In a Dark Wood Wandering (13 page)

“Come, young man,” said Louis impatiently from the darkness.

Quickly, Jacques followed his master through the low arch and shut the door. They stood in a roofed passage, with small windows on one side, through which the moonlight cast elongated white strips onto the ground. The Duke was at home here. In this place he had his own prayer cell where he spent certain days each year leading the life of a monk, wearing cap and cord and walking barefoot on the stone floors. His old friend and councillor lived here, Philippe de Maizieres, who had retired among the Celestines shortly after Louis had been declared of age.

Louis hesitated a moment before the door of the chapel which had been built onto the cloister walls. He did not enter, but walked in the opposite direction until, past stairs and corridors, he entered the nearly dark dormitorium. Abruptly he stopped, with a half-suppressed cry of terror.

The page stepped forward quickly. “What is it, Monseigneur?”

Louis laid a trembling hand on the young man's shoulder, seeking support, but he spoke words of reassurance.

The page let his dagger slide back into its sheath, but stood peering suspiciously into the darkness. There was only one patch of light in the hall, a square of moonlight under the little window cut high into the wall. But this bluish, misty light only intensified the surrounding darkness and silence. A cold shiver climbed between Jacques' shoulderblades; for a moment he felt a blind urge to bolt. The Duke's footsteps sounded quicker than before. They reached the door giving access to de Maizieres' rooms. Louis tapped at the wooden door, his usual quick, short signal; he entered without waiting for a reply.

The former councillor to the King occupied two adjoining white-walled cells with vaulted ceilings. A life-sized image of the crucified Christ hung directly opposite the door; in the flickering light of a
perpetual lamp the wounds seemed to glitter darkly with coagulated blood. A soft rustling came from the adjoining cell; after a few moments de Maizieres appeared, an old man in a cowl.

“Forgive me for arriving at this late hour,” Louis said before de Maizieres could speak. “If I had not known that you seldom sleep after midnight, I would not have come. I needed to talk to you.”

The old man stepped aside and motioned him to enter.

“You don't look well, Monseigneur,” he said, pushing the manuscript he had been reading to one side of the table. “I cannot say that the rest in Asnieres has done you good. Nor has the celebration of your son's birth. What's the matter? Your hands are shaking,” he added, lapsing into that familiar tone with which he had sometimes addressed Louis the child.

“Maizieres,” said Orléans softly, “if it is true that a man can foresee his end …” He paused. “I know well enough that I have been fortunate in my undertakings,” he continued, more softly still. “But now it seems I am running out of time. I do not believe I shall live long, Maizieres. I have seen Death himself tonight.”

The old man raised his head quickly. He shaded his eyes with one hand against the glow of the candle which stood on the table between them and scrutinized Louis sharply.

“In the dormitorium, Death passed before me,” Orléans said, while they stared into each other's eyes. “If I had put out my hand, I could have touched him—he was so real. Don't say that I imagined it—I was thinking about other things. Without wishing it, without being prepared for it, I suddenly felt the chill which emanated from him and I saw him too, although it was dark all around me. How else would I know that he can transfix one with a stare from eyeless sockets—that he whispers without tongue or lips?”

“You came from a banquet, my lord. Drinking the wine and listening to the music, you had perhaps given no thought to the fleeting nature of pleasure. Death frequently surprises men at such moments. Perhaps it is as well that you were reminded of more important matters.”

Louis stifled the anger which welled up in him at these words; he forced himself to smile courteously as usual. “If I can be charged with no worse debauchery than attending my son's christening feast…” he tried to joke, but broke off.

“God knows, Monseigneur, that you waste enough time on
matters which are in essence perhaps as senseless as debaucheries,” said de Maizieres in a low voice, folding his gaunt hands before him on the table.

“What do you mean by that?” Louis did not look up; his fingers drummed the table top.

“You know very well what I mean, Monseigneur, but it cannot harm either of us if I repeat my meaning within these walls. I have told you often enough that I believe you waste your time on enterprises which fade away like rings on the water. What is the point of looking for conquests in Italy when a hundred paces from your palace gate there is chaos which cries out for quick action?”

Louis bit his lip and frowned; although he paused for a moment to collect himself, his voice held an undertone of impatient annoyance.

“Did
I
ever initiate these enterprises, as you call them? Do you think I would be stupid enough to put my hand all alone into that hornets' nest on the other side of the Alps without support from the King or the Pope? But by the time the King became ill too much had happened—I could not withdraw. I had to carry on even though my father-in-law and Pope Clement had deserted me. You don't need to worry about me any longer, because nothing will come of my kingdom on the Adriatic Sea now that the Pope is dead. If I were to persist in carrying on my purpose in Italy, the brotherhood of former fighters would presumably unite against me.”

“I am delighted that you see things this way, my lord. I was afraid you might not abandon the enterprise in spite of recent events. There are more serious problems here now. You have an extremely responsible position, and one which puts the obligation upon you of forgetting your personal interests. Now that the King cannot reign,
you
must act in the name of the Crown.”

Louis laughed softly; the bitterness did not escape de Maizieres.

“I wish you would deliver this speech sometime to my uncle of Burgundy, who sees—or professes to see—only self-interest in everything I do, and who does not hesitate to tell everyone that I am busy undermining my brother's throne. As though everything I have done had not been worked out with the King when he still had his health—and since he became ill—for the last two years I have acted only in the interests of France. Those provinces which have been allotted to me—along with the whole Italian affair—behind all this is only the necessity to act in French interests. My
lord uncles would never act as champions of the Kingdom, if it came to that… my brother knows that/ would never turn against him—on the contrary. It's laughable the dark motives the Duke of Burgundy sees behind every gift of land.”

He leaned toward the old man and went on with passion.

“And now, this summer, as you know, the King confided the country of Angoulême to me. When he was lucid, we spoke of it together—he saw himself that it was of the utmost importance that a region so close to the English front should lie in trusted hands. If the war party conquers in London, all treaties are meaningless. Can you see my lord uncles marching to defend Paris? But you can well imagine that any new acquisition on my part gives Burgundy an opportunity to spew new venom. Ah!”

He made a sound of deep aversion and clenched his fist on the table.

“I don't like to speak this way about my kinsmen, and God knows I would make every effort to maintain good relations—but sometimes I feel like someone who must dance in a field of thisdes, whirling gracefully in complicated steps, without being scratched or pricked for otherwise … it is like a picture from a nightmare.”

He bent forward, pressing his fists to his forehead and gave a short, despairing laugh. De Maizieres heard him laughing and, more than by bitter words, the old man was alarmed by this laughter, which sounded like sobbing. Never before had Louis lost control so openly. De Maizieres sat motionless, too shocked to speak. However, Louis knew how to recover himself quickly. He looked up, smiling in his usual ironic manner, and said, “Fortunately, courtesy does not forbid me to choose my weapons in this secret combat. If my uncle of Burgundy is as cunning as they say, he will understand the significance of my having taken a thisde for my new device, my having conferred the title Comte d'Angoulême on my new-born son … and my having instituted an order, the order of the hedgehog, in his honor.”

“It seems to me that you ought not to waste your time on childish skirmishes with emblems and titles,” said de Maizieres acidly. “Now what was it you wished to discuss with me, my lord?”

“The Queen wishes my wife to leave the court. She has wanted that for a long time. But there never was a valid reason and in truth there is none now either, although the Queen is making every effort to find one, with the help of Madame of Burgundy, who begrudges
my wife first place at the court. There are strange rumours circulating—I shall not repeat them—you know about them, perhaps?”

De Maizieres shook his head and Louis continued quickly.

“I consider it demeaning to pay attention to these kinds of stories, but I am positive this is creating feelings against my wife who deserves such treatment less than anyone. I think she suspects something already, and if she knew the Queen's real purpose, she would go away at once, and she would not come back unbidden even if the stars fell from heaven. The situation has become so tense that I must do something … but what? I would like to spare my wife humiliation, but I cannot send her away without a reason. Sometimes I think I should quit Paris for good, with Valentine and the children.”

De Maizieres stood up so abruptly that his sleeves swept the loose pages of a manuscript from the table to the floor.

“My lord! You cannot possibly mean that. Will you deprive us of the only hope we have left since your father died? Monseigneur, you have never stood on the field in the heat of battle—if you had, you would know the meaning of desertion—”

The blood rushed into Louis' cheeks. He rose also.

“Yes! Desertion!” De Maizieres continued in a voice trembling with emotion. “Even high treason, my lord! At this moment France has no other king but you. I know it is a thankless role you must play, concealed behind the throne, threatened on all sides. But you cannot be permitted to abandon the role even for a single instant, my lord; no one realizes better than I how much disappointment you have swallowed, how upsetting your situation is—but you must not give way.”

“Quiet! Be still now, Maizieres,” Louis said roughly, putting his hand on his tutor's shoulder. “You are talking drivel about kingship, secret or otherwise. I sit concealed behind the throne and I am exposed to gossip from all sides, it is true, but I am more like an unwanted house animal, an unwelcome dog, than a secret wearer of the crown.”

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur.” De Maizieres folded his hands. “You have more influence than you seem to realize—infinitely more. The place you occupy cannot be allowed to fall vacant, under any circumstances. You have never needed to tell me that you serve the interests of France. I know it; I know you too well to doubt it. You
must go on serving those interests, my lord, you are the only one who can.”

“Don't make me out to be better than I am,” Louis said shortly. “I might not be France's champion if my interests did not happen to coincide with those of the Kingdom. I am only human.”

“The Queen maintains relations with Bavaria, and the interests of Bavaria are not identical with those of France. The Dukes will not interfere with the Queen's plans if they are not interfered with themselves. And so the Kingdom crumbles, my lord, like a dry crust of bread. There will be hunger, rebellion, rapine, boundless misery—and the English will manage adroidy to profit from this chaos.”

“And now you want me to struggle like a second David against Goliath—with no weapon except a sling and a handful of pebbles? Do you really take me for a child then, Messire de Maizieres?”

“I take you for a man who knows his obligations,” said de Maizieres, his head bowed. “I am no star gazer nor fawning courtier. I can't make all sorts of encouraging predictions. It's more than possible that you will find only frustration, my lord.”

“Or a speedy death,” Louis said. He thought he felt again the palpable cold he had encountered in the dormitorium. He pulled his mantle tight and moved toward the arched doorway.

“Are you leaving already, Monseigneur?” De Maizieres did not stir.

“I wish to hear early mass in the chapel of Orléans,” said Louis. “What else can I do then but submit to the fate which awaits me? God grant me more humility and patience.” He stood for a moment staring at the black and white mosaic tile of the floor. “Do you know, Maizieres,” he went on, in that eager, boyish manner which made him so likeable, “something happened to the King and me when we were still children. Have you forgotten it? I was eleven years old—my father had been dead only a short while. We were hunting in the forest of Bouconne near Toulouse, with my uncle of Burgundy and Henri de Bar—I even believe that Clisson was with us …”

“Indeed I have heard of a wall painting in the monastery of Cannes,” said de Maizieres with a vague smile, “which was brought there about ten years ago in memory of a miracle performed by Our Lady. And I know there is a hunting party in it… in a dark wood, surrounded by wolves, deer and other wild animals.”

“That is the one I mean.” Louis turned and walked back to the table; he stared into the candle flame as he talked, lost in memory. “Night overtook us in the middle of the forest and we could not find our way. The horses were frightened; they did not want to go on, because somewhere near us wolves were howling. Besides, it was pitch dark—a heavy, overcast sky without a single star—and we had wandered off from the servants and torchbearers.