In a Dark Wood Wandering (17 page)

Louis was silent. He could find no words to express the pity which consumed his heart. The King sat very still, huddled within the folds of his mantle, blinking his slightly inflamed eyelids.

“You must tell me everything now,” he went on, after a pause. “No one knows how long I shall be able to busy myself with affairs of state. Have you kept a watchful eye, brother, in spite of everything, as you promised me?”

“I have been vigilant,” said Louis, in an equally soft voice. He picked up the playing cards from the table and fanned them out; there was the smiling Queen, who bore a falcon on her wrist, the armored King, and the Jester with bells on his cap.

“Yesterday I received the English delegation in an audience,” the King went on. “It seems I gave them permission to come here just before Christmas.”

“Our uncle of Burgundy was strongly in favor of it,” said Louis lightly, while he examined the handsome cards one by one. “And so Messeigneurs de Berry and Bourbon gave their consent also—at last. As to the Queen—the Bavarians maintain friendly relations with England. There is no better and easier way to strengthen an alliance than by contracting a marriage, especially when one is so indirectly connected to the bride that no financial obligation is entailed.”

“What do you think, then, brother?” asked the King without looking up; he was preoccupied with braiding and unravelling the fringe of the tablecloth. Orléans smiled bitterly.

“I agree with those who say that if s senseless to conclude a treaty between two kingdoms which still have a few more years of armistice between them. And it is meaningless politically, because I don't believe it is possible to end hostilities. And it will be a crime against the child Isabelle who will suffer if the war goes on when she is queen over there.”

The King shrugged. “They are here now,” he said hesitantly. “They bring gifts and friendly letters from King Richard. This Norwich—he's Earl of Rudand, isn't he?—he seems to be a capable, courteous ambassador. Richard must really crave peace,” he added doubtfully, “if he approaches us and leaves us to name the conditions.”

“Ah!” Louis made a passionate gesture. “Don't think that England—to say nothing of Burgundy—will fare badly after a treaty has been signed. I'm even willing to assume that Richard does not intend to fight again—why shouldn't I? They say he is a trustworthy man, ready to settle any dispute quickly. But it remains to be seen whether a new armistice will really mean the end of raids and looting. For two years I've been working on the plan you and I discussed before you became ill the first time. Surely after Poitiers and Crecy anyone who knew anything about it could see that our soldiers were no match for the English bowmen. It's incredible that none of our captains thought of teaching our fellows to use English weapons. Now I have that in hand; you can rest easy. Now most towns and cities have bands of archers who can use handbows as well as crossbows. That was really useful last year in Normandy and Brittany when the English kept raiding the coast.”

He was silent for a moment, and the bitter lines appeared again at the corners of his mouth. “It's really hard to have to watch the constant efforts of our noble lords to disband well-trained groups of fighting men. They are so frightened of rebellion that they would sooner hand the land over to the English.”

The King's sigh was so deep that it was almost a groan. The physician turned on his heel abruptly and came toward him. The King, who, not without reason, hated and feared Freron, began to ramble, but he managed to pull himself together and call out with a semblance of his former authority that he wished to be left in peace. Freron backed away, bowing, and joined the group of attendants.

“I do not want that man near me anymore,” the King said nervously. He drew the curtain and shifted the bench so that the physician could not see him. “He takes too much blood from me; I am weak and dizzy from it. No, no, brother, let me finish! God knows when I will get the chance again. I commiserate with you,” he said vehemently, pushing away the beaker which Louis offered him, “your lot is more difficult than mine. Few will thank you for your efforts, and you will be thwarted at every turn—and I am not able to help you. God, God, why don't they kill me when the madness comes upon me!” Tears trickled from under his enflamed eyelids; he sat motionless, a shattered man.

“Be still now, control yourself.” The Duke of Orléans spoke almost roughly. “I do what I can, but I cannot move mountains.
We must help ourselves, brother, the wolves are stealing through the snow; they will not spare us. I shall have to put up with great frustration, but I do not propose to abandon the struggle because of that. I shall be too clever for Burgundy. He thinks he has put me in checkmate by effecting the marriage pact with England; but he is mistaken once again, our lord uncle. I shall seek my strength where he has sought it himself—in friendship with Richard of England. I have already taken steps to that end.”

The King wrinkled his brow; he could hardly grasp the state of affairs, so much had happened since he had last been lucid. He strained to understand. A fierce throbbing behind his eyes warned of the onset of a headache. He put a hand to his forehead and sank back in his seat.

“Am I tiring you, brother?” Louis spoke self-reproachfully. But the King quickly shook his head. “Tell me more,” he whispered. “Do you advise me to continue negotiations then?”

“You don't have any alternative. The English lords are here and the Queen has let them know they can call upon Madame Isabelle this afternoon. The Dukes are meeting continually to define conditions. Take a piece of advice from me …” He leaned toward the King and laid a hand on his knee. “Insist on the insertion of a clause in the treaty which excludes Madame Isabelle from succession to the throne—even from inheriting French territory. Be royal with a dowry, brother, but demand that clause!”

The King bit the knuckles of his left hand. He gazed into his brother's face, so close to his own: he saw the healthy glow under Louis' brown skin, the long, muscular hand raised in warning. The King shuddered with disgust at his own decrepitude.

“You could insist upon it,” he said, groping for words. “You are always there, aren't you?”

Louis sighed with impatience.

“This is too important,” he said emphatically. “God be praised, you are now able to enforce your views in this matter. They have kept me in the dark about everything, as usual: Burgundy has seen to it that I was kept busy elsewhere. Do you know anything about our difficulties with the Pope?” he asked, after a brief, prudent silence.

The King nervously shook his head. For a few moments Louis stared into space. It was a difficult task to enlighten the King; nonetheless
he wanted to tell him as much as he could, for the Regents would no doubt attempt to force their views upon him during his temporary recovery.

“Can you remember,” Louis went on slowly, “that you allowed a poll to be taken among the clergy more than a year ago, on the advice of the University? They favored then making concessions on behalf of re-elections.”

“Yes. True.” Charles still spoke hesitantly. “But—surely—they were correct—these doctors at the Sorbonne, were they not? You have always disagreed with them, brother, haven't you?”

Louis shrugged. “That is beside the point,” he said testily. “I admit that I could not—and cannot—tolerate their blatant arrogance. ‘Rectify and judge—
et doctrinaliter, et indecialiter?
” Softly he mimicked Gershon's hoarse voice. “They act as if they know everything. Besides, they supported Rome, which was to be expected—the learned doctors almost always come here from abroad. They cursed Avignon whenever they spoke. But then last fall Pope Clement died …”

The King nodded a few times; his eyes began to shine.

“Yes, yes.” He talked fast. “I know all about it. I signed letters to the Cardinals at Avignon, asking them not to choose a new pope.”

“The Cardinals left the letters unopened and immediately chose Pedro de Luna.” Louis' laughter was jeering; he was thinking of his own hopes at the time. “I thought then that this was a positive action, because I knew that Luna supported cession. Well, I soon had reason enough to doubt his good intentions. The University did not leave us in peace; daily it sent doctors and orators to plead the cause of cession. Then this spring Monseigneur de Berry and I went to Avignon with an embassy from the Sorbonne. We talked with de Luna day and night but he is a sly fox who does not let himself be tempted by promises—not even for a moment. And what is the result? A pope sits in Avignon—his name is Benedict—who never for a single moment considers resigning his office in order to have a second ballot. And so farewell to the unity of the Church.”

“My God,” said Charles softly. “How are we to find solace to ease the pain of existence when our comforter, the Church, is torn by discord and dissension?”

Louis made an irritable gesture. “The Church, the Church … Sometimes I think that we ought to seek our solace, as you call it,
anywhere where there are no priests and prelates. Who can enlighten us in our dark ignorance? For we are in the darkness, brother, we hardly dare to feel our way …”

The King was becoming restless. He felt tired and hot. “What are you babbling about now?” he muttered. “What you have just told me is bad enough, but what can I do about it? What do you expect of me? Where is Madame d'Orléans?” he asked suddenly, sitting up straight. “Why hasn't she come to visit me yet? I would like to see her. It is a long time since she was last here—is she ill? Why don't you answer me?” He looked at Louis with suspicion. Orléans sat with bowed head.

“My wife is no longer in Saint-Pol,” he said finally, without looking at the King. “She lives in the Hotel de Behaigne—she has been there since January, since she went to church after the birth of our son Charles.”

The Hôtel de Behaigne was one of the many houses which Louis d'Orléans owned in Paris. It was comfortably furnished and set amid beautiful gardens.

Two red spots appeared on the King's cheekbones. He too lowered his eyes. “Why?” he whispered, inexplicably choked by feelings of guilt and shame.

“Your friendship for Madame d'Orléans has aroused suspicion and mistrust,” said Louis formally. “I thought it advisable that she should leave Saint-Pol.”

“My God,” said the King, “this is a gross insult. Is Burgundy behind it?”

Louis shrugged. “It can't be tracked down. You might as well try to surprise a viper in his hole as try to trace the origin of an ugly rumor; you know that as well as I, brother.”

The King, already restless and overwrought, could not restrain his emotion. He hung over the arm of the bench, racked by sobs. In vain Louis attempted to quiet him with soothing words, rebukes, promises.

The physician, Freron, who had not taken his eyes from the royal tent even for an instant, approached in haste, followed by the King's old valet. Despite the physician's mild manner and his courteous, even submissive demeanor toward the Duke of Orléans, he retained an aura of cold determination, verging on brutality. Freron was considered to be a skillful doctor; only Isabeau knew that he
put his own interests before the welfare of his royal patient. It required no effort for him to do what his predecessor, de Harselly, would never have done; at Isabeau's request he administered to the King potions and powders prepared by the exorcist Guillaume; sometimes he brought the ascetic into the King's bedroom at midnight to perform spells in secret.

As Louis d'Orléans emerged from under the canopy, the physician cast a venomous glance at him; he intensely disliked the King's brother, who always argued against him as well as against Arnaud Guillaume. Orléans bit his lip; he blamed himself for his impulsiveness. But he knew from experience that he must take quick advantage of the King's lucid moments before Isabeau or the Regents could stop him from speaking privately to his brother by taking up his time with trifles. Isabeau and the Dukes were preoccupied at the moment with the important visit of the English nobles, but they would notice the King's recovery soon enough.

“Rest now, Sire my King,” Louis said gently to the sick man who, supported by his valet, had taken a draught of some medicine; the physician stood nearby, watching coldly. “I shall come back later; there is still a lot to talk about.”

The King nodded and waved his hand. He had recovered himself somewhat, but his lips still trembled and his eyes were bloodshot.

A stir ran through the group of nobles standing at the other end of the gallery. The Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, preceded by sentries and pages from the royal retinue, and accompanied by a secretary and a few clerks, appeared at the gate which joined this section of Saint-Pol with the state rooms. Orléans acknowledged the magistrate's grave salutations and took formal leave of his brother. “The birds should be brought inside; it is too hot,” he said to one of the pages as he left the gallery. Fréron, who had given the order to bring the birds outside, blinked several times.

The King invited de Tignonville to sit opposite him under the canopy. “Don't talk about my health, Messire. I want to use these few hours which God has granted me to put my affairs in order.”

De Tignonville, an older man with a tranquil, sober demeanor, closed his eyes in a gesture of understanding. He nodded to the secretary who stepped forward with some rolls of vellum: accounts, surveys, petitions. While de Tignonville was busy with these papers, the King hurriedly removed the pile of playing cards from the table.

“How goes it in Paris?” he asked, staring uneasily at the many closely written pages which the Provost was carefully smoothing out before offering them to him.

“The city is sorely concerned for Your Majesty,” replied de Tig-nonville slowly, “and also about the schism in the Holy Church. The populace is disquieted and fearful; the winter was severe. There is much suffering in the city and around it and now the land is stricken by drought. I have often noticed,” he continued after a pause, “that in times of stress, men behave in different ways: some seek penance and a sober life; others fall into crime and licentiousness. So it is in Paris, Sire: there are processions and gatherings in the churchyard of the Innocents—but the taverns and bordellos are as full as the churches and the Chatelet, the pillory and Gallows Hill are overcrowded. I do not believe that such a rabble has ever roamed through the city streets as in recent years. The houses are falling down, the streets are filthy. I do not bring you good news, Sire, but I bring you the truth.”