In a Dark Wood Wandering (61 page)

Charles thought of France, of that neglected, impoverished land, threatened on all sides. In the Tower of London he realized what deep misery had befallen his country. What he had not seen when he was there, absorbed as he had been in family feuds and party quarrels, now became clear to him: he had fought only for the interests of Orléans—without understanding that he and his allies were France's only protectors. And very poorly indeed had they acquitted themselves. As his father Philippe had done before him, Jean of Burgundy strove to unite his territories into a kingdom with interests opposed to those of France. England seemed more than ever intent on sinking its claws into the coastal areas and the southern
provinces. Although these powers distrusted each other, they would always pull together when it was a question of the subjection of France.

When he reflected upon these things, Charles felt hot with deep shame, fear and despair. His party should have been the party of France, with a duty to protect the King and maintain his authority. Whom had he once heard say these things? Was it Dunois, his half-brother? Yes, he remembered that Dunois had said that, or something like it. “I must communicate with Philippe, with my people,” murmured Charles in the darkness of the bedcurtains. “I must know what is happening, what they propose to do, what Armagnac is doing. If Armagnac rules the roost, the end is near. I must warn the Dauphin and the Queen against Armagnac.”

Each day he looked forward impatiently to the audience which King Henry had promised him, but the King seemed to have forgotten his promise. He had visited his noble prisoners repeatedly during the first week of their stay in England, and had treated them with the utmost courtesy. But after a while they saw him no more, and heard nothing from him. Not without reason, Charles realized, had he and his two princely compatriots been transferred to the Tower.

The days crept slowly by, varied only by changes in the weather. Charles looked out the window at the ships and the seagulls which circled shrieking over the water; he counted those towers which were clearly visible in bright weather. He now recognized the sounds of London's bells; nothing made him yearn so desperately for home as those recurrent, deep, resounding peals.

Except for his chamberlain, the officers of the guard, the priest who came to hear his confession, and, from time to time, Bourbon and Richmont, he spoke to no one. The world seemed suddenly to contain only a handful of people.

Giovanni Vittori came to see him toward the end of January. The Florentine had lived in northern countries for almost twenty years; first in Bruges, later in London. He spoke Flemish, French and English as fluently as his native tongue. He was a stout but agile man with a small, sharply curved nose and very black, vigilant eyes. He was dressed in furs and velvet like a king, with jeweled
stars in his hat. He entered Charles' room as respectfully and courteously as though the Duke still lived in freedom in his own domain, surrounded by pomp and splendor. He observed the required etiquette, inquired after Monseigneur's health and welfare, exhausted himself in countless civilities, and refused three times the seat which Charles offered him. Finally, with an apologetic gesture, he seated himself on the extreme edge of the chair. Charles was silent; he knew Vittori's style—a down-to-earth conversation would undoubtedly follow this display of courtesy. At Charles' nod the valet brought some cake and wine.

“Monseigneur,” Vittori began, “I have news from Orléans. I have had a visit from one of your secretaries, Maitre de Tuilleres. He awaits the King's consent to inform you personally about the state of affairs in your domains, and to receive your instructions.”

“Is there any news from Madame d'Orléans, my wife?” asked Charles, without looking at the banker.

The Florentine raised both hands in another gesture of apology.

“Alas, Monseigneur, Maitre de Tuilleres has said nothing to me about that. But nothing has permitted me to conclude that all does not go well with Madame the Duchess.”

“I see,” Charles responded curtly. He sighed. He wanted to dash past Vittori, past the rows of guards, out through the inner courts and yards of the Tower, through the gates and over the bridges to the spot where de Tuilleres stood, this man who had seen Bonne only a few weeks earlier. But the banker continued.

“We have made an inventory of everything that can be sold, Monseigneur. You have no more liquid assets at the moment. You will have to take radical measures in order to have money at your disposal.”

“That's all right,” Charles said. “Sell whatever you think best. I agree to everything. Only I do not wish you to make any economies in the households of my wife, my sister and my baby daughter. God knows they live frugally enough already. Of course I still do not know what price they will ask for me …”

The Florentine nodded in agreement.

“Naturally, Monseigneur, we can only hazard a guess about that. But you owe 133,000 golden écus to my lord Clarence for Monseigneur your brother. You have obligated yourself to pay the money before the first of July, 1417.”

“Then we must attend to that before anything else.”

“Tuilleres has brought 6,500 ecus,” the banker went on. “Your subjects' tax money, apparently. Since you arrived here I have advanced you 12,000 ecus, my lord. Of these 1,100 were paid out to Clarence's treasurer. I have the receipts.”

“In that case of course keep the money from de Tuilleres yourself.” Charles put his hands over his eyes for a moment. “I hope you will not cheat yourself.”

“No, Monseigneur, I am your servant!” Vittori laughed. “I do what I can for you. Look, my lord, the lists …” He groped in his sleeve with heavily ringed fingers and produced some scrolls which he smoothed out on the table before Charles. “Furniture, tapestries, an altar piece of massive gold, books … these are the most valuable. In exchange for these I can probably get 10,000 ecus from colleagues and from my own funds. Worth more? Possibly, Monseigneur, but I dare not guarantee more than 10,000. The rest are trifles—they must be appraised piece by piece. I shall send people to Orléans.”

“Vittori,” Charles said abruptly, “the King of France once signed an agreement with my late father in which the King made himself responsible for ransom money if my father's sons were to be imprisoned. I heard this from Marshal Boucicaut himself. That document must be found. The Dauphin will—”

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur!” The Florentine sprang from his seat and struck his head with his fists. “Speaking of the King … ! The Dauphin of France is dead, Monseigneur! … You did not know that? … The news has been known in England for some time. Maitre de Tuilleres mentioned it also. The Dauphin died just before Christmas.”

“Dead?” Charles looked away; he did not want to reveal his bewilderment. “I have heard that Monseigneur de Guyenne was sick.”

“Aha! Sick, sick,” said the banker, shrugging. “Of course they will say that. But the Dauphin was poisoned.”

“Are you sure of that?” Charles asked sharply.

Vittori shrugged again; the gesture said more plainly than words that no one doubted that the successor to the French throne had met a violent end. But Charles refused to believe it. He knew how quickly physicians would speak of poisoning when they could effect no cure. He remembered the Dauphin's coughing fits, his feverish flush. He shook his head. But Vittori had more to say. He glanced
quickly at the half-open door outside which the watch stood, and resumed, dropping his voice.

“My lord, I know little about your country's politics. I am only repeating what I have heard from acquaintances, reliable men, who I can assure you travel regularly to the Flemish ports on business and have important connections there. It appears that the late Dauphin—may God rest his soul—named your father-in-law, the Sire d'Armagnac, Constable of France, and forbade the Duke of Burgundy to set foot in Paris.”

Charles was about to reply with passion, but Vittori shook his head and put his finger to his lips. “My lord, it is probably not the intention of the lords who guard you here that this news should reach your ears. Undoubtedly I am laying myself open to punishment. They believe that I discuss only money matters with you.”

“So my cousin of Touraine is Dauphin then,” said Charles in an undertone; he was no longer listening to the Florentine. “My cousin of Touraine, who is married to Burgundy's niece, the heiress of Holland, Zeeland and Hainault. That means that if the King should die … What is Monseigneur of Burgundy doing?” he asked suddenly; he caught Vittori's arm. “Is there any news of Burgundy?”

“In God's name, Monseigneur!” The banker was becoming seriously alarmed. He tried to wrench his sleeve from Charles' grasp. “In God's name do not forget where we are! My lord, I have taken a vow not to discuss politics … I am putting my life in the balance …”

“Then you should not have spoken,” Charles said roughly. He released the man and turned toward the fire. The news had filled him with fear. Armagnac, Constable! That meant that Armagnac was at the head of the government, the master of Paris! But on the other hand, Burgundy was linked by blood to the new Dauphin—and the Dauphin was in all probability still on Flemish soil—undoubtedly in Burgundy's immediate circle, subject to Burgundy's influence. It was perfectly clear that this state of affairs could lead only to a more violent struggle than ever—if that were possible—and that a victory by either Burgundy or Armagnac could result only in the ultimate ruin of France; in the one case, the Kingdom would be incorporated irrevocably with the Burgundian Bavarian lands; in the other, after being squeezed dry and plundered by Armagnac, it would be left prey to whomever wished to make a bid for power. Now Charles understood why Armagnac had not personally
taken part in the battle of Agincourt: the English had rendered him an invaluable service by killing or taking prisoner most of his rivals for power in the Kingdom.

Giovanni Vittori remained standing motionless near the table. He had mixed feelings toward Charles. He felt compassion for the young Duke, who would probably languish in captivity for the rest of his life. Vittori had few illusions about English clemency; as a man of the world, he found it deplorable. On the other hand, as a banker he understood perfectly the attitude of Charles' captors; as long as they had Orléans under lock and key, they had a virtually inexhaustible source of income. And, yes, looking after Monseigneur's financial concerns would also be profitable for him, Vittori; he too found a long captivity to be in his interest. But why allow the young man to pine away without news from home? Vittori wanted to be everyone's friend insofar as he could; the right hand did not always have to know what the left hand was doing.

He glanced over his shoulder at the door; to be safe he occupied himself with rolling up the documents which he had brought with him, while he went on speaking in a low voice.

“Monseigneur, they say that the Duke of Burgundy wishes to lay siege to Paris, but whether this is true I do not know. However there is something else which I can tell you with absolute certainty: the Emperor Sigismund is on his way to Paris to visit the court. There are rumors that he is coming to mediate between your king and King Henry. He is expected here after Easter.”

Charles turned around quickly.

“If that is true, Vittori, it is good news,” he said with a look of tense excitement. “But how do you know that?”

The banker smiled, pleased; the moment of anger was over.

“Messire de Tuilleres tells me that Paris is preparing. King Sigismund seems determined to celebrate carnival there. Some friends of mine at the court in Westminster belong to the company which will welcome the King at Dover.”

There was a knock on the door; the nobleman who commanded the guard looked in and signalled to Vittori that the time allotted for the interview had expired. The banker began, with bows and compliments, to take his leave of Charles.

“Vittori, you have rendered me a great service,” Charles said quickly and softly. “I shall not forget it. I trust that you will be as diligent for me in the future—there are greater interests at stake
than mine alone. Try to use all your influence to see that I speak with de Tuillères. And if you really want to help me, send news of me to the Duchess of Orléans at Blois.”

Now that he could hope for freedom, the days seemed longer to Charles. His father had always maintained friendly relations with Sigismund when the latter was King of Hungary. Now that Sigismund had succeeded Ruprecht of Bavaria as Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, that friendship could yield a rich harvest for Charles. He did not doubt that Sigismund could see to it that he was sent home to France; perhaps the Emperor would even lend him the ransom money—or part of it—himself. Charles awaited the arrival of the monarch with ever-growing impatience; meanwhile he sought in every possible way to get news of events in France.

King Henry suddenly allowed de Tuilleres and Maitre Cousinot, Charles' Chancellor who had come to England shortly after the Duke's arrival there, to see Charles. Maitre Cousinot brought him a letter from Bonne, written by Garbet but signed by Bonne herself. She had remained in Blois, she informed him, with Jeanne and Marguerite. In order to save money in the ducal household, she had dismissed many personal servants. Furniture, silver and censers from the chapel of Orléans had been sold. She had given the proceeds—500 gold ecus—to Maitre Cousinot to take to England. She received much comfort and attention from Dunois, who sent Monseigneur his brother respectful greetings and fervent hope for a speedy return.

“Have your wounds healed?” Bonne asked. “Are you well cared for in the Tower? Maitre Cousinot is bringing along some bed linens for you, a case with combs, your own razors, six pair of shoes, a half dozen napkins and three large slices of nougat which I have made especially for you. There are almonds in it. I pray for you and I remain until your homecoming and forever after that, your loyal and devoted wife, Bonne d'Orléans.”