In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  It was during one of these visits to the Hotel de la Bergerie, as Isabeau called her estate, that Louis wandered away from the company and strolled into the forest. From there, among the tall bushes, under the trees, he could see the lords and ladies amusing themselves on the lawn which sparkled in the sunlight. At some distance from the others, one woman stood alone, staring at the edge of the forest. Louis wished that he, like the magician in the old ballad, knew a charm which could bring Mariette de Cany to him to remain always, without a backward glance. Concealed behind the foliage, he watched her. What did she possess that kept his desire for her alive, undiminished, even after long years of fruitless waiting?

  Behind the fence which separated the lawn from the field, stood grimy, half-naked children, staring at the glittering spectacle; the children were called again and again by the peasants in the fields, who had been told that the high-born company did not wish to be stared at. Louis laughed softly, glancing at the orchard where Isabeau, dressed in silk and gold, sat eating fruit. The court had come to enjoy country life; they had no interest in country people. He turned away and walked slowly through the long, dark green grass in the shadow of the trees. He could not help but think of two conversations he had had in the past year: one with Boucicaut, newly returned from Turkish captivity; the other with his old friend Philippe de Maizieres while he lay on his deathbed. Both had asked him the same questions, reproached him in the same way, asking him whether he sought power to serve his own interests or to look after the welfare of the people.

  To Boucicaut Louis had given an evasive answer, but he had been speechless before the old man in his death agony. It was the contest with Burgundy that weighed upon him more than anything else; more than once in the course of the last two years he had even considered seizing the Crown himself so that he could put Burgundy in checkmate. The King’s attacks of madness were growing longer and more violent; no one believed now that he could recover.

  “Do I really want that?” Louis asked himself aloud. Around him the smooth trunks of the trees rose up from the undergrowth like pillars in the nave of a church; blueberries gleamed darkly amid the low greenery. Both the laughter of the courtiers and the shouts of the peasants sounded far away; he was alone in the deep green silence of the forest. The path before him split into two forks which vanished in the dusk under the trees; he did not know where they led. For a moment it seemed infinitely important to him which path he took. But behind him a cuckoo’s call came high and clear in the silence; he turned away without making a decision and went to search for the source of that enticing sweet summer sound.

  In the fall the court returned to Paris, to the palace of Saint-Pol. The epidemic had spent itself; it was true that great fires still burned in the public squares and on street corners as precautions, and that near the houses where the sick had lain the pungent odor of vinegar still hovered in the air. But the danger of infection seemed to have passed.

  Under a gloomy sky streaked with rain clouds, the royal retinue rode into the city, past the abbey of Saint-Germain de Prés, through the Augustine gate beyond the temple where the royal treasures and the gold of France were stored under guard. The people filled the streets; they were eager to see the King again. The King and Louis rode side by side preceding the carriage where Isabeau sat with the Dauphin. The King sprawled in the saddle, weary after the long ride, his head drooping slightly; he shivered in the chill wind. The crowd on Saint-MichePs bridge shouted, “Noel! Noel!” These cries roused the King from his torpor; he was reminded of the days when he had ridden in triumph under a canopy through streets strewn with lilies. He smiled vaguely at the people along the way. Many of the spectators—especially those who had not seen him for years—burst into tears; they hardly recognized him. Secretly Louis supported his brother; he rode close to the King so that he could hold him by the elbow under cover of his cloak.

  In the rue Saint- Antoine, directly in front of the church of Saint-Pol, a commotion broke out among the people. Someone called out, “Down with Orléans, the sorcerer, the traitor!” The armed constables of the Provost, who walked before and on both sides of the procession, pushed their way into the crowd. The horses reared, frightened by the shouting and the people. The Queen’s carriage stopped.

  During the entry to the city, Isabeau had stared straight before her; the streets, stinking of smoke, the avid faces and the greedy glances of the populace filled her, as always, with a certain secret fear. She preferred to look up at the windows of the castle and the houses of the rich merchants, where well-dressed burghers, nobles and their families looked down on the procession, smiling in greeting. The poverty and hunger of most of the people was apparent in their faces and their clothing; they seemed ravaged by sickness and adversity. Among the artisans, hawkers and little people with their wives and children, among the students and priests, clerks and officials, there appeared everywhere rather terrifying figures who, in the course of the last few years, in ever-growing numbers, from near and far, had invaded Paris. Dressed in rags, dirty and neglected, gaunt, hardened and insolent, they roamed in packs through the city; they made the country roads unsafe, started brawls in taverns, committed murder and manslaughter.

  While the constables shoved the uneasy multitude back to a narrow strip of ground before the houses, Isabeau, with her arm around the Dauphin, looked on with apprehension and anger. She thought she saw two men slink hunched over, to melt among the bystanders. One looked up for a moment, not far from the royal carriage. Isabeau recognized Guillaume the exorcist, whom the King had turned over to Orléans four years earlier. Louis had considered having the man executed, but finally, as a sign of greater contempt, he had released him without questioning him. And not long afterward he had dismissed the astrologer Ettore Salvia, whose glib tongue and inscrutable demeanor had begun to irritate him. Isabeau leaned forward and stared sharply at Guillaume’s companion. Both men, however, fought their way to the side street Sainte-Catherine and vanished into the crowd.

  Orléans did not betray in any way that he had noticed the ominous shout or the presence of Guillaume and his comrade; it required all his attention to control the King’s horse as well as his own. The Provost’s servants cleared a path; the heralds blew the trumpets and the procession began to move again.

  Not long afterward the court was upset by the sudden return to Paris of the Dame de Courcy, the mistress of ceremonies, who had been sent to England with Madame Isabelle. The Queen heard the news from a chambermaid in the early morning of December seventh; violently disturbed, she ordered that the King be notified at once. Even before the sun was up, the Sire de Courcy appeared in the palace; he was taken to a small reception hall where the King and Queen, as well as the Dukes of Orléans and Burgundy, awaited him. Isabeau could scarcely control herself during the courteous greetings.

  “By God, Messire de Courcy,” she cried out at last, half-rising from her chair. “Tell us your news of our daughter, the Queen of England. We hear that Madame de Courcy returned to the city quite unexpectedly last night.”

  De Courcy did not look up.

  “My Lady,” he said in a low voice, “the Queen of England has not a single French subject remaining in her service. The entire retinue was summarily dismissed within twenty-four hours by … by the King’s command.”

  “I don’t believe it!” cried Isabeau; she looked at her husband, but he only twisted his long fingers nervously together until the knuckles cracked. Orléans and Burgundy stood motionless next to each other. “I do not believe it,” Isabeau repeated vehemently. “King Richard is well disposed toward us; he would never insult our daughter so grievously.”

  “Nay, Madame,” said de Courcy sadly, “he would not. But Richard is no longer King of England. He has freely delivered the Crown and all to his cousin… he who was here last year, the Duke of Lancaster.”

  Isabeau became deathly pale. She staggered and sat down with an effort.

  “Freely? Of his own will?” Louis d’Orléans cried o
ut loudly and derisively. “What does one call ‘freely* in England, Messire de Courcy?”

  De Courcy mopped his forehead; never before in his life had he been required to perform a more painful task than this.

  “The people of London hailed Lancaster as king the moment he arrived in the city,” he said. “The Lords of Arundel and Gloucester and many other nobles whose nearest kin King Richard had had killed or banished supported Lancaster. With an armed force they fetched Richard from Conway castle and brought him back to London and locked him up in the fortress they call the Tower of London. My wife tells me that King Richard himself asked for a private audience with … with the Duke of Lancaster. They were together for more than two hours and apparently at that time King Richard abdicated his throne. A short time later, in the presence of Parliament, the lords of the Kingdom and the clergy, with his own hands he gave crown and scepter to Lancaster—who has already been crowned in Westminster. He calls himself Henry IV.”

  “Yes, yes, but my child?” Isabeau clenched her fists. “My daughter, Messire de Courcy, what has happened to my daughter?”

  De Courcy shook his head slowly. “All I know, Madame, is that she has been given a new retinue—with only English ladies and lords who have been stricdy forbidden to discuss King Richard with her. My wife is completely beside herself because she has been forced to abandon Madame Isabelle,” he added softly. The Queen sat un-moving.

  The King had listened with his mouth open. When the Sire de Courcy had finished, the King’s whole body began to tremble.

  “How is it possible?” he asked in that high, whining voice which was typical of him during his attacks of madness. “How is it possible that our son-in-law of England has given away his kingdom as though it were a crust of dry bread? By God and Saint-Michael, how could that happen?”

  Now the Duke of Burgundy spoke for the first time.

  “Princes often fare badly when they cannot rule. Richard has brought this fate upon himself. He who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind.”

  “Precisely, my lord uncle of Burgundy,” cried Louis d’Orléans; he had thrown aside restraint now that Burgundy had dared to make such an allusion to the King. “Indeed there are ambitious traitors everywhere who need little encouragement to strike. He who is trusting by nature is easily deceived by such scoundrels.”

  During these words Burgundy kept his head turned away from Louis, as though he were not being addressed. When Orléans was silent, he sighed calmly, but he did not reply. He walked up to the place where the King sat and said spitefully, “I knew perfectly well this was coming. The marriage between Richard and Madame Is-abelle was a senseless undertaking. When the envoys came here four years ago, I warned against the bond …”

  “That is a lie,” said Louis harshly. The Sire de Courcy shivered in dismay; Isabeau raised her head and shot a warning glance at her brother-in-law. Burgundy continued as though he were unaware of any interruption.

  “I knew that Richard was unpopular; that almost everyone of any consequence in England had turned against him. And Gloucester, that wily fox, only added kindling to the fire. I explained all that in detail to the Council at the time.”

  “Again, a damnable lie, lord uncle!” Louis flung himself violently between Burgundy and the King. “You insisted on that marriage; it wouldn’t surprise me if you had suggested it in the first place. It was I alone who argued against the marriage before the Council. Your memory can’t be that bad!”

  Burgundy shrugged. “Worthy nephew, I have no desire to quarrel with you here about this. Surely there are more important matters to discuss right now. The news from England has taken us completely by surprise. But perhaps it is not news to you? At BicStre you and Henry of Lancaster were often together …”

  “My God, my lord of Burgundy!” Louis took a step forward. “What do you mean by that?”

  Isabeau gestured; she was white with rage because her brother in-law and Burgundy had forgotten themselves in front of a courtier. It was universally believed that de Courcy could not be trusted with a secret. Nothing would lend itself more to the spread of gossip than this agitated argument. The King was slumped into the corner of his chair with his head in his hands, too depressed by the news he had just heard to pay attention to the quarrel.

  “What should I mean?” asked Burgundy with cold derision. “We know very well that you disliked Richard ever since he said that you were ambitious and dangerous.”

  “You lie again, Monseigneur!” Louis clenched his fists. “I have never heard that Richard said such things about me! What I do know is that Henry of Lancaster received substantial sums of money from you and that his journey through Brittany was part of a hoax.”

  Burgundy sniffed scornfully, but his eyes became suddenly hard and watchful. “What I do not underrate is your ability to fabricate. But you are going too far, nephew, if you are trying to convey the impression that Monseigneur of Brittany and I were aware of Lancaster’s intentions.”

  “I will go farther. I say plainly that you wanted this from the very beginning. Madame,” Louis turned to Isabeau, “you must suffer my lord of Burgundy and me to carry this conversation to its end. We have gone too far to be silent now.”

  “You ask my consent to this?” Isabeau retorted furiously. “You forget the King, Monseigneur d’Orléans. Do you give no thought to him, who still commands all of us here?”

  The rebuke stung Louis. He thought bitterly how easy it was to forget that the King was not a child. He was about to turn to his brother and beg his forgiveness when Burgundy drawled loudly, “Apparently only you, Madame, are able to remind Monseigneur d’Orléans that he does not wear the crown.”

  “Damned hypocrite!” Louis struck his upper arm with his fist. “Will you deny, uncle, that you have an interest in the English rebellion? You could not manipulate King Richard: he was too independent. He refused to allow himself to be ordered about by his kinsmen, the clergy, the nobility. Now you have helped Henry of Lancaster and he is obligated to you. Although he will arrive shortly over the sea with an army to fight against France, he will not disturb your lands or your business arrangements. Don’t try to make us believe the fairy tale that you serve only the interests of France; I will call you a liar, no matter how often you say it.”

  For the first time that Louis could remember, the Duke of Burgundy lost his haughty self-control; his face became ashy grey with rage, his voice trembled.

  “Tell me, nephew, whether it is for love of France that you maintain relations with an Emperor who is too drunk to sign his own name; that you heap gold and gifts on his relatives from the House of Luxembourg. And tell me whether you accept the cities and provinces so often bestowed upon you simply for the sake of justice, and is it for the sake of justice that you are so well paid from the public treasury for your services?”

  The King’s lips quivered; he moved his hands quickly and aimlessly over his cloak, over the arms of his chair.

  “It is coming again,” he said suddenly. He looked helplessly in wild terror at Isabeau. “It is coming over me again. Oh, God, I can feel it approaching; please help me!” He slid from his chair onto his knees, wailing hoarsely. The Queen stood up; her lips were compressed in abhorrence. She knew what would follow; over the last few years she had been present several times when his madness overcame him.

  “Take him away,” she said in a low, tense voice to the Duke of Burgundy. “Call his people. Send the physicians—quickly.”

  De Courcy seized this opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The King was crawling across the floor, howling and weeping plaintively; he tried to cling to his wife’s skirts, to Burgundy’s sleeves. Louis d’Orléans went to the door to call some nobles of the King’s retinue who were in the anterooms. After a few minutes the reception hall was filled with people—bringing more lights, a cool drink, some damp towels. This pitiful spectacle had been repeated at regular intervals since 1392; it was always followed by several months at least of complete insanity. Louis helped
his brother to stand and held him up; he cursed himself for the altercation with Burgundy which had inadvertendy aggravated the King’s overwrought condition.

  “In Christ’s name,” the King implored, clutching Louis with mad strength, “help me. It hurts—so much! It is coming upon me again. Oh, God, if anyone here hates me so much that he would torture me like this, let him kill me now, here where I stand, I cannot endure it any longer!”

  Louis put his arms around the King and soothed him like a child. He did not see Isabeau and Burgundy exchange glances. While servants and physicians bustled about the King, the Duke of Burgundy and the Queen left the room.

  Louis led the King to his apartments. But he could not force himself to watch while the physicians tried crudely to undress the sick man and restore him to his senses. The sound of the King’s screams seemed to pursue Orléans into the remote corridors of the palace. In one of the abandoned doorways, he stopped and pressed his face against the icy wall.

  “My God, my God,” he whispered. “What shall I do? Parry … or attack? Frustrate my enemy or fight him to the death? Up to now I have been passive, more or less—but in the name of Jesus Christ, I shall lash out now and woe to him who stands in my way!”

  He heard footsteps and turned quickly. A noble from the King’s retinue walked past, with a respectful salute. It was the Sire Aubert de Cany.

  In his adult years, Charles d’Orléans remembered three incidents which occurred in the year 1400; as a child Charles saw no connection between them. But in retrospect, when he was grown, he saw their underlying relationship. The first was a visit paid to his mother at their castle in Chateau-Thierry, by the Dame Christine de Pisan. The Duchess of Orléans was in a mournful mood in those days; the old Queen Blanche had died, the only royal woman who continued to behave as she always had, showing kindness to Valentine in her exile and disgrace. She had visited her young friend twice; in her will she bequeathed to her small, cherished gifts: a ring, a precious prayerbook, a breviary with illuminated miniatures. Sorrowfully, Valentine accepted these heirlooms; she felt she was now completely alone. It had been a long time since Louis had paid her a visit. And she was expecting a child in the spring once more. Thus she was doubly glad to see the Dame de Pisan, a noble, generous woman, Italian like the Duchess herself and, moreover, one who knew from her own experience the bitter taste of tears. Valentine found some comfort in the companionship of the poetess; they had much in common. The days passed quickly with pleasant conversation, music and reading.