In a Dark Wood Wandering (86 page)

“It's certainly true that if one is touched to the heart, he will
write good verse,” he said lightly. He felt that he could never be able to speak so enthusiastically, so openly, as King René did.

“And what prevents you from loving with all your heart, from being overcome with delight or even with grief, if that's the way you feel?”

Charles followed his host out of the pavilion into the blinding sunlight; they were met by the intoxicating, bittersweet fragrance of roses and oleanders.

“When Madame Bonne d'Armagnac died, I asked in verse to be dismissed from the service of Love,” Charles said, in his usual tone of jocular melancholy. “Since then I have hardly ever taken up the pen. I live under the protection of Nonchaloir—philosophical resignation, calm cool acquiescence … in that state one cannot be incessantly inspired to write verse. Although …”

He stopped and stretched his hand toward a cluster of flowers.

“In your enchanted court, my lord, I could almost imagine myself young and in love again. Yes, if I thought about that possibility long enough, I am afraid that rhymes and images would shoot up in profusion in my heart, like the flowers in his garden. I would need only to pluck them.”

“And what stops you?” René's face was radiant with happiness. He seemed on the point of saying more, but suddenly he put his finger to his lips and nodded his head toward a flowering thicket. Out of the foliage came two white peacocks walking regally as queens; they moved their plume-crowned heads haughtily from left to right, letting their long, folded tail feathers trail behind them over the grass. When they perceived that they were being watched, they stood still and slowly opened their great snow-white fans.

“Monseigneur my friend,” whispered King René, “don't our knights hold fast to the beautiful old custom of swearing especially solemn oaths on noble birds—herons, swans, peacocks? It seems to me that everything is conspiring to lure you away from your promise. Swear that you will not disavow the deepest desires of your heart, that you will no longer resist the muse who is our truest friend and mistress. Swear that you will no longer give yourself up to the sin of unhappiness.”

For a moment there was silence in the garden which sparkled with light and colors. The peacocks moved noiselessly over the grass, the glossy leaves and fragrant flowers of the tall shrubs hung motionless against the deep blue of the heavens. Finally, Charles raised
his right hand in a gesture of avowal. It seemed to him that he had never made a more significant promise.

During the early part of the summer the King received the English legation at Montils. For the first time in years the court set aside its characteristic sobriety: fetes, banquets and tournaments added luster to the visit of the English lords. King René and his wife arrived; they brought their daughter Marguerite with them, a pretty girl of fifteen. Suffolk, charmed in spite of himself by the
King's bride, raised scarcely any objections when the French disagreed with Henry VI and his government about the terms of the peace treaty. The King of France was willing to give up Guyenne and Normandy as fiefs, but insisted on retaining sovereignty over these lands. After long discussions, over which Charles presided, a temporary solution was finally reached by which neither side had to give up an inch: an armistice was signed, to last for two years. Charles took advantage of this opportunity to discuss with Suffolk his own obligations to England: payment terms were set up. At the same time Charles and Suffolk signed a document which laid out the conditions, in minute detail, for the release of Jean d'Angoulême.

Although the embassy returned to London immediately after the discussions, Charles' work was not over by any means. The King, now that the hostilities with England were part of the past, intended to devote his time to the total annihilation of the marauding bands of mercenaries who still roamed the countryside; accordingly he instructed Charles to take charge of all negotiations and preparations for the marriage by proxy of young Marguerite of Anjou. Charles discharged this duty as conscientiously as possible, although he had no interest in that sort of activity. He felt very tired; the incessant travel to Paris and those places where the King made successive stops, was beginning to weigh heavily upon him. He was not involved only in diplomacy. He made use of his journeys through his own cities and landed estates to get the administration of his possessions in order.

Above all, he left no stone unturned to gather together the amount needed as an advance deposit on his brother's ransom. Whatever he managed to collect, either as a loan or a gift, he sent in installments to Suffolk's bankers, who would attend to further arrangements. Finally, in the spring of 1445, he received the news which he had eagerly awaited for so long: the guaranteed sum of 150,000 ecus was now complete, thanks partly to regular contributions from Dunois. Jean d'Angoulême was about to cross the Straits of Calais.

Charles would have liked nothing better than to go at once to Calais to welcome his brother, but because of the nuptials of Marguerite of Anjou, he had to go instead to Nancy. King René had chosen the capital of his province of Lorraine as the scene of the festivities. He spared neither trouble nor expense to make his daughter's wedding the pinnacle of the art of courtly living.

From all parts of the country, princes and nobles streamed to Nancy to witness all the spectacles and to see the bride, in a dress strewn with silver daisies, being led by Suffolk to the altar where she swore loyalty to her lord and husband, Henry VI, King of England, in joy and sorrow, in sickness and in health, until death should them part.

All day long the great bells of the cathedral of Nancy pealed, and the people, beside themselves with joy at the conclusion of a hundred years of war and upheaval, could not stop cheering the young Queen of England, wishing her a long life, praising and honoring her as though it were she herself who had created the peace. After the festivities the court returned to the castle of Châlons, where the King had chosen to take up residence. Charles d'Orléans and his wife, following the example of most of the nobles gathered in Nancy, accompanied the royal cortege—not so much to attend the tournaments and contests to be held at Châlons, but rather at long last to greet Jean d'Angoulême who had sent word that he intended first of all to pay his respects at court.

Charles d'Orléans was one of the few noblemen who preferred the cool, quiet rooms of the castle to remaining outdoors in the tennis courts, the meadows and the hunting fields. He chose to spend his time in the library; the King had a fine collection of books, chiefly chronicles and histories. While Charles sat comfortably reading—so he whiled away the days until his brother's arrival—his young wife Marie sought and found, in the company of the courtiers, all the amusement and variety that her heart desired.

Among the knights who had come to Châlons in the hope of winning glory in passages at arms, was a young man named Jacques de Lalaing, who had had the benefit of being brought up at the court of Cleves. He had been a playmate of Marie's older brothers. Often, when she was a child, she had looked on while the boys were exercising, running or trying to break in their horses. When Jacques de Lalaing came forward to greet her at the court of Châlons, she was moved, almost frightened, to recognize this knightly figure as a vision from her childhood; the man who approached her in the splendor of his youth and fame—he was already considered to be an invincible champion at single combats and tournaments—seemed to her to be the Swan Knight of the legend, the hero whom she had once hoped would come to her over the Rhine. During the
following days, Marie tended more and more to curse the fate that had allowed her only now to meet de Lalaing.

They saw each other continually because they were both part of a group who attended upon Margaret of Scotland, the young wife of the Dauphin. Around the crown princess, vivacious, restless and capricious, the celebrations never stopped; there were so many hunting parties, banquets, dances, strolls in the meadows, poetry contests and games of skill that Charles scarcely saw his wife. He was wholeheartedly delighted that she was enjoying herself in this carefree way, but not many days went by before he realized that it was not only the diversions and the sunny open air that brought the flush to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes. Preparations for the tournament were in full swing: an arena had been laid out, a stand built for the spectators and the masters of ceremony had their hands full determining the order of the single combats and mock battles. Charles' attention was drawn to de Lalaing, who was expected to be the victor.

Charles saw that the young man was skilled at sport and play; he was strong and handsome and knew how to comport himself with courtesy. It was also apparent that he was fairly taken with himself and was interested only in arms and competitions. He reminded Charles of a young cock strutting proudly and pugnaciously around a strange barnyard. The desire to joke about him faded, however, when Charles noticed Marie among the women who were taking pains to induce de Lalaing to wear their colors or their veils and ornaments as good luck charms during the tournaments. Soon it was no secret that two young noblewomen of the court, Madame d'Orléans and King René's daughter-in-law, were openly bestowing marks of favor on de Lalaing; he was at the side of one or the other at table, at dances, out riding and at the hunt.

Displeased, Charles followed the merry group with his eyes when they were all together in the banquet hall or the gardens. But he did not consider that this was the proper time to point out to Marie the folly of her behavior. Besides, he did not want to make himself ridiculous; there were already enough people who hesitated to congratulate him on the possession of so young a wife.