In a Dark Wood Wandering (27 page)

Isabeau set out for her favorite room; it was a chamber hung with flowered tapestries next to the reception hall. She knew that the King had held audience that morning with Louis d'Orléans and a great number of clergy. Charles was somewhat better at the moment; for a short time he could once again busy himself with affairs of state.

While Isabeau awaited her brother-in-law's arrival, she fanned herself impatiently with a handkerchief and sniffed repeatedly at a gold-filigree ball filled with sweet-smelling herbs. Presently the doors opened and the Duke of Orléans was announced. Louis entered the Queen's room and bowed; although neither word nor gesture left anything to be desired, Isabeau detected under his courtly demeanor a cold self-assurance which made her very angry; it seemed to her that Louis must already have accomplished his purpose.

“Well, my lord?” The Queen was cold and haughty in her turn. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Louis ran his eyes over the rows of noble women. Margaretha of Burgundy stared past him, her face hard and grey as though it were hewn from stone; the Countess de Nevers smiled politely; her eyes were icy. Louis, who under other circumstances had seen those eyes gleam with a different emotion, raised his brows ironically. The other ladies of Isabeau's suite kept their eyes fixed demurely on the floor.

“Send your women away, Madame,” replied Louis. “What I must say to you is intended for your ears only.”

The Queen wanted to deny his request curtly; she could see that Margaretha of Burgundy expected her to do so. But in that case she feared that Orléans would not speak, and she felt it was her duty to find out what he was up to. Therefore she commanded her women to withdraw; the Burgundy women, deeply offended, led the others from the chamber.

“I have been with the King,” said Orléans, as soon as the door had closed behind the Queen's retinue. “Perhaps Your Majesty does not know that he has once more recovered his health?”

Isabeau looked up in surprise. “Naturally, I know it… ”

“You have not visited the King for weeks,” said Louis, looking at her steadily, “although he sends you messages repeatedly. He has complained of it himself, Madame.”

“But that is not true!” The Queen made a vehement gesture; the perfumed ball rolled to the floor. “I have been to see the King twice with the Dauphin. A day does not go by without my inquiry into the state of his health.”

“Oh, yes, very good, Madame,” said Louis impatiently, “but you choose to misunderstand me. The King is your husband.”

Isabeau's face and plump neck turned deep scarlet; she lowered her eyes. It was extremely quiet in the room: birds could be heard in the park, and the shouts of nobles on the fives-courts.

“I do not want to,” the Queen burst out harshly. “I cannot. Jesus, Maria. I do not want to any more.”

Louis d'Orléans gazed at Isabeau's broad fingers; she was wringing her hands with a strength that seemed to belie their softness.

“What do you mean, Madame?” Louis asked gently; he was moved despite himself by her distress. She sat huddled together.

“I have had ten children, Monseigneur,” she replied, struggling to suppress her anger and embarrassment. “Don't you see that it is a miracle that I have been able to go on like that when the King has been almost continuously insane? I have brought seven children into the world since he went mad.” She fell silent. Louis picked up the perfumed golden ball and held it out to her.

“I am afraid of the King,” Isabeau continued vehemently. “Everyone knows how he threatens me when he has an attack. He can change so that he is hardly recognizable; he has driven me from his rooms with blows and abuse. Must I endure all that forever? Is there no one who will have compassion for
me
—who will try to imagine what I go through?”

In that silent room, that bower of bright embroidery, they sat and stared at each other. Louis d'Orléans had the sudden feeling that he had never met this woman before. She was fat and faded and no longer even resembled the fresh, robust princess whom he had greeted as his brother's bride in Melun. But her desperation moved him more than all the memories of happier days. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps all Isabeau's political maneuvering was simply an attempt to escape from the agonizing nightmare of her married life. He felt ashamed that he had never before considered her behavior in this light. And as an admirer of women, he quickly respected her for the dignity and pride with which she had borne her silent, secret despair. Involuntarily he relaxed his stiff demeanor; his tone became gentle, his eyes lost their coldness.

He smiled at the Queen as he had smiled only at little Isabelle—with understanding and compassion. He so closely resembled the King as he had been fifteen years before that Isabeau's heart began to ache in a queer way; she began to weep for her vanished happiness.

She is only a woman after all, Louis thought, gazing down on her bent head. By God, she is also lonely. Burgundy has taken advantage of her misery. It occurred to him that the cold pride which he had always disliked in Isabeau was only a mask behind which she concealed her feelings. Can she be guided? he asked himself. Could she possibly be amenable to reason? If she is on my side, then I have won the battle. Burgundy uses her, but apart from politicking he gives her nothing in return. Of course she is a woman—how could I have forgotten that? thought Louis, in mounting astonishment. She wants to be understood and not pitied. My lord uncle does not perceive things like that.

“I understand your situation, Madame.” He spoke softly and warmly. “Please don't think I am blind to the sacrifices that have been demanded of you. But the King is so fond of you when he is well, and we can only guess at the shame and remorse he must feel for the anguish he causes you. I know how painful it must be for you to speak about these things with me. The King has taken me into his confidence because I am his closest blood relative. And he knows that I put his welfare before anything else.” Isabeau looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps we don't agree about that, Madame,” he added quickly, still with a pleasant smile.

The Queen dashed her tears away, upset that she had lost control
of herself, although she was well aware that she had aroused Orléans' sympathy.

“The King has now two sons, Madame,” Louis went on, somewhat more coolly now that he saw she had regained her composure. “Neither is robust. If something should happen to the Dauphin or his brother—which God forbid—France would have no successor to the throne.”

“I am amazed that it is you who lets himself be used as a go-between,” Isabeau said with irony. “In that case the throne would pass to your heirs, my lord.”

Louis rose and bowed. “I am afraid that we do not understand each other,” he replied coldly. But the Queen entreated him to remain.

Isabeau's moods changed quickly. Her tears had left no trace; her grief had given way to the cautious calculation so basic to her nature. She began to weigh the possibility of a return to the friendly relationship of the past. Under the pervasive influence of Burgundy and his wife, court life had been reduced to empty ceremony. Isabeau sorely missed the imaginative exuberance of Louis' fetes. She missed the careless delight, the surrender to intoxicated pleasure. In her desire for happiness she forgot that youth cannot return, that what is finished cannot be repeated. What weighed most strongly in Louis' favor at the moment was the fact that he was unlikely to curtail in any way what she regarded as her rightful income. Burgundy, who seized every opportunity to push his expenses and debts off onto the public treasury, was always demanding greater frugality of Isabeau. Under the guise of concern for public monies, he dogged her footsteps, spying zealously on all her expenditures, no matter how petty. This niggling surveillance irritated her beyond measure, but she had to put up with it because she needed Burgundy.

She considered, staring thoughtfully at her brother-in-law, how pleasant it would be if the person upon whom she relied for political guidance were also indulgent and forbearing toward her in other respects. She had often toyed with the idea of keeping Orléans close at hand; but she had done nothing about it because he did not seem sufficiendy important to her interests. But now he had shown that he was a match for Burgundy; in her eyes there was no greater proof of capability.

“My lord,” said Isabeau, fixing her dark brown, somewhat adamant gaze upon Louis, “I shall try in my prayers to reflect upon
what you have said to me today. God knows, I am a person of good will. But there is a limit to everything. Sometimes I feel as though the King were dead. I cannot feel love for the creature who has taken his place.”

Louis d'Orléans took the hand which she held out to him and helped her to rise.

“I have spoken to you only at the behest of my brother, the King,” he said most courteously, as though the subject were closed. “I understand your objections only too well, Madame. And now, if you will allow me, I shall call your women.”

Isabeau's smile held a trace of her former coquettishness; she almost forgot that she was no longer beautiful, that she was not really an innocent victim: it was not out of patience and timidity that she had accepted the King's advances over the past ten years. Castles, treasures, great sums of money had been the price of her love.

Orléans had known how to accomplish his ends with the King. The sale of valuables had not been enough to defray the enormous expenses he had incurred for the purchase of Coucy and Luxembourg. Since the possession of these two properties benefited the realm, it was obvious that the realm should help to pay for them. And Louis managed to convince his brother that an eye should be kept on England. Henry of Lancaster would undoubtedly resume the wars as soon as a good opportunity presented itself. Therefore it could only be wise policy to prepare now while circumstances in England guaranteed a postponement of hostilities.

By royal decree all of France was compelled to contribute, for three years, a sum equal to what had been raised for Isabelle's dowry. This time, however, the clergy, who had previously been spared, were not exempted. Their indignation knew no bounds. Burgundy, who was already offended because he had not been consulted in the matter, did not hesitate to support the clergy. In his own domain he did not encourage the populace to raise the tribute—quite the contrary, in fact. He continually encouraged them not to pay it.

The Parisians had become alarmed by the presence in and about the city of bands of soldiers—Picards, Luxembourgers and armed men from Gelre who said they served the Duke of Orléans, and other troops from the Burgundian dominions of Artois and Flanders. The Elector of Liège, Johann of Bavaria, was Burgundy's guest in
the Hotel d'Artois; the army he had brought—chiefly archers and lansquenets—were lodged in the quarters of the city near the palace. Fear of civil war mounted with each passing day.

The city of Paris sent a delegation to the King petitioning him to put an end to this disorder. The population was assured, in the name of the King, that the troops quartered in the city were not dangerous in any way; their support was paid for, and any infraction of discipline would be severely punished. In spite of these assurances, the city lived in constant fear; many departed but most armed themselves and laid in provisions, as though they were preparing for a siege.

And now a new kind of life began for Charles d'Orléans. His time as a small child had ended; playtime, with no obligation except the faultless recitation of morning and evening prayers, was over. The nine-year-old was taken from the care of the Dame de Maucouvent; he was now too old to have a governess.

The Duke of Orléans sent his secretary, Maitre Nicolas Garbet, who had studied theology, to the Chateau-Thierry, where Valentine lived with her children for increasing periods, to tutor Monseigneur Charles, Count of Angoulême. Charles eagerly awaited the arrival of Maitre Garbet; for a long time he had been impatiently waiting to learn to read. He thought that there could be no pleasure greater than to be able to decipher the rows of beautiful characters in the books which his mother had had so carefully illuminated and bound—unless it was plying the pen. He drew figures in the sand with a stick, pretending that he was writing a story across the enormous page of the courtyard. For hours he would study the densely written leaves of King Arthur's Histories, of Ovid's Metamorphoses, or the Gospels. He did not know what was written there, but he was filled with deep satisfaction at the sight of the rectangular pages covered with letters surrounded with gaily colored tendrils, the initials against the gilded background. He obeyed with reluctance when his mother urged him to go out and play with his brother.

“You have time for learning, child,” Valentine said. “You can find pleasure in books when you have forgotten how to play.”

So he rode hobby horse with Philippe in the courtyard or hopped on the pavement of the corridors and halls. Little Jean watched his brothers from the sidelines but Dunois, who was not vet four years
old, always wanted to play. He plunged headlong between his older brothers without fear of stumbling or falling, a resolute child with sturdy legs and strong little hands. He spoke little and never cried, but when he wanted to accomplish something, his will was inflexible. Charles and Philippe thought of him as being as old as they; from time to time they remembered with surprise that their indefatigable playmate was younger than Jean, the timid, apprehensive toddler. They did not seem to care that Dunois was only their half-brother and a bastard to boot. He was part of the family, sharing their food and clothing; he slept in bed with Jean and was treated by strangers and inferiors with the same respect accorded the other children of the Duke. Valentine loved him uncommonly well; she was proud of his healthy good looks, his thriving body and spirit.

Her own sons were less robust, paler and more easily tired than he. Charles was short-winded; she found him too quiet, too introspective for a nine-year-old boy. Inclined to day-dream herself, she wanted to spare him the fate that befalls sensitive natures; it was better for him, she thought, to be able-bodied and alert. However, the arrival of Maitre Garbet meant that Charles' spirit had to be guided into other channels, at least for a time; in a sense she was forced to abandon him.