In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  The courtly emblems recede for an instant; he cannot express in the elegant and melancholy language of the love couplets dedicated to Bonne, the sensations which now overcome him. The self-possession so carefully cultivated and assiduously maintained forsakes him as it did at the time of his mother’s death, the rapine of Saint-Denis, the murders at Soissons, the desperate combat in the field of Agincourt. He paces restlessly back and forth; a thousand plans, a thousand thoughts, flash furiously through his brain. He wants to break out of this prison, to be free of the oppressive stone walls around him, at whatever cost. He wants to escape and, with his newly won insight and sense of responsibility, put himself in the service of his country, its defenceless King and ignorant Dauphin.

  But the door, banded with iron hoops, remains firmly closed; the grating before the window does not budge, well-armed guards who understand no French replace each other on the small landing before his door. From time to time the valet enters, or Waterton, or an officer of the watch; always the wind, the mice behind the wainscoting, the rain, the indeterminate sounds which are often heard in old walls. He knows that in this castle of Pontefract, King Richard died suddenly twenty years before, under mysterious circumstances—how? Why? He has heard the rumors; now that Henry reigns, the son of the usurper, no one dares to rake up these tales, but the memory hovers over Pontefract.

  Suddenly he must recall the words which he overheard when he was a child; he hears his father’s voice murmur about solitary confinement in darkness, of hunger, of massive brutal chains. Pontefract—Pontefract … the word once echoed over the ducal tables at Asnieres and Beaumont, in the quiet of Lady Valentine’s bedchamber. A word like any other word to the child who listens casually; nothing more than a sound conveying a vague sense of menace. Now the prisoner thinks of his royal predecessor; was it perhaps here, on this spot, that Richard, weighed down with jangling chains, waited for the end? The Richard of whom he has heard from his first wife Isabelle … a man who, without pity, orders the peers of his kingdom to be summarily executed, but who, when he goes off to war, takes his leave with kisses and tears …

  He tosses uneasily from one side to the other of his bed. Will it go with him as it once went with Richard? Do darkness, hunger and thirst await him too? Or perhaps an assassin’s dagger—poisoned food? Doesn’t King Henry know as well as he himself that it can take a very long time for the ransom to be collected—and would the Englishman release his captive even if he were offered the whole amount at once?

  The weeks glide by, shrouded in gloom and uncertainty. Suddenly there is a perceptible change: Sir Robert Waterton, who until now has visited the prisoner daily for the sole purpose of inquiring dutifully after the latter’s health, finding out if he has any feasible requests, and checking on the situation in general—Sir Robert Waterton one afternoon—and soon by chance every afternoon—pays a fairly prolonged visit. At first he makes a visible effort to throw off the cold, official demeanor of the warden, to become suddenly courteous and chatty. On these occasions he does not come in cuirass and coat of mail, but dresses as a courtier. The multi-colored garments make him look heavier and broader; it is obvious that he is uncomfortable in his long overgarment and velvet hat with scalloped lappets, all brand-new and cut according to the latest French fashion. He still wears his red-brown hair long. He walks toward the prisoner, frowning, but with a forced smile. Two servants from Waterton’s household carry wooden trays heaped with fruit, wine, and cake, and place these upon the table.

  The young man who stands reading at his desk looks up with raised brows. Finally he accepts Waterton’s invitation to take a seat; oddly, the knight has dropped his reserve. He no longer behaves toward his noble guest like a prison keeper, but like a host. The two discuss the weather, the hunt, horses and dogs, weapons—even, casually, books. Waterton does not like to read. They drink together and after a while a chessboard is fetched. The knight’s game reflects his character: he is crude, without guile and purposefully deliberate. The prisoner, a skilled chess player since childhood, wins effortlessly again and again. In this way a considerable amount of time passes. Again Waterton visits the young man. They chat, drink and play chess, the knight behaving with forced joviality, the Duke with obvious mistrust beneath his cautious manner. Politics is not mentioned, although more than once the conversation seems to be tending in that direction. Waterton’s clear anxiety to avoid that precise subject increases the prisoner’s suspicion.

  When for several weeks the knight has spent the late afternoon hours with him in this way, the prisoner knows with certainty that these visits have a definite purpose, that wine and friendly conversation are intended to pave the way … to what? Charles waits; from time to time he watches his warden attentively, trying to read something in the small greenish eyes which are sometimes fixed upon the chess pieces in almost childish desperation. At long last one day, Waterton begins to talk about the military situation in France in a tone which is too emphatically indifferent to be genuine. He gives an imposingly long list of names: the cities in Normandy and Picardy which are occupied by the English—some after siege, the most, however, after a pragmatic surrender by the citizens.

  “The populace knows that King Henry permits no plunder, his soldiers are well-disciplined,” says Waterton. “The people can continue to cultivate their fields and carry on trade. They will quickly see that King Henry’s government provides them with security and prosperity.”

  Charles does not reply; he sits staring at his silver goblet, which he turns slowly between his thumb and forefinger. Waterton continues.

  “In any case it’s senseless for the cities to offer resistance. Sooner or later they must lay down their arms; no one will be able to help them—not the government, not anyone acting in the name of the Dauphin and your—forgive me—his party. I doubt, for that matter, I doubt whether any auxiliary armies could check King Henry’s advance. Our troops are exceptionally well-trained, and our methods of combat are different, better than those which are clung to on the continent.

  “Indeed, it has become very clear in the course of the last hundred years that methods of waging war have changed, my lord. It is generally held here that war is not a tourney; the time is over when battles are fought at prearranged places according to prescribed rules. Speed and efficiency and equipment mean more than a pretty show of arms. I continue to be surprised that in France they refuse to see this. Take the siege of Rouen—there stood the lads again upon the ramparts with catapults and barrels of pitch—mere expedients that could cover only very short distances and only against attacks on solid ground. But King Henry has ended this obsolete custom of literally storming a fortress. Have you heard anything yet about this new method? He makes use of what we call trenches, in which the men are protected from projectiles. Behind the trenches we mount heavy weapons—great machines that fling stones over a distance. It’s remarkable that you have not thought of this yourselves.”

  “Probably we will learn from King Henry’s victories,” Charles replies with a slight ironic smile. “One could hardly remain blind to the advantages of your methods of warfare. Harsh tutors produce the most diligent pupils, as you know.”

  “Hm.” Waterton casts a quick glance at his companion. “Do you believe then, my lord, that before long France will offer an organized resistance? Perhaps you are better informed about the situation there than I?”

  Something in the knight’s tone makes the prisoner look up.

  “I thought that King Henry was at the point of concluding certain agreements with those who—according to him—represent the French Crown,” he says smoothly, but his dark brown eyes suddenly become extremely sharp and vigilant. He sees suspicion, curiosity and some suspense in the Englishman’s gaze. The conversation, stumbling until now, takes a decisive turn. Although Waterton does not admit it in so many words and lets no information drop, Charles senses what is happening in France. The talks between King Henry and the French government have broken down—a hitch has oc
curred somewhere—but where? Waterton does not seem unwilling to give him a hint about where the cause of the difficulty lies, and soon the young man knows how he must interpret his warden’s remarks: Burgundy, in exchange for complying with King Henry’s wishes, has made certain demands, and the King finds these demands excessive and, moreover, dangerous. If France will not give herself willingly, she must be taken by force. But that is possible only if Burgundy remains neutral. If Burgundy exchanges his neutrality for hostility to the English, King Henry will need the help of another French party in order to hold his ground.

  Slowly but surely the prisoner manages to learn the truth behind Waterton’s words: Burgundy seeks an approach to the Dauphin for greater security. He can do this now, because the Dauphin’s party no longer carries the stamp of Orléans or Armagnac. It is also clear what King Henry is aiming at—since he is uncertain about Burgundy’s intentions, he turns anew to the only one who could cooperate with him to influence the Dauphin: Orléans.

  The prisoner manages during the course of this conversation to learn still more. Waterton repeatedly shows an unusual interest in Monseigneur’s short-lived contact with the man who calls himself the King of Scotland.

  “It was no secret to us that—by means of gestures—Your Grace was able to hold conversations with James during the last months of his residence in the Tower,” he says.

  “Yes, I guessed as much when the King of Scotland was transferred to Windsor,” the prisoner answers, with a smile. “I’m very sorry. Now I shall never have the opportunity to return the book which he so kindly lent me.”

  Waterton’s eyes rest on the table where the manuscripts are piled. The young man beckons to his servant who stands near the door with both of Waterton’s retainers, ready to serve their masters if they want anything.

  “Give me the King of Scotland’s book.”

  Waterton frowns suspiciously when Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy is placed before him. The prisoner turns to the fly-leaf and points out five or six lines written in the King’s own hand.

  “Will you do me the favor, Sir Robert, of telling me what is written there?”

  The knight bends quickly over the book; his eagerness convinces the prisoner that suspicions have been entertained about the extremely brief friendship between the two princely exiles. After a few moments Waterton looks up.

  “It is a poem,” he says curtly, but not without a spark of amusement in his small green eyes.

  “I thought so too. Please be good enough to translate it for me, Messire. You know that I also divert myself with rhymes. I am naturally interested in the work of a colleague.”

  Waterton strokes his beard; finally he shrugs and complies with the request. He reads aloud in his somewhat hesitant, stiff French.

  “ ‘Come, all who wish to greet these May mornings … The hour of good fortune has struck for you … Sing with me: go hence, winter, be off. Come, summer, time of sweet sunny days.’ ”

  “Well, well.” The prisoner smiles. “That is prettily put. It has been worth waiting two long years for such a message.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Waterton asks sharply, slamming the book shut. “Do these words perhaps have a meaning known only to you and James of Scotland?”

  The young man raises his brows and his smile vanishes.

  “Now it is clear to me what you are aiming at, Sir Robert, but I’m afraid that this time you’re on the wrong track. I have had no opportunity to correspond with King James and one cannot discuss politics in sign language.”

  “King James?” says Waterton, looking at him askance. He sighs; the task which King Henry has entrusted to him is far from easy. To fight, organize, protect fortresses, exercise surveillance—these are things Waterton can do competently. But this wary fumbling behind the mask of polite conversation, these diplomatic skirmishes, go against his grain. The other will not commit himself. Waterton has known that from the beginning. In his reports he customarily characterizes the prisoner as courteous, self-controlled, mild-mannered and apparently co-operative—in short, a completely inscrutable character; he concludes from this that there is something hidden here.

  He tells the King the results of the conversation—an extremely meager report. “Monseigneur does not mention it, but one should not conclude from this that in spite of all precautions he is not or has not been in touch with the Dauphin of France or the Pretender to the Scottish throne. He appears to know nothing about the national disturbances in Scotland. He seems to be tranquil as usual, reads, writes, stands and stares for long hours out the window. During interviews he behaves as though he does not understand Your Majesty’s purpose.”

  King Henry’s reply suggests a new task for Waterton.

  “Win his confidence. Give him more freedom. Invite him to your house. Make him realize that it is of the greatest importance to him to conclude a treaty with Us.”

  Charles d’Orléans walked slowly back and forth in the orchard of Pontefract; although he had been permitted these strolls for some time now, he was surprised each time anew by the freshness and fragrance of the air. He could hardly believe that he could at one time have experienced this pleasure without restraint. He had gone through the seasons burdened always with cares and worries; he had noticed only incidentally the beauty of leaf and flower, the happiness that came from feeling the sun on one’s face, of inhaling deeply the odors of earth and green grass.

  He was not alone; Sir Robert Waterton’s wife walked beside him, carefully holding her dress away from the dewy grass so that the hem would not get wet. Waterton’s children, two boys and a small girl, ran in front of the grown-ups, romping and shrieking as healthy children do. An abundance of still-green apples and pears hung from the trees; the air was filled with the tart scent of unripe fruit. Although the orchard was large and well-tended, the soil was obviously poor: the grass was scanty, the apple trees were stunted.

  The garden lay in the lea of Pontefract against the ramparts but inside the castle moat; the high walls of the castle were overgrown here with ivy. Close to the water’s edge was Lady Waterton’s flower garden, where wild roses and foxglove tried to blossom. Charles remembered the magnificent gardens of Saint-Pol and Vincennes, but he praised the flower beds of Pontefract’s Lady; it was apparent that they were the result of the expenditure of a great deal of loving care and that she was proud of them. She was still a young woman, not much older than Charles himself. She had bright blue eyes and fresh cheeks and the hair which peeked from under her headdress was jet black. That hair, that quick trusting smile, and something about the way she walked, reminded him constantly of Bonne.

  The first time he saw Lady Waterton he had been struck with pained surprise at the resemblance; for a moment he could not take his eyes from her. Sometimes when she walked beside him without turning her head toward him, it seemed to him that he was walking beside Bonne herself. He was conscious of her graceful movements, of the luster of her black hair—burning desire consumed him then. He had to exert the utmost self-control to restrain himself from seizing her in his arms to test the illusion by touch or embrace. But when she spoke in her laborious, somewhat twisted French, in her high, timid voice, he returned to reality. She was a stranger; her eyes were bright but rather shallow and her mouth was thin-lipped. Waterton, who was usually busy in the mornings, had undoubtedly instructed his wife to accompany the noble prisoner on his walks; her presence and the children’s were probably intended to help the young man to forget that, outside the low wall of the orchard and kitchen garden, an armed guard was standing.

  Lady Waterton, who had never participated in court life and who had a diffident nature, performed her task with reluctance at first, but she soon decided that it was not so difficult as she had feared it would be to keep Monseigneur amused. He was young, courteous and unassuming, and he hit it off very well with the children. At first his foreign gallantry embarrassed her; she was not accustomed to receiving so many compliments. But the Duke’s friendliness won
the day; gradually she lost her shyness and chattered with him as eagerly as she did with her children and her chambermaid. Charles found her stories delightful. Her restricted view, the relative insignificance of her experience, provided exactly the diversion which he needed. She told him things her children had said and done, she described dramatically how a cat had attempted to pounce on her pet bird, how the fabric on her loom was progressing. She asked him a number of questions too: was it true that the women at the French court wore trains six feet long and hats two ells high? Was Queen Isabeau really so fat that she had to be pushed around in a wheelchair? Had she heard correctly that there was a market in France where servants and servantmaids were put up for auction?

  Smiling, Charles answered all these questions in the affirmative; how far away, how ludicrous, court life and street brawls over there seemed to him as he walked under these fresh fragrant trees. Thus he passed nearly every beautiful day in the orchard of Pontefract in the company of Waterton’s family. The children were greatly attached to Charles, although they could not talk with him. They knew no French and invariably burst out laughing when Charles tried to speak to them in English.