The Council now withdrew and under the supervision of the Queen, began to deliberate on the reply to be given to Orléans’ party. Isabeau, highly displeased by de Serizy allusion to her good relations with Orléans and by the way in which the Abbé had depicted Orléans’ policies as beneficial—as if to place her own actions in an unfavorable light—declared tardy that she deemed the allegations of Burgundy as well as those of Orléans to be immoderate; she advised the Council to involve itself as little as possible in this dispute between two princely families—in time the hatred on both sides would pass away. Meanwhile, further deliberation could be promised and care taken to see that Paris was fully armed and fortified.
After returning to the hall, the Dauphin in his shrill, childish voice communicated the decision of the Council to the widow of Orléans and her son.
“We are grievously offended by the conduct of Monseigneur of Burgundy,” said the heir to the throne in a tone which belied his words. “And we promise you that we shall do whatever is possible to reach the fairest solution.”
Valentine and Charles had to remain content with this meaningless response. At first, Charles was inclined to believe that their demands would be granted and that all dispute and discord would come to an end. He said this to his mother, when they sat together that night in the Hotel de Béhaigne, but Valentine only smiled contemptuously.,
“Put that idea out of your head, son. Our petition is denied. We may find it pretty that the court and the Council exhibit some dissatisfaction with Burgundy. Further than that they will not go. We must help ourselves.”
For the first time in his life, Charles dared to speak out openly against his mother.
“What precisely do you want then?” he burst out. He saw Isabelle, in a corner of the room, look up wide-eyed from her embroidery frame. “Can’t we rest satisfied with the fact that Burgundy admits committing murder? We hear constantly from everyone that he has no intention of confessing to feelings of guilt or of begging forgiveness. If those in authority do not pursue him, what must we do then? Surely you cannot intend to wage war by yourself? We don’t need to interfere with Burgundy; I don’t think he intends to get in our way. We have done what we could. If the King doesn’t punish Burgundy, it is not our fault. We cannot put France through the agony of a civil war. You yourself heard what the Abbe de Serizy said.”
“Coward.” Valentine rose from her seat; she was trembling with rage. “Is your distaste for organization and command so great that you would leave your father’s death unavenged? Do you find it so easy to bear your disgrace that you prefer to sit for years beside your father’s murderer in the Council and let yourself be bullied by him? Does the honor of your House mean so little to you? Are you too lazy, boy, to take up the sword for the sake of your father’s good name?”
“Mother, you distort everything; I haven’t said that,” muttered the young man. All the color had drained from his face. Tears of rage sprang into his eyes. The Duchess of Orléans made a small, eloquent gesture of contempt. She understood suddenly why the hatred of her father, Gian Galeazzo, had been so dangerous; he too had possessed the ability to gather together all the strength, all the passion that was in him to destroy his enemies. Was this youth, her son, really already tainted by the hereditary character weaknesses of the House of Valois: irresolution, a love of ease? Alas, Louis too had had those weaknesses—she had forgotten it too quickly.
“Do you wish to sacrifice the whole Kingdom?” asked Charles vehemently, trying to detain her as she walked toward the door which led to her bedchamber. “Are you prepared to go that far just to see Burgundy humiliated?”
“Yes, I am ready to go that far,” said Valentine proudly, ignoring Charles’ outstretched hand. “France will be completely destroyed if Burgundy exercises his power. Do you know the proverb of the gentle surgeon, son? Let us rather cauterize the wound. No, do not contradict me any more. You will admit later that I am right—perhaps when it is too late.”
The following morning Valentine ordered everything put in readiness for the journey back to Blois. Without bidding goodbye to the royal family, the Council or those who had assisted her in the matter of the lawsuit, she left Paris with Isabelle and Charles. During the journey she sat huddled in a corner of her carriage, shivering with fever; she had to be carried to bed at once. The physician who was hastily summoned found her condition alarming.
Valentine lay gravely ill at Blois. Considering the nature of her illness, there could be no doubt about the outcome after the first day; the store of will-power from which she had nourished herself since her husband’s death was exhausted. For ten long months she had strained her strength to its limits, forcing body and mind to a feverish activity, demanding too much of her constitution. So long as she had hope that her wishes would be fulfilled, so long as she could believe that action would be taken against Burgundy, she had managed to stay on her feet, but she was no match for the bitter disappointment of recent weeks. The blow was the more telling because she had thought her goal was so close. Now each foothold had slipped away from her: the Dukes, the Council faltering from fear, the Queen displeased anew, her own son unwilling to fight for his rights.
Silent, with closed eyes, Valentine lay, day after day, on her bed between the black curtains, the black hangings. She was no longer concerned with those who lived in and near the castle; she hardly heard them speak to her. Charles, on whose shoulders the whole responsibility rested now that his mother no longer concerned herself about anything, had not revoked the orders given by her in the spring; he had in fact toyed repeatedly with the thought of disbanding the troops and sending the vassals home, but he was restrained by the fear of aggravating his mother’s condition; and he feared also the opposition and displeasure of the captains and especially of de Mornay, who shared Valentine’s views.
Never had Charles felt so uncertain, so melancholy and so burdened with guilt. He knew that his mother’s advisors and assistants were privately contemptuous of him for his inclination to remain aloof; they did not show it, but he sensed their criticisms of him: they thought he was a bad son, unworthy to hold the title. Attempting to win their friendship and approval—one can be extremely lonely when one is fourteen years old and without support—he painstakingly performed the tasks in which he had the least interest: he practised with weapons, rode out to inspect the troops, studied the art of war. At night he sought refuge in Maitre Garbefs apartment; he tried to find comfort and oblivion in the books which he had loved. But the adventures of Perceval and Arthur now suddenly seemed dull and far-fetched to him; the stately Latin sentences of the classic writers sounded labored in his ears; the holy legends and the stories of miracles were not convincing. How could he immerse himself by candlelight in things which had never happened or had occurred long ago, while his mother pined away from grief, while Burgundy the murderer went his way unpunished, while disaster threatened everywhere and the November wind, like a harbinger of winter’s cold, blew its litany along the shutters? For the first time Maitre Garbet also seemed like a stranger to him; the little old man, bent day after day over the vellum sheets which he filled with essays on theology and history, seemed very far removed from what disturbed Charles.
Isabelle was confusing too. He did not see her often, because she stayed for the most part in the sickroom, but occasionally she came to him unexpectedly when he sat in the library with maps of roads and rivers and plans of fortresses before him. At first he really believed that she sought him out to bring him special news about his mother; he could not imagine why she tarried, giving him sidelong glances which made him more uneasy than her previous cutting arrogance. She did not say much, nor did she make any effort to draw him into conversation—it was precisely this expectant silence which he found so oppressive. Charles, who could not sit until she requested him to, stood beside her, overcome by shyness and slight irritation. He and she were about the same height; when he glanced at her profile he saw close by the roundness of her pale cheek, h
er large, grey, slightly protuberant eyes, her slender neck. He was old enough to know that the marriage between them was a marriage in name only; the worldly ladies and gentlemen of Valentine’s retinue had not hesitated to tease him continually since the wedding in Compiègne about his neglect of his duties to his wife.
Charles was no longer ignorant, but what seemed perfectly natural and obvious in conversations with pages and grooms in the stables, and in daily business with dogs and house animals, could not somehow be associated with Isabelle and himself. Over the years he had grown accustomed to her constant presence; she belonged in the household and had therefore, despite her sharp tongue and impatient outbursts, the right to respect and affection. The alteration in her manner toward him he found terrifying.
Once when he had offered her his hand to lead her to the door, with a quick gesture she had pressed his fingers against her breast; he felt the restless throbbing of her heart. As a child he had once caught a field mouse. The creature sat in his closed hand, petrified with fear; the tiny body trembled with violent heartbeats. Seized by the same feelings of horror and compassion that he had felt then, he allowed his fingertips to be held against the cloth of Isabelle’s bodice; her grip on his wrist did not slacken for an instant. He was forced to remain standing in that position whether he wished to or not. He had retained an unpleasant memory of that incident. Thereafter, he avoided Isabelle.
On the twenty-third of November—the anniversary of the death of Louis d’Orléans—Valentine ordered a mass to be read in her bedroom. Hardly had the odor of incense dispelled, when the Governor de Mornay, who had accompanied the royal procession through the domains of Orléans as far as the city of Tours, urgently requested an audience with the Duchess. He was finally allowed to enter her chamber. The intellligence which he brought confirmed Valentine’s worst fears: the Duke of Hainault was in Tours to negotiate with the King in Burgundy’s name; both sides seemed equally anxious to re-establish good relations. Isabelle and Charles, who were present at the mass, feared that this news would do great harm to Valentine. However, to their surprise, it seemed to stimulate the Duchess to a final effort.
She was roused from her dull indifference; in spite of pain and fever, weakness and exhaustion, she tried to take measures to protect her children’s futures. In the last days of November she gave orders: de Braquemont received instructions to divide the standing army in Blois into special troops and to send these, well supplied with weapons, gunpowder and food, to key positions in Orléans’ territory. Once more she wanted it explicidy recorded that Charles would be Duke of Orléans; Philippe, Count de Vertus; Jean, Count of Angoulême and Jean, bastard of Orléans, surnamed Dunois, lord of Chateau-Dun. At last—December had already made its entrance with storms and bleak rain—she called her children to her.
Philippe, Jean and Dunois, who had not seen her since she left Blois for Paris, did not dare come near the black-hung bed; they could not believe that this emaciated woman was their mother. The skin of her face was tightly drawn over nose and jawbones, her chin protruded sharply—she already looked like a corpse.
“Charles,” Valentine said with an effort, while she motioned him with her eyes to come closer. “Charles, kneel down and swear by the Holy Body of Christ, who died for our sins, that you will protect and defend your brothers and your sister, and everything that belongs to them and to you, to the best of your honor, conscience and ability. Swear that you will not rest until you have avenged your father’s death, that you will watch and work without ceasing until Burgundy has paid for his crime.” She paused, gasping for breath.
“I swear it,” said Charles with bowed head.
“Promise me, then,” continued Valentine, “that you will keep the memory of your father sacred—you know in what way I mean. Let my body be buried in Blois, but bring my heart to Paris and set it in the tomb near Monseigneur my husband, in the chapel of the Celestines. Promise me,” she tried to sit up but could not, “promise me that you will be good… to the children here … and to Isabelle your wife. And forgive me, you, Charles, and you two children, forgive me for whatever harm I may have done to you. Now come here one by one and say that you forgive me.”
They knelt by the bed—Charles, Philippe, Jean and Isabelle; Dunois remained standing a considerable distance away from the others, because the Dame de Maucouvent, who carried littie Marguerite in her arms, held him back by the sleeve. But Valentine asked: “Where are you, child?” and stretched her thin hand for him. Dunois knelt close against the edge of the bed and looked at his foster mother with his bright, grey-green eyes; he alone did not weep.
“You will bear the heaviest burden of all, lad,” said Valentine; on her lips appeared the old sad, gentle smile. “The inheritance which awaits you is that you will have to fend for yourself. If Monseigneur your father had not been taken from us so suddenly, he would undoubtedly have provided well for your future. I am leaving you some money, child, but it is not much—we of Orléans have become poor. But I am not worried about you—less worried than about my own sons. You are more equal to the task of avenging your father than any of your half-brothers … Alas, child, I could not have loved you more if you had been mine. Say that you forgive me, Dunois.”
“I shall fight for Orléans and my brothers,” said the boy, his forehead pressed against Valentine’s hand.
Now the priests, who had been summoned to administer extreme unction, entered from the adjoining room: Valentine’s confessor from the house chapel of Orléans and the priests of Saint-Saveur, the church in the forecourt of Blois. Valentine, weeping now, bade her children farewell. Silently she made the sign of the cross over Charles’ forehead and grasped the feet of little Marguerite who was not yet a year and a half old, and who understood nothing of what was happening. The child laughed and wriggled in the arms of the Dame de Maucouvent, clutching at the light from the candles reflected in the glittering chalice which the priest held—the governess, blind with tears, stood speechless by the deathbed of the woman whom she had served for twenty long years. They told her she must leave the room; she carried the playful child away.
Charles, praying in a corner of the room, lost all sense of time; he did not know how long he knelt there, murmuring incoherendy, until someone shook his arm gently back and forth and said, “Monseigneur, it is over.”
The Duchess of Orléans lay with her head thrown back, her mouth open, as though she were about to call out. The sight overcame Charles, shattering his final resistance. He hid his face in his hands and repeated in a whisper the vows he had already sworn to his mother. Women entered the room to lay out the dead Duchess; respectfully they requested that Monseigneur depart.
Charles walked slowly through the empty rooms to his own chamber—through the windows he saw the evening sky, colored yellow above the horizon, steel grey and already filled with stars at the zenith. Crows sat in the leafless trees along the river. In Blois and in the forecourt of the citadel bells began to toll, mourning bells for the Lady Valentine, Duchess of Orléans, who had died at noon on the fourth of December in the year 1408 at the age of thirty-eight, precisely one year and eleven days after her husband was murdered in Paris.
Charles felt his heart lying cold and heavy as a stone in his breast. He sent his valet away; he did not respond to the raps on the door. He flung himself across the bed and thrust his fist into his mouth to smother the sound of his violent convulsive sobs. When he opened his eyes—had he slept?—he saw, vaguely in the darkness, the red glow of fire under the ashes. A small streak of light was visible on the floor by the window; outside, the moon was shining.
Charles raised his head to listen: he thought he heard somewhere in the room a soft rustling, like a woman’s dress gliding along the floor. His heart began to thump so violently that he almost choked. He did not dare to look up. He knew that one must call God’s name to drive back the dead who can find no rest, but his tongue lay as though it were paralyzed against his palate; he could not speak. Was she trying to
urge him once more; did she not understand that he would do what she had asked, did she want to hear him swear an oath again?
In the reflection of the moonlight on the floor he saw a pale white dress; someone stepped up to him and put an arm on his shoulder. It was Isabelle, his wife.
III. BURGUNDIANS AND ARMAGNACS
La guerre est ma patrie,
mon harnois ma maison,
et en toute saison
combattre, c’est ma vie.
War is my fatherland
my armour is my house,
and in every season
combat is my life.
— Folksong
n the first day of March in the year 1409, the populace of the city of Chartres were surprised by the news that royal guests were arriving in great numbers. Workmen in the King’s service appeared in the cathedral to construct a dais for the royal chair beside the altar; flags and banners were unfurled as though for a fete. Only when more processions—of nobles, courtiers, horsemen and soldiers—entered Chartres did some information begin to circulate about the purpose of this impressive gathering.
Burgundy and Orléans, it seemed, were ready for a new reconciliation before God and the King; scoffers asked, for the umpteenth time? The people had no opportunity to take part in what promised to be a joyous celebration; it became clear before long that the great lords wished this peace treaty to be a private affair. On the day set aside for the ceremonies a hedge of soldiers stood between the city gate and the cathedral. The square before the church was swept clean, streets blocked off to prevent spectators from flocking in. Thus almost no one witnessed the King’s entry; no one saw the sick man, wrapped in a great cloak, helped from his carriage; no one saw the corpulent Queen enter the cathedral wearing a fortune in pearls and rubies, followed by the Dauphin and his young wife; no one was given the chance to see, close up and with his own eyes, the peers of the Kingdom, the dukes, counts and barons, the cardinals and archbishops, the long procession of figures dressed in purple, gold and black, the indispensable extras in every act of this tragedy of kings.
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