In a Dark Wood Wandering (78 page)

Il n'est nul si beau passe temps
que de jouer a la Pensée.

There is no more pleasant way
to pass time than to play
the game of thought.

— Charles d'Orléans

n the eleventh of November, 1440, a glittering procession set out from Saint-Omer to the garden city of Gravelines. Isabelle, Duchess of Burgundy, was riding out to greet a noble guest who was coming that morning from England to Calais. The weather was windy but bright; the banners, scarlet, gold and green, flapped smartly in the breeze; the women's veils floated like wisps of mist.

Everyone in Flanders and Burgundy who bore a noble name had joined the Duchess's retinue, partly to honor the sovereign lady, but mainly out of curiosity to see the man who had lived in captivity far from France for twenty-five years. Isabelle of Burgundy rode under a canopy embroidered with lions and lilies; its long gilt fringe fluttered in the wind. She beamed with happiness and satisfaction; this day was a witness to her triumph, to the success of a diplomatic maneuver which she had initiated and guided.

Isabelle, Burgundy's still-young third wife, was a daughter of the King of Portugal and a princess of the House of Lancaster; she had an uncommonly strong interest in politics and had, since her arrival in Burgundian lands, paid a good deal of attention to the development of government relations, both foreign and domestic. Her husband, who trusted her judgment, often charged her with
the direction of conferences and, in general, with all matters that required acumen, patience and tact. He called her his most capable ambassador. Because she was calmer, more thoughtful and gentler than he, and, moreover, understood better than he the art of waiting and, if necessary, temporarily retreating, she was able to render him invaluable service. She had negotiated with representatives of the clergy and of the burghers, received deputations and resolved a number of domestic problems in a most satisfactory manner.

When therefore, in the year 1438, she requested permission to direct the conferences in Saint-Omer concerning the restoration of Flemish-English relations—the hostilities with England had caused great discontent among the merchants, artisans and shipbuilders everywhere in the low countries—Burgundy had consented at once. He wanted to be relieved both of the work and of the unpleasant task of personally seeking rapport with the English, a duty that could not be postponed because of its effect on the prosperity of Flanders. He had heard that across the Straits they had begun to weave cloth and linen with success; at all costs England must be retained as a market for Flemish cloth. The alliance with Charles VII of France had proved on sober reflection to be less advantageous than it had promised to be at the outset; the sickly, timid, irresolute King had shown himself over the years, despite his caution and hesitation, to be a ruler who at least followed a steady course. He had enough insight to surround himself with able advisors and skillful army men. When Richmont, who had been named Constable, retook Paris from the English, the King's authority was recognized once again everywhere in the country, even in those territories still occupied by the enemy.

But then came the nobles and the heads of the feudal Houses who had supported Charles VII after the treaty of Arras, to demand their rewards: Brittany, Bourbon, Alençon, Armagnac, Foix, Lorraine, Anjou and a whole series of counts and barons—all wanted land, money, privileges, high posts in government. The King distrusted them and ignored their demands; he did what his father and grandfather had done in the distant past: he surrounded himself with advisors, both nobles and citizens, who began to review the country's finances and the administration of justice. Since it was too expensive to continue the war with England with troops consisting for the most part of noblemen, their retinues, and mercenaries, he
wanted to create a standing army of soldiers who would commit themselves to serve for a fixed period of time.

However, because of this the nobles and independent captains of the army turned against him. The lords openly joined together, feeling all the more justified because the Dauphin Louis had entered their ranks. The Dauphin, a discontented, somewhat sour, but extremely sharp-witted young man, did not attempt to hide his feelings of contemptuous hatred for his father; he entered heart and soul into the conspiracy. Charles VII was aware of this plot to wrest power from him when it began, and made every attempt to frustrate it, but the lords continued to hold secret meetings.

From a distance, Burgundy watched all this attentively. Alençon and Brittany had tried to bring him into the scheme, but he wisely kept aloof, planning to pluck the fruit when it was ripe.

This rebellion of the nobility roused great interest in England, along with the hope that with the help of these malcontents, Henry VI might still be placed on the French throne. Suddenly the Council at Westminster remembered that Charles, Duke of Orléans, who had been in the Tower in the custody of Lord Cobham since 1436, was also a French feudal prince. It could certainly do no harm, in this delicate situation, to allow him to communicate with his peers overseas. The Council referred to the vow which Charles had made three years ago with his hand upon the Gospels to work for peace and support the claims of Henry VI in France.

Thus, when the name of Orléans came up during a conversation at Saint-Omer between the English spokesmen and Isabelle of Burgundy, it was evident that Henry's envoys did not object, under the present circumstances, to allowing the Duke a role in negotiations for a general peace treaty. Isabelle believed that Orléans could function as a sort of link between Burgundy and the French feudal Houses. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be eager to serve Burgundy in return for his freedom. Isabelle, who was not averse to playing a double diplomatic role, adopted Charles' cause as her own. The negotiations were considerably delayed because two parties in England were engaged in a power struggle—one favorably inclined toward the Burgundians and the other against them. But at long last Orléans' ransom was set at 100,000 English marks, a high figure. However, the Duchess of Burgundy managed to raise that sum within the required time of one year.

So she accomplished two feats at once: the restoration of commerce between England and Flanders, and the release of Charles of Orléans. She gathered from her correspondence with the prisoner that his gratitude knew no bounds; he stood ready to render any service in return. While preparations were in progress for the reception of Orléans in the grand manner at the court of Burgundy—the first impression was important—the indefatigable Isabelle was occupied in other ways planning the future of her noble protege.

In Isabelle's retinue was a young maid of honor, a niece of the Duke of Burgundy who had grown up at her uncle's court. Her name was Marie of Cleves. She came from a family rich in children and because the Cleves, despite their ancient illustrious name, were not amply blessed with wordly goods, the Duchess of Burgundy had taken upon herself the task of marrying off her sister-in-law's daughters and paying their dowries. Aware of the conventional wisdom that a pact was really secure only when it was sealed by a marriage agreement between members of both parties, Isabelle had determined that the Duke of Orléans should take Marie of Cleves to wife. The wedding would bind him to Burgundy. Since in his letters Charles had shown himself willing to accept this proposal, the contracts had already been drawn up, the marriage arranged. Now it was necessary only to await the bridegroom's arrival.

Marie of Cleves was fourteen years old, slender and blonde, with cheerful eyes, but her features were rather coarse; her nose was too large and her teeth were not pretty. Her manners were courtly; she loved to hunt and dance and she played cards well. Duchess Isabelle thought that her foster child would make a most suitable wife for a man who had lived for years in bleak seclusion. The feelings of the bride were not considered; everyone agreed that she could not do better.

Isabelle put a clause in the marriage contract which stipulated that three-quarters of the dowry must be spent on the purchase of castles and estates for the bride and her future progeny.

“If Orléans should go bankrupt because of his ransom, then you will at least still possess your own properties, my dear,” the Duchess of Burgundy had explained, with a wordly-wise smile. However, these and similar considerations meant little to Marie. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She knew that her bridegroom was forty-five years
old, the age of her uncle of Burgundy, whom she greatly admired. The Duke, with his large supple body and vivacious face, was an extremely handsome man and was also cheerful, generous and courtly—richer and more powerful than any king or emperor of whom she had ever heard. She could not deny that this glittering image had its dark side. It was no secret to Marie, who had grown up too quickly in the anterooms of Madame of Burgundy, that the Duke did not observe the motto which he had adopted upon his third marriage: “Autre n'aray… I shall never have another love.” Nevertheless, Marie of Cleves hoped with all her heart that her bridegroom would be like Monseigneur of Burgundy; his arrival would crown her fairy tale girlhood which had begun so suddenly when Burgundian envoys had come to fetch her from Cleves. She had left her native land for good—that richly forested marshy country which lay between the Meuse and the Rhine. She had been a child in her father's castle in Cleves, a steep greystone citadel built high on the slope of a wooded hill.

Day in and day out, little Marie had sat at the window. She knew every valley, every thicket, every green hilltop, and every bend of the broad gleaming white Rhine. She followed the river with her eyes until it vanished among the hazy blue hills in the distance. The mysterious Swan Knight who had sought out Elsa of Brabant became a reality for the child; she hoped and believed that if she persisted long enough in her silent vigil he would come to her, too. It was not the ship drawn by swans that she saw approaching, but a glittering golden coach surrounded by armored riders carrying the banners of Burgundy. Her father had raised objections; he was not eager to see his children depart for palaces in Brussels and Ghent from which they would return to him with dainty, fastidious manners. But Marie was his sixth daughter—he could not give her a large dowry. Like a queen, the child rode out of Cleves to take up the unknown life.

Through the small windows of the carriage, she had watched the gradual alteration of the landscape; the wood merged into meadows and orchards expanded into fields of grain and flax. She rode through bustling valleys; the streets teemed with well-dressed, industrious people. In Flanders it always seemed to be market day. The magnificence of the great cities overwhelmed the child, but she became really speechless when she was led into the castle where her Aunt Isabelle lived. She walked across gleaming mosaic tile floors,
past walls hung with tapestries; brightly-colored birds sang in gilded cages; in rooms and corridors she met beings who seemed to her to be princes and princesses, but who bowed to her in salutation.

Quickly Marie forgot the castle in Cleves and her frugal childhood there. The glory of Burgundy reflected even on her; she seemed to have become a princess of the blood, exalted, unassailable. She was not troubled by—she scarcely realized—the fact that she was only a pawn on the chessboard of her mightly kinsmen, an instrument with which to confirm treaties and alliances, to draw money, land and possessions into the Burgundian sphere of influence.

Now she was going to be Duchess of Orléans; her bridegroom, they said, had been a powerful man in France, and would surely be so again once he was restored to his own dominions. They showed her the verses which Monseigneur had sent the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy from England in recognition of their efforts on his behalf. Marie imagined her future husband to be a courtly man, dignified, noble, perhaps somewhat melancholy in appearance, made all the more interesting by prolonged exile. Without question he would love and honor her, and dedicate many beautiful verses to her.