In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “No, you’re right there.” Dunois gave a curt, bitter laugh.

  “I remember,” said Charles softly, without looking up, “how once long ago you advised me to conclude a pact with the enemy because you thought that if I did that I would be in a better position to serve the Kingdom in the long run. I followed your advice then, brother. You were only a young boy; I never reproached you later for leading me astray.”

  After these words both men fell silent for a while. Pensively, Charles moved his spectacles up and down on the sheet of paper before him. Dunois stared with knitted brows at the tapestries, gleaming with gold and silver threads, which Burgundy had ordered hung on the walls of the halls and apartments of the abbey in honor of his guests. Finally, Dunois formally requested permission to depart; he saluted and quit the room with measured steps.

  About the middle of January, Charles came with his young wife to Paris, attended by a great retinue of nobles, pages, servants and soldiers. Burgundy had generously given up a part of his court suite to add luster to Charles’ return to Blois. In addition, in all the cities which the Duke of Orléans passed through on his journey, noble families came to offer him their sons as pages or shieldbearers and their daughters as maids of honor in the hope that this would assure their children a good future. Beautiful gifts bestowed by the municipalities were carried along in wagons: gold and silver tableware, fabrics and tapestries, casks of wine—gifts which Charles had accepted with gratitude, because his own valuables had long since been sold or pawned. No less welcome were the sums of money offered by Bruges, Amiens, Tournai, Ghent and many other cities as contributions toward his ransom. No doubt it was all done to please Burgundy. Charles thought somewhat caustically that he must swallow all feelings of bitter shame over this charity accompanied by beautiful ceremonies; in truth, he could not afford to be proud.

  So with Marie beside him, he rode into Paris in the midst of almost royal pomp. Richmont, accompanied by some high magistrates and courtiers, came to greet him at the city gates, but his arrival seemed to attract little attention. In the neglected streets with their ramshackle, peeling houses, groups of people stood here and there, watching the advancing procession with dull curiosity. That they were looking at the banners and ensigns of Orléans and Burgundy carried side by side aroused little surprise in a generation which did not remember the civil war which had raged thirty years before.

  Silently, Charles looked about him, overcome by emotion. The city was gloomy, battered; the houses which had been chopped up for firewood during the last grim winter of occupation had not been rebuilt. Porches and shutters were missing from a number of buildings. The streets needed attention; they were full of holes and cracks and covered with refuse.

  But when Charles lifted his eyes he saw the familiar outlines of church towers and castles against the sky.

  Conversation dropped off; they rode side by side in silence through the somber filthy city on the way to the Hotel des Tournelles which belonged to Charles and which had been made ready for him and his wife. They passed the palace of Saint-Pol, now vacant, neglected, defaced, like so many other royal residences in the city. No banners fluttered from the towers, the gates were closed with rusty chains. Charles looked up at the dark rows of windows, hidden for the most part behind shutters; here Queen Isabeau had died some years before, forgotten and uncared-for, a secluded invalid. She had been seen for the last time at one of the windows watching the coronation procession of her grandson Henry VI; after that she withdrew forever into the shadows of Saint-Pol.

  “I intend to pay my respects to the King while I am here,” said Charles to Richmont. “But where is he to be found at this moment?”

  The Constable wrinkled his brow.

  “Every day someplace different. He has no time to hold court. He travels from city to city, taking up details of business, searching out hotbeds of sloth and resistance, revising policies of state. I think you can find him in Sens, Orléans; at any rate he arrived there the day before yesterday.”

  “Then I shall send messengers to Sens to ask the King for an audience.” Still frowning, Richmont cast a sidelong glance at Charles’ pale profile.

  “Don’t expect the kind of reception Burgundy gave you,” he remarked. “Here we have time only for hard work.”

  Charles began to smile. “Surely my royal cousin will wish to meet my wife and me, now that I have returned to France after such a long absence. He might want to talk to me about any number of important matters. I want to pay my respects to him not only as a kinsman but also as an envoy. Surely the King will find time for me.”

  “I see that you don’t know him.” Richmont gave a short, irritated are exceedingly sharp-witted. Do you know what they call him? ‘Le Bien Servi’—he who is well-served. Believe me, those who serve him so well guard his welfare and the welfare of the Kingdom.”

  Charles’ smile faded. He looked at Marie who rode on his right, pale with fatigue, shivering in her fur-lined cloak. She had heard nothing of the conversation.

  “What do you mean by that, Richmont?” he asked, in a choked voice.

  The Constable shrugged. “I wanted to draw your attention to something which you might not know yet,” he said calmly. “Perhaps you will listen to the advice of one who is well-informed.”

  Charles could not help but think of certain events in London in the years 1417 and 1418. Silently he turned his head away.

  In the days following his arrival in Paris he received envoys from the University, magistrates, a number of highly placed officials and priests who bade him welcome and offered him gifts; with great effort, in the impoverished city, they had collected a sum to be put toward Monseigneur’s ransom. A solemn mass was read in his honor in Notre Dame; the church was adorned, precious relics were displayed, the great bells pealed, and a crowd of curiosity-seekers who had gathered in search of amusement in the square in front of the church, cheered when Charles and his wife came outside.

  Meanwhile, the couriers whom Charles had sent to Sens cooled their heels in the King’s anterooms. Scarcely a week after his arrival in Paris, the answer came back from the King.

  “The Duke of Orléans is welcome, provided he comes accompanied only by a few loyal servants. No provision will be made for the arrival of armed men and a large retinue.”

  “What does the King mean by this?” Charles, somewhat displeased, asked Dunois, who had been with him for the past few days.

  Dunois stroked his cheek. He could not help but smile at the surprise and disappointment evinced by his brother, who had been so sure of an enthusiastic reception.

  “It means that you must leave all these Burgundians at home,” he said quietly. “The King will receive his cousin of Orléans, but not Burgundy’s protégé.”

  “Protégé?” Irritated, Charles flung the paper with its seal onto the table. “Everyone should understand that I do what I do of my own free will. I speak for peace out of conviction. It’s partly with my kinsmen of Alençon, Armagnac and Brittany that I support the aspirations of the Crown’s feudal vassals. For that matter I too have a few legitimate complaints. No one should take me for a puppet.”

  “Go to the King and try to win his confidence,” Dunois advised. “It will not be easy, but it is worth the effort. I have done what I could to temper his distrust. I have tried to make your position clear to him, brother. Now it’s time for you to speak directly to the King yourself.”

  Charles stood before the hearthfire with his back to Dunois; he did not answer. He was extremely annoyed. What difference could it make to the King whether he came to Sens with a dozen or with a few hundred followers? It was not so much that he himself was fond of ostentatious display, but he refused to allow himself to be denigrated. He felt that he had already been humiliated enough. The King’s demand was unreasonable; it seemed to have no other purpose than to demean the suppliant. Charles did not see how he could put up with it, especially since it also insulted those whom he represented. He would lose every shr
ed of dignity, of authority, if he complied with the stipulations so condescendingly set by the King. Burgundy would not unjustly be offended if he, through Charles’ person, was treated in this way.

  “Tell the couriers that I am cancelling my visit to the King,” said Charles coldly, without turning around. “Tomorrow I leave for Blois.”

  The summer sun burns on the houses of Blois, which lie scattered over the hill on the right bank of the river. Because of the prolonged drought the river has shrunk in its bed; the water, sparkling in the bright sunshine, is bounded on both sides by wide sand banks where children play all day long and washerwomen kneel at the water’s edge. On the projecting plateau, a short distance up the slope of the hill, rises the castle, dark grey and weathered; but the shutters at the windows are painted bright blue and red, the ducal standards flutter from towers and battlements—from sunrise to sunset a procession of servants, pages, squires and officers of the Duke’s household travels across the bridges and through the gates. After twenty-five years, a re-animated Blois once again shelters Charles d’Orléans within its walls.

  Activity in the many narrow, steep streets and the crudely paved squares is increased by the presence of the ducal family. The rumble of voices and footsteps, the stamping of horses’ hooves, the rattle of carts fill the city which for long years had echoed only to the murmur of brooks or the monotonous creak of a water wheel.

  Stewards and kitchen and chamber servants can be seen walking among the stalls in the market as they used to do; on the meadows outside the city, pages and squires practice with bow and javelin. From castle yard and inner court the whinny of horses, the clatter of arms, reaches the streets of Blois once more. Often the young Duchess rides out through the fields with her ladies and her retinue in painted wagons, or on horseback, hunting birds in the deserted swampland on the other side of the river. Sometimes the noble company wishes to go boating on the Loire; on barges hung with streamers and tapestries, they are piloted downstream to Chaumont and Amboise, from which they return on horseback.

  The people of the villages and farmsteads along the river hurry out to enjoy the charming spectacle; the noble ladies and courtiers in their bright attire sit laughing under the silk canopies on the ships gliding slowly past. The old happy days seem to have come back again—the golden days of chivalry when the cities thrived, the princes were generous and splendid and the people were well-protected. Those who live along the Loire in the region of Orléans and the lovely Touraine praise the Duke who has come back to them as a true prince of peace; they ascribe the new renaissance of prosperity, the restoration of order to these long strife-torn domains, to Charles’ return.

  In addition, to many he is a hero, a martyr; those who were still children when he left Blois remember only that he fought at Agin-court and languished in English dungeons. They have known the misery of war too well not to give the Duke high praise when they learn that he is working earnestly for peace, that he is trying to bring about a rapprochement between the King and the discontented princes. It cannot be denied that he throws himself wholly into his endeavors. He travels incessantly, returns for only a few days, then sets off again with his armed retinue and councillors to Brittany, Armagnac, to Bourbon and Foix, and to the north, to Hesdin in Burgundy where he meets the mighty Duke. When he is in Blois, he is rarely seen outside the castle. Each glimpse is treasured of that figure clad always in black, of that friendly face.

  There is no complaint even when he proclaims an increase in the tax on wine, salt and fruit. Everyone understands that it is most important for him to collect great sums of money in as short a time as possible; won’t he have to return to captivity if he has not paid his ransom in full in the course of a year? Don’t the English still hold his brother, Monseigneur d’Angoulême, under lock and key?

  For this reason the people of Orléans and the outlying cities and villages endure without a murmur what might under other circumstances have moved them to rebellion. After the anguish and anarchy of the war years, the severe military rule of Dunois, the uncertainty and astonishment caused by the King’s new measures and reforms, the rule of Charles d’Orléans leads them back to the trusted ways of the past. Obedience and taxes are given in exchange for peace; the presence of the Duke creates the prospect of increased commerce, greater business opportunities, a new prosperity.

  The noble lord himself is generous and kind-hearted; everywhere he is considered to be a national hero as well as an excellent poet. The ballads and rondelets which he sent occasionally from England to friends and kinsmen—letters in rhyme—are known outside the small circles of initiates; all men of letters have heard of them. Since the news of his homecoming has spread, scribes, bookbinders and illuminators have flocked to Monseigneur; they know that the Duke is a great connoisseur of books and manuscripts, that immediately on his return to Blois, he ordered his library brought from the cellar vaults of Font La Rochelle, that a few weeks later the books which he had collected during his captivity were transported by ships and wagons. The great folios were carried into Blois; Monseigneur’s librarian has told bystanders where these volumes came from; they are the books which once belonged to the Duke’s grandfather, Charles the Wise; the Regent Bedford had stolen them from the Louvre, but after Bedford’s death Monseigneur had succeeded in gaining possession of the precious manuscripts in London.

  These and similar stories considerably enhance the Duke’s reputation; in addition, when he is seen in public, he has a good word, a friendly greeting for everyone. All the poor and homeless find a meal and lodging in Blois; no one knocks at the gates there in vain. He is the good Duke, “le bon due d’Orléans.”

  How does Charles live since his homecoming? From the moment in the country road outside Orléans when two hundred small children stepped forward, with little flags in their hands, to bid him welcome, he has determined to justify the faith of the singing children and the elated populace lining the roads: he will bring peace, as a mediator he will end the misunderstanding between the King and his noble vassals.

  For the first time since he set foot on the shore he sees clearly what he wants to do; he is now in a position to organize his impressions, to examine the facts which had confounded him during his stay in Saint-Omer, during his tiring journey, during the brief delay in Paris. When, after reaching the Loire, he rode through his beloved country past Gien, the fresh wind blew doubt and dissatisfaction from his heart. This is his country, this is the land to which he is devoted with all his being: the sloping fields, the broad river, the cities and castles entrusted to him since his early youth. This gently rising and falling land is, even in the winter, the garden of France, filled with color and life; brown and green hills, the houses and towers grey or russet and the sparkling river which changes at every bend—alternately silver blue or steel grey, ornamented with the sunken gold of the sand banks under the water, with small islands, with numerous ships.

  Under this sky Charles cannot nurse a resentment against the King. While he rides on, feeding his hungry eyes, breathing in the fresh air, the odor of earth and water united in his lungs, he begins to realize what work he really wants to do. He does not want to choose a party, he wishes to be neither the leader of the feudal lords nor the King’s servant—he wishes to be impartial, independent, to cooperate to bring conflicting interests into agreement with one another. What Burgundy desires of him he does not consider incompatible with his own wishes. He has promised his powerful kinsmen to visit the vassals of the Crown, to hear their grievances and proposals, and then to ask the King’s consent to an assembly of the feudal lords at which they can air their objections and desires.

  True, he suspects that Burgundy’s plan is not so harmless as it seems; he is fully determined to take no part in any potential conspiracy. He will act only as an intermediary. As a consequence of the meeting convened by the princes, he will undoubtedly be given the opportunity to visit the King; perhaps it will be possible then for him to overcome the King’s suspicions a
nd recalcitrance, to show that he has come to play a role in the Kingdom which no one before him ever could have played, because there has never been anyone like him, who stands apart from all factions. When the King sees the importance of his task and recognizes the services of the mediator, the time will have come to discuss peace with England, to pursue step by step the path to an end of all hostilities between the two kingdoms.

  In spite of his good will and zeal for the work, Charles cannot avoid the knowledge that a number of difficulties and disappointments lie in wait for him. He knows all too well that in practice he will not behave toward the princes with complete reserve. He is bound to them by blood ties and in addition he is dependent on many of them for his and his brother’s ransoms. They have already made promises to him about that; he is afraid they will expect repayment not in money, but in services in another area altogether. Even during the welcoming celebrations in Orléans, Beaugency and Blois, he sends his couriers and envoys to the courts of Brittany, Armagnac and Bourbon to announce his impending visit. Preparations are being made in Blois for his departure; the young Duchess, sick and weary of travel, will not accompany him. During the few days of rest before his journey, Charles prowls once again through the castle and its grounds. While Marie, surrounded by her young ladies, stays in her apartments in the women’s wing, Charles walks alone through the corridors and chambers where he had been accustomed to wander as a young boy, absorbed in thought then as he is now.

  Much has changed in Blois; for years the castle was a fortress filled with soldiers, an important fortification in the Loire valley, a meeting place for commanders, a place where troops could be outfitted and exercised and supplies could be collected—all without hindrance. The years have left their mark on the castle. The rooms and apartments once intended to accommodate the ducal household have served other purposes. Before Charles’ arrival, some tapestries were hastily hung, some pieces of furniture put in place. It is clear that these are the few things the creditors have not taken. Only the tower room where Charles lived as a young man remains unchanged; the bed, reading desk and chair, the chest in the window niche. On one of the dusty shelves lies his old psalmbook with its worn leather binding.