In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  Suffolk was privately annoyed about these ridiculous objections raised by the Council. He who had fought in France for more than twenty years knew the situation over there. He knew from his own observations that Dunois the Bastard was the man who really represented the House of Orléans, probably a good deal more ably and energetically than the Duke ever could.

  Sometimes when they were together in the great hall, Suffolk quietly watched his guest. He saw Orléans sitting comfortably between the green curtains which he always had hung, according to French custom, on both sides of his chair or bench, bent over the book on the adjustable reading desk, his head propped on his hand. Even indoors he preferred to wear his velvet cap; he had been wearing reading glasses for some years. That finely chiselled, pale, melancholy face with its narrow lips and delicately curved nose was in no way the face of an ambitious, wordly man, a sharp, quick-witted diplomat, a power-obsessed party leader. The books which lay on the reading desk before Monseigneur must surely lead him far from such concerns: The Imitation of Christ, Consolation of Philosophy…

  The man who read his own rondelets and ballads to Lady Suffolk from a pile of somewhat yellowed sheets of paper would never want to devote time or effort to political intrigue. At any rate, so it appeared to Suffolk. The two men stood motionless in the nave of Wingfield church, brightly illuminated by the reflection of sunshine on the white walls.

  “There could have been peace between France and England long ago,” Suffolk said in a low voice. “In ’28, even before we lifted the siege of Orléans, there was talk of negotiations. He who calls himself your king did not seem willing then to reach a settlement with us. Fighting went on in your country, partly because of the peasant girl who was later burned in Rouen—a fanatical creature, stupid and headstrong, ignorant of the art of war and incredibly reckless in battle. What is the sense of whipping up the soldiers and the populace when there is no united effort behind these temporary outbursts of enthusiasm? That woman has hurt your country badly with her madness; the people have become rebellious, but they don’t have the energy to act.”

  Charles nodded, his face turned away. Suffolk coughed for a moment and then went on quickly, “In any case negotiations are now going on in earnest between your … uh … king and the Duke of Burgundy. Conferences will be held in Arras. This does not interest you, my lord?”

  “I ask myself if this will mean peace,” Charles said. “I am not at all certain of that.”

  “Perhaps I can set your mind at rest. Deputies of our government are already on the road to Arras. We shall work with dedication to reach an accord with France. Luckily, capable mediators were found before the discussions began—the papal nuncio Albergati and the Cardinal of Cyprus. Moreover,” Suffolk paused and noted with satisfaction that Orléans’ dull dark glance was suddenly enlivened by a spark of interest—”moreover, I had news from London today that in a little while representatives of our King will meet to discuss the possibility of a universal peace treaty. I have been summoned to Westminster palace for this meeting.”

  The spark went out; Charles walked slowly across the stone slabbed floor toward the church door. “Forgive me, Messire, I am not in a position to suggest any action; I do not know the expectations of the parties, but I fear they are so dramatically opposed to each other that no agreement is likely.”

  “My lord,” Suffolk followed swiftly after him and caught him firmly by a fold of his sleeve. He coughed again when Charles looked sharply at him. “My lord, the consensus in London is that the presence of a clever and influential, highly-placed Frenchman would help considerably to advance the discussions in a favorable direction. In short, they would be pleased if you would accompany me to London.”

  “To act as an advocate of your government’s proposals?” Charles responded with an odd smile. “Seventeen years ago they wanted something similar from me.” He did not take his eyes from Suffolk’s face. “I thought then of honor, and conscience forced me to reject that suggestion without further discussion. Looking back, I am inclined to think that I paid altogether too high a price for that brief moment of satisfaction.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you have changed your mind about it now?” Suffolk asked tensely. Still smiling faintly, Charles continued to keep his eyes on Suffolk’s face. A number of scars like streaks of light stood out against the Englishman’s bronzed skin.

  “Do you believe I still have an influence on my countrymen, Messire?”

  Suffolk’s glance wavered involuntarily. He shrugged slightly.

  “Who can tell? You are the Duke of Orléans. They have found you important and dangerous enough to keep you under lock and key.”

  Charles took his gloves from his belt and slowly and deliberately drew them on, keeping his eyes on the open door through which sunlight streamed into the church.

  “Yes, you must understand that I cannot give you an answer now,” he said, after a few moments. “Let me have time to think it over, Messire.”

  The night passed. Charles, leaning back against the cushions piled high on his bed, had blown out the candle which stood beside him; he lay unmoving, his hands folded on his breast, and watched the stars in that part of the sky which he could see from his window. A cool wind brought him the familiar smell of the sea. For the first time—in how many years was it?—he thought of the ship which would one day carry him back to France. France—a long strip of grey sand before Calais. He sighed, but did not move. This time he had only to help himself, said the voice within him with which he was wont to hold conversations: this time freedom was brushing so close against him that he would have only himself to blame if he did not seize it. Charles’ heart, heavy as lead from ennui and bitterness, could offer no argument, although he knew quite well that freedom carried a price, and not only in golden ecus.

  “I am forty years old now,” thought Charles, staring at the twinkling night sky. “Whatever still remains of my life I wish to spend in my own house, on my own land, in my own way. God knows that this is not asking too much.”

  “Bonne,” said the voice within him. It rang like an echo, a shadow of sound. Charles had to smile, in deep, bitter surprise. Bonne? He no longer remembered what Bonne had looked like. He could no longer conjure her up before his mind’s eye; she was nothing more to him than a name which called up only gratitude for long-past happiness, happiness so radiant that its afterglow had stayed with him throughout the years of grim solitude.

  He knew that Bonne still lived in Rodez, secluded in the Cordeliers convent, as any decent woman would be whose husband is in exile. He knew from Vittori’s accounting that she was sent money, a certain amount of money regularly. Two or three times in the course of many years news of her had reached him directly: short letters written by a clerk. It cost him a great effort to summon up behind the stiff words the warmth which Bonne surely wanted to express. He did not doubt her loyalty; he understood that she had chosen seclusion inside the walls of the convent in order to feel closer to him, or at any rate to experience loneliness as he did, and that she found comfort in this attempt. Her image eluded him—how could it be otherwise?—but she was present in him even when he did not consciously think of her. Her life was bound to his; neither time nor distance could separate them here on earth.

  She seemed most real to him when he turned the pages of what, in melancholy jest, he called his “Thought Book”: in songs, rondelets and ballads on the much-thumbed vellum, Bonne lived. Love, desire and the glow of memory had once provided him with the words to recreate her. He could still call up the impotent bitterness with which he had perceived—was it ten, twelve years ago?—that even the rereading of the songs, even his absorption in memories which had once aroused fierce emotions, could no longer stir his heart. He continued as usual to dedicate loving verses to Bonne, but what in the beginning had been a response to bitter need had gradually become an occupation which he cultivated chiefly to dispel deadly tedium; carefully he polished verse after verse, with a cool head and cool
senses, seeking to overcome the difficulties of expression within the rigid limitations of artistic form. But as this work went on, Bonne’s image became fainter and fainter. Now when he turned the pages of his Thought Book he felt only a facile melancholy for the loss of his beloved, mixed with a mocking recognition of his own self-indulgence.

  Since he had come to live in Wingfield Castle, he had thought more often of Bonne than in the past—not so much of Bonne herself as of what she represented: domesticity, a woman’s soothing hand, the restfulness, the ultimate peace in which all tensions were soothed away. Secretly he watched Alice, Lady Suffolk, when she was near him. The calm assurance with which she saw to his comfort roused a new yearning in him for the wife who was waiting in Rodez for his return—undoubtedly a strange, mature woman marked by years of solitude—but perhaps precisely for that reason the companion that he needed. He wanted sons and daughters, successors, heirs. He had never before had this feeling, this deep desire to see his children around him, to touch their heads, to name them, to see how one by one they took up their places in life.

  His daughter Jeanne was a fully-grown woman, the wife of the Duke of Alençon, probably already a mother, but he knew almost nothing about her childhood. He had no particularly pleasant memories of the few hasty awkward meetings he had had with her. He had become a father at an age when he still needed a father himself. Now he wanted to perpetuate his family.

  Return home … the feeling which he had learned over the years to repress at the cost of so much anguish, gradually began to stir in his heart more passionately than ever. The night wind seemed to carry, along with the sea air and the scent of the grasslands, the very odor of liberty. While he lay motionless, gazing at the fading stars, waves of excitement and impatience suddenly washed over him; his heart pounded, his mouth went dry.

  I know myself a little, he thought ironically, I thought I had learned to reconcile myself to my fate. I thought that nothing could touch me any more. But after twenty years of captivity, my heart throbs more passionately at the mere thought of being able to return home than it did on the eve of Agincourt…

  The prudent, critical inner voice offered objections: what role must he play in these conferences? What demands would they make of him? Charles did not listen.

  “France,” he said aloud. “France.”

  Memories, images, came rushing in upon him from all sides and reason drowned in the flood. He let himself go completely—a rare pleasure. He was there on the country road along the Loire which leads to Blois. The undulant fertile land, gold and green with spring foliage, spread out before him. He saw the flowers sprinkled across the grass, the vines on the hillsides, the sparkle of the water and the great sails of the ships on their way to Orléans. He saw the towers of Blois against the sky. Skylarks soared upward, flashing in the sunshine, swift as an arrow. He was home.

  Charles came to himself, realizing that his face was wet with tears.

  Most of the envoys who came from across the sea were representatives of the Duke of Burgundy. Charles, who had expected to be put in touch at the outset with deputations from Bourges and envoys from the heads of the feudal Houses, was surprised and disappointed. The thing that he had most dreaded—a connection with the English government in which the intention was that he should be used for their purposes—had happened. On the surface, the authorities appeared to be making no attempts at all to influence him. Charles was present with Suffolk at all discussions; he was treated with great respect by the English and the Burgundians and given all the deference due to his rank. But he was not reassured by this: he realized now, with a feeling of helpless anger at his own credulity, that he was simply a spectator. The meetings, the disputes, the swift, keen resolutions, were performed for his benefit. He did not even know all the facts and those facts which he did know were not put in their proper perspective for him. Consequendy, since he wanted to avoid making errors at any cost, he was perhaps more quiet than he should have been if he wished to show them that he was going to stand up for his rights. With incredulous irritation, he watched the arrogant, overbearing behavior of Burgundy’s envoys: a crowd of nobles of low rank and rich Flemish merchants decked out like kings, all as self-satisfied and aloof as people can be only when they are sure of their power.

  Once he commented on this to Suffolk; his host gave him a searching glance and, after some thought, said, “You should not be shocked at this, my lord. The Duke of Burgundy is the greatest sovereign on the continent.”

  Charles raised his brows. “Sovereign?”

  “Certainly, my lord. Burgundy can scarcely be considered a vassal of the French Crown. It’s obvious that he doesn’t consider himself a vassal and, indeed, he has no need to do that. His influence is so great and he’s so rich that the infidel Turks call him the Grand Due d’Occidente.” Suffolk smiled slightly, looking at Charles. “If a treaty is really effected between your … king and Burgundy, it will unquestionably be Burgundy who dictates the terms. And that England is negotiating with France actually means this: England and Burgundy are deciding France’s fate together. In fact my lord, if I am to be completely honest, I have to admit that it looks at present as though Burgundy is deciding the fate not only of France, but of England as well. No matter how you look at it, Burgundy holds the cards. No, no, my lord, this is serious; a complete transformation has taken place over the last ten years, and you have to take it into account. You must look upon Burgundy as an independent monarch.”

  Charles shook his head. “Am I to assume that my cousin of Burgundy has achieved what his father and grandfather struggled for incessantly? Freedom from France for Burgundy?”

  “That is exactly the case, my lord. Think about it for a moment. It will make it easier for you to decide what your attitude should be at future discussions. You don’t sit opposite representatives of one who calls himself the king of France,”—as a good Englishman Suffolk refused to give Charles VII the title which he believed belonged to Henry VI—”you sit opposite spokesmen for the head of a powerful neighboring state who has enough influence to make his voice heard in French affairs …”

  “What exactly do they expect of me now?” Charles asked ab-rupdy.

  Suffolk saw that he was extremely nervous.

  “Yes, this is not simple for you, my lord. You will have to find your way between the various parties. It’s your task to make Burgundy amenable to proposals from our side and at the same time to deter the Bourges party—if I may call them that—from introducing proposals which conflict with Burgundy’s wishes. It seems to me that you should start by informing yourself thoroughly about the various currents of thought—especially those inside the Bourges party. If what I hear is correct, the Houses are more apt to make concessions to Burgundy than to your … king. We would like to reach an agreement with Burgundy and the French Houses together. We regard this as the most favorable solution by far.”

  “Does that mean you wish to exclude the King of France? In other words, you want me to prepare an ambush for him?”

  Suffolk shrugged. “It’s difficult to find a name for such political chess moves, my lord.”

  Charles turned slowly away. They were in an apartment in Suffolk’s fortified house in London: a large, handsome dwelling near the royal palace at Westminster. Charles was confused and upset; he had begun only now to realize that it was necessary to combat more than one peril, to overcome more than one obstacle on the road to freedom. He felt as though he were in a maze; his knowledge of place and direction was completely inadequate.

  “My God, but shouldn’t I have permission to speak with people from my House and envoys from Brittany, Alençon, Bourbon?” he asked at last. “Isn’t it possible for me to meet envoys from these domains in Dover or somewhere else along the coast? And I wish to speak to my half-brother, the Sire de Dunois.”

  “Well, my lord, I personally find this request far from unreasonable.” Suffolk shrugged again. “And I shall do what I can to win the Council over to the idea. But
I must tell you beforehand that there is very littie chance of success. It is believed in the government that you can follow this course of action without any further discussion and that these ambassadors from Bourges and the feudal territories who are already here are completely qualified to make your recommendations known in Arras.”

  Ah, thought Charles, now they let me feel the whip. A trace of his former watchfulness awoke in him. He thought of himself as an old, lame, half-blind hunting dog still being driven into the open field; the beast is almost useless, but instinctively it goes through the familiar motions: pricks up its ears, sniffs along the ground, pokes into the underbrush. He noticed that Suffolk was looking at him with sober attention, but also with friendly solicitude: clearly his plight touched the Englishman’s heart.

  He pities me, thought Charles, he thinks I can do nothing more, that I shall fail. Rage flashed through him like a prickling torrent. Something awoke in him which he had never known was there: desperate ambition, the urge for vindication, for self-assertion, the desire to checkmate his adversaries by wily, cunning, knife-sharp maneuvers.

  “My lord,” said Suffolk suddenly, “permit me to give you some good advice: if you wish to regain your freedom in the near future, seek the friendship and support of the Duke of Burgundy. Show yourself to be amiable toward him-meet his wishes. He is the only man who can help you, Monseigneur; it’s your task to see to it that he does help you.”

  From a letter written by the Abbe of the Cordeliers cloister in Rodez to Charles, Duke of Orléans, at Suffolk House, London, 1434: