In a Dark Wood Wandering

PROLOGUE (NOVEMBER 24, 1394)

alentine, Duchess of Orléans, lay in her green-curtained bed of state, listening to the bells of Saint-Pol. The church was not far from the royal > palace — only a stone’s throw away. The pealing of the bells swelled into a heavy sea of cheerless sound; Valentine folded her hands over the green coverlet. The christening procession of her fourth son, Charles, had left the palace.

The people of Paris, crowded behind the wooden barriers set up to protect the procession, strained to see Charles VI, the godfather of the royal child, and the King’s brother Louis, the father, preceded by torchbearers, noblemen, high dignitaries of the Church and clergy. Following Charles and Louis were their uncles: Philippe, Duke of Burgundy, and the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon.

The King walked faster than the solemnity of the occasion dictated; the agitated movements of his head and his aimless, wandering stare betrayed his unfortunate mental condition even to the uninitiated. But the spectators’ attention was riveted on Louis the Duke of Orléans, because of his smile and splendid clothes, and on Isabeau the Queen, surrounded by princesses and royal kinswomen and followed by many ladies-in-waiting. In the midst of the women’s crowns, veils, pointed headdresses and trailing ermine-trimmed mantles, the infant Charles d’Orléans was carried to church for the first time.

Valentine’s weary body lay beneath the coverlet. She stared at the women busying themselves at the hearth, at the open cupboard filled with platters and tankards, the torches set along the walls in their iron brackets, the green wall hangings of the ducal lying-in chamber. Before the hearthfire stood the cradle on small wooden wheels in which Charles had slept from the moment that, washed, rubbed with honey and wrapped in linen cloth, he had been entrusted to the care of his nurse, Jeanne la Brune. Women hurried back and forth from the adjoining room, filling the platters on the sideboard with sweets and fruit, bringing green cushions for the benches along the walls. The torches gave off a stupefying smell of resin; their heat, together with the heat of the hearthfire, was almost unbearable in the tightly-closed room. The Duchess broke into a sweat.

Her body had been worn out by four confinements in four years’ time. But more exhausting still, perhaps, was the pace of court life — an uninterrupted series of dances, masquerades and banquets. On Valentine Visconti, exhaustion worked like a poison. At her father’s court in Pavia, she had loved the small elegant gatherings frequented by poets and scholars, the debates and word games, the music played in her own chambers. Gian Galeazzo Visconti, although denounced as a tyrant and a sorcerer, had a more acute eye for learning and the fine arts than the pretentious inhabitants of Saint-Pol.

The glitter of the torch flames, reflected in the gold and silver plate on the sideboard, hurt her eyes. She closed them and sank away instantly into a deep pool of exhaustion, a darkness without rest, riddled with the voices and stifled laughter of the women. It seemed to her that the walls of Saint-Pol vibrated with sound like the walls of a gigantic beehive. The entire enormous palace, with its complex structure which linked halls, chambers, towers, bastions, inner courtyards, annexes, stables and gardens, enclosed her like a honeycomb of cells, buzzing with bees. She was aware all at the same time of members of the household running up and down the stairs and through the corridors; of the continuous uproar in and around the kitchens, larders and wine cellars where the christening meal and the banquet were being prepared; of the stamping of hooves and the jingle of weapons and armor in the guardrooms; of the chirping and twittering of birds in the great indoor aviary; of the roaring of lions — the King’s menagerie — in their winter quarters. And more disturbing than all this was the ceaseless cacophony of the bells. She murmured prayers and endeavored to lose herself in thoughts of the ceremony nearby in the church of Saint-Pol, where even now her son was receiving baptism over the basin hung with gold brocade. She thought of her brother-in-law the King who, as godfather, had to hold the child in his right arm throughout the christening. She had been told that he was pleased at the birth and the planned festivities.

For the first time in months, he had left the castle of Creil where he was confined, to show himself to the public. His relatives, warned by physicians, watched him anxiously, fearing a sudden renewed outburst of madness. Valentine felt a heartrending pity for the King, of whom she was as fond as he was of her. The news two years earlier of an unexpected eruption of his illness had upset her no less — although she reacted in a different way — than it had upset the Queen. Despite her displays of desperate grief, Isabeau believed — or professed to believe — that recovery was possible; Valentine, on the other hand, perhaps because of her swifter Southern intuition, knew that the germ of madness, always present in the King’s childlike, capricious nature, had now put down roots that were ineradicable. To some degree, Valentine shared the view that a madman was little more than a dangerous animal; but the thought of her brother-in-law imprisoned in the barred balcony high above the walls of Creil, gazing down from his cage at the nobles of his retinue who were playing ball in the dry moat below, filled her with horror and compassion. Although she knew that Isabeau’s grief was sincere, she could not remain blind to the avidity with which the Queen had taken over the administration of the court, and the Duke of Burgundy the control of affairs of state.

She had little faith in the physician Guillaume de Harselly, however capable he might be. She no longer believed that illness could be banished by confession and exorcism. The previous winter she had found another physician’s recommendation for a cure even less beneficial; the King should be kept away from the Council and all state business; he should be diverted with various amusements. As a result, Saint-Pol became a madhouse where the music was never silenced, where the uproar of balls and drinking bouts never stopped; where Isabeau, evening after evening, on the arm of Louis d’Orléans, led the rows of celebrants in their multi-colored finery, and the King, actually somewhat recovered, clapped his hands in time with the music and looked on eagerly at each new entertainment.

The torchlight pricked Valentine’s closed eyes; the heat of the lying-in chamber made her think of the endless nights spent under the canopy of tapestries and fading flowers at the side of the King, who enjoyed having her near him and would not allow her to withdraw. As she looked down from the raised platform upon the crowd in the overflowing hall, it often seemed to her that she was in a purgatory more cruel and terrifying than the one the Church had taught her to fear. The statues in the niches of the cathedral, the spewing monsters, the devils and gargoyles which looked down upon Paris, grimacing, from the exterior of Notre Dame, had come to life in the grotesquely-masked dancers illuminated in the torchlight: in the women whose high headdresses were decorated with horns and rolls of stuffed cloth, in the men whose wide pleated sleeves looked like the wings of bats and who wore sharply pointed shoes like the beaks of alien beasts.

Valentine moved her head restlessly on the pillows. The rush of milk made her feverish. The normal cure for this, the feeding of her child, was denied to her: that was taken care of by the wet nurse who sat by the hearthfire, a cloth folded over her breasts. A chamberwoman threw some logs on the fire; the flames leapt high in the recesses of the hearth.

Flames had put a premature end to the wild masquerade which Isabeau had held in January to celebrate the marriage of her friend and confidante, the widow of the Sire de Hainceville. The celebration of a second marriage offered abundant opportunity for unbridled pleasures, jokes full of double entendres, reckless debauchery. An endless train of guests danced hand in hand through the hall. And the King, infected by the general atmosphere of wild elation, allowed himself to be seduced into joining a game of dressing-up invented by some noblemen who wanted to terrorize the women for sport.

In a side room they had their naked bodies sewn into garments of thin leather smeared with pitch and then strewn with feathers; they put on feather headdresses to make themselves look like savages. So attired, they leapt shouting among the dancers who dispersed in panic in every direction, to the onlookers’ delight.

The Duchess of Berry, the very young wife of the Duke’s uncle, sat beside Valentine under the canopy. She recognized the King by his build and laughed uncontrollably at his antics, which were wilder and more excited than those of the others. Louis d’Orléans entered the hall, drunk, with a lighted torch in his hand, accompanied by some friends; the savages rushed over to him and began, crowded together, to dance around him. The shouts of the bystanders drowned out the music. A scuffle broke out, in the course of which the feathered headdresses caught fire.

In nightmares, Valentine still heard the screams of the living torches, hopelessly doomed in their tight garments; they ran in circles, frantically clawing at themselves, or rolled howling over the floor. Isabeau, who knew that the King was one of the dancers, collapsed at the sight of the flames. But the young Duchess de Berry, tears of laughter still on her cheeks, wrapped the train of her dress around the King and was able to smother the fire. The others burned half an hour longer, but they did not die for several days.

Valentine moaned aloud and threw her hands over her face. This caused a stir among the women near the door. Someone came quickly to the bed; it was the Dame de Maucouvent, who looked after Valentine’s oldest son Louis.

“Madame,” she said, curtseying low, “the procession is returning from the church.”

The Duchess opened her eyes — she was still overcome by the memory of that hellish night which had caused the King to have another, and prolonged, relapse. She gazed for a time at the trustworthy, somewhat faded face of the Dame de Maucouvent. “Help me,” Valentine said at last, holding out her arms.

The woman helped her to sit up, wiped the perspiration from her face and spread the deeply scalloped sleeves of her upper garment over the coverlet. The pealing of the bells began to subside.

The Dame de Maucouvent put a silver dish filled with sweetmeats and spices on Valentine’s lap. Custom dictated that the mother of a new-born child quit her bed during the King’s visit to offer him refreshment with her own hand. The women took the lids from the jugs on the sideboard; a fragrance of warm hippocras filled the chamber. The voices of arriving guests could be heard in the antechamber; pages opened the door to the lying-in room and the King entered quickly, walking between rows of torchbearers and curtseying women.

Valentine, who had not seen him since the early spring, was so shocked and horrified by his altered appearance that she forgot her manners and remained sitting in bed. She watched him approaching her, slovenly in his rich clothing, his eyes distended with nervous mirth. Behind him, on the threshold of the chamber and in the anteroom, stood the royal kinsmen and the court. The baptized child began to wail.

Hastily the women pulled back the coverlet and Valentine, supported by the Dame de Maucouvent, set her feet on the floor.

“Sire,” Valentine whispered, lifting the dish toward him. She was blinded by a sudden dizziness; two ladies of the court held her firmly under the arms while the King, dawdling like a child, poked among the delicacies in the dish.

“Take this, Sire, it is a deer,” Valentine said softly, almost in tears to see him staring uncertainly at the sugar beast in his hand. Over his shoulder she caught the Queen’s eye, cold and full of suspicion. Louis, Valentine’s husband, leaned against the doorpost, toying with his embroidered gloves; he held them before his face to conceal a yawn. The King clutched the piece of candy and raised his eyes for the first time to Valentine’s face.

“A deer?” he asked, motioning for the dish to be removed. “A deer? Yes, surely, a deer. You are right, Madame my sister-in-law, Valentine, dear Valentine. A deer. You know of course that a deer brings me luck? You know the story, don’t you?”

His eyes strayed about the room. No one said anything.

“I’ll tell you what happened to me,” the King continued in a confidential tone, walking along with Valentine who was being led back to bed. “I was already crowned, although I was still only a boy. I was hunting in the forest of Senlis …”

The Queen, the Dukes of Burgundy, Berry, Bourbon and Orléans, the prince and princesses of the royal House and all the counts and barons and their ladies, as well as the women who carried the infant Charles, followed the King into the lying-in chamber. They accepted some of the hippocras and candied fruit offered by the Duchess’s women and exchanged knowing looks. It was not for the first time that the King talked in front of them about this youthful experience, which held great significance for him.

“Know then, Valentine,” said the King. He bent over his sister-in-law and took one of her cold hands in his. “At a crossroad I came upon a deer. I did not shoot it. It let itself be taken by hand. It was like the deer of Saint Hubert, but instead of a cross it wore a collar of gilded copper — what do you say to that? — and on it was written in Latin …” He placed the spread fingers of his left hand over his mouth and looked with glistening eyes at Valentine, who smiled sadly at him. “On it was … well, what was written there? … In Latin?” he asked suddenly, with an impatient stamp of his foot.

One of the nobles stepped forward and bowed. “Caesar hoc mihi donavit, Sire,” he murmured, sinking onto one knee beside the bed. His long red sleeves trailed behind him on the carpet.

“That was it! ‘Caesar has given me this collar’,” continued the King, speaking so quickly that he stammered. “That is to say, the deer was more than a thousand years old. Think of it, Valentine! Was that a good omen or not? Well?” He tugged at the hand which he still clutched tightly.

“It was a good omen, Sire,” the Duchess said in a flat voice. She was constantly aware of Isabeau’s eyes; the Queen stood near the bed, staring at her husband.

“I thought so too — no, I’m sure of it!” the King said loudly. “I dreamed of a hart on the eve of the battle of Roosebeke. And didn’t I win a glorious victory there? Who dares to deny that? I was twelve years old then, no older. But you should have seen that battlefield … Ten thousand dead, ten thousand, all because of me.” He struck his chest, panting with excitement. “I won it; it was I who gave the signal for the assault. When I finally had the flag hoisted again, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in five days … Wasn’t it so? Wasn’t it so? … Mountjoye for the King of France!” he cried hoarsely, stepping down from the platform on which the bed stood.

Isabeau made a movement toward him, but he stepped back, looking at her with anger and fear.

“Who is this woman, anyway?” he said to the courtiers standing near him. “What does she want from me? She is always bothering me. She wants to touch me. Send her away!”

Valentine’s lips parted in terror. What she had heard whispered these past few months was true … that the King did not recognize his wife and refused to see her. It was true. Isabeau turned white, but her mouth remained pulled down in an expression of contempt. She stood in the middle of the lying-in chamber, broad and heavy in her ermine-lined mantle, the train held up by two ladies of the court. On her head she wore an extraordinarily tall crowned hat, under which her face looked small and full, with almost lashless eyes, round cheeks and well-shaped lips. On her breast above the square deeply-cut bodice, jeweled stars trembled with her heavy breathing.

Valentine’s cheeks burned with shame at the insult inflicted on the Queen; she nodded to her women. The platter with the candied fruit was passed around once more. Although the child was now in its cradle, it did not stop crying. It was carried into an adjoining room.

The King showed no sign of quitting the chamber. He allowed a chair to be brought to him and sat down next to Valentine at whom he stared fixedly without speaking. The court, which could not leave before the King gave the signal for departure, stood in a half-circle around the bed. The Duchess found this wall of bodies, of faces wearing formal smiles, immensely oppressive. She could not sit upright because of the roaring in her ears, which rose and fell at regular intervals. Although no one betrayed impatience by word or look, she knew only too well what thoughts were hidden behind those courteous masks.

The King’s affinity for his sister-in-law was no secret; from the moment she had arrived as Louis’ bride in Melun to celebrate her marriage — Louis then was still Duke of Touraine — Charles had openly manifested signs of the greatest affection for her. He had paid all the costs of the wedding fetes, had issued orders that the municipal fountain should gush milk and rosewater as it had at the Queen’s formal entry into the country some years earlier, and had heaped gifts upon Valentine. But the affection which, before the King became ill, had been a mark of favor that increased the respect of the court for Monseigneur d’Orléans and his wife, evoked a different response when it was evinced by a madman. The contrast between the King’s almost morbid fondness for his sister-in-law and the aversion he showed for Isabeau, was glaring. Indignation, derision, perverse enjoyment of someone else’s discomfiture — all these feelings undoubtedly existed behind those polite smiles.

Isabeau had sat down too; she turned to whisper to Louis d’Orléans, who stood behind her. The Duke of Burgundy finally decided to put an end to this painful waiting. He took off his hat and approached the bed. He had been Charles’ guardian and the real ruler of France in the first years of the kingship. Now he had completely regained the power which had been threatened when the King, full-grown, had chosen other advisors. He bent down and spoke to Charles as though he were speaking to a child, with his stern impenetrable face close to the King’s.

“Sire, my King, it is time.”

“So soon?” the King asked impatiently. He had taken off his rings and set them on the edge of Valentine’s bed. Now he picked them up one by one and dropped them into the Duchess’s lap. “For the child — from his godfather,” he said with a smothered laugh as he arose. “Valentine, dear Valentine, don’t forget to come and visit me tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow.”

He kissed her on both cheeks, stroking the damp braids on either side of her forehead. The Duke of Burgundy drew him away. The King looked back. “Be sure to remember,” he muttered. The courtiers stepped aside to make way for him. Isabeau took leave of her sister-in-law, but her kiss was no more than a fleeting touch with pursed lips; her eyes remained cold. The ladies-in-waiting picked up the Queen’s train.

The old Duke of Bourbon, Charles’ uncle on his mother’s side, took Isabeau’s hand and led her out of the room; the court followed. Even before the anteroom door had closed, Valentine fell backward upon the pillows. The heat in the lying-in chamber was unbearable, but custom forbade anyone to let in fresh air before the mother had taken her first walk to church. Not the Dame de Maucouvent nor any of the other women could unlace the Duchess’s bodice to make her breathing easier because Louis d’Orléans, who had stayed behind in the room, came and sat on the edge of the bed. The women withdrew to the hearthfire.

“Well, my darling,” said Louis, smiling. He stooped to pick up his wife’s handkerchief from the floor. “Our brother the King has been quite generous today.” He took the rings which lay scattered over the bed and looked at them carefully, one by one; finally, he slipped one onto his index finger. “How are you feeling today? You look tired.”

“I am tired,” answered the Duchess. She did not open her eyes.

There was a brief silence. Louis looked down at his wife’s face, which had an ivory tint in the green reflection of the bedcurtains. In a sudden rush of warmth and pity, he reached for her hand which lay weakly, half-open, on the coverlet. She turned her head slightly toward him and her narrow lips curved into a smile — a gentle smile, not without melancholy.

“Maître Darien brought me our new son’s horoscope this morning,” Louis went on. “He says the child was born under a lucky star.”

Valentine’s smile deepened. Her husband rose to his feet.

“Adieu, Valentine.” He pressed her cold fingers. “You should sleep well now.” He stepped easily from the dais, tossed his right sleeve over his shoulder, saluted the women and left the room.

The Duchess beckoned. The Dame de Maucouvent came quickly forward and removed the heavy crown from her head.

Louis d’Orléans went directly to the armory, a room adjacent to the library. That portion of the palace of Saint-Pol which he and his household occupied was no less sumptuous and was, in fact, more elegantly furnished than the apartments of the royal family. The armory reflected, in a small way, the opulence with which the Duke liked to surround himself. A Flemish tapestry depicting the crowning of Our Lady covered two walls with the colors of semiprecious stones: dull green, rust red and the dark yellow of old amber. Facing the arched window hung racks of Louis’ weapon collection: daggers with wrought-gold sheaths, swords from Lyon, Saracen blades, the hilts engraved with heraldic devices and set with gems, the scabbards covered with gold and enamel.

Three men stood talking before the fire; they turned when Louis entered. They were Marshal Boucicaut and Messires Mahieu de Moras and Jean de Bueil, noblemen of the Duke’s retinue with whom he was on very friendly terms. They bowed and came toward him.

“Well, gentlemen,” Louis said; he flung his gloves onto a chest. “You were able to see the King today.”

De Bueil strode to a table where there were some tankards and goblets of chased silver — part of Valentine’s dowry — and at a nod from the Duke poured out wine.

“The King is undoubtedly mad,” said de Moras, fixing his eyes upon Louis with a trace of a smile on his heavily scarred face. “To whom do you want us to drink, Monseigneur?”

“To the King — that goes without saying.” Louis sat down and raised the goblet to his lips with both hands. “I don’t want you to misinterpret my words — not for anything.”

“Monseigneur of Burgundy is not present,” said Jean de Bueil with a significant look. Louis frowned.

“I’ve noticed that seems to make little difference,” he remarked, sipping the wine slowly. “My uncle hears everything, even things which I never said and which I never had any intention of saying. Things which I don’t even think,” he added. “For Monseigneur of Burgundy, Satan himself couldn’t be any more evil than I.” He began to laugh and set the beaker down.

“It’s a good thing that he can’t hear you speak so lightly of the Enemy,” said de Moras. “I doubt that would help your reputation much — in the inns and the marketplace …”

“I’ve heard it said that men suspect you of sorcery, my lord,” said Jean de Bueil; at Louis’ nod he refilled the goblets. “You have brought astrologers from Lombardy …”

Louis interrupted him with a gesture. “I know that. Don’t they say too that my father-in-law, the Lord of Milan, has signed a pact with the Devil? The learned gentlemen of the Sorbonne are behind this; they hate me so much that they would even learn sorcery if with that they could cause me to vanish from the earth. My father-in-law is anything but pious, and perhaps he does know more about the Devil than is good for him. But I vastly prefer him to the bellowing clerics who can only expel wind.”

Marshal Boucicaut looked up quickly. “Monseigneur,” he said earnestly, “talk like that can give rise to misunderstanding. Everyone who knows you knows that you are a devout Christian.”

“You are not abreast of the times,” Louis said sarcastically. “If you were, you would know that things are not what they appear to be. Do you know what the common people call the chapel of Orléans? The Monument to Misrule’ … my misrule, do you understand? Building it was the penalty I paid for my sins. And don’t forget above all that this spring I set fire to the King — to say nothing of the six noble gentlemen who did not come off as well as he did.”

“You can mock, Monseigneur,” said Boucicaut coolly, “because you know that with us your words are in safekeeping. But you must remember as well as I do how the people behaved the day after the unfortunate accident.”

“They came by the hundreds to Saint-Pol to see the King himself and to curse us,” Louis said, the ironic smile still on his lips. “They would have torn the Duchess and me to pieces if a single hair on his head had been scorched. The people think a great deal of the King.”

“They would think as much of you if only they knew you,” Jean de Bueil said staunchly. Louis stood up.

“You ought to concern yourself with reaching a good understanding with the people of Paris, my lord,” Boucicaut said in a low voice. “You will become regent if the King dies.”

Louis turned quickly and stared at the three men, his hands on his hips. “If the King dies, indeed,” he said finally. “May God grant the King a long and healthy life.”

He walked to a window and stood looking out, his back to the others. Beneath the windows in this part of the palace was an enclosed garden with a marble fountain in the middle, surrounded by galleries. The trees, to which a single half-shrivelled red leaf still clung here and there, loomed mournfully through the autumn mist. The turrets and battlements of the palace walls were barely visible on the other side of the courtyard. The Duke turned. The three young noblemen still stood near the table.

“You’re right, Messires. I joke too much,” Louis said. “And I must certainly not make jokes about such worthy gentlemen as the doctors of the Sorbonne. And now enough of these things.”

He took a lute from one of the tables and handed it to Jean de Bueil. “Play that song of Bernard de Ventadour’s,” he said, sitting down. In a clear voice de Bueil began to sing:

Quan la doss aura venta

Deves vostre pais

M’es veiare que senta

Odor de Paradis …

Two servants entered the room; the arms of Orléans were embroidered on the cloth over their breasts. One of them began to light the torches along the wall; the other approached the Duke and stood hesitantly before him because Louis sat listening to the song with closed eyes. Jean de Bueil ended the couplet with a flourish of chords; the Duke of Orléans opened his eyes and asked, “Why have you stopped, de Bueil?” Then he noticed the servant. “Well?” he asked impatiently.

The man slipped onto one knee and whispered something. The peevish expression vanished from Louis’ face; he smiled at the servant absently, absorbed in thought. Finally he snapped his fingers as a sign that the man could go and rose, stretching, as though to shake off every trace of lassitude. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said. “I am needed elsewhere.” He saluted them and walked swiftly to disappear behind a tapestry where the servant held a hidden door open for him.

De Bueil took up the lute again and softly played the melody of the song he had just sung. “Things are allotted queerly in this world,” he remarked, without looking up from the strings. “The King is a child who plays with sugar candy. And Monseigneur d’Orléans deserves a better plaything than a ducal crown. We are not the only ones who think so.”

Boucicaut frowned and rose to leave. “But it’s to be hoped that everyone who thinks so is sensible enough to keep quiet about it for the time being,” he said curtly. De Moras was about to follow him; he turned toward the young man with the lute.

“Don’t worry about it, de Bueil,” he said. “No man escapes his destiny.”

In one of the towers of the ducal wing was a small room to which few had access. Louis d’Orléans had turned this room over to his astrologers: two of them, Maitre Darien and Ettore Salvia, could carry on their experiments here in privacy, working with the powders and liquids which they were attempting to transmute into gold. Other, stranger things undoubtedly took place in this murky chamber into which, on the brightest day, little light seemed to filter through the small greenish windowpanes.

The usual appurtenances of the magic art lay spread upon a table shoved up against the window: parchments, shells, glass vials filled with liquids, rings, balls and mathematical symbols forged from metal. A pungent odor of burnt herbs hung in the air. In this room two men awaited the Duke. One was Ettore Salvia, an astrologer from Padua whom Galeazzo Visconti had sent to his son-in-law with warm recommendations. He sat hunched forward on a bench beside the table. His companion, a filthy fellow clad in rags, stood behind him, staring at the door with the tense look of a trapped animal. When he heard footsteps, Ettore Salvia sprang up. Louis entered the room.

“Have you been successful?” he asked the astrologer who fell to his knees before him. “Stand up, stand up,” he added impatiently, “and tell me what you’ve found.”

Ettore Salvia rose to his feet. He was taller than Louis; he stood between the hearthfire and the wall, his shadow extending over the beamed ceiling. He stepped aside and pointed to the other man who too had fallen to his knees at Louis’ entrance — his eyes, sunken under a bulging, scarred forehead, glistened with terror.

“Who is he?” Louis asked, seating himself. “Stand up, man, and answer.”

“He cannot do that, my lord,” Ettore Salvia replied swiftly and softly. “They cut out his tongue a long time ago — for treason.”

Louis laughed shortly. “You haven’t been squeamish about choosing an accomplice.”

Salvia shrugged. “There are not many to be found for the sort of mission you wished carried out,” he replied evenly, with downcast eyes.

A flush crept over Louis’ face; he was on the point of responding sharply, but he checked himself. “The important thing is that you bring me what I asked for,” he said coldly.

Salvia spoke some low words to the ragged man, who groped in the folds of his garment and drew out a small leather sack, wound around with cord. Perspiration stood on his forehead. “He is afraid of the consequences,” remarked the astrologer, handing the sack to Louis. “He hid for two days and two nights under the gallows and he thinks he may have been detected.”

Without a word Louis took a purse from his sleeve and tossed it onto the table. The mute snatched it up and concealed it among his rags. Salvia smiled contemptuously; he turned and stood watching the Duke of Orléans. Louis had opened the leather sack and removed a smooth iron ring; it lay now in the palm of his hand. He feigned a calm interest, but the astrologer knew better. To him the young man was as transparent as the figures of veined blown glass with which Venetian artisans ornamented their goblets — thus he anticipated the questions on Louis’ lips.

“There is no possible doubt,” he said mildly, without emphasis, as though he were giving the most trivial information. “This ring lay twice twenty-four hours under the tongue of a hanged man. This fellow here swears to it. He did not take his eyes off the gallows — no one apart from him touched the corpse after the execution.”

Louis raised his hand, signalling that enough had been said. Salvia fell silent. A trace of a smile gleamed under his half-closed eyelids. A ring which had undergone that treatment became a powerful amulet: it made its bearer irresistible to women. Apart from preparing a single potion, which had only served to strengthen a dormant inclination, Salvia had never been required to render the Duke this sort of service. Louis’ youth and charm had always smoothed his path to each bower in which he wanted to make an offering to Our Lady Venus. But now he desired Mariette d’Enghien, a demoiselle of Valentine’s retinue; she was still very young and had been in the service of the Duchess only a short time. The customs of Saint-Pol seemed strange to her; she came from the provinces. Her reserve excited Louis exceedingly, because he could not fathom whether what lay behind it was genuine modesty or a refinement of the art of seduction.

Her eyes, which she so seldom raised to his, were green: the grass in spring-time could not be greener, thought Louis, consumed by passion. The desire to possess Maret — her pet name — dominated him completely, so overwhelmingly that he had resorted to what was for him so revolting a measure as the ring which he held in the palm of his hand. This amulet, worn on a chain on the naked body, could not help but make the conquest easy for him.

The Duke of Burgundy, about to depart from Saint-Pol with his attendants to return to his own dwelling, was interrupted by some gentlemen from Isabeau’s retinue who delivered the request to him that he visit the Queen before he left. Accompanied by some trusted friends, the Duke went with Isabeau’s messengers; he found the Queen in one of the vast gloomy halls which had once served as a reception and meeting room, but was now seldom used.

Isabeau preferred the castle of Vincennes; if she had to reside at Saint-Pol she stayed mostly in her own apartments which, although not spacious, were comfortably furnished. However, there were too many eyes and ears there — a confidential conversation was impossible; greater security was offered by these deserted salons in the old section of the palace.

The Queen sat near the hearth. The projecting mantelpiece was decorated to the ceiling with immense sculptures in relief: twelve heraldic beasts and the figures of prophets in pleated robes. Along the walls hung somber tapestries depicting hunting scenes. Some wax candles burned on a table before Isabeau. The silk damask of her clothing and her jewels glowed crimson and violet in the candleflames and the light of the setting sun which streamed in through the windows behind her. In a dark corner of the room the Duke saw a few court ladies and other members of Isabeau’s retinue; he ordered his own followers to remain near the door and approached the Queen. He knelt before her despite the stiffness of his limbs. He attached great importance to the conventions and was particularly punctilious about the expression of all due marks of respect. Not the difference in age between Isabeau and himself, not the fact that they tolerated each other only out of self-interest, nor that he was essentially the more powerful of the two, could prevent him from the performance of these ceremonies. Three times he allowed himself to be encouraged by the Queen to rise, before he stood up.

Isabeau, who usually enjoyed Burgundy’s voluntary — although purely formal — self-abasement, was in no mood for compliments. She was frowning and her full lips were pursed; with her that was always a sure sign of annoyance. She sat erect with her hands on the arms of her chair. She had put aside her robes of state and so, despite the fact that her garments had been cleverly altered by her seamstress, it could no longer remain a secret that she was pregnant again as a result of the rapprochement between herself and the King during Charles’ short period of relative lucidity in the spring. There was a general sentiment that a second son was needed; the Dauphin was weak and frail. Isabeau had already lost two children who had suffered from the same lack of vitality. That she, with her strong healthy body, apparently was not capable of giving the country a robust heir was a disappointment and a source of amazement to many people. But the sickly blood of the most recent generation of France’s royal House seemed to be predominant.

The Duke of Burgundy waited. The candlelight seemed to emphasize the sharpness of his features; the shadows lay deep around his nose and in his eyesockets. He held his mouth rigidly closed; Isabeau knew that only carefully tested and rehearsed words passed those lips. She had become accustomed, during the years when Charles was underage and Burgundy acted as his guardian, and now again during his renewed regency — which actually amounted to single-handed control of the government — to look for double, even triple, meanings behind the Duke’s words. Despite the fact that she considered him to be dangerous, she had a great deal of admiration for him. She recognized the similarity between them: like him, she was intent on working to her own advantage, on safeguarding her own position, on amassing gold and property, and on building power for herself. And she knew now that it was he whom she had to thank, in the main, for her marriage. His own children were married to members of the Bavarian royal house, whose possessions in the Netherlands Burgundy craved. Nothing could be more precious to him than a stronger bond between France and Bavaria. Isabeau had found that she could learn a great deal from him. Already she knew how to keep secret any plans of hers which ran counter to his. Now she concealed her growing desire for power behind a show of docility.

“The King is not well,” she said abruptly, without preamble. Her manner of speech was unique in that court: she had never completely lost her foreign accent and had the habit of using short sentences, coming right to the point without the fashionable flowery circumlocutions and paraphrases.

“Madame, I regret the incident in the apartments of the Duchess of Orléans,” said Burgundy in a low voice, without looking at her. “The King must, indeed, be far from well to demonstrate publicly an inclination which—”

“Be still!” Isabeau cried. A dark flush spread over her face. The Duke of Burgundy fell silent; the released arrow quivered in the target.

“How is he now?” Isabeau asked after a moment. “You brought him back to his chambers? What is he doing?”

“The King is resting for a while. He was extremely excited.” Burgundy’s tone was, as usual, unruffled. “I believe that the physicians do not find it advisable for him to appear at the christening feast.”

“That’s absurd!” Isabeau tossed her head; the pear-shaped pearls trembled in her ears. “Why can’t he come to the table? A meal is less tiring than going to church. I do not want them to bring food to his chamber,” she announced with sudden brusqueness.

The Duke looked at her directly for the first time, and raised his eyebrows. “What objection can you possibly have to that?” he asked. Isabeau glanced toward her courtiers who stood talking in low voices in the farthest corner of the darkening room. She did not answer at once but stared, her face averted, at the fire, while she toyed with an ornament which the King had sent her when they were first married and he was staying in the south of France: a small golden triptych with a tiny mirror in the back.

“The King is bewitched,” she said finally, leaning toward him. Burgundy’s eyes did not change expression; only his mouth showed a trace of satisfaction.

“Madame, may I ask on what grounds you base your opinion?”

“Someone came to me — a man from Guyenne — his name is Arnaud Guillaume,” replied the Queen without looking at the impassive face opposite her.

“Came to Your Majesty?” The Duke’s lips barely moved. Isabeau felt the reproof. She raised her head defiantly. “I had him brought — I had heard about him,” she said shortly. “He believes he can protect the King against sinister influences. He knows all about magic …”

“Magic?” repeated Philippe. Isabeau shrugged. She let the gold triptych drop into her lap and looked at him almost defiantly. “What else helps against sorcery?” she asked haughtily. “We see all the time how little comes from the measures of the learned physicians. The King no longer recognizes me.” She lowered her eyes and fell silent.

The Duke of Burgundy maintained the silence. A new fruit had ripened on the tree which he had so carefully planted.

“Maitre Guillaume says,” Isabeau continued, “that those who bewitched the King are concentrating all their energies to prevent his recovery.”

“Why should anyone—” the Duke stressed the last word. “—cast a spell upon the King? Does the King have enemies then, Madame?”

Isabeau looked into his eyes. “I have enemies,” she said. “They bewitch the King in order to remove my influence on him. There are those who want to use him for their own purposes. You know that, Monseigneur. The Duchess of Orléans …”

Burgundy raised his hand.

“Madame, my Queen,” he said evenly, “is there any reason to mention names between us? We both know that a highly-placed man at the court dabbles in politics …”

“I don’t mean that,” the Queen replied hastily. She was fond of Louis d’Orléans. She found it in her interest to protect her brother-in-law. On her mother’s side Isabeau came from the Visconti family, to which Valentine also belonged. But since Gian Galeazzo had come to power in Milan and damaged the interests of her Bavarian kinsmen, mutual forbearance had chilled to mutual enmity. “Before his marriage there was no talk of political dabbling,” she said significantly. The Duke smiled. Isabeau continued more vehemently. “Surely everyone knows how the tyrant of Milan came to power — the poisoner Gian Galeazzo!”

“Madame.” Philippe knelt before her again. “It might be well to allow this Maitre Guillaume the opportunity to do what he can. The King is in a really pitiable plight. He has broken his glass goblets because he was displeased by Your Majesty’s coat of arms.”

“The arms of Wittelsbach?” asked Isabeau fiercely. “But all the tableware bears my coat of arms next to the King’s. He himself gave the order to have it engraved.”

Burgundy bowed his head. “The King did not recognize the coat of arms. He trampled on the splinters — he defiled them.”

Isabeau stood up so suddenly that her long sleeves brushed against his face. She folded her arms over her protruding stomach and choked with rage. Philippe arose also and made a gesture as if to support her. But the Queen quickly composed herself.

“Arnaud Guillaume is in the palace,” she said tensely. “I can have him summoned. We should speak to him as soon as possible.”

“In the presence of my lords Berry and Bourbon,” added Philippe, involving his fellow Regents in the affair with ceremonial modesty. “I shall see that they are told.”

“In my apartments, then,” said the Queen, who was still trembling. “It’s too cold here.”

The Duke of Burgundy struck a silver cymbal which stood upon the table next to the candlesticks. The group of ladies moved forward, preceded by the Comtesse d’Eu, Isabeau’s mistress of ceremonies, who placed a mantle about the Queen’s shoulders.

Isabeau walked slowly from the hall, leaning on Philippe’s arm. Torchbearers appeared at the door. The Queen’s red train and Burgundy’s long violet sleeves seemed to flow into each other, variations of one color. The retinue of courtiers followed them at a leisurely pace.

The room in which the Queen and the Regents met resembled a bower: the tapestries that hung along the walls were so thickly embroidered with flowers and leafy tendrils that their blue background was barely visible. Isabeau sat under a canopy. A greyhound crouched before the old Duke of Bourbon, who urged it to show off its tricks. The Queen looked on with an absent smile. Burgundy and his brother, the Duke of Berry, stood at a table which held some books. They were examining a breviary which had been commissioned not long before by Isabeau. Both men were bibliophiles, especially Berry, who spent vast sums of money on books. His castle of Bicetre contained countless art treasures; painters, writers and sculptors made pilgrimages to his court where they were hospitably received and where their work was paid for with annual allowances and life-long annuities.

Philippe too had been busy for some years putting together a library of ecclesiastical, didactic and historical documents which he had found in his Burgundian and Flemish residences. His motivation, however, was different. While his late brother Charles V had been interested primarily in acquiring knowledge, and Berry was an aesthete, the Duke of Burgundy believed that a ruler must be a Maecenas if he wanted to see himself and his deeds glorified in the art of his time.

Berry held the Queen’s breviary up to the candlelight to get a better look at one of the miniatures. He was sixty-five years old, corpulent, with the somewhat slack features of one who had indulged too abundantly in the good things of the earth; there were bags under his eyes and the drooping flesh of his chin and cheeks was an unhealthy color. He wore his hair cut short like Philippe’s, but his was curled. The cloak which enveloped his shapeless body was of green and gold brocade, trimmed with marten fur. The Oriental pomades with which he liked to be regularly massaged surrounded him with a penetrating aroma.

His brother looked with disapproval at the thick, beringed fingers turning the pages. Philippe’s austere appearance caused Berry, by contrast, to look almost like a gaudy parrot. The Duke of Burgundy cherished a secret contempt for his brother, who had no aspirations beyond the collecting of books and curiosities and the beautification of Bicetre where he spent most of his time with his wife, who was almost fifty years younger than he.

“Look, look,” said Berry keenly. “These initials have been overlaid with gold leaf. By God, there is no handsomer script anywhere! Oh yes, I concede that its production was demanding — the cost of time and paper. But what nobility of form!” He held the book out at arm’s length; the candlelight glinted on the golden ornaments between the blue-and-green-painted vines which framed the text. His small sharp eyes sparkled; he clicked his tongue a few times in admiration and closed the book. Burgundy took it from him and examined the clasps mounted on the leather covers.

“I must say, Madame, the book is magnificent.” Berry went up to Isabeau and stood before her. “I congratulate you. I must have the man too — who is it? Hennecart? Beautiful work — superb work! But at the first opportunity I’ll let you see a few pages from my new breviary. Maitre Paul of Limburg and his brother are illuminating the calendar. I don’t exaggerate when I call it a miracle. One would swear that the flowers could actually be plucked from the grass and that in the next moment the crows would come flying up out of the snow. The initials are especially beautiful — like these here — but in vermilion—”

“Actually, where is that man now?” Burgundy broke testily into the flood of his brother’s words. He put the book back on the table. The workmanship of the clasps was exceptionally exquisite, and they were mounted with cabochon garnets and pearls. He didn’t doubt that it had cost the Queen a considerable amount of money.

Isabeau turned toward him. “He’s being fetched,” she replied coldly. “I gave instructions that he should not be brought directly here. It was necessary first for Messeigneurs de Berry and Bourbon to become acquainted with our intentions.”

The Duke of Bourbon stopped playing with the dog. The animal sprang toward him in invitation, but he paid no more attention to it. Isabeau ordered it to lie down.

“I cannot say that I find this new plan to be entirely as favorable as it looks,” Bourbon said slowly. His caution in all matters was well-known. During deliberations he bored Berry and roused the impatience of Isabeau and Burgundy. “Why should we encourage behavior that is known to engender suspicion and discontent everywhere? Isn’t it wiser for us to stick to remedies which can bear the light of day? In the long run the wisdom of the physicians and the mercy of the Church will help the King much more.”

“In the long run!” Isabeau’s eyes became hard as glass. “Hasn’t this lasted long enough then? Two years of misery and worry and the King’s condition has grown worse, if that’s possible. Surely by now everyone knows that all the sacraments of the Church can do nothing against witchcraft …”

“Madame, Madame!” Berry raised both hands in warning. “Your Majesty does not realize what she is saying.”

Isabeau crossed herself. “That is no blasphemy,” she said with hauteur, to hide her confusion. “But I’m at my wits’ end! What has happened to the King does not come from natural causes. That’s obvious,” she continued more heatedly, bending forward to stare at the three Regents.

Berry made a gesture more eloquent than words, that signified his benevolently impartial attitude toward this problem. Burgundy stood silent; he betrayed his irritation only by rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together. Isabeau saw it. She attempted to control her nervousness, beckoning to the dog, which came to her immediately and laid its head in her lap.

A door, hung like the walls with flowered tapestries, opened suddenly to admit two men: Jean Salaut, the Queen’s private secretary, and Arnaud Guillaume. Both knelt before Isabeau and the Regents. Arnaud Guillaume wore a stained, patched garment, something between a tabard and a cassock; with his long, filthy hair, his bony, emaciated face, he looked like one of the half-crazed anchorites who mortified themselves for the salvation of mankind. His fasts and flagellations, however, were undertaken with intentions far less than holy. Although he knelt, his demeanor was not in the least humble.

While the secretary addressed the Queen, Guillaume’s cold eyes traveled without a trace of timidity over the people in the room: the waiting Dukes who eyed him with extreme reserve, and Isabeau who, with apparent unconcern, was allowing the dog to play with her golden triptych.

“That is good, Maitre Salaut,” the Queen said. “You may go now.”

The secretary arose and, after the prescribed bows, backed to the door, which he shut noiselessly after him. There was a brief silence. The three Dukes stood motionless; the Queen did not stir. If it had not been for the panting dog which snapped playfully at the shiny toy in Isabeau’s lap, the royal group could have been painted against the colorful flowers and vines of the wall hangings. Finally, Bourbon spoke.

“You come from Guyenne?” Guillaume bowed his head in assent. “You call yourself a monk,” Bourbon continued. “To which order do you belong?”

The man raised his bright, icy eyes to the Queen.

“I thought I had been called here to cure the King,” he said, “not to be held accountable for a past which is of little significance.”

“This is an extremely impudent rascal,” Berry said half-aloud. He raised his perfumed gloves to his face. Philippe of Burgundy put his arms akimbo and set one leg on the step leading to the Queen’s chair.

“Then you believe you can cure the King,” he said curtly. “By what means? Think before you answer; there is no pardon here for frauds.”

“Your Grace has no need to be afraid of fraud,” Guillaume replied in his crude, hoarse voice. “I’m sure of my powers. Here in my breast, under my habit, I carry a book which gives me power over everything living — over the four elements and over all the substance and matter which they contain. Thanks to this book of wonders, I could be ruler of the planets — if I wanted that; I could alter their courses. Aren’t the astrologers saying that a comet has appeared which will bring a calamity to France, the death of men and beasts, drought and destruction of all the crops standing in the fields? I could call forth another comet from the heavens, a comet which no one knows about and no astrologer has ever seen — more powerful than the first, so powerful it could thrust the deadly one out of its orbit.”

“What sort of book is that?” asked the Duke of Berry inquisitively. The person of this filthy ascetic repelled him, but his curiosity had been aroused by the mention of the wonder book. Guillaume smiled slyly and pressed his crossed arms more tightly against his breast.

“The book is intended for a few eyes only,” he said. He made a cringing bow in Berry’s direction. “Besides, Your Grace would not be able to read the characters. The writing is older than mankind itself, older than Adam, the father of us all, who left us in original sin.”

Berry’s nostrils flared in contempt. He took a few steps toward Isabeau and spoke to her in an undertone. “I consider this the most revolting deception. Send this man away, Madame.”

“Or force him to show you what he is hiding under his habit,” Burgundy said impatiently. “You’ve used your whip well against less arrogant dogs.”

Berry threw him a cold, angry look. Long ago he had given up all hope of emulating his brother’s gift for administration. In the period before the King came of age, Berry’s all-too-obvious mismanagement of his assigned provinces had provoked Burgundy to criticize him sharply; later, Berry suspected, not without evidence, that his older brother had had a hand in the King’s removal of Languedoc from Berry’s control. He had never forgiven Philippe for that.

“I’m sure that you can hold your own in matters like that, Monseigneur,” Berry said, in his courtly, biting voice. “No one ever did me the impressive honor of calling me ‘the Bold’ because I managed to get a place at the table for myself with my fists.”

Bourbon raised his head quickly and Isabeau turned pale. The sorcerer, momentarily forgotten, suppressed a smile; he grasped Berry’s insinuation. The Duke of Burgundy’s enemies always claimed that he did not owe his soubriquet of “the Bold” to his valiant conduct on the battlefield of Poitiers, but to the public childish squabble for precedence between him and the late Duke of Anjou at the coronation feast of Charles VI.

The Queen, who had reason to fear a personal quarrel between the Regents, came hastily between the two of them.

“My lords, my uncles,” she said, “this is no time for discord. Maitre Guillaume has been recommended to me by highly-placed persons in whom I can place my trust. There are many people at the court who have consulted him with good results. What does it matter whether he lets us see his book? The important thing is the advice he can give us. Go on, speak further,” she said to Guillaume. “No one will force you to show the book. But bear in mind that you will need more than words to convince us.”

The ascetic cast a quick, malicious glance at her.

“Convince?” he muttered. “How can I prove what was disclosed to me in a state of grace? In the land of the blind, it is I alone who can see. Secret signs have revealed to me by God’s grace, that our King has been bewitched — within these walls the Devil and all the hellish powers have been conjured up to ruin His Majesty.”

“Enough, man, enough,” said Bourbon. “What are you saying? Have you any accusations to make against anyone? Can you name names?”

“Monseigneur, there is a man who watched for two days and two nights under the gallows at Montfaucon where a thief had been hanged. Do I need to tell you, my lord, what use the corpses of criminals are put to?”

Hastily Isabeau crossed herself. Parts of the bodies of the hanged were used for conjuration, a dreaded practice. “This man,” continued Guillaume, “I saw today in the palace.”

“How is that possible?” Burgundy asked smoothly. “The palace is not an open marketplace where anyone can come and go.”

“No, Monseigneur.” Guillaume bowed again, his arms crossed over his breast. “But he was not alone. He was in the company of the black astrologer, the southerner, about whom there has been much talk.”

“Salvia,” Burgundy said, raising his brows. “In the service of Orléans,” he added, throwing a glance at Isabeau. The Queen caught his look, but her own eyes remained cold and hard. “From Milan,” she amended in a flat voice. “Salvia of Milan, a trusted friend of Gian Galeazzo.” She stressed the last words to make it clear to Burgundy that she rejected any other association. The Duke shrugged and then bowed in agreement. “It is as Your Majesty wishes,” he said evenly.

During this exchange Bourbon stood staring at the ascetic with knitted brows; now he took a step toward Isabeau. “Now that we have established that this fellow is telling the truth, what measures must be taken here? The simplest thing would be to subject Salvia as well as the body snatcher to an interrogation.”

Guillaume’s eyes lit up. Isabeau made a hasty defensive gesture. “That seems unwise to me. We would be exposed. What we do here must not be aired in public.”

She gave a sign to Berry, who stood closest to the table. He dropped a silver ball into a dish provided for that purpose; the prolonged jingling sound summoned the secretary Salaut from an adjoining room. While Isabeau instructed the secretary to give Guillaume lodging in the palace and pay him a certain sum in advance, Burgundy continued to stand with his hands on his hips and one foot on the step of the chair, staring at the ascetic. He was not in the least interested in the continually changing series of doctors and their methods of treatment, although he gave the appearance of taking an active part in the discussions. This time, however, it was quite different: he suspected that in Arnaud Guillaume he had found a useful instrument at a bargain price. Guillaume bowed directly to him; he responded with a cold glance from under half closed lids. He was quite sure that Guillaume understood where his profit lay.

“Bah!” Berry said contemptuously when the door had closed behind the two men. “Do you really believe, Madame, that this lout is capable of doing anything for the King?”

Isabeau had risen and kicked the heavy train of her gown to one side. She felt deadly tired and no longer capable of arguing.

“Why not?” she said irritably. She did not care for the Duke of Berry with his exaggerated interest in art and artists; she found him untrustworthy and, although less dangerous than Burgundy, altogether insufferable. She knew that he had lashed out at Guillaume mainly because he had not been able to acquire the book in question; undoubtedly he had expected her to cooperate with him by ordering the sorcerer to give it up. Isabeau did not believe for an instant in the sincerity of the Dukes’ solicitude for the madman’s welfare; she knew that the plans of his royal uncles did not depend in any way on the King’s recovery. On this point Bourbon was the least calculating of the three; and the only one whose compassion for the King was genuine. Usually Isabeau found it easy to play the diplomat at gatherings like these; an appetite and talent for intrigue were in her blood. Now however she was suddenly overcome by depression bordering on despair; she was painfully aware that she stood completely alone and that today and in the future she must brace herself firmly with her back against the wall, to protect everything that she considered rightfully hers. She was in the heart of the Kingdom, apparently safely hidden like the stone in the core of a fruit; but on all sides greedy worms were eating through the rich pulp. With a wave of her hand, she prevented Berry from elaborating on his opinion.

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 involving 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.

“In truth, I know your position,” he said in response to his father’s look of cold disapproval. “But I repeat once more: I am incapable of so much diplomacy. Wild horses could not have dragged me to that christening this afternoon.”

“You’re a fool,” Burgundy said, rising from the bench onto which he had sunk. “And the future of your landed inheritance is very dim if you persist in carrying this attitude into other areas of your life. But I know you better than you know yourself. I have confidence in you — you’re shrewd and you’re capable of looking ahead. Like me, you learn from experience; you’re guided by the adage ‘what three know, the whole world knows’. But in God’s name, control yourself. Don’t let yourself be carried away by your emotions. I know what rage means, I know passion, but I’d sooner seal my mouth up with iron locks and my hands with chains than speak or act too quickly.”

A semblance of a smile flitted over Jean’s clever, pointed face; he shrugged. In many respects he found his father too cautious; he felt more in sympathy with the Italian tyrants who did not hesitate to employ any means to get what they wanted. He hated not being able to express his urge to action; he cursed his indolence. His resdessness drove him to keep abreast of all news of events at home and abroad, all public disturbances, all military operations, preparing himself to choose sides and participate as soon as the opportunity arose. He considered it a serious deficiency that he had never won fame on the battlefield and looked for the chance to come into the flower of his manhood in that respect.

“I waited here because I wanted to speak with you, Monseigneur,” he began, coming away from the hearth. Burgundy paused on his way to the door.

“I have very little time,” he said crustily. He did not want to reveal how tired he was. His shoes, which had gotten wet during his ride home, were uncomfortable. And he had to change clothes for the christening fete. “I cannot avoid my obligations as easily as you do,” he said without turning around. “I must return to the palace.”

“Too bad.” Jean laughed shortly. He waited a moment, but the Duke did not move. He knew his son; though he rarely allowed himself to be tempted into expressions of feeling, he was worried about Jean de Nevers. Their conversations were always somewhat formal; they never approached friendly intimacy. Nevertheless, he knew that Jean would never have asked for an interview if he did not already have a carefully-weighed plan of action. So Burgundy returned to the bench.

“It’s not necessary for you to come to an instant decision.” Jean sat down opposite his father. “All I want is your opinion in principle.” He stopped a moment, rubbing his long, bony forefinger along his nose — a gesture which was also characteristic of Burgundy. “You are undoubtedly aware of what has been going on in Hungary. King Sigismund’s couriers have been visiting us too often recently, and their stories are too alarming to be ignored. Those messengers aren’t coming here for nothing, my lord. Actually, I have the impression that this business is being passed off too lightly at court.”

“No wonder Sigismund is uneasy — if it is true that the Turks are massing on the Hungarian border. But what do you mean to imply? Surely this would be an exceptionally ill-chosen moment for France to send an auxiliary army to Hungary.”

“I do not agree with you, Monseigneur.” Jean de Nevers leaned toward his father, with both hands on his knees. “On the contrary, I am convinced that there is great enthusiasm for a crusade against the Turks now. For the last few years there has been no military undertaking of any importance. And surely there are enough men in France who are eager to demonstrate their dexterity with weapons outside the jousting field. It would be really wicked to encourage our knighthood to believe that they should be contented with dancing, playing the lute and composing love songs.” He snorted derisively and laughed. Deep in thought, Burgundy stared at his son.

“If we should be in a position to raise an army,” he said slowly, with the traces of a smile at the corners of his mouth, “presumably you do not intend to play a subordinate role.”

“Then I will take the leadership upon myself. I consider that I am completely capable of it.”

“No one could accuse you of false modesty, my son,” said Burgundy ironically. “But as I have already said, I am afraid that the moment is not auspicious. It requires a good deal of trouble and expense to gather the money and materials for that kind of enterprise. I don’t believe that I can permit a claim for new taxes now — there’s a limit to everything.”

“I’m convinced that almost everyone who bears a name of any consequence will respond to the summons. This matter cannot be put off for long, my lord. Sigismund’s messengers who are here at the moment will shortly be leaving. I am eager to give them a satisfactory answer to take back with them. We have to anticipate that the Hungarians could be destroyed if the Serbian army perishes at Kossovo.”

“Yes, yes.” Philippe nodded somewhat impatiently. “We will talk about this later at a more convenient time. Come to me tomorrow after early mass,” he said, saluting his son in farewell.

Jean de Nevers bowed, and remained in that position until the Duke had left the room. Then he walked slowly back to the reading desk, his brow wrinkled in thought and his lower lip thrust forward. He trimmed a candle and resumed reading the letters of the Apostles, beautifully written on heavy parchment with the initial letters done in red and gold. The candles and the hearthfire cast a deep glow over the furniture, the dark carpets and the beamed ceiling.

Queen Blanche, the widow of the King’s great grandfather, who had been dead for more than forty years, entered the lying-in chamber. She was the last descendant of the generation of the beloved and lamented Philippe the Fair who, as the first prince of the House of Valois, had now almost passed into legend. In a certain sense she was considered to be the head of the entire royal family. Although she lived in retirement in her castle at Neauphle in the province of Seine and Oise, the family listened to her advice, valued her judgment and kept her informed about everything that happened. She always attended the fetes of the royal family.

Queen Blanche was about sixty-four years old, stately and beautiful in a way different from any other woman at court. The mourning which she had not laid aside in the forty years of her widowhood made her appearance all the more impressive. Past a row of deeply curtseying court ladies and chamberwomen, she walked to Valentine’s bed, her long mantle trailing after her.

The Duchess of Orléans, refreshed after a deep sleep, lay on her back against the pillows, her face framed by two brown braids.

“Well, Valentine?” said Queen Blanche cordially; she seated herself on a stool which the chamberwomen had placed hastily beside the bed. The Duchess smiled and attempted to sit up and kiss the older woman’s hand. Blanche held her back.

“Lie still, darling. You must be tired enough after the reception here this afternoon. You are as white as a waxen votive image. Was it difficult this time?”

“Ah, no.” Valentine shook her head. “Only I am so tired,” she added in a whisper. “I feel as though I will never find the strength to get up again. God knows it is a sinful thought… but sometimes I wish I had died in the childbed.”

“Hush, hush, ma mie.” Queen Blanche leaned forward to block, from the ladies of her retinue who stood together at some distance behind her, the sight of tears gliding slowly down Valentine’s cheeks. “Don’t give in. Be brave. Life is hard for women — no one knows it better than I, ma mie; we must endure much sickness, grief and solitude before God delivers us. We are puppets; another will manipulates the strings, never our own. There is nothing for us except resignation and patience, Valentine, till the end of our days. Pray for strength to the Mother of God who had to bear more than any other woman on earth.”

Valentine nodded; she could not restrain her tears.

“And as far as my lord of Orléans is concerned,” continued the older woman softly, “there are worse husbands, darling. He is always courteous and obliging, and he does not neglect you — Harken to the testimony,” she added, smiling as the infant began to wail in the adjoining room. “All men are like that, ma mie — unruly and violent when they are young and foolish in their old age. A white neck, a pair of pretty eyes — no more is needed to bring their blood to a boil. Look at me, child, I know what I am talking about. When I was eighteen years old I was chosen by the King to be the Dauphin’s bride. I was pretty — prettier than these wax dolls here at the court. La Belle Blanche they called me in Navarre. My God, where does the time go?”

Her smile deepened, wise, full of humor, and spread to the laughter lines around her bright, childlike eyes, black and round as Morello cherries.

“The King had never seen me; he allowed me to come to Paris with my father to draw up the marriage agreement. I found my cousin the Dauphin not unpleasant — a little thin, but at least young and lively enough — and he was eager to have me; he made no bones about it. Then the King saw me and I did not become the wife of the crown prince; I became the Queen. My bridegroom was almost sixty years old. Do you think that I did not shed bitter tears, Valentine, when I had to stand beside that old man at the altar and still be silent? It pleased God to summon my husband two years after our marriage — perhaps you are thinking that I had little reason to complain about that. But my blood was young, even though I wore mourning — and I had no children. No, ma mie, you don’t know your own wealth.”

“Don’t think that I am ungrateful, Madame,” said Valentine. She was a little livelier; color had come into her cheeks. “When I was a child I had already learned that there is not much sense in dreaming too much. In Pavia too, reality was hard and bitter. But within the last few years it seems as though everything happens at once. I hardly solve one problem before another one appears. It is not so much about the death of my children or about — about Monseigneur d’Orléans …” she went on quietly after a slight pause, while her fingers burrowed into the embroidery of the coverlet. “I believe that sorrow is the portion of all women … that does not make it easier to bear. But there are things one can learn to accept.”

Queen Blanche smiled in compassion. She saw through Valentine’s heroic attempt at self-deception.

“What is vexing you then, ma mie? I want nothing better than to help you … if that lies in my power. A sympathetic ear can also be a help, if no advice is possible.”

“The King,” whispered Valentine, with a sidelong glance at the ladies-in-waiting. “I worry about the King.” The older woman leaned forward; the lappets of her veil fell over the blanket.

“We do not need to pretend with each other. You know as well as I do that the King’s illness is incurable. It still amazes me that it took so long for the seizures to come upon him. I saw it in him when he was only a child — he was restless and filled with strange notions. Indeed, his mother, Queen Jeanne, also suffered from a weakness in her head; there were times when she could not remember anything, not even her own name, nor her rank, or recognize the faces of her children. She suffered terribly when she came to herself again and everyone suffered with her, for she was a sweet lady, Queen Jeanne; after her death her husband said of her that she had been the sun of his kingdom — a somewhat pale sun, perhaps.” She smiled, lost in memory. “But it was well put and it expressed what many people felt. She had grace and charm — two important qualities, which Monseigneur d’Orléans inherited from her.”

“The King does not want to recognize the Queen,” Valentine said, looking up at Blanche’s face. “The Queen suffers because of it. This afternoon when they were here — he thrust her away from him. My heart bled for her; she loves the King so much.”

“Loves …!” said Queen Blanche, not without mockery. “Pure madness. That is the love of the doe for the buck, the ewe for the ram. It is irresistible in the spring and when the leaves fall, it is over.”

Valentine shook her head.

“You cannot say that, Madame. I was with the Queen when they brought her the news of the King’s first attack of madness in the forest of Mans; I saw how the blow struck her. It was as though she had lost her senses herself. And doesn’t she do what she can for him? Each day while he was there, she sent a message to Creil to ask him if he wanted anything. I have heard it said that she stands weeping outside his door when he does not wish to see her. Oh, but I feel with her too,” she continued vehemently. “It is unbearable to know that someone you love is close by and unreachably distant and … gone …”

“The Queen has a staunch advocate in you, ma mie,” the older woman said shrewdly. “And she does not deserve it.”

A flush flooded into Valentine’s face; she lowered her eyes.

“I know very well that the Queen cannot abide me,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “That is also one of the things that pains me. I understand it — the discord between Bavaria and the Visconti …”

“And more yet…” Queen Blanche nodded significantly. “Much more yet — and that is worse. You know what I mean.”

“Yes, my God!” whispered the Duchess of Orléans; she raised both hands in a gesture of despair. “But I do not want that at all — I cannot help it. I love the King very much … he has always been kind and gentle to me … but surely no one would dare to say …”

She pressed the palms of her hands against her cheeks and turned her head slowly from side to side. “The Queen cannot think that, Madame; she knows there is nothing between the King and me but close friendship …”

“As far as that is concerned, you have certainly never given her cause for complaint,” Blanche agreed. “The King usually sought and found his pleasures far from the palace with wanton women and peasant girls — shabby amusement for a king! But the Queen could not be angry about that — no one is jealous of an hour’s nameless love. Oh no, ma mie, envy of you suits her convenience remarkably well; she wants to believe that she has a reason to blame you.”

Valentine raised herself slightly from the pillows; two bright red marks stained her cheeks.

“So much is being said,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to think. One of the chamberwomen overheard a story they are telling in the streets … They say I let a poisoned apple roll into the nursery while the Dauphin was playing with my little son.”

“Hush — that’s foolishness.” Blanche half-rose from her seat and pushed the young woman back among the pillows. “Lie still now, Valentine. Your face is glowing with fever. Don’t you know that kind of talk is meaningless? Why, your little Louis could have eaten the apple himself.”

She stroked Valentine’s cheek soothingly, but she kept her eyes cast down to conceal her look of alert disquiet. She had heard that strange story. Isabeau did not always do her work with caution. Valentine moved her head back and forth over the pillows as though she were in pain; her lips were dry from thirst. Queen Blanche noticed this and beckoned to one of the young women nearby; she asked her to bring a spiced drink.

“I feel danger everywhere,” whispered Valentine. “Perhaps I am imagining it, perhaps it is not true. God grant it is not true. But I don’t know … my feelings have never deceived me about things like that …”

“Yes, yes,” the older woman nodded, sighing, while she took the goblet from the waiting-woman and helped Valentine to drink. “Try to go to sleep now, ma mie. It wasn’t sensible of me to let you talk so long.”

“I can’t sleep now,” said the Duchess of Orléans. She waved the beaker away after she had taken a few sips. “I should like someone to read to me; that would distract me from my thoughts. I am too tired to read myself; perhaps the Dame de Maucouvent can come sit with me … with the Histories of Troy which I was reading before my confinement.”

“I shall send her.” Blanche rose. The ladies of her suite came up quickly, ready to push away the chair and to pick up the Queen’s long train when she descended from the dais. She bent over Valentine again. “Be brave,” she whispered within the shelter of the falling veil which hid both their faces. Then she left to enter the adjoining room.

A few of Valentine’s ladies stood around the wet nurse who was holding little Charles at her breast. The infant’s wrinkled, red head seemed smaller than the rounded breast from which he suckled. He moved his little hands aimlessly back and forth, and made loud smacking sounds, to the delight of the young women. As Queen Blanche entered the room, they moved aside and curtsied. The wet nurse made an effort to stand up.

“Please sit, la Brune,” Blanche said, with a wave of her hand. The child, who had lost the nipple, turned his head to left and right. He was bound to a small oblong cushion, stiffly wound about with bands of cloth.

“A healthy youngster,” said the wet nurse proudly. “And he suckles well, much better than Monseigneur Louis did at his age.”

Blanche smiled and brushed her forefinger lightly over the baby’s little cheek, as cool and soft as fine silk. She let her eyes travel over the room, which, like the lying-in chamber, was hung with green tapestries. Two beds of state stood there, richly made up with pillows, cushions and counterpane.

“Is the Dame de Maucouvent not here?” she asked one of the young women. “The Duchess would like someone to read to her.” The girl curtsied, colored with shyness and replied in the negative. The Dame de Maucouvent was in the nursery, putting Monseigneur Louis to bed. Queen Blanche frowned and cast a look of quick concern toward the lying-in chamber. She was about to send for the governess when another young woman stepped forward.

“Let me sit with Madame,” she said. “I can read.”

Blanche had the impression that this offer did not sit well with the other women: their faces stiffened almost imperceptibly, their eyes were hostile. The young woman who stood before her was hardly more than a child; tall and slender, with white, almost translucent skin. She kept her eyes lowered modestly and her hands folded over her breast in the manner prescribed by etiquette, the upper part of her body bent slightly backwards and her head held a little to one side. The Queen was pleasantly impressed by the voice and appearance of this girl, whom she had not seen before among Valentine’s retinue.

“Good. Go then, Mademoiselle,” she said, “and take the Histories of Troy with you.”

The young woman curtsied; before she arose she looked directly at Blanche, a flashing glance, green as clear deep spring water. Those wonderful eyes struck the Dowager-Queen particularly — they reminded her of an old, half-forgotten love song which described the leaves of an early spring. She felt for a moment as though she stood in the cool spring wind in the meadows near Neauphle-le-Chateau.

“Who is that?” she asked, staring after the newcomer. The women exchanged significant looks — her own women as well as those of the Duchess of Orléans. But their silence lasted so long that it impinged on the respect due to the Dowager-Queen. A lady of the court hastened to reply in the subdued, expressionless tones of a subordinate.

“Madame, that is the Demoiselle d’Enghien.”

Servants in short jackets, with napkins slung over their shoulders, jostled past each other on the spiral staircase leading down from the dining hall to the kitchens. They carried great platters on their heads and some smaller ones at the same time on their widely outstretched arms. A double curtain of worked leather, weighted on the bottom with lead, hung at the entrance to the hall, from which rose the talk and laughter of the guests, the clatter of tableware and the sounds of music. Those servants who carried fowl took them first to the carving tables which stood at the entrance; those who had fruit, pastry and wine brought them directly to the guests.

The feast celebrating the christening of Orléans’ youngest son was being held in a long narrow hall made even narrower by the existence of two rows of flecked marble pillars. At the end of the hall opposite the servants’ entrance stood a dais where, against a background of tapestries, the royal guests sat at table.

Above the colonnades were galleries where the musicians and a few courtiers were. A great number of torches were burning; pages ran back and forth continually tending to these sources of light. Several of the Duke’s house dogs lay on the mosaic floor, gnawing bones and growling whenever the servants came too close to them. The musicians in the gallery played without pause on their wind and brass instruments. A dwarf squatted behind the grating of the balcony, his face pressed against the opening between two bars, gazing down at the company on the dais below him, and especially at Orléans, who was chatting politely with his neighbor, the young wife of the Duke of Berry. Later in the evening, to honor her and Queen Isabeau, the dwarf would be brought to the table in a pastry to recite a couplet composed by Louis.

The Duke wore a crimson garment with voluminous sleeves, so densely stitched with series of his favorite emblem, the crossbow, that from a distance one could not tell whether the background of the cloth was red or gold. The Duke was in an exuberant mood; the Duchess of Berry, who was easily amused, shouted almost unceasingly with laughter.

On Orléans’ other side sat the Queen, silent and lost in thought. Dull fatigue weighed more heavily upon her than her crown and necklaces. She smiled mechanically whenever her brother-in-law spoke to her, replying with automatic motions of head and hand. She looked often at the King who sat next to her, but as far away from her as possible, in a corner of the bench under the royal canopy. He was pulling at the threads of the tapestry with his knife and muttering unintelligibly. He had been brought to the table despite the physicians’ advice. At the beginning of the meal, diverted by the bustle and stir around him, he had sat motionless and attentive, without a glance or a word for Isabeau.

Because he toyed with his food like a child, his sleeves and tunic were soon spotted with bread crumbs, grease and wine. Finally he became restless. He could not get up from the table and walk around when he wanted to, as he did in his own rooms. The Queen bit her lip. It seemed to her that everyone was staring at the royal seat as if it were a stage framed by tapestries and festive garlands.

Charles overturned his goblet; wine sopped onto the freshly baked white bread which nobles, kneeling respectfully before him, had put upon his plate. He bit his nails, scratched his thinning grey-blond hair. Because of the long confinement in Creil, his face was as pale as wax; his nose was sharp, deep grooves ran from his nostrils to his mouth, which looked sunken and old, because he had recently lost some teeth. He was only a few years older than the Duke of Orléans, but the disparity between them appeared to be one between a very young and a very old man. The softness of Charles’ faded, enflamed eyes made his appearance all the sadder; they were the windows through which his spirit looked out, the captive in his cage, forever isolated from the world. From time to time the involuntary contractions of his cheek muscles caused his face to contort into a grimace.

He listened at last to the whispered entreaties of Burgundy, who sat beside him, and leaned back into the shadow of the canopy. He seemed to have lost all interest in food and festivities. He mumbled and poked the point of his knife between the brightly colored threads of the tapestry beside him. Burgundy, soberly dressed in a garment of black Flemish cloth which had cost a fortune, and with his hat glinting red with rubies, sat eating with a cold smile, as though he noticed nothing. Only the censoriously compressed lips of his wife Margaretha betrayed disapproval.

The Duke of Bourbon, however, could not conceal his displeasure; he was still upset by the dispute with Berry. He was deeply offended by the accusation that he would work exclusively for his own interests now that he was once more a regent. Naturally, like Berry, Anjou and Burgundy, he had not hesitated, in the period before Charles came of age, to take advantage of any opportunity for profit that came his way. But he was no longer particularly interested in worldly affairs. He stood, he believed, at the brink of the grave; his health was failing. Moreover, he was extremely fond of the King, in whom he had always seen a resemblance to his sister, the late Queen Jeanne. Was it guilt that made him eager now to set himself up as a protector of the royal family? That was what Berry had the audacity to assume.

Bourbon saw him sitting at the other end of the table, looking all but ridiculous in a garment of flowered brocade trimmed with ornaments, like a heathen Turk. From Berry his glance shifted to Isabeau, whose forced smile he did not see through. He blamed her for the stupid decision to allow the King to come to the table and expose his scandalous behavior to the derision of the court. Bourbon listened without interest to the remarks of his neighbor, the Duchess of Burgundy, whose mind he found as cold and materialistic as her Flemish estates.

Berry followed their conversation from a distance; he knew Bourbon’s antipathy to Philippe’s wife and secretly rejoiced that protocol had made them neighbors at table. He himself was seated between two comely, flirtatious princesses, his own wife Jeanne and the young wife of Jean de Nevers, Marguerite, of whom it was whispered that she had received Louis d’Orléans in her bower, although there was no proof of that.

The Bishops of Saint-Denis and Saint-Pol and other dignitaries of the Church, as well as the Dukes of Bar and Lorraine, sat at both ends of the horseshoe-shaped royal table. Queen Blanche did not attend the christening feast; the sober life at Neauphle had given her a distaste for prolonged repasts. She had gone with her retinue to one of the palace chapels to offer candles in honor of the newborn baby. At the lower tables sat nobles from Orléans’ most trusted entourage: the Sires de Garencieres, de Morez, de Bethencourt, Jean de Bueil and Marshal Boucicaut. The servants in their dark green livery constantly carried in new dishes — haunches of venison, pork, capon and other fowl, stuffed with truffles or cooked in sour sauce, all accompanied by compotes, by spiced meat pies and egg dishes. The two tall buffets on either side of the tables were loaded with platters piled high with pyramids of fruits, raisins, dates and nuts. The Duke’s precious silver plate, the jugs and goblets which Valentine had brought him as part of her dowry, stood displayed there. The servants filled graceful decanters from almost man-sized narrow tankards with wines from Bordeaux and Burgundy, mead spiced with honey and currants, malmsey and sweet hippocras. The music continued without pause; minstrels appeared on the balcony and started singing the couplets of Bernard de Ventadour, so beloved by Orléans.

“Listen!” The Duke interrupted himself. “Can there possibly be a more perfect way of praising the pleasures of love? ‘M’es veiare que senta — odor de paradis …’ ” he sang in a warm but rather unsteady voice. “ ‘It seemed to me there wafted a scent of paradise …’”

“You use music as an easy excuse to back out of the argument,” cried the Duchess de Berry with playful indignation. “I call everyone to witness! Monseigneur d’Orléans neglects his duties in the service of Lady Love, he refuses to answer the question which I put to him in the name of all those who profess true courtesy. Can Your Majesty not compel him to answer? A royal command has more weight than one from a woman like me, who am Monseigneur’s mistress neither in rank nor in matters of love.”

Her loud, clear voice drew everyone’s attention to the center of the royal table. She glanced laughing from Isabeau to Marguerite de Nevers, who smiled in cold contempt, but without embarrassment, as though she were only indirectly involved in the conversation. The Queen, startled from her brown study, turned mechanically toward the speaker.

“What questions?” she asked, with a forced smile.

The young Duchess of Berry repeated loudly, “I asked Monseigneur, ‘Fair sir, which would you prefer: that one should speak ill of your beloved and you should find her good, or that one should speak well of her and you should find her evil?’”

“By heavens!” exclaimed Berry. He wiped his fingers on a linen cloth which a page held out to him. “That is a real poser for a court of love. Poets will have to be called on to answer it; I fear that even the eloquence of Monseigneur d’Orléans is no match for it. What do you think?” He turned to the Countess de Nevers.

Burgundy frowned; his wife’s face became cold and vigilant. They suspected that hidden allusions were being made to the rumored infidelity of their daughter-in-law, under the guise of light-hearted banter, and they felt it as an attack upon the honor of their House.

The Countess de Nevers waved her hand and said modestly, “It would not be proper for me to give my opinion before the Queen has spoken.” Thus she diverted attention from herself.

“The question is directed to Monseigneur d’Orléans,” Isabeau said. She did not feel capable at the moment of playing clever word games. Louis, tapping his ring against a goblet in time with the music, shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “I can give you the answer that Courtesy prescribes,” he said, “which is that I would rather think my lady good and find her evil, than the reverse, if I could preserve her honor in that way, and her reputation. In all likelihood I would also deal justly in accordance with the true state of affairs, for il est vérité sans doubtance: femme n’a point de conscience, vers ce qu’elle hait ou qu’elle ame … Woman has no conscience at all about what she hates or what she loves,” he concluded, quoting a stanza by Jean de Meun. He bowed in ironic apology to his two dinner partners. The Duchess of Berry turned away, apparently offended, and Isabeau was not amused. Her eyes were cold behind the thin veil of gold gauze which fell from her high, two-horned headdress over the upper part of her face. Berry laughed loudly and raised his goblet.

“Bravo!” he called out. “Now we are back again where we ought to be, debating the value of women’s love. Where is Madame Christine de Pisan, who regaled us so recently at my brother of Burgundy’s with so passionate a defense of the honor of women? She is an excellent poet, my lord.” He leaned across the table to cast a mocking look at Burgundy. “And she knows how to be grateful to her benefactors; I read the eulogies which she dedicated to our brother. ‘Benign and gentle’ she called him, the eternal crab. They say that she even praised his piety and bravery. In truth, that is a remarkable talent that you have taken under your protection … Chastity!” exclaimed Berry in melodious, polished tones which were more biting than playful. “It’s no wonder that Christine sings of chastity, now that she lives so near to Madame de Nevers!”

The Duchess of Burgundy put a soothing hand on her husband’s sleeve; the sober gesture did not go unnoticed — surely not by Berry, who derived satisfaction from this small act of vengeance. Nevertheless, Marguerite bent her head as though in gratitude for this supreme praise; it was impossible to guess her thoughts.

Bourbon said quickly, to bridge the painful silence, “Even here in the court I can mention a passionate defender of true courtesy. I think it is not by chance that the excellent Christine has so many words of praise for the Marshal Boucicaut.”

Louis burst into laughter and beckoned to one of the cup-bearers who carried a tankard through the hall. The man hastened to him, filled the Duke’s cup to the brim and, at his request, took it to the Marshal who sat at one of the two tables beneath the dais. Boucicaut rose and drank to Louis, not without wondering what had caused this signal honor, because he could not hear the conversation at the royal table.

“Fair sir,” cried Orléans, “drink to the health of the virtuous women whom you have praised in your ballads. Here we are involved, as usual, in combat over the Book of the Rose. How could it be otherwise? It seems that for lack of bloodier fights we must break our lances now continually in the service of Love. I fight under the banner of the Rose, to the vexation of Monseigneur de Bourbon, who has chosen you as his champion. I defy you, Boucicaut, with this beaker of wine — choose your weapons and come into the arena.”

Boucicaut raised his grave young face to the Duke. The rigid carriage of his lean, sinewy body, the hair clipped short around his high forehead and his black garb distinguished him from his gaily dressed, somewhat boisterous table companions. He was barely thirty years old; great personal bravery and thoughtful acts had won him the title of Marshal a few years before, during a crusade in the East. After he had returned the goblet to the waiting servant, he said with his usual calm gravity, “It is true, my lord, that I hold women in high esteem and I have vowed to serve all equally, regardless of rank or age.”

“Ho ho, fair sir.” Berry interrupted him. His eyes glittered with spite and his face was bloated by wine and heat. He found the young Marshal, notwithstanding his blameless conduct, to be faintly ridiculous. “You say you serve all, regardless of age or rank? But what do you think of ugly women, without charm, and especially of evil, malicious ones, such as there are — alas! — enough among us, to the distress of Dame Venus herself?”

“I serve all,” replied Boucicaut with a slight bow.

Isabeau sighed. The conversation held little interest for her. She was warm, the weight of her clothing and jewels was beginning to oppress her sorely. Moreover, the King had become restless again; he had pushed himself forward on his seat so that he was sprawling halfway over the table, muttering incessantly. Burgundy tried in vain to calm him down; when he finally attempted to pull the King back onto the seat by his arm, a small struggle ensued, in which goblets and plates were knocked off the table.

Orléans signalled to his steward. The leather curtains in front of the servants’ entrance parted and a procession of servants, dressed as savages, festooned with leaves and fruit, carried in a huge tray holding a mountain landscape made of cake and sugar round a lake on which swans were floating; this was intended as a compliment to Isabeau, who was meant to recognize her native country, Bavaria. Armored knights brought in the gigantic pie from which the dwarf would emerge later on, and there were also silvered birds filled with sweets and pastry, and a fountain which spouted different kinds of wine to the sound of cunningly concealed carillons. Last of the cortege were jongleurs, singers and musicians displaying their skills before the tables. This diversion distracted the guests’ attention from the King; he himself showed a childish interest in the great pie which had been set down before the royal seat on a tray standing on wooden trestles. The dwarf, clad as a herald for the occasion, appeared through an opening in the top of the pie and directed a speech in rhyme to Isabeau and the other women. Margaretha of Burgundy, who was wiping the wine from her husband’s sleeve, considered the whole spectacle rather shabby, compared to the entremets and richly ornamented dishes which were customarily served at festivities in her native Flemish cities.

“Is that not Madame Valentine’s Italian dwarf?” she asked Burgundy in an undertone. The King, hearing that beloved name, became restless once again. “Valentine, Valentine,” he repeated, rising from his seat. His dilated eyes strayed from one face to another. “She is not here,” he said, in fear and impatience. “Why haven’t they invited Madame my sister-in-law? Let her come here at once. Instantly.” He pulled nervously at Burgundy’s shoulder.

The dwarf fell silent in confusion; even the musicians, who stood playing at the lower tables, put down their instruments. Good manners prevented the guests from staring at the royal table, but an oppressive silence suddenly prevailed. The blood drained from the Queen’s face. She bent toward her husband, whispering.

“But Sire, the Duchess of Orléans is lying-in; it is impossible for her to come here. We sit at the feast in honor of her son, whom you yourself held at the font today.” She offered him her hand, inviting him to sit down. But the King drew his cloak tightly about his body, and with a cry of aversion withdrew to the farthest corner of the bench.

“There she is again,” he said, a catch of agony in his voice. “Go away! Begone — don’t look at me like that. What does she want of me? Let her be gone! Valentine, Valentine!” he screamed, pounding his fist against the sidewall of the canopy.

“Sire!” hissed Isabeau sharply, white to the lips. “Don’t forget who or where you are. You are the King of France!”

“Who says that?” Shuddering, Charles gripped the sculptured armrest of the bench with both hands and half-turned toward Burgundy. “That is a lie! Why do they insist that I am the King? Begone, leave me in peace! Do not believe this idle chatter, my lords and ladies,” he went on loudly to his table companions. “It is a slander, the King will surely punish those who say it when he gets wind of it.”

Burgundy stood up resolutely, but Isabeau, driven by now to extremes, thrust him back. She was torn by shame and impotent rage. She gripped Charles’ hand so tightly that her nails tore his flesh. “There are the lilies and escutcheons of Valois. You stand before the throne, Sire. Surely you must know you are the King himself.”

Charles shrieked in pain and fury and wrenched his hand free. In his anguish he fell against Burgundy, who threw an arm around his shoulders to keep him on his feet. The King’s face was white as chalk; foam appeared between his lips. Isabeau, who had never before seen him like that — she had not been present during his attacks of madness at Creil — stepped back and sought support against the edge of the table.

The guests sat motionless; servants and musicians withdrew into the shadows of the colonnades. The dwarf slid from the pie and crept timidly away under the drooping folds of a table cover.

“Hush now, Sire, hush,” said Burgundy, attempting to take hold of the King’s resistant body. “No one will do you harm; you are among friends. Now sit down calmly; do. We will summon the man who juggles burning torches.”

But the mention of fire woke in the King’s disordered brain recollections of the fearful night which had brought on his second period of madness. He shrieked and struck out wildly about him. Bourbon moved quickly to pull the dagger from its sheath on Charles’ girdle and get the weapon out of the madman’s reach, remembering what had happened in the forest of Mans, where the King in his frenzy had stabbed two noblemen of his retinue.

“Your Majesty,” the Duke of Burgundy began, but he was not able to finish. The King spat on the lilies on the canopy, tried to tear the tapestry, making derisive, scornful gestures.

“Away, away with that weed!” he screamed. “Take the plants away! Majesty, majesty — it is all blasphemy! My name is George — my escutcheon bears a lion pierced by a sword. I am a valiant knight! To arms! To arms!” His lips turned blue; his eyeballs turned up, showing the whites of his eyes.

“In God’s name, call a physician,” said Louis d’Orléans with vehemence. “My lords, forgive the disturbance. The King is gravely ill. I regret that I did not cancel this banquet — under these circumstances.”

Jean de Bueil left the hall quickly, followed by a few retainers. The Archbishop of Saint-Denis approached in long, trailing purple robes and held a cross before the King, while he moved his lips in prayer. The King, somewhat restored to himself by the wine which someone had sprinkled on his forehead, shook his head fearfully.

“Let him rest awhile — give him a chance to breathe.” Orléans had come under the canopy. Now he took one of the King’s ice-cold hands in his. “Brother — do you not know me?” he said softly, insistently. “Come sit by me here, and let us talk awhile together. Tell me about the sword and helmet which our father gave you when you were a child.”

The sick man shivered; he seemed to shake off his frenzy, like a wet dog shaking off drops of water. He blinked his eyes.

“Come, now.” Louis tapped the cushion of the bench. Burgundy looked at the Archbishop with raised eyebrows.

“It seems that Monseigneur d’Orléans really knows a treatment which is mightier than any treatment from the Church,” he remarked in an undertone. Isabeau, still breathing heavily, gave him an angry look, but remained silent. The veil was damp on her temples; her legs could no longer hold her. Leaning on the Duchess of Berry, she sank into her seat. The King slumped against his brother’s shoulder. Seen together, the likeness as well as the frightful disparity between the two was startling: one face was like a twisted reflection of the other.

“Yes, brother,” said the King, who recognized Orléans and at that moment began to speak to his brother as he had done in their childhood. “That was a wondrous story, with the weapons — they hung over my bed. I had to choose … how was it again?” He became lost in thought; his head drooped over his breast. Orléans gazed down at him with a smile which was not without bitterness.

There was some disorder at the tables. Food remained untouched on dishes and platters. The chimes of the wine fountain played monotonously without pause. The guests at the lower tables talked softly to one another, following the advice of Boucicaut, who thought as little attention as possible should be paid to the King’s condition.

A door opened under the portico and Jean de Bueil re-entered the hall with Maitre d’Harselly, a few other of the King’s physicians, two valets and an old retainer who enjoyed the King’s special confidence, and who was always with him. The doctors’ presence was linked in the King’s consciousness with unspeakable bodily and spiritual torments; he was beside himself again. Neither persuasion nor gentle compulsion could induce him to accompany the court physicians. Finally, they had to carry him away by force past the tables, guests, musicians, servants and the ever-growing group of spectators in the gallery.

“Valentine, Valentine!” shrieked the sick man desperately before the doors shut tight behind him and the doctors. Immediately Louis d’Orléans signalled to his servants; music sounded again from the balcony, cup-bearers and table servants hastily resumed their work. A few dogs played in the hall with some feathers which had dropped from one of the silvered birds decorating the platters; the dwarf slipped away unnoticed between the pillars of the gallery. Orléans sat down beside the Queen. For the first time he saw a look of cruelty in the set of her mouth. She threw her brother-in-law a glance he had never seen in her eyes before.

“Valentine,” she murmured, almost without moving her lips. “Always Valentine. This situation is becoming unbearable, Monseigneur.”

Louis shrugged. “The King is like a child,” he responded softly, beckoning to a cup-bearer to fill her goblet. Isabeau, however, laid her white, fleshy hand over the mouth of the goblet. The page bowed and moved on. “Will you not drink with me, Madame?” The Duke of Orléans spoke with an astonished smile that only partly disguised his wounded feelings.

“It is a situation that must be remedied,” continued Isabeau, her eyes fixed on his face. Orléans laughed, somewhat irritated. He did not understand. After a pause she said in a cold voice, “You can do much to prevent greater difficulties in the future, my lord.” A shadow crossed Louis’ face; he bit his lip. Because the mood among his guests was still constrained, he felt obliged to attempt to restore the lighter atmosphere. While he looked about, trying to think of a way to re-open the conversation, his eyes met those of Berry, who sat staring at him, rather shapeless in his colored brocade, slowly turning his beaker in his hand.

“Really, in all the excitement we have forgotten to drink to the health of the baptized child,” Berry declared with a malicious smile. “Would this not be the time to wish him prosperity and a glorious future?” He raised his goblet. “Charles of Orléans, long may he live!”

It was not long past midnight when Louis set out for the room which the people of Saint-Pol called “the chamber where Monseigneur d’Orléans says his prayers.” He went there frequently and stayed long, especially on those days when circumstances prevented him from going to the chapel of the Celestines. An odor of frankincense and a profound silence, all the more soothing after the hubbub in the dining hall, greeted him when he opened the door. After the dessert there was a rowdy atmosphere at the tables because of the wine and the wit of Louis’ six jesters who were famous for their insolent subtleties. Orléans retained an unpleasant memory of Berry’s flushed face, the empty uncontrollable laughter of his young wife, Isabeau’s barely veiled anger. Over the creased damask, strewn with bread crumbs and fruit pits, the enemies had traded gibes and taunts, encouraged by the forced mirth of the other guests who boisterously approved of everything the fools said as they walked past the tables.

After the Queen’s abrupt departure, the banquet had ended. Orléans had already ordered his chamberlain to arrange a tournament in honor of his new son, to make up for the abortive christening feast. Walking through the narrow draughty corridors he had deliberated whether he should still go to the chapel of the Celestines. But after the strains of the evening he longed for the perfect tranquillity of the chapel. Kneeling in the fragrant twilight on the mosaic tiles, under which his two eldest sons lay buried, he sought to recover the shadowless peace, the serene faith untainted by guilt, which he had known as a child. The cold, quiet room which he entered now awoke memories of his childhood; it was here that he and his brother used to kneel together, leaning against the knees of their governess, the Dame de Roussel. Charles, the elder, could recite all the prayers fluently, without mistakes, and he did it willingly, with scarcely concealed pride; Louis, who could not yet speak clearly, had enough difficulty kneeling and concentrating on keeping his small hands together at the same time, could only stammer after the governess: “Ave Maria — full of grace …”

He shut the heavy door carefully behind him. A perpetual lamp, hanging from long chains, stirred slightly in the draught. The shadows on the face of the image of the Virgin alternately faded and deepened, so that there seemed to be life in the painted eyes and the artfully carved, smiling lips. The Mother of God wore a gilded crown on her head and the cloak which enveloped her as well as the child was stitched with gold thread and jewels. Something in the pale, narrow wooden face reminded him of his wife, equally delicate and pale, who lay beneath the coverlet of her lying-in bed. Was it the sad, patient smile, or the way she held her head, slightly inclined to one side, under the heavy crown? Shame and remorse welled up in Louis, a bitter, scalding wave; he dropped to his knees before the statue, his fists pressed against his forehead. He did not notice the icy coldness of the stone floor. In the silence he heard the throbbing of his heart and the gentle crackling of the hot wax of the altar candles dripping onto the candleholder. He felt overwhelmed by melancholy, the inevitable reaction to tension and great excitement; by sorrow for vanished innocence and childish happiness.

What had become of the two boys in their matching brocade cloaks; the King’s two small sons who had learned their prayers kneeling here? Where had the sounds of their voices gone? And the jingling of the bells on the harness with which, each in turn, they played the part of the horse? Somewhere within these walls their excited cries must still echo — when they played at battles and tourneys with friends Henri de Bar and Charles d’Albret, each window niche had become a fortress, each mosaic tile a territory to be conquered. Although Louis was still a young man, it seemed to have been an infinity since he had come here as a child and as a youth. He remembered his father clearly, although he had been barely eleven years old when Charles V had died. The King usually sent for his sons when he sat in the library, his favorite room, between stacks of manuscripts, beautifully ornamented pages in vellum. To collect books, and sit poring over them in a quiet room behind walls which shut out the outside world, was the only desire he had which approached passion. His library was housed in one of the towers of the Louvre, his imposing castle which dominated Paris with its high battlements and pointed roofs. Bars had been placed before the windows to prevent birds from flying in and damaging the books.

The King loved to bring his little sons here and show them about, after what seemed like an endless climb up the circular staircase which wound between the white walls of the tower. Louis still vividly remembered those hours: first the small procession on the stairs, his father in front, his thin, slightly misshapen body wrapped in a fur-lined mantle, black like all his clothes, and with a velvet hood on his head, intended to protect him against headache and cold draughts; behind him came Charles and Louis, apparently climbing the stairs with all the decorum expected of the sons of a king, but in reality counting the steps under their breaths or trying to push past each other on the narrow landings; and last came the librarian, Giles Malet, who, after the King’s death, would be librarian in Louis’ ducal household. Later, at the tables piled with manuscripts, the conversation between father and sons took on the character of an examination, a random test. The King, leaning against a reading desk, quietly and patiently asked questions in Latin, which he chose to use on these occasions; thoughtful, beautifully constructed, eloquent sentences, strewn with quotations from his favorite writer, Aristotle.

When Louis thought of his father, he remembered him so, teaching, his pale face with strong arched eyebrows in the shadow of his hood; the long nose had the tint of old ivory. He had a large, sensitive mouth. It was a face that gave a preponderant impression of sadness and suffering; it was clear from the lines that ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth that old age had come to him prematurely; but his brown eyes were sharp and lively, the eyes of a man of great understanding and clear insight.

Charles V seemed to have been born old. Before he came of age, he had known enough trouble to make him realize the relativity of all things under the sun. In his sickly body lived a spirit which coldly and calmly surveyed a France ravaged by war and pestilence, a welter of famine, chaos and boundless misery, in which he began to create order, following a system that did not meet with a positive reaction from the people around him, the pretentious and haughty nobles who had not only lost battle after battle against the English invaders, but had brought their own country to the point of ruin by squeezing the commoners and peasants dry. He rendered them harmless by surrounding himself with advisors from the bourgeoisie, men who were tirelessly zealous in their newly awakened social consciousness. Gradually, by proper organization of the armies, he freed the country from the pillaging bands of roving mercenaries who came from all over; he let the English exhaust themselves on unimportant skirmishes — now on the coast, now deeper in the land again; buildings rose up — forts, palaces, the towered Louvre, the Bastille and a long series of connecting halls in Saint-Pol.

The King was extremely frugal and sober; he had no desires to be gratified at the cost of the exchequer and the prosperity of the country. Day after day he kept punctually to a regimen of work and relaxation. The pleasures of the table meant nothing to him; he ate little meat and drank diluted wine. He loved his family, his work; above all, however, he loved his books — and the writers, philosophers and astrologers who lived in great numbers at his court. France had raised itself from the morass of misery into which it had fallen; the eyes of all Christendom were fixed again upon the heart of the Western world.

“Le Sage” he was called in his time; the wise, the thoughtful one. So he was seen, with his books and his scriveners, governing from his library; so Louis saw him when he thought of his father: leaning against his reading desk, the fingers of one hand between the pages of a manuscript, and the other hand — permanently paralyzed as a result of the poison given him as a youth by his archenemy Navarre — resting in the folds of his mantle.

As long as the King lived, much care was expended on the education of both boys — a succession of excellent tutors instructed them in all accomplishments essential for princes of the blood and, perhaps because of the direct supervision of the King, this instruction was more thorough than would have been the case in other circumstances. And as was customary with him, the father looked to the future. He was righdy concerned about his health. The inheritance he was leaving — a reviving France, barely-allayed hostilities with England, discontented nobles who waited, hand on sword, in their castles for a chance to rehabilitate their positions, and an awakening populace of commoners and peasants — this inheritance was a dangerous toy for children or reckless youths. In addition, ambitious rivals, the King’s brothers, waited near the throne — the avaricious Anjou, the crafty Burgundy, the cold, sensual Berry and his brother-in-law Bourbon, meddlesome and pompous — in truth, a pack of vultures which could never be feared enough.

Therefore, the King set up a guardian trust consisting of various high dignitaries of the Church and some of his advisors — among them Philippe de Maiziéres and Clisson, later constable of France. These men were part of the group which the King’s brothers and knights referred to tauntingly as ‘the Marmousets’—the fools. Charles V expected that these tested servants would be a temporizing influence on the far-from-disinterested Regency of the Dukes. At the same time he decreed that his son should be considered to have come of age on his fourteenth birthday.

Even as the King lay dying, the Dukes swooped down upon the Regency. With their armies they came riding from their domains to challenge one another in turn for the greatest power. The King lay in his death agony, surrounded by his court; at his feet knelt his sons, his friends, his devoted servants. While he was receiving the sacraments, a bitter argument raged in the anteroom between his brothers which resulted in Anjou ransacking the deserted rooms of the palace. Furniture, golden tableware, jewels were carried off with no further comment. Anjou withdrew as regent; with the plundered gold he could carry on a war for the possession of Sicily, to which he lay claim. Bourbon, Berry and Burgundy now fastened their claws in earnest into the crown of France, which at Reims had been placed on the head of a twelve-year-old boy.

Louis remembered it as though it were yesterday: the colorful silk banners rippling in the breeze along the stone pillars; the reflection of the flicker of wax candles in the golden censers, in the jeweled ornaments, in the burnished steel of armor.

He knelt behind his brother on the altar steps, holding in both hands the sword Joyeuse which had belonged to Charlemagne and which had been brought from the royal treasury for the occasion. Even more than the sight of the slender figure of his brother in his royal robes of gold and purple, the legendary sword filled Louis with pride and awe. Where his childish fingers grasped the hilt, the hand of the great Emperor had once rested. He thought it a good omen that he had been given the sword to carry, a sign that he was destined to perform valiant deeds.

After their father’s death, both boys had drawn even more closely together, perhaps in reaction to the surveillance with which the Dukes had surrounded them behind a mask of courtesy. But the time for childish games was over for good; Charles fell prey to Burgundy’s powers of persuasion; seduced by the prospect of heroic deeds on the field of battle, he allowed himself to lead an army into Flanders to subdue the regions which had risen against French rule; thus, without being aware of it, he played into the hands of Burgundy, whose power in Flanders had been firmly established by French victories in Roosebeke and elsewhere. Louis had fervently hoped to go to war, too; he was wisely kept at a safe distance from the battlefield by sensible elements in the Council. They did not entertain the possibility that some accident would befall the young King; they thought only that it was prudent to keep the successor to the throne close at hand. Among the Marmousets, those ministers who had served his father and who had not been banished by the Regents, he found sharp-witted and objective advisors; one of them, Philippe de Maizieres, a man advanced in years, was uncommonly fond of Louis and only for his sake remained near the court which had lost the sobriety characterizing it during the reign of Charles V. Louis delighted in this wantonly sensual and luxurious atmosphere. He had too ebullient a personality not to be the first among those dancers, those devotees of Our Lady Love, addicted to gambling and hunting.

Although he was still a boy, barely on the brink of manhood, Louis was quite aware of the impression which he made upon women. They seemed to be wherever he went, all sorts of women, with light and dark eyes, their hair done in a thousand different ways, in long graceful garments, sparkling with costly jewels, infinitely more beautiful than the cold, chaste saints who looked down upon him from altar panel and tapestry. Small wonder, then, that he soon became familiar with the games of the Courts of Love. And he dreamt meanwhile of other conquests as well. He was now fourteen years old and considered to have come of age. The young King gave him the Duchy of Touraine as well as many other estates and castles along with their titles and revenues. At the same time, a bride was found for him in Italy, an heiress to vast land holdings. Valentine, however, was nothing more than a name to the young man — a name linked to long negotiations about the dowry of 30,000 gold florins, the city of Asti and other citadels with mellifluous names: Montechiaro, Serravalle, Castagnole. Louis took active part in the discussions and helped to choose the officials who would represent him in his new dominions. He and Valentine exchanged gifts; they were now betrothed.

Time did not hang heavily on his hands while he awaited the coming of his bride; in a campaign against the Duke of Gelre, Louis could at long last play a role. The boy had grown into a man; the sprighdy, quick-witted child had developed a diplomatic skill to be reckoned with. The eyes of the Duke of Burgundy fixed on his youngest nephew; he did not plan to lose sight of him again. He attempted to gauge the feelings of Louis’ friends, trying cautiously to discover causes of enmity toward him; he needed to know where the young man’s power and where his vulnerability lay. He considered the King to be a good-natured but rather muddle-headed young fellow, easily influenced and quickly distracted by all sorts of fantasies. In addition, Charles’ health was already affected by dissipation. Louis seemed to be without hereditary mental or physical taint; this, in addition to his popularity at court, made him a figure of great importance in the political theatre which Burgundy, the puppet-master, wished to control. However, it soon became all too apparent that Louis had no intention of dangling helplessly from Burgundy’s strings. The young man, courteous and urbane, went his own way. Those districts and provinces which he had over the years received from the King or had been able to acquire himself, seemed to cluster around the heart of France, a well-plotted zone of strategic bases upon which Burgundy looked with suspicion.

In August of the year 1389, Valentine Visconti came to Melun to be joined to Louis in matrimony. It was there, outside the castle, amid the thick deep greenery of the midsummer meadows, that bride and bridegroom met each other for the first time, under the bright August sky filled with white drifting clouds. She had come to meet him, stepping forward from a group of Lombardy noblewomen; against the background of their flowing garments embroidered with gold and precious stones, she stood out in simple elegance, more sophisticated than any finery: in her deep scarlet bridal dress she appeared to rise up from the ground like a flame; the radiant light of the summer day seemed to burn within her, a bright glory behind her eyes and skin.

Kneeling now on the cold stone floor before the statue of the Mother of God, Louis mourned the loss of that summer bliss, the pull of more gross pleasures which had taken him from Valentine’s arms. What did it matter that he respected her for the purity of her character, that he turned to her for her unfailing sympathy, that he considered her his kindred spirit, sharing his interests in the arts and sciences — if all that were not enough to pacify his restless heart? The amber and ivory of her beauty often seemed to pale for him — he looked for more glowing colors and voluptuous curves; he did not disdain the full ripe fruit beckoning in the foliage of the orchard, even though he held a lily in his hand.

Apart from all this, Valentine’s dowry required too much of his attention. Galeazzo Visconti released the gold florins with great reluctance; the money reached his son-in-law only in driblets. In addition, matters did not go smoothly in Asti and the cities of Lombardy because the nobles there did not wish to pay Louis the homage of vassals. Thus it was imperative that Louis go to Lombardy. Once he arrived in Italy and came face-to-face with his crafty father-in-law, Louis became painfully aware that the possession of Asti and its surrounding countryside — and, even more, the relationship with the Lord of Milan — would embroil him in endless difficulties. Not only the interests, but also the enemies of the Visconti would be his; on the other hand, as lord of domains in Lombardy he was obliged to maintain good relations with all subjects and neighbors, even though this was not in accord with Galeazzo’s politics. Visconti was like a spider in a web of intrigue; left and right he seized what he liked; weaving, meanwhile, cunning new threads. He lay in wait for more important plunder than a handful of Italian cities; he had made a firm decision to utilize his relationship with powerful France.

Louis was offered the prospect of a crown, a kingdom on the Adriatic Sea, artificially created by a group of ambitious men working behind the scenes: the Avignon Pope, Clement VII, who wished to move to Rome; Galeazzo, who wanted to be crowned king of Tuscany and Lombardy; the heirs of Anjou, who still hankered after the throne of Sicily; and, finally, Burgundy, who supported all these ambitions in return for certain compensations, for it would be most convenient for him in the future if Louis were safely tucked away on the Adriatic coast, far from Saint-Pol, far from France.

It was to be expected that the attempted execution of these plans would encounter fierce resistance in Italy. The battle continued to rage in a series of skirmishes and negotiations between the involved parties: Florence, Bologna, Padua, Milan, the mighty city of Genoa as well as Savona — all threatened, directly or indirectly, by the intrigues of Gian Galeazzo, and by rapacity and treason within their own camps. Genoa, the city most torn by civic discord, was the one weak spot in all the turbulence; the conquest of Genoa would be a milestone on the road to the Adriatic kingdom.

At this point the King, and Gian Galeazzo as well, shifted responsibility for the entire undertaking onto Louis’ shoulders — Charles because he was tired and sick, already touched by madness; and the Lord of Milan calculatedly. With gold and promises, Louis mustered an army of mercenaries and adventurous nobles with their followers. He sent messengers to everyone to hold themselves in readiness for the campaign; at the head of his troops he placed Enguerrand, Lord of Coucy, who for years had been one of his closest friends and who was one of the most able military commanders in the realm. At the same time, Louis pressed Pope Clement for a bull of authorization which would lend this enterprise the look of legality. The Prince of the Church in Avignon was not ready for this; to be sure, he wished eventually to pluck the fruits of the campaign and tread the path to Rome that Louis had cleared for him. But he did not consider it expedient at that time to announce his interests in the affair. Louis was disappointed but not surprised. He sent Enguerrand de Coucy to Lombardy.

Many of the problems seemed on the point of being solved when suddenly the Western world was violently upset: in September the Avignon Pope, Clement, died unexpectedly. No stone thrown into an ant hill could have caused a greater commotion than this death caused in a shaken and divided Christendom. So many new problems piled up that Louis, dismayed, set politics aside for the moment. Impelled by a longing for inner peace, he went on a pilgrimage to Asnieres where he owned a castle in the neighborhood of a monastery and a church. However, Valentine’s approaching confinement brought him back to Paris toward the end of November.

Kneeling in the chapel of his house, he remembered the many hours of meditation he had spent in Asnieres, far from war and ambition, far from the court and temptation. With a bitter smile he thought of the priests, urging him at confession to control his desires; it was easy enough to be chaste and disinterested within the white walls of his cell, listening to pealing bells and pious hymns. But who could engage in the life of the world outside without being caught up in passion? Louis had learned from the behavior of dignitaries of the Church in the environs of the court and especially from the conduct of Clement and his cardinals in Avignon that even the purple robes of prelates did not protect them against sin.

Lust and greed, the Devil’s companions, often hid behind masks. There were moments when Louis felt almost choked by the wickedness of the world. At those times he lost the light cynicism with which he managed to adjust to every circumstance; he felt like the serpent which the sculptured Mother of God trampled under her small foot. Nor did his uneasiness cease in this hushed room redolent of incense.

He crossed himself and rose to his feet. He knew that he was going to spend another sleepless night when he went to bed. The thought crossed his mind even in this sacred place, of an alternative; there were houses in Paris where, with women and dice, one could temporarily escape from reality. He struck himself scornfully on the mouth with his gloves, which he still held tightly in his hand. Then he quickly left the room.

He walked to the door which led to his own private apartments, but paused with his hand upon the door-ring, staring at the sentry who stood leaning against the wall, asleep. The torches in metal brackets, placed at regular intervals along the walls of the corridor, burned with a soft crackling sound; the man stirred in his sleep.

Orléans turned and moved cautiously to a low door at the other end of the passage, behind which a spiral staircase wound down through one of the many towers to the ground floor. The icy night air and the odor of damp earth rushed to meet him as he opened the door to the inner court. The wind had driven away the fog and the clouds; the moon stood reflected in pools of water left from early evening showers. Between the narrow cobbled footpaths which traversed the court in the shape of a star, small shrubs had been planted. In the center of the star stood a fountain.

Louis stood leaning against a pillar of the gallery which bordered one side of the court and gazed at the blue slate roofs of Saint-Pol and its numerous towers, wings and galleries looking like a mysterious labyrinth in the cold moonlight. Behind a series of narrow windows a weak glow could be seen: these were the apartments of Valentine and the women. Louis sighed and with one hand began to hook closed the cloak which he had thrown over his shoulders after the banquet. He could feel the metal ring which Salvia had brought him that morning pressing against his breast beneath his shirt; he pressed it with his hand.

He had caught only a glimpse of Mariette d’Enghien when he had visited his wife with the King’s retinue; when the girl became aware of his glance she had retreated behind a group of ladies of the court, like a deer fleeing into the wood to escape the approaching hunting party. He crossed his arms and hid his hands in the wide folds of his cloak. Startled by the sound of a light step on the stones of the gallery, he turned quickly. The moonlight, shining through the rosettes cut into the stone arches, cast a pattern of silvery patches onto the floor; in the light could be seen the face and figure of his squire, Jacques van Hersen, whom he had dismissed for the night when he left the table. The youth knelt. “My lord,” he said.

“What is it?” Louis asked curtly. He was annoyed at the interruption.

“Don’t you need me, Monseigneur?”

“Now that you have found me, you can come with me.” Louis turned his back to the page and entered the garden.

They passed under the arched gate into the gardens of Saint-Pol, which were surrounded by high walls. The young trees, planted only a few years before, stood in rigid rows along the paths; wrapped in straw against the winter cold they looked like grotesque figures, suppliants, assassins, dancers, stylites. In the summer, lilies grew here, and bright-colored columbines in flower beds; rosebushes and hawthornes divided the garden into small lawns adorned with fountains and bird houses. Now the hazy moonlight hung over branches and twigs, bare hedges and leafless arbors.

The Duke walked rapidly; without slowing his pace he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. By now it was obvious to the page where they were going; the path Louis was taking led directly to the buildings of the Celestine monastery, a pile of towers and roofs outside the palace walls. Before the Duke opened the door in the garden wall which led to the monastery, the page turned to look back once more; but the spacious gardens lay deserted and almost shadowless in the moonlight. Seen from this spot the steep walls and peaked towers of the palace of Saint-Pol seemed almost unreal: an enchanted castle suspended between heaven and earth, a dream vision woven out of moonlight and clouds.

“Come, young man,” said Louis impatiently from the darkness.

Quickly, Jacques followed his master through the low arch and shut the door. They stood in a roofed passage, with small windows on one side, through which the moonlight cast elongated white strips onto the ground. The Duke was at home here. In this place he had his own prayer cell where he spent certain days each year leading the life of a monk, wearing cap and cord and walking barefoot on the stone floors. His old friend and councillor lived here, Philippe de Maizieres, who had retired among the Celestines shortly after Louis had been declared of age.

Louis hesitated a moment before the door of the chapel which had been built onto the cloister walls. He did not enter, but walked in the opposite direction until, past stairs and corridors, he entered the nearly dark dormitorium. Abruptly he stopped, with a half-suppressed cry of terror.

The page stepped forward quickly. “What is it, Monseigneur?”

Louis laid a trembling hand on the young man’s shoulder, seeking support, but he spoke words of reassurance.

The page let his dagger slide back into its sheath, but stood peering suspiciously into the darkness. There was only one patch of light in the hall, a square of moonlight under the little window cut high into the wall. But this bluish, misty light only intensified the surrounding darkness and silence. A cold shiver climbed between Jacques’ shoulderblades; for a moment he felt a blind urge to bolt. The Duke’s footsteps sounded quicker than before. They reached the door giving access to de Maizieres’ rooms. Louis tapped at the wooden door, his usual quick, short signal; he entered without waiting for a reply.

The former councillor to the King occupied two adjoining white-walled cells with vaulted ceilings. A life-sized image of the crucified Christ hung directly opposite the door; in the flickering light of a perpetual lamp the wounds seemed to glitter darkly with coagulated blood. A soft rustling came from the adjoining cell; after a few moments de Maizieres appeared, an old man in a cowl.

“Forgive me for arriving at this late hour,” Louis said before de Maizieres could speak. “If I had not known that you seldom sleep after midnight, I would not have come. I needed to talk to you.”

The old man stepped aside and motioned him to enter.

“You don’t look well, Monseigneur,” he said, pushing the manuscript he had been reading to one side of the table. “I cannot say that the rest in Asnieres has done you good. Nor has the celebration of your son’s birth. What’s the matter? Your hands are shaking,” he added, lapsing into that familiar tone with which he had sometimes addressed Louis the child.

“Maizieres,” said Orléans softly, “if it is true that a man can foresee his end …” He paused. “I know well enough that I have been fortunate in my undertakings,” he continued, more softly still. “But now it seems I am running out of time. I do not believe I shall live long, Maizieres. I have seen Death himself tonight.”

The old man raised his head quickly. He shaded his eyes with one hand against the glow of the candle which stood on the table between them and scrutinized Louis sharply.

“In the dormitorium, Death passed before me,” Orléans said, while they stared into each other’s eyes. “If I had put out my hand, I could have touched him — he was so real. Don’t say that I imagined it — I was thinking about other things. Without wishing it, without being prepared for it, I suddenly felt the chill which emanated from him and I saw him too, although it was dark all around me. How else would I know that he can transfix one with a stare from eyeless sockets — that he whispers without tongue or lips?”

“You came from a banquet, my lord. Drinking the wine and listening to the music, you had perhaps given no thought to the fleeting nature of pleasure. Death frequently surprises men at such moments. Perhaps it is as well that you were reminded of more important matters.”

Louis stifled the anger which welled up in him at these words; he forced himself to smile courteously as usual. “If I can be charged with no worse debauchery than attending my son’s christening feast…” he tried to joke, but broke off.

“God knows, Monseigneur, that you waste enough time on matters which are in essence perhaps as senseless as debaucheries,” said de Maizieres in a low voice, folding his gaunt hands before him on the table.

“What do you mean by that?” Louis did not look up; his fingers drummed the table top.

“You know very well what I mean, Monseigneur, but it cannot harm either of us if I repeat my meaning within these walls. I have told you often enough that I believe you waste your time on enterprises which fade away like rings on the water. What is the point of looking for conquests in Italy when a hundred paces from your palace gate there is chaos which cries out for quick action?”

Louis bit his lip and frowned; although he paused for a moment to collect himself, his voice held an undertone of impatient annoyance.

“Did I ever initiate these enterprises, as you call them? Do you think I would be stupid enough to put my hand all alone into that hornets’ nest on the other side of the Alps without support from the King or the Pope? But by the time the King became ill too much had happened — I could not withdraw. I had to carry on even though my father-in-law and Pope Clement had deserted me. You don’t need to worry about me any longer, because nothing will come of my kingdom on the Adriatic Sea now that the Pope is dead. If I were to persist in carrying on my purpose in Italy, the brotherhood of former fighters would presumably unite against me.”

“I am delighted that you see things this way, my lord. I was afraid you might not abandon the enterprise in spite of recent events. There are more serious problems here now. You have an extremely responsible position, and one which puts the obligation upon you of forgetting your personal interests. Now that the King cannot reign, you must act in the name of the Crown.”

Louis laughed softly; the bitterness did not escape de Maizieres.

“I wish you would deliver this speech sometime to my uncle of Burgundy, who sees — or professes to see — only self-interest in everything I do, and who does not hesitate to tell everyone that I am busy undermining my brother’s throne. As though everything I have done had not been worked out with the King when he still had his health — and since he became ill — for the last two years I have acted only in the interests of France. Those provinces which have been allotted to me — along with the whole Italian affair — behind all this is only the necessity to act in French interests. My lord uncles would never act as champions of the Kingdom, if it came to that… my brother knows that/ would never turn against him — on the contrary. It’s laughable the dark motives the Duke of Burgundy sees behind every gift of land.”

He leaned toward the old man and went on with passion.

“And now, this summer, as you know, the King confided the country of Angoulême to me. When he was lucid, we spoke of it together — he saw himself that it was of the utmost importance that a region so close to the English front should lie in trusted hands. If the war party conquers in London, all treaties are meaningless. Can you see my lord uncles marching to defend Paris? But you can well imagine that any new acquisition on my part gives Burgundy an opportunity to spew new venom. Ah!”

He made a sound of deep aversion and clenched his fist on the table.

“I don’t like to speak this way about my kinsmen, and God knows I would make every effort to maintain good relations — but sometimes I feel like someone who must dance in a field of thisdes, whirling gracefully in complicated steps, without being scratched or pricked for otherwise … it is like a picture from a nightmare.”

He bent forward, pressing his fists to his forehead and gave a short, despairing laugh. De Maizieres heard him laughing and, more than by bitter words, the old man was alarmed by this laughter, which sounded like sobbing. Never before had Louis lost control so openly. De Maizieres sat motionless, too shocked to speak. However, Louis knew how to recover himself quickly. He looked up, smiling in his usual ironic manner, and said, “Fortunately, courtesy does not forbid me to choose my weapons in this secret combat. If my uncle of Burgundy is as cunning as they say, he will understand the significance of my having taken a thisde for my new device, my having conferred the title Comte d’Angoulême on my new-born son … and my having instituted an order, the order of the hedgehog, in his honor.”

“It seems to me that you ought not to waste your time on childish skirmishes with emblems and titles,” said de Maizieres acidly. “Now what was it you wished to discuss with me, my lord?”

“The Queen wishes my wife to leave the court. She has wanted that for a long time. But there never was a valid reason and in truth there is none now either, although the Queen is making every effort to find one, with the help of Madame of Burgundy, who begrudges my wife first place at the court. There are strange rumours circulating — I shall not repeat them — you know about them, perhaps?”

De Maizieres shook his head and Louis continued quickly.

“I consider it demeaning to pay attention to these kinds of stories, but I am positive this is creating feelings against my wife who deserves such treatment less than anyone. I think she suspects something already, and if she knew the Queen’s real purpose, she would go away at once, and she would not come back unbidden even if the stars fell from heaven. The situation has become so tense that I must do something … but what? I would like to spare my wife humiliation, but I cannot send her away without a reason. Sometimes I think I should quit Paris for good, with Valentine and the children.”

De Maizieres stood up so abruptly that his sleeves swept the loose pages of a manuscript from the table to the floor.

“My lord! You cannot possibly mean that. Will you deprive us of the only hope we have left since your father died? Monseigneur, you have never stood on the field in the heat of battle — if you had, you would know the meaning of desertion—”

The blood rushed into Louis’ cheeks. He rose also.

“Yes! Desertion!” De Maizieres continued in a voice trembling with emotion. “Even high treason, my lord! At this moment France has no other king but you. I know it is a thankless role you must play, concealed behind the throne, threatened on all sides. But you cannot be permitted to abandon the role even for a single instant, my lord; no one realizes better than I how much disappointment you have swallowed, how upsetting your situation is — but you must not give way.”

“Quiet! Be still now, Maizieres,” Louis said roughly, putting his hand on his tutor’s shoulder. “You are talking drivel about kingship, secret or otherwise. I sit concealed behind the throne and I am exposed to gossip from all sides, it is true, but I am more like an unwanted house animal, an unwelcome dog, than a secret wearer of the crown.”

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur.” De Maizieres folded his hands. “You have more influence than you seem to realize — infinitely more. The place you occupy cannot be allowed to fall vacant, under any circumstances. You have never needed to tell me that you serve the interests of France. I know it; I know you too well to doubt it. You must go on serving those interests, my lord, you are the only one who can.”

“Don’t make me out to be better than I am,” Louis said shortly. “I might not be France’s champion if my interests did not happen to coincide with those of the Kingdom. I am only human.”

“The Queen maintains relations with Bavaria, and the interests of Bavaria are not identical with those of France. The Dukes will not interfere with the Queen’s plans if they are not interfered with themselves. And so the Kingdom crumbles, my lord, like a dry crust of bread. There will be hunger, rebellion, rapine, boundless misery — and the English will manage adroidy to profit from this chaos.”

“And now you want me to struggle like a second David against Goliath — with no weapon except a sling and a handful of pebbles? Do you really take me for a child then, Messire de Maizieres?”

“I take you for a man who knows his obligations,” said de Maizieres, his head bowed. “I am no star gazer nor fawning courtier. I can’t make all sorts of encouraging predictions. It’s more than possible that you will find only frustration, my lord.”

“Or a speedy death,” Louis said. He thought he felt again the palpable cold he had encountered in the dormitorium. He pulled his mantle tight and moved toward the arched doorway.

“Are you leaving already, Monseigneur?” De Maizieres did not stir.

“I wish to hear early mass in the chapel of Orléans,” said Louis. “What else can I do then but submit to the fate which awaits me? God grant me more humility and patience.” He stood for a moment staring at the black and white mosaic tile of the floor. “Do you know, Maizieres,” he went on, in that eager, boyish manner which made him so likeable, “something happened to the King and me when we were still children. Have you forgotten it? I was eleven years old — my father had been dead only a short while. We were hunting in the forest of Bouconne near Toulouse, with my uncle of Burgundy and Henri de Bar — I even believe that Clisson was with us …”

“Indeed I have heard of a wall painting in the monastery of Cannes,” said de Maizieres with a vague smile, “which was brought there about ten years ago in memory of a miracle performed by Our Lady. And I know there is a hunting party in it… in a dark wood, surrounded by wolves, deer and other wild animals.”

“That is the one I mean.” Louis turned and walked back to the table; he stared into the candle flame as he talked, lost in memory. “Night overtook us in the middle of the forest and we could not find our way. The horses were frightened; they did not want to go on, because somewhere near us wolves were howling. Besides, it was pitch dark — a heavy, overcast sky without a single star — and we had wandered off from the servants and torchbearers.

“The King fell from his horse; the animal was skittish because it sensed my brother’s panic. I remember how we stood near each other, in despair in the darkness. Then my brother made a vow: that he would offer the value of his horse in gold to Our Lady of Good Hope if we escaped safely from the forest. Not long after that, we saw the torches of the hunting party through the trees. The monks of Carmes near Toulouse had dedicated a shrine to Our Lady of Good Hope. They had our adventure painted on its walls as an example.”

“Why do you tell me this story, Monseigneur?” asked de Maizieres, raising his tired, slightly enflamed eyes to the young man. “What is the connection between a childhood adventure and the things we were talking about just now?”

“Doesn’t it seem to you that we have, all of us — the King and I and our good friends — wandered off into a forest of the night, filled with wolves and sly foxes? The darkness holds endless danger; we are stranded with no torch to protect us. But even if the King were to offer now all the gold of France I am afraid that no Lady would save us from darkness and disaster. There is no Good Hope for us, Maizieres. We are lost in the Forest of Long Awaiting, a wilderness without prospect,” said Louis, employing an image much in vogue with the poets to express the frustration of hopeless love. “The Forest of Long Awaiting,” he repeated, deriving a kind of mournful pleasure from the sound of the words.

De Maizieres, who was not susceptible to poetic phrases, sighed and shook his head. He had become tired and chilly during the conversation. Besides, a bell could be heard pealing somewhere in the monastery, a sign that the night had ended.

Isabeau woke startled from a chaotic dream; she lay clammy with sweat under the heavy, fur-trimmed coverlet, her heart beating against her throat. At that moment the bells began to chime for early mass in the chapels of Saint-Pol and in the churches and cloisters of Paris. A wave of relief swept over the Queen, although her body ached with exhaustion. The prospect of having to wait a few more hours for daylight, she found unbearable. She turned her head toward the hearth, where her chambermaid Femmette sat dozing by the fire.

“Femmette,” said Isabeau loudly. The woman sprang up with a startled cry, clutching to straighten her wrinkled kerchief. When she saw the Queen’s dark eyes fixed upon her, she knelt hastily on the carpet before the bed.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I was asleep. It was so warm by the fire.”

“Good,” said Isabeau curtly. “Help me get up now.”

She had thrown back the bedcover and shivered in her damp chemise. The chambermaid, who had been accustomed for years to obey Isabeau’s wishes blindly, now ventured a timid suggestion: the Queen had gone late to bed, the ladies of her retinue who had to help her dress were not yet in the anteroom; the Queen’s condition made a longer rest advisable.

Isabeau sighed, irritated, her lips pressed together. If she was goaded, she could burst into a stream of invective. The control she had to exert toward kinsmen and dignitaries of the court taxed her nerves to the limit. She was used to taking out her frustration on her servingwomen. Now too she had to make an effort to hold back her anger; the chambermaid was already kneeling beside her, putting slippers on her feet. Femmette, who saw that the Queen was in a bad mood, remained silent; usually Isabeau spent the few minutes before she received her ladies listening to the chambermaid recount the gossip going the rounds of the city and the palace — the idle talk, the words caught on the sly — but now she was too distracted and annoyed. She had a cloak put round her shoulders and walked heavily to her prayer stool.

The tolling of the bells and her own disordered thoughts made it impossible to concentrate; she prayed mechanically. While the beads of her rosary slid through her fingers, she thought of her plans for the day — she would go to the Audit Chamber to insist on a speedy setdement of her annuity; she would discuss with Salaut, her secretary, the gifts she must offer to relatives, court and servants on New Year’s Day; she had to accept the resignation of the King’s physicians — especially Harselly, whom she considered a stubborn, opinionated bungler — who had dared to attribute the King’s illness to an excess of wine and love. Then she wanted to dictate some letters to Salaut; she longed for the presence of her brother, Ludwig of Bavaria, who since her marriage had often resided in France. Whenever Isabeau, in the treacherous solitude of court life, felt a need for someone with whom she could be her real self, without reserve, she sent a message to Ludwig, who was usually to be found somewhere nearby, hunting and drinking with French barons.

Isabeau had stopped praying; the rosary hung motionless between the folds of her robe. She was startled when the sound of city bells ceased; the steady chiming had put her into a sort of trance, a borderland between sleeping and waking, in which the events of her life, the countless plans and desires which controlled her, assumed an almost tangible form. She rose with an effort, leaning heavily against the prayer stool.

Femmette, who had not dared to disturb the Queen’s devotions in any way, was about to go through to the anteroom to inform the mistress of ceremonies that the Queen was awake. But the Queen called her back and pushed aside the tapestry before another door. The chambermaid, anxious to comply with her mistress’s wishes, hurried after Isabeau with a candle to light her passage through the dark, quiet rooms. They came to a low, heavily bolted door, studded with iron lilies, which led to the chambers where the King resided; there had been a time when the door had stood open always so that the couple could reach each other at any hour of the day or night. Against this door, now locked on both sides, Isabeau often leaned, listening, trying to hear what was happening on the other side; sometimes she heard stifled cries, and the monotonous murmur of voices of doctors and servants; but most of the time — as now — a deep, almost ominous silence prevailed. The Queen walked quickly past the door, along the corridor which joined the royal apartments with those of the Dauphin and the three small princesses.

From the fields surrounding the palace, which stood at the extreme edge of Paris, came a cold morning wind, blowing through the shutters and carrying with it a stench of rotting garbage; the great municipal sewer, the Pont-Perrin, emptied into a ditch along the embankment, not far from Saint-Pol. Isabeau averted her head. The stink of spoiled food and other refuse called up her intense dislike of the people who swarmed through the narrow streets, of their constant needs, their incessant complaining and petitioning. Poverty and filth aroused Isabeau’s anger, never her compassion.

Because it was her duty to do so, she ordered coins thrown to the rabble of beggars when she rode out in her coach or in a palanquin. But she could not muster the friendly smile and sympathetic words which the King dispersed so readily on these occasions even to the most disfigured and filthy beggars. She looked with friendly condescension upon merchants and tradesmen; the benefits of their labor came eventually, to be sure, into her exchequer; her existence justified theirs. But the josding mob of paupers inspired her only with a secret terror; their hoarse cheers seemed to be filled with veiled menace.

Carefully, the Queen opened the door which led to the series of apartments occupied by the royal children. She chose to visit them, unannounced, in the early morning when they were still asleep, so she could see them without being bothered by them. Isabeau wanted to be proud of the Dauphin and the three small princesses; she wanted to be proud of their good looks, fine manners, pretty clothes, the power that would be theirs, the important marriages they would make. It was the love of a chess player for the precious pieces on her board; in it there was no trace of tenderness, of concern with the thousand littie joys and sorrows of a child’s life; the affection with which the Duchess of Orléans held her babies in her arms filled Isabeau with mild derision; a throne was not a nursemaid’s stool. She kept strict watch over her children’s governesses and tutors; they were fortunate children to have a mother who went to such lengths to see that they were raised as future bearers of crowns should be raised.

The children’s nurses were busily raking up the hearthfire; they quit their work when the Queen entered, and paid her proper homage. Apart from that, there was a deep silence in the darkened room. Isabeau walked to the bed in which the Dauphin slept and thrust aside the curtains. The child lay on his back in the center of his bed; damp hair clung to his forehead. His mouth was open; he breathed heavily, wheezing. As usual Isabeau told herself that the child’s pallor, the shadows under his eyes, his whistling breath were symptoms of a passing indisposition, not sickness or even weakness. With almost childish obstinacy she dismissed the words of the doctors who compared the child’s health to the King’s. The child stirred in his sleep, perhaps disturbed by the light which the Queen held aloft. His lids flickered, showing the whites of his eyes. At that moment he bore a remarkable resemblance to the King as she had seen him the previous evening, writhing in Burgundy’s arms. Isabeau quickly dropped the curtain.

Passing through the adjoining room where the governess still lay sleeping, Isabeau entered the princesses’ room. Isabelle and Jeanne lay together in a large bed like a scarlet tent; the reflection of the freshly raked hearth fire on the red cloth cast a glow on their small faces under their tight muslin nightcaps. Marie, the youngest, about a year old, slept in her cradle; her arm covered her face so that Isabeau could not see it. Marie had been born at a time when the King seemed recovered, and had been dedicated, out of gratitude, to the service of Our Sweet Lady of Poissy; a small pawn placed on Isabeau’s chessboard, not for wordly gain this time, but to buy God’s favor for the King of France.

The dawn had colored the horizon a bright pink above the hills and fields of Saint-Pol when the Duke of Orléans left the chapel, followed by Jacques. The morning mist drifted low over the lightly frozen ground; the palace rose from the gardens as though from a hazy gray sea. The Bastille, at the extreme edge of the city, stood oudined steep and dark against the lightening sky. The park of Saint-Pol lay exactly in the sharp angle formed by two municipal walls on the right bank of the Seine; behind the Celestine monastery flowed the river, bisected by the island of Louviers. In the west loomed the city, with its dozens of churches, cloisters and castle towers, the irregular roofs of the houses crowded closely together on both sides of the narrow streets. Paris had been silent before the church bells began to ring; now the city was awake.

In the early morning those who were employed in the fields surrounding the ramparts walked out to them through the countless gates; the day’s work began in the streets, in the marketplace, on the quays along the Seine, in the offices of the Provost, in the shops, granaries, mills and slaughterhouses, and in all of the 4,000 taverns of Paris.

In the Hotel d’Artois — the residence of the Duke of Burgundy — it was the custom to arise at dawn. Philippe and Margaretha, out of an unswerving devotion to duty, attended early mass; in addition, the Duke chose to receive the officials of his household and to handle the countless matters connected with the provinces in the early morning hours. Also, on this November morning the room adjoining the reception hall was filled with waiting people: burghers, merchants, farmers, clergy, lawyers, many holding petitions in their hands. Behind a tall wooden partition stood a few peasants from the domains in Burgundy; they had been called to account because they had been negligent in paying the taxes due on the vintage. The grey light filtering through the small, high windows made the room seem bleaker and colder than it was. The more self-assured among those who waited walked back and forth, stamping softly now and then, and rubbing their hands. But those who were here for the first time stood, intimidated, against the walls, shivering in their best clothes.

It took longer than usual for the first visitor to be called in; the Duke’s scriveners and secretaries glanced curiously at the door which led to Burgundy’s apartments. The Duke did not come; he was talking with his wife. Margaretha sat in a deep window niche, staring through small, slightly cloudy panes at the land behind the adjacent city wall. The autumn morning light lay pale on the hills of Mont-martre. Burgundy stood, hands behind his back, one foot on the step leading to the seat in the window niche.

“It was too late to begin yesterday. There are a few things I am eager to learn, Madame.”

“Do not forget, my lord, that people are waiting for you,” remarked the Duchess, her eyes still on the hills.

Burgundy frowned. “Am I master in my own house or not?” he asked testily.

The corners of Margaretha’s mouth moved in an imperceptible smile, more eloquent than any answer. She folded her hands in her lap, a sign that she was ready to listen.

“In the first place,” Burgundy began coldly, “I am anxious to hear how it happens that the Queen can speak privately with so loathsome a fellow as the beggar from Guyenne, about whom you have no doubt heard.”

The Duchess of Burgundy shrugged placidly, looking at her husband from the corner of her eye.

“I thought we had agreed at the time,” Burgundy continued, “that every contact between the Queen and the outside world would take place through you. You have the opportunity to observe everything that happens in Her Majesty’s apartments.”

“The Queen is not a child,” said Margaretha. “I cannot lie down like a watchdog on her threshold. But there is no reason to be dissatisfied with me; I do what I can.”

“Yes, I know that.” Philippe now stood on the step of the window niche. “And as a matter of fact no harm was done, this time. But that does not mean that similar visits will be harmless in the future. After the Queen, you are the first lady at court, Madame.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I am not,” said Margaretha. Her small mouth seemed to become smaller, her glance sharper, a sign that Burgundy’s dart had found its mark with malice aforethought. He bowed his head as though suddenly aware that he had made a mistake.

“Good. You are right, Madame, ma mie, you are only the third lady of France — but it lies in your power to be the first, if you wish.”

“I do what I can,” Margaretha repeated. She turned her head away and stared unseeing at the buildings which lay between the Hotel d’Artois and the ramparts. She thought of the humiliation she had endured at the court: at each more or less official function where both she and the Duchess of Orléans had been present, Margaretha had duly given precedence to the much younger woman, with deep curtsies. She punctiliously observed protocol, but the deferential words lay like gall and wormwood on her tongue and the faultlessly executed curtsies were torture to her. That Valentine invariably treated her with kind respect only exacerbated her resentment. She could not forgive the Italian woman for her amiable disposition and her honorable character which made every intrigue against her seem tasteless and reprehensible. Margaretha was only too well aware that the task she had taken upon herself — to drive a wedge between the royal family and Orléans — demanded from her words and actions of which she was secretly ashamed. This feeling of guilt lay deep within her. It gnawed at the roots of her self-esteem and created a constant state of discontent which was reflected in the drooping corners of her mouth.

“I know you do everything in your power,” Burgundy said, somewhat less coldly. “Yesterday I had an opportunity to observe that the Queen is firmly convinced that Madame d’Orléans is an accomplished practitioner of the black arts. But we must take care that the Queen does not choose Orléans’ side now; on the contrary, it is desirable that the same shadow should fall over husband and wife. I would like to know if my meaning is clear to you.”

The Duchess of Burgundy gave him a sharp look; two luminous points lay motionless in her black pupils.

“I understand perfectly,” she replied at last. “But I fear it will not be easy. Do not forget that the Queen’s aversion to Madame d’Orléans is almost innate. Furthermore, it is seldom difficult for one woman to hate another — reasons can always be found. And the role which Monseigneur d’Orléans fills for the Queen cannot be taken by anyone else. She needs him; therefore he will remain in her favor — even if he were the foul fiend himself. The Queen has a real hunger for pleasure and amusements; who would help her prepare all those masquerades and balls if Monseigneur d’Orléans were not there?”

“I am only amazed that he still finds time for another less harmless pastime,” said Burgundy drily. He walked across the room where, on the opposite wall, hung a Flemish tapestry, depicting the birth of Mary. He stood motionless before it, filled, as always, with deep pleasure; not so much because he was struck by the splendor of crimson, peacock blue and red gold, but because this precious work of art belonged to him.

“Alas, what a pity,” said Margaretha from the window niche, “that our son Jean shows so little interest in affairs at court. The Queen does not like him, although she does her best to hide it. That makes Orléans’ position considerably stronger.”

Burgundy frowned, nodding; he ran his finger along the letters stitched in gold thread on the lower edge of the tapestry.

“Now is also the time to discuss Jean,” he said, without turning. “He has asked me to allow him to lead a crusade against the Turks. Do you know about this?” he broke off to ask, and saw her nod.

“Not directly from him. And not in detail, but enough to know that we must encourage the venture as strongly as possible.”

“I think so too.” Philippe walked back to her across the tiled floors, with measured steps. “It will mean great expense, but we must raise the money. Naturally, I am not opposed to it; I see the substantial benefits of such an enterprise. Besides, Basaach is a danger to Christendom; he is not a man, but a ravenous beast. And now it seems that Orléans promised help to the Hungarians some time ago — a considerable sum of money, if I am correctly informed, and also various gentlemen of his court with their men.”

“Orléans cannot possibly leave now.” Margaretha smiled and smoothed her wide sleeves. “Though that might possibly be a solution …”

The Duke of Burgundy stood and looked at her.

“That is foolishness “ he said sharolv. “You know that it is impossible for me to exert any influence here, especially now that the King’s condition leaves so much to be desired. I wish Jean to go; I have thought a great deal about it and I believe it would be unwise to neglect this opportunity. He must take the best men who can be found. I am thinking of sending messengers to Enguerrand de Coucy in Italy. He is the only one who knows what a campaign in the East means.”

Margaretha looked up quickly, like a greyhound pricking up its ears.

“But the Sire de Coucy leads Orléans’ troops in Italy,” she said. “His return would cause considerable delay there. I thought the state of affairs in Italy had your full support, my lord.”

“Yes, so it did. But Pope Clement is dead and without him this Italian venture has little purpose. In any case, I need the Sire de Coucy now. I can offer him better employment for his abilities — the best is not good enough for me, now that a son of Burgundy marches off to war.”

“This will create a great sensation,” said Margaretha thoughtfully, “especially in England.” She paused to arrange her long, fur-trimmed train carefully about her feet; a cold draught had swept across the floor. Then, casually, she gave him the news which she considered the most important part of the conversation.

“Froissart has returned from England,” she said. “He has petitioned the Queen for an interview. Quite by accident I heard something about the intelligence he brings. It should be of interest to you, my friend.”

“What are the important tidings which have reached your ears, my dear wife?” Burgundy sat down in the window niche next to her. The Duchess folded her long, rather bony hands over each other; on her forefinger was the ring engraved with the Flemish motto of the Burgundies: “Ic houd”. I keep.

“King Richard wishes to remarry,” she said slowly. “He asks if an embassy would be well received here. It seems to be his intention to ask the King for the hand of the small Isabelle. My informant was quite certain of his business.”

The Duke of Burgundy sat quietly; he gazed at his wife, absorbed in thought.

“If that is really true,” he said at last, “then it is the best news I have heard in a long time. A marriage between France and England would make war impossible — or at any rate most undesirable. We cannot underestimate the advantages, ma mie. A war with England would cause the interests of France and of Flanders to be so diametrically opposed to each other that I would have to tear myself in two to satisfy both. I may assume then that you will support Froissart’s errands whole-heartedly and that you will point out to the Queen the advantages of the proposal. For my part I shall speak with the King myself — at least so far as that is possible.”

“And … Orléans?” asked Margaretha, rising. She liked order and punctuality; she was annoyed that her husband had delayed his audiences. The Duke helped her descend the step from the window niche and walked slowly with her to the door.

“Orléans will undoubtedly be against it,” he said. “For that reason it is extremely important that decisions be made before he can exert any influence.”

The Duchess stopped and drew the long, rustling train of her dress over her arm.

“Such things usually reach his ears more swiftly than I would wish. Orléans is on his guard.”

“I know it.” Philippe thrust aside a tapestry to let his wife through the door. “And he does not hide his knowledge, as you may have noticed last night. I shall have to put up strong barriers against him.”

“God be with you, my lord,” said the Duchess of Burgundy ironically.

She was gone, dropping the curtain while Philippe was still making his formal bow. Donning his velvet hat, the Duke strode to the audience chamber.

At dawn Louis d’Orléans sank onto his bed fully clothed, hoping to snatch a few moments of sleep. But because he lay quiet, breathing regularly, his valet Racaille assumed that he was sleeping; he approached cautiously and began to pull off Louis’ muddy shoes. The fire roared in the hearth, for the morning wind was blowing into the chimney; early sunlight gleamed through the small round cut glass window panes. While the servant busily loosened the laces of the Duke’s clothing, loud insistent voices could be heard in the anteroom; a chair was pushed noisily aside.

Racaille went quickly to the door, fearing that Louis’ friends had come to remind him of a pre-arranged morning ride, repast or hunting party. Two gentlemen-in-waiting, along with a page, panting from having raced up many flights of stairs, were standing in the anteroom.

“Where is Monseigneur?” demanded one of the gentlemen. He seemed excited, and attempted to peer past Racaille into the bedroom.

“Monseigneur d’Orléans is asleep,” the servant replied curtly. He was angry at this invasion, but angrier still at the carelessness of Monseigneur who seemed to think he could live without sleep, wandering God knew where while sensible people were getting their good night’s rest. But the gentlemen insisted on an audience.

Louis heard the voices through a dreamy mist. Although he did not wish to be disturbed, he opened his eyes and called, “What is it, Racaille?” The gentlemen appeared in the doorway.

“My lord,” said one, “a courier has just arrived from Lombardy with a message from Messire Enguerrand de Coucy.”

“Well?” Louis heaved himself onto his elbow.

“The city of Savona has surrendered, Monseigneur, even before a siege could begin.” The courtier spoke in a loud, important voice. “The city fathers wish to conclude an alliance with you regardless of Genoa’s position.”

Louis sat up and swung his legs onto the step next to his bed. Racaille hurried to bring him clean, dry shoes. The two noblemen, who had expected expressions of pleasure, or at the least, approval from the Duke, stared at him in surprise. Louis sat expressionless while Racaille tightened the buckles on his shoes.

“So,” he said finally, “very pretty. A success for Chassenage and Armagnac’s mercenaries. Although the Gascons will be sorry they could not use force of arms. If all this had happened in the spring or during the summer,” he continued, standing up, “I would have had more reason to rejoice.” He walked to the window: the gleam of the morning sun on the blue roofs of the towers was almost blinding. He squinted, but did not turn; he had no wish for further conversation with the two noblemen who stood uncertainly in the doorway.

“Send the courier to me when he is ready,” Louis said, with a dismissive gesture.

Later in the day Louis set out for his wife’s apartments. As always, he felt the need to share important events and considerations with her. Some time had passed since he had last talked seriously with Valentine; in recent months he had not wanted to tire her with discussions about the Italian campaign or the matter of the papal elections.

The Duchess of Orléans lay propped up on pillows in the large state bed; two damsels stood on steps on either side, plaiting her hair into braids. She had slept better than she had for days and felt refreshed insofar as she could in the stuffy air of the hermetically sealed chamber. A smile glimmered in her eyes as soon as she saw her husband enter; the court ladies withdrew immediately to an adjoining room. Louis greeted her with more warmth than he had shown in a long time. His eagerness for a willing ear and loving attention woke an almost reluctant surge of affection in him. Valentine’s bright golden brown eyes were fixed upon her husband as he moved a bench beside her bed and sat down; her cheeks were flushed and a smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. She folded her hands before her on the coverlet. She was filled with deep contentment bordering on bliss because he had come to her; although at the same time she was conscious, to her sorrow, that he had not sought her so much as the comfort of her counsel.

Although Gian Galeazzo’s daughter was by no means in full agreement with Milan’s policies, she had no choice but to endorse the plans made or inspired by her father — especially those in which Louis was involved. The Tyrant of Milan had tried repeatedly to use Valentine to exercise influence on both his son-in-law and the King, but she refused to allow herself to be used in that way, although she was willing to involve herself in negotiations or make recommendations. She knew that appearances were against her, especially in the eyes of Isabeau and her Bavarian kinsmen — it seemed almost unnatural that the daughter should not blindly serve the father’s interests.

“Savona has surrendered,” Louis said, after he had asked about the state of her health and the health of their small son. “Enguerrand de Coucy’s courier arrived in the palace this morning. I talked briefly with the man — he was dead tired; he seems to have ridden day and night without stopping.”

“Is that good news then?” she asked. Louis bent forward, tracing lines with his finger on the velvet edging of the coverlet, and shrugged. After a short silence, he said, “De Coucy has appointed Jean de Garencieres captain of the fortress of Savona, and left a fairly substantial garrison behind. But I have the impression that the people of Savona have a few tricks up their sleeves — they are willing to support us in future action against Genoa, so long as the campaign lasts — provided we pay them a monthly stipend — and not a small one, either.”

“The alliance with Savona is not insignificant,” said Valentine. “It will make both Genoa and Florence uneasy.”

Louis laughed shortly.

“I don’t trust any of them,” he said. He smoothed the velvet with his hand. “In the course of years I have finally come to see what they understand over there by the word ‘negotiation’. While the city fathers come to offer the keys and a long list of conditions, their ambassadors slip out through a back door to reach an agreement with our bitterest enemies. In any case, victories in Italy don’t mean much to me, as long as I do not have the support of the Church; this alliance with Gian Galeazzo alone is no recommendation — quite the contrary. I hope you won’t mind, ma mie, if I speak frankly. If I were to take up residence in those vanquished lands, I would live as safely as a lost sheep among wolves — although perhaps that image doesn’t fit me too well because I am neither guileless nor helpless. And besides …” He leaned sideways against the edge of the bed, crossing his arms under the cover of his long green sleeves. “… why should I pursue conquests in distant lands when God knows I can well serve my country here even if it is only as a pot watcher? I have repeatedly been able to accomplish things, either directly or through the exercise of influence — which I suppose is the same thing — things that I knew the King would approve of if he were able to understand them. The Dukes will never take my brother’s wishes into account, insofar as they do not agree with their own plans. In those moments when the King’s head is clearer he often tells me how he approves of the way I have handled this or that matter — you know that yourself, my dear. I hope that my brother’s illness is only temporary …”

“Yes,” said the Duchess of Orléans softly, but without conviction; she turned her head away to conceal the anxiety in her eyes. “God knows that I pray every day for his recovery — whatever else they may say about me …” Her voice quivered with suppressed tears. Louis looked up quickly.

“Madame,” he said, almost sternly, “you must rise above gossip. I would be very sorry if your self-esteem were to be jolted by the idle chatter which travels round from time to time …”

“Alas, it is no idle chatter,” said Valentine; her voice still shook. She made an effort to restrain her tears, the treacherous, embarrassing tears which threatened to overwhelm her in times of physical weakness. “It is not gossip, my lord, you know that as well as I. It is a bulwark of hatred and slander, which is being constructed stone by stone. Don’t think that I am blind and deaf,” she continued, in a vehement whisper, clasping her hands tighter. “In the streets of Paris they are saying I wish to kill the King …”

“Hush, hush, Valentine,” Louis interrupted, reaching for her hand across the coverlet. The fact that she was aware of all this upset him greatly. He had not expected it.

Valentine continued to speak swiftly and angrily.

“They say that at my departure, before I left for France, my father said to me, ‘Farewell, daughter; see to it that when we meet again you have become the Queen.’ But, my God, that is … Surely everyone knows that I left without saying goodbye to my father, who was then in Padua. It grieved him enough that we could not bid each other farewell.”

“Hush, hush,” repeated Louis, angry at the suffering she had borne because of the malice of stupid people. But Valentine went on.

“They see sufficient proof in my coat of arms, I’m sure. Yes, it sounds foolish, but it is true … You know what people are like, they even create the evidence they wish to believe.”

Involuntarily, Louis’ eyes glided to the coat of arms stitched in gold on the bed curtain behind his wife’s head: a field, divided in two, displaying a lily of Valois on the left, and on the right the adder which symbolized Milan, a viper about to devour a child at play. Who could deny that it was an image which inspired little confidence? Louis felt the throbbing of his wife’s pulse under his hand; he was overwhelmed by deep compassion.

“I don’t know,” he said, withdrawing his hand from hers. “This is becoming a most painful situation. Most likely I shall have to dissuade you from visiting the King more often than is strictly necessary.”

“That is impossible,” said Valentine in a dead voice. “I do not go to him, he comes here — and against that I am helpless. It does him good. With me he is often more cheerful and placid than anywhere else; it is wonderful to see how at times he is completely his old self again; he talks sensibly about all sorts of things — even though it lasts only a few moments,” she concluded, with a sad smile.

The couple gazed at each other in silence, each lost in thought. They were, thought Valentine, like solitary trees which sometimes take root in the stony soil of mountain tops. Exposed to rain and lightning they stand; clouds drift past them, by degrees wind and weather polish them to stumps as barren as the rocks around them. When, as a bride she had crossed the Italian Alps, Valentine had seen such trees on steep crags, hanging over precipices, pressed obliquely by the wind, scorched black by bolts of lightning. Everything which still bore foliage at that altitude seemed fated to come to a frightful end.

A door opened and two women entered the lying-in chamber: the Dame de Maucouvent and the nurse with the baby in her arms. They were followed, as protocol required, by two rows of demoiselles from Valentine’s retinue. Mariette d’Enghien was one of the last pair; as soon as she saw Orléans, she pulled back as though she wished to leave, but her companion held her hand. Louis, who rose when the women entered, greeted the Dame de Maucouvent and lifted the veil which partly covered the small Charles; nothing more was visible of the sleeping child than a pink face as large as a fist. Smiling, the Duke walked past the curtseying maidens; the glance which he cast upon the bent head of Mariette d’Enghien did not escape Valentine’s notice; stretched out under the coverlet she watched her husband while the pounding of her heart almost suffocated her.