In a Dark Wood Wandering (63 page)

Charles, who sat up straight with his hands on the arms of his chair, did not move or alter his expression. He watched the King impassively, trying to fathom his intentions.

“You know, of course, fair cousin, that the Holy Roman Emperor is at present in Paris and that he is preparing to honor us with a visit for the sake of peace between this Kingdom and France.”

Charles nodded. “I am aware of that, my lord,” he said dryly.

“Good.” Henry's eyes filled with that sudden light which made his gaze look fierce. “I have great respect for the Emperor Sigismund's desire for peace. I want nothing more myself than to see the differences resolved without bloodshed. I would gladly spare you a second Agincourt.” He looked with raised eyebrows at his prisoner. But he saw no change of expression in Charles' dark weary eyes.

“Fair cousin,” the King continued after a short pause, “as you know, your fate is dependent in large measure on the progress of negotiations between Emperor Sigismund and me. No doubt he will have something to propose about your release. It would be extremely gratifying to me personally if I could allow you to return to your homeland. So far as peace negotiations are concerned, considering the outcome of the battle at Agincourt and the present conditions in France, it is for
me
to propose terms. You know my claims, fair cousin, don't you? Perhaps it would be helpful now to call them to your attention once again. I hold fast to the treaty of Bretigny: Calais, Montreuil, Boulogne, Aquitaine, Touraine, Angoulême, Anjou and Normandy belong by right to England.”

“I do not understand, Monseigneur, why you speak to me of this,” said Charles coldly; he glanced at the King's advisors who stood with inscrutable faces in respectful attention beside the throne. “I am Lord of Angoulême, but my House has received the territory as a fief from the Crown. Of the other provinces and regions which you mention, I can tell you even less.”

Henry raised his hand and spoke quickly. “I mention this to you, fair cousin, because I believe—and not incorrectly, for that matter—that to some extent you represent France's government here today. You are a nephew of the King, as well as a close kinsman of the Lords of Armagnac and Berry, who—as everyone knows—are now the most powerful men in the Council. No doubt you maintain relations with them.”

“Forgive me, Monseigneur, you are mistaken—I can claim neither will nor influence in this matter. True, I have, since contact was granted to me, exchanged a few letters with my kinsmen in France. But I have only concerned myself with the problem of collecting ransoms for me and my brother of Angoulême. With regard to the terms of a peace treaty, I am undoubtedly a most unsuitable person to represent Your Grace to the government of France.”

“No, you are exactly the man for that, fair cousin.” Henry tapped the arm of his chair impatiently with the great signet ring on the forefinger of his right hand. “I am fully aware of what you have been doing in the past few years; I know what role you play in Armagnac's party. You have brought it a long way; you and your supporters have finally managed to gather the reins in your hands, despite opposition and great obstacles. It is all the more regrettable that the restoration of order in your country should now appear to be an impossibility. He alone can rule who knows how to gain the help and approval of God. But now to business, fair cousin. You know that I have legitimate claims to the French throne.”

During this speech Charles sat looking at the rose windows, composed of small azure and blood-red panes which glowed in the sunlight like rosettes of sapphires and rubies. Now he turned his gaze back to the King.

“I know that only the late King Richard could make such claims with some justice,” he said slowly. “He was descended from King Edward the Third, who was a kinsman of our royal House. But”—for the first time a trace of irony could be detected in Charles' eyes and voice—”but surely you do not belong to that family, my lord? At least, if I have been correctly informed, your father—may God rest his soul—did not come to the throne by succession.”

Henry turned pale with anger. The freckles on his nose and cheeks became plainly visible; they could not normally be seen because the King's face was somewhat tanned by the sun.

“England lays claim to the property of France,” he said in a calm, cold voice, after a brief silence. “And I am England, fair cousin. For me that is a fact beyond dispute. You can win freedom only if you acknowledge me as your lawful sovereign: freedom, a considerable reduction in your ransom, retention of your feudal fiefs and the immediate return of all the lands which the Duke of Burgundy has confiscated from you. In addition, an important voice in the capitol at all times. I tell you this straight out, as is my custom; I don't see any reason to beat about the bush with you, fair cousin. In return for my favors I expect support and loyalty from you in word as well as in deed. You and your kinsmen must assure me that you will do your utmost to obtain a written confirmation of my rights, signed by the King. When Charles VI dies, the Crown of France falls to me. I shall take the Princess Catherine to wife; in that way the blood of Valois will retain the throne. I do not think that this can be
considered by any means an unreasonable proposal. Thus you have nothing to lose and a great deal to gain. Messeigneurs your fellow prisoners will presumably follow your example when they learn that you recognize my claim.”

“I would not recognize the claim even of a direct descendant of Edward the third,” Charles responded pensively, continuing to stare at the glowing window. “It is my belief that only my sovereign lord King Charles or one of his legitimate sons can sit upon the throne of France.”

“The King is mad and the Dauphin is unquestionably your enemy,” remarked Henry. “Loyalty in this case can lead only to your own downfall. Or do you perhaps cherish less noble ambitions with the support of the Lord of Armagnac, fair cousin? You are after all a kinsman of the royal House and death is a striking visitor to the King's sons …”

Charles' dark brown eyes—the eyes of his mother, Valentine—began to smoulder. Henry noticed this and said quickly, although not without secret satisfaction, “So far as the death of the late Dauphin is concerned—if it's true that he was poisoned—I am ready to believe that this time the guilt must be placed at the door of the Duke of Burgundy.”

“I know little about it,” Charles parried politely. “But this has nothing to do with the matter at hand, my lord. I must reject your offer without hesitation. I find it too high a price to pay for my liberty. But I would gladly learn either now or later what sum you demand for my ransom.”

Henry's advisors did not conceal their displeasure; the Archbishop of Durham approached the King and whispered to him quickly. Henry shrugged.

“I do not doubt, fair cousin, that you will think differently about these matters after you have spoken with my lords of Bourbon and Richmont. I think it would be wise to postpone your decision for a few days. But not for too long, mind you—for you can understand that it would be exceedingly desirable and might hasten matters considerably if I could give the Emperor Sigismund certain facts directly upon his arrival.”

Charles rose and bowed. “I have given you my answer, Monseigneur,” he said. “And I can tell you now that my opinion will be shared completely by my lords of Bourbon and Richmont, who are
loyal vassals of our King. And now I pray you, give me leave to return to the Tower.”

Henry had a few moments' muted conversation with Durham and Northumberland. Then he dismissed Charles with a wave of his hand and a brief nod. Charles' attendants stepped inside to fetch him; the armed escort waited outside the door. Thoughtfully, Henry looked after his ducal captive, his head resting on his hand. Charles d'Orléans was not particularly tall. In his black damask suit—a gift from the English king—he looked somewhat slim and boyish. But he moved with innate dignity; without haste, erect, bowing courteously, he left the room.

The Emperor Sigismund was received in London during the month of April with great pomp and splendor. He expressed his satisfaction with the lavish entertainments. Loudly, in unpolished Latin, he told anyone who cared to listen that, by God, people knew how to live here in England—with plentiful food, pageants, hunting parties—that was men's work. He had been able to detect nothing of the vaunted luxury at the French court. It was a beggarly mess there, bad food and little entertainment worthy of a prince. He had not been able to see the King; he was sick again, but the Queen, at any rate, had done her best to give her guest real pleasure. Now there was a woman who really knew—let it be said and remain between us, my lords—what a man really wants, ha ha, and Sigismund, bowing to the haughty but inquisitive English courtiers, described the delights of Isabeau's nightly balls where all the women were corrupt and all the men played with false dice.

In his youth, twenty years before, at the time of his great campaign against the Turks, Sigismund may have been to a certain extent crude and frivolous, but he was also a brave and well-intentioned man. With the passage of time the coarse lines in his face became more noticeable; a life of war, intrigue, uncurbed licentiousness and callous rule had transformed Sigismund into an unpredictable, brutal, greedy man. He had travelled to France and England chiefly out of vanity. Never before had he had any influence on these once-so-powerful kingdoms. And he was curious to meet Henry, the son of the late usurper Lancaster. Sigismund's desire to help the French King rested mainly on his ancient but still fierce hatred of Burgundy.
The former King of Hungary had never forgotten that he owed his defeat by the Turks to the knights whom Burgundy had brought upon the field.

Strangely, the French said nothing about this old grievance. In fact, Paris was indifferent—no, even downright impudent to him, thought Sigismund; therefore no one should be surprised if his good nature had suffered somewhat under such treatment. Wherever he went, he felt himself mocked and criticized for his behavior, his speech, his predilection for revelry and for the frequenting of houses of prostitution.

In an extremely irritable mood, Sigismund had arrived in London attended by the Archbishop of Reims who would serve as his counselor. But behold! Here were triumphal arches awaiting him, and welcoming committees. Here he was offered lodging in King Henry's state rooms and shown every conceivable evidence of thoughtful hospitality. Sigismund, very much touched by such courtesy—they were careful in Westminster not to remind him of his Slavic origin, his lack of dignity and self-control—was only too happy to lend a willing ear to Henry. Before long he declared that in the event of a peace treaty with France, the advantage must be with Henry; that was only fair under the circumstances.

Over the course of the summer Charles d'Orléans was moved to another chamber in one of the small inner courts of the Tower; one with no view of the Thames. This room was even more luxurious than the other; the floor was covered with hides, the walls hung with beautiful woven tapestries, and there was a comfortable bed and a chair with cushions. But Charles sorely missed the view of the river which had provided so welcome a distraction for him, especially in the spring months when the days were longer and lighter and the bustle on the water seemed to increase constantly. Gazing at the ships, at the people on the other bank, at the traffic on the bridges, Charles had been able to forget, for a while at least, some of the worries which poisoned his life. He received almost no news from France; crossing the Straits was no longer safe and couriers could not obtain permission to come over. Charles was told, of course, that Henry had succeeded in retaining Harfleur after a sea battle near the estuary of the Seine, and that Armagnac had retreated like a beaten dog. And Charles was told again and again that the armies of the Duke of Burgundy, who had signed a peace treaty with England, were rampaging across northern France.

The young man had heard this and similar news, but the news he desired with all his heart—news of Bonne, of Blois, of Paris—was not forthcoming. Since he had been moved to the new chamber, he had often sought the company of Bourbon and Richmont. He and they shared a common fate, and they represented his only remaining link with France. But before long he could not help noticing that a coolness seemed to exist between his former allies and himself. They spoke to him, played cards and chess with him—but apart from that they remained aloof. Sometimes Charles thought that they were afraid of him. They avoided talk about politics, and if they responded to his comments or questions, they did it in a way that made him suspect that they resented him because he had prevented them from accepting King Henry's offer.

Charles' room looked out on a small square in which a few blades of grass pushed up between the paving stones; there was no other greenery. Force of habit brought Charles continually to the window to discover again and again with a slight shock that there was nothing to be seen but stone walls. Once when he stood staring out, with his hands behind his back, his attention was caught by something stirring behind a window opposite his across the courtyard. Charles looked closely and saw, standing in the shadow of the deep window, a man who clutched the window bars in both hands. There could be no doubt that the prisoner across the way had seen him too: he waved to Charles and then stepped back. During the next few days the game was repeated many times. Charles began in his turn to salute his neighbor, who pressed his face against the bars; he was a young man with black hair and the striking waxen complexion of one who had lived indoors for a long time. So far as Charles could see, he wore rich clothing; his demeanor, too, betrayed the nobleman.

Caution at first kept Charles from making inquiries; he hesitated to get the stranger into further trouble. But he learned finally in a circuitous way that the stranger was no other than James Stuart, the Pretender to the Scottish throne, who had been in the Tower since he was a child. When his valet saw that Charles was greatly interested, he brought his master fresh information every day about the other captive.