In the summer, Dunois appeared in Blois with a great following. The brothers had not seen each other for a long time; Charles never left Blois and Dunois had had his hands full, year in and year out, leading the King’s armies in Normandy and Brittany. That the English were defeated, time after time, that they had gradually been compelled to yield up all their conquests again, was thanks above all to Dunois’ strong and skillful actions. The King, who had blind faith in him, showered him with favors: titles, gifts of land and sums of money. He had Dunois’ birth declared legitimate, granted him and his descendants the right to bear the names of Orléans and Valois, and removed the bar sinister from his escutcheon. Dunois, who had meanwhile married, had accepted that prerogative for his children; he himself continued to cling firmly under all circumstances to the name which his father had given him and, as before, he signed all letters and documents with the words which he had heard added to that name since his youth: Bastard of Orléans.
Charles greeted his half-brother joyfully. Dunois had hardly changed over the course of nearly ten years; there were no wrinkles yet in his weatherbeaten, sunburnt face; no grey in his sandy hair; his green eyes were still as bright as they had been in his childhood. He was dressed in leather and mail; his escort was strongly armed. When Charles jokingly asked about the reason for this martial parade, Dunois frowned and said seriously, “I am travelling through, brother. I have just conveyed a prisoner from Paris to the King’s residence, Nonette in Bourbon. I have to speak to you about it.”
The news which Dunois gave him alarmed Charles, but did not surprise him. It concerned his son-in-law Alençon, whose behavior Charles had observed for so long with suspicion and anxiety.
The King, worn out by defeats and disappointments, had lapsed anew into seclusion, timidity and doubt, and had ordered the ecclesiastic authorities and the Parlement to initiate an inquiry in Rouen and Paris into the manner in which the late Jeanne, Maid of Orléans, had been condemned and executed. In the silence of his apartments the King, afflicted with illness and worry, was prey to morbid fears: he remembered that Agnes Sorel had once reproached him for his indifference to the fate of the Maid whom, in a sense, he had to thank for his crown. At that time he had brusquely rejected her advice that Jeanne’s good name should be restored. But now he felt that his omission was wrong, that it was a sin which weighed heavily upon his conscience. He dared not die before he had discharged his obligation.
Among the many who came to Paris as witnesses in this matter was Alençon, who had spoken repeatedly with Jeanne. While he was making his statement, pleased at the opportunity to place the King’s actions in an unfavorable light, certain letters were discovered on an English spy in Brittany. In these letters which had been written and signed by Alençon, the Duke expressed his desire to conclude an alliance with Henry VI, put himself and the inhabitants of his domain in the service of England, and supplied the names of coastal towns where an invading army could land.
The King did not hesitate; he immediately sent Dunois to Paris to take Alençon prisoner on a charge of high treason. In the castle of Nonette, Alençon confessed his guilt; he had acted, he said, because he felt he had been neglected and given short shrift by the King.
Charles listened in silence. He could not get over this news: the disgrace of Alençon, whose children were Charles’ grandchildren, cast a slur on the honor of Orléans.
“This will end nastily for Alençon,” Dunois remarked gruffly; he had distrusted Charles’ son-in-law practically from the beginning. “It is pretty certain that all his possessions will be declared forfeit and the domain will revert again to the Crown. But I would be surprised if he got off with his life; the King seems firmly resolved to condemn Alençon to the scaffold.”
“Will there be no trial?” Charles asked slowly.
Dunois nodded. “That is why I am here, brother. The trial begins in Vendome on the fifteenth of December. The King summons you there to give your opinion of this business. Do not refuse,” he added hastily, when he saw Charles make a movement of protest. “Our friends of Brittany and Burgundy have defaulted and it goes without saying that we will not see the Dauphin. If you are interested in salvaging whatever can be saved for your grandchildren, you must seize this chance to act as spokesman.”
Charles went on sitting for a few minutes, his head turned away. “It goes against my grain to become involved once again in a questionable matter,” he said at last. “Surely you realize that in order to accomplish anything, I shall have to plead extenuating circumstances for Alençon. But still, you are right. I shall prepare myself for the hearing.”
The trial was held in the great hall of the castle of Vendome. Stands hung with tapestries stood opposite and on both sides of the royal throne; on these platforms sat the great lords of the Kingdom, four rows deep: first, the vassals of the Crown and the princes of the Church; then the representatives of the nobility and the clergy, and finally those who would speak for the burghers. Armed sentries guarded the approaches to the stands and the open spaces between them. A great crowd of spectators filled the hall, overflowing outside onto the steps and into the corridors. At the King’s right hand sat his youngest son and his blood relative, Charles d’Orléans.
The journey and the sojourn at the court had tired Charles greatly; he was not used to all this excitement. In addition, he was uncertain about the effect his words would have on a company most of whom wanted to see Alençon sentenced to death. Only the Archbishop of Reims and an envoy from Burgundy would ask for clemency, the first as a mere formality, the second chiefly to thwart the King.
From time to time Charles glanced at his cousin: he found the King sadly altered; his features were slack, his eyes restless; little or nothing remained of his authoritative tone, his self-assured bearing. Charles knew the reasons for the King’s bitterness: the bad feeling between him and the Dauphin grieved him; he was troubled about the future of the Kingdom under such a rule and filled with regret that he could not give his beloved second son the rights that belonged to the eldest. In twelve years the Dauphin had not once visited his father; he ruled as he wished in his place of exile, surrounded by a household filled with people of unknown origin whom he had elevated to the nobility. That he was involved in other affairs as well became evident when, immediately after Alençon’s arrest, he rode at full speed across France into Flanders and there sought safe accommodation at Burgundy’s court. The King bent under this blow. To Charles he remarked with a sour, nervous laugh when the subject came up, “Burgundy does not know what he is doing; he thinks he will gain an advantage by harboring the future King of France. But he has let a fox into his hencoop!”
The King, motionless in the stiff folds of his robes of state, his face obscured by the broad brim of his hat, listened impassively to the distinguished speakers who came forward to air their opinions. After the words “death penalty” had echoed a number of times through the space around the stands, it was Charles’ turn to speak. He stood up and descended the three steep steps with difficulty. He sensed that most of those present were watching him with disapproval and mistrust; nobody doubted that he would attempt to exonerate his son-in-law, or at least try to mitigate his punishment. Charles held the paper ready on which he had made his notes, but on second thought he hid it away in his sleeve with the spectacles which he did not need now. He bowed and turned to the King.
“Monseigneur! There are three things which must be considered when one is called upon to give one’s opinion upon important affairs: the advisor himself, the person to whom advice is to be given and the matter under consideration. With regard to the first, it is written ‘multi multa sciunt et se ipsos nesciunt—many people know many things but they do not know themselves.’ When I look at myself now and consider that I must advise you about your interests and those of the Kingdom, I find it a very risky undertaking on my part, who am neither wise nor learned enough to speak here after so many capable and renowned lawyers have had their say. I carry only a ca
ndle where a number of torches are burning. I beseech you therefore to take my good intentions into account if my insight should fail me.
“Concerning my second point—the person to whom I offer my advice: I see in you my lord and master and, in addition, my blood relative, to whom obviously I am accountable. Finally I honor you as my sovereign. And when I think about that concept of ‘sovereign’, then I realize fully the deep significance of it. For you are only a man like myself, of flesh and blood, subject to dangers, threats, adversity, diseases and other afflictions. That nevertheless you have succeeded in holding the reins of government in these very difficult times is for me a sign that your sovereignty has come to you as a gift from God, the King of kings, the Lord of lords. Therefore you are called Your Most Christian Majesty, and therefore all subjects of France must serve and support you as the representative of God’s authority.
“Thirdly, the matter on which I must counsel you touches you and your family closely, since I, your kinsman, am bound by ties of blood and friendship to the accused, his father and his entire line.” Charles then went on to recall that his father had concluded an alliance with the late Duke of Alençon, that he himself had been supported by the Duke and his vassals in the struggle against Burgundy, that an Alençon had died gloriously in the service of the realm on the field of Agincourt. While he spoke he was well aware that these were nothing but empty phrases; he knew only too well that old Alençon had never sought anything except his own advantage.
He tried another tack and dwelt on all those acts of Alençon’s which could be looked upon as exercises of friendship and chivalry. He ransacked his memory to leave nothing unsaid that would place his son-in-law and the latter’s father in the most favorable light possible. He besought the King to weigh good and evil carefully against each other and if he found that evil tipped the scales, to be merciful.
“For inasmuch as you are God’s deputy, you must follow his example: ‘You will do as I have done’, He said, and ‘As you have judged, so will you be judged.’
“I have the following advice to give you in this matter: in my opinion when we think of saving Alençon’s life we must think of both his body and his soul. God has said, ‘Nolo mortem peccatoris, I do not want the sinner to die.’ So you too cannot desire Alençon’s death. Because his actions show that his common sense has failed him, and if he should now be put to death without the opportunity to amend his life and purify his soul, then all those who had demanded his execution would have neglected to give him that last chance which is every sinner’s due. It is a greater affliction and torment to sit in prison for years than to die suddenly, for then one is delivered from earthly suffering. I know whereof I speak, because when I was a prisoner in England, I often wished that I had been slain at Agincourt.
“Therefore I counsel you for the sake of the security of the Kingdom to keep the Duke in safe custody, in whatever manner you deem best, my lord. It seems to me also eminently fair that you should have the right to dispose of his lands and possessions, but I think that you should provide within reason for his wife and children. It is written, ‘One may not wreak vengeance upon the innocent.’ I implore you as a father to look after those who must now consider themselves orphans. Then it seems to me that you ought not to forget his servants and followers who bore no guilt in what occurred. Care for them, now that they have lost their livelihood. I declare before God, before you, my lord, and before all those assembled here, that I have spoken according to my honor and conscience, to serve the interests of the realm. At all times I would gladly, if that became necessary, put aside all my responsibilities and devote all my energies, to the best of my knowledge and ability, however scanty, to serve those interests. I have finished.”
The King adjourned the hearing. It was obvious that he was extremely displeased.
In the following days it was no secret from Charles that his advice had not been received with favor. He could not help noticing to his dismay and regret that he was now viewed with the same dislike and suspicion that was felt toward Burgundy and the Dauphin. He noticed that he was being shunned; he knew that behind his back people were being told to keep away from him. And he learned that he had aroused the King’s anger. Alençon’s chances for clemency had not been increased by his appeal.
Suddenly Richmont, Duke of Brittany, appeared at Vendome. What had put Charles in a bad light did not damage the King’s former favorite and collaborator. Before long it was proclaimed at the meeting that the King “as a result of the petition made to Us by Our most beloved and cherished cousin the Duke of Brittany, uncle of the aforementioned Alençon” had resolved to change the sentence of death to confinement in a fortress. Charles d’Orléans returned to Blois.
Life in Blois flowed on from day to day in peace and benevolence. Charles read or wrote in the quiet library, sought and found fulfilment in his wife’s company—they spoke together about things which interested them or sat side by side in companionable silence, she crocheting with gold thread, he with a book which actually he scarcely read—and diverted himself with his little daughter in the nursery, in the courtyard or the flower garden outside the walls. Little Marie was the apple of his eye; she was nearly three years old, swift of foot and swifter still of comprehension. He could not get enough of her small, clear voice, her dignified little lady manners. He gave her little psalm-books illuminated with miniatures, small paternosters decorated with red and gold beads, a little purse with tiny gold pieces to wear on her girdle.
When he and his wife left Blois to visit neighboring towns and castles, they took their child with them; Mademoiselle’s flushed little face glowed like a rose against the black garments of the older couple. She was allowed to witness the solemn ceremonies in Orléans when, at the King’s command, the Maid’s honor was restored; the people of the region along the Loire, who had never ceased to love Jeanne and to honor her memory, moved in procession with burning candles, green branches and colorful banners to the bridge over which she had ridden in triumph into Orléans thirty years before.
Some time later a feast was given by the city in honor of little Marie d’Orléans: from her father’s arms she watched the people dancing in the open air, and wine and spiced cake being set out for everyone on long tables in the market square. The Duke ordered the release of all prisoners from the city’s dungeons. Among the pale people wrapped in filthy rags, shouting with excitement as they shoved their way out through the prison gates, was François Villon, who had been imprisoned some years before for a misdemeanor. With his usual directness he went immediately to pay his respects to Charles, who with a nod and an ironic smile pressed his hand and invited him to join the celebrations. Villon’s sharp eyes saw at once where the Duke’s affection and interest lay: in order to ensure continued favor for himself, Villon composed a song praising little Marie for her dignified, regal demeanor and comparing the three-year-old to the wise Cassandra, the beautiful Echo, the chaste Lucretia, the noble Dido. Charles was seized by a fit of laughter at this, but he was touched nonetheless, and gave Villon a generous reward and the privilege of coming and going as he pleased in the ducal residence.
About the middle of July in the year 1461 couriers brought to Blois the news that the King was dead. He had spent the last years of his life in the secluded castle of Mehun-sur-Yevre, hidden away in its neglected rooms, suspicious and fearful of everyone who approached him. Finally, afraid that he was about to be poisoned, he refused to take food. He died of starvation and exhaustion.
Since the Dauphin had not yet returned from Flanders, the task of directing funeral arrangements fell to Charles. He traveled with a large retinue to Mehun to carry out this obligation. The King’s body was placed upon a bier, conveyed to Paris with appropriate pomp, and there, after the mass for the dead, buried in the abbey of Saint-Denis.
On the thirty-first of August the new King, Louis, by the Grace of God the eleventh of that name, rode into Paris accompanied by Burgundy, his son and the Duke of Cleves. Charles w
as not part of the glittering procession which followed the King through the city: he wished to make known by his absence that he no longer wanted a place in court, that he desired to withdraw from public life. From a window of his Hotel des Tournelles he looked down upon the endless file of richly attired lords and their followers. He saw familiar faces: Dunois, Angouléme, Bourbon, Etampes and many others; under a canopy rode King Louis wearing white garments, but with a strange little black bonnet on his head, as though he wanted to mock the coronation ceremony. His face was as pointed, his eyes as malicious, as ever. He looked about sharply at the people along the way who were cheering him half-heartedly.
Charles saw Burgundy riding behind the King in a mantle sparkling with jewels; he bore himself as though it were he who was being led to his coronation. Charles watched him attentively; he asked himself if the whispers he had heard were true: that Louis, now that he had become King, did not appear prepared to grant to his protector Burgundy the place of honor on the Council and in the government which the latter had expected. It seemed that a violent disagreement had arisen between Louis and Burgundy’s son Charolais. Moreover, the new King of France had declared curtly that he frankly found it excessive that Burgundy should escort him to Paris with a veritable army of courtiers and armed men; surely the King of France could count on a good reception without that.
Charles considered himself fortunate that he could now bid farewell to court life; he had no obligation whatever to King Louis, who most probably would have no further need of him. He was, thank God, too old for politics and diplomacy. With philosophical submission he allowed the stream of festivities and ceremonies to pass over him. While others danced and drank and did themselves only too well at the beautifully-decorated buffets heaped with fabulously costly food, Charles sat in a quiet corner, listening to the music. He remained in Paris chiefly to give Marie the opportunity to take part in the courtly amusements. She had, he thought, lived so long in seclusion; she deserved to go dancing adorned like a princess. But after a few weeks Marie announced that she had had enough of all these tournaments, pageants and banquets; she wanted to go home to her child.
In a Dark Wood Wandering Page 69