In that small room Charles remains standing for a long time, overwhelmed by memories. Here he wrote his letter to the King; here he once discussed the English auxiliary armies with Dunois—here he lay at night staring, staring at the glow of coals in the brazier, thinking about the struggle against Burgundy, Armagnac’s arrogance, about the need for money and the restoration of honor. All this is a lifetime ago, when he was guileless, ignorant and trusted everybody. Charles sighs and shrugs; slowly he descends the circular staircase, goes through the wooden verandas along the southern wall of Blois, now completely overgrown with vines, and walks through the series of chambers in which he had lived with Bonne. Involuntarily he walks over the dusty floor as cautiously as if he were on consecrated ground. The chambers are empty; no tapestries hang there any longer; the embroidery frame has vanished from the window recess. Gone are the benches, the tables, the prayer stool; only in the bedroom stands the bed with the green curtains where he dreamed his childish dreams, struggled with his childish anxieties, where he slept with Bonne. He touches one of the posts with his hand and stares at the bare planks, the threadbare bound curtains. His eye falls on a number of small scratches in the wood at the head of the bed. He moves closer, takes his spectacles from his sleeve. He bends forward and peers at the letters “Dieu le scet” scratched in the wood with a pin.
A profound emotion seizes the man who, wearing spectacles before his nearsighted eyes, stays on alone in the forgotten, dismantled room, the only thing which remains to him of the few truly happy days of his life: an old bed, a memory, a greeting from her who once slept in his arms. Here she lay, waiting, hoping, praying, feeling for the ring on her finger: “Dieu le scet.” And once, on an endless summer night or on a stormy winter evening, to cheer herself she inscribed the motto “Dieu le scet” in the wood above her head.
With trembling fingers Charles removes his spectacles; blinded with tears which he restrains with difficulty, he walks back through the empty rooms to the inhabited part of the castle.
So in the year 1441 he travels to Nantes in Brittany, where the Duke has prepared a great reception for him. There he meets a number of old acquaintances who, to his annoyance, show him almost royal respect. The flattery goes against his grain: do they tacitly assume that he covets the throne? On all sides they offer him money and gifts; he must accept them gratefully in the name too of his brother of Angoulême. Among the noble guests at Brittany’s court he finds his son-in-law, the Duke of Alençon, whose wife, Charles’ daughter and only child, Jeanne, had died a few years earlier.
He does not much like Alençon with his polished manners and haughty demeanor. Bitterly Charles notes how relative the notion of kinship is; he feels no affection for this stranger; he realizes quite well that Alençon’s display of courtliness exists only because of his own supposed political importance. He cannot get the thought out of his head that, beneath the veneer of gallant civility, things are going on in the court of Nantes which cannot bear the light of day. Too many meetings for his taste have taken place which are abruptly aborted when a non-initiate approaches. During the hunt and at mealtime there are exchanges of words and significant glances which he does not know how to interpret. They are hiding something from him; they do not dare to take him into their confidence. He sees that the Duke of Brittany and his nobles are able to move uninhibited through the streets of Normandy, which is still occupied by the English; English lords, including the royal herald, are seen repeatedly in the midst of the hunting, hard-drinking Bretons. Charles’ son-in-law, Alençon, seems to be in the center of this group. Charles watches him, tries to tempt him to confide in him, seeks an explanation through cautious conversation, but Alenc;on gives vague answers, avoiding Charles’ eyes.
This puzzling activity of the Breton nobles disturbs Charles all the more since it is known that in the government of England the war party, under the leadership of the fierce Humphrey of Gloucester, are once again predominant. Those who want peace with France, who have given Charles d’Orléans his freedom, who looked with hope to the results of their efforts, have been relegated to the background. The English troops in France are stirring once again. Charles listens in silence: the news of the King’s victories in Creil and Pontoise provide him with food for thought. He understands why until now the King has resisted peace with England; luck has turned in France’s favor. The King no longer needs to include what he has recaptured in battle, in order to negotiate a peace treaty: England is weaker than ever, torn by party dispute; Henry VI, the grandson of a madman, has begun to behave more strangely every day.
To a degree, the temporary ascendancy of the war party in England is advantageous to Charles, because these lords, who had worked incessantly against his release, cannot blame him if after a year he has not satisfied the stipulations of that release. If there is no change in the atmosphere in Westminster, he will enjoy a reprieve for the moment. On the other hand, he is overcome by helpless rage when he thinks of his hapless brother, who has been a prisoner now for thirty years and whose release depends on the struggle of those who want peace.
For months Charles is on the move constantly, a guest now here, now there, in towering castles, fortified strongholds; everywhere he hears the grievances of the lords against the King. Everyone joins him in the hope that the war with England will end soon—even though their reasons differ from his. If the chances of war remain favorable to the armies of the King, he will unquestionably drive the English out. If he succeeds, he will be more powerful than any French king in nearly a hundred years—and when the King’s authority is unassailable, the feudal lords have little influence. Therefore they wish with all their hearts that peace will be effected before the King’s power has been confirmed.
“Yes, exactly,” says Charles thoughtfully again and again when they attempt in private conversations to make him a party to these opinions. “Exactly, certainly…” His past has trained him well. He can conceal his thoughts, listen calmly, answer courteously and never show anger, contempt or displeasure. To him this King is a strange, incomprehensible figure: at the outset he was a timid weakling, now from day to day he is becoming more feared and at the same time more respected. Charles does not yet know what attitude to take toward him. But toward the feudal princes he feels only distrust and a certain contempt. He realizes more clearly than ever how completely these men, all of whom want to be petty kings, subordinate the welfare of the realm to their own interests.
Heavy-hearted, he travels in October to Hesdin castle on the Flemish border where Burgundy awaits him.
His independence has sharpened Charles’ insights. He finds the man with the wide mouth, the unfathomable eyes, who has invited him to Hesdin for an essential discussion, quite different from the distinguished, courtly host of Saint-Omer. True, both Dukes are surrounded by the luxurious opulence which Burgundy cannot do without: a castle filled with hundreds of followers and decorated with flags and banners. Wine and game are brought in heaped on wagons; precious tapestries, crystal and golden tableware are brought for the Duke from Flanders. At each meal minstrels, harpists, jongleurs, jesters and bards display their skill.
And here Burgundy and his son come striding, the ten-year-old Comte de Charolais whom he has brought with him, in stiff ceremony, amid bowing and kneeling courtiers who follow the varying daily rituals with painful punctiliousness. But there is, for Charles at any rate, a perceptibly essential difference.
At Saint-Omer he, whatever Burgundy’s intentions might have been, was the guest of honor; but he comes to Hesdin like a vassal beseeching his sovereign. The man who is sitting beside him under a canopy of gold, sharply and coldly putting question after question, is a great statesman, ruler over a number of different territories. He who holds Holland, Friesland, Zeeland, Hainault, Gelre, Luxembourg, Brabant, Flanders, Picardy and Burgundy, as well as France-Comte, Bethel, Liege and Limburg united into a single kingdom, must indeed have the ability, to an exceptionally high degree, of weighing pros and cons so that the
y make sense, of serving a thousand conflicting interests and, in spite of everything, of maintaining his own power.
This man with his quietly controlled gestures differs strongly from him who spoiled Charles’ youth; he differs from Jean the Fearless, with his passion, his toughness, his stubborn grim rage; Philippe, whom men call “the Good”, possesses an effortless, innate royal ease, has an inner strength which overcomes almost any barriers existing on his chosen path to great accomplishments. The young Comte de Charolais, a princely figure in black and gold with the insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece upon his breast, sits looking attentively at what is going on. Charles feels almost sorry for the lad who must one day take over and rule this awe-inspiring inheritance.
Charles tells Burgundy about his experiences. His host makes few comments; he sits erect and listens, nodding almost imperceptibly from time to time. Finally he issues his orders—at least Charles considers them orders—that now the King of France must be informed of the proposed conference of the feudal lords, and he must be asked to send his representatives as well.
“You will preside yourself, worthy cousin,” says Burgundy, moving his large, shapely hand back and forth over the chain of the Golden Fleece. “You will lead the discussions and communicate the result in writing to the King. You will carefully explain all points, and you must not neglect to note your own grievances with the others. Finally, you will stress the fact that the princes of France demand that the King fulfil all the conditions of the treaty of Arras.”
“What do you expect from this conference?” Charles was watchful in his turn. “Do you hope to intimidate the King?”
Burgundy shrugs.
“That remains to be seen, fair cousin. It is not clear whether the King’s new determination and self-confidence is anything more than a mask. The conference will assuredly help to enlighten us about that.”
At Charles’ request, Dunois spoke to the King. Charles had expected some resistance, but the King, neither surprised nor reluctant, gave his consent to a meeting and sent his own chancellor to represent him. In February of the following year, the congress of feudal princes met in the city of Nevers; it was a purely formal affair with no other purpose than to demonstrate the unanimity of discontent.
Charles, who in his capacity as chairman had to listen to and lead all speeches, all arguments, all debates, was fully convinced, as early as the first day, of the dubious character of the assembly which had been announced as a conference “to advance the King’s interests.” The interests which were discussed were by no means those of the King. The Lords of Alençon, Vendome, Bourbon and a number of others petitioned for restitution or gifts of land, money, manors, high offices. They all complained about the new regulations, about the fact that the King did not consult with them on important affairs, about positions of power of burghers like Coeur, de Breze and Bureau.
Charles was confronted with the far-from-easy task of clothing these grievances and petitions in courteous, respectful language so that they could be laid before the King. Since he was expected to express his own desires as well, he noted in the document that he still awaited the restoration of the landed estates that had been confiscated from him in 1408; that he lacked the means to conduct himself as befitted his station, as well as to pay the ransom for himself and his brother of Angoulême.
Messengers brought the document to the King, who was inspecting his troops at Limoges. After a few days they brought back extremely unsatisfacotry news to the waiting princes. The King had listened to the reading of the document with impatient annoyance; finally, he observed curtly that he had no time now to reply to the lords one by one—they must be satisfied with his assurance that he would think over their demands and complaints. At the same time Charles received a letter from Dunois, who advised him emphatically to pay his respects to the King at once, without delay.
The King’s Grand Master approached Charles who sat waiting in the window recess of an apartment looking out over the roofs and inner courts of Limoges castle.
“The King can receive you, Monseigneur,” said the nobleman, bowing. Charles arose and allowed himself to be led through a series of small rooms hung with dark tapestries. At last they came to a door guarded by Scottish sentries; a few pages and members of the King’s retinue stood talking together in subdued voices in the very small antechamber, once an alcove, that led to the reception hall. The conversation ceased as soon as Charles entered the room; obliging hands opened the door studded with iron figures behind which the King must be found. Charles saluted and went in.
The King stood in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back; on the wall behind him a curtain of embroidered cloth slid down in folds with a soft rustle, and light footsteps could be heard withdrawing into an adjoining chamber, unmistakably a woman’s footsteps. Charles, kneeling in ceremonial greetings, glanced up at his royal cousin and namesake. He saw a man of average height with a large head, coarse features and light, distrustful eyes. The King wore a pleated brocade jacket which did not cover his thin legs with their bony knees.
“Stand up, stand up, cousin.” His voice was soft, almost timid. “So we meet at last, in spite of everything.”
He took a step forward and scrutinized Charles sharply as though he were looking for a resemblance in the face of his kinsman. At last he seemed satisfied; he half-turned and pointed to a bench placed on a dais. Charles followed him to the seat, suppressing a smile. He knew why the King had given him such a penetrating look: this shy, taciturn man had not yet reconciled the doubt awakened by his mother Isabeau’s repudiation of him. He had been—Charles sensed this keenly—uneasy before his meeting with his cousin; he had feared that a certain resemblance between them would provide new material for his own disquiet and new scandal for others. For a moment they sat silently side by side in the dusky room; outside in the courtyard could be heard the neighing of horses, the sounds of men’s voices; a hunting party was returning from an early ride.
“It was not possible for me to receive you before this,” said the King, in his soft, unruffled tone. “I have been continually occupied during the past few months. Of course you know that the English are still trying to recapture land and cities outside Normandy. They are slow-witted. And in addition there were too many disaffected lords for my taste busy making life miserable for well-meaning citizens with the help of mercenaries and wandering rabble. Since I ordered the execution of the Bastard of Bourbon, they are singing another tune. I trust they see now that it is not to their advantage to turn against me.”
Charles nodded in assent, but did not reply. The King continued. “Have you come here, cousin, to plead in person the cause of the vassals of the Crown and their partisans?”
“I would like nothing better than to be able to restore a good understanding between you and your vassals, Sire,” Charles said cautiously. “But I am here primarily to greet you and to offer my services to you.”
“Hm.” The King turned his head brusquely away. Charles looked at his profile: the large jutting nose, the slightly protuberant eyes, the globular forehead. “You did not render me good service by placing yourself at the head of a group of lords who want to thwart me. In the past your name has always been closely connected with our royal House; your brothers have served me faithfully.”
“I know that, Sire.” Charles bowed his head again. “Believe me, I too am striving for peace and unity. After my return to France I have needed time to acquire an exact insight into the state of affairs in the country. Under no circumstances would I wish to place myself at the head of any group which seeks to curtail your power. I want only to serve as mediator. That is easier for me than for anyone else; I’ve been away for so long that I can scarcely be considered partisan any longer.”
The King frowned and slowly shook his head. “Nevertheless I firmly believe that you had better give up your role as mediator,” he said. It was very difficult to tell whether or not he was annoyed. “If I need your services, I will defin
itely let you know, cousin. I have learned from your half-brother that you are willing to act as a go-between in the event we negotiate with England. At the proper time I’ll gladly remember your offer.”
“Forgive me, Sire. But I am not completely free to act as I wish.” Charles stared at the King, surprised: how could anyone have taken this man for an irresolute weakling? He who spoke there was completely conscious of his own power; he chose his words with the calm self-assurance of one who knows the ultimate decision rests with him. “You should understand,” Charles went on, “that it is extremely important to me that peace with England come soon. They would then undoubtedly be less rigorous about setting the conditions of the payment of my ransom and my brother’s. They might even consider releasing my brother. As long as hostilities continue, it will be exceedingly difficult for me to raise the requested amounts within the stipulated time.”
“Undoubtedly, cousin,” the King answered patiently. “You may rest assured that I shall make peace as soon as a favorable opportunity arises. So far as your financial affairs are concerned, I am ready to meet you halfway. Because of your services to the Kingdom, you were a prisoner of war in a strange land for twenty-five years. We have not forgotten that. It is my intention to compensate you in a certain measure for whatever losses you may have suffered under those circumstances. I have decided to award you an annuity so that you may conduct yourself in the manner befitting your rank. In addition, a document lies ready in my chancellery in which it is stipulated that I shall give you a sum of 160,000 gold ecus as a contribution toward your ransom. Be so good as to look upon this as a gesture of friendship.”
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