In a Dark Wood Wandering (82 page)

Activity in the many narrow, steep streets and the crudely paved squares is increased by the presence of the ducal family. The rumble of voices and footsteps, the stamping of horses' hooves, the rattle of carts fill the city which for long years had echoed only to the murmur of brooks or the monotonous creak of a water wheel.

Stewards and kitchen and chamber servants can be seen walking among the stalls in the market as they used to do; on the meadows outside the city, pages and squires practice with bow and javelin. From castle yard and inner court the whinny of horses, the clatter of arms, reaches the streets of Blois once more. Often the young Duchess rides out through the fields with her ladies and her retinue in painted wagons, or on horseback, hunting birds in the deserted swampland on the other side of the river. Sometimes the noble company wishes to go boating on the Loire; on barges hung with streamers and tapestries, they are piloted downstream to Chaumont and Amboise, from which they return on horseback.

The people of the villages and farmsteads along the river hurry out to enjoy the charming spectacle; the noble ladies and courtiers in their bright attire sit laughing under the silk canopies on the ships gliding slowly past. The old happy days seem to have come back again—the golden days of chivalry when the cities thrived, the princes were generous and splendid and the people were well-protected. Those who live along the Loire in the region of Orléans and the lovely Touraine praise the Duke who has come back to them as a true prince of peace; they ascribe the new renaissance of prosperity, the restoration of order to these long strife-torn domains, to Charles' return.

In addition, to many he is a hero, a martyr; those who were still children when he left Blois remember only that he fought at Agin-court and languished in English dungeons. They have known the misery of war too well not to give the Duke high praise when they learn that he is working earnestly for peace, that he is trying to bring about a rapprochement between the King and the discontented princes. It cannot be denied that he throws himself wholly into his endeavors. He travels incessantly, returns for only a few days, then sets off again with his armed retinue and councillors to Brittany, Armagnac, to Bourbon and Foix, and to the north, to Hesdin in Burgundy where he meets the mighty Duke. When he is in Blois, he is rarely seen outside the castle. Each glimpse is treasured of that figure clad always in black, of that friendly face.

There is no complaint even when he proclaims an increase in the tax on wine, salt and fruit. Everyone understands that it is most important for him to collect great sums of money in as short a time as possible; won't he have to return to captivity if he has not paid his ransom in full in the course of a year? Don't the English still hold his brother, Monseigneur d'Angoulême, under lock and key?

For this reason the people of Orléans and the outlying cities and villages endure without a murmur what might under other circumstances have moved them to rebellion. After the anguish and anarchy of the war years, the severe military rule of Dunois, the uncertainty and astonishment caused by the King's new measures and reforms, the rule of Charles d'Orléans leads them back to the trusted ways of the past. Obedience and taxes are given in exchange for peace; the presence of the Duke creates the prospect of increased commerce, greater business opportunities, a new prosperity.

The noble lord himself is generous and kind-hearted; everywhere he is considered to be a national hero as well as an excellent poet. The ballads and rondelets which he sent occasionally from England to friends and kinsmen—letters in rhyme—are known outside the small circles of initiates; all men of letters have heard of them. Since the news of his homecoming has spread, scribes, bookbinders and illuminators have flocked to Monseigneur; they know that the Duke is a great connoisseur of books and manuscripts, that immediately on his return to Blois, he ordered his library brought from the cellar vaults of Font La Rochelle, that a few weeks later the books which he had collected during his captivity were transported by ships and wagons. The great folios were carried into Blois; Monseigneur's librarian has told bystanders where these volumes came from; they are the books which once belonged to the Duke's grandfather, Charles the Wise; the Regent Bedford had stolen them from the Louvre, but after Bedford's death Monseigneur had succeeded in gaining possession of the precious manuscripts in London.

These and similar stories considerably enhance the Duke's reputation; in addition, when he is seen in public, he has a good word, a friendly greeting for everyone. All the poor and homeless find a meal and lodging in Blois; no one knocks at the gates there in vain. He is the good Duke, “le bon due d'Orléans.”

How does Charles live since his homecoming? From the moment in the country road outside Orléans when two hundred small children stepped forward, with little flags in their hands, to bid him
welcome, he has determined to justify the faith of the singing children and the elated populace lining the roads: he will bring peace, as a mediator he will end the misunderstanding between the King and his noble vassals.

For the first time since he set foot on the shore he sees clearly what he wants to do; he is now in a position to organize his impressions, to examine the facts which had confounded him during his stay in Saint-Omer, during his tiring journey, during the brief delay in Paris. When, after reaching the Loire, he rode through his beloved country past Gien, the fresh wind blew doubt and dissatisfaction from his heart. This is his country, this is the land to which he is devoted with all his being: the sloping fields, the broad river, the cities and castles entrusted to him since his early youth. This gently rising and falling land is, even in the winter, the garden of France, filled with color and life; brown and green hills, the houses and towers grey or russet and the sparkling river which changes at every bend—alternately silver blue or steel grey, ornamented with the sunken gold of the sand banks under the water, with small islands, with numerous ships.

Under this sky Charles cannot nurse a resentment against the King. While he rides on, feeding his hungry eyes, breathing in the fresh air, the odor of earth and water united in his lungs, he begins to realize what work he really wants to do. He does not want to choose a party, he wishes to be neither the leader of the feudal lords nor the King's servant—he wishes to be impartial, independent, to cooperate to bring conflicting interests into agreement with one another. What Burgundy desires of him he does not consider incompatible with his own wishes. He has promised his powerful kinsmen to visit the vassals of the Crown, to hear their grievances and proposals, and then to ask the King's consent to an assembly of the feudal lords at which they can air their objections and desires.

True, he suspects that Burgundy's plan is not so harmless as it seems; he is fully determined to take no part in any potential conspiracy. He will act only as an intermediary. As a consequence of the meeting convened by the princes, he will undoubtedly be given the opportunity to visit the King; perhaps it will be possible then for him to overcome the King's suspicions and recalcitrance, to show that he has come to play a role in the Kingdom which no one before him ever could have played, because there has never been anyone like him, who stands apart from all factions. When the King sees
the importance of his task and recognizes the services of the mediator, the time will have come to discuss peace with England, to pursue step by step the path to an end of all hostilities between the two kingdoms.

In spite of his good will and zeal for the work, Charles cannot avoid the knowledge that a number of difficulties and disappointments lie in wait for him. He knows all too well that in practice he will not behave toward the princes with complete reserve. He is bound to them by blood ties and in addition he is dependent on many of them for his and his brother's ransoms. They have already made promises to him about that; he is afraid they will expect repayment not in money, but in services in another area altogether. Even during the welcoming celebrations in Orléans, Beaugency and Blois, he sends his couriers and envoys to the courts of Brittany, Armagnac and Bourbon to announce his impending visit. Preparations are being made in Blois for his departure; the young Duchess, sick and weary of travel, will not accompany him. During the few days of rest before his journey, Charles prowls once again through the castle and its grounds. While Marie, surrounded by her young ladies, stays in her apartments in the women's wing, Charles walks alone through the corridors and chambers where he had been accustomed to wander as a young boy, absorbed in thought then as he is now.

Much has changed in Blois; for years the castle was a fortress filled with soldiers, an important fortification in the Loire valley, a meeting place for commanders, a place where troops could be outfitted and exercised and supplies could be collected—all without hindrance. The years have left their mark on the castle. The rooms and apartments once intended to accommodate the ducal household have served other purposes. Before Charles' arrival, some tapestries were hastily hung, some pieces of furniture put in place. It is clear that these are the few things the creditors have not taken. Only the tower room where Charles lived as a young man remains unchanged; the bed, reading desk and chair, the chest in the window niche. On one of the dusty shelves lies his old psalmbook with its worn leather binding.

In that small room Charles remains standing for a long time, overwhelmed by memories. Here he wrote his letter to the King; here he once discussed the English auxiliary armies with Dunois—
here he lay at night staring, staring at the glow of coals in the brazier, thinking about the struggle against Burgundy, Armagnac's arrogance, about the need for money and the restoration of honor. All this is a lifetime ago, when he was guileless, ignorant and trusted everybody. Charles sighs and shrugs; slowly he descends the circular staircase, goes through the wooden verandas along the southern wall of Blois, now completely overgrown with vines, and walks through the series of chambers in which he had lived with Bonne. Involuntarily he walks over the dusty floor as cautiously as if he were on consecrated ground. The chambers are empty; no tapestries hang there any longer; the embroidery frame has vanished from the window recess. Gone are the benches, the tables, the prayer stool; only in the bedroom stands the bed with the green curtains where he dreamed his childish dreams, struggled with his childish anxieties, where he slept with Bonne. He touches one of the posts with his hand and stares at the bare planks, the threadbare bound curtains. His eye falls on a number of small scratches in the wood at the head of the bed. He moves closer, takes his spectacles from his sleeve. He bends forward and peers at the letters “Dieu le scet” scratched in the wood with a pin.

A profound emotion seizes the man who, wearing spectacles before his nearsighted eyes, stays on alone in the forgotten, dismantled room, the only thing which remains to him of the few truly happy days of his life: an old bed, a memory, a greeting from her who once slept in his arms. Here she lay, waiting, hoping, praying, feeling for the ring on her finger: “Dieu le scet.” And once, on an endless summer night or on a stormy winter evening, to cheer herself she inscribed the motto “Dieu le scet” in the wood above her head.

With trembling fingers Charles removes his spectacles; blinded with tears which he restrains with difficulty, he walks back through the empty rooms to the inhabited part of the castle.

So in the year 1441 he travels to Nantes in Brittany, where the Duke has prepared a great reception for him. There he meets a number of old acquaintances who, to his annoyance, show him almost royal respect. The flattery goes against his grain: do they tacitly assume that he covets the throne? On all sides they offer him money and gifts; he must accept them gratefully in the name too
of his brother of Angoulême. Among the noble guests at Brittany's court he finds his son-in-law, the Duke of Alençon, whose wife, Charles' daughter and only child, Jeanne, had died a few years earlier.

He does not much like Alençon with his polished manners and haughty demeanor. Bitterly Charles notes how relative the notion of kinship is; he feels no affection for this stranger; he realizes quite well that Alençon's display of courtliness exists only because of his own supposed political importance. He cannot get the thought out of his head that, beneath the veneer of gallant civility, things are going on in the court of Nantes which cannot bear the light of day. Too many meetings for his taste have taken place which are abruptly aborted when a non-initiate approaches. During the hunt and at mealtime there are exchanges of words and significant glances which he does not know how to interpret. They are hiding something from him; they do not dare to take him into their confidence. He sees that the Duke of Brittany and his nobles are able to move uninhibited through the streets of Normandy, which is still occupied by the English; English lords, including the royal herald, are seen repeatedly in the midst of the hunting, hard-drinking Bretons. Charles' son-in-law, Alençon, seems to be in the center of this group. Charles watches him, tries to tempt him to confide in him, seeks an explanation through cautious conversation, but Alenc;on gives vague answers, avoiding Charles' eyes.

This puzzling activity of the Breton nobles disturbs Charles all the more since it is known that in the government of England the war party, under the leadership of the fierce Humphrey of Gloucester, are once again predominant. Those who want peace with France, who have given Charles d'Orléans his freedom, who looked with hope to the results of their efforts, have been relegated to the background. The English troops in France are stirring once again. Charles listens in silence: the news of the King's victories in Creil and Pontoise provide him with food for thought. He understands why until now the King has resisted peace with England; luck has turned in France's favor. The King no longer needs to include what he has recaptured in battle, in order to negotiate a peace treaty: England is weaker than ever, torn by party dispute; Henry VI, the grandson of a madman, has begun to behave more strangely every day.