In a Dark Wood Wandering (93 page)

About the middle of July in the year 1461 couriers brought to Blois the news that the King was dead. He had spent the last years of his life in the secluded castle of Mehun-sur-Yevre, hidden away in its neglected rooms, suspicious and fearful of everyone who approached him. Finally, afraid that he was about to be poisoned, he refused to take food. He died of starvation and exhaustion.

Since the Dauphin had not yet returned from Flanders, the task of directing funeral arrangements fell to Charles. He traveled with a large retinue to Mehun to carry out this obligation. The King's body was placed upon a bier, conveyed to Paris with appropriate pomp, and there, after the mass for the dead, buried in the abbey of Saint-Denis.

On the thirty-first of August the new King, Louis, by the Grace of God the eleventh of that name, rode into Paris accompanied by Burgundy, his son and the Duke of Cleves. Charles was not part of the glittering procession which followed the King through the city:
he wished to make known by his absence that he no longer wanted a place in court, that he desired to withdraw from public life. From a window of his Hotel des Tournelles he looked down upon the endless file of richly attired lords and their followers. He saw familiar faces: Dunois, Angouléme, Bourbon, Etampes and many others; under a canopy rode King Louis wearing white garments, but with a strange little black bonnet on his head, as though he wanted to mock the coronation ceremony. His face was as pointed, his eyes as malicious, as ever. He looked about sharply at the people along the way who were cheering him half-heartedly.

Charles saw Burgundy riding behind the King in a mantle sparkling with jewels; he bore himself as though it were
he
who was being led to his coronation. Charles watched him attentively; he asked himself if the whispers he had heard were true: that Louis, now that he had become King, did not appear prepared to grant to his protector Burgundy the place of honor on the Council and in the government which the latter had expected. It seemed that a violent disagreement had arisen between Louis and Burgundy's son Charolais. Moreover, the new King of France had declared curtly that he frankly found it excessive that Burgundy should escort him to Paris with a veritable army of courtiers and armed men; surely the King of France could count on a good reception without that.

Charles considered himself fortunate that he could now bid farewell to court life; he had no obligation whatever to King Louis, who most probably would have no further need of him. He was, thank God, too old for politics and diplomacy. With philosophical submission he allowed the stream of festivities and ceremonies to pass over him. While others danced and drank and did themselves only too well at the beautifully-decorated buffets heaped with fabulously costly food, Charles sat in a quiet corner, listening to the music. He remained in Paris chiefly to give Marie the opportunity to take part in the courtly amusements. She had, he thought, lived so long in seclusion; she deserved to go dancing adorned like a princess. But after a few weeks Marie announced that she had had enough of all these tournaments, pageants and banquets; she wanted to go home to her child.

Charles' thoughts too were incessantly with his small daughter, the more so since the King had let it be known in a manner which brooked no contradiction, that it was his intention to request the hand of Mademoiselle d'Orléans for his younger brother. Charles
understood all too well where this must lead: if the King had made up his mind, Orléans would fall under his control once again.

In the spring Charles and his wife reached Blois, where they were overjoyed to find everyone well and everything in good condition. A few days after their return Marie, smiling, approached her husband who was standing in the library looking at a new manuscript.

“What is it, ma mie?” Charles asked absently; he did not look up from the richly illustrated page.

“Monseigneur,” said Cailleau, carefully straightening the sleeves of his robe, which he had pushed up above his elbow. “Monseigneur, do you recall that we once—ten, twelve years ago—made a wager?”

Charles and the physician stood in one of the anterooms to Marie's bedchamber. Charles had announced that he would wait there while his wife was in labor. From time to time Cailleau came to tell him how the labor was going; there was, he repeated emphatically time and again, no reason at all for alarm.

“Wager?” Charles, who was constantly straining to catch sounds from the closed lying-in room—was it really going well with Marie?—could remember nothing about it. Cailleau kept his head bowed low while he fastened the laces of his sleeves.

“Yes indeed, Monseigneur. When I once told you that you could still have an heir, you wagered five hundred livres that that would never happen. My lord,” he looked up, no longer able to suppress his delight, “my lord, I cannot tell you how pleased and thankful I am to be able to come now and tell you that you have lost your wager. Your wife has just given birth to a son.”

The church bells pealed in Blois, Beaugency and Orléans, in all the cities and villages along the Loire. Flags and banners fluttered blue and gold against the summer sky, heralds traveled everywhere across the land to proclaim to the sound of clarions what the people along the roads already knew: that in the castle of Blois a son, an heir, had been born to Orléans. Those who visited Blois in those days saw that Monseigneur behaved as though he were rejuvenated; he still did not know how to express his delight. He distributed rich presents to everyone who came to congratulate him and entreated
each one to pray for the child's well-being; he considered the birth of his son to be a miracle. While the bells of the district rang out, the infant was rocked to sleep to the tune of an old nursery rhyme—just as Charles himself had once been rocked:

Orléans, Beaugency,

Notre Dame de Cléry,

Vendôme, Vendôme!

Hark, we peal—what sorrow—

All day, all night—willing or not,

All hours, all hours!

Charles ordered everything to be made ready for the christening ceremony. The boy would be called Louis after his grandfather; his godfather must be his nearest blood relation—in this case, to Charles' annoyance, it was the King.

He hoped and expected that the King would refuse the invitation, but now it appeared that he had misunderstood his sovereign's character. Louis XI came, although in a far from benevolent mood. He, who as Dauphin had made use of the services of the discontented vassal princes and the ambitious nobility, had, after his accession to the throne, acted against this group more mercilessly than his father had ever done. Ignoring their objections and complaints, he had curtailed their privileges and restricted their independent control of their own territories. During the time when he was still feigning friendship for the great lords, he had learned many things which now proved very useful to him.

He had them in his power, he found their rage and disappointment amusing, but he remained on his guard. He knew quite well that they were conspiring against him; his excellent network of spies had given him all the names and facts which he needed. He bided his time, paying no attention to the hatred of the feudal princes. He had never heard the name of Orléans connected with talk of conspiracies; he suspected, however, that Charles would reveal signs of ambition now that he had a son.

On the way to Blois, the King had summoned one of his trusted retainers and asked him acidly, “How much truth is there in the little tale which I hear is spreading in Orléans and Touraine? Did Orléans predict that his son would wear the crown of France?”

The man could report only that an old woman had indeed said something like that to the Duke of Orléans.

“Hm,” said the King curtly. “My worthy uncle of Orléans may be a dull old fellow, but apparently he has not been too dull and too old to make his wife pregnant. Keep an eye on him, the grey …” The King swallowed the epithet and signalled his servant to withdraw.

On his arrival in Blois, the King did not want to waste his time on compliments and ceremony. The baptismal procession was formed at once in the courtyard near the donjon; from there the noble company, preceded by torchbearers, set out for the church of Saint-Sauveur in the great castle yard where the Archbishop of Chartres welcomed the royal company.

The King, his lips pursed in an expression of slight aversion, held the child over the baptismal font; the infant, alarmed by the touch of less than loving hands, did what would, under other circumstances, have caused no comment. The King quickly delivered the baptized baby to his nurse, wiped his sleeves and said with a sour laugh, “Look what this child—his only achievement is to come into the world—Look what he dares to do!”

Charles apologized hastily for his son, and suggested that they move to the lying-in chamber, where the Duchess awaited the guests. The King walked ahead with his somewhat shuffling gait; apparently he felt no compulsion to laugh or make friendly jokes. He greeted Marie curtly, complained to her about her son's misbehavior and refused to remain in Blois for the christening feast. As he turned to quit the chamber, he stumbled over one of the tapestries which hung from the bed to the floor.

“This is the second time!” he said angrily; he jerked his mantle tightly around him and left the birth chamber without further ceremony.

Charles was soon to discover that King Louis was not a man who forgot quickly. The events in Blois seemed to have furnished the King with the pretence he had long sought to include Charles in the warnings and criticisms he directed to the feudal princes. He had been right in one respect: Charles had been stimulated by the birth of his son to renew his efforts to secure possession of Asti for his offspring. He applied with considerable reluctance to the King, who responded with obvious enjoyment that the thought of defending the interests of Orléans on the other side of the Alps was
the farthest thing from his mind; he considered that he had the honor to be the friend of Sforza and not his enemy and he had no intention of fighting with him.

“Why not sell Asti to Sforza?” he asked at last, with raised brows. “You can always use the money, can't you, worthy uncle?”

Charles declined this suggestion and left to return home. Not long afterward the King dictated a letter to Francesco Sforza in which he said, among other things: “The Duke of Orléans does not want to give up Asti. However, it seems to me that his health is failing. I am quite sure that Asti will be there for the taking as soon as he is dead—and then we will also own his son.”

Indeed, Charles was feeling far from well; for some time he had been suffering such violent attacks of gout that he could not walk without a cane. But it troubled him more that his right arm was stiff and painful: he found it impossible, after several fruitless attempts, to wield a pen. He was obliged to attach a seal to official documents to signal his approval, because he could no longer sign his name. From time to time his eyes refused to serve him; even with his strongest spectacles, bent forward over his book, he could make out nothing more than vague grey marks. He sought refuge with Marie, or in the nursery with his little daughter and his son—in that safe company he overcame his own fear of the blindness, the infirmity, which perhaps awaited him. As long as he was able, he wanted to act in his children's interest; he reproached himself bitterly for having wasted so many years in pleasant tranquillity. For his son's sake he had to enter into important relationships, to conclude alliances; to accomplish this he was prepared to go so far as to join the ranks of the rebel princes. He felt that he had no time to lose; death, or worse, the absolute helplessness of the living dead, could strike him suddenly and when he least expected it.

He sent messengers to Brittany; his nephew François Etampes had succeeded Richmont, who had died childless some years before. The young man promised his uncle to defend Asti by force of arms if necessary, to capture Milan and to stand by his young cousin of Orléans at all times. In addition, Charles ordered a marriage contract to be drawn up in great haste between his daughter Marie and his foster son Pierre, Bourbon's youngest son. However, before he could make an equally satisfactory arrangement for his son and heir, envoys of the always well-informed King had arrived in Blois with a proposal that gave Charles a new headache: the King offered his daughter
Jeanne as a bride for the heir of Orléans, in a manner which was more a command than a request. Charles, annoyed and upset, put off giving a definite answer from day to day in the hope that in the meantime the possibility of another arrangement would arise. And threats of serious disagreements between the King and the vassals of the Crown did in fact shove the matter of the marriage into the background for a while.

The princes, who had vainly attempted through petitions and personal visits, to effect the restoration of the honors which they believed were rightfully theirs, had finally realized what the King's objectives were: he wanted their participation in the administration of the Kingdom to be reduced to a minimum; he did not want them at his court, nor did he want their advice in the Council—for that, he would choose his own people. The cities and territories which he had peremptorily confiscated from them upon his accession to the throne, would not be returned. He said repeatedly that he would not allow his regime to be poisoned by a group of men who were driven and impelled only by self-interest and ambition and who had always shown hostility to any confident, capable sovereign. Charles, through his negotiations for alliances with Bourbon and Brittany, was embroiled once more in the affairs of the feudal princes; he had to declare his solidarity with the struggle of that group in which, because of his birth and rank, he held so important a place.

He attended the protest meetings convened by Brittany; that Burgundy's envoys appeared there at every turn did not please Charles. Their complaints and accusations far exceeded all the others in intensity: the King had occupied the cities along the Somme and, through men whom he had met in Flanders years ago, maintained relations with the rebellious commercial cities. Finally, the participants in the meetings decided to unite openly in a coalition “for the interests of the common welfare.” They would gather together to show that the King's behavior was damaging to the landed interests and the honor of the Kingdom. But before they could proceed, the King summoned them—in a document which demonstrated how well-informed he was—to a meeting in Tours. The vassals of the Crown set out in a less than hopeful mood; they knew they could expect nothing good from a man who, for political reasons, had feigned friendship and familiarity with them for twenty years.