In a Dark Wood Wandering (81 page)

Charles rose.

“Do you suspect that I tend that way, brother?”

“I don't know what to think,” replied Dunois with a shrug. “All I see is that you are offering your services in good faith to an affair
which will certainly not promote the unity of the Kingdom. Peace with England—I can see the benefit of that and I shall gladly help you, my lord brother, to convince the King of it. But otherwise the cause you are supporting seems to me to smack of high treason. The rich can thank the ambition and intolerance of the feudal lords for their ruin. Must we repeat the same mistakes now that we are at the point of struggling up out of our misery? I understand your motivation perfectly.” He turned and stood before Charles. “It's only natural that you should want to reassert yourself. But you will gain greater glory if you serve the true interests of France, my lord brother.”

“You forget one thing.” Charles' voice trembled with anger. “And that is that I owe my release chiefly to Burgundy. If he and the Duchess had not persisted and paid a considerable part of my ransom, I would still be sitting in the Tower, worthy brother. With all your love for the Kingdom, you could not reach the King and convince him to interest himself in me or our brother of Angoulême. It's only natural that I should be ready to render Burgundy service in return for what he has done for me.”

“By God and Saint-Denis, are you blind then?” Dunois slammed the edge of the table with his fist. “While you've been here haven't you grasped yet what Burgundy is aiming at? Divide and conquer—it's an old saw, brother, but that's how he preserves his power. For fifty years the Burgundians have followed a fixed policy, that's obvious. Look around you, see how Burgundy grants favors to the low countries in order to be sure of strong support to the north and east of the Kingdom. Don't you understand his power? He is richer than all the princes of Christendom put together; no foreign power will be able to thwart him once he is firmly in the saddle. He has bought you, brother, just as he can buy anyone he wants. He will let you work in his own interest. I cannot forget that we had to fight in vain for years before we could restore our father's honor and get satisfaction for his murder in the rue Barbette—did they offer us compensation then?”

There was silence for a while. Charles kept his eyes lowered; Dunois stood unmoving.

“I am bound by my vows to Burgundy,” Charles said at last in a stifled voice. “I cannot break my word.”

“Go as quickly as possible to pay your respects to the King.” Dunois put both palms flat on the table and leaned toward his
brother. “The King is now in Paris. Speak to him before you go any further. You can render great service to the Kingdom if you can find a way to reconcile the vassal princes and the King.”

Dunois looked searchingly at Charles, who stared thoughtfully at the papers before him. In this stout, flabby, greying man with his doubts and uncertainties, his fear of arousing displeasure, his eagerness to be of service, he saw little of the young warrior who had left Blois in 1415 to fight with the King against the English. Even in the past he had noticed that Charles was more amiable and more quickly inclined to indecision than other people, but he had never suspected his half-brother of calculated ambition, cowardice and stupidity.

“You would do well to listen to those who want to help you with advice and action, my lord brother,” said Dunois more mildly.

Charles sighed and looked up.

“I have obligations to Burgundy. I don't see how I can withdraw my approval of the treaty of Arras, which by the way has never been rejected by the King, although he has never abided by its terms. I don't consider it treason to do what the King himself has done. The only thing I refuse to do is to confess that I am guilty of being an accomplice to the murder of the late Burgundy. I am ready, of course, to pay my respects to the King as soon as I can get away from here. But in God's name, brother, don't make my task more difficult by being obstinate. Let us both put off the requested declaration, it is only a formality.”

“I won't do that willingly,” Dunois retorted. “I refused to do it in '35 because I could not consult with you; now I refuse because I do not agree with you.”

“Then I command you,” said Charles vehemently. “I am still the head of our House.”

“I'm sorry that you find it necessary to assert your authority this way.” Dunois stood erect with his arms at his sides. “I obey you as my lord. But don't forget, Monseigneur, that during your absence, I served the welfare and honor of your House, body and soul.”

“Forgive me, but I cannot retract the command,” said Charles, lowering himself slowly into his chair. “I know that you will not desert me, brother.”

“No, you're right there.” Dunois gave a curt, bitter laugh.

“I remember,” said Charles softly, without looking up, “how once long ago you advised me to conclude a pact with the enemy
because you thought that if I did that I would be in a better position to serve the Kingdom in the long run. I followed your advice then, brother. You were only a young boy; I never reproached you later for leading me astray.”

After these words both men fell silent for a while. Pensively, Charles moved his spectacles up and down on the sheet of paper before him. Dunois stared with knitted brows at the tapestries, gleaming with gold and silver threads, which Burgundy had ordered hung on the walls of the halls and apartments of the abbey in honor of his guests. Finally, Dunois formally requested permission to depart; he saluted and quit the room with measured steps.

About the middle of January, Charles came with his young wife to Paris, attended by a great retinue of nobles, pages, servants and soldiers. Burgundy had generously given up a part of his court suite to add luster to Charles' return to Blois. In addition, in all the cities which the Duke of Orléans passed through on his journey, noble families came to offer him their sons as pages or shieldbearers and their daughters as maids of honor in the hope that this would assure their children a good future. Beautiful gifts bestowed by the municipalities were carried along in wagons: gold and silver tableware, fabrics and tapestries, casks of wine—gifts which Charles had accepted with gratitude, because his own valuables had long since been sold or pawned. No less welcome were the sums of money offered by Bruges, Amiens, Tournai, Ghent and many other cities as contributions toward his ransom. No doubt it was all done to please Burgundy. Charles thought somewhat caustically that he must swallow all feelings of bitter shame over this charity accompanied by beautiful ceremonies; in truth, he could not afford to be proud.

So with Marie beside him, he rode into Paris in the midst of almost royal pomp. Richmont, accompanied by some high magistrates and courtiers, came to greet him at the city gates, but his arrival seemed to attract little attention. In the neglected streets with their ramshackle, peeling houses, groups of people stood here and there, watching the advancing procession with dull curiosity. That they were looking at the banners and ensigns of Orléans and Burgundy carried side by side aroused little surprise in a generation which did not remember the civil war which had raged thirty years before.

Silently, Charles looked about him, overcome by emotion. The city was gloomy, battered; the houses which had been chopped up for firewood during the last grim winter of occupation had not been rebuilt. Porches and shutters were missing from a number of buildings. The streets needed attention; they were full of holes and cracks and covered with refuse.

But when Charles lifted his eyes he saw the familiar outlines of church towers and castles against the sky.

Conversation dropped off; they rode side by side in silence through the somber filthy city on the way to the Hotel des Tournelles which belonged to Charles and which had been made ready for him and his wife. They passed the palace of Saint-Pol, now vacant, neglected, defaced, like so many other royal residences in the city. No banners fluttered from the towers, the gates were closed with rusty chains. Charles looked up at the dark rows of windows, hidden for the most part behind shutters; here Queen Isabeau had died some years before, forgotten and uncared-for, a secluded invalid. She had been seen for the last time at one of the windows watching the coronation procession of her grandson Henry VI; after that she withdrew forever into the shadows of Saint-Pol.

“I intend to pay my respects to the King while I am here,” said Charles to Richmont. “But where is he to be found at this moment?”

The Constable wrinkled his brow.

“Every day someplace different. He has no time to hold court. He travels from city to city, taking up details of business, searching out hotbeds of sloth and resistance, revising policies of state. I think you can find him in Sens, Orléans; at any rate he arrived there the day before yesterday.”

“Then I shall send messengers to Sens to ask the King for an audience.” Still frowning, Richmont cast a sidelong glance at Charles' pale profile.

“Don't expect the kind of reception Burgundy gave you,” he remarked. “Here we have time only for hard work.”

Charles began to smile. “Surely my royal cousin will wish to meet my wife and me, now that I have returned to France after such a long absence. He might want to talk to me about any number of important matters. I want to pay my respects to him not only as a kinsman but also as an envoy. Surely the King will find time for me.”

“I see that you don't know him.” Richmont gave a short, irritated
are exceedingly sharp-witted. Do you know what they call him? ‘Le Bien Servi'—he who is well-served. Believe me, those who serve him so well guard his welfare and the welfare of the Kingdom.”

Charles' smile faded. He looked at Marie who rode on his right, pale with fatigue, shivering in her fur-lined cloak. She had heard nothing of the conversation.

“What do you mean by that, Richmont?” he asked, in a choked voice.

The Constable shrugged. “I wanted to draw your attention to something which you might not know yet,” he said calmly. “Perhaps you will listen to the advice of one who is well-informed.”

Charles could not help but think of certain events in London in the years 1417 and 1418. Silently he turned his head away.

In the days following his arrival in Paris he received envoys from the University, magistrates, a number of highly placed officials and priests who bade him welcome and offered him gifts; with great effort, in the impoverished city, they had collected a sum to be put toward Monseigneur's ransom. A solemn mass was read in his honor in Notre Dame; the church was adorned, precious relics were displayed, the great bells pealed, and a crowd of curiosity-seekers who had gathered in search of amusement in the square in front of the church, cheered when Charles and his wife came outside.

Meanwhile, the couriers whom Charles had sent to Sens cooled their heels in the King's anterooms. Scarcely a week after his arrival in Paris, the answer came back from the King.

“The Duke of Orléans is welcome, provided he comes accompanied only by a few loyal servants. No provision will be made for the arrival of armed men and a large retinue.”

“What does the King mean by this?” Charles, somewhat displeased, asked Dunois, who had been with him for the past few days.

Dunois stroked his cheek. He could not help but smile at the surprise and disappointment evinced by his brother, who had been so sure of an enthusiastic reception.

“It means that you must leave all these Burgundians at home,” he said quietly. “The King will receive his cousin of Orléans, but not Burgundy's protégé.”

“Protégé?” Irritated, Charles flung the paper with its seal onto the table. “Everyone should understand that I do what I do of my own free will. I speak for peace out of conviction. It's partly
with my kinsmen of Alençon, Armagnac and Brittany that I support the aspirations of the Crown's feudal vassals. For that matter I too have a few legitimate complaints. No one should take me for a puppet.”

“Go to the King and try to win his confidence,” Dunois advised. “It will not be easy, but it is worth the effort. I have done what I could to temper his distrust. I have tried to make your position clear to him, brother. Now it's time for you to speak directly to the King yourself.”

Charles stood before the hearthfire with his back to Dunois; he did not answer. He was extremely annoyed. What difference could it make to the King whether he came to Sens with a dozen or with a few hundred followers? It was not so much that he himself was fond of ostentatious display, but he refused to allow himself to be denigrated. He felt that he had already been humiliated enough. The King's demand was unreasonable; it seemed to have no other purpose than to demean the suppliant. Charles did not see how he could put up with it, especially since it also insulted those whom he represented. He would lose every shred of dignity, of authority, if he complied with the stipulations so condescendingly set by the King. Burgundy would not unjustly be offended if he, through Charles' person, was treated in this way.

“Tell the couriers that I am cancelling my visit to the King,” said Charles coldly, without turning around. “Tomorrow I leave for Blois.”

The summer sun burns on the houses of Blois, which lie scattered over the hill on the right bank of the river. Because of the prolonged drought the river has shrunk in its bed; the water, sparkling in the bright sunshine, is bounded on both sides by wide sand banks where children play all day long and washerwomen kneel at the water's edge. On the projecting plateau, a short distance up the slope of the hill, rises the castle, dark grey and weathered; but the shutters at the windows are painted bright blue and red, the ducal standards flutter from towers and battlements—from sunrise to sunset a procession of servants, pages, squires and officers of the Duke's household travels across the bridges and through the gates. After twenty-five years, a re-animated Blois once again shelters Charles d'Orléans within its walls.