In a Dark Wood Wandering (71 page)

“Alas, Monseigneur,” the clerk concluded, while he took some grey linen bags from his girdle and offered them with a bow to
Charles, “this is all we can deliver to you at present—one hundred and eighty-four ecus—perhaps it will help somewhat to ease your life here for a few months. Monseigneur de Dunois hopes with all his heart that he will be able to send you more over the course of the summer. Will you be so kind, Monseigneur, as to sign the documents which I had to hand over to Messire Burton on my arrival here? They are authorizations for Monseigneur de Dunois and two deeds for sales of lands.”

“Certainly,” Charles said thoughtfully. The clerk approached with humility, still holding the puppy.

“Perhaps you would like to hold the creature for a moment, Monseigneur?” asked the monk, gazing at Charles with a rather fatuous smile. He put his head on one side and held the dog out to his master. “I shall then fetch the documents from the lord clerks there, if it pleases you.”

It seemed to Charles that the messenger gave a barely perceptible nod of the head. The young man took the dog and set it down beside him on the bench. It was one of those so-called decoy dogs, thin and swift, with bright eyes and a beautiful bushy tail. Charles scratched the animal behind the ears and ran his hand absently over the glossy tail. He left his hand there; a thin, hard roll was tied under the long hair. Charles looked at the monk, who bowed before him.

“A pretty puppy,” he said calmly. “Is it yours?”

The clerk opened his mouth in a broad laugh.

“It goes with me everywhere, Monseigneur. If they tell me to make another journey to Pontefract, the dog will come to visit you again.”

While Jean le Brasseur was getting the documents from Burton and his clerks, and occupying their attention because of his clumsiness—he dropped the pages, upset an inkwell—Charles busied himself with the dog, which remained docile while Charles, with his nails, tore the threads tying the roll of paper to the tail. When the clerk approached him again, mumbling apologies, the letter was in Charles' sleeve.

Letter from Dunois, Bastard of Orléans, to Charles, Duke of Orléans, Spring, 1421.

“Monseigneur my brother, you will of course have heard what
disasters have afflicted the Kingdom since the treaty of Troyes. King Henry fancies himself lord and master; in the Council, in the University, and in the field, his word is law. He is harsh, austere and proud—so say all who have had any personal dealings with him. Madame Catherine has given birth to a son, another reason for King Henry to think that he has checkmated Monseigneur the Dauphin for good. Monseigneur's name has been removed from the list of the King's sons inscribed on the marble tablet at Saint-Pol. Here and in the Midi we remain loyal to the lawful successor to the throne, and evil rumors are not believed. I assume you know what I am talking about. Monseigneur the Dauphin calls himself, justifiably, the Regent of France. He is eighteen years old and, it seems to me, somewhat shy and with little disposition to independent action. He lets himself be discouraged too quickly. It is our task, Monseigneur, to give him a feeling of certainty, to show him that we have his interest truly at heart. We must support him with our faith and loyalty, and our belief in his legitimate birth.

“Monseigneur, my dearest brother, it does not appear that King Henry's alliance with the new Duke of Burgundy will last long. Philippe of Burgundy does not love the English; it seems that he was treated rather rudely by Henry's envoys in Calais. From what I hear, Monseigneur always finds some excuse when Henry calls upon him to send troops—the English fight practically alone now; a Burgundian is scarcely ever seen in their ranks.

“It is our business to unite all domestic forces under one banner; now that the Kingdom is threatened with complete destruction, it is our sacred duty to maintain unity. I have heard rumors that Arthur, Count of Richmont, intends to offer his services to the Dauphin. I believe we should encourage this strongly. Before anything else I should like to see an agreement reached with Burgundy. The party of Orléans is a thing of the past, lord brother, we must recognize this. There is really no longer a reason for blood feuds since our father's murderer received his just punishment at Montereau. We must be unified if we wish to save France.

“I shall send you the messenger again soon. Have an answer ready if you possibly can and put it in his hands. He will find a way to hide your letter. God be with you, Monseigneur my brother. May He give you strength to bear your bitter lot. The war preparations go on here—you yourself would not wish anything else. But as soon as possible we shall gather the money necessary to ransom
you and Monseigneur d'Angoulême. I entreat God's blessing on you. Your servant, Dunois, Bastard of Orléans.”

From an official message from London to Sir Thomas Burton: September, 1422.

“… that on this last day of August of this year of our Lord 1422, our dearly beloved most revered Sovereign and Prince, Henry V, King of England, Regent and Heir of France, departed this life in the castle of Vincennes in France, as a consequence of an intestinal disorder which he contracted during the siege of the city of Cone. The King departed this life reconciled with his Creator. On his deathbed he named as Regents over his son, from today our dearly beloved and highly honored Henry VI, the Dukes of Bedford and Gloucester, from whom you may expect instructions. In connection with the custody of the Duke of Orléans, the following: it was the late King Henry's explicit desire that the aforesaid Orléans should not be freed before the present King shall have attained his majority. If a strict stand is not taken here it is truly to be feared that the said Orléans would abuse the temporary lack of royal authority in order to join forces with those in France who do not acknowledge England's lawful demands. The Duke of Gloucester commands you accordingly to transfer the above-mentioned Orléans to the fortress of Fotherinhay in Northampton.”

From the diary of a citizen of Paris, 1422:

“… so was separated from the world the good King Charles on the 21st day of the month of October, the day of Saint Ursula and the eleven thousand Virgins, who had reigned longer than any Christian monarch in human memory, for he has been King of France for forty-three years.

“Only his chancellors, his first chamberlain, his father confessor and a few servants stood at his deathbed. He lay in state in the palace of Saint-Pol on his own bed, for he had died there; for three days he lay there with his face uncovered, with burning candles around him and a crucifix at his feet and anyone who wished could enter to see him and pray for him.

“Afterward he was laid in a leaden coffin and carried to the chapel of Saint-Pol, where he remained above the earth for twenty
days until the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France, had returned from England.

“On the tenth day of November, the body of our late King was brought from his palace of Saint-Pol to the Cathedral of Notre Dame of Paris, accompanied by priests and prelates and the rector and doctors of the University. He was borne as the body of Our Lord is borne on the occasion of the feast of the Redeemer, covered with a heavy cloth of gold brocade, with a crown on his head, a scepter in his right hand, and in his left a gold and silver ecu. And above him knights held a vermilion and azure canopy embroidered with golden lilies. And he wore white gloves richly encrusted with precious stones, and the body was enveloped in a mantle of royal purple trimmed with ermine. Behind the bier walked the pages and shield-bearers of the late King, followed by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France. But there was no prince of the blood in the funeral procession, no blood relative, and that was pitiful to see. And the people of Paris, who had crowded together in great numbers when the body was carried through the streets, burst into sobs and wept and wailed as the procession passed by: ‘You go in peace, but we remain behind here in misery and anguish.'

“In the church of Notre Dame two hundred torches burned; wakes were held there, masses read for the dead, and after the Mass they carried the King to the abbey of Saint-Denis to lay him in the earth. And when the King was laid in the grave, the Archbishop of Saint-Denis spoke his blessing, as is customary. And afterward the King's officers and mace-bearers broke their swords and tokens of office in two and threw them in the grave as a sign that their office had ended at the same time as the life of the King. And then the standard-bearers let their flags and banners droop. The sergeant-at-arms stepped forward, accompanied by many heralds and followers, and cried over the grave, ‘May God have mercy on the soul of Charles, King of France, sixth of that name, our lawful Sovereign and Lord!' Arid then, ‘God grant life to Henry, by the grace of God King of France and England, our Lord and Sovereign!'

“And then the banners were raised again, and those who stood around the grave called out, ‘Long live the King!'

“During the bitter journey to Paris, the Regent, the Duke of Bedford, suffered the sword of the late King to be borne before him as a sign of his own dignity. The people were most angry about this, and murmured. But truly nothing can be done about it. And
so ended the life of our very noble King, Charles, in the forty-third year of his reign; during the greater part of that time he had known only calamity and affliction because of the discord between his closest kinsmen. May God in his great love and compassion be merciful to his soul.”

A February haze hangs over the streets of Paris and the brownish waters of the Seine. The sun struggles to break through and is visible for a moment before it is lost again in mist and clouds. Despite the damp chill, the streets on the left bank of the Seine are as filled with people as though there were to be a fete or procession. But all similarity ends with the numbers: the silent crowd which flows swiftly past the rows of houses toward the great market-halls is in neither a festive nor a pious mood. A depression hangs over the city of Paris, bleaker and more frigid than the winter mist; it is the realization of complete bankruptcy, of misery without hope. Never within memory has the city been in such dire need of spirtual and physical comfort.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Pestilence, Famine, Death and Destruction, have ridden into the city, and will not be moved. The years are notable more for their catastrophes than for their seasons: in the winters, more severe than ever before, thousands die of the cold every day; in the summer thousands more are destroyed by plagues and diseases and—continually—by starvation. When snow comes to the surrounding fields, and the ground is frozen hard, packs of wolves descend on the suburbs, looking for food; children and all solitary homeless wanderers fall prey to these famished beasts. Food, extremely scarce, is almost priceless when it can be procured. As a consequence of war there is little money for wages, and everywhere work is undone: the fields are smothered in weeds, scythes and ploughshares rust, draughthorses and beasts of burden are butchered, barns and stables torn down to be used as kindling. Taxes become higher from day to day: Bedford needs money urgently to carry on the war—his officers and constables show no mercy. The sheriff is a pitiless man who metes out heavy physical punishment for even the slightest infraction of the laws. But the value of money has dropped; a sixteen denier coin is worth no more than two deniers, a beggar's alms.

In the summer of 1424, a swarm of locusts sweeps over the land
and blights the crops in the fields. In dull resignation the people of Paris await the winter, a long harsh winter without food, without firewood; a winter of pestilence and privation. Not a week passes without Bedford's heralds proclaiming fresh English victories to empty streets and deserted squares. And this is even more difficult to bear than cold and hunger. The knowledge that they are being overwhelmed by a foreign power, that they have been abandoned to alien rulers, the awareness of their own impotence and their defeat, deprives the people of their final hope. They have been betrayed. The rebellions and civil wars, the hardships which the country has suffered over the last hundred years seem trifling in comparison to this great infamy. France is lost, it exists no longer as an independent kingdom. There is no reason to believe that the territories occupied by England can be redeemed. Hardly anyone dares even to think of the young man in Bourges in the Midi who calls himself king and attempts to resist Bedford's troops pouring in from all sides. Has he the right to the royal title, the royal power? No one knows. The only person who can know, the Dowager-Queen Isabeau, is tucked away for good, and silent, in the heart of Saint-Pol. Her chambers can be reached only through a maze of deserted, neglected gardens and corridors. The brightly colored tapestries on the walls recall the luxurious, carefree days of the past, but the fountains are stilled, the park is a wilderness, and the windows which once glowed with festive candlelight are dark and empty.

The Queen no longer quits her apartments. Year in, year out, she sees only the walls adorned with embroidered flowers and golden doves; year in, year out, she sits motionless in her wheelchair, she who had loved to travel from Saint-Pol to Vincennes, from Vin-cennes to Melun, from Melun to Creil and Saint-Ouen, to Chartres and Compiegne, to castles, cloisters, cathedrals. She sits with her back to the window, staring vacantly during the long daylight hours, or she asks for food or her jewel boxes. She eats greedily and carelessly, greasy sauce trickles from her lips over her chin and her mourning dress; she gnaws the small bones of fowl and sucks out the marrow, she spits fruit stones around her. She concentrates fiercely on her jewels. Bent forward, she rummages with gouty fingers among the gold chains and the large gleaming stones; she pulls strings of pearls from the bottom of the pile; she lets fall again and again from the palm of her hand a sparkling rain of rubies and sapphires, gold coins, rings and buckles. If at these moments anyone
approaches her, she dismisses him, irritably. Outside her chamber doors her servants stand listening to the jingle of gold, the rustle of ropes of pearls and necklaces. The Queen lives entirely in seclusion; she wishes to hear no news, receive no visitors. She wants to know nothing: her gold is enough for her, and her roast capons—for which, alas, she must pay more each day—and her memories.