In a Dark Wood Wandering (50 page)

“Did you know that, lads?” Caboche asked the men in the hall. He stood in the doorway, his hands under his apron. The students had lowered themselves from the crossbeams, ready at the first sign of trouble to dash away through streets and alleys to their own quarters. The tramps and beggars, who had been the first to vanish when the bells began to chime, had now unobtrusively turned up again. They liked to be near Caboche, whose bold comments gave them the opportunity to revile the authorities in public at the tops of their lungs, to shout complaints, curses and ridicule, to air emotions which must otherwise be prudently repressed.

“Berry—the old swine—has also been declared outlaw,” the skinner said. “Was I right when I said the old greasebag was busy selling us hide and hair to the Armagnacs? Come with me to the Hôtel de Nesle, comrades, and let's give him a professional skinning in his own courtyard!”

The noisy crowd pressed around Caboche; a few students had already snatched torches from the rings on the wall. But Thomas
Legoix, followed by his younger brothers, leapt forward from the group of guildmasters who stood in conference near the slaughter blocks.

“Have you gone crazy, Simon Caboche?”

Roughly, Legoix thrust aside the men who had already drawn their knives, bent upon blood and booty—it was said that the vaulted cellars of the Hotel de Nesle were full of wine and salted meat.

“Are you all stark mad? You couldn't do anything more stupid! If you don't know how to keep your hands to yourself and can't obey our decisions, get out! Blockheads and rioters do our cause more harm than good!”

“I don't give a damn about your blather.” Caboche cursed and put his hands on his hips. “Where's the grub? That castle is full of it from top to bottom! Believe me, that pig Berry knows how to live; he takes good care of himself and his pages.”

For further news, Maitre de Troyes had gone with a few butchers to the great island in the Seine; now he pushed his way back inside past the men who blocked the entrance. He knew from those who shouted and stamped impatiently outside the door, what was going on in the slaughterhouse.

“Listen!” he shouted, hoarse from the effort of trying to make himself heard. “Legoix, Caboche, listen! Berry fled from Paris tonight and the Hotel de Nesle has been assigned to the Earl of Arundel and his English!”

The angry shouts of the comrades grew louder. They were too hungry and too poor to listen to the voice of reason.

“So the foreigners will fill their bellies with good French food bought and paid for with our centimes!” Caboche leered at the anxious face of Thomas Legoix, who exerted great self-control to keep from assaulting the skinner with his fists. Legoix himself had no love for the English bowmen, but neither had he any stomach for a fight inside the walls of Paris on the eve of a joint action against the Armagnacs.

“Send Caboche and all these fellows away,” Maitre de Troyes whispered sharply into Legoix's ear. “It's impossible to hold a meeting with the skinner here. He keeps interrupting and confusing the whole issue with his insolent mouth. Tell the men now that they must be at Saint-Jacques gate at midnight tomorrow and then let us go to your house to talk this over with the guildmasters. We
don't need all these people here. We have to get away from Caboche's people, those loud mouths and the scarecrows too …”

Legoix objected; he was afraid that the skinner and his friends would not leave willingly. However, after a brief consultation with Thibert and Saint-Yon, he ordered Caboche out of the butcher hall. Strangely enough, no one protested. Caboche left at once, followed by nearly all the workers and servants, the students and vagrants. Legoix led those who remained—no more than thirty or forty men—through a hidden passage to his own house which lay beyond the slaughterhouse and its adjoining stables and barns. He was not happy with the silent withdrawal of Caboche and his men. He kept asking himself what the skinner was up to: it seemed obvious that he was up to something—Simon Caboche had never yet shown a willingness to obey a command or fulfil a request without an argument or a show of reluctance. Legoix decided that something must be done about Caboche, even if it meant strangling him with his bare hands, if the skinner persisted by his bestial behavior in endangering the business of the burghers. Legoix had no intention of letting himself or his colleagues lose their authority to a brute who was interested only in his own profit.

The common people, who until recently had looked up to the slaughterhouse owners as powerful protectors and trusted them as leaders, were tending more and more to support Caboche, because he appealed to their basest instincts. The dream of recovering prosperity, public order and moderate taxes under a fair administration would undoubtedly go up in smoke if Simon Caboche were allowed free rein to stir up the hungry mob.

Legoix was forced, more quickly than he had expected, to make a decision about the fate of the skinner. Just before daybreak Maitre de Troyes came pounding on his door. The surgeon pointed to the glowing eastern sky.

“That's outside the city,” Legoix said. He threw a cloak over his shirt and went up the street with de Troyes. “The Armagnacs have set fire to another town.”

“No no, Legoix,” the surgeon said despondendy. He sighed. “That's the work of our friend Caboche. He convinced five or six hundred men with his wild talk. My apprentice told me that after dusk armed men were seen on their way to an unguarded spot in the city walls. Now they've come back—the ignorant idiots—and
they're bragging about their bravery. Instead of the Hotel de Nesle, they have sacked Bicetre castle—and set it on fire.”

At dawn the streets of Saint-Jacques streamed with people who had taken part in the nocturnal expedition. Those who were not too drunk to talk—they had loaded vats of wine from Berry's cellar onto carts and taken them along—were able to tell marvelous tales about the splendor of the ducal palace. They showed splinters of gold leaf which they had wrenched from the walls, and fragments of Berry's precious stained glass windows. Gold and silver, however, were nowhere to be found—could it really be true that the Duke had stripped himself to the bone to aid Orléans in his struggle? The plunderers had found only the collections famed far and wide: books, stuffed animals, relics of saints in golden shrines. They had thrown the books and beasts into the fire, but they fell eagerly upon the relics. All day, laden with booty, singing and shouting, the butcher apprentices and their hangers-on marched through the streets of Paris, led by Simon Caboche, who had dressed himself in one of Berry's scarlet ceremonial robes, heavy with golden ornaments.

Repeatedly Legoix summoned the skinner to a meeting. At last, with his brothers and associates, he set off for the quarter where Caboche lived, but the skinner appeared only when he was surrounded by followers armed with knives and cudgels.

After midnight more than 6,000 soldiers left Paris under the command of the Duke of Burgundy. While they advanced overland to Saint-Cloud, ships loaded with burning pitch floated down the Seine. So at daybreak the Armagnacs, within their hastily fortified village, found themselves threatened on two sides. The bridges over the Seine and the neighboring wooden barricades went up in smoke, creating a diversion which facilitated the invasion of the village by Burgundy's troops. For hours there was bitter fighting in the village and in the neighboring fields. The garrison of Saint-Cloud—Bretons and Gascons from Armagnac's army—was vasdy outnumbered and unprepared for the attack from the city. Burgundy's troops left the dead and wounded on the battlefield to the wolves and ravens and chased the fleeing Armagnacs toward Saint-Denis.

Charles d'Orléans spent the winter at Blois, depressed and embittered. He knew that he owed the failure of his campaign to Armagnac's crude indifference, and to the irresolution and delay of
his other allies. And once more Charles had borne the brunt of the defeat. Armagnac had made off with the gold of Saint-Denis. Once more Charles was compelled to raise wages for his soldiers and ransom for the prisoners in Saint-Cloud. The treasury of Orléans was empty: bankers and money-lenders came to Blois to view and appraise the valuables on display, which for the most part were trifles: crucifixes, mirrors, bound books, relic caskets, two gilded birdcages—all of which had belonged to the Duchess Valentine. The proceeds were not nearly enough. Charles had no alternative but to levy a huge tax on the wine and grain in the territory of Orléans so that he could have a substantial sum of money at his disposal.

Now everything seemed to conspire against him. It was true that Burgundy, thinking of ice and snow, had voluntarily refrained from pursuing Orléans' retreating troops, but the winter cold did not prevent the Count of Saint-Pol from occupying the territories of Valois, Beaumont and Coucy. It was impossible for Charles to mount a counter-attack: Bourbon and Alençon, equally threatened by Burgundy's troops on the borders of their own domains, had their hands full. Armagnac wandered with his men as usual from district to district, plundering and destroying at will. Berry had retreated within the strong walls of Bourges, the capital of his feudal state. His couriers traveled weekly to Blois with news and letters; now that he had fallen again into disfavor at court, the old Duke appeared disposed to donate whatever energy and insight he possessed to his nephew's cause.

This time Berry was profoundly grief-striken and angry: the loss of his power and influence in Paris was nothing to him beside the wanton destruction of his collections. The knowledge that nothing remained of Bicetre except charred heaps of rubble, that precious manuscripts had been burned to a crisp, stained glass windows smashed, the relics stolen by vandals who could hardly comprehend the value of their booty—the thought of this tormented Berry night and day. In the course of his long life he had never been particularly truthful, upright or merciful; he had lied and deceived, betrayed and blasphemed without scruple whenever it suited his convenience. Now he wept like a child in impotent rage and bitterness over the loss of Bicetre.

“Worthy Nephew,” he wrote to Charles in a private letter, “we cannot ffo on in this wav. You don't have a sou left, and I am ruined.
In order to fortify Bourges I have sold whatever valuables I owned here; my properties in Paris have been confiscated. My beautiful Bicetre was, as you know, razed to the ground by the rabble which still continue to rob and murder respectable citizens every day. Nephew, I have learned from a good source that they are preparing a new campaign against us: it is said that Burgundy will march upon Bourges after Easter. The Dauphin has been dubbed a knight in Paris; he will lead the army with Burgundy. We are enemies of the state, Nephew, our cause looks bad. That is why I wish to suggest something to you. I have been in touch with the King of England. He has reason to complain because of the manner in which Burgundy treated the auxiliary troops which were despatched to him a year ago from over the sea. Through the mediation of Armagnac and Brittany I have been able to learn the attitude of the King and Queen of England toward the situation in our kingdom. They are willing to send us some reinforcements under certain conditions. I enclose a draft of the treaty in which they list their demands. Think now, Nephew; we have no choice. Decide as quickly as possible; send couriers to Bourbon and Alençon and request them emphatically to do what I advise you to do. This will make probable a quick settlement of the matter. My clerks can fill in the text of the treaty later.

“There is no time to lose, Nephew. Burgundy's army stands at Melun. They have stopped there because the King is unwell, but it cannot be long before they reach Bourges. I expect a siege about Saint-Boniface's day; I can offer resistance for—say—roughly two months, but no longer. Before that time has elapsed, I must have help. Do not delay, Nephew; remember, our cause stands or falls with Bourges. If I am defeated, it will be your turn next at Blois. Your allies cannot help you. Consider all this carefully, sign the blank document and forward it at once. Hurry.”

Charles convened his council immediately: his brother Philippe, the Chancellor Davy, the Captains de Braquemont and de Villars, the Governor of Orléans, de Mornay. Hesitantly, with marked reluctance, he told them what the Duke of Berry had written. Amid a silence which held a sharper protest than any spoken argument, he read the points of the treaty: the King of England declared himself ready to despatch at once 8,000 foot soldiers and archers, provided that Orléans and his allies pledged themselves to help him regain Guyenne and Aquitaine to which the English Crown laid claim of old.

The others remained silent even after Charles had finished the letter. They sat motionless around the table, without looking up.

“I am waiting, my lords,” Charles said at last, attempting to cover his uneasiness with formality. “I am eager to hear your views on this proposal.”

Philippe moved as though he were going to leap from his seat, but he controlled himself and remained sitting with his face averted. The others exchanged glances. Finally de Mornay rose to his feet with a sigh.

“Monseigneur.” He paused and stared distractedly out the window at the blue-white, bright vernal sky. “Monseigneur, we have come to a sorry pass when a man must choose between hanging and drowning. I do not know what to advise you. I agree with the Duke of Berry that without swift, vigorous aid from abroad, your armies and your allies' armies will be crushed before the year is out, because they are scattered and weakened and we know now that unity in action and obedience to a central authority are impossible. With the help of the English the party of Orléans would certainly win—for the present, at any rate. The English fight better in France than we do. You would be able to defend your rights yourself, Monseigneur, but at what cost? As for myself, I would sooner lose my life and all that I own than enter into a pact with the enemies of France.”