In a Dark Wood Wandering

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by Hella S. Haasse


  “…and it is with deep sorrow, Monseigneur, that we must inform you of the death of Madame Bonne d’Armagnac, Duchess of Orléans, who led so devout and charitable a life within our walls that she stood everywhere in the odor of sanctity.”

  J’ay fait Pobseque de ma Dame

  Dedens le moustier amoureaux,

  Et le service pour son ame

  A chanté Penser Doloreux;

  Mains sierges de Soupirs Piteux

  Ont esté en son luminaire;

  Aussi j’ay fait la tombe faire

  De Regrez, tous de lermes pains;

  Et tout entour, moult richement,

  Est escript, Cy gist vrayement

  Le trésor de tous biens mondains.

  I have held the funeral of my Lady

  In the gleaming chapel of love;

  The requiem for her soul

  Was sung by Sorrow;

  The candles at her head, still and bright

  Are sighs of pity;

  She sleeps in a tomb of Regret,

  Painted all round with tears,

  And inscribed in golden letters,

  Here lies the whole treasure of all wordly bliss.

  Dessus elle gist une lame

  Faicte d’or et de saffirs bleux,

  Car saffir est nommé la jame

  De Loyauté, et l’or eureux.

  Bien lui appartiennent ces deux,

  Car Eur et Loyauté pourtraire

  Voulu, en la tresdebonnaire,

  Above her is a tablet of sapphires and gold;

  Sapphires for loyalty, gold for good fortune.

  Both of these belong to her,

  For with His two hands

  God has cunningly fashioned her

  Dieu qui la fist de ses deux mains,

  Et fourma merveilleusement;

  Cestoit, a parler plainnement,

  Le trésor de tous biens mondains.

  As a portrait of Good Fortune and Loyalty;

  She was, to put it simply,

  The whole treasure of all wordly bliss.

  N’en parlons plus; mon cueur se pasme

  Quant il oyt les fais vertueux

  D’elle, qui estoit sans nul blasme,

  Comme jurent celles et ceulx

  Qui congnoissoyent ses conseulx;

  Si croy que Dieu la voulu traire

  Vers lui, pour parer son repaire

  De Paradis ou sont les saints;

  Car c’est d’elle bel parement,

  Que l’en nommoit communement

  Le tresor de tous biens mondains.

  Speak of her no more; my heart swoons

  Over her selfless kindness,

  She who was without blame

  As men and women attest

  Who knew her well;

  So I think that God drew her to Himself

  To ornament Paradise, where the saints dwell

  For she would be an ornament indeed

  Whom everyone called

  The whole treasure of all wordly bliss.

  De riens ne servent pleurs ne plains;

  Tous mourrons, ou tart ou briefinent;

  Nul ne peut garder longuement

  Le tresor de tous biens mondains.

  Tears and mourning are useless;

  We shall all die, late or soon;

  No man can keep forever

  The whole treasure of worldly bliss.

  One of the conditions in the treaty concluded in Arras in 1435:

  I. The King of France, Charles, the seventh of that name, shall in person or through his deputies ask forgiveness of the Duke of Burgundy and express regret for the murder, committed in former times in Montereau, of the late Duke Jean of Burgundy. He shall punish the criminals and/or their descendants and banish them from the Kingdom. He shall pay a compensation to the Duke of Burgundy of 50,000 gold ecus.

  II. The King gives to the Duke of Burgundy and his heirs in both the male and female lines, all cities in the territory of the Somme, to wit, Maçon, Châlons, Auxerre, Péronne, Mont-Didier, Saint-Quentin, Amiens, Abbeville, Ponthieu, with accessory landed estates and fortresses as well as the use of the fruits thereof and the right to levy taxes.

  III. The Duke of Burgundy is hereby released from the necessity to render feudal service or marks of homage to the King of France.

  Priés pour paix, doulce Vierge Marie,

  Royne des cieulx, et du monde maistresse,

  Faictes prier, par vostre courtoisie,

  Saints et saintes, et prenés vostre adresse

  Vers vostre filz, requérant sa haultesse

  Qu’il lui plaise son peuple regarder,

  Que de son sang a voulu racheter,

  En déboutant guerre qui tout desvoye;

  De prières ne vous vueilliez lasser;

  Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

  Pray for peace, sweet Virgin Mary,

  Queen of Heaven and Mistress of the world,

  Ask the saints to pray and ask your Son

  To look with favor upon His people

  Whom He redeemed with His blood

  And put an end to war which creates chaos.

  Do not grow weary,

  Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

  Priez, prelas et gens de sainte vie,

  Religieux ne dormez en peresse,

  Priez, maistres et tous suivans clergie,

  Car par guerre fault que l’estude cesse;

  Moustiers destruis sont sans qu’on les redresse,

  Le service de Dieu vous fault laissier.

  Quant ne povez en repos demourer,

  Priez si fort que briefment Dieu vous oye;

  L’Eglise voult a ce vous ordonner.

  Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

  Pray, prelates and holy people,

  Monks, rouse yourselves from sloth,

  Pray, masters and studious clerks,

  For war is the death of learning;

  Chapels lie in tumbled ruins,

  The service of God is deserted.

  Pray hard so God hears you

  For the sake of the Church.

  Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

  Priez, princes qui avez seigneurie,

  Roys, ducs, contes, barons plains de noblesse,

  Gentilz hommes avec chevalerie,

  Car meschans gens surmontent gentillesse;

  En leurs mains ont toute vostre richesse,

  Pray, ruling princes,

  Noble kings, dukes, earls,

  High-born lords of chivalry,

  For you are overcome by evil men

  Who hold your riches in their hands;

  Lawsuits raise them high in rank,

  You see this clearly every day.

  Debatz les font en hault estat monter,

  Vous le povez chascun jour veoir au cler,

  Et sont riches de voz biens et monnoye

  Dont vous deussiez le peuple suporter.

  Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

  They have taken the wealth, the treasure

  Which you need for the people’s support.

  Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

  Priez, peuple qui souffrez tirannie,

  Car voz seigneurs sont en telle foiblesse

  Qu’ilz ne peuent vous garder, par maistrie,

  Ne vous aidier en vostre grant destresse;

  Loyaulx marchans, la selle si vous blesse

  Fort sur le dox; chascun vous vient presser

  Et ne povez marchandise mener,

  Car vous n’avez seur passage ne voye,

  Et maint péril vous couvient il passer.

  Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

  Pray, victims of oppression,

  For your lords are become enfeebled;

  They cannot protect you

  Nor alleviate your suffering.

  Honest merchants, your backs are sore

  From the painful saddle; everyone afflicts you,

  You have
no safe road to travel,

  You are in peril wherever you go.

  Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

  Priez, galans joyeux en compaignie,

  Qui despendre desirez a largesse;

  Guerre vous tient la bourse desgarnie.

  Priez, amans, qui voulez en liesse

  Servir amours, car guerre, par rudesse,

  Vous destourbe de voz dames hanter,

  Qui maintesfoiz fait leurs vouloirs tourner;

  Et quant tenez le bout de la couroye,

  Un estrangier si le vous vient oster;

  Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

  Pray, gallants who enjoy the festive life

  And the outpouring of largesse;

  War keeps your purses lean.

  Pray, lovers who want only to serve Love;

  The rigors of war keep you from your ladies

  Who thus often turn their favors from you;

  And when you hold the end of the rope

  A stranger comes to take it from your hand.

  Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

  Dieu tout puissant nous vueille conforter

  Toutes choses en terre, ciel et mer;

  Priez vers lui que brief en tout pourvoye,

  En lui seul est de tous maulx amender;

  Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

  May Almighty God comfort us

  And all things on earth, in the sky and sea,

  Pray to him to provide soon for us all;

  He alone has the power to cure all ills.

  Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

  II. THE THOUGHT BOOK

  Il n’est nul si beau passe temps

  que de jouer a la Pensée.

  There is no more pleasant way

  to pass time than to play

  the game of thought.

  — Charles d’Orléans

  n the eleventh of November, 1440, a glittering procession set out from Saint-Omer to the garden city of Gravelines. Isabelle, Duchess of Burgundy, was riding out to greet a noble guest who was coming that morning from England to Calais. The weather was windy but bright; the banners, scarlet, gold and green, flapped smartly in the breeze; the women’s veils floated like wisps of mist.

  Everyone in Flanders and Burgundy who bore a noble name had joined the Duchess’s retinue, partly to honor the sovereign lady, but mainly out of curiosity to see the man who had lived in captivity far from France for twenty-five years. Isabelle of Burgundy rode under a canopy embroidered with lions and lilies; its long gilt fringe fluttered in the wind. She beamed with happiness and satisfaction; this day was a witness to her triumph, to the success of a diplomatic maneuver which she had initiated and guided.

  Isabelle, Burgundy’s still-young third wife, was a daughter of the King of Portugal and a princess of the House of Lancaster; she had an uncommonly strong interest in politics and had, since her arrival in Burgundian lands, paid a good deal of attention to the development of government relations, both foreign and domestic. Her husband, who trusted her judgment, often charged her with the direction of conferences and, in general, with all matters that required acumen, patience and tact. He called her his most capable ambassador. Because she was calmer, more thoughtful and gentler than he, and, moreover, understood better than he the art of waiting and, if necessary, temporarily retreating, she was able to render him invaluable service. She had negotiated with representatives of the clergy and of the burghers, received deputations and resolved a number of domestic problems in a most satisfactory manner.

  When therefore, in the year 1438, she requested permission to direct the conferences in Saint-Omer concerning the restoration of Flemish-English relations—the hostilities with England had caused great discontent among the merchants, artisans and shipbuilders everywhere in the low countries—Burgundy had consented at once. He wanted to be relieved both of the work and of the unpleasant task of personally seeking rapport with the English, a duty that could not be postponed because of its effect on the prosperity of Flanders. He had heard that across the Straits they had begun to weave cloth and linen with success; at all costs England must be retained as a market for Flemish cloth. The alliance with Charles VII of France had proved on sober reflection to be less advantageous than it had promised to be at the outset; the sickly, timid, irresolute King had shown himself over the years, despite his caution and hesitation, to be a ruler who at least followed a steady course. He had enough insight to surround himself with able advisors and skillful army men. When Richmont, who had been named Constable, retook Paris from the English, the King’s authority was recognized once again everywhere in the country, even in those territories still occupied by the enemy.

  But then came the nobles and the heads of the feudal Houses who had supported Charles VII after the treaty of Arras, to demand their rewards: Brittany, Bourbon, Alençon, Armagnac, Foix, Lorraine, Anjou and a whole series of counts and barons—all wanted land, money, privileges, high posts in government. The King distrusted them and ignored their demands; he did what his father and grandfather had done in the distant past: he surrounded himself with advisors, both nobles and citizens, who began to review the country’s finances and the administration of justice. Since it was too expensive to continue the war with England with troops consisting for the most part of noblemen, their retinues, and mercenaries, he wanted to create a standing army of soldiers who would commit themselves to serve for a fixed period of time.

  However, because of this the nobles and independent captains of the army turned against him. The lords openly joined together, feeling all the more justified because the Dauphin Louis had entered their ranks. The Dauphin, a discontented, somewhat sour, but extremely sharp-witted young man, did not attempt to hide his feelings of contemptuous hatred for his father; he entered heart and soul into the conspiracy. Charles VII was aware of this plot to wrest power from him when it began, and made every attempt to frustrate it, but the lords continued to hold secret meetings.

  From a distance, Burgundy watched all this attentively. Alençon and Brittany had tried to bring him into the scheme, but he wisely kept aloof, planning to pluck the fruit when it was ripe.

  This rebellion of the nobility roused great interest in England, along with the hope that with the help of these malcontents, Henry VI might still be placed on the French throne. Suddenly the Council at Westminster remembered that Charles, Duke of Orléans, who had been in the Tower in the custody of Lord Cobham since 1436, was also a French feudal prince. It could certainly do no harm, in this delicate situation, to allow him to communicate with his peers overseas. The Council referred to the vow which Charles had made three years ago with his hand upon the Gospels to work for peace and support the claims of Henry VI in France.

  Thus, when the name of Orléans came up during a conversation at Saint-Omer between the English spokesmen and Isabelle of Burgundy, it was evident that Henry’s envoys did not object, under the present circumstances, to allowing the Duke a role in negotiations for a general peace treaty. Isabelle believed that Orléans could function as a sort of link between Burgundy and the French feudal Houses. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be eager to serve Burgundy in return for his freedom. Isabelle, who was not averse to playing a double diplomatic role, adopted Charles’ cause as her own. The negotiations were considerably delayed because two parties in England were engaged in a power struggle—one favorably inclined toward the Burgundians and the other against them. But at long last Orléans’ ransom was set at 100,000 English marks, a high figure. However, the Duchess of Burgundy managed to raise that sum within the required time of one year.

  So she accomplished two feats at once: the restoration of commerce between England and Flanders, and the release of Charles of Orléans. She gathered from her correspondence with the prisoner that his gratitude knew no bounds; he stood ready to render any service in return. While preparations were in progress for the reception of Orléans in the grand manner at t
he court of Burgundy—the first impression was important—the indefatigable Isabelle was occupied in other ways planning the future of her noble protege.

  In Isabelle’s retinue was a young maid of honor, a niece of the Duke of Burgundy who had grown up at her uncle’s court. Her name was Marie of Cleves. She came from a family rich in children and because the Cleves, despite their ancient illustrious name, were not amply blessed with wordly goods, the Duchess of Burgundy had taken upon herself the task of marrying off her sister-in-law’s daughters and paying their dowries. Aware of the conventional wisdom that a pact was really secure only when it was sealed by a marriage agreement between members of both parties, Isabelle had determined that the Duke of Orléans should take Marie of Cleves to wife. The wedding would bind him to Burgundy. Since in his letters Charles had shown himself willing to accept this proposal, the contracts had already been drawn up, the marriage arranged. Now it was necessary only to await the bridegroom’s arrival.

  Marie of Cleves was fourteen years old, slender and blonde, with cheerful eyes, but her features were rather coarse; her nose was too large and her teeth were not pretty. Her manners were courtly; she loved to hunt and dance and she played cards well. Duchess Isabelle thought that her foster child would make a most suitable wife for a man who had lived for years in bleak seclusion. The feelings of the bride were not considered; everyone agreed that she could not do better.

  Isabelle put a clause in the marriage contract which stipulated that three-quarters of the dowry must be spent on the purchase of castles and estates for the bride and her future progeny.

  “If Orléans should go bankrupt because of his ransom, then you will at least still possess your own properties, my dear,” the Duchess of Burgundy had explained, with a wordly-wise smile. However, these and similar considerations meant little to Marie. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She knew that her bridegroom was forty-five years old, the age of her uncle of Burgundy, whom she greatly admired. The Duke, with his large supple body and vivacious face, was an extremely handsome man and was also cheerful, generous and courtly—richer and more powerful than any king or emperor of whom she had ever heard. She could not deny that this glittering image had its dark side. It was no secret to Marie, who had grown up too quickly in the anterooms of Madame of Burgundy, that the Duke did not observe the motto which he had adopted upon his third marriage: “Autre n’aray… I shall never have another love.” Nevertheless, Marie of Cleves hoped with all her heart that her bridegroom would be like Monseigneur of Burgundy; his arrival would crown her fairy tale girlhood which had begun so suddenly when Burgundian envoys had come to fetch her from Cleves. She had left her native land for good—that richly forested marshy country which lay between the Meuse and the Rhine. She had been a child in her father’s castle in Cleves, a steep greystone citadel built high on the slope of a wooded hill.

 

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