In a Dark Wood Wandering (75 page)

In the course of the year 1434, the English Council consigned the guardianship of Charles to William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk—the same Suffolk who, five years before, had conducted the siege of the city of Orléans; the same Suffolk too who, after being captured by Jeanne at Jargeau, had been set free in return for a ransom of 20,000 gold ecus. As a man of honor, Suffolk had kept the promise he had made to Dunois: the improvement in Charles' circumstances was due in no small degree to Suffolk's intercession. Since his return to England, Suffolk had pressed the Council repeatedly to entrust the Duke of Orléans to his care.

So at last Charles left the rich wooded hills and valleys around Ampthill with a great escort of horses and armed soldiers, for his new home: the castle of Wingfield, ancestral home of the de la Pole family. Wingfield lay not far from the sea in flat land, some of it grassy, some cultivated, divided by hedges and orchards; small windmills were driven by salty breezes. The smell of seaweed and foam floated over the empty land. The clouds seemed thinner and swifter-moving than in other places. The barren hills outside Pontefract, the forest near Bolingbroke, the stately gloomy parks of Ampthill, had never oppressed Charles' spirits as did this wind-swept, chill, monotonous landscape under a colorless sky. This land was the absolute antithesis of the lush Loire valley, the lost homeland for which, in deep pain, his heart incessantly yearned.

Wingfield Castle dominated the hamlet of Wingfield, a group of cottages and small thatch-roofed farms set in the midst of orchards and kitchen gardens. At the end of the village, directly opposite the castle, was the church; its blunt, stunted towers rose toward the sky. The Earl's castle itself looked extremely forbidding with its ramparts and moats, its corner towers and battlements. Weary and depressed, Charles passed into Wingfield through the heavy arched gate and over the drawbridge. But his reception exceeded all expectations. Suffolk proved to be an amiable and courteous host and his young wife, a granddaughter of the poet Chaucer whose work Charles
knew, seemed educated and exceptionally well-read. Both spoke good French, as did the members of all noble families which had come from Normandy. Although Charles had learned over the years to express himself quite well in English, the Earl of Suffolk and his lady, out of a desire to oblige him, spoke only French in his presence. They treated him completely like a guest; he could move freely both inside and outside Wingfield Castle, without the hindrance of an armed escort.

Suffolk was two years younger than Charles, a man in the prime of life. He had been under arms almost uninterruptedly since Agin-court; he had fought in all important battles and sieges and, after Salisbury's death, had assumed supreme command over the English armies in France. But now, as he repeatedly remarked, he was weary of life in the field; after twenty years of fighting, of combat, even the highest military office could not tempt him to remain in France.

“I have my hands full already, managing my estates and settling my personal affairs,” he said to Charles one day after mass, as they walked slowly through the nave of Wingfield church.

The pillars in the nave rose up like white tree-trunks which branched high overhead into little fan-shaped arches like leaves in a forest of stone. Before the altar were the tombs of Suffolk's ancestors; on raised slabs slept armored knights sculptured from stone, their hands folded in prayer on the hilts of their broadswords. As usual, Charles spelled out the Latin phrases engraved on the sides of these memorials: “Here rests in God Michael de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk… Here the mortal remains of John de la Pole await the Day of Judgment”.

“Believe me, my lord,” Suffolk went on, “one must have seen as much of war as I to realize that peace is the highest good.”

Charles stood still.

“One realizes that even more acutely when one is a caged bird like me,” he said, glancing at his host with an ironic smile. “And I am quite certain that you have chosen wisely, Messire. A tranquil life on your own land, surrounded by friends and kinsmen, what more can a man desire? Ambition and the urge for adventure are evil companions. I can't imagine a better life than the one you are leading now. I only wish that I may do the same in France. It is precisely because I long for such a life with all my heart and because I believe that everyone has the right to enjoy the quiet possession
of house and hearth—it is precisely because of this, Messire, that I am perhaps the most dedicated champion of peace that you could find anywhere.”

Suffolk turned slightly and looked at his guest. He was taller and more robust than Charles and he looked considerably younger. During the long years of forced inactivity indoors, Charles had lost the suppleness and muscular slimness which had characterized him as a young man. His body had become corpulent and soft, his face prematurely faded. Furrows, the signs of bitterness and silent grief, were visible from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. Although he was not yet forty years old, he walked like a much older man, cautiously, his shoulders slightly bent, slowly, almost unwillingly. Invariably he wore black, without ornaments, in a sober cut; winter and summer he wrapped himself in a fur-lined cloak; inside the castle it was damp and chilly, and he was easily susceptible to gout.

It was difficult for Suffolk, who had not met him before, to believe that Orléans had ever been young; no trace of youth appeared in this quiet, somewhat heavy man. Occasionally, during a discussion of subjects in which the Duke was interested, he seemed to forget his situation sufficiendy to cast off his depression and inertia, if only for a brief time. Then a brighter note could be detected in his always pleasant voice, a rare smile sparkled in his eyes, he gestured vivaciously with his exceptionally graceful hands. Melancholy and ennui seemed to leave him in those moments; as if by magic he displayed a spirit and dash which struck a special chord in Suffolk and in his wife, since the nobility were by education and way of life very familiar with French courtliness. Moreover, they respected the prisoner as an individual; it is rare to meet a man who does not under any circumstances lose his self-control or abandon his good breeding. There was no question that his altitude did not result from shallowness or indifference. No one who came into daily contact with the Duke of Orléans could help noticing that he responded deeply to events.

Suffolk became extremely fond of him; true, he sometimes felt that the Duke was too acquiescent, listless, but God in heaven, the man had sat in prison for twenty long years, it was no wonder that his resiliency had broken under it. Suffolk thought it unlikely that this prematurely aged man with his striking interest in intellectual matters, should still desire to play a role in politics. There was no point in holding Orléans in England any longer;.anyone who knew
anything about what was happening on the other side of the Straits must see that Orléans could do little, either for or against England. Since Henry V's time, the relationship between the two countries had undergone so profound a transformation, domestic affairs had changed so much, that it would be extremely difficult for the Duke, whose focus and concepts were twenty years out of date, to get a true picture of the present situation, let alone involve himself in diplomacy. Suffolk found the government's hesitation to release Charles d'Orléans to be unreasonable. Time and again over the years he had pointed out that it was senseless to prolong this exile. Why not at long last fix the amount of the ransom and set a term for payment? On second thought, why not return Orléans to France on his word of honor and with certain guarantees?

The young Henry VI had bent a willing ear to this proposal, but the Regents and most of the King's advisors were inclined against it. They felt that in Charles d'Orléans and his brother, England held two valuable pawns which they must continue to grasp; perhaps the moment would come soon when they could play these pieces to great advantage. Orléans remained—even if he should be considerably more broken by his captivity than was actually the case—the head of one of the foremost Houses in France; it was a foregone conclusion that he would once more exercise influence, once more make his mark.

Suffolk was privately annoyed about these ridiculous objections raised by the Council. He who had fought in France for more than twenty years knew the situation over there. He knew from his own observations that Dunois the Bastard was the man who really represented the House of Orléans, probably a good deal more ably and energetically than the Duke ever could.

Sometimes when they were together in the great hall, Suffolk quietly watched his guest. He saw Orléans sitting comfortably between the green curtains which he always had hung, according to French custom, on both sides of his chair or bench, bent over the book on the adjustable reading desk, his head propped on his hand. Even indoors he preferred to wear his velvet cap; he had been wearing reading glasses for some years. That finely chiselled, pale, melancholy face with its narrow lips and delicately curved nose was in no way the face of an ambitious, wordly man, a sharp, quick-witted diplomat, a power-obsessed party leader. The books which lay on the reading desk before Monseigneur must surely lead him far from
such concerns: The Imitation of Christ, Consolation of Philosophy…

The man who read his own rondelets and ballads to Lady Suffolk from a pile of somewhat yellowed sheets of paper would never want to devote time or effort to political intrigue. At any rate, so it appeared to Suffolk. The two men stood motionless in the nave of Wingfield church, brightly illuminated by the reflection of sunshine on the white walls.

“There could have been peace between France and England long ago,” Suffolk said in a low voice. “In '28, even before we lifted the siege of Orléans, there was talk of negotiations. He who calls himself your king did not seem willing then to reach a settlement with us. Fighting went on in your country, partly because of the peasant girl who was later burned in Rouen—a fanatical creature, stupid and headstrong, ignorant of the art of war and incredibly reckless in battle. What is the sense of whipping up the soldiers and the populace when there is no united effort behind these temporary outbursts of enthusiasm? That woman has hurt your country badly with her madness; the people have become rebellious, but they don't have the energy to act.”

Charles nodded, his face turned away. Suffolk coughed for a moment and then went on quickly, “In any case negotiations are now going on in earnest between your … uh … king and the Duke of Burgundy. Conferences will be held in Arras. This does not interest you, my lord?”