In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  Once when the children were not present, the time spent with Waterton’s wife took on a different character: despite the mutual efforts to carry on a light and unconstrained conversation, an awkward silence fell between them from time to time. Under the low, leafy roof of the orchard, or on the stone benches in the flower garden, Charles became conscious of something which he had almost forgotten in the solitude of his tower chamber: he was a healthy young man. His blood could find resignation less quickly than his heart, and his heart, God knew, was still filled with as much pain and disquietude as on the first day after Agincourt. The emblematic figures which had peopled his dream world were less seductive than the fresh young woman beside him, who looked so much like Bonne. To a certain extent it was his longing for Bonne which attracted him to Lady Waterton. He was quite aware that he could not call this feeling love. The fear of disillusionment which irrevocably follows upon sated desire kept him from paying court to her in earnest. Further, he had no desire to offend Waterton. But he was well aware of the pitfalls hidden in these encounters. It did not escape him that Waterton’s wife took pains to please him, that she secretly watched him from the corner of her eye when they walked together. He often dined now with the knight and his lady; after dinner they played chess. On rare occasions they spoke more frankly now about politics.

  Waterton liked his prisoner very well, although he did not want to admit it. He thought that once one became accustomed to Monseigneur’s French manners and his great formality, one discovered behind the rigmarole a cordial and straightforward personality. A boy the Duke was not; he had apparently acquitted himself valiantly at Agincourt; further, it was undoubtedly true that he used his intelligence and managed to conduct himself in adversity like a man. Waterton punctiliously discharged the task which had been imposed upon him: to endeavor to win young Orléans for England’s King. That he failed in this did not, to his surprise, either sadden or annoy him. Secretly he respected the prisoner’s tenacity; courage and control were necessary for the maintenance of firm opposition during long years of solitary confinement without any practical hope of liberation. Waterton found this resistance to be senseless in itself—who could seriously stand up against the tide of King Henry’s power?—but he had to admit that Orléans’ conduct was chivalrous, if also useless. He noticed the change in his wife since she had been accompanying the prisoner on his walks; he saw that she sat dreaming over her needlework or prayer book, that her thoughts caused her to blush. He watched the Duke attentively, but found no reason to put an end to the friendly association. Waterton was not jealous by nature; he assumed, moreover, that his wife knew her duty and that Orléans was wise enough not to bring down a hornet’s nest about his ears. However, he remained on his guard and treated his prisoner with cool restraint.

  “It is a good year,” said Lady Waterton, smiling, as she stood on tiptoe and bent the branches of a ripe pear tree sideways. “We’re not always certain for long about the harvest here. This is a barren country, Monseigneur. Our summers are rarely warm and dry enough and there is a cold wind in every season.”

  “I have noticed that, Lady,” Charles replied. She looked at him over her shoulder.

  “But you haven’t been behind those hills there. It is swamp and moor, a sheer morass, inhospitable and bleak, even in midsummer. There are no areas like that in France, are there? You have plenty of vineyards and green fields, huge forests. This is a lonely, cheerless land. Those of us who live here are missing a great deal.”

  “Pontefract is one of the King’s fortresses. Thus you are forced to remain here for my sake, isn’t that right? I can only hope that King Henry will transfer me quickly to more southerly parts, Lady. Then I would not feel so guilty about your situation.”

  “Do you believe what people say, that we here in England have more sluggish blood and less grace and merriment than people in other lands?”

  Charles took the hand which she extended to him and led her under the arch of fruit trees to the flower garden; behind the green currant bushes the roses glowed. The children were kneeling in the grass at the water’s edge and throwing stones and twigs into the moat.

  “I can hardly judge that, Lady, for I myself have had little opportunity to learn what you call grace and merriment. I believe, though, that our blood is not governed by wind and cold or loneliness but rather by the strength of our emotions.”

  Lady Waterton sighed; her fingers moved involuntarily over Charles’ palm. As soon as she became aware of this, she blushed and glanced in quick confusion at her children. She and Charles sat down in silence on the bench. The young man gazed at the distant hills, tinted lavender in the morning light. Inhospitable swampy moor country, he thought, they have packed me well away in Ultima Thule. I could not escape even if they let me.

  He felt the warmth of Lady Waterton’s arm against his side. The bench was small and narrow; they were forced to sit more closely together than good manners allowed. She remained motionless, her eyes cast demurely down at the flowers in her hand, but Charles knew that she wanted him, with all her heart, to be aware of her proximity. He turned toward her, he saw the black glossy bound tresses resting against her fresh cheek. He saw too how under her innocent lowered eyelids and quivering lashes, her glance was filled with tense expectation. Charles, who was a witness, practically daily, of Waterton’s somewhat rough, kindly indifference toward his wife, felt some compassion for her. Pity and lust are handy bedfellows, he thought with irony. He rose so abruptly, despite his politely apologetic gesture, that the young woman, startled, dropped her flowers. The children came running in the hope that he would lift them in his arms and swing them around, as he so often did. But Monseigneur did not seem to be in the mood for roughhousing; he stood in silence near the rosebushes.

  At mealtime Waterton arrived with important news: he could say with certainty this time that discussions between Burgundy and the Dauphin had taken place in earnest. A meeting had been convened at Montereau on the Yonne, where the Dauphin was staying temporarily.

  “According to what they say, the Dauphin of France is an extremely timorous and very young man and, as you know, his Council consists almost exclusively of Armagnac sympathizers. The old Provost of Paris, Messire Tanneguy du Chatel, is his Chancellor. If these people are willing to lend their cooperation to arrange the meeting, then it is almost a foregone conclusion that the parties in this case will unite against King Henry.”

  Waterton paused and stared searchingly at the prisoner, his eyes narrowed between his reddish lashes.

  “That is important news,” Charles said.

  “Hm! However much you rejoice to hear that France is apparently preparing to oppose us, do you realize the results such an alliance will have for you? Do you consider it likely that Burgundy will work for your release, or that the Dauphin will do anything for you so long as he works together with Burgundy?”

  “I am convinced that I shall be forgotten.” Charles smiled ironically and drank from his beaker. “So long as Monseigneur the Dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy serve the same interests, they will do well to forget that I too belong to their party.”

  “You understand this then?” Waterton went to sit down; he was becoming tense. “Don’t you realize that you can no longer count on support from France and that for your own self-preservation you must take the hand which King Henry holds out to you? Don’t you see that you can win only if you recognize the English claims?”

  “Don’t misunderstand me; I consider the news from France to be exceptionally favorable,” said Charles, bowing slightly to Waterton. “I shall thank God on my knees if it is true that an end has come to the civil war and the hostilities between the King’s vassals. I would consider myself blessed if my freedom was the price for the unity of the Kingdom.”

  “Won’t you think it over thoroughly once more, my lord?” Waterton asked, after a brief pause. “You understand, surely, that they are going to ask me very soon for your reply. Wouldn’t it be a good idea if before
you decide, you exchange some thoughts with your brother Monseigneur d’Angoulême about this matter? Perhaps his opinion differs from yours.”

  “My brother thinks as I do.”

  The knight began to reply, but Charles shook his head. “Sir Robert, it is futile to speak any further about this.”

  “But—by Saint George and Our Lady, do you find it so pleasant to sit in confinement year in and year out?” Waterton struck the table with both fists; the beakers shivered. “Have you had enough of life, do you wish then to attempt nothing new?”

  “Ah …” Charles’ pale lips twitched in a fleeting smile. “It is my misfortune to be of royal blood, Messire. I must certainly uphold my position whether I want to or not. No one has ever asked me what I personally would enjoy doing. Since I was never truly able to render my country a service in the days when I was still in touch with things, I must do what I can now that I am condemned to patient long suffering. The least anyone can ask of me is that I be loyal to those parties in my country which support the royal House.”

  “Even if those parties do not lift a finger to bring about your release?” Waterton snorted in scornful anger and emptied his beaker at one draught.

  “Messire, to change the subject—I would consider it a great honor if you would permit me to offer a few gifts to Madame your wife and your children.”

  Charles signalled to Chomery, who stood behind him. The servant immediately removed a box from his girdle and put it on the table before the young man.

  “While I was still in London I was sent a few trifles from Blois,” Charles explained. He brought forth a gold drinking cup and three belts of worked silver. “Lady, you would do me a great favor if you would accept these things from me for yourself and your children.”

  The young woman flushed violently. She moved to put out her hand but when she saw Waterton watching her sharply, she stopped and lowered her eyes. The knight snapped his fingers; the servants who had been waiting at the table retreated to the door.

  “Forgive me, Monseigneur,” Waterton said curtly. “But these are rather costly gifts which you offer my wife. Perhaps this is the custom in France, but here we are not so open-handed without sufficient reason.”

  “But there is a reason.” The young man looked calmly at Waterton. “These are farewell gifts.”

  “So far as I know, there has been no talk of your leaving us.”

  “No.” Charles looked into his eyes. “But I greatly fear that I have trespassed far too frequently and too long on Madame your wife’s time, Sir Robert. In the pleasure I derived from her delightful company, I have perhaps forgotten that she has things to do apart from strolling in the orchard with an idle lord, which I have now become. Perhaps, too, I have caused your young sons to neglect their morning lessons. You have done me a kindness for which I shall remain fervently thankful to you always. I entreat you as a personal favor, Messire, to let me give these gifts—a token of thanks for some sunny, carefree hours.”

  Waterton cleared his throat. He accepted the drinking cup and the silver belts from Charles, looked appreciatively at them, and then pushed them across the table to his wife, who sat still unmoving and with downcast eyes beside him. “Thank Monseigneur, my love.”

  Lady Waterton whispered a few words; her small mouth quivered; she had great difficulty repressing tears of shame and frustration. Charles, who wished to spare her further vexation, asked Waterton to excuse him from the game of chess.

  “I shall take you to your room,” said Waterton, rising. Both men, followed by the armed guards who were never far away, went through the corridors and series of chambers of Pontefract, hollow empty stone chambers for the most part, unheated and unfurnished. Charles cast a sidelong glance at his warden; he did not yet know how Waterton was reacting to his behavior. The knight remained silent, but when he stood in the tower chamber, at the point of taking his farewell, he said curtly, “You cannot go on without exercise. I can imagine that you have no appetite to walk up and down between the currant bushes below. I have a good horse for you. Do me the honor of going riding with me every day, my lord. In the autumn we can also go hunting—there are fowl in the swamps. It does not matter what the King’s orders are,” he added with deliberate roughness, when Charles made a movement of surprise. “I take this upon my own responsibility. Good night, my lord.”

  From a decree of the Council, December, 1419:

  “… that Robert Waterton, knight, is to be relieved of his office; that the keeping of Charles, Duke of Orléans, is henceforth entrusted to Sir Thomas Burton.”

  En la forest de Longue Actente,

  Chevauchant par divers sentiers

  M’en voys, ceste année présente,

  Ou voyage de Desiriers.

  Devant sont allez mes fourriers

  Pour appareiller mon logis

  En la cité de Destinée;

  Et pour mon cueur et moy ont pris

  L’ostellerie de Pensée.

  In the forest of Long Awaiting,

  Riding by varying pathways

  I set out in this present year

  On the journey of Desire.

  My stewards have gone on ahead

  To prepare my lodging

  In the city of Destiny,

  And they have taken for me and my heart,

  The hostelry of Thought.

  … …

  Je mayne des chevaulx quarente

  Et autant pour mes officiers,

  Voire, par Dieu, plus de soixante,

  Sans les bagaiges et sommiers.

  Loger nous fauldra par quartiers,

  Se les hostelz sont trop petis;

  Toutesfoiz, pour une vespree,

  En gré prendray, soit mieulx ou pis,

  L’ostellerie de Pensée.

  I bring with me forty horses

  And enough for my officials,

  In fact, by God, more than sixty,

  Without the pack animals and mules.

  We shall need quarters about the town

  If the inns are too small;

  However for one evening,

  For better or for worse, I shall gladly accept

  The hostelry of Thought.

  Prince, vray Dieu de paradis,

  Vostre grâce me soit donnée,

  Telle que treuve, a mon devis,

  L’ostellerie de Pensée.

  Prince, true God of Paradise,

  Bestow Your grace upon me,

  That I may find, as I desire,

  The hostelry of Thought.

  The bolts were pushed aside, the key rasped in the great lock. Charles d’Orléans, who stood before his reading desk with his back to the door, closed his book; he knew who had entered there. Thomas Burton brought with him, as always, a smell of horses and the outdoors; he always wore leather and mail as a sign of his military office. After a brief greeting, he unrolled a large sheet of parchment and said, “Be so kind, my lord, as to listen to this news which I have received from London. The King has instructed me to inform you about the treaty which the King of France has made with him at Troyes on the twenty-first of May of this year.”

  “Pray continue, Messire.” Charles seated himself on the bench beside the table and fixed his eye on the light rectangle of the window. Thomas Burton cleared his throat, put his gloves under his arm so that he could wield the parchment unhindered and began to read in a dry, cold voice:

  “We, Charles, by the grace of God King of France, have found it fit and hereby approve and resolve:

  “That with an eye upon the forthcoming marriage between Our beloved son, Henry, King of England, heir and regent of France, and Our dearly beloved Daughter Catherine, our subjects and those of Our aforesaid Son can traffic with one another both on this and on the other side of the sea.

  “That directly after Our death the Crown and mastery of France with all the rights and privileges therein shall pass over for good to Our Son, the aforesaid Henry and his heirs.

  “That since We are hindered from
holding sway by the state of Our health, the royal authority shall, during Our lifetime, be exercised by Our Son, the aforesaid Henry.

  “That our aforementioned Son shall labor with all his strength to bring again to Our obedience all cities, towns, fortresses, regions and subjects in Our realm which now show themselves to be rebellious and willing to choose the side of that party which is customarily called the party of the Dauphin and Armagnac.

  “That considering the crimes and transgressions committed in Our realm by him who calls himself Charles the Dauphin, We declare that We and Our above-mentioned Son and likewise Our beloved Cousin, Philippe, Duke of Burgundy, shall in no manner negotiate with the aforesaid Charles.”

  “One moment, Messire,” said Charles, raising his hands. “Perhaps you can give me some information here. How is it possible that those who have drawn up this pact have overlooked the rights and lawful claims of Monseigneur the Dauphin?”

  “Lawful?” Burton let the parchment drop and eyed the prisoner coldly. “He who at present calls himself Dauphin has no lawful claim to the throne of France, my lord.”

  “Explain that to me, if you please.” Charles felt his self-possession beginning to desert him. “Monseigneur the Dauphin is still the King’s only living son?”

  Burton shrugged.

  “Some doubt has arisen on that precise point,” he said casually, while he rolled up the parchment again. “There is evidence that the young man is not the King’s son.”

  Charles stood up. “And who dares to say that?”

  “Queen Isabeau herself,” replied the knight, with raised brows, as though he found the subject extremely painful. “No one can know better than she.”

  It was silent in the room for a considerable time. The prisoner walked to the window and looked out; Burton stood on the same spot and impatiently tapped the roll of parchment against the palm of his hand.

  “I thought that I had experienced many repulsive things in my life,” Charles said at last, without turning round. “‘But this really is the worst of all. That a mother could betray her son in such a manner, that a wife could wound her husband so deeply—that is something I would never have thought possible. Has the Queen been so obliging as to reveal the name of the man who enjoys the honor of being the father of France’s bastard?”