In a Dark Wood Wandering (70 page)

“Pray continue, Messire.” Charles seated himself on the bench beside the table and fixed his eye on the light rectangle of the window. Thomas Burton cleared his throat, put his gloves under his arm so that he could wield the parchment unhindered and began to read in a dry, cold voice:

“We, Charles, by the grace of God King of France, have found it fit and hereby approve and resolve:

“That with an eye upon the forthcoming marriage between Our beloved son, Henry, King of England, heir and regent of France, and Our dearly beloved Daughter Catherine, our subjects and those of Our aforesaid Son can traffic with one another both on this and on the other side of the sea.

“That directly after Our death the Crown and mastery of France
with all the rights and privileges therein shall pass over for good to Our Son, the aforesaid Henry and his heirs.

“That since We are hindered from holding sway by the state of Our health, the royal authority shall, during Our lifetime, be exercised by Our Son, the aforesaid Henry.

“That our aforementioned Son shall labor with all his strength to bring again to Our obedience all cities, towns, fortresses, regions and subjects in Our realm which now show themselves to be rebellious and willing to choose the side of that party which is customarily called the party of the Dauphin and Armagnac.

“That considering the crimes and transgressions committed in Our realm by him who calls himself Charles the Dauphin, We declare that We and Our above-mentioned Son and likewise Our beloved Cousin, Philippe, Duke of Burgundy, shall in no manner negotiate with the aforesaid Charles.”

“One moment, Messire,” said Charles, raising his hands. “Perhaps you can give me some information here. How is it possible that those who have drawn up this pact have overlooked the rights and lawful claims of Monseigneur the Dauphin?”

“Lawful?” Burton let the parchment drop and eyed the prisoner coldly. “He who at present calls himself Dauphin has no lawful claim to the throne of France, my lord.”

“Explain that to me, if you please.” Charles felt his self-possession beginning to desert him. “Monseigneur the Dauphin is still the King's only living son?”

Burton shrugged.

“Some doubt has arisen on that precise point,” he said casually, while he rolled up the parchment again. “There is evidence that the young man is not the King's son.”

Charles stood up. “And who dares to say that?”

“Queen Isabeau herself,” replied the knight, with raised brows, as though he found the subject extremely painful. “No one can know better than she.”

It was silent in the room for a considerable time. The prisoner walked to the window and looked out; Burton stood on the same spot and impatiently tapped the roll of parchment against the palm of his hand.

“I thought that I had experienced many repulsive things in my life,” Charles said at last, without turning round. “‘But this really is
the worst of all. That a mother could betray her son in such a manner, that a wife could wound her husband so deeply—that is something I would never have thought possible. Has the Queen been so obliging as to reveal the name of the man who enjoys the honor of being the father of France's bastard?”

“There was no need for Her Majesty to do so,” replied Burton, apparently indifferent, in the cold, matter-of-fact tone which he invariably employed in conversation with the prisoner. “It is a well-known fact that in the year of the so-called Dauphin's birth, the notorious friendship began between the Queen of France and your late father.”

A shudder went through Charles; he clenched his fists on the window sill. Burton had expected an outburst of fear or rage; he knew quite well that he could not have hurt his prisoner more deeply than by uttering these words. The Englishman hesitated. It was almost unthinkable that a man of honor should submit to such an affront. But the man who stood before the window did not move and did not speak.

Burton drew himself up stiffly and said, “I have a further duty to inform you that the Duke of Burgundy was murdered at Montereau on the twentieth of August.”

In the spring of 1421, Charles received a visit from one of his
clerks at Blois. He scarcely knew the man; he was surprised that they had not sent him his secretary de Tuillères or Denisot, the first clerk of his chancellery. The new courier was an insignificant old monk who stared about him helplessly while he was searched by the guards. To Charles' astonishment he had brought along a small, longhaired dog which ran sniffing in through the open door of the chamber even before the watch had finished with the clerk. When Charles bent to stroke the animal, it sprang away from him.

“He allows no one to touch him without my consent, Monseigneur,” said the scribe as he entered, bowing deeply. “You know me—I am Jean le Brasseur, once employed in your house chapel at Blois. Monseigneur Dunois sends me to you with money and news about the administration of your estates.”

Meanwhile, Burton too had entered the chamber, along with a clerk and an interpreter. The knight observed punctiliously all instructions from London. Every word spoken by the prisoner and by his visitor must be taken down, and if the slightest effort was made to exchange information about the political or military actions of the so-called Dauphin, Burton was to interrupt the interview instantly. Only business affairs, administration of property and news of the family could be discussed. Burton looked with disdain at the messenger from Blois; he thought it amazing that this timorous dullard should have succeeded in traveling all that distance and arriving at Pontefract in one piece.

Charles sat down; the clerk stood humbly before him with the dog in his arms.

“Monseigneur,” he said softly—he lisped somewhat, “I come also as the bearer of sad tidings. I have been shocked and deeply sorrowed to learn that you still know nothing about it. Monseigneur, it has pleased God to call to himself your brother, Monseigneur Philippe de Vertus.”

Charles rose. The clerk went on with bowed head. “At about the time of the birth of Our Lord, we buried him in the church of Saint-Sauveur. May God give you strength to bear this affliction, my lord.”

Charles made the sign of the cross, and put his hand over his eyes. He remained standing that way for a while. Death chooses his victims well—he thought—a young man in the prime of his life; Philippe, my carefree, cheerful brother, my confidant and deputy, the commander of my armies, my friend and childhood playmate.
Now the House of Orléans is represented in France by my father's bastard and two little girls. What have my brother of Angoulême and I to hope for?

“Monseigneur de Dunois has arranged everything,” the clerk continued in his high-pitched voice. “In Blois and in all your remaining possessions, everything will go on as usual. Monseigneur de Vertus left a great void, but his death has caused no change in the administration of the dominions or the organization of household affairs.”

For the first time Charles looked with attention at the messenger; the man kept his bulging, somewhat melancholy eyes fixed modestly on a point at the height of Charles' girdle, and he spoke in a monotonous drone, as though he were reciting a lesson he had learned by rote. Meanwhile he stroked the puppy, which was almost completely hidden in the folds of his gown. Burton was yawning openly, and the other two men made no bones about their contempt and boredom. But it seemed to Charles that the messenger from Blois was considerably less innocuous and insignificant than he wanted to appear. His whining voice was a little too exaggerated to be genuine, and in his curious bulging eye Charles could detect a vigilant glimmer.

While the clerk gave a dull, true account of the grain and wine harvest, the proceeds of tributes and taxes, expenses in connection with the restoration and maintainance of the castles and annexes, etc., Charles sat tensely watching him. From time to time the man stressed a word in a way that would be noticeable only to a native speaker of French. So under Burton's attentive eye, Charles learned many things worth knowing: out of information apparently limited to administrative matters, he managed to deduce from the messenger's intonation and the way in which he presented the news, that all the citadels of Orléans were strongly manned and fully stocked with great provisions of weapons and food, that hostile troops had invaded the northwestern border areas, that many of the Dauphin's captains and advisors were in hiding in the important cities of Charles' domains, that everywhere military preparations were being made in feverish haste, that all the money that could be squeezed from that neglected and impoverished land was being spent on arms and supplies.