the guards but stingy with tips, evasive when the talk turned to money matters. Although, like Charles and Richmont, he had been given a banker as his solicitor and could have gotten money, his two companions frequently had to pay for his food and lodging. Bourbon seldom carried more than a couple of silver pieces in his purse. He declined to play for money, but looked on eagerly when Charles and Richmont played cards; he calculated the winnings and losses to a fraction of a sou.
At that time Richmont displayed a boisterous recklessness, an insensitive callousness which Charles suspected was a mask for despair rather than actual bravado. Richmont assumed a defiant attitude; he walked humming past the watch, spoke contemptuously of King Henry at the top of his voice and derided and criticized everyone. He was equally hostile to his companions in misery; there were incessant disputes and misunderstandings. Charles, easily irritated himself, began to avoid the company of Bourbon and Richmont. He stayed more and more often in his chamber: a square, spacious, quite comfortably furnished room, with a window overlooking the Thames. He was soon spending the greater part of the day before the small window panes, at least when the fog did not obstruct his view—which was, alas, too often the case. But in clear weather there was a good deal to be seen on the part of the river which was bounded by the two great bridges.
Directly under his window was a triple embankment with a small quay where barges lay moored. Charles knew that in the rampart below there
was a low arched waterway; when they had led him into the Tower he had cast a cursory glance at that massive iron gate which hung before the ominous sloshing black water. Ships both large and small moved back and forth continually over the Thames; long narrow freight boats, with twelve oarsmen on each side, flashed quickly by; compared to them the ferries and two-oared rowboats seemed to creep at a snail’s pace over the small waves of the river. Along the wharf on the other shore where a number of sea-going ships lay at anchor, there were warehouses and offices. Just as on the Seine, Charles thought; his heart ached. There too were crowds of vessels, there too were houses built on bridges, there too were the moving waters, green and black, flashing with silver reflections.
But for all that, the icy-cold impenetrable fog which drifted in from the sea seemed to Charles an alien and hostile element; it even crept, through cracks in the doors and windows, into his room. He hated nothing so much as the hours spent in the ruddy haze created by candle glow and hearthfire, which caused a prickling in his throat and in his chest when he breathed. When he could not look outside, he sat at the table before the fire. He had a missal and a hymnbook; other books he did not yet own. He could not concentrate on the familiar words; he sat staring at nothing over the open book.
He was with Bonne at Blois; he tried constantly to imagine what she was doing, what she was saying, and to whom. How did she endure their separation? Did she weep, did she think of him? He saw her pale face before him, framed in her black hair; he saw tears gleaming in her large eyes, which he had compared to topazes. He lost himself in her daily routine: now she went to early mass to pray for his safe return; now she was in the women’s room giving instructions to the serving maids; now she spoke with de Mornay and with the advocate Maitre Cousinot, his Chancellor, about ways to effect his release; now she sat eating at the head of the table in the dining hall; now she lay down to rest in the bed with the green curtains. When Charles imagined this, he put his head in his hands with a muffled sob. He would willingly have given up everything he owned to see Bonne, to speak with her and touch her once more. Sometimes his longing became so intense that he could not remain still. He walked from one end of the room to the other, sometimes cursing softly, sometimes praying. But this gave him no relief. He flung himself on the bed and struck the pillow with his fists, or smashed against the wall behind the tapestry until, exhausted, he realized the senselessness of his behavior. He managed for the most part to control himself if only to hide his emotions from his keepers, who rapped at his door from time to time to see what he was doing.
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