In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “There was no need for Her Majesty to do so,” replied Burton, apparently indifferent, in the cold, matter-of-fact tone which he invariably employed in conversation with the prisoner. “It is a well-known fact that in the year of the so-called Dauphin’s birth, the notorious friendship began between the Queen of France and your late father.”

  A shudder went through Charles; he clenched his fists on the window sill. Burton had expected an outburst of fear or rage; he knew quite well that he could not have hurt his prisoner more deeply than by uttering these words. The Englishman hesitated. It was almost unthinkable that a man of honor should submit to such an affront. But the man who stood before the window did not move and did not speak.

  Burton drew himself up stiffly and said, “I have a further duty to inform you that the Duke of Burgundy was murdered at Montereau on the twentieth of August.”

  France, jadis on te souloit nommer,

  En tous pays, le trésor de noblesse,

  Car un chascun povoit en toy trouver

  Bonté, honneur, loyauté, gentillesse,

  Clergie, sens, courtoisie, processe.

  Tous estrangiers amoient te suir;

  Et maintenant voy, dont j’ay desplaisance,

  Qu’il te couvient maint grief mal soustenir,

  Trescrestien, franc royaume de France!

  France, in times gone by men everywhere

  Called you the treasure of nobility,

  Perceived in you goodness, honor,

  Loyalty, learning, wit and prowess;

  They burned to follow you.

  And now it saddens me to see

  The painful hurt that you must suffer,

  Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

  Scez tu dont vient ton mal, a vray parler?

  Congnois tu point pourquoy es en tristesse?

  Conter le vueil, pour vers toy m’acquiter,

  Do you know in truth whence comes your ill?

  Don’t you know why you are suffering?

  It is my duty to tell you;

  You will be wise to listen to me.

  Escoutes moy et tu feras sagesse.

  Ton grant ourgueil, glotonnie, peresse,

  Couvoitise, sans justice tenir,

  Et luxure, dont as eu abondance,

  Ont pourchacié vers Dieu de te punir,

  Trescretien, franc royaume de France!

  You are proud, gluttonous, slothful

  And covetous without regard for justice;

  You luxuriate in lechery.

  Thus God has moved to punish you,

  Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

  … …

  Dieu a les bras ouvers pour t’acoler,

  Prest d’oublier ta vie pécheresse;

  Requier pardon, bien te vendra aidier

  Nostre Dame, la trespuissant princesse,

  Qui est ton cry et que tiens pour maistresse.

  Les sains aussi te vendront secourir,

  Desquelz les corps font en toy demourance.

  The arms of God are open to embrace you,

  He will forget your sinfulness;

  Ask pardon, ask for the help of

  Our Lady, that most powerful Princess,

  Who is your battle cry and honored Mistress.

  The saints too will come to aid you,

  Whose bodies rest in your domain.

  Don’t remain asleep, sunken in sin,

  Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

  Ne vueilles plus en ton pechié dormir,

  Trescrestien, franc royaume de France!

  Et je, Charles, duc d’Orléans, rimer

  Voulu ces vers ou temps de ma jeunesse,

  Devant chascun les vueil bien advouer,

  Car prisonnier les fis, je le confesse;

  Priant a Dieu, qu’avant qu’aye vieillesee,

  Le temps de paix partout puist avenir,

  Comme de cueur j’en ay la desirance,

  Et que voye tous tes maulx brief finir,

  Trescrestien, franc royaume de France!

  And I, Charles, Duke of Orléans, poet,

  Have written these verses when I am young,

  I will avow to the whole world

  And confess that I have written them in prison,

  Praying to God that before I am old

  Peace may have come everywhere,

  As I deeply desire from my heart,

  And that I may see your sufferings ended,

  Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

  In the spring of 1421, Charles received a visit from one of his clerks at Blois. He scarcely knew the man; he was surprised that they had not sent him his secretary de Tuillères or Denisot, the first clerk of his chancellery. The new courier was an insignificant old monk who stared about him helplessly while he was searched by the guards. To Charles’ astonishment he had brought along a small, longhaired dog which ran sniffing in through the open door of the chamber even before the watch had finished with the clerk. When Charles bent to stroke the animal, it sprang away from him.

  “He allows no one to touch him without my consent, Monseigneur,” said the scribe as he entered, bowing deeply. “You know me—I am Jean le Brasseur, once employed in your house chapel at Blois. Monseigneur Dunois sends me to you with money and news about the administration of your estates.”

  Meanwhile, Burton too had entered the chamber, along with a clerk and an interpreter. The knight observed punctiliously all instructions from London. Every word spoken by the prisoner and by his visitor must be taken down, and if the slightest effort was made to exchange information about the political or military actions of the so-called Dauphin, Burton was to interrupt the interview instantly. Only business affairs, administration of property and news of the family could be discussed. Burton looked with disdain at the messenger from Blois; he thought it amazing that this timorous dullard should have succeeded in traveling all that distance and arriving at Pontefract in one piece.

  Charles sat down; the clerk stood humbly before him with the dog in his arms.

  “Monseigneur,” he said softly—he lisped somewhat, “I come also as the bearer of sad tidings. I have been shocked and deeply sorrowed to learn that you still know nothing about it. Monseigneur, it has pleased God to call to himself your brother, Monseigneur Philippe de Vertus.”

  Charles rose. The clerk went on with bowed head. “At about the time of the birth of Our Lord, we buried him in the church of Saint-Sauveur. May God give you strength to bear this affliction, my lord.”

  Charles made the sign of the cross, and put his hand over his eyes. He remained standing that way for a while. Death chooses his victims well—he thought—a young man in the prime of his life; Philippe, my carefree, cheerful brother, my confidant and deputy, the commander of my armies, my friend and childhood playmate. Now the House of Orléans is represented in France by my father’s bastard and two little girls. What have my brother of Angoulême and I to hope for?

  “Monseigneur de Dunois has arranged everything,” the clerk continued in his high-pitched voice. “In Blois and in all your remaining possessions, everything will go on as usual. Monseigneur de Vertus left a great void, but his death has caused no change in the administration of the dominions or the organization of household affairs.”

  For the first time Charles looked with attention at the messenger; the man kept his bulging, somewhat melancholy eyes fixed modestly on a point at the height of Charles’ girdle, and he spoke in a monotonous drone, as though he were reciting a lesson he had learned by rote. Meanwhile he stroked the puppy, which was almost completely hidden in the folds of his gown. Burton was yawning openly, and the other two men made no bones about their contempt and boredom. But it seemed to Charles that the messenger from Blois was considerably less innocuous and insignificant than he wanted to appear. His whining voice was a little too exaggerated to be genuine, and in his curious bulging eye Charles could detect a vigilant glimmer.

  While the clerk gave a dull, true acc
ount of the grain and wine harvest, the proceeds of tributes and taxes, expenses in connection with the restoration and maintainance of the castles and annexes, etc., Charles sat tensely watching him. From time to time the man stressed a word in a way that would be noticeable only to a native speaker of French. So under Burton’s attentive eye, Charles learned many things worth knowing: out of information apparently limited to administrative matters, he managed to deduce from the messenger’s intonation and the way in which he presented the news, that all the citadels of Orléans were strongly manned and fully stocked with great provisions of weapons and food, that hostile troops had invaded the northwestern border areas, that many of the Dauphin’s captains and advisors were in hiding in the important cities of Charles’ domains, that everywhere military preparations were being made in feverish haste, that all the money that could be squeezed from that neglected and impoverished land was being spent on arms and supplies.

  “Alas, Monseigneur,” the clerk concluded, while he took some grey linen bags from his girdle and offered them with a bow to Charles, “this is all we can deliver to you at present—one hundred and eighty-four ecus—perhaps it will help somewhat to ease your life here for a few months. Monseigneur de Dunois hopes with all his heart that he will be able to send you more over the course of the summer. Will you be so kind, Monseigneur, as to sign the documents which I had to hand over to Messire Burton on my arrival here? They are authorizations for Monseigneur de Dunois and two deeds for sales of lands.”

  “Certainly,” Charles said thoughtfully. The clerk approached with humility, still holding the puppy.

  “Perhaps you would like to hold the creature for a moment, Monseigneur?” asked the monk, gazing at Charles with a rather fatuous smile. He put his head on one side and held the dog out to his master. “I shall then fetch the documents from the lord clerks there, if it pleases you.”

  It seemed to Charles that the messenger gave a barely perceptible nod of the head. The young man took the dog and set it down beside him on the bench. It was one of those so-called decoy dogs, thin and swift, with bright eyes and a beautiful bushy tail. Charles scratched the animal behind the ears and ran his hand absently over the glossy tail. He left his hand there; a thin, hard roll was tied under the long hair. Charles looked at the monk, who bowed before him.

  “A pretty puppy,” he said calmly. “Is it yours?”

  The clerk opened his mouth in a broad laugh.

  “It goes with me everywhere, Monseigneur. If they tell me to make another journey to Pontefract, the dog will come to visit you again.”

  While Jean le Brasseur was getting the documents from Burton and his clerks, and occupying their attention because of his clumsiness—he dropped the pages, upset an inkwell—Charles busied himself with the dog, which remained docile while Charles, with his nails, tore the threads tying the roll of paper to the tail. When the clerk approached him again, mumbling apologies, the letter was in Charles’ sleeve.

  Letter from Dunois, Bastard of Orléans, to Charles, Duke of Orléans, Spring, 1421.

  “Monseigneur my brother, you will of course have heard what disasters have afflicted the Kingdom since the treaty of Troyes. King Henry fancies himself lord and master; in the Council, in the University, and in the field, his word is law. He is harsh, austere and proud—so say all who have had any personal dealings with him. Madame Catherine has given birth to a son, another reason for King Henry to think that he has checkmated Monseigneur the Dauphin for good. Monseigneur’s name has been removed from the list of the King’s sons inscribed on the marble tablet at Saint-Pol. Here and in the Midi we remain loyal to the lawful successor to the throne, and evil rumors are not believed. I assume you know what I am talking about. Monseigneur the Dauphin calls himself, justifiably, the Regent of France. He is eighteen years old and, it seems to me, somewhat shy and with little disposition to independent action. He lets himself be discouraged too quickly. It is our task, Monseigneur, to give him a feeling of certainty, to show him that we have his interest truly at heart. We must support him with our faith and loyalty, and our belief in his legitimate birth.

  “Monseigneur, my dearest brother, it does not appear that King Henry’s alliance with the new Duke of Burgundy will last long. Philippe of Burgundy does not love the English; it seems that he was treated rather rudely by Henry’s envoys in Calais. From what I hear, Monseigneur always finds some excuse when Henry calls upon him to send troops—the English fight practically alone now; a Burgundian is scarcely ever seen in their ranks.

  “It is our business to unite all domestic forces under one banner; now that the Kingdom is threatened with complete destruction, it is our sacred duty to maintain unity. I have heard rumors that Arthur, Count of Richmont, intends to offer his services to the Dauphin. I believe we should encourage this strongly. Before anything else I should like to see an agreement reached with Burgundy. The party of Orléans is a thing of the past, lord brother, we must recognize this. There is really no longer a reason for blood feuds since our father’s murderer received his just punishment at Montereau. We must be unified if we wish to save France.

  “I shall send you the messenger again soon. Have an answer ready if you possibly can and put it in his hands. He will find a way to hide your letter. God be with you, Monseigneur my brother. May He give you strength to bear your bitter lot. The war preparations go on here—you yourself would not wish anything else. But as soon as possible we shall gather the money necessary to ransom you and Monseigneur d’Angoulême. I entreat God’s blessing on you. Your servant, Dunois, Bastard of Orléans.”

  From an official message from London to Sir Thomas Burton: September, 1422.

  “… that on this last day of August of this year of our Lord 1422, our dearly beloved most revered Sovereign and Prince, Henry V, King of England, Regent and Heir of France, departed this life in the castle of Vincennes in France, as a consequence of an intestinal disorder which he contracted during the siege of the city of Cone. The King departed this life reconciled with his Creator. On his deathbed he named as Regents over his son, from today our dearly beloved and highly honored Henry VI, the Dukes of Bedford and Gloucester, from whom you may expect instructions. In connection with the custody of the Duke of Orléans, the following: it was the late King Henry’s explicit desire that the aforesaid Orléans should not be freed before the present King shall have attained his majority. If a strict stand is not taken here it is truly to be feared that the said Orléans would abuse the temporary lack of royal authority in order to join forces with those in France who do not acknowledge England’s lawful demands. The Duke of Gloucester commands you accordingly to transfer the above-mentioned Orléans to the fortress of Fotherinhay in Northampton.”

  From the diary of a citizen of Paris, 1422:

  “… so was separated from the world the good King Charles on the 21st day of the month of October, the day of Saint Ursula and the eleven thousand Virgins, who had reigned longer than any Christian monarch in human memory, for he has been King of France for forty-three years.

  “Only his chancellors, his first chamberlain, his father confessor and a few servants stood at his deathbed. He lay in state in the palace of Saint-Pol on his own bed, for he had died there; for three days he lay there with his face uncovered, with burning candles around him and a crucifix at his feet and anyone who wished could enter to see him and pray for him.

  “Afterward he was laid in a leaden coffin and carried to the chapel of Saint-Pol, where he remained above the earth for twenty days until the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France, had returned from England.

  “On the tenth day of November, the body of our late King was brought from his palace of Saint-Pol to the Cathedral of Notre Dame of Paris, accompanied by priests and prelates and the rector and doctors of the University. He was borne as the body of Our Lord is borne on the occasion of the feast of the Redeemer, covered with a heavy cloth of gold brocade, with a crown on his head, a scepter in his right hand, and in his left a gold and
silver ecu. And above him knights held a vermilion and azure canopy embroidered with golden lilies. And he wore white gloves richly encrusted with precious stones, and the body was enveloped in a mantle of royal purple trimmed with ermine. Behind the bier walked the pages and shield-bearers of the late King, followed by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France. But there was no prince of the blood in the funeral procession, no blood relative, and that was pitiful to see. And the people of Paris, who had crowded together in great numbers when the body was carried through the streets, burst into sobs and wept and wailed as the procession passed by: ‘You go in peace, but we remain behind here in misery and anguish.’

  “In the church of Notre Dame two hundred torches burned; wakes were held there, masses read for the dead, and after the Mass they carried the King to the abbey of Saint-Denis to lay him in the earth. And when the King was laid in the grave, the Archbishop of Saint-Denis spoke his blessing, as is customary. And afterward the King’s officers and mace-bearers broke their swords and tokens of office in two and threw them in the grave as a sign that their office had ended at the same time as the life of the King. And then the standard-bearers let their flags and banners droop. The sergeant-at-arms stepped forward, accompanied by many heralds and followers, and cried over the grave, ‘May God have mercy on the soul of Charles, King of France, sixth of that name, our lawful Sovereign and Lord!’ Arid then, ‘God grant life to Henry, by the grace of God King of France and England, our Lord and Sovereign!’

  “And then the banners were raised again, and those who stood around the grave called out, ‘Long live the King!’

  “During the bitter journey to Paris, the Regent, the Duke of Bedford, suffered the sword of the late King to be borne before him as a sign of his own dignity. The people were most angry about this, and murmured. But truly nothing can be done about it. And so ended the life of our very noble King, Charles, in the forty-third year of his reign; during the greater part of that time he had known only calamity and affliction because of the discord between his closest kinsmen. May God in his great love and compassion be merciful to his soul.”