In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  She walked past the Regents, who bowed to her politely, to a door opposite the one through which Salaut and Guillaume had vanished; she had to bend her head to one side to prevent the top of her crowned headdress from touching the door frame. The white greyhound bounded after her.

  “You forgot yourself just now, Monseigneur,” said Burgundy to Berry, who was beginning to draw on his gloves.

  The Duke of Bourbon made an impatient gesture. “There is no sense in stirring up old ashes,” he remarked, approaching Burgundy. “Monseigneur de Berry was somewhat hasty.”

  “I don’t care about haste.” Burgundy shoved aside the arm with which Bourbon attempted to restrain him. “My brother of Berry is not hot-blooded enough to blurt out things which he does not customarily think … and say. What you think leaves me cold,” he added, the bitter lines around his mouth becoming sharper, “but what you say, especially what you say about me publicly, touches me deeply. In your eyes then, I am a braggart, a squabbler? And have you no respect for the name which I bear with honor?”

  Berry shrugged. He stood half-turned away from the light, and the shadow which fell over his heavy face made him look a little like a toad, an impression intensified by his ample glossy greenish clothing.

  “Have you earned my respect then, brother?” he said affably, but not without malice. “Have you, on your side, furthered my interests, or at least not worked against them since you have been occupying a position of power—or say rather, the position of power? You have not given me much inducement to honor you or your name.”

  Burgundy frowned and sat down, stiffly erect as always, on the bench under the canopy.

  “I have had no reason to approve of the manner in which you have been able to arrange your affairs,” he said coldly. “God knows there is chaos in all the provinces, but the mess in Languedoc and Guyenne surpasses anything we have had to contend with in the dominions. You can’t expect anything better, of course, when you refuse to lower taxes. No sensible governor lets himself go so far for the sake of miniature paintings and carved towers.”

  “No, you manage another way,” Berry said; he struck the edge of the table angrily with his right-hand glove which he had not yet put on. “You marry the rich heiress of Flanders and let the roast goose melt in your mouth. You have no trouble being generous and lifting the tax burden. Nevertheless, I have heard it said that you are not averse to extra income, either, if you are able to squeeze it out somewhere without damaging your good name. There are many within these borders who curse your name already, lord brother.”

  “It is not unpleasant or dangerous to live in Burgundy or Flanders,” Philippe replied calmly, “and if anything should occur or be expected to occur there which would stir up discontent, I would be prepared to look into the matter. But it may be as you say—that I am called ‘the Bold’ because I thrust Anjou away from his place at table—I am, in any case, not so cowardly that I let my tax collector be burned by the populace to make up for my foolish actions.”

  The Duke of Berry raised his glove and took a step forward. Hastily Bourbon placed himself between him and Burgundy, who remained motionless in his seat.

  “My lords!” Bourbon exhorted them. “This is really going too far. All these things lie behind us. Wouldn’t it be more sensible to confine our discussion to the present?”

  “Agreed, agreed, worthy lord,” Burgundy said, without taking his eyes from Berry. “But can he deny that I am right? Six years ago when the King, our pitiable nephew, went to see how the land lay in Languedoc—because the laments of the people were audible even here—he could not quiet them in any other way except to allow them to burn your treasurer, Messire de Betisac. I have a good memory, brother. Does it still surprise you that the King found it prudent to deprive you of authority for a considerable period of time?”

  “The King, the King!” Berry threw his glove on the floor. “Slide everything onto the shoulders of that poor soul again. You gave him good counsel, you knew what you were doing.”

  “Don’t make yourself ridiculous, brother.” A shadow slid over Burgundy’s cold, crafty face. “How much influence did I—or any one of us—have after the King thanked us so politely in the great Council at Reims for our help? Do you think that I would try to press my advice on him when he so clearly preferred those fools, the Marmousets, that haughty set of climbing burghers and priests whom he loved to call his ‘Council’?”

  “It’s not difficult to talk about hating,” said Berry. “No, Monseigneur de Bourbon, why do you enjoin me to be silent? I’ll say what I think fit to say. My brother is so eager to condemn the way we received our dismissal at Reims. But what have you done about it, Burgundy? Have you presented any resistance or tried to avenge yourself?”

  “You did that yourself already, brother, didn’t you?” answered Philippe drily. “Cardinal de Laon, who so cleverly and venemously explained to the Council that our nephew Charles was capable of ruling by himself—not long after that, the Cardinal was no more. Wasn’t that poison? Surely, you know about that,” he added ironically.

  “Messeigneurs!” The Duke of Bourbon threw a quick glance at the door through which Isabeau had vanished. “In heaven’s name, remember where we are. The walls have ears. The room next door …”

  “A room full of women!” Berry gave an ugly laugh. “They are used to hearing—and seeing—less beautiful things whenever they wish. You are even crazier than our nephew the King,” he went on to Burgundy, “if you are attempting to insinuate that I …”

  “Have I contended such a thing?” Burgundy laughed softly and put his fingertips together. “I only know the facts, brother. I know that you were not especially obliging when the King asked you to march with your vassals to Brittany to seek out the suspects.”

  “By the body of Christ!” Berry swore with a gesture of impotent rage. “You distort everything. Did you want to cooperate then? Or Bourbon here? No, my lord of Burgundy, you cannot throw dust in my eyes. I know damned well who always has the final say here. Oh, yes, you can insist that you were pushed into the background when our nephew took advice from the Marmousets, but you knew enough to reach your goal by going through back roads. You are slyer than a fox, brother. And I never doubted that I had you to thank for the matter of Languedoc.”

  “You are so certain of your case.” Burgundy rose. “Undoubtedly you will be able to tell me why I played such a nasty trick on you.” He looked fixedly at his brother over Bourbon’s head. The Duke of Berry, who had become so excited that beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, cried, almost choking with rage, “Why, why? Do I know why? So much goes on in that cunning heart of yours that I wager only the Devil knows your thoughts—and perhaps not even he, for you are too wily even for him. Are you going to tell me that you did not want Languedoc for yourself? You are forever swallowing up land, brother. Look at the map. You wind yourself around the heart of France like a serpent. I don’t know where your avarice will end …”

  Burgundy walked down the steps leading from the bench, shrugged, and took his velvet hat from a chest nearby. The Duke of Bourbon, taking this as a sign that this painful conversation was over, heaved a sigh of relief. He picked up Berry’s glove which lay near him and returned it to its owner.

  “Look upon all this as belonging to the past, Monseigneur,” he said in a low voice. “You—didn’t you?—returned Languedoc to the King …”

  Burgundy laughed; a short, dry laugh filled with derision.

  Bourbon, who had maintained the calm demeanor of the mediator long enough, lost his patience.

  “I find it deeply mortifying, my lords,” he said heatedly, “that we should be busy splitting hairs when it is in our interest to work together harmoniously. There is no authority in France today except our own. We have a heavy responsibility before us, my lords.”

  Burgundy smiled sarcastically, but Berry burst out, “Words, words! Don’t play the hypocrite, Monseigneur de Bourbon! We know each other too well, I’m afraid. It�
�s perhaps better not to describe the interests which we pursue here.”

  “I see to my delight, brother,” said Burgundy, who was already at the door, “that you have found for the nonce a new opponent to argue with. Good-bye, my lords. The baptismal feast of little Orléans will be lively this evening if we come to the table in our present frame of mind.”

  In the great inner courtyard next to the stables, servants had been holding horses in readiness for some time for the Duke and his retinue. Burgundy’s coal-black stallion, Charlemagne, kicked up the earth impatiently with his front hooves. On the harnesses and saddles, the copper and silver ornaments glittered in the steady light of the torches held high by the servants. A glimmer of light streamed out too from the open stable doors, through which could be seen a swarm of grooms and horses. The men were busily cleaning harnesses and tending to the beasts in the stalls. An acrid odor of hay and manure met everyone who came into the vicinity of these buildings. Dampness hung on the horses in the courtyard. The members of the suite who were already mounted and waiting had great difficulty in keeping their stamping, snorting steeds under control. The Duke allowed one of his servants to throw a fur-lined cloak around him; then he set his foot in a stirrup and deftly swung himself into the saddle. The gates of Saint-Pol were flung open; with a loud clatter of hooves and amid the shouting of the servants and torch-bearers who ran quickly alongside it, the ducal train moved off under the archway in the direction of Burgundy’s residence, the Hotel d’Artois.

  The evening was chilly and misty; drops of water clung to Burgundy’s hat and to the fur of his mantle. The torches smoked with a ruddy glow in the fog. They rode at a fairly quick pace through the narrow streets of the Saint-Pol district; mud and stones flew up from under the horses’ hooves. Philippe handled the reins mechanically; his thoughts were elsewhere. He stared fixedly, without seeing it, at the glossy reddish copper band between Charlemagne’s ears.

  He had been unusually patient in allowing Berry to talk so much; he had listened because he had a deep aversion to commonplace wrangling. He found it diverting that his brother was so well aware of the nature of the relationship between the two of them; the fact that Berry lacked the pride and tact to preserve a courtly, arrogant silence about these matters was, to Burgundy, merely further proof that Berry had no talent for the craft of diplomacy. Indeed, Burgundy knew that he himself was not blameless in the matter of Languedoc; a resentment, never openly acknowledged but carefully stored away, was the thing that had motivated Philippe to work against his brother at that time.

  In 1385, the Duke of Burgundy had come up with a plan to attack England directly as part of—and perhaps as a way to end—the drawn-out war between France and that island. He knew how to turn the head of the King, then seventeen years old and married for only a short time to Isabeau, with promises of great new military victories. The plan was received enthusiastically by the nobility, all of whom had sufficient motivation to want to plunder and extort tribute from the inhabitants of the English coast.

  About 1400 vessels had been assembled, most of them only fit for boating and as senselessly and grotesquely dressed up as the pugnacious young noblemen themselves. Even now Burgundy could not think of that fleet without irritation: silvered masts, gilded prows, multi-colored silk pavilions on the decks, streamers and banners on which all of French heraldry seemed to come to life as the colorful ensigns fluttered in the wind: lions and griffins, dragons and unicorns. And even more ludicrous than this, an entire wooden city, complete with houses and palaces, loaded onto seventy-two cargo ships—a city intended to shelter the whole army after it disembarked on English soil.

  An invasion at that moment offered Burgundy an unparalleled opportunity for influence over English-Flemish relations. If everything had gone as he had planned, Burgundy might have become the most powerful man on the continent, but his dream was too daring: too many in his circle hated him and were jealous of the apparent ease with which he moved piece after piece on the political chessboard. His brother Berry had been one of these for a long time, and was well aware that the plan depended mostly on taking advantage of the propitious moment to set out to sea and attack; if that moment were allowed to slip past and the departure of the fleet were delayed, winter storms would make the voyage impossible. While Burgundy waited in Arras with the army of nobles, biting his lips in impatience, Berry lingered in Paris with the King, dawdling and delaying. A marriage was arranged between Berry’s son and the King’s youngest sister; the festivities held everyone’s attention. It was not until the middle of September that the King arrived in Arras.

  The crossing was still possible because the weather was holding, but now Berry, and his indispensable army, remained absent. Despite letters and urgent messages, he could not be shifted from his intentionally dilatory course. He finally came in December when the storms were breaking out, the nights were long and dark and the sea growled around England. Burgundy had to give up his plan. He suffered this setback in his own way, without in any respect allowing his resentment and rage to be seen. Instead of literally setting his sails to the wind, he did so figuratively: he altered his course in the inimitably adroit manner of the politician and began seeking rapport with England.

  For him this policy might possibly yield much more favorable, if costly, results than the naval expedition would have been able to do. So, after all, he did not regret the failure of his plan, for which France bore the enormous cost. And although Burgundy did not betray by word or deed that he was aware of Berry’s role in the failure, he did not forget it.

  The horses’ hooves clattered on the pavement of the inner courtyard of the Hotel d’Artois. Philippe dismounted before the main door. He threw his cloak, heavy with dampness, to one of the nobles in his retinue and strode swiftly into the palace. In the rooms where he was accustomed to spend his time when he was at home, he found his son, Jean, Comte de Nevers. The young man was standing near a writing desk, slowly turning over the pages of a manuscript. He closed the book and turned when his father entered.

  “You are late, Monseigneur,” he said, with a formal bow.

  Burgundy greeted his son with a frown. “I missed you at the christening ceremony,” he said curtly.

  The corners of Jean’s mouth turned down in an expression of contempt.

  “If I had to attend christenings for all of Orléans’ offspring—legitimate as well as illegitimate—” he began, but a glance from his father silenced him. He went to the hearth and spat into the fire.

  “You know what I mean,” said Burgundy sternly.

  “Yes, in that respect I am not so good a diplomat as you, my lord. I cannot dissemble. God knows I would like nothing better than to wring Orléans’ neck—I find him too much beneath contempt for me to dirty my sword or my dagger on him.”

  “You know my position.” Burgundy looked at his son, who now stood with his back to the fire. The wax candles on the reading desk illuminated his somewhat sharp, oldish face; he had his father’s keen eyes and a sour mouth with a full lower lip. He was rather small and badly built: his upper body was disproportionately heavy, a trait that was exaggerated by the short pleated jacket he was wearing.

  Jean de Nevers and Louis d’Orléans held much the same position in the Kingdom; they were about the same age, all but equal in rank and well-matched in acumen. Louis had many enemies at court, but he had no fewer admirers; with unparalleled luck he managed to maintain his position in all circumstances and avoid unfortunate entanglements. Nature had not withheld a single gift from him.

  Jean, on the other hand, lacked all the qualities which could have made him shine: his mind, forceful and caustic rather than quick-witted, did not show to advantage in the courtly world of Saint-Pol, where his surly character won him few friends. Ever since his boyhood, the preference shown to Orléans had been a thorn in Jean’s flesh. He had his father’s uncommunicative disposition. Resentment burned in him, a constantly smouldering fire nourished by countless petty incidents involvin
g his cousin: a precedence at a banquet, a victory in a tournament, the admiring glance of a woman, a word of praise—and more than all this, Louis’ own airy amiability, even toward Jean himself—his adaptability and dashing courtliness.

  At a fête given by the King a few years before, Jean de Nevers had found his wife Marguerite in Orléans’ arms. Earlier in the festivities he had already had reason to complain about her roving glances, her attention to the banter of the King’s younger brother. Because no one was sober and the momentum of the celebration could not be interrupted, the affair did not result in an altercation or a physical fight.

  The day after this evening of indulgence was more bitter for Jean than any which came from simply drinking too much wine. He was assailed by doubt and rage; he was not sure now what exactly he had seen in his drunken condition; he did not know what to believe or what to do. There were no witnesses; Marguerite remained silent, Orléans behaved with courteous indifference. Spies, servants with sharp eyes, could discover no signs of an illicit love affair. But Jean, wracked by jealousy, saw signs where there were none: a poem filled with allegory, which the Duke of Orléans had written and which he read aloud at a court fete, Jean took to be a hymn of praise to his wife’s beauty. His self-possession deserted him completely and he let himself go into frenzies of hatred. Of all those who worked for Burgundy, secretly fueling hostility against Orléans, he was the most industrious; he supervised the men in his father’s service who were trying to enflame the people. And it was he who came up with the notion of using Louis’ dabbling in the occult as a weapon against him.

  Jean was driven to these methods by his father’s prudence; he himself would much rather have allowed his bottled-up loathing to explode into violence. But his father firmly and resolutely opposed any form of assassination, including the poisoned cup. So Jean could only wait, brooding in solitude on the rancor which embittered his life. Because he did not have the ability to feign amiability or even indifference, every moment he spent in Orléans’ presence was a torment for him. He kept away from the court, but etiquette had assigned his wife a place among the Queen’s ladies, so he could not forbid Marguerite to go to Saint-Pol. He bided his time, taking refuge in the library of the Hotel d’Artois or in various of his many country estates, venting his fury in hunting and sport.