In a Dark Wood Wandering (59 page)

“You can try, Monseigneur.” Boucicaut shook his head dubiously. “But I fear that you would be the last person King Henry would release. You are the most important of the prisoners; you are being most specially treated. King Henry's personal physician has attended you and bandaged you himself. It is to the advantage of the English to keep you healthy.”

The guard who stood before the tent stirred. Charles and the Marshal looked toward the entrance and saw three men approaching: an old knight with a stern, pale face, a soldier carrying clothing over his arm, and a servant with a tray holding white bread and wine.

The knight bowed stiffly in Charles' direction and spoke slowly in French. “My name is Thomas Herpingham, counsellor to King Henry. I understand and speak your language. The King requests that you put on these clothes and eat. Tomorrow at sunrise we leave for Calais. There will be horses for you and the Marshal.”

He paused, but Charles did not reply. Herpingham coughed and continued carefully.

“Among the prisoners is a certain de Nery, who says he is your squire. If you set much store by it, we will send him to you.”

Charles nodded. He was no longer listening to the Englishman; he was devising a plan. Jean de Nery must escape and carry the news to Bonne. The thought of his wife filled Charles with helpless rage. There she sat now in Blois, still ignorant of what had happened to him. When would he see her again? Reckless plots crossed his mind: he would slip out of the tent that night, seize a weapon and a horse, break out of the camp and ride at full gallop across Picardy to Paris …

Herpingham took his leave; now the two men brought forward the food and clothing. With indifference Charles allowed himself to be helped into jacket and overgarment; bread and wine, however, he refused. Later they came to fetch Boucicaut away and Jean de Nery took his place. From his squire Charles learned how the battle had gone. In a relatively short time the English had hacked the vanguard of the French army to pieces; those whom they did not kill were carried off in captivity behind the lines. Afterward, under the personal command of King Henry, the English fell upon the French center which had continued to make a stand. When the troops in the rear guard became aware of the slaughter, they fled to the hills. The center did not hold for long: Alençon, who had boasted that he would pluck the crown from
King Henry's head, was killed almost at once, and this drained the knights of the remnant of their courage. With their surrender the battle was over.

Then while the English were sorting out their prisoners, an alarm sounded from Maisoncelles. A horseman rode at full gallop bringing the message that the Gascons and Bretons from the French rear guard were approaching the field again by a roundabout route, and groups of them seemed intent on pillaging the camp at Maisoncelles. King Henry commanded his men to take battle positions once more; and so that the soldiers could be free to protect themselves from attack from the rear, the prisoners had to be killed on the spot. Two hundred soldiers were assigned to perform the executions. But while the English were preparing to repel the approaching troops, the latter appeared to have abandoned—if they had ever had them—all intentions of mounting an attack. They were seen fleeing over the hills, without so much as a backward glance. The prisoners from the vanguard, held together under guard in another part of the battlefield, were spared.

“Who was killed?” asked Charles, when the squire had finished his report. The youth whispered a long list of names: d'Albret, the Dukes of Alencon and Bar, the Sires de Dampierre, Dammarten, Salm, Roussy and Vaudemont—all those who only two days before had sat together in the Constable's tent so confident of victory. In addition, the governors of Maon, Caen and Maux had fallen, along with the martial Archbishop of Sens and innumerable princes and nobles, with their squires, heralds, horsemen and grooms.

“They say we lost more than 10,000 men, my lord,” Jean de Nery said, with downcast eyes. “Ten thousand! And the English 1,500, at the most.”

Toward evening King Henry himself entered the tent, attended by Thomas Herpingham, who held a torch in his hand. The King drew the leather curtain behind him and stood beside the prisoner's straw cot. Henry had steely blue eyes and a narrow oval face with a high forehead and rather full lips. His hair was cropped short on his round head. He was shorter than Charles but his shoulders were broad and his arms and legs strong and sturdy. Over his hauberk he wore a tunic with the red lions of England rampant.

Charles tried to rise from the straw to greet his visitor. King Henry watched his efforts in silence for a few moments before he said curtly, “Remain lying down, fair cousin; you cannot stand.”

His French was almost flawless, but his strong accent made his words sound rough. Charles bent his head and thanked him for the courtesy; he remained lying at Henry's feet, supported by his elbows.

“How goes it, fair cousin?” asked the King, but there was no trace of friendliness in his eyes.

Charles replied dully, “Well, my lord.”

“They tell me you do not wish to eat or drink,” pursued the King. “Is it true?”

“It is true that I am fasting,” said Charles. “It can hardly surprise you that I have no desire for food.”

“Hm.” Henry raised his thin, sandy eyebrows. “I will give you good advice, fair cousin. Eat what is set before you. It is stupid to go hungry because of regret or shame. I believe that God has given me the victory, not because I am so deserving, but because he wanted to chastise the French. For now it is generally known that this kingdom is a true witches' cauldron of sin and immorality. You probably know better than I what a pack of ruffians the French government is. No one can really be surprised that this situation has aroused God's wrath. In this case I have been only God's instrument, fair cousin.”

Henry said all this matter-of-facdy, although he raised his voice slightly. He kept his cold bright eyes fixed steadily upon Charles, who at first looked straight before him. But when the King fell silent, Charles gave him a quick, curious glance. He asked himself if Henry really believed what he had just said: the King spoke so dispassionately. There was no emotion in his words, only a chilly pedantry.

‘There is nothing more to be said,” the King added, thinking that Charles wished to raise some objection. “So it must be from now on, fair cousin. Therefore, he down.”

“Are you taking me back to England with you, Monseigneur?” asked Charles. He could think of nothing else to say. The King's gaze became brighter and more penetrating.

“It is so,” he said. “But we will not speak of it now,” he continued, when he saw that Charles was about to ask more questions. “We shall give our personal attention to the question of your captivity in due time, in London. I intend to have a serious discussion with you, fair cousin. Perhaps we can reach an understanding.”

“Monseigneur,” Charles began. He wanted, while preserving the
respectful attitude which was Henry's due, to make him understand something of his own anxiety and desires. The King
must
listen to him. But deep in his heart he knew very well that all attempts to win the Englishman over would be futile. So finally he said only, “Will you release my squire, Monseigneur? Add his ransom to mine, I pray you; it can hardly make a difference to so large an amount. I am eager to send a message to Madame d'Orléans before I take ship for England.”

“That is true, you are married.” Henry raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at Jean de Nery, who stood at respectful attention behind his lord. “Is this your squire? You can let him go as far as I am concerned.”

The young man could not suppress a start of surprise. King Henry frowned and turned away with a half nod from which Charles inferred that the interview was over.

Charles was awake all night. He ordered de Nery to repeat over and over all the messages meant for Bonne. On reflection, however, he asked his shieldbearer to accompany him to Calais, where it would be easier for him to find a horse, and where Charles could get pen and paper; he wanted to write a letter himself.

Along with his companions in distress—a dreary group—Charles made the long journey to Calais on horseback. From the hills above Maisoncelles, they surveyed the battlefield once more: the peasants of the district had flocked to Agincourt in great numbers to search for serviceable pieces of clothing and weapons among the half-naked corpses.

In front marched the archers, the red cross of England upon their breasts; they went bowed under the weight of their booty. Henry led the procession, surrounded by flagbearers and heralds. In the rear at the very last the rows of prisoners walked with dragging footsteps and bowed heads, guarded by horsemen. Calais, long in the hands of the English, waited, arrayed in festive finery.

On All Saints Day King Henry entered the city. The noble captives were lodged in a castle close to the harbor. From the narrow grated window of his room, Charles saw, for the first time in his life, the sea, a turbulent grey-green and white stretch of water, a marbled wasteland. A fierce wind was blowing, foggy clouds floated
swiftly through the colorless sky. In the harbor Henry's ships lay at anchor, a forest of masts.

Now Jean de Nery prepared for his journey. At Charles' request he was given some money and a horse by King Henry. Charles gave the young man a letter for Bonne and letters for his brother Philippe, for de Mornay, the Dauphin and Bernard d'Armagnac. When de Nery was on the point of departure, Charles took from his own finger a ring intended for his wife: a ring of gold and blue enamel, on which was engraved the words, Dieu le scet—God knows. His father and mother had both worn the ring; day and night it had reminded them of their grievances against Burgundy. Now for the first time the motto acquired another meaning for Charles. He no longer thought about Burgundy; he thought only of Bonne with all the desperate yearning of his twenty-odd years. Dieu le scet. God knows. God knows how much I love her. God knows what I suffer. Only God knows what will happen to me.

On the fifteenth of November, King Henry's sailors hoisted the sails of the ships, which were heavily laden with soldiers, prisoners and booty. Even before they had left the harbor of Calais, an uncommonly strong wind sprang up. Suddenly storm clouds appeared in the northeast; the waves, crowned with foam, rose high. Despite the sailors' warnings, Charles remained on deck. He saw the black-green water swell and fall, he heard the hissing of the spray as it swept past him, the wind whisding through the ropes. The coast of France sank away behind the horizon and with it, forever, Bonne and his youth.

Paix est un trésor qu'on ne peut trop louer.
Peace is a treasure which can not be praised too highly.

— Charles d'Orléans

estminster, Windsor, the Tower of London—other names, but everywhere and always the same walls, the same narrow windows. Wall hangings, warm blankets and silver dining utensils were not lacking, but armed men stood before the door and silently accompanied one when one left the comfortable rooms for brief walks. In Westminster and Windsor, one could still fancy oneself a guest in a princely palace, but the sojourn in the Tower carried, despite tapestries and cushions, the unmistakable stamp of imprisonment. Those of royal blood—namely the Dukes of Orléans and Bourbon and the Count de Richmont—had been quickly separated from their less notable comrades in distress. This was hard on Charles, who missed Boucicaut: during the first week of exile a warm friendship had blossomed between the Marshal and himself. Boucicaut's tranquil dignity set a standard for Charles; in Basaach's Turkish dungeons the older man had learned how to endure suffering.