In a Dark Wood Wandering (68 page)

“Indeed, it has become very clear in the course of the last hundred years that methods of waging war have changed, my lord. It is generally held here that war is not a tourney; the time is over when battles are fought at prearranged places according to prescribed rules. Speed and efficiency and equipment mean more than a pretty show of arms. I continue to be surprised that in France they refuse to see this. Take the siege of Rouen—there stood the lads again upon the ramparts with catapults and barrels of pitch—mere expedients that could cover only very short distances and only against attacks on solid ground. But King Henry has ended this obsolete custom of literally storming a fortress. Have you heard anything yet about this new method? He makes use of what we call trenches, in which the men are protected from projectiles. Behind the trenches we mount heavy weapons—great machines that fling stones over a distance. It's remarkable that you have not thought of this yourselves.”

“Probably we will learn from King Henry's victories,” Charles replies with a slight ironic smile. “One could hardly remain blind to the advantages of your methods of warfare. Harsh tutors produce the most diligent pupils, as you know.”

“Hm.” Waterton casts a quick glance at his companion. “Do you believe then, my lord, that before long France will offer an organized resistance? Perhaps you are better informed about the situation there than I?”

Something in the knight's tone makes the prisoner look up.

“I thought that King Henry was at the point of concluding certain agreements with those who—according to him—represent the French Crown,” he says smoothly, but his dark brown eyes suddenly become extremely sharp and vigilant. He sees suspicion, curiosity and some suspense in the Englishman's gaze. The conversation,
stumbling until now, takes a decisive turn. Although Waterton does not admit it in so many words and lets no information drop, Charles senses what is happening in France. The talks between King Henry and the French government have broken down—a hitch has occurred somewhere—but where? Waterton does not seem unwilling to give him a hint about where the cause of the difficulty lies, and soon the young man knows how he must interpret his warden's remarks: Burgundy, in exchange for complying with King Henry's wishes, has made certain demands, and the King finds these demands excessive and, moreover, dangerous. If France will not give herself willingly, she must be taken by force. But that is possible only if Burgundy remains neutral. If Burgundy exchanges his neutrality for hostility to the English, King Henry will need the help of another French party in order to hold his ground.

Slowly but surely the prisoner manages to learn the truth behind Waterton's words: Burgundy seeks an approach to the Dauphin for greater security. He can do this now, because the Dauphin's party no longer carries the stamp of Orléans or Armagnac. It is also clear what King Henry is aiming at—since he is uncertain about Burgundy's intentions, he turns anew to the only one who could cooperate with him to influence the Dauphin: Orléans.

The prisoner manages during the course of this conversation to learn still more. Waterton repeatedly shows an unusual interest in Monseigneur's short-lived contact with the man who calls himself the King of Scotland.

“It was no secret to us that—by means of gestures—Your Grace was able to hold conversations with James during the last months of his residence in the Tower,” he says.

“Yes, I guessed as much when the King of Scotland was transferred to Windsor,” the prisoner answers, with a smile. “I'm very sorry. Now I shall never have the opportunity to return the book which he so kindly lent me.”

Waterton's eyes rest on the table where the manuscripts are piled. The young man beckons to his servant who stands near the door with both of Waterton's retainers, ready to serve their masters if they want anything.

“Give me the King of Scotland's book.”

Waterton frowns suspiciously when Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy is placed before him. The prisoner turns to the fly-leaf and points out five or six lines written in the King's own hand.

“Will you do me the favor, Sir Robert, of telling me what is written there?”

The knight bends quickly over the book; his eagerness convinces the prisoner that suspicions have been entertained about the extremely brief friendship between the two princely exiles. After a few moments Waterton looks up.

“It is a poem,” he says curtly, but not without a spark of amusement in his small green eyes.

“I thought so too. Please be good enough to translate it for me, Messire. You know that I also divert myself with rhymes. I am naturally interested in the work of a colleague.”

Waterton strokes his beard; finally he shrugs and complies with the request. He reads aloud in his somewhat hesitant, stiff French.

“ ‘Come, all who wish to greet these May mornings … The hour of good fortune has struck for you … Sing with me: go hence, winter, be off. Come, summer, time of sweet sunny days.' ”

“Well, well.” The prisoner smiles. “That is prettily put. It has been worth waiting two long years for such a message.”

“What do you mean by that?” Waterton asks sharply, slamming the book shut. “Do these words perhaps have a meaning known only to you and James of Scotland?”

The young man raises his brows and his smile vanishes.

“Now it is clear to me what you are aiming at, Sir Robert, but I'm afraid that this time you're on the wrong track. I have had no opportunity to correspond with King James and one cannot discuss politics in sign language.”

“King
James?” says Waterton, looking at him askance. He sighs; the task which King Henry has entrusted to him is far from easy. To fight, organize, protect fortresses, exercise surveillance—these are things Waterton can do competently. But this wary fumbling behind the mask of polite conversation, these diplomatic skirmishes, go against his grain. The other will not commit himself. Waterton has known that from the beginning. In his reports he customarily characterizes the prisoner as courteous, self-controlled, mild-mannered and apparently co-operative—in short, a completely inscrutable character; he concludes from this that there is something hidden here.

He tells the King the results of the conversation—an extremely meager report. “Monseigneur does not mention it, but one should not conclude from this that in spite of all precautions he is not or
has not been in touch with the Dauphin of France or the Pretender to the Scottish throne. He appears to know nothing about the national disturbances in Scotland. He seems to be tranquil as usual, reads, writes, stands and stares for long hours out the window. During interviews he behaves as though he does not understand Your Majesty's purpose.”

King Henry's reply suggests a new task for Waterton.

“Win his confidence. Give him more freedom. Invite him to your house. Make him realize that it is of the greatest importance to him to conclude a treaty with Us.”

Charles d'Orléans walked slowly back and forth in the orchard of Pontefract; although he had been permitted these strolls for some time now, he was surprised each time anew by the freshness and fragrance of the air. He could hardly believe that he could at one time have experienced this pleasure without restraint. He had gone through the seasons burdened always with cares and worries; he had noticed only incidentally the beauty of leaf and flower, the happiness that came from feeling the sun on one's face, of inhaling deeply the odors of earth and green grass.

He was not alone; Sir Robert Waterton's wife walked beside him, carefully holding her dress away from the dewy grass so that the hem would not get wet. Waterton's children, two boys and a small girl, ran in front of the grown-ups, romping and shrieking as healthy children do. An abundance of still-green apples and pears hung from the trees; the air was filled with the tart scent of unripe fruit. Although the orchard was large and well-tended, the soil was obviously poor: the grass was scanty, the apple trees were stunted.

The garden lay in the lea of Pontefract against the ramparts but inside the castle moat; the high walls of the castle were overgrown here with ivy. Close to the water's edge was Lady Waterton's flower garden, where wild roses and foxglove tried to blossom. Charles remembered the magnificent gardens of Saint-Pol and Vincennes, but he praised the flower beds of Pontefract's Lady; it was apparent that they were the result of the expenditure of a great deal of loving care and that she was proud of them. She was still a young woman, not much older than Charles himself. She had bright blue eyes and fresh cheeks and the hair which peeked from under her headdress
was jet black. That hair, that quick trusting smile, and something about the way she walked, reminded him constantly of Bonne.

The first time he saw Lady Waterton he had been struck with pained surprise at the resemblance; for a moment he could not take his eyes from her. Sometimes when she walked beside him without turning her head toward him, it seemed to him that he was walking beside Bonne herself. He was conscious of her graceful movements, of the luster of her black hair—burning desire consumed him then. He had to exert the utmost self-control to restrain himself from seizing her in his arms to test the illusion by touch or embrace. But when she spoke in her laborious, somewhat twisted French, in her high, timid voice, he returned to reality. She was a stranger; her eyes were bright but rather shallow and her mouth was thin-lipped. Waterton, who was usually busy in the mornings, had undoubtedly instructed his wife to accompany the noble prisoner on his walks; her presence and the children's were probably intended to help the young man to forget that, outside the low wall of the orchard and kitchen garden, an armed guard was standing.

Lady Waterton, who had never participated in court life and who had a diffident nature, performed her task with reluctance at first, but she soon decided that it was not so difficult as she had feared it would be to keep Monseigneur amused. He was young, courteous and unassuming, and he hit it off very well with the children. At first his foreign gallantry embarrassed her; she was not accustomed to receiving so many compliments. But the Duke's friendliness won the day; gradually she lost her shyness and chattered with him as eagerly as she did with her children and her chambermaid. Charles found her stories delightful. Her restricted view, the relative insignificance of her experience, provided exactly the diversion which he needed. She told him things her children had said and done, she described dramatically how a cat had attempted to pounce on her pet bird, how the fabric on her loom was progressing. She asked him a number of questions too: was it true that the women at the French court wore trains six feet long and hats two ells high? Was Queen Isabeau really so fat that she had to be pushed around in a wheelchair? Had she heard correctly that there was a market in France where servants and servantmaids were put up for auction?

Smiling, Charles answered all these questions in the affirmative; how far away, how ludicrous, court life and street brawls over there
seemed to him as he walked under these fresh fragrant trees. Thus he passed nearly every beautiful day in the orchard of Pontefract in the company of Waterton's family. The children were greatly attached to Charles, although they could not talk with him. They knew no French and invariably burst out laughing when Charles tried to speak to them in English.

Once when the children were not present, the time spent with Waterton's wife took on a different character: despite the mutual efforts to carry on a light and unconstrained conversation, an awkward silence fell between them from time to time. Under the low, leafy roof of the orchard, or on the stone benches in the flower garden, Charles became conscious of something which he had almost forgotten in the solitude of his tower chamber: he was a healthy young man. His blood could find resignation less quickly than his heart, and his heart, God knew, was still filled with as much pain and disquietude as on the first day after Agincourt. The emblematic figures which had peopled his dream world were less seductive than the fresh young woman beside him, who looked so much like Bonne. To a certain extent it was his longing for Bonne which attracted him to Lady Waterton. He was quite aware that he could not call this feeling love. The fear of disillusionment which irrevocably follows upon sated desire kept him from paying court to her in earnest. Further, he had no desire to offend Waterton. But he was well aware of the pitfalls hidden in these encounters. It did not escape him that Waterton's wife took pains to please him, that she secretly watched him from the corner of her eye when they walked together. He often dined now with the knight and his lady; after dinner they played chess. On rare occasions they spoke more frankly now about politics.

Waterton liked his prisoner very well, although he did not want to admit it. He thought that once one became accustomed to Monseigneur's French manners and his great formality, one discovered behind the rigmarole a cordial and straightforward personality. A boy the Duke was not; he had apparently acquitted himself valiantly at Agincourt; further, it was undoubtedly true that he used his intelligence and managed to conduct himself in adversity like a man. Waterton punctiliously discharged the task which had been imposed upon him: to endeavor to win young Orléans for England's King. That he failed in this did not, to his surprise, either sadden or annoy him. Secretly he respected the prisoner's tenacity; courage and control
were necessary for the maintenance of firm opposition during long years of solitary confinement without any practical hope of liberation. Waterton found this resistance to be senseless in itself—who could seriously stand up against the tide of King Henry's power?—but he had to admit that Orléans' conduct was chivalrous, if also useless. He noticed the change in his wife since she had been accompanying the prisoner on his walks; he saw that she sat dreaming over her needlework or prayer book, that her thoughts caused her to blush. He watched the Duke attentively, but found no reason to put an end to the friendly association. Waterton was not jealous by nature; he assumed, moreover, that his wife knew her duty and that Orléans was wise enough not to bring down a hornet's nest about his ears. However, he remained on his guard and treated his prisoner with cool restraint.