In a Dark Wood Wandering

I. EXILE

estminster, Windsor, the Tower of London — other names, but everywhere and always the same walls, the same narrow windows. Wall hangings, warm blankets and silver dining utensils were not lacking, but armed men stood before the door and silently accompanied one when one left the comfortable rooms for brief walks. In Westminster and Windsor, one could still fancy oneself a guest in a princely palace, but the sojourn in the Tower carried, despite tapestries and cushions, the unmistakable stamp of imprisonment. Those of royal blood — namely the Dukes of Orléans and Bourbon and the Count de Richmont — had been quickly separated from their less notable comrades in distress. This was hard on Charles, who missed Boucicaut: during the first week of exile a warm friendship had blossomed between the Marshal and himself. Boucicaut’s tranquil dignity set a standard for Charles; in Basaach’s Turkish dungeons the older man had learned how to endure suffering.

In fact, the Marshal had had an uncommonly interesting life: he could boast of having known the most important men of his time: Charles the Wise, du Guesclin the great Constable, Philippe of Burgundy, Louis d’Orléans, Gian Galeazzo of Milan and so many others — popes and princes, captains and statesmen from all parts of the world. He had seen the East, the remote territories beyond the Danube, Constantinople, Acre, the holy city of Jerusalem; he could give spellbinding descriptions of everything for he was a courtier and a man of letters as well as a soldier. Writing verse was his favorite avocation.

“I always have time for it in prison or during the long day’s march in a campaign.” He had said this with his calm, kindly smile when Charles had surprised him at that pastime in Windsor Castle. Charles, who lapsed into melancholy when he had nothing to distract his thoughts, began to compose commendably intricate couplets; before long he had reached the point where he and Boucicaut, when they were not playing chess, frequently held pleasant conversations in ingenious verse forms. The proficiency in rhyme which Charles had demonstrated as a child came to his aid now — often in Blois in the last few years he had composed couplets in Bonne’s honor for his minstrels to set to music. The lines flowed so swiftly from his pen that Boucicaut, a painstaking versifier, remarked in amazement, “You have undoubtedly inherited the gift from your father, Monseigneur. I remember very well that he could write a really melodious verse when the mood was on him.”

Charles thought of the song about the Forest of Long Awaiting and was silent; he could never hear mention of his father’s poetry without remembering how Herbelin had sung, how his mother had left the room with unsteady steps, how Dunois had come to them. It was not long before Boucicaut realized that Charles was secretly ashamed of his father, that he listened to praise of the dead man with lowered eyes. Deep in his heart Charles doubted the innocence and good faith of the father for whose vindication he had struggled incessantly for eight long years. From Marshal Boucicaut he heard for the first time an objective portrayal of his father: the Marshal, who had been with Louis d’Orléans almost daily, succeeded in calling up the father for the son, evoking an image infinitely sharper and more convincing to Charles than the one created by Valentine’s passionate words or the whispers of courtiers. And for the first time Charles heard an objective evaluation of Jean of Burgundy. Boucicaut had had ample opportunity to become familiar with Orléans’ enemy during their long confinement in Turkish dungeons.

Because of these conversations with Boucicaut, Charles began to view the events of the last ten years in a different light. Sometimes it seemed to him that France hung before him like a brightly embroidered tapestry. He looked at the figures from a distance. He saw the men and women of France moving against a background of cities, forests and rivers, vineyards, meadows and fields. He saw that those who wore the crown and mitres, who held a sharp sword or a full moneybag, who were lords over the life and death of the people, paid scant attention to the endless multitudes who stood with hands lifted in entreaty in the shadow of the castles and cathedrals. Those in authority contested each other’s crown and scepter; they were motivated only by greed. That wolves devoured the flock, that brigands plundered the pilgrims, that thieves and murderers did their work, that famine and pestilence destroyed the people with sharp scythes — these were no concern of princes and prelates. The more Boucicaut talked to him about the obligation of monarchs and nobles to protect the defenseless people, the more Charles thought he saw the reality depicted in glaring colors; an intense fear for the future of his country crept over him. He had found King Henry’s words of condemnation painful, but he knew that Boucicaut spoke from intimate knowledge. His talks with the Marshal gave Charles ample food for thought — this helped him during the first weeks of his captivity to combat the doubt and despair which tortured him as soon as he was left to himself.

Boucicaut forced him by his conversation to think of other things besides his longing for Bonne. The Marshal knew from his own experience the suffering which Charles was enduring, but he knew also that intellectual exercise produces a temporary relief. He feared that the young man had to prepare himself for a prolonged exile; it would do no harm to show him how one hardens oneself for such an ordeal. However, Charles was soon deprived of Boucicaut’s company. King Henry assigned most of the prisoners to nobles of his personal entourage; for the present he kept Charles, Bourbon and Richmont for himself. Holding prominent foreign noblemen provided an additional and by no means despicable source of revenue for the great English peers; along with the ransom money, the prisoners were required to pay substantial sums for food and lodging. They could also, if they wished, take a follower into service or have clothing or other useful items brought in from their native country — for an extra consideration. Charles knew that his brother Jean was still a guest of the Duke of Clarence. Despite Charles’ efforts they had not yet met, although Jean had sent letters and messages. Clarence, who was out to get whatever he could, demanded an exceptionally high price for his hospitality.

Charles had received permission to transact business through Giovanni Vittori, the Florentine banker who lived in London. Vittori seemed willing to advance Charles large sums of money. But what did four or even six thousand gold ecus matter, compared to the fortune, greater than the richest royal dowries, which they would undoubtedly demand as ransom for his brother and himself? Vittori had begun negotiations with Charles’ treasurer and solicitors in Paris and Orléans; he had received assurances that everything possible would be done to collect the money for the Duke. Charles was convinced of the good faith of his councillors and officials, but he knew better than anyone else how difficult it would be to raise the money. He tried to think of ways to get it. He made a list from memory of the valuables, tapestries and furniture in his various castles; he even considered selling his properties in Asti. But how were all these things to be arranged?

Vittori was a great businessman with a sharp mind, but he was not the most suitable representative for matters linked to politics. Urgently Charles sought permission to negotiate and to make contact with his Chancellor, secretaries, advocates and advisors. He received no consent to his written applications, but he did receive a promise that some of his officers would be called to a meeting so that he could arrange his affairs — under surveillance, of course.

Now that he had had to give up Boucicaut’s company, Charles found it extremely difficult to get through the long days without fits of melancholy and despair. In Westminster and Windsor they had allowed him some distraction — a falcon hunt, strolls in the misty parks, horseback rides. But the Tower was a maze of massive stone walls; a little grass and a solitary tree grew in the courtyard. He had heard that executions had taken place here. “That is why the grass is short and brownish,” said Richmont. “The ground is saturated with blood.” Charles did not often go to the inner courtyard. Walking in the chill, damp air made him feel even more gloomy, if possible, than staying in his chamber.

A room had been prepared in which Bourbon, Richmont and he could come together to talk or play chess. The narrow chamber had no windows but, high in the walls, some holes had been cut and fitted with shutters. Under the wide chimney burned a good fire, barely dispelling the cold which swept over the flagstones. The only furniture was a table, a bench and a sideboard on which candles burned at high noon. A dozen armed soldiers were always present, under the command of the captain of the watch; a clerk in monk’s garb who understood French sat, during the meeting of the princes, on a small bench against the wall, his eyes cast down, his hands concealed within his sleeves. The presence of this silent but immovable auditor irritated the captives more than the clatter of weapons or the stamping, coughing and subdued conversations of the guards who stood in the farthest corner of the room.

Charles found the meetings with Bourbon and Richmont neither diverting nor comforting. It seemed to him that he had never known these men with whom he had associated for so many years. One’s true character becomes apparent under adversity — that old saying acquired meaning for Charles for the first time. Bourbon, always cautious and somewhat timid by nature, spent the greater part of the day staring vacantly before him; he was polite and affable to the guards but stingy with tips, evasive when the talk turned to money matters. Although, like Charles and Richmont, he had been given a banker as his solicitor and could have gotten money, his two companions frequently had to pay for his food and lodging. Bourbon seldom carried more than a couple of silver pieces in his purse. He declined to play for money, but looked on eagerly when Charles and Richmont played cards; he calculated the winnings and losses to a fraction of a sou.

At that time Richmont displayed a boisterous recklessness, an insensitive callousness which Charles suspected was a mask for despair rather than actual bravado. Richmont assumed a defiant attitude; he walked humming past the watch, spoke contemptuously of King Henry at the top of his voice and derided and criticized everyone. He was equally hostile to his companions in misery; there were incessant disputes and misunderstandings. Charles, easily irritated himself, began to avoid the company of Bourbon and Richmont. He stayed more and more often in his chamber: a square, spacious, quite comfortably furnished room, with a window overlooking the Thames. He was soon spending the greater part of the day before the small window panes, at least when the fog did not obstruct his view — which was, alas, too often the case. But in clear weather there was a good deal to be seen on the part of the river which was bounded by the two great bridges.

Directly under his window was a triple embankment with a small quay where barges lay moored. Charles knew that in the rampart below there was a low arched waterway; when they had led him into the Tower he had cast a cursory glance at that massive iron gate which hung before the ominous sloshing black water. Ships both large and small moved back and forth continually over the Thames; long narrow freight boats, with twelve oarsmen on each side, flashed quickly by; compared to them the ferries and two-oared rowboats seemed to creep at a snail’s pace over the small waves of the river. Along the wharf on the other shore where a number of sea-going ships lay at anchor, there were warehouses and offices. Just as on the Seine, Charles thought; his heart ached. There too were crowds of vessels, there too were houses built on bridges, there too were the moving waters, green and black, flashing with silver reflections.

But for all that, the icy-cold impenetrable fog which drifted in from the sea seemed to Charles an alien and hostile element; it even crept, through cracks in the doors and windows, into his room. He hated nothing so much as the hours spent in the ruddy haze created by candle glow and hearthfire, which caused a prickling in his throat and in his chest when he breathed. When he could not look outside, he sat at the table before the fire. He had a missal and a hymnbook; other books he did not yet own. He could not concentrate on the familiar words; he sat staring at nothing over the open book.

He was with Bonne at Blois; he tried constantly to imagine what she was doing, what she was saying, and to whom. How did she endure their separation? Did she weep, did she think of him? He saw her pale face before him, framed in her black hair; he saw tears gleaming in her large eyes, which he had compared to topazes. He lost himself in her daily routine: now she went to early mass to pray for his safe return; now she was in the women’s room giving instructions to the serving maids; now she spoke with de Mornay and with the advocate Maitre Cousinot, his Chancellor, about ways to effect his release; now she sat eating at the head of the table in the dining hall; now she lay down to rest in the bed with the green curtains. When Charles imagined this, he put his head in his hands with a muffled sob. He would willingly have given up everything he owned to see Bonne, to speak with her and touch her once more. Sometimes his longing became so intense that he could not remain still. He walked from one end of the room to the other, sometimes cursing softly, sometimes praying. But this gave him no relief. He flung himself on the bed and struck the pillow with his fists, or smashed against the wall behind the tapestry until, exhausted, he realized the senselessness of his behavior. He managed for the most part to control himself if only to hide his emotions from his keepers, who rapped at his door from time to time to see what he was doing.

The wounds on his legs had healed, but he was left with a painful muscle cramp which sometimes bothered him considerably. He slept badly, lying awake on his back for most of the night, listening to the sounds of the fire on the hearth, of the watch coming and going outside his door, of the wind shaking the shutters. All of his past experiences flashed through his mind. He suddenly remembered long-forgotten events, minor incidents from his childhood, faces and voices of people long since dead. He thought of his father and mother, of their lives which had once seemed so remote and alien, but which now seemed familiar, thanks to the illuminating talks with Boucicaut. He thought of the King, so pitiful despite his crown and purple robes; of the Queen with her sly laugh; of the Dauphin who was rumored to be ill — that did not surprise Charles, who had often wondered how the heir to the throne could possibly indulge in so much wine and so much pleasure without damaging himself physically. He remembered now the violent spasms of coughing which suddenly attacked the Dauphin sometimes. And Charles thought of Armagnac, who so far had cleverly managed to keep himself away from the battlefield. He thought of Burgundy, his archenemy, who, strangely enough, now seemed to be a man like other men. Charles did not loathe and disdain him any the less for that, but he saw him in another light — no longer as the embodiment of evil, but rather as one misled by his own passions.

Charles thought of France, of that neglected, impoverished land, threatened on all sides. In the Tower of London he realized what deep misery had befallen his country. What he had not seen when he was there, absorbed as he had been in family feuds and party quarrels, now became clear to him: he had fought only for the interests of Orléans — without understanding that he and his allies were France’s only protectors. And very poorly indeed had they acquitted themselves. As his father Philippe had done before him, Jean of Burgundy strove to unite his territories into a kingdom with interests opposed to those of France. England seemed more than ever intent on sinking its claws into the coastal areas and the southern provinces. Although these powers distrusted each other, they would always pull together when it was a question of the subjection of France.

When he reflected upon these things, Charles felt hot with deep shame, fear and despair. His party should have been the party of France, with a duty to protect the King and maintain his authority. Whom had he once heard say these things? Was it Dunois, his half-brother? Yes, he remembered that Dunois had said that, or something like it. “I must communicate with Philippe, with my people,” murmured Charles in the darkness of the bedcurtains. “I must know what is happening, what they propose to do, what Armagnac is doing. If Armagnac rules the roost, the end is near. I must warn the Dauphin and the Queen against Armagnac.”

Each day he looked forward impatiently to the audience which King Henry had promised him, but the King seemed to have forgotten his promise. He had visited his noble prisoners repeatedly during the first week of their stay in England, and had treated them with the utmost courtesy. But after a while they saw him no more, and heard nothing from him. Not without reason, Charles realized, had he and his two princely compatriots been transferred to the Tower.

The days crept slowly by, varied only by changes in the weather. Charles looked out the window at the ships and the seagulls which circled shrieking over the water; he counted those towers which were clearly visible in bright weather. He now recognized the sounds of London’s bells; nothing made him yearn so desperately for home as those recurrent, deep, resounding peals.

Except for his chamberlain, the officers of the guard, the priest who came to hear his confession, and, from time to time, Bourbon and Richmont, he spoke to no one. The world seemed suddenly to contain only a handful of people.

Giovanni Vittori came to see him toward the end of January. The Florentine had lived in northern countries for almost twenty years; first in Bruges, later in London. He spoke Flemish, French and English as fluently as his native tongue. He was a stout but agile man with a small, sharply curved nose and very black, vigilant eyes. He was dressed in furs and velvet like a king, with jeweled stars in his hat. He entered Charles’ room as respectfully and courteously as though the Duke still lived in freedom in his own domain, surrounded by pomp and splendor. He observed the required etiquette, inquired after Monseigneur’s health and welfare, exhausted himself in countless civilities, and refused three times the seat which Charles offered him. Finally, with an apologetic gesture, he seated himself on the extreme edge of the chair. Charles was silent; he knew Vittori’s style — a down-to-earth conversation would undoubtedly follow this display of courtesy. At Charles’ nod the valet brought some cake and wine.

“Monseigneur,” Vittori began, “I have news from Orléans. I have had a visit from one of your secretaries, Maitre de Tuilleres. He awaits the King’s consent to inform you personally about the state of affairs in your domains, and to receive your instructions.”

“Is there any news from Madame d’Orléans, my wife?” asked Charles, without looking at the banker.

The Florentine raised both hands in another gesture of apology.

“Alas, Monseigneur, Maitre de Tuilleres has said nothing to me about that. But nothing has permitted me to conclude that all does not go well with Madame the Duchess.”

“I see,” Charles responded curtly. He sighed. He wanted to dash past Vittori, past the rows of guards, out through the inner courts and yards of the Tower, through the gates and over the bridges to the spot where de Tuilleres stood, this man who had seen Bonne only a few weeks earlier. But the banker continued.

“We have made an inventory of everything that can be sold, Monseigneur. You have no more liquid assets at the moment. You will have to take radical measures in order to have money at your disposal.”

“That’s all right,” Charles said. “Sell whatever you think best. I agree to everything. Only I do not wish you to make any economies in the households of my wife, my sister and my baby daughter. God knows they live frugally enough already. Of course I still do not know what price they will ask for me …”

The Florentine nodded in agreement.

“Naturally, Monseigneur, we can only hazard a guess about that. But you owe 133,000 golden écus to my lord Clarence for Monseigneur your brother. You have obligated yourself to pay the money before the first of July, 1417.”

“Then we must attend to that before anything else.”

“Tuilleres has brought 6,500 ecus,” the banker went on. “Your subjects’ tax money, apparently. Since you arrived here I have advanced you 12,000 ecus, my lord. Of these 1,100 were paid out to Clarence’s treasurer. I have the receipts.”

“In that case of course keep the money from de Tuilleres yourself.” Charles put his hands over his eyes for a moment. “I hope you will not cheat yourself.”

“No, Monseigneur, I am your servant!” Vittori laughed. “I do what I can for you. Look, my lord, the lists …” He groped in his sleeve with heavily ringed fingers and produced some scrolls which he smoothed out on the table before Charles. “Furniture, tapestries, an altar piece of massive gold, books … these are the most valuable. In exchange for these I can probably get 10,000 ecus from colleagues and from my own funds. Worth more? Possibly, Monseigneur, but I dare not guarantee more than 10,000. The rest are trifles — they must be appraised piece by piece. I shall send people to Orléans.”

“Vittori,” Charles said abruptly, “the King of France once signed an agreement with my late father in which the King made himself responsible for ransom money if my father’s sons were to be imprisoned. I heard this from Marshal Boucicaut himself. That document must be found. The Dauphin will—”

“Monseigneur, Monseigneur!” The Florentine sprang from his seat and struck his head with his fists. “Speaking of the King …! The Dauphin of France is dead, Monseigneur! … You did not know that? … The news has been known in England for some time. Maitre de Tuilleres mentioned it also. The Dauphin died just before Christmas.”

“Dead?” Charles looked away; he did not want to reveal his bewilderment. “I have heard that Monseigneur de Guyenne was sick.”

“Aha! Sick, sick,” said the banker, shrugging. “Of course they will say that. But the Dauphin was poisoned.”

“Are you sure of that?” Charles asked sharply.

Vittori shrugged again; the gesture said more plainly than words that no one doubted that the successor to the French throne had met a violent end. But Charles refused to believe it. He knew how quickly physicians would speak of poisoning when they could effect no cure. He remembered the Dauphin’s coughing fits, his feverish flush. He shook his head. But Vittori had more to say. He glanced quickly at the half-open door outside which the watch stood, and resumed, dropping his voice.

“My lord, I know little about your country’s politics. I am only repeating what I have heard from acquaintances, reliable men, who I can assure you travel regularly to the Flemish ports on business and have important connections there. It appears that the late Dauphin — may God rest his soul — named your father-in-law, the Sire d’Armagnac, Constable of France, and forbade the Duke of Burgundy to set foot in Paris.”

Charles was about to reply with passion, but Vittori shook his head and put his finger to his lips. “My lord, it is probably not the intention of the lords who guard you here that this news should reach your ears. Undoubtedly I am laying myself open to punishment. They believe that I discuss only money matters with you.”

“So my cousin of Touraine is Dauphin then,” said Charles in an undertone; he was no longer listening to the Florentine. “My cousin of Touraine, who is married to Burgundy’s niece, the heiress of Holland, Zeeland and Hainault. That means that if the King should die … What is Monseigneur of Burgundy doing?” he asked suddenly; he caught Vittori’s arm. “Is there any news of Burgundy?”

“In God’s name, Monseigneur!” The banker was becoming seriously alarmed. He tried to wrench his sleeve from Charles’ grasp. “In God’s name do not forget where we are! My lord, I have taken a vow not to discuss politics … I am putting my life in the balance …”

“Then you should not have spoken,” Charles said roughly. He released the man and turned toward the fire. The news had filled him with fear. Armagnac, Constable! That meant that Armagnac was at the head of the government, the master of Paris! But on the other hand, Burgundy was linked by blood to the new Dauphin — and the Dauphin was in all probability still on Flemish soil — undoubtedly in Burgundy’s immediate circle, subject to Burgundy’s influence. It was perfectly clear that this state of affairs could lead only to a more violent struggle than ever — if that were possible — and that a victory by either Burgundy or Armagnac could result only in the ultimate ruin of France; in the one case, the Kingdom would be incorporated irrevocably with the Burgundian Bavarian lands; in the other, after being squeezed dry and plundered by Armagnac, it would be left prey to whomever wished to make a bid for power. Now Charles understood why Armagnac had not personally taken part in the battle of Agincourt: the English had rendered him an invaluable service by killing or taking prisoner most of his rivals for power in the Kingdom.

Giovanni Vittori remained standing motionless near the table. He had mixed feelings toward Charles. He felt compassion for the young Duke, who would probably languish in captivity for the rest of his life. Vittori had few illusions about English clemency; as a man of the world, he found it deplorable. On the other hand, as a banker he understood perfectly the attitude of Charles’ captors; as long as they had Orléans under lock and key, they had a virtually inexhaustible source of income. And, yes, looking after Monseigneur’s financial concerns would also be profitable for him, Vittori; he too found a long captivity to be in his interest. But why allow the young man to pine away without news from home? Vittori wanted to be everyone’s friend insofar as he could; the right hand did not always have to know what the left hand was doing.

He glanced over his shoulder at the door; to be safe he occupied himself with rolling up the documents which he had brought with him, while he went on speaking in a low voice.

“Monseigneur, they say that the Duke of Burgundy wishes to lay siege to Paris, but whether this is true I do not know. However there is something else which I can tell you with absolute certainty: the Emperor Sigismund is on his way to Paris to visit the court. There are rumors that he is coming to mediate between your king and King Henry. He is expected here after Easter.”

Charles turned around quickly.

“If that is true, Vittori, it is good news,” he said with a look of tense excitement. “But how do you know that?”

The banker smiled, pleased; the moment of anger was over.

“Messire de Tuilleres tells me that Paris is preparing. King Sigismund seems determined to celebrate carnival there. Some friends of mine at the court in Westminster belong to the company which will welcome the King at Dover.”

There was a knock on the door; the nobleman who commanded the guard looked in and signalled to Vittori that the time allotted for the interview had expired. The banker began, with bows and compliments, to take his leave of Charles.

“Vittori, you have rendered me a great service,” Charles said quickly and softly. “I shall not forget it. I trust that you will be as diligent for me in the future — there are greater interests at stake than mine alone. Try to use all your influence to see that I speak with de Tuillères. And if you really want to help me, send news of me to the Duchess of Orléans at Blois.”

Now that he could hope for freedom, the days seemed longer to Charles. His father had always maintained friendly relations with Sigismund when the latter was King of Hungary. Now that Sigismund had succeeded Ruprecht of Bavaria as Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, that friendship could yield a rich harvest for Charles. He did not doubt that Sigismund could see to it that he was sent home to France; perhaps the Emperor would even lend him the ransom money — or part of it — himself. Charles awaited the arrival of the monarch with ever-growing impatience; meanwhile he sought in every possible way to get news of events in France.

King Henry suddenly allowed de Tuilleres and Maitre Cousinot, Charles’ Chancellor who had come to England shortly after the Duke’s arrival there, to see Charles. Maitre Cousinot brought him a letter from Bonne, written by Garbet but signed by Bonne herself. She had remained in Blois, she informed him, with Jeanne and Marguerite. In order to save money in the ducal household, she had dismissed many personal servants. Furniture, silver and censers from the chapel of Orléans had been sold. She had given the proceeds—500 gold ecus — to Maitre Cousinot to take to England. She received much comfort and attention from Dunois, who sent Monseigneur his brother respectful greetings and fervent hope for a speedy return.

“Have your wounds healed?” Bonne asked. “Are you well cared for in the Tower? Maitre Cousinot is bringing along some bed linens for you, a case with combs, your own razors, six pair of shoes, a half dozen napkins and three large slices of nougat which I have made especially for you. There are almonds in it. I pray for you and I remain until your homecoming and forever after that, your loyal and devoted wife, Bonne d’Orléans.”

With great emotion, Charles studied the tapering letters of her signature. They stood on the yellow page beneath the text of the letter, as straight, slender and blithe as Bonne herself. She had embellished the signature by drawing a curling line around it, filled with flourishes. Undoubtedly Garbet had urged her to do that, but it was obvious that she had no talent for calligraphy. However, although the embellishment was a failure, the tiny awkward lines, circling to left and right like festive groups at a procession, inspired him with warmth and hope.

Cousinot’s clerk unpacked the shipment; Charles recognized with delight his own worn cases with their shaving blades, combs, scissors, nail files and knives for bleeding. Bonne’s nougat, prepared according to a southern recipe, had suffered somewhat in the passage, but never in his life had Charles received a gift with as much joy as he received the sweet white delicacy. Apart from the shipment, Cousinot confirmed what Charles had already learned from Vittori and de Tuilleres: that it would be possible to put together a ransom only if lands and castles were sold.

Cousinot advised Charles to mortgage that part of his possessions which were under consideration, and at the same time to hold back for one year the wages and subsidies of his officials and courtiers; to reduce drastically the salaries of the commanders of the garrisons at the castles of Orléans. These suggestions Charles found shocking; he would have thought such actions would be considered only as a last resort.

“Pardon, Monseigneur, do not take it amiss, but you have already reached your last resort,” Cousinot responded gravely to Charles’ objections. “It is difficult, I know. I myself have always been part of your household. But everyone who is devoted to you and who sincerely wishes your release will accept these actions. We can only hope that you will be able to compensate us in the future. Without these measures you will not be able to accomplish anything, Monseigneur. And certainly your burdens are heavy enough. Everyone in your service is fed and clothed at your expense — you give them shelter and care for them; you have throughout the country a personal retinue of almost one thousand men, my lord. To be sure, that is substantially less than in the time of Monseigneur your late father, but for your purse it is still too large an amount. I am afraid that you must sign these documents; it is in your own interest.”

While the advocate watched him with friendly concern, Charles, heavy-hearted, signed them. Cousinot saw that the young man was pale; there were dark shadows under his eyes. Cousinot glanced about the chamber. The lodging was decent: tapestries, curtains, silver on the table, enough candles and a good fire in the hearth. He shook his head, sighing and swept his palm over his face. If he found the place depressing during one short visit, how then could Monseigneur keep his spirits up, accustomed as he was to go horseback-riding, to make journeys and stroll through the series of halls of Blois and Saint-Pol? Through the small windowpanes he saw a narrow strip of light, the grey lusterless February sky which presaged rain, rain, always more rain. The small waves of the Thames beat on the embankment with a hissing sound; the cries of boatmen and seamen sounded over the river along with the incessant shrieks of the seagulls skimming across the water in search of food. Cousinot was much impressed with the impregnability of the Tower; a prisoner here was more removed from the world than an exile in Ultima Thule. A real labyrinth of gates and corridors closed off by double doors led eventually to the inner court encircled by the main buildings. Everywhere one could see only high walls, battlements, towers, pinnacles. The citadel was full of guards armed with lances and pikes and wherever one looked one saw heavy bars and doors studded with iron.

“How goes it in Paris, Cousinot?” Charles asked abruptly, shoving the documents aside. “You can speak freely. They brought me news several times last week. I infer from that that King Henry isn’t going to keep me ignorant any longer of events in France.”

Cousinot folded his narrow, bony hands and nodded agreement.

“How much do you know, my lord?”

“I know that Burgundy lies in wait with an army before Paris, near the village of Lagny,” Charles answered slowly, “but that he cannot lay siege to Paris because my father-in-law has fortified the city with his troops from Gascony. I know that Burgundy’s men have been beaten time and again in scuffles and skirmishes.”

He paused, and looked sharply at the Chancellor.

“I wonder how my father-in-law controls the city of Paris, how he runs things now that he has become Constable.”

Cousinot did not look up.

“Monseigneur d’Armagnac rules as tyrants rule in Milan and Venice,” he said calmly. “That is to say, the hangman is his right hand and his Gascon hirelings make up his official corps. There are daily executions; when he doubts anyone’s reliability, he makes short work of him. The new laws have been abolished. His provost, Messire Tanneguy du Chatel, is a puppet who blindly obeys Armagnac’s commands. The citizens have had to give up their weapons — anyone seen with a knife is hanged. Don’t misunderstand me, Monseigneur, I don’t deny that these kind of actions are the only ones that are respected by certain elements among the people of Paris. We have seen for ourselves what happens when the mob has its way: Armagnac has dissolved the great butchers’ guilds — the guildmasters have lost their power. He imprisons, drives out, murders those in Parlement, the Audit Chamber and the University whom he dislikes. Monseigneur d’Armagnac is a savage, but he is intelligent and he is a man of action.”

Charles looked skeptical. “Really, you do not have to praise Armagnac because he is my kinsman,” he remarked dryly. “I ask myself what possible consequences these vigorous actions can have.”

“There have been consequences already, my lord. A pro-Burgundy party has been formed again in Paris — probably larger and more powerful than before, because the new Dauphin belongs to it. For that matter, the Duke of Burgundy is seeking supporters everywhere in the Kingdom; I have heard it said that he goes even to cities which were recently in our hands.”

“Yes, I have heard that too.” Charles sighed and, lost in thought, absently pushed one of the rolls of parchment back and forth over the table top.

“Monseigneur,” said Cousinot softly, “have you any idea about what King Henry of England intends to do? I mean, do you think it possible that he will cross the Straits of Calais again soon — or do you think that he will try to reach an agreement either with our King or with Burgundy?”

Charles replied that he had rarely been able to see the King; although he and Richmont and Bourbon had endlessly discussed Henry’s possible plans, anything he could say would rest solely on conjecture.

“The King is a riddle to me,” he said with a shrug. “At first he treated us like guests. But later we were confined here and forbidden to write or talk to advisors. Now suddenly these privileges have been restored to us. This must be connected in some way with the Emperor Sigismund’s visit. Do you know anything about that, Cousinot?”

The Chancellor frowned heavily. “The Emperor arrived in Paris the day before I left,” he replied. “I saw him for a moment.”

“What sort of man is he? He was my father’s friend and ally.”

Cousinot sniffed. “I can scarcely believe it, Monseigneur. The Emperor Sigismund is cut from the same cloth as his kinsman, Wenceslaus of Bohemia: always drunk, always surrounded by women. When I took ship at Calais I heard it said that he would rather sit in the Parisian bathhouses than with our King in the council hall. I do not expect much from his mediation: he has neither dignity nor influence. Moreover, Monseigneur,” Cousinot fixed his piercing dark eyes on Charles and gestured tensely, “moreover I suspect and I fear that King Henry sees you not only as a source of income, but also as a stepping stone in his efforts to gain the Crown of France.”

“Me?” asked Charles, fiercely.

“Yes, Monseigneur, you. You and your brother and Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Richmont. I think that King Henry is a bit displeased that the new Dauphin has absorbed Burgundian attitudes along with his mother’s milk. Does it seem likely to you that Burgundy will support Henry’s claims to the French throne when he can sit on the throne himself through his puppet the Dauphin? No, my lord, I cannot believe it. So thinking of all this, I wonder — what is King Henry going to do?”

Charles had asked himself that question repeatedly since his arrival in England. However, the King remained as enigmatic a personality to the young man as he had been in the tent at Maisoncelles — obliging and gracious, but at the same time coldly disapproving; averse to pomp and splendor but, on his return to London, jealously observing ritual and ceremony; according to his own words determined to make peace with France, determined on a high-minded resolution of all differences, but in reality — this could not be hidden — filled with extreme hostility and some pride. From the day after Agincourt he had steadily maintained that he was nothing more than an instrument of God, but nevertheless he willingly accepted the adulation of his people, and the praises of his entourage.

Charles remembered moment by moment the triumphant procession through the streets of London, so ignominious for him and for his companions in distress; in his mind’s eye he saw Henry still, with a large glittering crown on his head, riding slowly along under a red and gold canopy. Exultant crowds blocked his way at every turn; at each street corner, each square, they welcomed him with song, presented allegorical tableaux in his honor, offered him gifts. At long last the procession reached St Paul’s cathedral; kneeling amongst armed soldiers, Charles and the French nobles had to watch their conqueror perform his devotions for hours in the glow of candles and against a background of the singing of hymns; a gilded angel dropped from the arched roof to hover in the air above his head swinging a censer. In Westminster Charles had attempted respectfully to engage the King in conversation, but Henry had only bowed courteously and inquired about the progress of a falcon hunt or the response to a stroll in the castle park.

Cousinot’s words led Charles anew to deep reflection, the more so since the Chancellor was not content with vague intimations during his next visit to his lord.

“I take it that freedom is worth a great deal to you, Monseigneur,” he said, looking attentively at Charles. “Perhaps liberty lies within your grasp if King Henry, like his father before him, should seek a reconciliation with our party because he hopes in that way to achieve his purpose sooner than he could dealing with Burgundy. If that is the case — and I myself am convinced that it is — you have the game in your hand.”

Charles did not speak for a while; he went to the window and stood staring out. Rain hovered over the river like a mist.

“I know very well what you mean, Cousinot,” he said at last, without turning round. “A few months ago I would probably have welcomed the opportunity to deal my cards so profitably. I long for France, Cousinot, for Blois, for my wife. But since I have been here I have thought a good deal and I see now that Orléans and Burgundy and all their supporters and partisans have together robbed and betrayed France — that we have brought the Kingdom to ruin either wittingly or through ignorance. France is dying, Cousinot. Yes, perhaps I could purchase my freedom by giving that sick country a death-blow; I never thought about such things before. God knows I have used my time badly. But now I am not sure that freedom is worth that much to me.”

“Let it be so, Monseigneur,” Cousinot replied, after a pause. “Whatever you decide to do, you can count on me. Do you wish me to stay a while longer in London so that I can help you with advice if you need it — in case new information should come up about the Emperor’s visit?”

Charles was finally summoned to Westminster where King Henry’s own state rooms were being readied for the royal visitor. Surrounded by armed men — as though it were a festive escort, he thought bitterly — he rode to the King’s palace. The people in the streets stared at him with curiosity: wasn’t that one of the French lords who had mocked King Henry on the night before Agincourt? Why hadn’t the foreigner been beheaded?

Charles stared straight before him. It had been weeks since he had been outside in the country air: the fresh wind, the pale March sunshine did him good. The districts along the Thames smelt of fish and damp rope, of river water and silt. Many people were abroad: hawkers and boatmen, warehouse workers and market-goers. Charles, who no longer found the English tongue so strange, heard a few familiar words — the same enticing cries and shouts of peddlers which had reached him in his prison chamber.

King Henry received him in one of the council halls at Westminster. The King sat in a chair under a canopy of carved wood; counsellors and courtiers drew away as the King greeted the Duke of Orléans. There remained nearby only Henry’s Chancellor, the Archbishop of Durham, the Dukes of Northumberland and Westmoreland and the Marquis of Kent, all kinsmen and trusted friends of the King. Henry saluted Charles in the usual manner, with a kiss on the cheek; then he gestured him to a seat beside the throne. The high lords stood quietly to one side. Their demeanor, as well as King Henry’s, made it obvious that this courtesy was only a prelude to a serious business discussion. Although Henry was plainly dressed, he wore the narrow royal diadem, presumably so that there would be no doubt about the nature of this audience. His light eyes seemed harder and brighter than the stones in the gold band.

“Fair cousin,” said Henry in his careful French, “we shall not squander our time in formalities. There is no need for me to inquire after your welfare. I am well informed about your life in the Tower. I know that you eat little, seldom go out, rarely seek the company of your noble companions in distress. May I deduce from this that you find your stay there unpleasant and that a change of surroundings would not be unwelcome to you?”

Charles, who sat up straight with his hands on the arms of his chair, did not move or alter his expression. He watched the King impassively, trying to fathom his intentions.

“You know, of course, fair cousin, that the Holy Roman Emperor is at present in Paris and that he is preparing to honor us with a visit for the sake of peace between this Kingdom and France.”

Charles nodded. “I am aware of that, my lord,” he said dryly.

“Good.” Henry’s eyes filled with that sudden light which made his gaze look fierce. “I have great respect for the Emperor Sigismund’s desire for peace. I want nothing more myself than to see the differences resolved without bloodshed. I would gladly spare you a second Agincourt.” He looked with raised eyebrows at his prisoner. But he saw no change of expression in Charles’ dark weary eyes.

“Fair cousin,” the King continued after a short pause, “as you know, your fate is dependent in large measure on the progress of negotiations between Emperor Sigismund and me. No doubt he will have something to propose about your release. It would be extremely gratifying to me personally if I could allow you to return to your homeland. So far as peace negotiations are concerned, considering the outcome of the battle at Agincourt and the present conditions in France, it is for me to propose terms. You know my claims, fair cousin, don’t you? Perhaps it would be helpful now to call them to your attention once again. I hold fast to the treaty of Bretigny: Calais, Montreuil, Boulogne, Aquitaine, Touraine, Angoulême, Anjou and Normandy belong by right to England.”

“I do not understand, Monseigneur, why you speak to me of this,” said Charles coldly; he glanced at the King’s advisors who stood with inscrutable faces in respectful attention beside the throne. “I am Lord of Angoulême, but my House has received the territory as a fief from the Crown. Of the other provinces and regions which you mention, I can tell you even less.”

Henry raised his hand and spoke quickly. “I mention this to you, fair cousin, because I believe — and not incorrectly, for that matter — that to some extent you represent France’s government here today. You are a nephew of the King, as well as a close kinsman of the Lords of Armagnac and Berry, who — as everyone knows — are now the most powerful men in the Council. No doubt you maintain relations with them.”

“Forgive me, Monseigneur, you are mistaken — I can claim neither will nor influence in this matter. True, I have, since contact was granted to me, exchanged a few letters with my kinsmen in France. But I have only concerned myself with the problem of collecting ransoms for me and my brother of Angoulême. With regard to the terms of a peace treaty, I am undoubtedly a most unsuitable person to represent Your Grace to the government of France.”

“No, you are exactly the man for that, fair cousin.” Henry tapped the arm of his chair impatiently with the great signet ring on the forefinger of his right hand. “I am fully aware of what you have been doing in the past few years; I know what role you play in Armagnac’s party. You have brought it a long way; you and your supporters have finally managed to gather the reins in your hands, despite opposition and great obstacles. It is all the more regrettable that the restoration of order in your country should now appear to be an impossibility. He alone can rule who knows how to gain the help and approval of God. But now to business, fair cousin. You know that I have legitimate claims to the French throne.”

During this speech Charles sat looking at the rose windows, composed of small azure and blood-red panes which glowed in the sunlight like rosettes of sapphires and rubies. Now he turned his gaze back to the King.

“I know that only the late King Richard could make such claims with some justice,” he said slowly. “He was descended from King Edward the Third, who was a kinsman of our royal House. But”—for the first time a trace of irony could be detected in Charles’ eyes and voice—”but surely you do not belong to that family, my lord? At least, if I have been correctly informed, your father — may God rest his soul — did not come to the throne by succession.”

Henry turned pale with anger. The freckles on his nose and cheeks became plainly visible; they could not normally be seen because the King’s face was somewhat tanned by the sun.

“England lays claim to the property of France,” he said in a calm, cold voice, after a brief silence. “And I am England, fair cousin. For me that is a fact beyond dispute. You can win freedom only if you acknowledge me as your lawful sovereign: freedom, a considerable reduction in your ransom, retention of your feudal fiefs and the immediate return of all the lands which the Duke of Burgundy has confiscated from you. In addition, an important voice in the capitol at all times. I tell you this straight out, as is my custom; I don’t see any reason to beat about the bush with you, fair cousin. In return for my favors I expect support and loyalty from you in word as well as in deed. You and your kinsmen must assure me that you will do your utmost to obtain a written confirmation of my rights, signed by the King. When Charles VI dies, the Crown of France falls to me. I shall take the Princess Catherine to wife; in that way the blood of Valois will retain the throne. I do not think that this can be considered by any means an unreasonable proposal. Thus you have nothing to lose and a great deal to gain. Messeigneurs your fellow prisoners will presumably follow your example when they learn that you recognize my claim.”

“I would not recognize the claim even of a direct descendant of Edward the third,” Charles responded pensively, continuing to stare at the glowing window. “It is my belief that only my sovereign lord King Charles or one of his legitimate sons can sit upon the throne of France.”

“The King is mad and the Dauphin is unquestionably your enemy,” remarked Henry. “Loyalty in this case can lead only to your own downfall. Or do you perhaps cherish less noble ambitions with the support of the Lord of Armagnac, fair cousin? You are after all a kinsman of the royal House and death is a striking visitor to the King’s sons …”

Charles’ dark brown eyes — the eyes of his mother, Valentine — began to smoulder. Henry noticed this and said quickly, although not without secret satisfaction, “So far as the death of the late Dauphin is concerned — if it’s true that he was poisoned — I am ready to believe that this time the guilt must be placed at the door of the Duke of Burgundy.”

“I know little about it,” Charles parried politely. “But this has nothing to do with the matter at hand, my lord. I must reject your offer without hesitation. I find it too high a price to pay for my liberty. But I would gladly learn either now or later what sum you demand for my ransom.”

Henry’s advisors did not conceal their displeasure; the Archbishop of Durham approached the King and whispered to him quickly. Henry shrugged.

“I do not doubt, fair cousin, that you will think differently about these matters after you have spoken with my lords of Bourbon and Richmont. I think it would be wise to postpone your decision for a few days. But not for too long, mind you — for you can understand that it would be exceedingly desirable and might hasten matters considerably if I could give the Emperor Sigismund certain facts directly upon his arrival.”

Charles rose and bowed. “I have given you my answer, Monseigneur,” he said. “And I can tell you now that my opinion will be shared completely by my lords of Bourbon and Richmont, who are loyal vassals of our King. And now I pray you, give me leave to return to the Tower.”

Henry had a few moments’ muted conversation with Durham and Northumberland. Then he dismissed Charles with a wave of his hand and a brief nod. Charles’ attendants stepped inside to fetch him; the armed escort waited outside the door. Thoughtfully, Henry looked after his ducal captive, his head resting on his hand. Charles d’Orléans was not particularly tall. In his black damask suit — a gift from the English king — he looked somewhat slim and boyish. But he moved with innate dignity; without haste, erect, bowing courteously, he left the room.

The Emperor Sigismund was received in London during the month of April with great pomp and splendor. He expressed his satisfaction with the lavish entertainments. Loudly, in unpolished Latin, he told anyone who cared to listen that, by God, people knew how to live here in England — with plentiful food, pageants, hunting parties — that was men’s work. He had been able to detect nothing of the vaunted luxury at the French court. It was a beggarly mess there, bad food and little entertainment worthy of a prince. He had not been able to see the King; he was sick again, but the Queen, at any rate, had done her best to give her guest real pleasure. Now there was a woman who really knew — let it be said and remain between us, my lords — what a man really wants, ha ha, and Sigismund, bowing to the haughty but inquisitive English courtiers, described the delights of Isabeau’s nightly balls where all the women were corrupt and all the men played with false dice.

In his youth, twenty years before, at the time of his great campaign against the Turks, Sigismund may have been to a certain extent crude and frivolous, but he was also a brave and well-intentioned man. With the passage of time the coarse lines in his face became more noticeable; a life of war, intrigue, uncurbed licentiousness and callous rule had transformed Sigismund into an unpredictable, brutal, greedy man. He had travelled to France and England chiefly out of vanity. Never before had he had any influence on these once-so-powerful kingdoms. And he was curious to meet Henry, the son of the late usurper Lancaster. Sigismund’s desire to help the French King rested mainly on his ancient but still fierce hatred of Burgundy. The former King of Hungary had never forgotten that he owed his defeat by the Turks to the knights whom Burgundy had brought upon the field.

Strangely, the French said nothing about this old grievance. In fact, Paris was indifferent — no, even downright impudent to him, thought Sigismund; therefore no one should be surprised if his good nature had suffered somewhat under such treatment. Wherever he went, he felt himself mocked and criticized for his behavior, his speech, his predilection for revelry and for the frequenting of houses of prostitution.

In an extremely irritable mood, Sigismund had arrived in London attended by the Archbishop of Reims who would serve as his counselor. But behold! Here were triumphal arches awaiting him, and welcoming committees. Here he was offered lodging in King Henry’s state rooms and shown every conceivable evidence of thoughtful hospitality. Sigismund, very much touched by such courtesy — they were careful in Westminster not to remind him of his Slavic origin, his lack of dignity and self-control — was only too happy to lend a willing ear to Henry. Before long he declared that in the event of a peace treaty with France, the advantage must be with Henry; that was only fair under the circumstances.

Over the course of the summer Charles d’Orléans was moved to another chamber in one of the small inner courts of the Tower; one with no view of the Thames. This room was even more luxurious than the other; the floor was covered with hides, the walls hung with beautiful woven tapestries, and there was a comfortable bed and a chair with cushions. But Charles sorely missed the view of the river which had provided so welcome a distraction for him, especially in the spring months when the days were longer and lighter and the bustle on the water seemed to increase constantly. Gazing at the ships, at the people on the other bank, at the traffic on the bridges, Charles had been able to forget, for a while at least, some of the worries which poisoned his life. He received almost no news from France; crossing the Straits was no longer safe and couriers could not obtain permission to come over. Charles was told, of course, that Henry had succeeded in retaining Harfleur after a sea battle near the estuary of the Seine, and that Armagnac had retreated like a beaten dog. And Charles was told again and again that the armies of the Duke of Burgundy, who had signed a peace treaty with England, were rampaging across northern France.

The young man had heard this and similar news, but the news he desired with all his heart — news of Bonne, of Blois, of Paris — was not forthcoming. Since he had been moved to the new chamber, he had often sought the company of Bourbon and Richmont. He and they shared a common fate, and they represented his only remaining link with France. But before long he could not help noticing that a coolness seemed to exist between his former allies and himself. They spoke to him, played cards and chess with him — but apart from that they remained aloof. Sometimes Charles thought that they were afraid of him. They avoided talk about politics, and if they responded to his comments or questions, they did it in a way that made him suspect that they resented him because he had prevented them from accepting King Henry’s offer.

Charles’ room looked out on a small square in which a few blades of grass pushed up between the paving stones; there was no other greenery. Force of habit brought Charles continually to the window to discover again and again with a slight shock that there was nothing to be seen but stone walls. Once when he stood staring out, with his hands behind his back, his attention was caught by something stirring behind a window opposite his across the courtyard. Charles looked closely and saw, standing in the shadow of the deep window, a man who clutched the window bars in both hands. There could be no doubt that the prisoner across the way had seen him too: he waved to Charles and then stepped back. During the next few days the game was repeated many times. Charles began in his turn to salute his neighbor, who pressed his face against the bars; he was a young man with black hair and the striking waxen complexion of one who had lived indoors for a long time. So far as Charles could see, he wore rich clothing; his demeanor, too, betrayed the nobleman.

Caution at first kept Charles from making inquiries; he hesitated to get the stranger into further trouble. But he learned finally in a circuitous way that the stranger was no other than James Stuart, the Pretender to the Scottish throne, who had been in the Tower since he was a child. When his valet saw that Charles was greatly interested, he brought his master fresh information every day about the other captive.

The King of Scotland — as they called him — was a scholarly man who spent his days writing and Studying. He used more candles than any other prisoner because he sometimes lay in bed reading all night long. He wrote poetry too; his wardens could overhear him rhyming aloud when they put their ears to the door. A singular silent friendship arose between Charles and the unfortunate monarch in those autumnal days. They greeted each other in the morning, at noon and in the evening, mimed a conversation on the weather, their respective states of health and other matters which could be communicated in that way. Charles held up one of his few books and indicated that he wanted more to read. A few days later his valet brought him, with a great show of secrecy, a well-thumbed leatherbound copy of Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy. A verse had been written on one of the flyleaves in a language which Charles guessed to be Scottish, since he did not recognize any of the words as English. He was sorry that he could not read the lines; he would have liked to know what thoughts the imprisoned King expressed when his spirit took flight inside those four walls of his chamber. Boethius’ book was the first and last token of friendship Charles received from James Stuart. Around All Souls Day his neighbor was missing from the window; when day after day passed without anyone stirring behind the bars, Charles cautiously inquired of his servant whether the King of Scotland was perhaps ill. The man replied that that was not the case; at King Henry’s command the prisoner had been sent to Windsor Castle.

Once, Charles received permission to visit his brother Jean. They had not seen each other for four years — years which seemed as long as a man’s life. During that time Jean d’Angoulême had grown to manhood; the frail child had developed into a taciturn youth with a troubled look. The brothers sat together for a few hours, talking about the affairs which absorbed them: their hopes and their prospects as well as their past — Blois, their parents and the struggle which had cast so long a shadow over their youth. To Jean, Charles could talk uninterruptedly of Bonne; here was someone who did not know her, but who listened with sympathy. She seemed to Charles nearer, more real, now that he could speak of her and describe her. In the solitude of his room it often seemed to him that she had slipped away from him; desperately he strove to hold her image in his mind’s eye to remember the sound of her voice, her laughter. Sometimes he woke at night blithe and light-hearted from a dream which he tried later to evoke once more, but without success. He felt then that Bonne had been close to him while he was sleeping; he thought he could feel in the darkness the warmth of the place where she had lain, smell the fragrance of her hair upon the pillows. Fruitless were his efforts to call her back, futile his prayers, his agitated thoughts, his seeking for forgetfulness; nothing remained with him except the bitter taste of loneliness. Desperately he buried his head in the pillows.

He could tell these things to his brother Jean — that brought him a measure of relief. However they had no time to indulge themselves for long in such personal conversations; they were not sure they would meet again soon. They had to take advantage of each precious moment.

From a letter from King Henry V of England to His Most Christian Majesty, Sigismund, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. January, 1417:

“And so it is a great satisfaction to Us to inform you that Our unquestionable right to the Crown of France has been acknowledged by Jean, Duke of Bourbon, presently a captive living in Our Kingdom and Arthur, Count de Richmont; that the aforementioned Jean, Duke of Bourbon, has declared in Our presence during his stay in Our domain — that We, Henry, have valid claims to the throne of France; that he has bound himself under oath to stake his entire person to realize the terms set forth in the Treaty of Bretigny in the year of Our Lord 1360; that finally he, the aforenamed Jean, Duke of Bourbon, will give vassal service to Us, Henry, as his only lawful and sovereign Lord and Prince and that he will deliver his lands and domains into Our hands if Our demands are not granted by the government of France.”

Charles sat writing at the table; without turning his head he asked, “What is it, Chomery?” He had heard the door open and close again. He assumed it was Jean Chomery, his French valet, who often came in and out of the room in this way.

“God be with you, Monseigneur,” said a voice behind him.

“Cousinot!” Charles leaped up from his chair, pleased and surprised. “Cousinot, why didn’t anyone announce your arrival? Not long ago I received a letter from my brother — he wrote that someone was bringing me money, but not that you were coming. This is a great joy for me!”

“I must speak with you quickly, Monseigneur,” the advocate said, in a low agitated voice. “I have been able to get to you by showing the safe-conduct pass they gave me last year when I was in London, but the knight who supervises your wardens was hesitant about it. This time I did not ask for permission to visit you, because I was certain that King Henry would not allow it.”

Charles led the Chancellor to the chair under the window, the only spot in the room which — in the summer at any rate and then only around noon — received any sunlight.

“I know that King Henry has not been favorably disposed toward me since I refused to acknowledge him as my sovereign,” he said slowly. “He removed me to this room which is definitely darker and gloomier than the one I had, but apart from that I haven’t noticed any sign of the King’s displeasure. I realize that I may expect few visitors or letters because of the war.”

“You know nothing then; I did not think that you could possibly know anything.” Cousinot glanced at the door. Outside there was as usual the sound of footsteps and soft jingling; a couple of soldiers passed back and forth before Charles’ door. Charles looked attentively at his Chancellor: he had rarely seen such excitement in that habitually controlled face.

“Monseigneur,” said Cousinot softly and urgently, “I shall try to tell you everything as briefly as I can. I fear they will come to fetch me away at any moment. The Dauphin died a week ago in Compiegne; your father-in-law the Sire d’Armagnac requested me particularly to inform you that the Dauphin had a fistula in his left ear; he would not want you to believe the rumors which are going round the English and Burgundian camps. Our new Dauphin, Monseigneur de Viennois, is in Paris under the personal protection of the Sire d’Armagnac whom he considers his advisor and confidant in every respect.”

Charles took his Chancellor firmly by the elbow.

“Cousinot,” he said, “do not tell me what Armagnac has instructed you to say. Tell me what you think of all this yourself. In God’s name speak plainly.”

Cousinot kept his searching eyes fixed on Charles; the corners of his narrow pale lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

“I do not believe in the fistula, Monseigneur,” he said. “I believe that the Sire d’Armagnac felt the reins of power slipping from his grasp and that he resorted to a damnable, unworthy means of reassuring himself of that power. Burgundy held all the cards, because the Dauphin was completely under his influence — it was precisely then that Armagnac remembered that he too had one of the King’s sons near him — Monseigneur Charles, the youngest. The new Dauphin is still only twelve or thirteen years old, I believe, and his wife’s kinsmen, the princes of Anjou, have become, as you know, increasingly disposed toward Armagnac in recent years. Now Armagnac holds the Dauphin before him like a banner.”

“The King has no more sons,” Charles said, in soft surprised dismay. “No other successor to the throne except this …” He remembered the new Dauphin well; he had met him in Paris after the siege of Arras: an uncommonly ugly child, with a large head and the same rickety legs as his brothers. In the features of Messeigneurs de Guyenne and de Touraine could be seen at least something of the charm which Charles VI had had as a boy, but the youngest son was, bluntly, ugly. He had a high globular forehead, prominent ears and bulbous despondent blue eyes. That the fate of France should rest in the hands of this timid, uncertain youth seemed to Charles little less than a catastrophe; he had heard years ago that the King’s youngest son had inherited his father’s feeble nervous constitution. Those who said this then were able to supply many occurrences which bore out their point. Charles remembered their words with fear and horror.

“I realize fully what this means, Cousinot,” he said slowly at last to the advocate who sat looking at him with attentive concern. “The shift of power will bring with it such great, far-reaching consequences that I hardly dare to think about it. So my father-in-law of Armagnac is expecting that those who support the Dauphin will join the Armagnac party. If he succeeds he will be a singularly powerful man.”

“Monseigneur, do you realize what this means for you? Armagnac’s party is yours. You can be carried on this stream to the throne of France. You must not forget that the Dauphin is weak in body and very probably also weak in mind. King Henry has undoubtedly also drawn this conclusion. Every day you become a more dangerous opponent for him, and by the same token a more valuable prize. Believe me, Monseigneur, we must bend all our efforts to effect your release. We must not reject a single effort, no matter how trifling it may seem. But you must understand that Burgundy will do anything to stop you from returning. Listen!”

Quick booming footsteps could be heard in the corridor outside Charles’ room, along with jingling spurs and the harsh voice of Sir Robert Waterton, the nobleman who commanded the guard. Cousinot rose from the bench.

“Give me the order, my lord, to communicate some important information in your name to the King of England. Trust me now, I am your devoted servant; I know very well what I am doing. Monseigneur, if you love liberty, give me the order, for as surely as Christ died for us, they will not release you under any other terms.”

For a moment the images flashed past Charles which had floated temptingly before his eyes night and day since Agincourt: the ship cutting quickly through the waves on the voyage home to France, the yellow coastline of Calais, the welcome on native soil, the cities and fields of the He de France, Paris, the hills along the Loire, the shape of Blois against the sky, the pointed towers of Saint-Sauveur, the battlements of the donjon, his entry over the drawbridge, over castle yard and inner court to the gate where Bonne was standing, weeping and laughing and beaming …

Now he saw Robert Waterton enter the room, followed by the officers of the guard; he saw Cousinot’s tense, almost supplicating look. The word “yes” was on his lips, but still he hesitated. Swear fealty to King Henry for reasons of diplomacy? But this is high treason, he thought, confused, and remained silent. With an eloquent gesture of despair, Cousinot left the room at Waterton’s command.

From a written command from King Henry V of England to the knight Sir Robert Waterton, June, 1417:

“…we charge you to convey immediately,under heavy guard, Charles, Duke of Orléans, at present a prisoner of war confined in the Tower of London, to Pontefract castle in York, where he will remain for an indefinite period …”

The sand flows through the hourglass, a ruddy mist, forming at first a barely visible layer and then gradually a growing hill. Before one fully realizes it, the lower globe is completely filled; an hour has gone by, a long precious hour of a life which seems suddenly to consist of a terrifying number of such hours. He whose life it is sees the sand slipping away with comingled feelings of fear, regret, impatience and despair; he sees that the passage of time is at once pitilessly slow and unmercifully fast. In those glass spheres his hours are counted out, the precious wasted hours. The lost hours become days, the days flow into weeks, the weeks create months and before long the months have turned into a year.

To one who thinks in that way the winds, clouds, rain, sunshine and moonlight can be only dismal portents. The gleam of stars comes and goes behind the window, a ray of the sun, a streak of moonlight creeps over the walls. The seasons change; he sees the leaves of the great trees wither and fall in the field outside the castle; he sees the trees standing for four long months like branched candelabra under the wintry sky; on a certain day in spring he sees a light green cloud hovering between the grey branches, and finally he sees, in the midst of summer, the heated air quivering about the full-crowned trees.

All this the prisoner of Pontefract sees when he stands before his window. He can see over the outermost wall of the castle. Between the double row of battlements there is a passage where a sentry, wearing a storm hat and with the red cross of England on his breast, paces continually back and forth, back and forth.

Many different men take their turn at guard duty there; the garrison at Pontefract is a large one. When the prisoner at his window begins to recognize the faces of individual sentries he realizes with bitterness that he has come full circle once more, that time has once more stolen a piece of his life away. Every six hours another watch … He has seen the same men repeatedly; he thinks, There goes the Redhead, there’s Black Beard — there’s Scarcheek, there’s More-Than-Six-Feet-Tall… How many hours, how many hours, in God’s name, how many hours must have passed before he could learn to recognize these people?

He searches, as he looks out the window, for something that will not change, something that cannot measure time. No, the sky will not do: clouds float by, gleaming white, radiant in the summer — perhaps they are the same clouds which will sail later over Blois, perhaps throwing a swift shadow over Bonne’s upturned face. In the autumn the clouds are more shapeless: torn, scudding low over the land; occasionally they are too heavy with rain to reach the horizon; they break over Pontefract and cause the recluse in his tower chamber the further torment of listening for hours or days to the murmur of falling water, a sound which brings only a deceptive oblivion. He dreams with open eyes and thinks he is elsewhere — he hears someone laughing and someone sobbing; the sobs form a melody that he sang long ago — Madame, je suys plus joyeulx, Madame, I am overjoyed. He puts his hands over his ears so that he can no longer hear the sound of the rain, but he cannot banish that gentle, incessant tapping which becomes Bonne’s voice, bewitching him by night even more distinctly than by day.

He would rather listen to the wails and ravings of the winter wind which seems never to leave Pontefract in peace, but which howls and bellows round the towers, by turns fierce and melancholy, always a fearful visitor. The prisoner lying sleepless under a fur coverlet feels a cold draught brush along his cheeks and forehead, despite the fire and the shelter of the bedcurtains; the candle flame flickers, the thin tapestries billow in and out, in and out. The mice rustle behind the walls, gnawing and nibbling on the wood, trying to reach the crumbs under the table. The man in the bed — a good warm bed — waits for day. He awaits the first shrill cockcrow, the slight drop in the wind, the odd droning sound which fills the darkness just before the break of dawn; he listens for the sounds in and out of Pontefract — the changing of the guard, the summons to work — a trumpet call, the rumble of footsteps on stair and gallery, the neighing of horses, the clatter of armor and weapons. He awaits the pealing of the church bells; the church spire is visible by day over the tops of the trees in the fields. When at last his servant enters with the morning drink and washing gear, opens the shutters before the windows and rakes up the fire, the prisoner sits up in bed with a sigh; the daily struggle begins anew.

Summer and winter he gazes at the horizon, the faint, undulating line between the clump of trees behind the ramparts of Pontefract; and the line, ascending here, descending there, remains the same despite the seasons; the profile of York is always the same to the man who stands alone by the window and finds a certain comfort in the sight of this dependable horizon. He comes to know the hazy northern sunlight, the piercing biting cold of winter whenever he sees the clods of dark earth lying in the fields; he discovers the secret of the summer dew which rises in the early morning and after sunset and hovers in long streaks low over the earth. He knows all the birds and their calls; from the way in which they wheel, climb and skim, he can tell whether a storm or gale is approaching, whether the day will bring rain, whether it will be an early winter, whether spring is approaching.

He can see how, over the course of many weeks, the planets and the stars change their positions in the nocturnal sky; in September sparks rain across the blue-black abyss; in the winter the stars sparkle coldly as the icicles which festoon the outsides of his window. With autumn the winds bring him familiar smells: of rotting leaves and mushrooms, of morning mist, of leather trappings. Far away in the forest he hears the horns blowing, the excited barking of hounds and the pounding of hooves on the ground. The birch trees stand in the meadow bedecked in red and gold and drop leaf after leaf — the largesse of nature. The beauty of these trees torments the prisoner like no other image. He remembers a certain autumn-red forest outside the ramparts of Riom, a splendid spring in another kingdom — how long ago was it now, four, five years? — he remembers riding on horseback through rustling leaves in the still November sunlight; he remembers Bonne laughing, mounted on her horse Mirabel.

On such days the young man, watching in the tower room of Pontefract, cannot remain standing by the window; he steps into the shadows and paces with his hands behind his back, as he is wont to do. Sometimes he sits motionless by the hearth, reading. The books are arranged carefully on a table beside him: Aristotle’s Politics, a Chronicle of Jerusalem Reconquered, a book on medicine, an edition of Boccaccio — these are the works which Maitre Cousinot had brought along for the prisoner during his last visit. Most of the time the young man can completely forget himself and his surroundings by losing himself in a book; his spirit skims lightly and easily through a world of wisdom and colorful fantasy. But this flight is not always an unmitigated release for him — a word, a wish, a thought can pull him back to the present — and that return is worse than no escape at all.

He sets to work diligently, mindful of the advice given him by his friend Marshal Boucicaut; he is allowed once more to possess paper and writing materials and day in and day out he does the work of monks and clerks: he copies books, collects maxims, writes in his beautiful uniform script a small commentary on Cato’s Disticha. His chamber servant Chomery, Sir Robert Waterton and those among the guard who are nobly born and who are admitted to the presence of the prisoner, see him invariably occupied in this way through the long winter: a figure dressed in black, on his head a velvet cap with flaps, sitting erect at his table; the parchment sheet hangs over a sloping reading desk, Monseigneur’s right hand moves slowly, purposefully, forward over the lines marked in red. His eyes are fixed on his work and he is apparently absorbed in it; his pale lips are pressed firmly together; every now and then he knits his brows for a moment — the fixed staring wearies him. When he is spoken to, he puts his pen carefully down and gives a courteous reply, but he never smiles. Robert Waterton himself, a man hardened by constant exposure to the open air, to hunting and war, assumes, not incorrectly, that the prisoner suffers from the lack of physical exercise. He permits him to take walks in the inner court, although there is no mention of this in King Henry’s warrant.

But after a few days the captive declines the pleasure: he chooses to stand by his open window, rather than to proceed through a little section reserved for that purpose, enclosed on all sides by high walls, where he walks around like a horse on a treadmill, watched by a half-dozen armed soldiers.

When a swift foaming stream flows into a stagnant pool, at first the water rushes forward; small waves fan out from the mainstream — but slowly the last ripples subside and the surface of the pool becomes a dark mirror. Thus the soul of the prisoner in Pontefract castle becomes immobile, like the stagnant pool. The current is stilled; whatever falls onto the surface floats for an instant and then sinks into darkness. There are only reflections there, fleeting images: clouds, treetops, a bird in flight, long grass stirred by a breeze.

The prisoner on occasion vividly relives moments of his childhood: he closes his eyes and suddenly the years slip away. He finds himself once again in the stately castles of Valois with their melodious names: Montargis, Montils, Asnieres, Beaumont, Crecy-en-Brie. He is a child, tip-toeing through the high-ceilinged rooms; the noon sun streams, filled with dancing particles of dust, through half-opened shutters. By this golden light he sees kings and heroes striding across the walls. Saints pray, fair women smile, playing the lute or releasing a falcon into the air. As the white unicorn moves through the forest, he looks askance at the child with a large lustrous eye. Beyond, in the flower-strewn meadow, are prancing beasts; deer, hounds, hare and, in the background, peacocks with wide-spread tails.

Like one enchanted, the child steals through the silent rooms, inhaling the odors of old woodwork and dusty hangings. He comes to a chamber hung with green tapestries; embroidered on the heavy fabric are small angels in stiffly pleated golden garments, blowing on clarions and trumpets. He goes through a low door and stands staring in amazement: he is in a room where, on hangings of colored silk interwoven with gold thread, children bathe in the small translucent waves of a river.

Finally, he stands for a long time before a tapestry depicting a lord and his lady seated at a chess board set with red and gold pieces. This picture always fascinates him, because the knight looks like his father: a narrow face, a courteous smile, and, in the eyes, the enigmatic expression, at once restless, mocking and appealing, which surprises the child anew each time he sees his father. For years, day after day, the small boy plays in these rooms amid the red and gold and green splendor of the tapestries; the walls of the chambers in his father’s castles are like so many pages of a gigantic storybook. Here the heroes of Antiquity, his own ancestral kings, the holy men and women of the legends, come to meet him. Large as life, they beckon to him to join them in their jewel-toned world, among flowers and leafy vines, or in the shadows of enchanted forests; they show him the vistas of their horizons, or the views from the windows of their palaces: a field of golden-yellow corn, a spring garden, hills blue against a dark sky. Between blooming hedgerows, Lady Venus holds court; she sits there on her throne, surrounded by her chancellors and chamberlains, the members of her council and her retinue; and all who wish to be her subjects are led to her by her son, the God of Love. The child has been told that this is an allegory; his tutor Maitre Garbet has quoted those lines from the Roman de la Rose which he considers suitable for childish ears.

But soon the boy no longer needs explanations. The mysterious glowing colors of the tapestries, their harmony of line and form, awaken a response in his heart. The figures in the tapestries are his secret companions: the concepts of courtliness in his schoolbooks take on for him the physical appearance of these fair, slender, beautifully dressed ladies, these proud knights, these militant saints and humble martyrs.

Long years of worry and warfare have not left time for thoughts like these; harsh reality has driven away the creatures of the imagination, whose essence is symbolic. But now they come to share the prisoner’s solitude; they glide into the silence of his aimless fleeting hours, carrying oblivion in the folds of their garments. They knock at the door of the prisoner, who dreams the day away over his books, absorbed in thought, who remains awake throughout the night — a colorful procession of allegorical figures: Grief, Affliction and Hope, Sorrow, Faith, Desire, Solace, Fortune, Memory and Melancholy, Love and — lastly — Death. The stages of his life appear before him: Childhood and Youth arrayed in the rich trappings of images from a turbulent past.

One day, to amuse himself, the prisoner begins to write in the light, flowing style characteristic of him, a story in rhyme about his life. Words and images glide effortlessly from his pen; he does not need to exert himself; he needs only to describe what is being enacted in his imagination, an allegory in which he himself plays a role among symbols come alive. Love and Youth, ideal in feature and form, stride through his dream like royal figures embroidered in red, gold and green with tapering fingers and sweet mysterious smiles. He himself, the mere mortal, moves among Love’s subjects as he once walked among the courtiers in Saint-Pol, uncertain and shy, awkwardly polite, unable to express the admiration and longing which he feels — a stranger in the Court of Love.

This new pastime has a strange effect on the prisoner. He has begun it out of boredom and a vague, melancholy nostalgia for the carefree childhood that vanished all too quickly. As he writes, the young man regrets the past and thinks bitterly of the reality of his youth; he knows the pleasures of courtly love only from hearsay; he was never allowed the time and freedom to mature gradually, in the green-gold April of life, into a man. He reads over his poem; it seems to him to be dull and artificial; the meaning behind the allegory is obscure. During the long hours of his sleepless nights he calls up, word for word, line for line, the ballads which he once composed for Bonne and which he intended his minstrels to sing at supper. He improves the rhyme and metaphor of these stanzas, once written all too hastily.

When he grows tired of reading Aristotle, or when he is not in the mood to annotate Cato’s Disticha, he jots down these reconstructions. He cuts a large sheet of vellum into eight parts, creating a booklet in which he can write his ballads. Carefully, in red ink, he decorates the initial letter of each poem with vines and flowers; he has plenty of time for this monkish work.

“Radiant and fresh, rich in Youth’s treasures, laughing eyes, red lips and sweet soft voice … These are the virtues which adorn my Lady…”

But the words which he sets down so carefully on the page before him become his implacable enemies; they do not distract him, but force him to relive the feelings which inspired him the first time he wrote them. The desperate burning desire which tortured him in the first years of his solitude, and which he thought he had overcome, assails him again. Behind the lines Bonne’s intangible image lurks enticingly. The time which has passed since their last meeting, the distance and the silence between them, have transformed her. She is no longer the sweet friend, the young wife; she is now the beauty, the seductress incarnate. She has become beauty, love, youth itself, an infinitely distant star.

The prisoner of Pontefract falls victim to the divinity which he himself has inadvertently evoked in light graceful words. Poetry is his only means of relief; there is no other. Song follows song, and all speak of his sense of loss, his yearning, his unquenchable grief and the hope of freedom which lives in him still. These ballads are substitutes for the letters which he is not allowed to write; he manages, within the limitations of poetic form, to express what he could not put into words even if he were permitted to write letters. What began as a diversion has become a need for him, a necessity. Just as wine never quenches thirst but continues to reawaken it, so each verse embodies in itself the germ of the next verse. When he has completed the envoi, the first words of a new poem well up in him — a complaint, a hymn of praise, an expression of desire …

He knows all too well that in the world outside Pontefract, waves are tossing in the wind while he himself sinks into stagnant waters. From time to time his servant picks up gossip which is circulating among Waterton’s men. So over the years the lonely young man in the tower chamber hears disquieting news, vague rumors which seem to echo frightful events taking place far away in France. The prisoner thinks these rumors seem very credible in every way: he knows the players and the stage; he does not go so far as to doubt even the strangest and wildest tales.

Burgundy, who wishes at any cost to get control of the new Dauphin, has gone into the field with large armies, while the King of England conquers town after town in Normandy without opposition; secret negotiations are being carried on between Burgundy and the exiled Queen; she seems suddenly to have been taken off to the city of Troyes, which belongs to Burgundy. Proclamations are delivered: “Armagnac’s authority in Paris is unlawful; the true government is in Troyes. Queen Isabeau will rule France along with Burgundy in the name of the King who is too ill to hold the reins of government. All those who follow Armagnac are committing high treason.”

So the Kingdom then has two governments.

The prisoner of Pontefract hears with mounting concern how his father-in-law Armagnac struggles vainly against the rising tide of public hatred. A rebellion breaks out in Paris and the burghers themselves bring Burgundy’s troops inside the city. The first to attack Armagnac’s supporters are the butchers and their apprentices who had once been banished from the city and who are blinded by the lust for blood and vengeance.

Is there any truth to the dreadful stories which the valet Chomery whispers in his master’s ear? The names of Simon Caboche and of Capeluche the executioner are heard once more; there is talk of a savage, starved mob ready to seek revenge for years of enforced wanderings. In the streets, in the houses, in the churches, there are piles of corpses; in the midsummer heat, burial pits could not be dug fast enough. The prisoner believes unreservedly that murder is being committed for the sake of murder. He does not doubt for an instant that the great lords and nobles of Burgundy’s army are the equal of the plundering rabble in cruelty and greed. In addition, he thinks it is more than likely that disease will break out from the rotten stench which must fill the city.

When Waterton comes at last to tell him that the Constable d’Armagnac had been seized and killed, and that his naked corpse had been exposed for three whole days (in order to ensure that he would be recognized, he had been adorned with the insignia of his own party: white bands, which in this case had been sliced from his own skin), when Waterton tells him this, the prisoner betrays neither amazement nor horror. He can believe it.

Now that his father-in-law is dead and the power of the Armagnacs appears to be on the wane, the prisoner has only his followers and kinsmen to turn to. He writes urgently, in detail, to Bonne, to Philippe, to Cousinot, to his brother of Angoulême, whose ransom still does not seem to have been collected. It is not long before he receives an answer. It comes in the person of the devoted Chancellor who must once more undertake the journey by sea and land to bring his master news and a bag of gold. A small amount of gold — the collections have been scant, there is nothing left to be sold; it has cost a great deal of money to fortify the castles of Orléans! — has already been delivered to Giovanni Vittori in London.

Cousinot sits facing the prisoner at the table; Waterton, who insists on being present at the meeting, stands at the window; he listens attentively to every word of the conversation. Before being admitted to his master’s presence, Cousinot has been searched for weapons and secret documents, but nothing incriminating has been found. The Chancellor is noticeably more subdued and somber than in the past. The thin hair at his temples is now completely grey; his cheeks are hollow. He slumps wearily in his chair.

The journey to Pontefract has been long and tiring and since his last meeting with his lord, Cousinot has led a life of privation in the impoverished cities of Orléans, in the barren castle of Blois. He finds the prisoner greatly altered — not so much outwardly as in his bearing and attitude. The young man appears to be indifferent, distracted; he seems to be only partially present, although he asks and answers questions in his usual courteous, tranquil manner. He listens impassively to the news: the partisans of Orléans and Armagnac have now entrenched themselves in the provinces and in the hastily fortified castles in the heart of the Kingdom.

Messeigneurs de Vertus and Dunois are incessantly recruiting troops again, preparing fortresses for attack. Cousinot gives a long list of those who have been appointed captains and heads of garrisons. Waterton coughs and comes to the table; he does not consider this information essential.

“Any news of my wife?” asks the prisoner; for the first time Cousinot sees a gleam in the rather dull, dark brown eyes. The advocate has consciously avoided this subject until now. He fears that Monseigneur will not find the news to his liking.

“Madame d’Orléans no longer lives in Blois,” he responds quickly, without looking at the young man. “It was considered advisable for many reasons that she should return to her mother. There are a number of former allies who are willing to come back to our party now that Monseigneur d’Armagnac is dead … but they wish to be certain that we do not fall under the influence of Armagnac’s nearest kinsmen.”

A blow on the table by a clenched fist silences him. Waterton, back at the window again, turns hastily around, but the prisoner has already regained his composure. He swallows the words which rise to his lips.

He asks only, “Where is my wife now?”

“Madame d’Orléans is with her mother in the Cordelier convent in Rodez,” says Cousinot, with bowed head. “Monseigneur Jean d’Armagnac, her brother, has declared himself ready to pay her a yearly stipend so that she can at least provide for her own needs in a suitable manner. Your daughter and your sister, my lord, remain at Blois. We could defray the costs for only two servant girls for Mesdemoiselles.”

“That’s all right, Cousinot.” The prisoner waves his hand. There is silence for an instant in the gloomy tower chamber. Sir Robert Waterton grows impatient.

“May I implore Your Grace to proceed with the interview? The King has permitted you this visitor so that you can arrange your affairs.”

Again sums are discussed. Cousinot takes out sheets of accounts, statements of receipts and expenditures. The young man reads in silence; finally he signs the necessary papers.

“I see that we still owe my lord of Clarence 75,000 ecus,” he remarks with a sad, somewhat mocking smile, as he returns the documents one by one to Cousinot. “I fear my brother of Angoulême and I will have to find the Philosophers’ Stone, if we do not wish to remain under lock and key for the rest of our lives. In God’s name, Cousinot, see first to my brother’s ransom. I have promised him that.”

Sir Robert Waterton interrupts the conversation once more.

“Perhaps Messire Cousinot would do better to inform you, my lord, that your party’s position is almost hopeless. Now that the Queen of France and the Duke of Burgundy occupy Paris once more, and have taken the King under their protection, it does not look as though your allies can go on resisting — despite the fact that the Dauphin might be on their side — which I, for that matter, strongly doubt. I believe rather that your Armagnacs force the prince to choose their side. Messire Cousinot should make the state of affairs emphatically clear to you: the government of France is inclined to accept King Henry’s proposals; the Dukes of Bourbon and Brittany too, have, as you know, come to their senses. It seems to me, Monseigneur, that it is high time that you also should be convinced that your resistance is foolish. Perhaps you will give your Chancellor letters to take with him, in which you instruct your kinsmen and partisans to join with the government in granting King Henry’s rightful demands. I want once more, my lord, to call to your attention the fact that any other course can have only catastrophic consequences. Your party and the Dauphin’s have supporters only in the central provinces and in the far south. The rest of France is in the hands of the Duke of Burgundy and our own troops. It will undoubtedly interest you to know that King Henry’s forces have by now taken the city of Rouen.”

The young man, who has sat listening with averted face, leans suddenly toward his Chancellor and asks incredulously, “Can you really say without stretching the truth, Cousinot, that Monseigneur of Burgundy and the Queen view these English conquests with equanimity — that they are doing nothing at all to protect the country and the throne?”

The Chancellor looks at Robert Waterton for a moment.

“Yes,” he replies, “God knows I can, Monseigneur. I am deeply grieved that I must answer thus. But as matters stand in the Kingdom now, she who wears the crown and her mightiest vassal find it more advantageous to surrender the land to the enemy than to defend it. In the Council they are preparing to negotiate with King Henry. Forgive me, Monseigneur, but that is the truth.”

“You hear that?” Robert Waterton has been charged by a high authority to exert pressure on the Duke of Orléans — not physical pressure, of course, that is unnecessary; there are many methods available to the man who is practiced in such matters. Solitary confinement creates an uncertain state of mind; and in addition it rouses an almost desperate craving for freedom at any price. A piece of discouraging news, the vacillation of his advisors — these can be the decisive thrust. Waterton thinks that the prisoner is ripe for persuasion; he is already trying to decide how he will presently inform King Henry that Orléans has acknowledged England’s sovereignty, that the King for his part need no longer be concerned about any organized resistance in France. The knight looks expectantly at the young man, who continues to sit motionless. Cousinot is torn by an inward conflict: although he hopes his lord will soon be free, he cannot refrain from making a comment, perhaps out of pride.

“Monseigneur,” he says, clearly and calmly, “there is some comfort in all this misery. I know — I receive proof of it every day — I know that the people of France and the greater number of our knights will not suffer themselves to be tempted to betray King and Kingdom as quickly and easily as Burgundy has done. God knows there has been enough wrangling and discord among our people, but with my own eyes I have seen bitter enemies unite in anger over what is now happening in France. The government abandoned the besieged city of Rouen to its fate; I cannot tell you what the populace must have gone through before they surrendered. Even many Burgundian sympathizers are coming to their senses; they are learning from experience that their leader is not acting in the interests of the French people. Believe me, Monseigneur, the Duke of Burgundy has at the moment only the appearance of power. The people are clamoring for action against the English invaders; they demand that the Kingdom be defended. They already distrust Burgundy more than you can imagine. If I wanted to give you a truthful answer, I will have to say this — the situation over there is miserable. King Henry is gaining ground daily and it looks as though his demands will shortly be flatly accepted by Burgundy and the Queen — God only knows on what terms. But all France will know, Monseigneur, that those who want to fight to keep the lawful government can find a place under the banner of Orléans. And apropos of this, I find it most auspicious that Monseigneur the Dauphin is in our ranks—”

“That is enough. Messire!” Waterton cries angrily. He walks over and opens the door. “The interview is over. I doubt greatly that you will have the opportunity to speak with Monseigneur again. You do him more harm than good by behaving in this way. It’s not my fault if you did not come prepared to settle your business affairs.”

The prisoner has risen too. He holds his hand out for the Chancellor’s farewell.

“Cousinot,” he says, looking his visitor calmly in the eye, “here are my orders for my brothers of Vertus and Dunois, for my captains and officers and all my allies, vassals and partisans: I wish them to place themselves completely under the authority of Monseigneur the Dauphin and his council. If I understand you correctly, Cousinot, our party has become the party of the Dauphin and of France. I can do little but pray God to help Monseigneur de Viennois and ourselves to uphold the honor of the Kingdom and to show them the road which leads out of the wilderness. Urge my brothers to place the interests of the Dauphin above all else. If this should mean a delay in my deliverance, so be it, in God’s name. Send this to my wife, if the occasion arises.”

Waterton takes the stiff rolled parchment from the prisoner and unrolls it. When he sees it is only verses, he rolls it up again and hands it to Cousinot with a shrug.

“Tell her that I am well,” the young man goes on. “Other than that, I have nothing more to say. God be with you, Cousinot. I am exceedingly grateful to you for your loyalty and your service. Perhaps we shall meet again — perhaps not.”

The Chancellor kneels before his lord and salutes him with great courtly deference. Suddenly he knows with certainty that he will never see the Duke again. He would like to say something, to express somehow the affection for the young man which he has felt from the days when he served the Lady of Orléans and her son for the first time. At this moment he recalls vividly the assembly in Paris at which the Abbé de Sérizy had delivered his impassioned defense of the Duke of Orléans; it is as though he sees Valentine sitting once more among the hostile courtiers with her son at her right hand. Again through Cousinot’s head flash the words he murmured when he first saw the somber lad in mourning: “These are exceptionally young shoulders to bear the weight of such an inheritance; I fear that Monseigneur will sink beneath it.” He cannot hide from himself the fact that his lord has staggered under the burden; he searches for words to express his devotion in spite of everything to the young man who has demonstrated at the least a great dignity, uncommon in one of his age.

“Monseigneur, forgive me if I have ever doubted the wisdom of your views, of your actions. I have often argued against your proposals.”

Waterton, who is standing by the door, snaps his fingers. The prisoner helps his visitor rise and leads him himself a few steps to the entrance.

“I am well aware of what you want to say, Cousinot,” he says; his nostrils quiver in his light, somewhat bitter, laughter. “You need not apologize. We live in stormy times which demand great men, capable leaders. It is my misfortune that I am neither a great man nor an able leader, Cousinot: I am only a man of good will, but the political game is beyond my comprehension. I don’t have the ability to turn cards to my advantage. Go now, my dearest friend, God be with you and with France … Remember my brother of Angoulême,” he calls out before the heavy door slams shut behind Waterton and Cousinot. In the gloom of the hallway he sees the face of the departing Chancellor for the last time. He raises his hand in salute. Then he is alone again.

Je fu en fleur ou temps passe d’enfance,

Et puis après devins fruit en jeunesse;

Lors m’abaty de l’arbre de Plaisance,

Vert et non meur, Folie, ma maistresse.

Et pour cela, Raison qui tout redresse

A son plasir, sans tort ou mesprison,

M’a a bon droit, par sa tresgrant sagesse,

Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

I was in blossom in my childhood,

But before I could come to fruition

I was knocked, green and unripe from the tree

Of Plaisance by my mistress Folly;

Therefore Reason who redresses everything

At her pleasure, without wrong or misprision,

Rightly in her very great wisdom

Set me to ripen in the straw of prison.

En ce j’ay fait longue Continuance,

Sans estre mis a l’essor de Largesse;

J’en suy contant et tiens que, sans doubtance,

C’est pour le mieulx, combien que par peresse

Deviens fletry et tire vers vieillesse.

Assez estaint est en moy le tison

De sot désir, puis qu’ay esté en presse

Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

Here I have stayed since that time,

Not allowed to soar into Freedom;

I am content and think without doubt

That it is for the best, although disuse

Has caused me to become wrinkled with age.

The torch of foolish desire has almost

Burned out in me since I have been stored away,

Set to ripen in the straw of prison.

Dieu nous doint paix, car c’est ma desirance!

Adonc seray en l’eaue de Liesse

Tost refreschi, et au souleil de France

Bien nettié du moisy de Tristesse;

God give us peace, for that is my desire!

Then the waters of Delight will soon

Refresh me and the sunlight of France

Clean the mould of Sadness from me;

J’attens Bon Temps, endurant en humblesse.

Car j’ay espoir que Dieu ma guerison

Ordonnera; pour ce, m’a sa haultesse

Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

Humbly, I endure to await the Good Days,

For I hope that God will cure me;

He must have intended this when He

Set me to ripen in the straw of prison.

Fruit suis d’yver qui a meins de tendresse

Que fruit d’esté; si suis en garnison,

Pour amolir ma trop verde duresse,

Mis pour meurir ou feurre de prison.

I am a winter fruit, less tender

Than summer fruit, so I am kept in store

To soften, to become less green and hard,

Set to ripen in the straw of prison.

Silence reigns in the tower chamber of Pontefract. Never has it been so difficult to endure as in the days following Cousinot’s visit. Once again the lonely tenant is restless: books cannot distract him, he cannot forget himself in the polishing of verses, he tries without success, by thinking and writing about Bonne, to regain the near contentment he felt before the Chancellor’s arrival. His desires were the desires of love; his sorrow mostly regret for the happiness which had so quickly fled, and dread that he would experience this happiness no more. But despite the bittersweet memories, despite melancholy and fits of violent despair, life had never seemed to him to be intolerable. He had spent his days in stagnation; only effortless song moved him — and yet in spite of all this he had had a vague feeling of satisfaction. But now he cannot recover that blessed calm, that indifference to the world and its turbulence. He is forced to think constantly of what Cousinot had said. He is tormented by concern: anxiety for Bonne and the fate which has befallen her — the fate of an impoverished woman who must seek shelter in a convent; anxiety for Philippe and Dunois who have inherited the heavy threefold task of guarding the dukedom, collecting ransom, fulfilling feudal obligations; anxiety for the defenceless little girls in Blois, anxiety for the outraged and violated Kingdom of France. Since his earliest childhood, he had always punctiliously performed his religious devotions without, however, becoming emotionally involved in the significance of prayer and ritual. Year in, year out, filled with reverence, he had attended the ceremonies, public and private, which play so great a part in the life of a Duke of Orléans: the flicker of candles, the smell of incense, the singing of the mass and the glow of gold and rich colors were somewhat intoxicating to a mind so amenable to beauty as his. He knows well the concentration of prayer, the emotion caused by the words of Our Lord — but it is only now in this period of his imprisonment that he becomes fully conscious of the suffering of Christ — he can experience now what was formerly only a vague notion.

Here in this chamber of Pontefract he offers prayers, morning, noon and evening, to the image of the crucified Christ which stands on a table before an open triptych of painted wood. For the first time he understands, in the deepest recesses of his heart, the meaning of the figure nailed to the Cross — the wounded, emaciated limbs, carved faithfully from ivory, contorted on the Cross in more than physical pain. The prisoner raises his eyes to the image and sees on the crucifix the dead of the battlefields, the tortured inhabitants of Soissons, Saint-Denis and all the other cities occupied and ravaged by soldiers; he sees the stiffening corpses of victims of cruel warfare — the dead children, the ravished women; he sees finally the image of the horrors he knows only from hearsay: the dry moats outside besieged Rouen where women, children and old people huddled together for days, half-naked under the open sky, driven out of the city gates by the starving garrison, hurled back by the besiegers, condemned to rot like garbage.

The courtly emblems recede for an instant; he cannot express in the elegant and melancholy language of the love couplets dedicated to Bonne, the sensations which now overcome him. The self-possession so carefully cultivated and assiduously maintained forsakes him as it did at the time of his mother’s death, the rapine of Saint-Denis, the murders at Soissons, the desperate combat in the field of Agincourt. He paces restlessly back and forth; a thousand plans, a thousand thoughts, flash furiously through his brain. He wants to break out of this prison, to be free of the oppressive stone walls around him, at whatever cost. He wants to escape and, with his newly won insight and sense of responsibility, put himself in the service of his country, its defenceless King and ignorant Dauphin.

But the door, banded with iron hoops, remains firmly closed; the grating before the window does not budge, well-armed guards who understand no French replace each other on the small landing before his door. From time to time the valet enters, or Waterton, or an officer of the watch; always the wind, the mice behind the wainscoting, the rain, the indeterminate sounds which are often heard in old walls. He knows that in this castle of Pontefract, King Richard died suddenly twenty years before, under mysterious circumstances — how? Why? He has heard the rumors; now that Henry reigns, the son of the usurper, no one dares to rake up these tales, but the memory hovers over Pontefract.

Suddenly he must recall the words which he overheard when he was a child; he hears his father’s voice murmur about solitary confinement in darkness, of hunger, of massive brutal chains. Pontefract — Pontefract … the word once echoed over the ducal tables at Asnieres and Beaumont, in the quiet of Lady Valentine’s bedchamber. A word like any other word to the child who listens casually; nothing more than a sound conveying a vague sense of menace. Now the prisoner thinks of his royal predecessor; was it perhaps here, on this spot, that Richard, weighed down with jangling chains, waited for the end? The Richard of whom he has heard from his first wife Isabelle … a man who, without pity, orders the peers of his kingdom to be summarily executed, but who, when he goes off to war, takes his leave with kisses and tears …

He tosses uneasily from one side to the other of his bed. Will it go with him as it once went with Richard? Do darkness, hunger and thirst await him too? Or perhaps an assassin’s dagger — poisoned food? Doesn’t King Henry know as well as he himself that it can take a very long time for the ransom to be collected — and would the Englishman release his captive even if he were offered the whole amount at once?

The weeks glide by, shrouded in gloom and uncertainty. Suddenly there is a perceptible change: Sir Robert Waterton, who until now has visited the prisoner daily for the sole purpose of inquiring dutifully after the latter’s health, finding out if he has any feasible requests, and checking on the situation in general — Sir Robert Waterton one afternoon — and soon by chance every afternoon — pays a fairly prolonged visit. At first he makes a visible effort to throw off the cold, official demeanor of the warden, to become suddenly courteous and chatty. On these occasions he does not come in cuirass and coat of mail, but dresses as a courtier. The multi-colored garments make him look heavier and broader; it is obvious that he is uncomfortable in his long overgarment and velvet hat with scalloped lappets, all brand-new and cut according to the latest French fashion. He still wears his red-brown hair long. He walks toward the prisoner, frowning, but with a forced smile. Two servants from Waterton’s household carry wooden trays heaped with fruit, wine, and cake, and place these upon the table.

The young man who stands reading at his desk looks up with raised brows. Finally he accepts Waterton’s invitation to take a seat; oddly, the knight has dropped his reserve. He no longer behaves toward his noble guest like a prison keeper, but like a host. The two discuss the weather, the hunt, horses and dogs, weapons — even, casually, books. Waterton does not like to read. They drink together and after a while a chessboard is fetched. The knight’s game reflects his character: he is crude, without guile and purposefully deliberate. The prisoner, a skilled chess player since childhood, wins effortlessly again and again. In this way a considerable amount of time passes. Again Waterton visits the young man. They chat, drink and play chess, the knight behaving with forced joviality, the Duke with obvious mistrust beneath his cautious manner. Politics is not mentioned, although more than once the conversation seems to be tending in that direction. Waterton’s clear anxiety to avoid that precise subject increases the prisoner’s suspicion.

When for several weeks the knight has spent the late afternoon hours with him in this way, the prisoner knows with certainty that these visits have a definite purpose, that wine and friendly conversation are intended to pave the way … to what? Charles waits; from time to time he watches his warden attentively, trying to read something in the small greenish eyes which are sometimes fixed upon the chess pieces in almost childish desperation. At long last one day, Waterton begins to talk about the military situation in France in a tone which is too emphatically indifferent to be genuine. He gives an imposingly long list of names: the cities in Normandy and Picardy which are occupied by the English — some after siege, the most, however, after a pragmatic surrender by the citizens.

“The populace knows that King Henry permits no plunder, his soldiers are well-disciplined,” says Waterton. “The people can continue to cultivate their fields and carry on trade. They will quickly see that King Henry’s government provides them with security and prosperity.”

Charles does not reply; he sits staring at his silver goblet, which he turns slowly between his thumb and forefinger. Waterton continues.

“In any case it’s senseless for the cities to offer resistance. Sooner or later they must lay down their arms; no one will be able to help them — not the government, not anyone acting in the name of the Dauphin and your — forgive me—his party. I doubt, for that matter, I doubt whether any auxiliary armies could check King Henry’s advance. Our troops are exceptionally well-trained, and our methods of combat are different, better than those which are clung to on the continent.

“Indeed, it has become very clear in the course of the last hundred years that methods of waging war have changed, my lord. It is generally held here that war is not a tourney; the time is over when battles are fought at prearranged places according to prescribed rules. Speed and efficiency and equipment mean more than a pretty show of arms. I continue to be surprised that in France they refuse to see this. Take the siege of Rouen — there stood the lads again upon the ramparts with catapults and barrels of pitch — mere expedients that could cover only very short distances and only against attacks on solid ground. But King Henry has ended this obsolete custom of literally storming a fortress. Have you heard anything yet about this new method? He makes use of what we call trenches, in which the men are protected from projectiles. Behind the trenches we mount heavy weapons — great machines that fling stones over a distance. It’s remarkable that you have not thought of this yourselves.”

“Probably we will learn from King Henry’s victories,” Charles replies with a slight ironic smile. “One could hardly remain blind to the advantages of your methods of warfare. Harsh tutors produce the most diligent pupils, as you know.”

“Hm.” Waterton casts a quick glance at his companion. “Do you believe then, my lord, that before long France will offer an organized resistance? Perhaps you are better informed about the situation there than I?”

Something in the knight’s tone makes the prisoner look up.

“I thought that King Henry was at the point of concluding certain agreements with those who — according to him — represent the French Crown,” he says smoothly, but his dark brown eyes suddenly become extremely sharp and vigilant. He sees suspicion, curiosity and some suspense in the Englishman’s gaze. The conversation, stumbling until now, takes a decisive turn. Although Waterton does not admit it in so many words and lets no information drop, Charles senses what is happening in France. The talks between King Henry and the French government have broken down — a hitch has occurred somewhere — but where? Waterton does not seem unwilling to give him a hint about where the cause of the difficulty lies, and soon the young man knows how he must interpret his warden’s remarks: Burgundy, in exchange for complying with King Henry’s wishes, has made certain demands, and the King finds these demands excessive and, moreover, dangerous. If France will not give herself willingly, she must be taken by force. But that is possible only if Burgundy remains neutral. If Burgundy exchanges his neutrality for hostility to the English, King Henry will need the help of another French party in order to hold his ground.

Slowly but surely the prisoner manages to learn the truth behind Waterton’s words: Burgundy seeks an approach to the Dauphin for greater security. He can do this now, because the Dauphin’s party no longer carries the stamp of Orléans or Armagnac. It is also clear what King Henry is aiming at — since he is uncertain about Burgundy’s intentions, he turns anew to the only one who could cooperate with him to influence the Dauphin: Orléans.

The prisoner manages during the course of this conversation to learn still more. Waterton repeatedly shows an unusual interest in Monseigneur’s short-lived contact with the man who calls himself the King of Scotland.

“It was no secret to us that — by means of gestures — Your Grace was able to hold conversations with James during the last months of his residence in the Tower,” he says.

“Yes, I guessed as much when the King of Scotland was transferred to Windsor,” the prisoner answers, with a smile. “I’m very sorry. Now I shall never have the opportunity to return the book which he so kindly lent me.”

Waterton’s eyes rest on the table where the manuscripts are piled. The young man beckons to his servant who stands near the door with both of Waterton’s retainers, ready to serve their masters if they want anything.

“Give me the King of Scotland’s book.”

Waterton frowns suspiciously when Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy is placed before him. The prisoner turns to the fly-leaf and points out five or six lines written in the King’s own hand.

“Will you do me the favor, Sir Robert, of telling me what is written there?”

The knight bends quickly over the book; his eagerness convinces the prisoner that suspicions have been entertained about the extremely brief friendship between the two princely exiles. After a few moments Waterton looks up.

“It is a poem,” he says curtly, but not without a spark of amusement in his small green eyes.

“I thought so too. Please be good enough to translate it for me, Messire. You know that I also divert myself with rhymes. I am naturally interested in the work of a colleague.”

Waterton strokes his beard; finally he shrugs and complies with the request. He reads aloud in his somewhat hesitant, stiff French.

“ ‘Come, all who wish to greet these May mornings … The hour of good fortune has struck for you … Sing with me: go hence, winter, be off. Come, summer, time of sweet sunny days.’ ”

“Well, well.” The prisoner smiles. “That is prettily put. It has been worth waiting two long years for such a message.”

“What do you mean by that?” Waterton asks sharply, slamming the book shut. “Do these words perhaps have a meaning known only to you and James of Scotland?”

The young man raises his brows and his smile vanishes.

“Now it is clear to me what you are aiming at, Sir Robert, but I’m afraid that this time you’re on the wrong track. I have had no opportunity to correspond with King James and one cannot discuss politics in sign language.”

“King James?” says Waterton, looking at him askance. He sighs; the task which King Henry has entrusted to him is far from easy. To fight, organize, protect fortresses, exercise surveillance — these are things Waterton can do competently. But this wary fumbling behind the mask of polite conversation, these diplomatic skirmishes, go against his grain. The other will not commit himself. Waterton has known that from the beginning. In his reports he customarily characterizes the prisoner as courteous, self-controlled, mild-mannered and apparently co-operative — in short, a completely inscrutable character; he concludes from this that there is something hidden here.

He tells the King the results of the conversation — an extremely meager report. “Monseigneur does not mention it, but one should not conclude from this that in spite of all precautions he is not or has not been in touch with the Dauphin of France or the Pretender to the Scottish throne. He appears to know nothing about the national disturbances in Scotland. He seems to be tranquil as usual, reads, writes, stands and stares for long hours out the window. During interviews he behaves as though he does not understand Your Majesty’s purpose.”

King Henry’s reply suggests a new task for Waterton.

“Win his confidence. Give him more freedom. Invite him to your house. Make him realize that it is of the greatest importance to him to conclude a treaty with Us.”

Charles d’Orléans walked slowly back and forth in the orchard of Pontefract; although he had been permitted these strolls for some time now, he was surprised each time anew by the freshness and fragrance of the air. He could hardly believe that he could at one time have experienced this pleasure without restraint. He had gone through the seasons burdened always with cares and worries; he had noticed only incidentally the beauty of leaf and flower, the happiness that came from feeling the sun on one’s face, of inhaling deeply the odors of earth and green grass.

He was not alone; Sir Robert Waterton’s wife walked beside him, carefully holding her dress away from the dewy grass so that the hem would not get wet. Waterton’s children, two boys and a small girl, ran in front of the grown-ups, romping and shrieking as healthy children do. An abundance of still-green apples and pears hung from the trees; the air was filled with the tart scent of unripe fruit. Although the orchard was large and well-tended, the soil was obviously poor: the grass was scanty, the apple trees were stunted.

The garden lay in the lea of Pontefract against the ramparts but inside the castle moat; the high walls of the castle were overgrown here with ivy. Close to the water’s edge was Lady Waterton’s flower garden, where wild roses and foxglove tried to blossom. Charles remembered the magnificent gardens of Saint-Pol and Vincennes, but he praised the flower beds of Pontefract’s Lady; it was apparent that they were the result of the expenditure of a great deal of loving care and that she was proud of them. She was still a young woman, not much older than Charles himself. She had bright blue eyes and fresh cheeks and the hair which peeked from under her headdress was jet black. That hair, that quick trusting smile, and something about the way she walked, reminded him constantly of Bonne.

The first time he saw Lady Waterton he had been struck with pained surprise at the resemblance; for a moment he could not take his eyes from her. Sometimes when she walked beside him without turning her head toward him, it seemed to him that he was walking beside Bonne herself. He was conscious of her graceful movements, of the luster of her black hair — burning desire consumed him then. He had to exert the utmost self-control to restrain himself from seizing her in his arms to test the illusion by touch or embrace. But when she spoke in her laborious, somewhat twisted French, in her high, timid voice, he returned to reality. She was a stranger; her eyes were bright but rather shallow and her mouth was thin-lipped. Waterton, who was usually busy in the mornings, had undoubtedly instructed his wife to accompany the noble prisoner on his walks; her presence and the children’s were probably intended to help the young man to forget that, outside the low wall of the orchard and kitchen garden, an armed guard was standing.

Lady Waterton, who had never participated in court life and who had a diffident nature, performed her task with reluctance at first, but she soon decided that it was not so difficult as she had feared it would be to keep Monseigneur amused. He was young, courteous and unassuming, and he hit it off very well with the children. At first his foreign gallantry embarrassed her; she was not accustomed to receiving so many compliments. But the Duke’s friendliness won the day; gradually she lost her shyness and chattered with him as eagerly as she did with her children and her chambermaid. Charles found her stories delightful. Her restricted view, the relative insignificance of her experience, provided exactly the diversion which he needed. She told him things her children had said and done, she described dramatically how a cat had attempted to pounce on her pet bird, how the fabric on her loom was progressing. She asked him a number of questions too: was it true that the women at the French court wore trains six feet long and hats two ells high? Was Queen Isabeau really so fat that she had to be pushed around in a wheelchair? Had she heard correctly that there was a market in France where servants and servantmaids were put up for auction?

Smiling, Charles answered all these questions in the affirmative; how far away, how ludicrous, court life and street brawls over there seemed to him as he walked under these fresh fragrant trees. Thus he passed nearly every beautiful day in the orchard of Pontefract in the company of Waterton’s family. The children were greatly attached to Charles, although they could not talk with him. They knew no French and invariably burst out laughing when Charles tried to speak to them in English.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is important news,” Charles said.

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

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

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

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

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

“My brother thinks as I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From a decree of the Council, December, 1419:

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

En la forest de Longue Actente,

Chevauchant par divers sentiers

M’en voys, ceste année présente,

Ou voyage de Desiriers.

Devant sont allez mes fourriers

Pour appareiller mon logis

En la cité de Destinée;

Et pour mon cueur et moy ont pris

L’ostellerie de Pensée.

In the forest of Long Awaiting,

Riding by varying pathways

I set out in this present year

On the journey of Desire.

My stewards have gone on ahead

To prepare my lodging

In the city of Destiny,

And they have taken for me and my heart,

The hostelry of Thought.

…

…

Je mayne des chevaulx quarente

Et autant pour mes officiers,

Voire, par Dieu, plus de soixante,

Sans les bagaiges et sommiers.

Loger nous fauldra par quartiers,

Se les hostelz sont trop petis;

Toutesfoiz, pour une vespree,

En gré prendray, soit mieulx ou pis,

L’ostellerie de Pensée.

I bring with me forty horses

And enough for my officials,

In fact, by God, more than sixty,

Without the pack animals and mules.

We shall need quarters about the town

If the inns are too small;

However for one evening,

For better or for worse, I shall gladly accept

The hostelry of Thought.

Prince, vray Dieu de paradis,

Vostre grâce me soit donnée,

Telle que treuve, a mon devis,

L’ostellerie de Pensée.

Prince, true God of Paradise,

Bestow Your grace upon me,

That I may find, as I desire,

The hostelry of Thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Burton shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

“There was no need for Her Majesty to do so,” replied Burton, apparently indifferent, in the cold, matter-of-fact tone which he invariably employed in conversation with the prisoner. “It is a well-known fact that in the year of the so-called Dauphin’s birth, the notorious friendship began between the Queen of France and your late father.”

A shudder went through Charles; he clenched his fists on the window sill. Burton had expected an outburst of fear or rage; he knew quite well that he could not have hurt his prisoner more deeply than by uttering these words. The Englishman hesitated. It was almost unthinkable that a man of honor should submit to such an affront. But the man who stood before the window did not move and did not speak.

Burton drew himself up stiffly and said, “I have a further duty to inform you that the Duke of Burgundy was murdered at Montereau on the twentieth of August.”

France, jadis on te souloit nommer,

En tous pays, le trésor de noblesse,

Car un chascun povoit en toy trouver

Bonté, honneur, loyauté, gentillesse,

Clergie, sens, courtoisie, processe.

Tous estrangiers amoient te suir;

Et maintenant voy, dont j’ay desplaisance,

Qu’il te couvient maint grief mal soustenir,

Trescrestien, franc royaume de France!

France, in times gone by men everywhere

Called you the treasure of nobility,

Perceived in you goodness, honor,

Loyalty, learning, wit and prowess;

They burned to follow you.

And now it saddens me to see

The painful hurt that you must suffer,

Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

Scez tu dont vient ton mal, a vray parler?

Congnois tu point pourquoy es en tristesse?

Conter le vueil, pour vers toy m’acquiter,

Do you know in truth whence comes your ill?

Don’t you know why you are suffering?

It is my duty to tell you;

You will be wise to listen to me.

Escoutes moy et tu feras sagesse.

Ton grant ourgueil, glotonnie, peresse,

Couvoitise, sans justice tenir,

Et luxure, dont as eu abondance,

Ont pourchacié vers Dieu de te punir,

Trescretien, franc royaume de France!

You are proud, gluttonous, slothful

And covetous without regard for justice;

You luxuriate in lechery.

Thus God has moved to punish you,

Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

…

…

Dieu a les bras ouvers pour t’acoler,

Prest d’oublier ta vie pécheresse;

Requier pardon, bien te vendra aidier

Nostre Dame, la trespuissant princesse,

Qui est ton cry et que tiens pour maistresse.

Les sains aussi te vendront secourir,

Desquelz les corps font en toy demourance.

The arms of God are open to embrace you,

He will forget your sinfulness;

Ask pardon, ask for the help of

Our Lady, that most powerful Princess,

Who is your battle cry and honored Mistress.

The saints too will come to aid you,

Whose bodies rest in your domain.

Don’t remain asleep, sunken in sin,

Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

Ne vueilles plus en ton pechié dormir,

Trescrestien, franc royaume de France!

Et je, Charles, duc d’Orléans, rimer

Voulu ces vers ou temps de ma jeunesse,

Devant chascun les vueil bien advouer,

Car prisonnier les fis, je le confesse;

Priant a Dieu, qu’avant qu’aye vieillesee,

Le temps de paix partout puist avenir,

Comme de cueur j’en ay la desirance,

Et que voye tous tes maulx brief finir,

Trescrestien, franc royaume de France!

And I, Charles, Duke of Orléans, poet,

Have written these verses when I am young,

I will avow to the whole world

And confess that I have written them in prison,

Praying to God that before I am old

Peace may have come everywhere,

As I deeply desire from my heart,

And that I may see your sufferings ended,

Most Christian, freeborn realm of France!

In the spring of 1421, Charles received a visit from one of his clerks at Blois. He scarcely knew the man; he was surprised that they had not sent him his secretary de Tuillères or Denisot, the first clerk of his chancellery. The new courier was an insignificant old monk who stared about him helplessly while he was searched by the guards. To Charles’ astonishment he had brought along a small, longhaired dog which ran sniffing in through the open door of the chamber even before the watch had finished with the clerk. When Charles bent to stroke the animal, it sprang away from him.

“He allows no one to touch him without my consent, Monseigneur,” said the scribe as he entered, bowing deeply. “You know me — I am Jean le Brasseur, once employed in your house chapel at Blois. Monseigneur Dunois sends me to you with money and news about the administration of your estates.”

Meanwhile, Burton too had entered the chamber, along with a clerk and an interpreter. The knight observed punctiliously all instructions from London. Every word spoken by the prisoner and by his visitor must be taken down, and if the slightest effort was made to exchange information about the political or military actions of the so-called Dauphin, Burton was to interrupt the interview instantly. Only business affairs, administration of property and news of the family could be discussed. Burton looked with disdain at the messenger from Blois; he thought it amazing that this timorous dullard should have succeeded in traveling all that distance and arriving at Pontefract in one piece.

Charles sat down; the clerk stood humbly before him with the dog in his arms.

“Monseigneur,” he said softly — he lisped somewhat, “I come also as the bearer of sad tidings. I have been shocked and deeply sorrowed to learn that you still know nothing about it. Monseigneur, it has pleased God to call to himself your brother, Monseigneur Philippe de Vertus.”

Charles rose. The clerk went on with bowed head. “At about the time of the birth of Our Lord, we buried him in the church of Saint-Sauveur. May God give you strength to bear this affliction, my lord.”

Charles made the sign of the cross, and put his hand over his eyes. He remained standing that way for a while. Death chooses his victims well — he thought — a young man in the prime of his life; Philippe, my carefree, cheerful brother, my confidant and deputy, the commander of my armies, my friend and childhood playmate. Now the House of Orléans is represented in France by my father’s bastard and two little girls. What have my brother of Angoulême and I to hope for?

“Monseigneur de Dunois has arranged everything,” the clerk continued in his high-pitched voice. “In Blois and in all your remaining possessions, everything will go on as usual. Monseigneur de Vertus left a great void, but his death has caused no change in the administration of the dominions or the organization of household affairs.”

For the first time Charles looked with attention at the messenger; the man kept his bulging, somewhat melancholy eyes fixed modestly on a point at the height of Charles’ girdle, and he spoke in a monotonous drone, as though he were reciting a lesson he had learned by rote. Meanwhile he stroked the puppy, which was almost completely hidden in the folds of his gown. Burton was yawning openly, and the other two men made no bones about their contempt and boredom. But it seemed to Charles that the messenger from Blois was considerably less innocuous and insignificant than he wanted to appear. His whining voice was a little too exaggerated to be genuine, and in his curious bulging eye Charles could detect a vigilant glimmer.

While the clerk gave a dull, true account of the grain and wine harvest, the proceeds of tributes and taxes, expenses in connection with the restoration and maintainance of the castles and annexes, etc., Charles sat tensely watching him. From time to time the man stressed a word in a way that would be noticeable only to a native speaker of French. So under Burton’s attentive eye, Charles learned many things worth knowing: out of information apparently limited to administrative matters, he managed to deduce from the messenger’s intonation and the way in which he presented the news, that all the citadels of Orléans were strongly manned and fully stocked with great provisions of weapons and food, that hostile troops had invaded the northwestern border areas, that many of the Dauphin’s captains and advisors were in hiding in the important cities of Charles’ domains, that everywhere military preparations were being made in feverish haste, that all the money that could be squeezed from that neglected and impoverished land was being spent on arms and supplies.

“Alas, Monseigneur,” the clerk concluded, while he took some grey linen bags from his girdle and offered them with a bow to Charles, “this is all we can deliver to you at present — one hundred and eighty-four ecus — perhaps it will help somewhat to ease your life here for a few months. Monseigneur de Dunois hopes with all his heart that he will be able to send you more over the course of the summer. Will you be so kind, Monseigneur, as to sign the documents which I had to hand over to Messire Burton on my arrival here? They are authorizations for Monseigneur de Dunois and two deeds for sales of lands.”

“Certainly,” Charles said thoughtfully. The clerk approached with humility, still holding the puppy.

“Perhaps you would like to hold the creature for a moment, Monseigneur?” asked the monk, gazing at Charles with a rather fatuous smile. He put his head on one side and held the dog out to his master. “I shall then fetch the documents from the lord clerks there, if it pleases you.”

It seemed to Charles that the messenger gave a barely perceptible nod of the head. The young man took the dog and set it down beside him on the bench. It was one of those so-called decoy dogs, thin and swift, with bright eyes and a beautiful bushy tail. Charles scratched the animal behind the ears and ran his hand absently over the glossy tail. He left his hand there; a thin, hard roll was tied under the long hair. Charles looked at the monk, who bowed before him.

“A pretty puppy,” he said calmly. “Is it yours?”

The clerk opened his mouth in a broad laugh.

“It goes with me everywhere, Monseigneur. If they tell me to make another journey to Pontefract, the dog will come to visit you again.”

While Jean le Brasseur was getting the documents from Burton and his clerks, and occupying their attention because of his clumsiness — he dropped the pages, upset an inkwell — Charles busied himself with the dog, which remained docile while Charles, with his nails, tore the threads tying the roll of paper to the tail. When the clerk approached him again, mumbling apologies, the letter was in Charles’ sleeve.

Letter from Dunois, Bastard of Orléans, to Charles, Duke of Orléans, Spring, 1421.

“Monseigneur my brother, you will of course have heard what disasters have afflicted the Kingdom since the treaty of Troyes. King Henry fancies himself lord and master; in the Council, in the University, and in the field, his word is law. He is harsh, austere and proud — so say all who have had any personal dealings with him. Madame Catherine has given birth to a son, another reason for King Henry to think that he has checkmated Monseigneur the Dauphin for good. Monseigneur’s name has been removed from the list of the King’s sons inscribed on the marble tablet at Saint-Pol. Here and in the Midi we remain loyal to the lawful successor to the throne, and evil rumors are not believed. I assume you know what I am talking about. Monseigneur the Dauphin calls himself, justifiably, the Regent of France. He is eighteen years old and, it seems to me, somewhat shy and with little disposition to independent action. He lets himself be discouraged too quickly. It is our task, Monseigneur, to give him a feeling of certainty, to show him that we have his interest truly at heart. We must support him with our faith and loyalty, and our belief in his legitimate birth.

“Monseigneur, my dearest brother, it does not appear that King Henry’s alliance with the new Duke of Burgundy will last long. Philippe of Burgundy does not love the English; it seems that he was treated rather rudely by Henry’s envoys in Calais. From what I hear, Monseigneur always finds some excuse when Henry calls upon him to send troops — the English fight practically alone now; a Burgundian is scarcely ever seen in their ranks.

“It is our business to unite all domestic forces under one banner; now that the Kingdom is threatened with complete destruction, it is our sacred duty to maintain unity. I have heard rumors that Arthur, Count of Richmont, intends to offer his services to the Dauphin. I believe we should encourage this strongly. Before anything else I should like to see an agreement reached with Burgundy. The party of Orléans is a thing of the past, lord brother, we must recognize this. There is really no longer a reason for blood feuds since our father’s murderer received his just punishment at Montereau. We must be unified if we wish to save France.

“I shall send you the messenger again soon. Have an answer ready if you possibly can and put it in his hands. He will find a way to hide your letter. God be with you, Monseigneur my brother. May He give you strength to bear your bitter lot. The war preparations go on here — you yourself would not wish anything else. But as soon as possible we shall gather the money necessary to ransom you and Monseigneur d’Angoulême. I entreat God’s blessing on you. Your servant, Dunois, Bastard of Orléans.”

From an official message from London to Sir Thomas Burton: September, 1422.

“… that on this last day of August of this year of our Lord 1422, our dearly beloved most revered Sovereign and Prince, Henry V, King of England, Regent and Heir of France, departed this life in the castle of Vincennes in France, as a consequence of an intestinal disorder which he contracted during the siege of the city of Cone. The King departed this life reconciled with his Creator. On his deathbed he named as Regents over his son, from today our dearly beloved and highly honored Henry VI, the Dukes of Bedford and Gloucester, from whom you may expect instructions. In connection with the custody of the Duke of Orléans, the following: it was the late King Henry’s explicit desire that the aforesaid Orléans should not be freed before the present King shall have attained his majority. If a strict stand is not taken here it is truly to be feared that the said Orléans would abuse the temporary lack of royal authority in order to join forces with those in France who do not acknowledge England’s lawful demands. The Duke of Gloucester commands you accordingly to transfer the above-mentioned Orléans to the fortress of Fotherinhay in Northampton.”

From the diary of a citizen of Paris, 1422:

“… so was separated from the world the good King Charles on the 21st day of the month of October, the day of Saint Ursula and the eleven thousand Virgins, who had reigned longer than any Christian monarch in human memory, for he has been King of France for forty-three years.

“Only his chancellors, his first chamberlain, his father confessor and a few servants stood at his deathbed. He lay in state in the palace of Saint-Pol on his own bed, for he had died there; for three days he lay there with his face uncovered, with burning candles around him and a crucifix at his feet and anyone who wished could enter to see him and pray for him.

“Afterward he was laid in a leaden coffin and carried to the chapel of Saint-Pol, where he remained above the earth for twenty days until the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France, had returned from England.

“On the tenth day of November, the body of our late King was brought from his palace of Saint-Pol to the Cathedral of Notre Dame of Paris, accompanied by priests and prelates and the rector and doctors of the University. He was borne as the body of Our Lord is borne on the occasion of the feast of the Redeemer, covered with a heavy cloth of gold brocade, with a crown on his head, a scepter in his right hand, and in his left a gold and silver ecu. And above him knights held a vermilion and azure canopy embroidered with golden lilies. And he wore white gloves richly encrusted with precious stones, and the body was enveloped in a mantle of royal purple trimmed with ermine. Behind the bier walked the pages and shield-bearers of the late King, followed by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France. But there was no prince of the blood in the funeral procession, no blood relative, and that was pitiful to see. And the people of Paris, who had crowded together in great numbers when the body was carried through the streets, burst into sobs and wept and wailed as the procession passed by: ‘You go in peace, but we remain behind here in misery and anguish.’

“In the church of Notre Dame two hundred torches burned; wakes were held there, masses read for the dead, and after the Mass they carried the King to the abbey of Saint-Denis to lay him in the earth. And when the King was laid in the grave, the Archbishop of Saint-Denis spoke his blessing, as is customary. And afterward the King’s officers and mace-bearers broke their swords and tokens of office in two and threw them in the grave as a sign that their office had ended at the same time as the life of the King. And then the standard-bearers let their flags and banners droop. The sergeant-at-arms stepped forward, accompanied by many heralds and followers, and cried over the grave, ‘May God have mercy on the soul of Charles, King of France, sixth of that name, our lawful Sovereign and Lord!’ Arid then, ‘God grant life to Henry, by the grace of God King of France and England, our Lord and Sovereign!’

“And then the banners were raised again, and those who stood around the grave called out, ‘Long live the King!’

“During the bitter journey to Paris, the Regent, the Duke of Bedford, suffered the sword of the late King to be borne before him as a sign of his own dignity. The people were most angry about this, and murmured. But truly nothing can be done about it. And so ended the life of our very noble King, Charles, in the forty-third year of his reign; during the greater part of that time he had known only calamity and affliction because of the discord between his closest kinsmen. May God in his great love and compassion be merciful to his soul.”

A February haze hangs over the streets of Paris and the brownish waters of the Seine. The sun struggles to break through and is visible for a moment before it is lost again in mist and clouds. Despite the damp chill, the streets on the left bank of the Seine are as filled with people as though there were to be a fete or procession. But all similarity ends with the numbers: the silent crowd which flows swiftly past the rows of houses toward the great market-halls is in neither a festive nor a pious mood. A depression hangs over the city of Paris, bleaker and more frigid than the winter mist; it is the realization of complete bankruptcy, of misery without hope. Never within memory has the city been in such dire need of spirtual and physical comfort.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Pestilence, Famine, Death and Destruction, have ridden into the city, and will not be moved. The years are notable more for their catastrophes than for their seasons: in the winters, more severe than ever before, thousands die of the cold every day; in the summer thousands more are destroyed by plagues and diseases and — continually — by starvation. When snow comes to the surrounding fields, and the ground is frozen hard, packs of wolves descend on the suburbs, looking for food; children and all solitary homeless wanderers fall prey to these famished beasts. Food, extremely scarce, is almost priceless when it can be procured. As a consequence of war there is little money for wages, and everywhere work is undone: the fields are smothered in weeds, scythes and ploughshares rust, draughthorses and beasts of burden are butchered, barns and stables torn down to be used as kindling. Taxes become higher from day to day: Bedford needs money urgently to carry on the war — his officers and constables show no mercy. The sheriff is a pitiless man who metes out heavy physical punishment for even the slightest infraction of the laws. But the value of money has dropped; a sixteen denier coin is worth no more than two deniers, a beggar’s alms.

In the summer of 1424, a swarm of locusts sweeps over the land and blights the crops in the fields. In dull resignation the people of Paris await the winter, a long harsh winter without food, without firewood; a winter of pestilence and privation. Not a week passes without Bedford’s heralds proclaiming fresh English victories to empty streets and deserted squares. And this is even more difficult to bear than cold and hunger. The knowledge that they are being overwhelmed by a foreign power, that they have been abandoned to alien rulers, the awareness of their own impotence and their defeat, deprives the people of their final hope. They have been betrayed. The rebellions and civil wars, the hardships which the country has suffered over the last hundred years seem trifling in comparison to this great infamy. France is lost, it exists no longer as an independent kingdom. There is no reason to believe that the territories occupied by England can be redeemed. Hardly anyone dares even to think of the young man in Bourges in the Midi who calls himself king and attempts to resist Bedford’s troops pouring in from all sides. Has he the right to the royal title, the royal power? No one knows. The only person who can know, the Dowager-Queen Isabeau, is tucked away for good, and silent, in the heart of Saint-Pol. Her chambers can be reached only through a maze of deserted, neglected gardens and corridors. The brightly colored tapestries on the walls recall the luxurious, carefree days of the past, but the fountains are stilled, the park is a wilderness, and the windows which once glowed with festive candlelight are dark and empty.

The Queen no longer quits her apartments. Year in, year out, she sees only the walls adorned with embroidered flowers and golden doves; year in, year out, she sits motionless in her wheelchair, she who had loved to travel from Saint-Pol to Vincennes, from Vin-cennes to Melun, from Melun to Creil and Saint-Ouen, to Chartres and Compiegne, to castles, cloisters, cathedrals. She sits with her back to the window, staring vacantly during the long daylight hours, or she asks for food or her jewel boxes. She eats greedily and carelessly, greasy sauce trickles from her lips over her chin and her mourning dress; she gnaws the small bones of fowl and sucks out the marrow, she spits fruit stones around her. She concentrates fiercely on her jewels. Bent forward, she rummages with gouty fingers among the gold chains and the large gleaming stones; she pulls strings of pearls from the bottom of the pile; she lets fall again and again from the palm of her hand a sparkling rain of rubies and sapphires, gold coins, rings and buckles. If at these moments anyone approaches her, she dismisses him, irritably. Outside her chamber doors her servants stand listening to the jingle of gold, the rustle of ropes of pearls and necklaces. The Queen lives entirely in seclusion; she wishes to hear no news, receive no visitors. She wants to know nothing: her gold is enough for her, and her roast capons — for which, alas, she must pay more each day — and her memories.

The chamber with the flowered tapestry is peopled with silent figures: they glide without sound, almost without motion, past the woman who is sunken, heavily and clumsily, into her wheelchair: Valentine with her sad smile, the young pale Isabelle, Louis toying with his gloves, Burgundy and Margaretha, cold and judging, Bourbon and Berry, two very old men, mistrustful beneath their displays of courtliness, Jean of Burgundy with his cold eyes, the dead crown princes, thin, pale youths bowed under their heavy purple, and last of all Charles, her husband, his eyes distended in madness. It is a procession which comes and goes incessantly, a procession of mists. They do not speak to her, these quiet passersby, they do not greet her, they do not look at her. Without touching the ground they fly past her, by day, by night. They carry a faint odor of dust and decay, of the far distant past. But the Queen does not talk about this, not even to her confessor, who visits her weekly.

From letters sent secretly by Dunois, Bastard of Orléans, to Charles, Duke of Orléans in the years 1428, 1429 and 1430.

“… we are now virtually bankrupt, Monseigneur my brother; I have little hope that fortune will smile on us in the near future. In more than fifteen years, we have not been in so bad a situation as this, and you know very well what that means. God grant that the King — for here we consider him our lawful king although he has not been crowned at Reims — will realize this and throw off his cursed irresolution. We have suffered many misfortunes because of his inability to act. It is his curse that he allows himself to be led blindly by his favorites; as long as these lords are loyal, everything goes reasonably well; but God help us when traitors predominate, and there are many of them, Monseigneur — that is why the military operations creep along; we mount no organized opposition. A skirmish here or there, nothing more; and whatever the valiant lads — especially our Scottish troops — manage to win, is immediately lost by us again because our cause has no leader. Bedford has at most 20,000 men at arms and these are spread out here and there over the occupied territories. In ’24 he defeated our troops at Verneuil with an army of 5,000 men at most; it was a second Agincourt, thanks to the stupidity of the King’s favorites. This is Bedford’s greatest strength — that he has sharp insight, that he holds the reins firmly in his hands and through his air of self-assurance convinces friend and foe alike of England’s superiority. But anyone who uses his intelligence must have seen long ago that all this is bluff, even though it is a massive bluff. We know that in England itself everything is going wrong. If I may believe the rumors, something is brewing in the government; the danger of civil war grows every day. Furthermore, no one can pretend that Burgundy has fraternal feelings toward England — on the contrary, the bonds between the two parties are so fragile that they threaten to snap at any moment.

“… What I have long expected has happened: the English lie before Orléans under the command of William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk. They have occupied the Tourelles fort near the bridge over the Loire and have built a great number of fortifications and ditches to the south, west and northwest of the city. If they should succeed in taking Orléans, we are lost; the English will then rule the whole region of the Loire — Touraine, Berry and the Midi.

“Although we can at the moment supply men and provisions without too much difficulty, it does not appear that the city will be able to hold out. I have been captain of the garrison here for a few months now; there are surely as many defenders as there are attackers, but the fellows inside Orléans are listless and discouraged. They have no hope for a better future, they do not believe in an ultimate victory. The populace is desperate and fearful, exhausted by long years of war. This public temper, my lord brother, will destroy us all — unless there is a miracle.”

Dunois, Bastard of Orléans, did not believe in miracles; at any rate he did not believe that irresolution, timidity and stupidity could be miraculously transformed into courage, strength of mind and insight. He had, since he had served as captain of the army of the “King of Bourges”, learned how to give directions in the face of the King’s almost morbid impotence. He knew that this man, with his badly tainted heredity, would never put forth the vigorous effort to make himself worthy of the Crown of France. Authority was in fact divided between the King’s mother-in-law, the energetic, ambitious Duchess d’Anjou, and the King’s favorites, who were for the most part impoverished knights from the southern provinces, eager for their own profit. These parties did not share mutual interests; they were divided, perpetually involved in disputes and intrigues. While the English — without undue strain on their resources — drew an ever-tightening noose around the heart of France, while roaming bands of every description tormented and harassed the people, the bankrupt court at Bourges concerned itself only with petty scuffles for precedence and favors.

Dunois deliberately kept aloof from the poisonous atmosphere; when, however, his duty called him to Bourges, he armed himself with a stiff silence. He chose the company of captains like la Hire and de Broussart, men calloused and coarsened by continuous battle, unlettered and crude, but trustworthy and as hard upon themselves as upon their men. Dunois had fought side by side with these seasoned warriors against the English; at the defeats of Cravant, Ivry, Verneuil and at Montargis, the single victory, achieved with great effort. The years had passed for Dunois in a long series of sieges and battles, here and there bypassing all towns and castles near the front line, skirmishing, retreating, raiding. But what was the result of all this effort? It seemed to him that he and his comrades were like the men in the legend who attempted to build a dam of sand against the oncoming flood; his work was never completed. As soon as he turned his back the sea ate its way through his defenses again. On the ramparts of Orléans Dunois was overcome with despair. He knew that not more than 5,000 English were camped below the city, that their ranks were constantly being eroded by sickness and desertion. But still he could not persuade the people of Orléans to make any belligerent sallies against the enemy. In essence they were indifferent; they did not care whether the English took the city or not. Indeed, many believed that it would be better for them to surrender as soon as possible.

In February, 1429, Dunois learned that an English convoy was approaching the besieged city from Paris with wagons filled with salted fish for fast days. He decided to risk an attack on the convoy on its route. Messengers rode at full speed to Blois to instruct the Count de Clermont, who was stationed there with his men, to fall upon the English as they approached the city. As a result of Clermont’s dawdling — he seemed to suffer from the same unfortunate Bourbon family traits as his father and grandfather before him — the enterprise justifiably failed: the French were decisively defeated, although they far outnumbered the enemy. This defeat, known as the Battle of the Herrings, had a most deleterious effect upon the morale of the troops holding Orléans.

In a final attempt to shake the King from his lethargy, Dunois sent the young captain la Hire to the castle of Chinon. La Hire found the King, timid and distracted as usual, hidden in one of the small rooms reached only through secret doors. He was distressed to hear about the debacle, but he did not know what to say, and still less what to do.

La Hire returned to Orléans bitter and angry; with a string of violent curses — no one knew them better than he — he gave an account of his visit.

“We have to allow ourselves to be butchered here, Bastard,” he growled at last. “In the future the King and the fools and villains who cluster around him like lice on a sore head can do the dirty work themselves … unless he wants to try the peasant maid from Lorraine first — in Chinon that’s all they talk about now. A courier came from Captain de Baudricourt in Vaucouleurs … It seems a young girl goes about there with a plan to drive the English out of France and to bring the King to Reims and the King, God keep him well, had nothing better to do than to listen to that sort of drivel. There you have all my news, Bastard.”

Dunois, who sat at the table signing vouchers for the payment of wages — a final measure to keep the men satisfied — did not reply at once. He answered, without raising his eyes from the paper, only when la Hire, still cursing under his breath, was preparing to leave the room.

“Let the King divert himself in his own way, la Hire. A child who is occupied in play is no trouble. We shall do our duty, and that is enough.”

Dunois spent the following days inquiring in his own way about the girl from Lorraine. He found to his amazement that the people of the city and the countryside knew already in detail about everything she had done. Stories had spread across the Loire, from Dom-remy and Vaucouleurs, the district where Jeanne — for that was her name — lived. She was the daughter of a peasant, people said, a sturdy well-behaved maid who tended her father’s sheep. But now she had heard voices, from God’s Holy Self, or so she thought, which commanded her to free France and crown the King. Despite the protests of her parents and kinfolk, she had gone to Vaucouleurs to Captain de Baudricourt, the King’s representative, to ask for safe conduct. Strange stories stubbornly circulated in hamlet and city. An old prophecy, once popular in the Lorraine borderland and now half-forgotten, was revived: a young virgin would one day appear from an oak forest to save the Kingdom. Wasn’t there a grove of oaks behind Jeanne’s father’s property, the remnant of a vast prehistoric forest?

Dunois listened without comment to these tales; he was amused by the gullibility of the people who were ready, on the strength of an old prophecy, to see in this girl from Domremy the long-awaited Maid who would bring salvation. What did interest and surprise him was Jeanne’s courage in holding fast to her convictions in the presence of the captain at Vaucouleurs, and even face to face with the Duke of Lorraine himself. What induced these men to listen to her, to support her proposals? He perceived that, without apparently being aware of it, she had a strange power which revived hope and the expectation of great events. And upon what was this enthusiasm based? On vague rumors, a simple tale which traveled from city to city — that a peasant maid was convinced that she had been sent by God to save the Kingdom. Dunois could not deny that the deep desire in the country for peace and freedom played a considerable part in the affair; nevertheless, day by day it became clearer to him that Jeanne the Maid, as she was now called everywhere, must possess to a considerable degree what he had for years wanted for the King, the commanders of the army and even, secretly, for himself: the ability to re-animate the masses who had lapsed into despair and deep apathy.

From Orléans, he followed events attentively: he heard how Jeanne, dressed like a man and accompanied by a few horsemen, had traveled to Chinon in a long day’s journey across the ravaged, impoverished land through partially hostile territory; how she had remained serene and cheerful while her companions wavered, how she had shown herself sure of her mission at all times. This was impressive enough; Dunois was even more impressed to learn that she had not been taken in by an unchivalrous joke that the King had tried to play on her: she had barely glanced at the disguised courtier who sat on the throne, but had pointed out immediately the man whom she persisted in calling the “Dauphin,” because he had not yet been crowned at Reims. Her dignified, unassuming behavior had made an impression on the King, but he was even more fascinated by the private conversation he had with her. Neither he nor she told anyone what was said there, but from that time on no one dared openly doubt her words in the King’s presence. The favorites wisely kept their suspicions to themselves; it was impossible to resist the growing excitement.

When finally a college of clergymen had, at the King’s request, carefully questioned Jeanne about matters of belief and given an unqualified judgment in her favor, Dunois considered this an answer and, in a letter to the King, urged that the Maid be sent to Orléans at the head of a contingent of auxiliary troops and a convoy of provisions. At the beginning of April, he received the news from Chinon: the King had entrusted Jeanne with the command, as he was requested to do.

Around noon of the twenty-ninth of April, 1429, Dunois, together with la Hire and a number of horsemen, crossed the Loire to the village of Checy to greet the Maid who was advancing from Blois to Orléans along the left bank of the river. It was a clear, warm day; the broad river sparkled in the sunlight. Dunois rode bareheaded. As usual he said little; la Hire, who rode beside him, was more talkative. The captain could not accept the idea that a woman could be expected to perform feats which even experienced soldiers had been unable to accomplish. He was ready to assume that the girl was more brave and devout than most people; otherwise he found the whole affair to be little more than a farce. Dunois listened, now and then turning his head to watch the flat-bottomed barges advance over the river; later in the day they would reach Orléans with the provisions which were their cargo. Once he stood up in his stirrups and shaded his eyes with his hand. The English reinforcements could clearly be seen, encamped on the other side of the river beyond Jargeau opposite Orléans.

In Chécy it appeared that the entire population had left the city to greet Jeanne the Maid, who was coming from the north. When Dunois and his men rode out of the gates, they found the full force of auxiliary and commissariat troops standing and waiting for them in the fields.

“By my faith, a vanguard of priests!” La Hire roared with laughter.

Indeed, the front lines of Jeanne’s army seemed to consist of nothing but friars, led by an Augustine monk who carried a banner depicting the crucified Christ. Dunois paid no attention to la Hire’s curses and jeers; he ran his eyes swiftly over the ranks. A white banner was moving toward him, painted with gold lilies and brightly-colored figures. The troops parted to make way for a small procession: a horseman in a white breastplate on a black horse, followed by two shieldbearers and a few armored knights with their grooms and pages. Dunois dismounted and walked to meet them. He saw that the rider in the white cuirass holding the banner was Jeanne. She reined in her horse and looked down upon him with grave bright eyes.

“Are you the Bastard of Orléans?”

“Yes, I am hé.” Dunois returned her searching look. “Your arrival pleases me more than I can say.”

Jeanne frowned; a shadow passed over her open, strong young face.

“Is it true that you gave orders to the captains who came with me from Blois to lead me along the river bank and make sure that I did not do what / wanted — that is to go directly to the place where Talbot and Suffolk and their English are camping?”

“Certainly, I did that.” Dunois nodded. “It seemed to me and to men who are much more experienced in these matters than I, that it would be wise to avoid a confrontation with the English now.”

“In God’s name!” cried Jeanne heatedly and so loud that everyone near them hushed to listen. “Do you claim to know more than God, our supreme Lord and Sovereign? I bring you the help and support of God, a greater help does not exist. And God does not do it because of me, but because of the intercession of Saint Louis and Charlemagne. He will not let the English conquer Orléans. He will restore our Duke, Monseigneur d’Orléans to freedom.”

‘That would be a great blessing — for me and for France,” Dunois said earnestly. He was careful not to smile at these childish words, spoken with such fervent conviction. “I have no more heart felt wish than this, that God should allow my unfortunate brother to return to us.”

Jeanne stared at him fixedly with her large, very bright hazel eyes. “That He will surely do, Bastard, for after Monseigneur the Dauphin, He loves the Duke of Orléans best. And I tell you that in coming battles, I shall capture many important Englishmen, prisoners of war, whom we can offer in exchange for Monseigneur. It is a great outrage that the English should attack Monseigneur’s cities and dominions now that he cannot defend them. They do not understand the meaning of chivalry.”

Dunois turned his head away. He was both amused and touched. The word “chivalry” sounded odd enough in the mouth of a peasant girl who had once spent her time tending sheep. It was obvious that she did not have the slightest understanding of military operations, of politics and strategy, of the art of war. That did not surprise him — how could she know anything about it? What she surely possessed in large measure was that indescribable, inexplicable quality which a leader has: the air of quiet authority, the ability to overcome opposition, the steadfast self-assurance, all the more remarkable in a girl whose grandparents had been serfs. She looked the way an archangel might be thought to look: radiant and militant. Above the white breastplate, her fresh broad face with its strong features shone with the same inner light that must have illumined the faces of Saint Michael and Saint George when they slew the dragon. Over her head with its thick short brown hair fluttered the snow-white banner, painted on one side with the image of God the Father sitting on a rainbow, and on the other with the golden lilies of France. She sat her horse well, erect, her long legs stretched to the stirrups. Behind her, her shieldbearer carried her weapons and a second ensign depicting Our Lady. A number of prominent captains in the King’s army had come with her from Blois.

Dunois could not hide his pleasure and satisfaction; if anyone could breathe new life into the enterprise, even if it were only by her presence, it would be the Maid. He could not and he did not wish to lose himself in the question of whether she had really been sent by God or even whether she had the gift of prophecy. He knew only that she had arrived at a crucial moment. At this time of deep distress the words of kings, the commands of generals, the inspiration and blessing of the church were no longer important. This, he thought, was Jeanne’s greatest strength, that her arrival, her bear ing and her appearance were unlike anything that had ever been seen before. She was completely new, utterly original and as unexpected as miracles always are.

There are able and brave men enough in the army, thought Dunois, staring at Jeanne, but let her come with us. She will give us the unity, the driving force, the enthusiasm which we lost a hundred years ago. She will be for us what the holy banner of the oriflamme was, a mark of God’s favor; at least our men must feel that way. And I don’t doubt that they will.

“Come, ride beside me, Bastard,” said Jeanne suddenly, with a gesture that would have become a king. “And now and later be my right hand when we must fight. You are my friend and brother-at-arms.”

While they rode over the road from Checy to the ferry dock opposite Orléans, Jeanne pursued the conversation.

“Where do the English lie now?” she asked, looking across the Loire.

“Wait till we reach the bend in the river,” Dunois replied. “Then we can make out their flags on the fortress of Tourelles.”

“They will not wave there much longer,” Jeanne smiled, staring before her with wide eyes. Dunois, wanting to discover the secret source of her confidence, said softly, “I ask myself this question: if God wanted to help us, why didn’t He drive out the English before this?”

La Hire, riding directly behind Dunois, overheard this and began to laugh, although less boisterously than usual; he could not help being somewhat impressed by Jeanne’s imposing demeanor. She won’t be able to answer that question so easily, he thought, leaning forward in the saddle to listen intendy.

Jeanne became annoyed.

“It is as plain and clear as the day,” she said. For the first time her Lorraine accent was noticeable. “If we fight gallandy, God will surely give us the victory. If we remain united and sin neither by word nor by deed against God’s commandments, He will help us. We shall not receive the victory as a gift; we shall have to sacrifice blood and sweat for it, Bastard.”

“Mort de ma foi, she can talk,” said the Breton captain, shoving back his leather casque to scratch his head. Jeanne looked back at him.

“La Hire can swear,” she remarked calmly.

“By the eternal pain of Hell! How did you know my name is la Hire?”

“In my troop no one swears any more,” she said, still looking back at la Hire. “I have forbidden it. And the very first day I drove away the whores and kept women who bring disgrace upon the army. I tolerate no lewdness and no dirty talk among my men. If you wish to serve in my troop, la Hire, you must leave off cursing. This is a holy struggle.”

“Thunder and the Devil! Then I won’t be able to open my mouth any more!” La Hire was too taken aback to be offended.

“Say rather, ‘by my staff!^{5 55} Jeanne advised him good-naturedly, pointing to the captain’s truncheon which la Hire, like Dunois and the other commanders, wore on his belt. “Then we will both have our way and God will not be offended.”

“By my…staff!” mumbled la Hire, dumbfounded at his own docility.

“You manage soldiers well, Jeanne,” said Dunois. “That is important. And yet you have always lived far away from war and fighting men, there in Domremy.”

“That’s not true, Bastard.” Jeanne turned back to look gravely at him. “Year in, year out, our place swarmed with fugitives who had been driven out of their villages and farms by the English and the Burgundians. Many is the time we have given shelter to starving, exhausted people. And we ourselves were once driven into the forests. When we came back, they had set our church on fire and plundered our houses. No, I know very well what war is. I would sit and weep for France if I did not know that my task is to fight for my country instead of spending my time wailing. That is why I was born, you see. I must free France and fetch the Dauphin to Reims — and that I will do. But quick, Bastard, quick, for my time is short.”

“Why, Jeanne?” Dunois asked, amazed. But she shook her head and closed her eyes as though in sudden pain. It was clear that she did not want to talk further about it.

Dunois continued, “I wish that you could transfer some of your courage to our King. He has bitter need of it.”

Jeanne’s eyes lit up again with joy.

“Oh, he feels certain now, Bastard, believe me. He is our sovereign, the lawful heir of France.”

“Did you tell him that when you spoke with him at Chinon?”

Jeanne did not answer, although she continued to smile. At a bend in the river Dunois extended his arm. “There lies Orléans.”

She stood in the stirrups and looked in the direction he pointed.

“Why don’t the English attack us?” she asked, after a few moments. “I thought they would stop us from entering the city.”

“The English have suffered many reverses lately. Then too, we now outnumber them. We have to thank our own spineless attitude since the Batrie of the Herrings for the fact that they can maintain their fortifications before Orléans. They have calmly spent the winter directly under the walls and we have done nothing to them worth mentioning. They are so certain of the victory that they do not even trouble to fight for it.”

“Oh, they are mistaken.” Jeanne rode ahead more rapidly, her eyes fixed on the city on the other side of the water. The roofs and towers were outlined darkly against the translucent evening sky, streaked with red and yellow. The river was filled with ships crowded with soldiers and ordinary people who carried flags, banners, torches and garlands of light green leaves. In the evening glow, the auxiliary troops approached Orléans; the men moved in well-ordered ranks along the road, the ships of the convoy glided slowly over the river. What Dunois had hardly dared to hope for, he now saw with his own eyes: the people of Orléans were beside themselves with enthusiasm and joy.

They stared at Jeanne as though she were God Himself; when she rode into the city after crossing the river with Dunois, the army captains and her retinue, the people awaited her in the streets in such vast numbers that the procession could advance only a step at a time. Everyone wanted to see Jeanne up close, to touch her horse or the skirt of her tunic. Many women and children fell to their knees, as was the custom when a religious procession was passing. Jeanne greeted everyone with a smile and spoke to those who crowded nearest to her.

“We shall save Orléans! Be easy, God will drive the English from the land, but we must be brave and strive with all our might, people,” she said again and again as she lifted her banner high so that everyone could see the image of God the Father with a globe in His hand.

As they rode through one of the squares, a priest emerged from a church porch holding a crucifix straight before him.

“Stop!” Jeanne said to Dunois. “He thinks I am bewitched. Come here, brother,” she called in her clear, penetrating voice, as she stood in the stirrups. “I shall not fly away or vanish in a cloud of smoke!”

To a group of women who offered her their rosaries to touch so that she could consecrate them, she said in good-natured mockery, “Do it yourselves, the rosaries will be just as good.”

Dunois felt so happy that he had an urge to laugh aloud. It was almost too good to be true: Jeanne had courage and convictions and healthy good sense besides. During this ride through streets filled with elated, grateful people, a deep affection for Jeanne was born in Dunois’ heart. It was a wonderful feeling that in no way resembled the comradeship which Dunois had felt for some men or the passion aroused in him by women. In his eyes Jeanne was neither man nor woman; she seemed a creature of that order to which children and angels belong, serene and simple, without any real understanding of sin and darkness and, out of pure kindness, moved as quickly to pity as to joy.

When he knelt beside her in the cathedral of Orléans, where a welcoming service was held in her honor, an inexplicable wave of fear and grief washed over him for an instant; through a haze of incense he saw the glow of the candle flames on the altar, many pointed fiery tongues quivering white and gold before the dull polished triptych; the voices of the choirboys rose ringing to the vaulted ceiling. Jeanne prayed aloud with open eyes. Glancing at her profile, Dunois suddenly realized that there was good reason for his fear. Those who differ so much from their fellowmen have a hard time in the world. Dunois, who intended to stand beside her and protect her as much as possible by sharing the exceptionally heavy task which she had taken upon herself, understood that there was great danger in success as well as in failure; he knew all too well the atmosphere at the court of Bourges, the King’s uncertainty and the inclination of the people in general to shout “Hosanna!” today and “Crucify him!” tomorrow. He put his hands together more firmly on the hilt of his sword and bowed his head in prayer.

On the way to the dwelling of Jean Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orléans — Jeanne would spend the night there — she was at her most cheerful.

“Tomorrow the rest of the convoy is arriving,” she said to Dunois as they rode through the dark streets accompanied by torch-bearers. “I go to meet the men as soon as it gets light. But this time I will do it my own way, Bastard. We enter Orléans along the left bank of the Loire, past the Beauce side between the English fortifications. Believe me now and wait, the English will not even shoot at us from their fortresses. They will not dare to harm us when my vanguard of priests sings “Veni Creator”. And when all the provisions are inside the city, we can make a sortie and conquer one of the strongholds. Don’t argue with me, Bastard, it will happen as I say. Courage and faith in the power of God — we don’t need anything more!”

“Hm,” said Dunois, tongue in cheek. “It’s possible you’re right, Jeanne. You’re in command here. I won’t oppose you.”

“Not I, but this banner leads the armies, Bastard!” Carefully, with her left hand, Jeanne touched the gilded fringe of the great flag. “It will lead us to victory. And then when the enemy is beaten and Monseigneur the Dauphin is crowned in Reims as is proper, we will go and free the Duke of Orléans. If I must, I will cross over to England to fetch him. I have told this to the Duke’s daughter and son-in-law too, Madame and Monseigneur d’Alençon whom I visited in Saumur. How long has the Duke been a prisoner in England, Bastard?”

Dunois, his eyes fixed on the torch flames dancing before the procession, answered, “Fourteen years.”

Nouvelles ont coum en France

Par mains lieux que j’estoye mort;

Dont avoient peu desplaisance

Aucuns qui me hayent a tort;

Autres en ont eu desconfort,

Qui m’ayment de loyal vouloir,

Comme mes bons et vrais amis.

Si fais a toutes gens savoir

Qu’encore est vive la souris!

News has traveled in France

In various places that I am dead;

Some were hardly displeased by this,

Those who hate me unfairly;

Others have been discomforted

Who are loyal and love me

As good and tme friends.

So I am letting everyone know.

The mouse is still alive!

Je n’ay eu ne mal ne grevance,

Dieu mercy, mais suis sain et fort,

Et passe temps en esperance

Que paix, qui trop longuement dort,

S’esveillera, et par accort

A tous fera Hesse avoir.

Pour ce, de Dieu soient maudis

Ceulx qui sont dolens de veoir

Qu’encore est vive la souris!

I have been neither ill nor in pain,

Thank God, but hale and strong,

And pass the time hoping

That peace, too long asleep,

Will wake and by accord

Give everyone cause to rejoice.

So may God curse those

Who are saddened to see

That the mouse is still alive!

Jeunesse sur moy a puissance,

Mais Vieillesse fait son effort

De m’avoir en sa gouvernance;

A present faillira son sort.

J e suis assez loing de son port,

De pleurer vueil garder mon hoir;

Loué soit Dieu de Paradis,

Qui m’a donné force et povoir

Qu’encore est vive la souris!

Youth still holds me,

But age is making the effort

To take me in charge.

Her attempt will fail now.

I am far away from her port

And wish to save my heir from tears;

Praised be God in Paradise

Who has given me strength and power

That the mouse is still alive!

Nul ne porte pour moy Ie noir,

On vent meillieur marchié drap gris;

Or tiengne chascun, pour tout voir,

Qu’encore est vive la souris!

No one should wear black for me,

Grey can be bought more cheaply;

Everyone must know it is true

That the mouse is still alive!

For Charles cTOrléans in Ampthill castle in the duchy of Bedford, the few letters from Dunois which reach him through Jean le Bras-seur and his little dog during the years 1430, 1431 and 1432, are landmarks in a wasteland of aimless time. It is true that his host and warden, the knight John Cornwall, Lord of Fanhope, allows him some freedom; he can walk, ride and hunt in the neighborhood under armed escort. In the castle a series of well-furnished chambers are at his disposal; he has French-speaking servants. Books he possesses in abundance, and if he wishes, he can socialize with nobles from Cornwall’s circle of friends. But there are no political discussions; news about the war, about affairs in France, is carefully kept from him. When le Brasseur visits him to submit accounts and documents for his signature, there are always a half dozen men in the room to cut off immediately any but a purely business discussion. Charles does not always succeed in appropriating the letters so artfully concealed under the dog’s long hair. More than once he is obliged to return the animal without success because he has not found the opportunity to redeem the message. Under no circumstances does he want his guards to discover this means of securing information; if le Brasseur can no longer visit him, all links between his half-brother and himself are broken forever.

In a flat wooden box which he carries with him always, he keeps the letters: small thin narrow rolls of paper covered closely with writing. At night, by the light of a single candle, carefully screened within the bedcurtains, he reads and rereads countless times the small pages which are all he has of France. Although he learns a good deal and guesses even more, he still cannot form a clear picture of the real state of affairs. Like a blind man who feels unknown areas with his fingertips, he knows the contours of everything which comes within his reach, but he cannot imagine the whole.

So he reads in a letter which he has received early in 1430 that in the previous May the city of Orléans was relieved in four days; the garrison fought heroically under the command of a girl, Jeanne, who is called everywhere the Maid of Orléans. Dunois has not enough space to explain this remarkable leader, but respectful mention of her recurs constantly in his letters. Despite the opposition of the favorite La Trémoille, Jeanne has led the King across enemy territory into Reims and there had him anointed and crowned. Jeanne at the head of 8,000 men purges the area along the Loire of English troops. Jeanne’s fame causes the people of Normandy, Pi-cardy and the Isle of France to declare themselves ready to acknowledge the King. Jeanne wishes to free him, Orléans. At Jargeau, Jeanne takes the Earl of Suffolk prisoner and, after consultation with Dunois, releases him for a ransom of 20,000 gold ecus and the promise that in England he will make every effort to bring about the release of Charles d’Orléans and Jean d’Angoulême.

“Jeanne, Jeanne,” murmurs Charles dubiously; he does not understand how a woman can exercise authority over men like Dunois, Gaucourt, Richmont, Alençon. Do they really believe then that the Maid of Orléans will do what the most experienced commanders have not been able to do? Even the calm, level-headed Dunois now writes with such elation that Charles assumes that everyone in France is intoxicated by hope and new courage. And he cannot deny that according to the information he receives, the King’s armies are making good progress.

“The end is in sight,” Dunois writes at the end of his letter. “Within a short time we will advance with Jeanne to Paris. I have high expectations that people in the city who are well-disposed toward us will open the gates to us. Perhaps, dear brother, it will not be long before we see each other again.”

Considerably less sanguine is the intelligence that reaches Charles three months later. The attack on Paris has been beaten off by the English — the King’s troops have had to withdraw over the Loire and the army has even been partially disbanded for lack of money. And Jeanne? For the first time Charles senses uneasiness and doubt behind Dunois’ words.

“It would be better if she were to return to Lorraine,” writes the Bastard, “before she is led by her ignorance and presumption to commit grave errors.”

After that, almost a year passes before Charles receives another visit from le Brasseur. He is somewhat prepared for bad news; he has heard from the knight Cornwall that ten-year-old King Henry VI was brought to Paris and ceremonially crowned King of both France and England. Charles thinks it is unlikely that this could have happened if the partisans were still active on the other side of the Loire. He has been informed with great pomposity that a certain Jeanne, nicknamed the Maid of Orléans, an inciter of insurrection, a witch, a rebel against English authority and an apostate from the True Faith, was captured at a battle near Compiegne. The brief letter which Charles finally receives from Dunois in July, 1431, confirms this.

“They have betrayed and sold her. She stayed with us too long. Because the King does not need her any more, he has not lifted a finger to save her. At the court of Bourges, they swear by a new prophet, a shepherd from Geveau who for the present finds it safer to flatter and delude the King than to march into battle for him as Jeanne did. The English handed her over to the University and especially to their friend and protege Pierre Cauchon, the new Archbishop of Beauvais. And, as was to be expected, Jeanne was accused of sorcery. They forced her to confess — I do not know what that means — that she served the Devil. But although she knew perfectly well what was in store for her, she recanted the confession. On the thirtieth day of May, she was burned to death.

“I do not know if she was sent by God. She was brave and devout and she gave us the strength we needed at the critical moment. But she should have seen that her work was finished when she led the King to Reims. She did not want to leave her post, not even when she no longer heard her voices which, she said, told her what to do. She liked to exercise command and to ride at the head of the troops. She liked nothing better than to urge the men on in battle. She didn’t want to give up that pleasure. Since the defeat before Paris, I have often called her undertaking foolish and blamed her for her stupidity. But now that I know how she died, I find her no less holy and heroic than the martyrs we read about when we were children. Because of her death many have regained the faith lost when fortune turned against us. Surely the people of France will remember her steadfastness with loving reverence and persevere in the struggle against England. And surely the King will bitterly regret having abandoned her to her fate. For my part, I know I can never again be completely happy now that I can never again meet Jeanne on her black charger with her gleaming banner raised before her, calling, ‘Come, Bastard, the dawn is breaking — on to battle, to the attack!’ ”

Another year crawls slowly by. Some information reaches him in the course of the year, not only through the letters from France; he can infer one thing and another from words dropped by his servants and his English visitors; now and then he overhears a rumor, an echo of events in London and overseas in France and Flanders. Things are not going well for England in those territories which she still holds; riots and uprisings are the order of the day among the population; step by step they are forced from the cities and villages where they had been entrenched. In the government of London the parties of Gloucester and Winchester are quarreling; the evil which King Henry believed he had destroyed has spread over England like a pestilence: feuds between the great lords, dissension at home.

There is little money with which to fight the war, and as a consequence there are not more than four or five thousand English troops under arms in France. Burgundy, officially still England’s ally, gives them no support. In England voices are raised, demanding peace. When he hears this, Charles looks forward with almost feverish impatience to news from Dunois. Peace … the word which he has not even dared think for many long years — now the thought of it propels him into a state of constant restlessness. Peace is his only hope for freedom; after seventeen years of imprisonment, he knows this only too well. For him and for his brother of Angoulême everything hinges on peace, and now that peace is a possibility and freedom seems within his grasp, he can barely hold out any longer.

In God’s name let the King seize this chance, he thinks. Let them see over there that they have never had a more favorable opportunity; things are going so badly for the English that they are willing to withdraw in exchange for land and money. God grant that negotiations begin soon.

En regardant vers le païs de France,

Un jour m’avint, a Dovre sur la mer,

Qu’il me souvint de la doulce plaisance

Que souloye oudit pays trouver;

Si commençay de cueur a souspirer,

Combien certes que grant bien me faisoit

De voir France que mon cueur amer doit.

As I was looking toward the land of France

One day at Dover on the sea,

I remembered the sweet plaisance

Which in the past I found in that country;

So I could not help but sigh from my heart

Despite the great good it did me

To see France, my heart’s great love.

Je m’avisay que e’estoit non savance

De telz souspirs dedens mon cueur garder,

Veu que je voy que la voye commence

De bonne paix, qui tous biens peut donner;

Pour ce, tournay en confort mon penser.

Mais non pourtant mon cueur ne se lassoit

De voir France que mon cueur amer doït.

I thought that it was a foolish thing

To sit and sigh within my heart

When I could see the way begin to open

To the good peace, which can help us all.

So I began to think comforting thoughts,

But despite this my heart never wearied

Of seeing France, my heart’s great love.

Alors chargay en la nef d’Espérance

Tous mes souhaitz, en leur priant d’aler

Oultre la mer, sans faire demourance,

Et a France de me recommander.

Or nous doint Dieu bonne paix sans tarder!

Adonce auray loisir, mais qu’ainsi soit,

De voir France que mon cueur amer doit.

Then onto the ship of Hope

I put all my wishes, bidding them to go

Beyond the sea, without delay

And to remember me to France.

Now may God give us good peace soon!

Then I shall be able, may it only happen,

To see France, my heart’s great love.

Paix est trésor qu’on ne peut trop loer;

Je hé guerre, point ne la doy prisier;

Destourbé m’a long temps, soit tort on droit,

De voir France que mon cueur amer doit.

Peace is a treasure above all acclaim,

I hate war; there is nothing in it to respect;

Rightly or wrongly, it has kept me a long time

From seeing France, my heart’s great love.

In the course of the year 1434, the English Council consigned the guardianship of Charles to William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk — the same Suffolk who, five years before, had conducted the siege of the city of Orléans; the same Suffolk too who, after being captured by Jeanne at Jargeau, had been set free in return for a ransom of 20,000 gold ecus. As a man of honor, Suffolk had kept the promise he had made to Dunois: the improvement in Charles’ circumstances was due in no small degree to Suffolk’s intercession. Since his return to England, Suffolk had pressed the Council repeatedly to entrust the Duke of Orléans to his care.

So at last Charles left the rich wooded hills and valleys around Ampthill with a great escort of horses and armed soldiers, for his new home: the castle of Wingfield, ancestral home of the de la Pole family. Wingfield lay not far from the sea in flat land, some of it grassy, some cultivated, divided by hedges and orchards; small windmills were driven by salty breezes. The smell of seaweed and foam floated over the empty land. The clouds seemed thinner and swifter-moving than in other places. The barren hills outside Pontefract, the forest near Bolingbroke, the stately gloomy parks of Ampthill, had never oppressed Charles’ spirits as did this wind-swept, chill, monotonous landscape under a colorless sky. This land was the absolute antithesis of the lush Loire valley, the lost homeland for which, in deep pain, his heart incessantly yearned.

Wingfield Castle dominated the hamlet of Wingfield, a group of cottages and small thatch-roofed farms set in the midst of orchards and kitchen gardens. At the end of the village, directly opposite the castle, was the church; its blunt, stunted towers rose toward the sky. The Earl’s castle itself looked extremely forbidding with its ramparts and moats, its corner towers and battlements. Weary and depressed, Charles passed into Wingfield through the heavy arched gate and over the drawbridge. But his reception exceeded all expectations. Suffolk proved to be an amiable and courteous host and his young wife, a granddaughter of the poet Chaucer whose work Charles knew, seemed educated and exceptionally well-read. Both spoke good French, as did the members of all noble families which had come from Normandy. Although Charles had learned over the years to express himself quite well in English, the Earl of Suffolk and his lady, out of a desire to oblige him, spoke only French in his presence. They treated him completely like a guest; he could move freely both inside and outside Wingfield Castle, without the hindrance of an armed escort.

Suffolk was two years younger than Charles, a man in the prime of life. He had been under arms almost uninterruptedly since Agin-court; he had fought in all important battles and sieges and, after Salisbury’s death, had assumed supreme command over the English armies in France. But now, as he repeatedly remarked, he was weary of life in the field; after twenty years of fighting, of combat, even the highest military office could not tempt him to remain in France.

“I have my hands full already, managing my estates and settling my personal affairs,” he said to Charles one day after mass, as they walked slowly through the nave of Wingfield church.

The pillars in the nave rose up like white tree-trunks which branched high overhead into little fan-shaped arches like leaves in a forest of stone. Before the altar were the tombs of Suffolk’s ancestors; on raised slabs slept armored knights sculptured from stone, their hands folded in prayer on the hilts of their broadswords. As usual, Charles spelled out the Latin phrases engraved on the sides of these memorials: “Here rests in God Michael de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk… Here the mortal remains of John de la Pole await the Day of Judgment”.

“Believe me, my lord,” Suffolk went on, “one must have seen as much of war as I to realize that peace is the highest good.”

Charles stood still.

“One realizes that even more acutely when one is a caged bird like me,” he said, glancing at his host with an ironic smile. “And I am quite certain that you have chosen wisely, Messire. A tranquil life on your own land, surrounded by friends and kinsmen, what more can a man desire? Ambition and the urge for adventure are evil companions. I can’t imagine a better life than the one you are leading now. I only wish that I may do the same in France. It is precisely because I long for such a life with all my heart and because I believe that everyone has the right to enjoy the quiet possession of house and hearth — it is precisely because of this, Messire, that I am perhaps the most dedicated champion of peace that you could find anywhere.”

Suffolk turned slightly and looked at his guest. He was taller and more robust than Charles and he looked considerably younger. During the long years of forced inactivity indoors, Charles had lost the suppleness and muscular slimness which had characterized him as a young man. His body had become corpulent and soft, his face prematurely faded. Furrows, the signs of bitterness and silent grief, were visible from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. Although he was not yet forty years old, he walked like a much older man, cautiously, his shoulders slightly bent, slowly, almost unwillingly. Invariably he wore black, without ornaments, in a sober cut; winter and summer he wrapped himself in a fur-lined cloak; inside the castle it was damp and chilly, and he was easily susceptible to gout.

It was difficult for Suffolk, who had not met him before, to believe that Orléans had ever been young; no trace of youth appeared in this quiet, somewhat heavy man. Occasionally, during a discussion of subjects in which the Duke was interested, he seemed to forget his situation sufficiendy to cast off his depression and inertia, if only for a brief time. Then a brighter note could be detected in his always pleasant voice, a rare smile sparkled in his eyes, he gestured vivaciously with his exceptionally graceful hands. Melancholy and ennui seemed to leave him in those moments; as if by magic he displayed a spirit and dash which struck a special chord in Suffolk and in his wife, since the nobility were by education and way of life very familiar with French courtliness. Moreover, they respected the prisoner as an individual; it is rare to meet a man who does not under any circumstances lose his self-control or abandon his good breeding. There was no question that his altitude did not result from shallowness or indifference. No one who came into daily contact with the Duke of Orléans could help noticing that he responded deeply to events.

Suffolk became extremely fond of him; true, he sometimes felt that the Duke was too acquiescent, listless, but God in heaven, the man had sat in prison for twenty long years, it was no wonder that his resiliency had broken under it. Suffolk thought it unlikely that this prematurely aged man with his striking interest in intellectual matters, should still desire to play a role in politics. There was no point in holding Orléans in England any longer;.anyone who knew anything about what was happening on the other side of the Straits must see that Orléans could do little, either for or against England. Since Henry V’s time, the relationship between the two countries had undergone so profound a transformation, domestic affairs had changed so much, that it would be extremely difficult for the Duke, whose focus and concepts were twenty years out of date, to get a true picture of the present situation, let alone involve himself in diplomacy. Suffolk found the government’s hesitation to release Charles d’Orléans to be unreasonable. Time and again over the years he had pointed out that it was senseless to prolong this exile. Why not at long last fix the amount of the ransom and set a term for payment? On second thought, why not return Orléans to France on his word of honor and with certain guarantees?

The young Henry VI had bent a willing ear to this proposal, but the Regents and most of the King’s advisors were inclined against it. They felt that in Charles d’Orléans and his brother, England held two valuable pawns which they must continue to grasp; perhaps the moment would come soon when they could play these pieces to great advantage. Orléans remained — even if he should be considerably more broken by his captivity than was actually the case — the head of one of the foremost Houses in France; it was a foregone conclusion that he would once more exercise influence, once more make his mark.

Suffolk was privately annoyed about these ridiculous objections raised by the Council. He who had fought in France for more than twenty years knew the situation over there. He knew from his own observations that Dunois the Bastard was the man who really represented the House of Orléans, probably a good deal more ably and energetically than the Duke ever could.

Sometimes when they were together in the great hall, Suffolk quietly watched his guest. He saw Orléans sitting comfortably between the green curtains which he always had hung, according to French custom, on both sides of his chair or bench, bent over the book on the adjustable reading desk, his head propped on his hand. Even indoors he preferred to wear his velvet cap; he had been wearing reading glasses for some years. That finely chiselled, pale, melancholy face with its narrow lips and delicately curved nose was in no way the face of an ambitious, wordly man, a sharp, quick-witted diplomat, a power-obsessed party leader. The books which lay on the reading desk before Monseigneur must surely lead him far from such concerns: The Imitation of Christ, Consolation of Philosophy…

The man who read his own rondelets and ballads to Lady Suffolk from a pile of somewhat yellowed sheets of paper would never want to devote time or effort to political intrigue. At any rate, so it appeared to Suffolk. The two men stood motionless in the nave of Wingfield church, brightly illuminated by the reflection of sunshine on the white walls.

“There could have been peace between France and England long ago,” Suffolk said in a low voice. “In ’28, even before we lifted the siege of Orléans, there was talk of negotiations. He who calls himself your king did not seem willing then to reach a settlement with us. Fighting went on in your country, partly because of the peasant girl who was later burned in Rouen — a fanatical creature, stupid and headstrong, ignorant of the art of war and incredibly reckless in battle. What is the sense of whipping up the soldiers and the populace when there is no united effort behind these temporary outbursts of enthusiasm? That woman has hurt your country badly with her madness; the people have become rebellious, but they don’t have the energy to act.”

Charles nodded, his face turned away. Suffolk coughed for a moment and then went on quickly, “In any case negotiations are now going on in earnest between your … uh … king and the Duke of Burgundy. Conferences will be held in Arras. This does not interest you, my lord?”

“I ask myself if this will mean peace,” Charles said. “I am not at all certain of that.”

“Perhaps I can set your mind at rest. Deputies of our government are already on the road to Arras. We shall work with dedication to reach an accord with France. Luckily, capable mediators were found before the discussions began — the papal nuncio Albergati and the Cardinal of Cyprus. Moreover,” Suffolk paused and noted with satisfaction that Orléans’ dull dark glance was suddenly enlivened by a spark of interest—”moreover, I had news from London today that in a little while representatives of our King will meet to discuss the possibility of a universal peace treaty. I have been summoned to Westminster palace for this meeting.”

The spark went out; Charles walked slowly across the stone slabbed floor toward the church door. “Forgive me, Messire, I am not in a position to suggest any action; I do not know the expectations of the parties, but I fear they are so dramatically opposed to each other that no agreement is likely.”

“My lord,” Suffolk followed swiftly after him and caught him firmly by a fold of his sleeve. He coughed again when Charles looked sharply at him. “My lord, the consensus in London is that the presence of a clever and influential, highly-placed Frenchman would help considerably to advance the discussions in a favorable direction. In short, they would be pleased if you would accompany me to London.”

“To act as an advocate of your government’s proposals?” Charles responded with an odd smile. “Seventeen years ago they wanted something similar from me.” He did not take his eyes from Suffolk’s face. “I thought then of honor, and conscience forced me to reject that suggestion without further discussion. Looking back, I am inclined to think that I paid altogether too high a price for that brief moment of satisfaction.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you have changed your mind about it now?” Suffolk asked tensely. Still smiling faintly, Charles continued to keep his eyes on Suffolk’s face. A number of scars like streaks of light stood out against the Englishman’s bronzed skin.

“Do you believe I still have an influence on my countrymen, Messire?”

Suffolk’s glance wavered involuntarily. He shrugged slightly.

“Who can tell? You are the Duke of Orléans. They have found you important and dangerous enough to keep you under lock and key.”

Charles took his gloves from his belt and slowly and deliberately drew them on, keeping his eyes on the open door through which sunlight streamed into the church.

“Yes, you must understand that I cannot give you an answer now,” he said, after a few moments. “Let me have time to think it over, Messire.”

The night passed. Charles, leaning back against the cushions piled high on his bed, had blown out the candle which stood beside him; he lay unmoving, his hands folded on his breast, and watched the stars in that part of the sky which he could see from his window. A cool wind brought him the familiar smell of the sea. For the first time — in how many years was it? — he thought of the ship which would one day carry him back to France. France — a long strip of grey sand before Calais. He sighed, but did not move. This time he had only to help himself, said the voice within him with which he was wont to hold conversations: this time freedom was brushing so close against him that he would have only himself to blame if he did not seize it. Charles’ heart, heavy as lead from ennui and bitterness, could offer no argument, although he knew quite well that freedom carried a price, and not only in golden ecus.

“I am forty years old now,” thought Charles, staring at the twinkling night sky. “Whatever still remains of my life I wish to spend in my own house, on my own land, in my own way. God knows that this is not asking too much.”

“Bonne,” said the voice within him. It rang like an echo, a shadow of sound. Charles had to smile, in deep, bitter surprise. Bonne? He no longer remembered what Bonne had looked like. He could no longer conjure her up before his mind’s eye; she was nothing more to him than a name which called up only gratitude for long-past happiness, happiness so radiant that its afterglow had stayed with him throughout the years of grim solitude.

He knew that Bonne still lived in Rodez, secluded in the Cordeliers convent, as any decent woman would be whose husband is in exile. He knew from Vittori’s accounting that she was sent money, a certain amount of money regularly. Two or three times in the course of many years news of her had reached him directly: short letters written by a clerk. It cost him a great effort to summon up behind the stiff words the warmth which Bonne surely wanted to express. He did not doubt her loyalty; he understood that she had chosen seclusion inside the walls of the convent in order to feel closer to him, or at any rate to experience loneliness as he did, and that she found comfort in this attempt. Her image eluded him — how could it be otherwise? — but she was present in him even when he did not consciously think of her. Her life was bound to his; neither time nor distance could separate them here on earth.

She seemed most real to him when he turned the pages of what, in melancholy jest, he called his “Thought Book”: in songs, rondelets and ballads on the much-thumbed vellum, Bonne lived. Love, desire and the glow of memory had once provided him with the words to recreate her. He could still call up the impotent bitterness with which he had perceived — was it ten, twelve years ago? — that even the rereading of the songs, even his absorption in memories which had once aroused fierce emotions, could no longer stir his heart. He continued as usual to dedicate loving verses to Bonne, but what in the beginning had been a response to bitter need had gradually become an occupation which he cultivated chiefly to dispel deadly tedium; carefully he polished verse after verse, with a cool head and cool senses, seeking to overcome the difficulties of expression within the rigid limitations of artistic form. But as this work went on, Bonne’s image became fainter and fainter. Now when he turned the pages of his Thought Book he felt only a facile melancholy for the loss of his beloved, mixed with a mocking recognition of his own self-indulgence.

Since he had come to live in Wingfield Castle, he had thought more often of Bonne than in the past — not so much of Bonne herself as of what she represented: domesticity, a woman’s soothing hand, the restfulness, the ultimate peace in which all tensions were soothed away. Secretly he watched Alice, Lady Suffolk, when she was near him. The calm assurance with which she saw to his comfort roused a new yearning in him for the wife who was waiting in Rodez for his return — undoubtedly a strange, mature woman marked by years of solitude — but perhaps precisely for that reason the companion that he needed. He wanted sons and daughters, successors, heirs. He had never before had this feeling, this deep desire to see his children around him, to touch their heads, to name them, to see how one by one they took up their places in life.

His daughter Jeanne was a fully-grown woman, the wife of the Duke of Alençon, probably already a mother, but he knew almost nothing about her childhood. He had no particularly pleasant memories of the few hasty awkward meetings he had had with her. He had become a father at an age when he still needed a father himself. Now he wanted to perpetuate his family.

Return home … the feeling which he had learned over the years to repress at the cost of so much anguish, gradually began to stir in his heart more passionately than ever. The night wind seemed to carry, along with the sea air and the scent of the grasslands, the very odor of liberty. While he lay motionless, gazing at the fading stars, waves of excitement and impatience suddenly washed over him; his heart pounded, his mouth went dry.

I know myself a little, he thought ironically, I thought I had learned to reconcile myself to my fate. I thought that nothing could touch me any more. But after twenty years of captivity, my heart throbs more passionately at the mere thought of being able to return home than it did on the eve of Agincourt…

The prudent, critical inner voice offered objections: what role must he play in these conferences? What demands would they make of him? Charles did not listen.

“France,” he said aloud. “France.”

Memories, images, came rushing in upon him from all sides and reason drowned in the flood. He let himself go completely — a rare pleasure. He was there on the country road along the Loire which leads to Blois. The undulant fertile land, gold and green with spring foliage, spread out before him. He saw the flowers sprinkled across the grass, the vines on the hillsides, the sparkle of the water and the great sails of the ships on their way to Orléans. He saw the towers of Blois against the sky. Skylarks soared upward, flashing in the sunshine, swift as an arrow. He was home.

Charles came to himself, realizing that his face was wet with tears.

Most of the envoys who came from across the sea were representatives of the Duke of Burgundy. Charles, who had expected to be put in touch at the outset with deputations from Bourges and envoys from the heads of the feudal Houses, was surprised and disappointed. The thing that he had most dreaded — a connection with the English government in which the intention was that he should be used for their purposes — had happened. On the surface, the authorities appeared to be making no attempts at all to influence him. Charles was present with Suffolk at all discussions; he was treated with great respect by the English and the Burgundians and given all the deference due to his rank. But he was not reassured by this: he realized now, with a feeling of helpless anger at his own credulity, that he was simply a spectator. The meetings, the disputes, the swift, keen resolutions, were performed for his benefit. He did not even know all the facts and those facts which he did know were not put in their proper perspective for him. Consequendy, since he wanted to avoid making errors at any cost, he was perhaps more quiet than he should have been if he wished to show them that he was going to stand up for his rights. With incredulous irritation, he watched the arrogant, overbearing behavior of Burgundy’s envoys: a crowd of nobles of low rank and rich Flemish merchants decked out like kings, all as self-satisfied and aloof as people can be only when they are sure of their power.

Once he commented on this to Suffolk; his host gave him a searching glance and, after some thought, said, “You should not be shocked at this, my lord. The Duke of Burgundy is the greatest sovereign on the continent.”

Charles raised his brows. “Sovereign?”

“Certainly, my lord. Burgundy can scarcely be considered a vassal of the French Crown. It’s obvious that he doesn’t consider himself a vassal and, indeed, he has no need to do that. His influence is so great and he’s so rich that the infidel Turks call him the Grand Due d’Occidente.” Suffolk smiled slightly, looking at Charles. “If a treaty is really effected between your … king and Burgundy, it will unquestionably be Burgundy who dictates the terms. And that England is negotiating with France actually means this: England and Burgundy are deciding France’s fate together. In fact my lord, if I am to be completely honest, I have to admit that it looks at present as though Burgundy is deciding the fate not only of France, but of England as well. No matter how you look at it, Burgundy holds the cards. No, no, my lord, this is serious; a complete transformation has taken place over the last ten years, and you have to take it into account. You must look upon Burgundy as an independent monarch.”

Charles shook his head. “Am I to assume that my cousin of Burgundy has achieved what his father and grandfather struggled for incessantly? Freedom from France for Burgundy?”

“That is exactly the case, my lord. Think about it for a moment. It will make it easier for you to decide what your attitude should be at future discussions. You don’t sit opposite representatives of one who calls himself the king of France,”—as a good Englishman Suffolk refused to give Charles VII the title which he believed belonged to Henry VI—”you sit opposite spokesmen for the head of a powerful neighboring state who has enough influence to make his voice heard in French affairs …”

“What exactly do they expect of me now?” Charles asked ab-rupdy.

Suffolk saw that he was extremely nervous.

“Yes, this is not simple for you, my lord. You will have to find your way between the various parties. It’s your task to make Burgundy amenable to proposals from our side and at the same time to deter the Bourges party — if I may call them that — from introducing proposals which conflict with Burgundy’s wishes. It seems to me that you should start by informing yourself thoroughly about the various currents of thought — especially those inside the Bourges party. If what I hear is correct, the Houses are more apt to make concessions to Burgundy than to your … king. We would like to reach an agreement with Burgundy and the French Houses together. We regard this as the most favorable solution by far.”

“Does that mean you wish to exclude the King of France? In other words, you want me to prepare an ambush for him?”

Suffolk shrugged. “It’s difficult to find a name for such political chess moves, my lord.”

Charles turned slowly away. They were in an apartment in Suffolk’s fortified house in London: a large, handsome dwelling near the royal palace at Westminster. Charles was confused and upset; he had begun only now to realize that it was necessary to combat more than one peril, to overcome more than one obstacle on the road to freedom. He felt as though he were in a maze; his knowledge of place and direction was completely inadequate.

“My God, but shouldn’t I have permission to speak with people from my House and envoys from Brittany, Alençon, Bourbon?” he asked at last. “Isn’t it possible for me to meet envoys from these domains in Dover or somewhere else along the coast? And I wish to speak to my half-brother, the Sire de Dunois.”

“Well, my lord, I personally find this request far from unreasonable.” Suffolk shrugged again. “And I shall do what I can to win the Council over to the idea. But I must tell you beforehand that there is very littie chance of success. It is believed in the government that you can follow this course of action without any further discussion and that these ambassadors from Bourges and the feudal territories who are already here are completely qualified to make your recommendations known in Arras.”

Ah, thought Charles, now they let me feel the whip. A trace of his former watchfulness awoke in him. He thought of himself as an old, lame, half-blind hunting dog still being driven into the open field; the beast is almost useless, but instinctively it goes through the familiar motions: pricks up its ears, sniffs along the ground, pokes into the underbrush. He noticed that Suffolk was looking at him with sober attention, but also with friendly solicitude: clearly his plight touched the Englishman’s heart.

He pities me, thought Charles, he thinks I can do nothing more, that I shall fail. Rage flashed through him like a prickling torrent. Something awoke in him which he had never known was there: desperate ambition, the urge for vindication, for self-assertion, the desire to checkmate his adversaries by wily, cunning, knife-sharp maneuvers.

“My lord,” said Suffolk suddenly, “permit me to give you some good advice: if you wish to regain your freedom in the near future, seek the friendship and support of the Duke of Burgundy. Show yourself to be amiable toward him-meet his wishes. He is the only man who can help you, Monseigneur; it’s your task to see to it that he does help you.”

From a letter written by the Abbe of the Cordeliers cloister in Rodez to Charles, Duke of Orléans, at Suffolk House, London, 1434:

“…and it is with deep sorrow, Monseigneur, that we must inform you of the death of Madame Bonne d’Armagnac, Duchess of Orléans, who led so devout and charitable a life within our walls that she stood everywhere in the odor of sanctity.”

J’ay fait Pobseque de ma Dame

Dedens le moustier amoureaux,

Et le service pour son ame

A chanté Penser Doloreux;

Mains sierges de Soupirs Piteux

Ont esté en son luminaire;

Aussi j’ay fait la tombe faire

De Regrez, tous de lermes pains;

Et tout entour, moult richement,

Est escript, Cy gist vrayement

Le trésor de tous biens mondains.

I have held the funeral of my Lady

In the gleaming chapel of love;

The requiem for her soul

Was sung by Sorrow;

The candles at her head, still and bright

Are sighs of pity;

She sleeps in a tomb of Regret,

Painted all round with tears,

And inscribed in golden letters,

Here lies the whole treasure of all wordly bliss.

Dessus elle gist une lame

Faicte d’or et de saffirs bleux,

Car saffir est nommé la jame

De Loyauté, et l’or eureux.

Bien lui appartiennent ces deux,

Car Eur et Loyauté pourtraire

Voulu, en la tresdebonnaire,

Above her is a tablet of sapphires and gold;

Sapphires for loyalty, gold for good fortune.

Both of these belong to her,

For with His two hands

God has cunningly fashioned her

Dieu qui la fist de ses deux mains,

Et fourma merveilleusement;

Cestoit, a parler plainnement,

Le trésor de tous biens mondains.

As a portrait of Good Fortune and Loyalty;

She was, to put it simply,

The whole treasure of all wordly bliss.

N’en parlons plus; mon cueur se pasme

Quant il oyt les fais vertueux

D’elle, qui estoit sans nul blasme,

Comme jurent celles et ceulx

Qui congnoissoyent ses conseulx;

Si croy que Dieu la voulu traire

Vers lui, pour parer son repaire

De Paradis ou sont les saints;

Car c’est d’elle bel parement,

Que l’en nommoit communement

Le tresor de tous biens mondains.

Speak of her no more; my heart swoons

Over her selfless kindness,

She who was without blame

As men and women attest

Who knew her well;

So I think that God drew her to Himself

To ornament Paradise, where the saints dwell

For she would be an ornament indeed

Whom everyone called

The whole treasure of all wordly bliss.

De riens ne servent pleurs ne plains;

Tous mourrons, ou tart ou briefinent;

Nul ne peut garder longuement

Le tresor de tous biens mondains.

Tears and mourning are useless;

We shall all die, late or soon;

No man can keep forever

The whole treasure of worldly bliss.

One of the conditions in the treaty concluded in Arras in 1435:

I. The King of France, Charles, the seventh of that name, shall in person or through his deputies ask forgiveness of the Duke of Burgundy and express regret for the murder, committed in former times in Montereau, of the late Duke Jean of Burgundy. He shall punish the criminals and/or their descendants and banish them from the Kingdom. He shall pay a compensation to the Duke of Burgundy of 50,000 gold ecus.

II. The King gives to the Duke of Burgundy and his heirs in both the male and female lines, all cities in the territory of the Somme, to wit, Maçon, Châlons, Auxerre, Péronne, Mont-Didier, Saint-Quentin, Amiens, Abbeville, Ponthieu, with accessory landed estates and fortresses as well as the use of the fruits thereof and the right to levy taxes.

III. The Duke of Burgundy is hereby released from the necessity to render feudal service or marks of homage to the King of France.

Priés pour paix, doulce Vierge Marie,

Royne des cieulx, et du monde maistresse,

Faictes prier, par vostre courtoisie,

Saints et saintes, et prenés vostre adresse

Vers vostre filz, requérant sa haultesse

Qu’il lui plaise son peuple regarder,

Que de son sang a voulu racheter,

En déboutant guerre qui tout desvoye;

De prières ne vous vueilliez lasser;

Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

Pray for peace, sweet Virgin Mary,

Queen of Heaven and Mistress of the world,

Ask the saints to pray and ask your Son

To look with favor upon His people

Whom He redeemed with His blood

And put an end to war which creates chaos.

Do not grow weary,

Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

Priez, prelas et gens de sainte vie,

Religieux ne dormez en peresse,

Priez, maistres et tous suivans clergie,

Car par guerre fault que l’estude cesse;

Moustiers destruis sont sans qu’on les redresse,

Le service de Dieu vous fault laissier.

Quant ne povez en repos demourer,

Priez si fort que briefment Dieu vous oye;

L’Eglise voult a ce vous ordonner.

Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

Pray, prelates and holy people,

Monks, rouse yourselves from sloth,

Pray, masters and studious clerks,

For war is the death of learning;

Chapels lie in tumbled ruins,

The service of God is deserted.

Pray hard so God hears you

For the sake of the Church.

Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

Priez, princes qui avez seigneurie,

Roys, ducs, contes, barons plains de noblesse,

Gentilz hommes avec chevalerie,

Car meschans gens surmontent gentillesse;

En leurs mains ont toute vostre richesse,

Pray, ruling princes,

Noble kings, dukes, earls,

High-born lords of chivalry,

For you are overcome by evil men

Who hold your riches in their hands;

Lawsuits raise them high in rank,

You see this clearly every day.

Debatz les font en hault estat monter,

Vous le povez chascun jour veoir au cler,

Et sont riches de voz biens et monnoye

Dont vous deussiez le peuple suporter.

Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

They have taken the wealth, the treasure

Which you need for the people’s support.

Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

Priez, peuple qui souffrez tirannie,

Car voz seigneurs sont en telle foiblesse

Qu’ilz ne peuent vous garder, par maistrie,

Ne vous aidier en vostre grant destresse;

Loyaulx marchans, la selle si vous blesse

Fort sur le dox; chascun vous vient presser

Et ne povez marchandise mener,

Car vous n’avez seur passage ne voye,

Et maint péril vous couvient il passer.

Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

Pray, victims of oppression,

For your lords are become enfeebled;

They cannot protect you

Nor alleviate your suffering.

Honest merchants, your backs are sore

From the painful saddle; everyone afflicts you,

You have no safe road to travel,

You are in peril wherever you go.

Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

Priez, galans joyeux en compaignie,

Qui despendre desirez a largesse;

Guerre vous tient la bourse desgarnie.

Priez, amans, qui voulez en liesse

Servir amours, car guerre, par rudesse,

Vous destourbe de voz dames hanter,

Qui maintesfoiz fait leurs vouloirs tourner;

Et quant tenez le bout de la couroye,

Un estrangier si le vous vient oster;

Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

Pray, gallants who enjoy the festive life

And the outpouring of largesse;

War keeps your purses lean.

Pray, lovers who want only to serve Love;

The rigors of war keep you from your ladies

Who thus often turn their favors from you;

And when you hold the end of the rope

A stranger comes to take it from your hand.

Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

Dieu tout puissant nous vueille conforter

Toutes choses en terre, ciel et mer;

Priez vers lui que brief en tout pourvoye,

En lui seul est de tous maulx amender;

Priez pour paix, le vray trésor de joye!

May Almighty God comfort us

And all things on earth, in the sky and sea,

Pray to him to provide soon for us all;

He alone has the power to cure all ills.

Pray for peace, the true treasure of joy!

II. THE THOUGHT BOOK

n the eleventh of November, 1440, a glittering procession set out from Saint-Omer to the garden city of Gravelines. Isabelle, Duchess of Burgundy, was riding out to greet a noble guest who was coming that morning from England to Calais. The weather was windy but bright; the banners, scarlet, gold and green, flapped smartly in the breeze; the women’s veils floated like wisps of mist.

Everyone in Flanders and Burgundy who bore a noble name had joined the Duchess’s retinue, partly to honor the sovereign lady, but mainly out of curiosity to see the man who had lived in captivity far from France for twenty-five years. Isabelle of Burgundy rode under a canopy embroidered with lions and lilies; its long gilt fringe fluttered in the wind. She beamed with happiness and satisfaction; this day was a witness to her triumph, to the success of a diplomatic maneuver which she had initiated and guided.

Isabelle, Burgundy’s still-young third wife, was a daughter of the King of Portugal and a princess of the House of Lancaster; she had an uncommonly strong interest in politics and had, since her arrival in Burgundian lands, paid a good deal of attention to the development of government relations, both foreign and domestic. Her husband, who trusted her judgment, often charged her with the direction of conferences and, in general, with all matters that required acumen, patience and tact. He called her his most capable ambassador. Because she was calmer, more thoughtful and gentler than he, and, moreover, understood better than he the art of waiting and, if necessary, temporarily retreating, she was able to render him invaluable service. She had negotiated with representatives of the clergy and of the burghers, received deputations and resolved a number of domestic problems in a most satisfactory manner.

When therefore, in the year 1438, she requested permission to direct the conferences in Saint-Omer concerning the restoration of Flemish-English relations — the hostilities with England had caused great discontent among the merchants, artisans and shipbuilders everywhere in the low countries — Burgundy had consented at once. He wanted to be relieved both of the work and of the unpleasant task of personally seeking rapport with the English, a duty that could not be postponed because of its effect on the prosperity of Flanders. He had heard that across the Straits they had begun to weave cloth and linen with success; at all costs England must be retained as a market for Flemish cloth. The alliance with Charles VII of France had proved on sober reflection to be less advantageous than it had promised to be at the outset; the sickly, timid, irresolute King had shown himself over the years, despite his caution and hesitation, to be a ruler who at least followed a steady course. He had enough insight to surround himself with able advisors and skillful army men. When Richmont, who had been named Constable, retook Paris from the English, the King’s authority was recognized once again everywhere in the country, even in those territories still occupied by the enemy.

But then came the nobles and the heads of the feudal Houses who had supported Charles VII after the treaty of Arras, to demand their rewards: Brittany, Bourbon, Alençon, Armagnac, Foix, Lorraine, Anjou and a whole series of counts and barons — all wanted land, money, privileges, high posts in government. The King distrusted them and ignored their demands; he did what his father and grandfather had done in the distant past: he surrounded himself with advisors, both nobles and citizens, who began to review the country’s finances and the administration of justice. Since it was too expensive to continue the war with England with troops consisting for the most part of noblemen, their retinues, and mercenaries, he wanted to create a standing army of soldiers who would commit themselves to serve for a fixed period of time.

However, because of this the nobles and independent captains of the army turned against him. The lords openly joined together, feeling all the more justified because the Dauphin Louis had entered their ranks. The Dauphin, a discontented, somewhat sour, but extremely sharp-witted young man, did not attempt to hide his feelings of contemptuous hatred for his father; he entered heart and soul into the conspiracy. Charles VII was aware of this plot to wrest power from him when it began, and made every attempt to frustrate it, but the lords continued to hold secret meetings.

From a distance, Burgundy watched all this attentively. Alençon and Brittany had tried to bring him into the scheme, but he wisely kept aloof, planning to pluck the fruit when it was ripe.

This rebellion of the nobility roused great interest in England, along with the hope that with the help of these malcontents, Henry VI might still be placed on the French throne. Suddenly the Council at Westminster remembered that Charles, Duke of Orléans, who had been in the Tower in the custody of Lord Cobham since 1436, was also a French feudal prince. It could certainly do no harm, in this delicate situation, to allow him to communicate with his peers overseas. The Council referred to the vow which Charles had made three years ago with his hand upon the Gospels to work for peace and support the claims of Henry VI in France.

Thus, when the name of Orléans came up during a conversation at Saint-Omer between the English spokesmen and Isabelle of Burgundy, it was evident that Henry’s envoys did not object, under the present circumstances, to allowing the Duke a role in negotiations for a general peace treaty. Isabelle believed that Orléans could function as a sort of link between Burgundy and the French feudal Houses. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be eager to serve Burgundy in return for his freedom. Isabelle, who was not averse to playing a double diplomatic role, adopted Charles’ cause as her own. The negotiations were considerably delayed because two parties in England were engaged in a power struggle — one favorably inclined toward the Burgundians and the other against them. But at long last Orléans’ ransom was set at 100,000 English marks, a high figure. However, the Duchess of Burgundy managed to raise that sum within the required time of one year.

So she accomplished two feats at once: the restoration of commerce between England and Flanders, and the release of Charles of Orléans. She gathered from her correspondence with the prisoner that his gratitude knew no bounds; he stood ready to render any service in return. While preparations were in progress for the reception of Orléans in the grand manner at the court of Burgundy — the first impression was important — the indefatigable Isabelle was occupied in other ways planning the future of her noble protege.

In Isabelle’s retinue was a young maid of honor, a niece of the Duke of Burgundy who had grown up at her uncle’s court. Her name was Marie of Cleves. She came from a family rich in children and because the Cleves, despite their ancient illustrious name, were not amply blessed with wordly goods, the Duchess of Burgundy had taken upon herself the task of marrying off her sister-in-law’s daughters and paying their dowries. Aware of the conventional wisdom that a pact was really secure only when it was sealed by a marriage agreement between members of both parties, Isabelle had determined that the Duke of Orléans should take Marie of Cleves to wife. The wedding would bind him to Burgundy. Since in his letters Charles had shown himself willing to accept this proposal, the contracts had already been drawn up, the marriage arranged. Now it was necessary only to await the bridegroom’s arrival.

Marie of Cleves was fourteen years old, slender and blonde, with cheerful eyes, but her features were rather coarse; her nose was too large and her teeth were not pretty. Her manners were courtly; she loved to hunt and dance and she played cards well. Duchess Isabelle thought that her foster child would make a most suitable wife for a man who had lived for years in bleak seclusion. The feelings of the bride were not considered; everyone agreed that she could not do better.

Isabelle put a clause in the marriage contract which stipulated that three-quarters of the dowry must be spent on the purchase of castles and estates for the bride and her future progeny.

“If Orléans should go bankrupt because of his ransom, then you will at least still possess your own properties, my dear,” the Duchess of Burgundy had explained, with a wordly-wise smile. However, these and similar considerations meant little to Marie. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She knew that her bridegroom was forty-five years old, the age of her uncle of Burgundy, whom she greatly admired. The Duke, with his large supple body and vivacious face, was an extremely handsome man and was also cheerful, generous and courtly — richer and more powerful than any king or emperor of whom she had ever heard. She could not deny that this glittering image had its dark side. It was no secret to Marie, who had grown up too quickly in the anterooms of Madame of Burgundy, that the Duke did not observe the motto which he had adopted upon his third marriage: “Autre n’aray… I shall never have another love.” Nevertheless, Marie of Cleves hoped with all her heart that her bridegroom would be like Monseigneur of Burgundy; his arrival would crown her fairy tale girlhood which had begun so suddenly when Burgundian envoys had come to fetch her from Cleves. She had left her native land for good — that richly forested marshy country which lay between the Meuse and the Rhine. She had been a child in her father’s castle in Cleves, a steep greystone citadel built high on the slope of a wooded hill.

Day in and day out, little Marie had sat at the window. She knew every valley, every thicket, every green hilltop, and every bend of the broad gleaming white Rhine. She followed the river with her eyes until it vanished among the hazy blue hills in the distance. The mysterious Swan Knight who had sought out Elsa of Brabant became a reality for the child; she hoped and believed that if she persisted long enough in her silent vigil he would come to her, too. It was not the ship drawn by swans that she saw approaching, but a glittering golden coach surrounded by armored riders carrying the banners of Burgundy. Her father had raised objections; he was not eager to see his children depart for palaces in Brussels and Ghent from which they would return to him with dainty, fastidious manners. But Marie was his sixth daughter — he could not give her a large dowry. Like a queen, the child rode out of Cleves to take up the unknown life.

Through the small windows of the carriage, she had watched the gradual alteration of the landscape; the wood merged into meadows and orchards expanded into fields of grain and flax. She rode through bustling valleys; the streets teemed with well-dressed, industrious people. In Flanders it always seemed to be market day. The magnificence of the great cities overwhelmed the child, but she became really speechless when she was led into the castle where her Aunt Isabelle lived. She walked across gleaming mosaic tile floors, past walls hung with tapestries; brightly-colored birds sang in gilded cages; in rooms and corridors she met beings who seemed to her to be princes and princesses, but who bowed to her in salutation.

Quickly Marie forgot the castle in Cleves and her frugal childhood there. The glory of Burgundy reflected even on her; she seemed to have become a princess of the blood, exalted, unassailable. She was not troubled by — she scarcely realized — the fact that she was only a pawn on the chessboard of her mightly kinsmen, an instrument with which to confirm treaties and alliances, to draw money, land and possessions into the Burgundian sphere of influence.

Now she was going to be Duchess of Orléans; her bridegroom, they said, had been a powerful man in France, and would surely be so again once he was restored to his own dominions. They showed her the verses which Monseigneur had sent the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy from England in recognition of their efforts on his behalf. Marie imagined her future husband to be a courtly man, dignified, noble, perhaps somewhat melancholy in appearance, made all the more interesting by prolonged exile. Without question he would love and honor her, and dedicate many beautiful verses to her.

Full of expectation, Marie rode between the ladies who followed the Duchess of Burgundy to Gravelines. The damp grey sand spurted up in small clots under the hooves of the brightly bedecked trotting horses; the strong incessant wind blew mantles and veils about; the women in their green and violet dresses looked like so many banners themselves. In the shelter of two sand dunes tents were pitched, adorned with flags and ensigns; a meeting would take place here. Waiting grooms came forward to take the horses; with her retinue of nobles and women the Duchess sought the shelter of the pavilions.

Marie of Cleves stood behind her noble protector, but made sure that she could command a clear view of the sloping dune overgrown with wild grass … After a short time the blue and gold standards of Orléans became visible on top of the dune; a group of horsemen in fluttering mantles slowly descended, riding toward the ducal tents. Marie watched with pounding heart. The riders dismounted, three of them moved off together to the pavilion, where Isabelle was already coming toward them with both hands outstretched in greeting.

A herald ceased blowing his trumpet and cried out in a loud voice, “The Duke of Orléans, the Earl of Fanhope, Sir Robert Roos.”

Two of the lords, a tall, slim, richly dressed knight and a still youthful man in armor, knelt in the sand at some distance from the tent. He who now approached alone was a fairly stout older man, his shoulders bent as though in great weariness. Between the notched flaps of his hat his face looked very pale; deep furrows ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. When he stopped before the Duchess a smile lit his sad, faded face. He knelt and doffed his hat. Marie of Cleves saw that his hair was grey as ashes.

“But he is a very old man,” whispered one of her companions, casting a compassionate glance at the bride. Marie flushed with shame and distress and lowered her eyes.

“Welcome, welcome to the soil of Burgundy, Monseigneur,” said Isabelle of Burgundy, smiling. “Will you be so good as to rise?”

Charles d’Orléans took the hand which she extended to him and replied lightly, but in a voice quivering with emotion.

“Madame, when I consider all that you have done to effect my release, I can only give myself over wholly to you. I am your prisoner.”

At midday the Duke of Burgundy, too, arrived in Gravelines. Both processions — that of Isabelle and her guest, and that of the sovereign lord — met before the main portal of the parish church of the Holy Willibrord. The people — who had hurried from far and wide to see the meeting between Orléans and Burgundy, the protagonists of a now-legendary family feud — pushed forward against hastily-constructed barricades, intent on missing nothing that happened. Heralds had carried communication between the two royal processions and had made sure that both arrived at the same time in the square before the cathedral. Now from both sides the standard-bearers and trumpeters approached, who preceded the royal personages. On the church steps, surrounded by priests and choirboys, stood two bishops who would lead the solemn service: an Englishman and a Burgundian. The crowd shouted loudly, threw their caps in the air, waved pieces of cloth, applauded. “The Good! The Good!” called the people along the road. “Burgundy holds, holds Burgundy!”

Burgundy rode slowly past without acknowledging the cheers, but with a faint smile on his lips. He stared straight before him at the multi-colored flapping streamers and banners behind the barriers at the opposite side of the square. Above his dull black garments (he had not put off mourning since his father’s death), his face was stiff and pale with tension. He knew quite well that he had to overcome his aversion to this meeting. Isabelle had smoothed the way for it and the task of making Charles welcome devolved upon Philippe himself. There was no need for him to say much. He saw that under the present circumstances it was senseless to let the feud with Orléans go on; besides, he scarcely knew his second cousin, and he had no reason to fear him. Political interests demanded this reconciliation; there was no other conceivable solution. Nevertheless, he felt guilty; his father and his grandfather would undoubtedly have rejected any agreement with Orléans. But I am not cooperating with him, I am using him, thought Burgundy while he nodded mechanically to his master of ceremonies. The cry of “Largesse!” which rose from the spectators could not be ignored. A storm of small silver coins rained upon the cobblestones, but Burgundy did not react when the elated crowd broke screaming and shoving through the barricades.

The procession had now reached the open square before the cathedral; both sides alighted. Isabelle took her guest by the hand and led him forward; Burgundy was approaching them with slow, controlled steps, his right hand holding the emblem of the Golden Fleece which he wore on a broad chain around his neck. Courtiers and dignitaries remained at a proper distance behind the royal personages. Heralds pulled out their trumpets, the people shouted hurrah, and the solemn voices of the choir streamed out through the open doors of the church.

Charles d’Orléans — who during the ride to Gravelines had attempted to chat courteously with his noble hostess, distracted as he was by the unnerving prospect of the coming meeting — saw that Burgundy was deathly pale; he was no longer smiling. The two men stood facing each other motionless in a strained silence. Both realized that this was the moment when the gap between them should be bridged. Each read in the other’s eyes the memories which made friendship between them impossible; between them flashed, as quick as lightning, a human lifetime of combat, deceit, quarrels and mutual hatred, a long series of battles and sieges, of false peace treaties, of intrigues and cunning. The bridge at Montereau, the dark street corner near the Barbette palace, stood between them; the dead mutilated bodies of their fathers, for whose murders neither side had achieved complete satisfaction. So strong was the force of this inherited hatred that both Orléans and Burgundy involuntarily stepped back. Whatever might have appeared on paper or in their minds during the negotiations carried on by couriers or deputies became meaningless now that they stood face to face. Everyone around them waited breathlessly. The sound of the trumpets had died away, the singing in the church had ended. The courtiers waited, the horsemen and armed soldiers of the escort waited, the priests on the steps before the main portal of the church waited, the crowds, suddenly silent, waited behind the barricades. All the flags and banners fluttered in the wind, the horses stamped on the cobblestones, and behind the sand hills the sea glided murmuring over the shore.

Charles saw Burgundy’s wide, tight-lipped mouth begin to tremble with uncontrollable emotion at the same moment that his own eyes filled with tears. They stepped forward at the same time and embraced. So they stood for a time, unable to speak. Each felt the body of the other shake with partially suppressed sobs.

Standing before the altar, with the Archbishop of Rochester, the Lords of Fanhope and Roos and a few English lawyers, Charles read in a loud voice declarations which he had made in Westminster Cathedral before his departure from London.

“I, Charles, Duke of Orléans, swear by God’s Holy Gospel, which I hold here, that I shall faithfully keep everything contained in the agreements and treaties concluded between the Exalted Sovereign Henry, by the Grace of God King of England, and me, Charles d’Orléans, to wit: that within half a year I shall pay the remaining amount of my ransom, 160,000 gold ecus; that I shall bring about a peace with England and France within a year; that if it should prove impossible for me to keep these vows after a year has passed, I shall return of my own free will to captivity. This I swear and affirm. Sic me Deus adjuvet et haec sancta!”

From Gravelines the ducal procession traveled inland to Saint-Omer. The procession was disposed to celebration; musicians seated on a painted carriage struck up song after song under the autumn sky; Isabelle’s maids of honor laughed loud and clear, the courtiers joked and chatted with one another to the monotonous jangle of the tiny bells on saddles and reins.

Only Charles, who rode between Burgundy and his lady, could not find the proper tone. True, on this first day of freedom he felt slightly drunk, but the English lords still rode behind him with their retinues, and when he glanced over the landscape on either side of the road, he saw, with a feeling of uneasiness, flat marshy meadows, tiny windmills and blunted church towers; he could fancy himself again near Wingfield Castle. The twilight fell swiftly, mist rose from the sluggish rivulets crossing the land; in long rows along the water’s edge willow trees, under the constant pressure of the slanting wind, stood gnarled and bare like monsters in almost human form. Here it smelt of mud and dank grass, of fog and salt marshes.

Charles shivered, the chill penetrating his very marrow. In the summer this was rich meadowland, but how gloomy and forsaken, how deadly monotonous it became in cold weather. He felt odd; after the nearly complete isolation of these past years in the Tower, he found it difficult to adjust once more to court life with its intricate ceremonies, its carefully determined social gradations. During his imprisonment he had lost the habit of making a sharp distinction between high and low degree, between lords and servants; he had become inclined to regard each man whom he met as a friend. After the solemn church service in Gravelines he had greeted gentlemen of the Duke’s retinue whose names or faces seemed familiar to him — he had repeatedly encountered Burgundy’s envoys — but when the Duchess Isabelle raised her brows in surprise and his cousin the Duke turned away with a look of slight displeasure, Charles understood that he was in a court society infinitely more rigid and formal, subject to many stricter distinctions, than even the royal household of France.

The Duke and Duchess of Burgundy seemed as exalted as gods; each act, each word, was accompanied by ceremony; they were addressed only with bent knee and downcast eyes; at every step they were regaled with marks of homage which Charles had seen given only to the King of France and then only on exceptionally solemn occasions. Burgundy does not really have to convince me of his power and wealth, thought Charles, a little annoyed at so much pomp. I would believe in it without all this showing-off. The fact that I am here, that I accept his terms, that I have him to thank for the advance payment on my ransom — all this shows that he has the means to assert his authority. To Charles, the courtiers around the ducal couple were only puppets in an elaborate marionette show. In captivity he had lost the taste for this sort of thing. He made up his mind that in the future, at Blois, he would not put up with such senseless, artificial activity.

But he would not be able to enjoy his return to Blois undisturbed; his thoughts remained shrouded in uneasiness. He would not be alone after his return. The Duchess of Burgundy had presented his bride to him in the pavilion among the dunes outside Gravelines. A child in robes of state who sulks because she finds me too old, he thought when he greeted her with a bow and with courteous words that were perhaps not flowery enough for Marie’s taste. After that first meeting she had taken her place again among the Duchess’s ladies-in-waiting. Since then Charles had had no further occasion to speak to her. The prospect of the marriage depressed him deeply, although he saw the advantages of such an alliance in the present circumstances.

He did not feel capable of pleasing so young a woman; what did they have in common, what could they talk about together? He felt ridiculous; he was surely not the man to attempt to win the favor of a fourteen-year-old girl. He had forgotten how to practice the art of love; he had spent his life without women except for a few fleeting adventures, brief encounters with ladies and maidens whose names he had forgotten long ago. One of Lady Fanhope’s chambermaids, the wife of a knight with whom he used to hunt in Ampthill, a young noblewoman for whom he had composed some verses in English. His memories had faded quickly. Alice, Lady Suffolk … thoughts of her he could not shrug away. He was still amazed at the surprise she had in store for him; she appeared to be as cold and chaste as the effigies in Wingfield church, a dignified, grave, thoughtful hostess. But in London, during Suffolk’s temporary absence, she had suddenly shown another side of herself and Charles had succumbed in spite of himself. He had plunged into the adventure as a starving man grabs a crust of bread. Afterward he would not remain under Suffolk’s roof at any cost, especially not when he saw that his host responded indifferently to any mention of the incident and waved explanations and apologies away with a good-natured, dismissive gesture. It was only later that Charles learned that Suffolk himself had fathered many bastards in England as well as in France.

Later, in the Tower, the prisoner’s yearning for female company had vanished. The feeling of guilt which had never wholly left him and the awareness of his own inability to go a-courting after all these years of forced solitude, continued to torment him now that he stood on the threshold of a new era as the bridegroom of an inexperienced child.

Before complete darkness fell, the ducal procession reached Saint-Omer. In the dusk Charles could just make out the high ramparts and towers of the city rising like mountains from the flat land. Outside the gates, awaiting the noble company, stood the notables: the clergy of the abbey of Saint-Bertin and many deputations from the guilds; torchbearers came running and through the arched gate one could see the torchlit square where bailiff’s men were having great difficulty in keeping the crowds back so that the procession would have room to pass.

The magistrate of Saint-Omer gave a welcoming speech, addressed mainly to Charles.

“Monseigneur,” said the magistrate at the end; bowing deeply he offered Charles the parchment containing the beautifully lettered text. “The population of our good city has grown considerably over the last few days; the people have come here from far and wide to witness your entry and the festivities to be held in honor of your return. They have travelled even from Picardy and the He de France to Saint-Omer to welcome you. It is a great privilege for our region to be the first to offer hospitality to Your Grace. Tomorrow, if it pleases you, a delegation will come from the city to bring you welcoming gifts; we hope you will permit us to offer a contribution toward your ransom, Monseigneur.”

The bystanders and members of Burgundy’s retinue broke into loud cheers in response to these words. Burgundy smiled in approval. When Charles noticed the expression on Burgundy’s face, he tensed somewhat; he realized that the friendliness and hospitality of Saint-Omer were part of a carefully worked-out plan.

Amid the blaring of trumpets and in the light of hundreds of torches, they rode through the gate and entered the city. The crowds lining the roads seemed especially eager to shout with joy. Calls of “Long live Burgundy! Long live Orléans! God bless Orléans! Welcome, Orléans!” resounded from street to street, from square to square. Despite his depression, Charles was carried away by the tribute; never before in his life had he been hailed in this personal way. The glow of the torches, the shouts and the applause of the surging crowd mounted to his head; he saluted right and left without troubling himself about the distinguished tranquillity of the Duke of Burgundy and his wife, who sat silent and motionless in their saddles, letting the flood of appreciation wash over them.

Pleasantly tired from all the excitement, Charles at last reached the abbey of Saint-Bertin where a new welcoming committee of high clergy awaited. The travelers dismounted and, preceded by chanting youths and torchbearers, set out for the refectory where the evening meal was to be served.

“There are a number of people gathered there who are eager to salute you, fair cousin,” Burgundy said to his guest as they walked. “Surely you must have noticed that your arrival is considered a most important event in my own domains as well as in France. It seems the French cities are awaiting the moment when you will visit them on your way to Blois. Your return home will be nothing less than a triumphal procession.”

“It is hard for me to believe that all this homage is for me,” Charles remarked smiling; he wiped his hot face with a cloth. “This reception surprises me somewhat. I had resigned myself to the belief that I had been forgotten on this side of the Straits of Calais.”

Burgundy raised his brows in ironic amazement.

“Come, come, worthy cousin, you are too modest. How could you be forgotten? The name of Orléans is not one which can be quickly forgotten. From what I hear, your interests have been well looked after during your absence. All you need to do is take up the reins once more. Whether you will have influence and power in the future is entirely up to you.” Charles looked in disbelief at his cousin who walked with great composure at his side.

“Too much is expected of me. Don’t forget that all these years I have been completely isolated from ongoing events. Of course it is true that some news reached my ears now and then. But I still cannot form a clear opinion about current affairs. The King of England has charged me now with an extremely heavy responsibility.”

Burgundy thrust his lower lip forward and smiled; for an instant he looked remarkably like his father.

“When you see where your interest lies, you will have no reason to complain about a lack of cooperation in these dominions and in France, fair cousin.”

“My interest?” Charles smiled, somewhat bitterly. “I have only one interest, that of my unfortunate brother of Angoulême, who is still held in England.”

Burgundy frowned.

“Nevertheless, you should have been fully informed before you left England,” he said, shrugging. “You know that the princes of France see themselves shoved aside more and more often, that they are threatened with the loss of their influence in Council and government, that their ancient privileges are being violated. As the head of a feudal House, you have undoubtedly already chosen sides, fair cousin. You are in good company. Moreover, henceforth you can count on my support — the more so now that I know you will cooperate to further my interests too. But we are approaching the refectory, worthy cousin, and this is neither the time nor the place for a serious conversation, is it? Later, we shall have an opportunity to consult with each other in greater detail.

“And now self-confidence, a lust for life, a good hope for the future, Monseigneur — hold your head high, keep your heart cheerful. Everything here is being done in your honor. We are well-disposed toward you. We rejoice over your safe return, we wish to help you put together the full amount of your ransom, as much as it lies in our power to do it. Come, you are a man of consequence. There’s no reason for doubt or despondency.”

The light of many torches and candles streamed toward them through the widely opened doors; Burgundy’s pages and stewards stood respectfully in rows at the entrance to the hall. Charles could see festively bedecked tables, colorfully dressed guests milling about; in the midst of the brightness and glitter the starched headdresses of the women stirred like sails on the sea. The noble company, led by the abbe of Saint-Bertin and some clerics in ornate vestments, and followed closely by a long procession of courtiers, stepped into the refectory which had been transformed into a banquet hall.

“Welcome once more, Monseigneur,” said Isabelle of Burgundy, even before she had taken her place under the enormous canopy. “Here comes someone who wants to be the first to pay his respects to you. I hope our surprise will please you.”

From the group of spectators two men stepped foward; one of them Charles recognized at once as the old Archbishop of Reims whom he had met five years earlier during the conferences in London. The prince of the Church approached him slowly, nodding and smiling, his right hand, on which his large ring sparkled, raised in greeting. The other man remained a few paces behind him. Charles saw a man of medium height, broad-shouldered, with a weather-beaten face and very bright grey-green eyes which looked straight at him attentively; on his chest shone the Order of the Eagle on a wide chain.

“God bless you, Monseigneur,” he said, standing before Charles. “I see that you do not recognize me. I am your half-brother, Dunois.”

There seemed to be no end to the celebrations and ceremonies in Saint-Omer. Time and again when Charles, exhausted and dazed by so much diversion, so much pomp and festive joy, thought that it must surely end now, Burgundy’s heralds and stewards announced new amusements. Tournaments, banquets, processions and contests were the background for the two most important events of those weeks: Charles’ appointment as Knight of the Golden Fleece and his marriage to Marie of Cleves. His head was beginning to swim. Since all this commotion was in his honor, he could not shirk his duty. He sat in silence, making an effort to smile politely while he watched the endless tourneys which did not particularly interest him. He could not understand how full-grown men could watch, with enthusiasm and excitement, a spectacle which consisted of gaily attired horsemen hacking away at each other. Since he was the guest of honor, the task of awarding the prizes and addressing the victors fell to him. He did this calmly and pleasantly, using, not without irony, antiquated forms of speech and outdated expressions and often, at the request of the ladies present, adding extemporaneous lines of verse. They applauded him heartily; on every side he heard praise of his mildness, his wit, his patience in adversity. “The good Duke of Orléans,” he was called in nearly all the speeches and proclamations. Charles was secretly amused.

So this is the impression I make upon my fellow men, he thought, smiling to himself. Fat and old before my time, tamed forever by adversity, a good-natured lord who can write verses tolerably well. The inner voice which had become so familiar to him during the years of imprisonment seemed to urge him repeatedly to adopt this view of himself. “There it is, accept it, resign yourself to reality, remember how the thrush in the fable perished because it tried obstinately to race the falcons and sparrow-hawks …” When he thought like this, the image of Blois rose temptingly before him once more: a safe haven, the last place of refuge, far from politics and intrigue, far from court life, from social obligations, foolish pomp and ceremony. The life of which he had dreamt in England rose before him: a serene existence among trusted friends, books and manuscripts in a world populated with the creatures of his dreams and thoughts. These dreams of the future had faded since he had come ashore at Calais. What he had considered at first to be only a task that had to be performed before he could enjoy his retirement, appeared in another light now that he was surrounded by the ambitious men and women of Burgundy.

In the quiet, secluded chambers of Pontefract, Ampthill, Fotherinhay and Bolingbroke, he had forgotten reality. He had considered the temptations and pleasures of the world to be unimportant because they had vanished from his horizon. In Saint-Omer Charles had walked with open eyes into the net which Burgundy had spread to catch him: the celebrations, meetings, ceremonies and applause, the courtesies and honors had been carefully calculated to make the former prisoner forget his past filled with ennui, resignation and enforced abstinence. They had not missed their mark. In spite of his private annoyance at so much childish idle activity, despite his fatigue and his impatient eagerness to fulfil his obligations as rapidly as possible, Charles felt himself, from day to day, becoming more absorbed in the effervescent life of the court. When, in the midst of fabulous splendor and ostentation, Burgundy hung the emblem of the Golden Fleece around his neck — a distinction coveted by kings and emperors — Charles felt a desire to try to fly once more with the falcons and sparrow-hawks. He did not believe his wings were crippled — not yet. He could still play an important role and render service to his country and its people. If it were true, as Burgundy and his confidants had told him in various discussions, that the King of France wanted to continue the war against England, that he violated agreements, did not keep his promises, allowed himself to be ruled openly by his favorites from the third estate who were bent on smashing the power of the feudal princes for good — if all this were true, it would seem that some intervention was necessary.

He could take it as a sign of appreciation of his abilities that he was wanted as a mediator in this affair, that he was regarded as the man who could, on the one hand, bring about an agreement between Burgundy and the French vassals and, on the other, keep the King informed of the desires and grievances of this powerful group. Wasn’t it senseless of him to doubt his own capability when every effort was being made to convince him that he was capable? His growing belief in his own worth was strengthened in no small measure when a legation from Bruges came to petition him humbly to intercede with the Duke of Burgundy for the sake of the city. Some time earlier a disagreement had arisen between Burgundy and the people of Bruges; now they begged Charles, who enjoyed a reputation as a peacemaker, to restore the good relationship between the Duke and the citizens. Burgundy allowed himself to be won over after having given Charles the opportunity to plead Bruges’ case in full. When the dispute was eventually settled, Charles could only believe that the favorable resolution was a consequence of his actions.

In this atmosphere of positive self-evaluation, he took Marie of Cleves to wife before the altar in the cathedral of Saint-Omer. He felt he could now allow himself to be led to the bridal chamber by a glittering procession of nobles without any feelings of shame or vexation; he no longer feared being looked upon with contempt or pity. Marie’s royal education had not been wasted on her; she did not betray her disappointment by tears or sighs. She bore herself in company with controlled dignity and was amenable and obliging when they were alone together — in itself a rare occurence.

Charles found himself invited more and more often to discussions not only by Burgundy and his council but by other highly placed persons as well. He saw clearly now what Burgundy wanted from him: he must point out to the King of France his dereliction in fulfilling the terms stipulated in the treaty of Arras, and he must prepare a meeting of the feudal princes. Burgundy also wanted Charles to swear loyalty to the treaty of Arras and approve all the points covered in the treaty. On this occasion some differences arose for the first time between guest and host. An adder lay concealed in the grass; undoubtedly Burgundy also wanted to hear declarations of guilt and remorse over the murder which had been committed at Montereau. Charles, however, declined to express these sentiments; he had had nothing to do with that business. Dunois, summoned to swear an oath of allegiance, had no intention of recognizing the treaty of Arras. His refusal finally led to a heated exchange of words on the subject between Charles and Dunois.

“I have sworn fealty to the King,” said Dunois. “Besides, I can have no peace as long as Burgundy has disassociated himself from the Crown. Apparently the King has no intention of putting up with this in the long run.”

“But the King has not rejected the treaty!”

“The King is not so simple-minded as people here seem to think,” Dunois said slowly. “He has more brains than we thought. Just because he does things that many people don’t see eye to eye with, doesn’t mean that he lacks insight. For me, he remains the man who is first in the Kingdom; I consider it my duty to serve him.”

“My God, in your letters you haven’t always sounded like such a willing subject, brother!” Charles, who was sitting at a table before a spread of documents, took off his spectacles and tapped them angrily on the back of his hand. “I seem to remember that you bubbled over with strong condemnation of him more than once.”

“That may well be,” said Dunois calmly and coldly. “But at the same time I never made a secret of the fact that the unity of the Kingdom is more important to me than anything else. When the King hurt that unity I objected strongly to his behavior. But now that he seems to be working for unity — I don’t care why — I stand behind him.”

Charles sighed with impatient annoyance.

“You seem to favor him considerably since he granted you an earldom,” he remarked sharply. Dunois looked at him quickly and began to pace back and forth, his hands behind his back. After a brief silence he said curtly, “I deeply regret that you do not know me well enough to know that I have little use for titles and badges of honor, Monseigneur my brother. As God is my witness, I would rather be called Bastard of Orléans than anything else. I serve Orléans as I have always done, and Orléans is a fief of the French Crown. I hope I may never see Orléans follow the example of Burgundy and reject the King’s authority because he thinks he is too great to be a vassal.”

Charles rose.

“Do you suspect that I tend that way, brother?”

“I don’t know what to think,” replied Dunois with a shrug. “All I see is that you are offering your services in good faith to an affair which will certainly not promote the unity of the Kingdom. Peace with England — I can see the benefit of that and I shall gladly help you, my lord brother, to convince the King of it. But otherwise the cause you are supporting seems to me to smack of high treason. The rich can thank the ambition and intolerance of the feudal lords for their ruin. Must we repeat the same mistakes now that we are at the point of struggling up out of our misery? I understand your motivation perfectly.” He turned and stood before Charles. “It’s only natural that you should want to reassert yourself. But you will gain greater glory if you serve the true interests of France, my lord brother.”

“You forget one thing.” Charles’ voice trembled with anger. “And that is that I owe my release chiefly to Burgundy. If he and the Duchess had not persisted and paid a considerable part of my ransom, I would still be sitting in the Tower, worthy brother. With all your love for the Kingdom, you could not reach the King and convince him to interest himself in me or our brother of Angoulême. It’s only natural that I should be ready to render Burgundy service in return for what he has done for me.”

“By God and Saint-Denis, are you blind then?” Dunois slammed the edge of the table with his fist. “While you’ve been here haven’t you grasped yet what Burgundy is aiming at? Divide and conquer — it’s an old saw, brother, but that’s how he preserves his power. For fifty years the Burgundians have followed a fixed policy, that’s obvious. Look around you, see how Burgundy grants favors to the low countries in order to be sure of strong support to the north and east of the Kingdom. Don’t you understand his power? He is richer than all the princes of Christendom put together; no foreign power will be able to thwart him once he is firmly in the saddle. He has bought you, brother, just as he can buy anyone he wants. He will let you work in his own interest. I cannot forget that we had to fight in vain for years before we could restore our father’s honor and get satisfaction for his murder in the rue Barbette — did they offer us compensation then?”

There was silence for a while. Charles kept his eyes lowered; Dunois stood unmoving.

“I am bound by my vows to Burgundy,” Charles said at last in a stifled voice. “I cannot break my word.”

“Go as quickly as possible to pay your respects to the King.” Dunois put both palms flat on the table and leaned toward his brother. “The King is now in Paris. Speak to him before you go any further. You can render great service to the Kingdom if you can find a way to reconcile the vassal princes and the King.”

Dunois looked searchingly at Charles, who stared thoughtfully at the papers before him. In this stout, flabby, greying man with his doubts and uncertainties, his fear of arousing displeasure, his eagerness to be of service, he saw little of the young warrior who had left Blois in 1415 to fight with the King against the English. Even in the past he had noticed that Charles was more amiable and more quickly inclined to indecision than other people, but he had never suspected his half-brother of calculated ambition, cowardice and stupidity.

“You would do well to listen to those who want to help you with advice and action, my lord brother,” said Dunois more mildly.

Charles sighed and looked up.

“I have obligations to Burgundy. I don’t see how I can withdraw my approval of the treaty of Arras, which by the way has never been rejected by the King, although he has never abided by its terms. I don’t consider it treason to do what the King himself has done. The only thing I refuse to do is to confess that I am guilty of being an accomplice to the murder of the late Burgundy. I am ready, of course, to pay my respects to the King as soon as I can get away from here. But in God’s name, brother, don’t make my task more difficult by being obstinate. Let us both put off the requested declaration, it is only a formality.”

“I won’t do that willingly,” Dunois retorted. “I refused to do it in ’35 because I could not consult with you; now I refuse because I do not agree with you.”

“Then I command you,” said Charles vehemently. “I am still the head of our House.”

“I’m sorry that you find it necessary to assert your authority this way.” Dunois stood erect with his arms at his sides. “I obey you as my lord. But don’t forget, Monseigneur, that during your absence, I served the welfare and honor of your House, body and soul.”

“Forgive me, but I cannot retract the command,” said Charles, lowering himself slowly into his chair. “I know that you will not desert me, brother.”

“No, you’re right there.” Dunois gave a curt, bitter laugh.

“I remember,” said Charles softly, without looking up, “how once long ago you advised me to conclude a pact with the enemy because you thought that if I did that I would be in a better position to serve the Kingdom in the long run. I followed your advice then, brother. You were only a young boy; I never reproached you later for leading me astray.”

After these words both men fell silent for a while. Pensively, Charles moved his spectacles up and down on the sheet of paper before him. Dunois stared with knitted brows at the tapestries, gleaming with gold and silver threads, which Burgundy had ordered hung on the walls of the halls and apartments of the abbey in honor of his guests. Finally, Dunois formally requested permission to depart; he saluted and quit the room with measured steps.

About the middle of January, Charles came with his young wife to Paris, attended by a great retinue of nobles, pages, servants and soldiers. Burgundy had generously given up a part of his court suite to add luster to Charles’ return to Blois. In addition, in all the cities which the Duke of Orléans passed through on his journey, noble families came to offer him their sons as pages or shieldbearers and their daughters as maids of honor in the hope that this would assure their children a good future. Beautiful gifts bestowed by the municipalities were carried along in wagons: gold and silver tableware, fabrics and tapestries, casks of wine — gifts which Charles had accepted with gratitude, because his own valuables had long since been sold or pawned. No less welcome were the sums of money offered by Bruges, Amiens, Tournai, Ghent and many other cities as contributions toward his ransom. No doubt it was all done to please Burgundy. Charles thought somewhat caustically that he must swallow all feelings of bitter shame over this charity accompanied by beautiful ceremonies; in truth, he could not afford to be proud.

So with Marie beside him, he rode into Paris in the midst of almost royal pomp. Richmont, accompanied by some high magistrates and courtiers, came to greet him at the city gates, but his arrival seemed to attract little attention. In the neglected streets with their ramshackle, peeling houses, groups of people stood here and there, watching the advancing procession with dull curiosity. That they were looking at the banners and ensigns of Orléans and Burgundy carried side by side aroused little surprise in a generation which did not remember the civil war which had raged thirty years before.

Silently, Charles looked about him, overcome by emotion. The city was gloomy, battered; the houses which had been chopped up for firewood during the last grim winter of occupation had not been rebuilt. Porches and shutters were missing from a number of buildings. The streets needed attention; they were full of holes and cracks and covered with refuse.

But when Charles lifted his eyes he saw the familiar outlines of church towers and castles against the sky.

Conversation dropped off; they rode side by side in silence through the somber filthy city on the way to the Hotel des Tournelles which belonged to Charles and which had been made ready for him and his wife. They passed the palace of Saint-Pol, now vacant, neglected, defaced, like so many other royal residences in the city. No banners fluttered from the towers, the gates were closed with rusty chains. Charles looked up at the dark rows of windows, hidden for the most part behind shutters; here Queen Isabeau had died some years before, forgotten and uncared-for, a secluded invalid. She had been seen for the last time at one of the windows watching the coronation procession of her grandson Henry VI; after that she withdrew forever into the shadows of Saint-Pol.

“I intend to pay my respects to the King while I am here,” said Charles to Richmont. “But where is he to be found at this moment?”

The Constable wrinkled his brow.

“Every day someplace different. He has no time to hold court. He travels from city to city, taking up details of business, searching out hotbeds of sloth and resistance, revising policies of state. I think you can find him in Sens, Orléans; at any rate he arrived there the day before yesterday.”

“Then I shall send messengers to Sens to ask the King for an audience.” Still frowning, Richmont cast a sidelong glance at Charles’ pale profile.

“Don’t expect the kind of reception Burgundy gave you,” he remarked. “Here we have time only for hard work.”

Charles began to smile. “Surely my royal cousin will wish to meet my wife and me, now that I have returned to France after such a long absence. He might want to talk to me about any number of important matters. I want to pay my respects to him not only as a kinsman but also as an envoy. Surely the King will find time for me.”

“I see that you don’t know him.” Richmont gave a short, irritated are exceedingly sharp-witted. Do you know what they call him? ‘Le Bien Servi’—he who is well-served. Believe me, those who serve him so well guard his welfare and the welfare of the Kingdom.”

Charles’ smile faded. He looked at Marie who rode on his right, pale with fatigue, shivering in her fur-lined cloak. She had heard nothing of the conversation.

“What do you mean by that, Richmont?” he asked, in a choked voice.

The Constable shrugged. “I wanted to draw your attention to something which you might not know yet,” he said calmly. “Perhaps you will listen to the advice of one who is well-informed.”

Charles could not help but think of certain events in London in the years 1417 and 1418. Silently he turned his head away.

In the days following his arrival in Paris he received envoys from the University, magistrates, a number of highly placed officials and priests who bade him welcome and offered him gifts; with great effort, in the impoverished city, they had collected a sum to be put toward Monseigneur’s ransom. A solemn mass was read in his honor in Notre Dame; the church was adorned, precious relics were displayed, the great bells pealed, and a crowd of curiosity-seekers who had gathered in search of amusement in the square in front of the church, cheered when Charles and his wife came outside.

Meanwhile, the couriers whom Charles had sent to Sens cooled their heels in the King’s anterooms. Scarcely a week after his arrival in Paris, the answer came back from the King.

“The Duke of Orléans is welcome, provided he comes accompanied only by a few loyal servants. No provision will be made for the arrival of armed men and a large retinue.”

“What does the King mean by this?” Charles, somewhat displeased, asked Dunois, who had been with him for the past few days.

Dunois stroked his cheek. He could not help but smile at the surprise and disappointment evinced by his brother, who had been so sure of an enthusiastic reception.

“It means that you must leave all these Burgundians at home,” he said quietly. “The King will receive his cousin of Orléans, but not Burgundy’s protégé.”

“Protégé?” Irritated, Charles flung the paper with its seal onto the table. “Everyone should understand that I do what I do of my own free will. I speak for peace out of conviction. It’s partly with my kinsmen of Alençon, Armagnac and Brittany that I support the aspirations of the Crown’s feudal vassals. For that matter I too have a few legitimate complaints. No one should take me for a puppet.”

“Go to the King and try to win his confidence,” Dunois advised. “It will not be easy, but it is worth the effort. I have done what I could to temper his distrust. I have tried to make your position clear to him, brother. Now it’s time for you to speak directly to the King yourself.”

Charles stood before the hearthfire with his back to Dunois; he did not answer. He was extremely annoyed. What difference could it make to the King whether he came to Sens with a dozen or with a few hundred followers? It was not so much that he himself was fond of ostentatious display, but he refused to allow himself to be denigrated. He felt that he had already been humiliated enough. The King’s demand was unreasonable; it seemed to have no other purpose than to demean the suppliant. Charles did not see how he could put up with it, especially since it also insulted those whom he represented. He would lose every shred of dignity, of authority, if he complied with the stipulations so condescendingly set by the King. Burgundy would not unjustly be offended if he, through Charles’ person, was treated in this way.

“Tell the couriers that I am cancelling my visit to the King,” said Charles coldly, without turning around. “Tomorrow I leave for Blois.”

The summer sun burns on the houses of Blois, which lie scattered over the hill on the right bank of the river. Because of the prolonged drought the river has shrunk in its bed; the water, sparkling in the bright sunshine, is bounded on both sides by wide sand banks where children play all day long and washerwomen kneel at the water’s edge. On the projecting plateau, a short distance up the slope of the hill, rises the castle, dark grey and weathered; but the shutters at the windows are painted bright blue and red, the ducal standards flutter from towers and battlements — from sunrise to sunset a procession of servants, pages, squires and officers of the Duke’s household travels across the bridges and through the gates. After twenty-five years, a re-animated Blois once again shelters Charles d’Orléans within its walls.

Activity in the many narrow, steep streets and the crudely paved squares is increased by the presence of the ducal family. The rumble of voices and footsteps, the stamping of horses’ hooves, the rattle of carts fill the city which for long years had echoed only to the murmur of brooks or the monotonous creak of a water wheel.

Stewards and kitchen and chamber servants can be seen walking among the stalls in the market as they used to do; on the meadows outside the city, pages and squires practice with bow and javelin. From castle yard and inner court the whinny of horses, the clatter of arms, reaches the streets of Blois once more. Often the young Duchess rides out through the fields with her ladies and her retinue in painted wagons, or on horseback, hunting birds in the deserted swampland on the other side of the river. Sometimes the noble company wishes to go boating on the Loire; on barges hung with streamers and tapestries, they are piloted downstream to Chaumont and Amboise, from which they return on horseback.

The people of the villages and farmsteads along the river hurry out to enjoy the charming spectacle; the noble ladies and courtiers in their bright attire sit laughing under the silk canopies on the ships gliding slowly past. The old happy days seem to have come back again — the golden days of chivalry when the cities thrived, the princes were generous and splendid and the people were well-protected. Those who live along the Loire in the region of Orléans and the lovely Touraine praise the Duke who has come back to them as a true prince of peace; they ascribe the new renaissance of prosperity, the restoration of order to these long strife-torn domains, to Charles’ return.

In addition, to many he is a hero, a martyr; those who were still children when he left Blois remember only that he fought at Agin-court and languished in English dungeons. They have known the misery of war too well not to give the Duke high praise when they learn that he is working earnestly for peace, that he is trying to bring about a rapprochement between the King and the discontented princes. It cannot be denied that he throws himself wholly into his endeavors. He travels incessantly, returns for only a few days, then sets off again with his armed retinue and councillors to Brittany, Armagnac, to Bourbon and Foix, and to the north, to Hesdin in Burgundy where he meets the mighty Duke. When he is in Blois, he is rarely seen outside the castle. Each glimpse is treasured of that figure clad always in black, of that friendly face.

There is no complaint even when he proclaims an increase in the tax on wine, salt and fruit. Everyone understands that it is most important for him to collect great sums of money in as short a time as possible; won’t he have to return to captivity if he has not paid his ransom in full in the course of a year? Don’t the English still hold his brother, Monseigneur d’Angoulême, under lock and key?

For this reason the people of Orléans and the outlying cities and villages endure without a murmur what might under other circumstances have moved them to rebellion. After the anguish and anarchy of the war years, the severe military rule of Dunois, the uncertainty and astonishment caused by the King’s new measures and reforms, the rule of Charles d’Orléans leads them back to the trusted ways of the past. Obedience and taxes are given in exchange for peace; the presence of the Duke creates the prospect of increased commerce, greater business opportunities, a new prosperity.

The noble lord himself is generous and kind-hearted; everywhere he is considered to be a national hero as well as an excellent poet. The ballads and rondelets which he sent occasionally from England to friends and kinsmen — letters in rhyme — are known outside the small circles of initiates; all men of letters have heard of them. Since the news of his homecoming has spread, scribes, bookbinders and illuminators have flocked to Monseigneur; they know that the Duke is a great connoisseur of books and manuscripts, that immediately on his return to Blois, he ordered his library brought from the cellar vaults of Font La Rochelle, that a few weeks later the books which he had collected during his captivity were transported by ships and wagons. The great folios were carried into Blois; Monseigneur’s librarian has told bystanders where these volumes came from; they are the books which once belonged to the Duke’s grandfather, Charles the Wise; the Regent Bedford had stolen them from the Louvre, but after Bedford’s death Monseigneur had succeeded in gaining possession of the precious manuscripts in London.

These and similar stories considerably enhance the Duke’s reputation; in addition, when he is seen in public, he has a good word, a friendly greeting for everyone. All the poor and homeless find a meal and lodging in Blois; no one knocks at the gates there in vain. He is the good Duke, “le bon due d’Orléans.”

How does Charles live since his homecoming? From the moment in the country road outside Orléans when two hundred small children stepped forward, with little flags in their hands, to bid him welcome, he has determined to justify the faith of the singing children and the elated populace lining the roads: he will bring peace, as a mediator he will end the misunderstanding between the King and his noble vassals.

For the first time since he set foot on the shore he sees clearly what he wants to do; he is now in a position to organize his impressions, to examine the facts which had confounded him during his stay in Saint-Omer, during his tiring journey, during the brief delay in Paris. When, after reaching the Loire, he rode through his beloved country past Gien, the fresh wind blew doubt and dissatisfaction from his heart. This is his country, this is the land to which he is devoted with all his being: the sloping fields, the broad river, the cities and castles entrusted to him since his early youth. This gently rising and falling land is, even in the winter, the garden of France, filled with color and life; brown and green hills, the houses and towers grey or russet and the sparkling river which changes at every bend — alternately silver blue or steel grey, ornamented with the sunken gold of the sand banks under the water, with small islands, with numerous ships.

Under this sky Charles cannot nurse a resentment against the King. While he rides on, feeding his hungry eyes, breathing in the fresh air, the odor of earth and water united in his lungs, he begins to realize what work he really wants to do. He does not want to choose a party, he wishes to be neither the leader of the feudal lords nor the King’s servant — he wishes to be impartial, independent, to cooperate to bring conflicting interests into agreement with one another. What Burgundy desires of him he does not consider incompatible with his own wishes. He has promised his powerful kinsmen to visit the vassals of the Crown, to hear their grievances and proposals, and then to ask the King’s consent to an assembly of the feudal lords at which they can air their objections and desires.

True, he suspects that Burgundy’s plan is not so harmless as it seems; he is fully determined to take no part in any potential conspiracy. He will act only as an intermediary. As a consequence of the meeting convened by the princes, he will undoubtedly be given the opportunity to visit the King; perhaps it will be possible then for him to overcome the King’s suspicions and recalcitrance, to show that he has come to play a role in the Kingdom which no one before him ever could have played, because there has never been anyone like him, who stands apart from all factions. When the King sees the importance of his task and recognizes the services of the mediator, the time will have come to discuss peace with England, to pursue step by step the path to an end of all hostilities between the two kingdoms.

In spite of his good will and zeal for the work, Charles cannot avoid the knowledge that a number of difficulties and disappointments lie in wait for him. He knows all too well that in practice he will not behave toward the princes with complete reserve. He is bound to them by blood ties and in addition he is dependent on many of them for his and his brother’s ransoms. They have already made promises to him about that; he is afraid they will expect repayment not in money, but in services in another area altogether. Even during the welcoming celebrations in Orléans, Beaugency and Blois, he sends his couriers and envoys to the courts of Brittany, Armagnac and Bourbon to announce his impending visit. Preparations are being made in Blois for his departure; the young Duchess, sick and weary of travel, will not accompany him. During the few days of rest before his journey, Charles prowls once again through the castle and its grounds. While Marie, surrounded by her young ladies, stays in her apartments in the women’s wing, Charles walks alone through the corridors and chambers where he had been accustomed to wander as a young boy, absorbed in thought then as he is now.

Much has changed in Blois; for years the castle was a fortress filled with soldiers, an important fortification in the Loire valley, a meeting place for commanders, a place where troops could be outfitted and exercised and supplies could be collected — all without hindrance. The years have left their mark on the castle. The rooms and apartments once intended to accommodate the ducal household have served other purposes. Before Charles’ arrival, some tapestries were hastily hung, some pieces of furniture put in place. It is clear that these are the few things the creditors have not taken. Only the tower room where Charles lived as a young man remains unchanged; the bed, reading desk and chair, the chest in the window niche. On one of the dusty shelves lies his old psalmbook with its worn leather binding.

In that small room Charles remains standing for a long time, overwhelmed by memories. Here he wrote his letter to the King; here he once discussed the English auxiliary armies with Dunois — here he lay at night staring, staring at the glow of coals in the brazier, thinking about the struggle against Burgundy, Armagnac’s arrogance, about the need for money and the restoration of honor. All this is a lifetime ago, when he was guileless, ignorant and trusted everybody. Charles sighs and shrugs; slowly he descends the circular staircase, goes through the wooden verandas along the southern wall of Blois, now completely overgrown with vines, and walks through the series of chambers in which he had lived with Bonne. Involuntarily he walks over the dusty floor as cautiously as if he were on consecrated ground. The chambers are empty; no tapestries hang there any longer; the embroidery frame has vanished from the window recess. Gone are the benches, the tables, the prayer stool; only in the bedroom stands the bed with the green curtains where he dreamed his childish dreams, struggled with his childish anxieties, where he slept with Bonne. He touches one of the posts with his hand and stares at the bare planks, the threadbare bound curtains. His eye falls on a number of small scratches in the wood at the head of the bed. He moves closer, takes his spectacles from his sleeve. He bends forward and peers at the letters “Dieu le scet” scratched in the wood with a pin.

A profound emotion seizes the man who, wearing spectacles before his nearsighted eyes, stays on alone in the forgotten, dismantled room, the only thing which remains to him of the few truly happy days of his life: an old bed, a memory, a greeting from her who once slept in his arms. Here she lay, waiting, hoping, praying, feeling for the ring on her finger: “Dieu le scet.” And once, on an endless summer night or on a stormy winter evening, to cheer herself she inscribed the motto “Dieu le scet” in the wood above her head.

With trembling fingers Charles removes his spectacles; blinded with tears which he restrains with difficulty, he walks back through the empty rooms to the inhabited part of the castle.

So in the year 1441 he travels to Nantes in Brittany, where the Duke has prepared a great reception for him. There he meets a number of old acquaintances who, to his annoyance, show him almost royal respect. The flattery goes against his grain: do they tacitly assume that he covets the throne? On all sides they offer him money and gifts; he must accept them gratefully in the name too of his brother of Angoulême. Among the noble guests at Brittany’s court he finds his son-in-law, the Duke of Alençon, whose wife, Charles’ daughter and only child, Jeanne, had died a few years earlier.

He does not much like Alençon with his polished manners and haughty demeanor. Bitterly Charles notes how relative the notion of kinship is; he feels no affection for this stranger; he realizes quite well that Alençon’s display of courtliness exists only because of his own supposed political importance. He cannot get the thought out of his head that, beneath the veneer of gallant civility, things are going on in the court of Nantes which cannot bear the light of day. Too many meetings for his taste have taken place which are abruptly aborted when a non-initiate approaches. During the hunt and at mealtime there are exchanges of words and significant glances which he does not know how to interpret. They are hiding something from him; they do not dare to take him into their confidence. He sees that the Duke of Brittany and his nobles are able to move uninhibited through the streets of Normandy, which is still occupied by the English; English lords, including the royal herald, are seen repeatedly in the midst of the hunting, hard-drinking Bretons. Charles’ son-in-law, Alençon, seems to be in the center of this group. Charles watches him, tries to tempt him to confide in him, seeks an explanation through cautious conversation, but Alenc;on gives vague answers, avoiding Charles’ eyes.

This puzzling activity of the Breton nobles disturbs Charles all the more since it is known that in the government of England the war party, under the leadership of the fierce Humphrey of Gloucester, are once again predominant. Those who want peace with France, who have given Charles d’Orléans his freedom, who looked with hope to the results of their efforts, have been relegated to the background. The English troops in France are stirring once again. Charles listens in silence: the news of the King’s victories in Creil and Pontoise provide him with food for thought. He understands why until now the King has resisted peace with England; luck has turned in France’s favor. The King no longer needs to include what he has recaptured in battle, in order to negotiate a peace treaty: England is weaker than ever, torn by party dispute; Henry VI, the grandson of a madman, has begun to behave more strangely every day.

To a degree, the temporary ascendancy of the war party in England is advantageous to Charles, because these lords, who had worked incessantly against his release, cannot blame him if after a year he has not satisfied the stipulations of that release. If there is no change in the atmosphere in Westminster, he will enjoy a reprieve for the moment. On the other hand, he is overcome by helpless rage when he thinks of his hapless brother, who has been a prisoner now for thirty years and whose release depends on the struggle of those who want peace.

For months Charles is on the move constantly, a guest now here, now there, in towering castles, fortified strongholds; everywhere he hears the grievances of the lords against the King. Everyone joins him in the hope that the war with England will end soon — even though their reasons differ from his. If the chances of war remain favorable to the armies of the King, he will unquestionably drive the English out. If he succeeds, he will be more powerful than any French king in nearly a hundred years — and when the King’s authority is unassailable, the feudal lords have little influence. Therefore they wish with all their hearts that peace will be effected before the King’s power has been confirmed.

“Yes, exactly,” says Charles thoughtfully again and again when they attempt in private conversations to make him a party to these opinions. “Exactly, certainly…” His past has trained him well. He can conceal his thoughts, listen calmly, answer courteously and never show anger, contempt or displeasure. To him this King is a strange, incomprehensible figure: at the outset he was a timid weakling, now from day to day he is becoming more feared and at the same time more respected. Charles does not yet know what attitude to take toward him. But toward the feudal princes he feels only distrust and a certain contempt. He realizes more clearly than ever how completely these men, all of whom want to be petty kings, subordinate the welfare of the realm to their own interests.

Heavy-hearted, he travels in October to Hesdin castle on the Flemish border where Burgundy awaits him.

His independence has sharpened Charles’ insights. He finds the man with the wide mouth, the unfathomable eyes, who has invited him to Hesdin for an essential discussion, quite different from the distinguished, courtly host of Saint-Omer. True, both Dukes are surrounded by the luxurious opulence which Burgundy cannot do without: a castle filled with hundreds of followers and decorated with flags and banners. Wine and game are brought in heaped on wagons; precious tapestries, crystal and golden tableware are brought for the Duke from Flanders. At each meal minstrels, harpists, jongleurs, jesters and bards display their skill.

And here Burgundy and his son come striding, the ten-year-old Comte de Charolais whom he has brought with him, in stiff ceremony, amid bowing and kneeling courtiers who follow the varying daily rituals with painful punctiliousness. But there is, for Charles at any rate, a perceptibly essential difference.

At Saint-Omer he, whatever Burgundy’s intentions might have been, was the guest of honor; but he comes to Hesdin like a vassal beseeching his sovereign. The man who is sitting beside him under a canopy of gold, sharply and coldly putting question after question, is a great statesman, ruler over a number of different territories. He who holds Holland, Friesland, Zeeland, Hainault, Gelre, Luxembourg, Brabant, Flanders, Picardy and Burgundy, as well as France-Comte, Bethel, Liege and Limburg united into a single kingdom, must indeed have the ability, to an exceptionally high degree, of weighing pros and cons so that they make sense, of serving a thousand conflicting interests and, in spite of everything, of maintaining his own power.

This man with his quietly controlled gestures differs strongly from him who spoiled Charles’ youth; he differs from Jean the Fearless, with his passion, his toughness, his stubborn grim rage; Philippe, whom men call “the Good”, possesses an effortless, innate royal ease, has an inner strength which overcomes almost any barriers existing on his chosen path to great accomplishments. The young Comte de Charolais, a princely figure in black and gold with the insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece upon his breast, sits looking attentively at what is going on. Charles feels almost sorry for the lad who must one day take over and rule this awe-inspiring inheritance.

Charles tells Burgundy about his experiences. His host makes few comments; he sits erect and listens, nodding almost imperceptibly from time to time. Finally he issues his orders — at least Charles considers them orders — that now the King of France must be informed of the proposed conference of the feudal lords, and he must be asked to send his representatives as well.

“You will preside yourself, worthy cousin,” says Burgundy, moving his large, shapely hand back and forth over the chain of the Golden Fleece. “You will lead the discussions and communicate the result in writing to the King. You will carefully explain all points, and you must not neglect to note your own grievances with the others. Finally, you will stress the fact that the princes of France demand that the King fulfil all the conditions of the treaty of Arras.”

“What do you expect from this conference?” Charles was watchful in his turn. “Do you hope to intimidate the King?”

Burgundy shrugs.

“That remains to be seen, fair cousin. It is not clear whether the King’s new determination and self-confidence is anything more than a mask. The conference will assuredly help to enlighten us about that.”

At Charles’ request, Dunois spoke to the King. Charles had expected some resistance, but the King, neither surprised nor reluctant, gave his consent to a meeting and sent his own chancellor to represent him. In February of the following year, the congress of feudal princes met in the city of Nevers; it was a purely formal affair with no other purpose than to demonstrate the unanimity of discontent.

Charles, who in his capacity as chairman had to listen to and lead all speeches, all arguments, all debates, was fully convinced, as early as the first day, of the dubious character of the assembly which had been announced as a conference “to advance the King’s interests.” The interests which were discussed were by no means those of the King. The Lords of Alençon, Vendome, Bourbon and a number of others petitioned for restitution or gifts of land, money, manors, high offices. They all complained about the new regulations, about the fact that the King did not consult with them on important affairs, about positions of power of burghers like Coeur, de Breze and Bureau.

Charles was confronted with the far-from-easy task of clothing these grievances and petitions in courteous, respectful language so that they could be laid before the King. Since he was expected to express his own desires as well, he noted in the document that he still awaited the restoration of the landed estates that had been confiscated from him in 1408; that he lacked the means to conduct himself as befitted his station, as well as to pay the ransom for himself and his brother of Angoulême.

Messengers brought the document to the King, who was inspecting his troops at Limoges. After a few days they brought back extremely unsatisfacotry news to the waiting princes. The King had listened to the reading of the document with impatient annoyance; finally, he observed curtly that he had no time now to reply to the lords one by one — they must be satisfied with his assurance that he would think over their demands and complaints. At the same time Charles received a letter from Dunois, who advised him emphatically to pay his respects to the King at once, without delay.

The King’s Grand Master approached Charles who sat waiting in the window recess of an apartment looking out over the roofs and inner courts of Limoges castle.

“The King can receive you, Monseigneur,” said the nobleman, bowing. Charles arose and allowed himself to be led through a series of small rooms hung with dark tapestries. At last they came to a door guarded by Scottish sentries; a few pages and members of the King’s retinue stood talking together in subdued voices in the very small antechamber, once an alcove, that led to the reception hall. The conversation ceased as soon as Charles entered the room; obliging hands opened the door studded with iron figures behind which the King must be found. Charles saluted and went in.

The King stood in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back; on the wall behind him a curtain of embroidered cloth slid down in folds with a soft rustle, and light footsteps could be heard withdrawing into an adjoining chamber, unmistakably a woman’s footsteps. Charles, kneeling in ceremonial greetings, glanced up at his royal cousin and namesake. He saw a man of average height with a large head, coarse features and light, distrustful eyes. The King wore a pleated brocade jacket which did not cover his thin legs with their bony knees.

“Stand up, stand up, cousin.” His voice was soft, almost timid. “So we meet at last, in spite of everything.”

He took a step forward and scrutinized Charles sharply as though he were looking for a resemblance in the face of his kinsman. At last he seemed satisfied; he half-turned and pointed to a bench placed on a dais. Charles followed him to the seat, suppressing a smile. He knew why the King had given him such a penetrating look: this shy, taciturn man had not yet reconciled the doubt awakened by his mother Isabeau’s repudiation of him. He had been — Charles sensed this keenly — uneasy before his meeting with his cousin; he had feared that a certain resemblance between them would provide new material for his own disquiet and new scandal for others. For a moment they sat silently side by side in the dusky room; outside in the courtyard could be heard the neighing of horses, the sounds of men’s voices; a hunting party was returning from an early ride.

“It was not possible for me to receive you before this,” said the King, in his soft, unruffled tone. “I have been continually occupied during the past few months. Of course you know that the English are still trying to recapture land and cities outside Normandy. They are slow-witted. And in addition there were too many disaffected lords for my taste busy making life miserable for well-meaning citizens with the help of mercenaries and wandering rabble. Since I ordered the execution of the Bastard of Bourbon, they are singing another tune. I trust they see now that it is not to their advantage to turn against me.”

Charles nodded in assent, but did not reply. The King continued. “Have you come here, cousin, to plead in person the cause of the vassals of the Crown and their partisans?”

“I would like nothing better than to be able to restore a good understanding between you and your vassals, Sire,” Charles said cautiously. “But I am here primarily to greet you and to offer my services to you.”

“Hm.” The King turned his head brusquely away. Charles looked at his profile: the large jutting nose, the slightly protuberant eyes, the globular forehead. “You did not render me good service by placing yourself at the head of a group of lords who want to thwart me. In the past your name has always been closely connected with our royal House; your brothers have served me faithfully.”

“I know that, Sire.” Charles bowed his head again. “Believe me, I too am striving for peace and unity. After my return to France I have needed time to acquire an exact insight into the state of affairs in the country. Under no circumstances would I wish to place myself at the head of any group which seeks to curtail your power. I want only to serve as mediator. That is easier for me than for anyone else; I’ve been away for so long that I can scarcely be considered partisan any longer.”

The King frowned and slowly shook his head. “Nevertheless I firmly believe that you had better give up your role as mediator,” he said. It was very difficult to tell whether or not he was annoyed. “If I need your services, I will definitely let you know, cousin. I have learned from your half-brother that you are willing to act as a go-between in the event we negotiate with England. At the proper time I’ll gladly remember your offer.”

“Forgive me, Sire. But I am not completely free to act as I wish.” Charles stared at the King, surprised: how could anyone have taken this man for an irresolute weakling? He who spoke there was completely conscious of his own power; he chose his words with the calm self-assurance of one who knows the ultimate decision rests with him. “You should understand,” Charles went on, “that it is extremely important to me that peace with England come soon. They would then undoubtedly be less rigorous about setting the conditions of the payment of my ransom and my brother’s. They might even consider releasing my brother. As long as hostilities continue, it will be exceedingly difficult for me to raise the requested amounts within the stipulated time.”

“Undoubtedly, cousin,” the King answered patiently. “You may rest assured that I shall make peace as soon as a favorable opportunity arises. So far as your financial affairs are concerned, I am ready to meet you halfway. Because of your services to the Kingdom, you were a prisoner of war in a strange land for twenty-five years. We have not forgotten that. It is my intention to compensate you in a certain measure for whatever losses you may have suffered under those circumstances. I have decided to award you an annuity so that you may conduct yourself in the manner befitting your rank. In addition, a document lies ready in my chancellery in which it is stipulated that I shall give you a sum of 160,000 gold ecus as a contribution toward your ransom. Be so good as to look upon this as a gesture of friendship.”

“Sire!” Charles leapt up, astonished to the bottom of his heart. “I don’t know what I can say…”

He detected for the first time a semblance of a smile in the King’s sad pale blue eyes, and something else which he could not explain. Struck by a sensation of unpleasantness, he lowered his eyes and sat down again.

“Say nothing, cousin,” the King said softly and calmly, “but do me a favor and return to your estates. You are settled in Blois, aren’t you? A beautiful region. I can think of no place preferable to the banks of the Loire. I envy you.” He sighed; his eye slid to the curtain which had been stirring when Charles entered. “It’s a great pleasure to linger amidst fields and forests in the company of…of one who is dear to us. Thank God, cousin, that you have been vouchsafed this pleasure. It will, I hope, cost you little trouble to sever the bonds which hold you to certain lords? You acted only as a mediator. Besides, the congress is ended. I have been busy answering each petition separately, a long and boring occupation, I can tell you that. As for the Duke of Burgundy, what prevents him from reciting his grievances to me personally? Does he need a group of men who have no connection with the treaty of Arras to promote his interests? I’m ready to receive Burgundy or his spokesmen. Perhaps you can arrange this in due time, cousin.”

The King stood up and walked slowly, somewhat stiffly, to the wide open window, past which pigeons, flapping their wings, flew continually back and forth, as though they were being fed at a neighboring window. The King, still smiling, stared outside, lost in thought. But suddenly his attention appeared to be caught by the noise of returning hunters in the inner court. He leaned forward and frowned; a line of pain ran around his large coarse mouth. Charles, who had followed him to the window recess, looked in his turn at the bustle below, at the nobles who stood talking together loudly in the center of the paved court, while servants and grooms led the horses away and collected the still-excited dogs. In this group a young man stood out because of his odd demeanor and slovenly dress. He had a sallow, sharp-featured face, lanky drooping hair and large hands. He stood with his shoulders slightly bent, his riding whip curved between his hands like a bow and glanced sardonically from one speaker to the other. Finally he said something in a low voice; the knights around him burst into loud, forced laughter which rang in Charles’ ears.

“My son Louis,” said the King, not without bitterness. “The thorn in my flesh, as they say. Your future King, cousin. Those who now turn against me and choose him as the pivot for these rebellions do not realize what they are doing. They think to use him, but believe me, he uses them all. The spider sucks his prey and leaves the shrivelled creature hanging in his web — one may take warning from that image.”

The King sighed again and stepped back from the window. He glanced at Charles’ surprised face and went on.

“The machinations of Monseigneur my son are not unknown to me, cousin. I know that he has corresponded secretly with Burgundy, that he repeatedly talks with feudal lords. I know that he encourages their oppositon to me. He does this only to upset me, although God knows that he hates no one in the world as much as he hates me. He has his own plans, he pursues his own path. Believe me, this treason within my own camp would be difficult to bear if trusted friends did not stand beside me. It is extremely important for me, cousin, to have good friends. It is worthwhile to be faithful to me.”

Charles bowed again. In the quiet, dim reception room, face to face with the King, whose tremulous smile sorted oddly with his calm self-assurance, he was overcome by a feeling of oppressive uneasiness. The King’s face seemed more enigmatic than ever. Charles did not know whether he should feel pity or aversion, suspicion or respect.

This man with his penetrating but timid sidelong glance had once been a sickly, nervous youth who bit his nails at receptions and chose to hide from all eyes; a weakling ruled by ambitious adventurers. Charles was conscious of a strong curiosity about the people who now stood behind the King. Unquestionably, the secret of his composure, his self-confidence, must lie in the nature of his support. Charles knew all too well that clever councillors and able magistrates could, by inducing a king to sign decrees and resolutions, give the impression that he was an authoritative and independent administrator. But which of these men behind the throne could point the way to self-discipline and self-control, the development of his own gifts, to an ailing, fearful prince? Jacques Coeur, perhaps, the banker, the King’s councillor and moneylender, a well-travelled man, nearly as rich and powerful as a prince himself? De Brezé, Dammartin, Bureau? All these patricians whom he had heard mentioned — until now — only in disparagement? But he doubted that they could succeed where even Dunois and Richmont had once failed. There were many who believed that the King’s mother-in-law, the skillful Yolande d’Anjou, had succeeded in bringing about the gradual transformation.

While Charles stared pensively at the figures on the tapestries before him, he thought he heard once more light rustling on the other side of the curtain. He recognized the sound: women now wore long trailing sleeves which rustled at every step and each movement. Between the folds of the curtain appeared the hesitant fingertips of a small hand. The King, who saw it at the same time, said quickly, “Worthy cousin, I regret to learn that you can be my guest for a short while only.”

The fingers slid back behind the curtain. Charles knew that, deceived by the silence in the room, whoever stood there had assumed the King was once more alone. He smiled and looked away.

Later at dinner he looked attentively at the ladies of the court; wives of lords from the retinues of the King and the Dauphin. The Queen, with whom the King, it was well-known, rarely remained under one roof, was elsewhere. The ladies who sat quietly with downcast eyes amid even less cheerful courtiers — the taste in the King’s court was for dull sobriety — seemed to Charles to possess about as much spirit as beautiful dressed-up dolls. It was not until the last day of his visit to Limoges that he found the answer to the question which preoccupied him. He was strolling, accompanied by a few lords from the royal retinue, in the gardens. The Dauphin Louis, who seemed to have gone out of his way to avoid him over the last few days, joined him now and lingered at his side between the hedgerows, the beds of clipped grass and flowering shrubs. He said little, but Charles felt his sharp, somewhat mocking gaze fixed constantly upon him. The King’s words flashed through his mind: a spider indeed, who while apparently busy spinning his web, does not take his eyes from his prey.

“Greet your son-in-law Monseigneur d’Alençon on my behalf, if you should see him soon,” said the Prince at last. “Tell him, if you will, that I look forward impatiently to news from him.”

Charles looked into his dark, sparkling eyes.

“I was not aware that you knew my son-in-law so well, Monseigneur.”

“We are actually very good friends.” The Dauphin laughed shortly. “We can hardly do without each other.”

A disagreeable sensation crept over Charles. Were they trying to lure him again into the dangerous world of intrigue? Was he supposed to recognize some sort of signal in the Dauphin’s words? Was he perhaps being put to a test? He was seized by annoyance and distrust of Alençon: a man ambitious and even unprincipled enough to become involved, if necessary, in the most repulsive conspiracies. Charles was at the point of making his distance apparent to the Dauphin when the latter clutched him rudely by the sleeve with curved fingers. Charles looked up, surprised and displeased; with a nod of his head the Prince indicated a side path. Under the linden boughs some women approached, carrying armfuls of roses. She who walked ahead was dressed like a queen; a veil, delicate as a cobweb, covered only a part of the luster of headdress and necklace. When she saw Charles and the Dauphin, she stopped and curtsied deeply; then she walked slowly past with lowered eyes. She had a young round white face and a very small mouth. Charles glanced at her hands. He knew for a certainty that this was the woman who had waited behind the curtain.

“Don’t you know her?” Louis the Dauphin whispered in his ear. “Her name is Agnes, Agnes Sorel, my royal father’s mistress, and not only mistress but council and parlement as well. There goes the real ruler of France, Monseigneur; don’t forget it.”

Charles complies with the King’s wishes. He returns to Blois for a longer stay than he has yet enjoyed. Now for the first time he has the opportunity to choose his apartments and make them really comfortable. He selects a series of chambers in the west wing of the main building with a view of the river. There his many books are arranged in specially constructed cases; there is the large table at which he likes to sit reading or writing; there the curtained chair can be pushed near the hearthfire or one of the windows, as Monseigneur wishes.

From the city of Orléans come new tapestries depicting the course of the Loire from its source to the point near Saint-Nazaire where it plunges into the sea. So within his own walls Charles can follow the beloved river, past castles and cities, between sandbanks and rows of poplars, between hills or high mountains, between vineyards and broad plains. And when these images seem somewhat lifeless to him, he has only to ascend two steps to one of the window niches. At the foot of the precipice on which Blois stands, he sees the water sparkling, he sees the leaves of the poplar trees gleam alternately bright green and silver grey in the sunlight, he sees the windmills turning on the bridge, ships gliding over the waterway.

Also in the multitude which surrounds him, individuals begin to appear. He appoints officials and functionaries, sets their salaries, assigns them duties. Many of them are Burgundians and Picards who joined him when he left Burgundy’s court for Paris, but from day to day the number of servants who hail from Orléans and Blois increases. The Governor of the domain of Orléans is Messire Jean des Saveuses who succeeded the faithful, vigilant Pierre de Mornay; while Charles was a prisoner des Saveuses repeatedly crossed the Straits of Calais to deliver money to the banker Vittori. In return for these services Charles has heaped favors upon him. Des Saveuses is his right hand and his friend.

Then there are the court chamberlains, the gentlemen from Charles’ Audit Chamber who enter income and expenditures on the books, and the tax collectors, the almoner, the clerks, the priests, the choirboys, the chamberservants with their staffs of tailors, cobblers, and furriers, the librarian, the armorer, the draper, the bookbinder, the goldsmith, the kitchen chefs and wine stewards, the cooks and scullery lads, the table servants and cup bearers, the gardeners, the stablemaster and his men, the horsemen and squires, the pages, the musicians, jesters, mountebanks and, finally, the man who enjoys the boundless confidence of the Duke and his household — Jean Cailleau, the court physician.

The Duchess has her own retinue, with maids and pages, harpists and fools, tailors and chamberwomen.

Living in the castle of Blois is like living in a small city; all day the stairs, corridors and galleries between the adjacent buildings teem with busy people who do their more or less important work with good cheer. All of them are partial to the Duke, who behaves like a lenient father, with a good word, a friendly greeting, a small gift at the proper time for everyone. He knows the names of all the children who play in the square and the inner court; he is always up to date on baptism and wedding celebrations, of those matters which bring sorrow and happiness into everyone’s life. When anyone is sick he comes to see him; he sends Messire Cailleau with medicines and salves; he gives money so that necessities can be taken care of.

In his books and trifling occupations, in his interest in the people around him, Charles finds the diversion which he needs. In Blois, that hive of diligent bees, he forgets his worries, his bad luck. His brief political activity has left a bitter aftertaste, a feeling of disappointment, of failure, of futile effort. He has told Burgundy in careful phrases that he wishes to abstain from further participation in the assemblies of the princes; however he is always ready to ask the King to grant an audience to Burgundy or any of the lords who should eventually wish to speak personally with the monarch.

At the same time he makes it clear that he will always be an advocate of peace with England, and that he will take advantage of any opportunity to work toward that end. He writes in this spirit, too, to the Earl of Suffolk, who belongs to the English peace party. But when will the long-awaited opportunity arise? When will the King find the auspicious moment to put forward proposals, when will the war party in England come to its senses? Thinking about his brother of Angoulême, Charles is filled by despondency bordering on despair. How much longer now?

But there is more. Charles is worried about his son-in-law Alençon, of whom it is said that he is ready to serve anyone who will provide him with money for gambling and debauchery. He is considered to be a drunkard and a rake, untrustworthy and dishonorable. It is whispered that he has already, in exchange for money and favors, bartered away into English hands a series of forts in Normandy and Brittany. Again and again Charles attempts to approach his son-in-law through letters and messages, to tempt him to visit Blois. Charles would like to break the alliance, but he is held back by the thought of his grandchildren. He must now seriously entertain the possibility that his daughter’s children may be his only heirs. The chance to have his own offspring seems dead; Marie, Duchess of Orléans, has a weak constitution; she has already been ill many times since her arrival in Blois.

In a confidential discussion, the physician Cailleau, shaking his head, has informed Charles of his conclusions: Madame is as fragile as glass: she is moreover anemic and suffers attacks of vague melancholy and listlessness.

The young ladies could tell him something about it: for days on end the Duchess stays in bed, weeping continually and refusing all food; then suddenly she wishes to bedeck herself as though for a fete. She orders her horse saddled or her boat prepared. Despite the admonitions and pleas of those concerned for her welfare, she goes out, in rain or sunshine. She laughs incessantly, appears untiring, gallops her horse through the meadows or stays all day on the water. She is as unpredictable as the weather in March; but her constitution suffers from this waywardness.

Charles nods and sighs, but does not reply. He knows that Cailleau, his old friend, is as aware of the source of Marie’s moods as he is. He remembers Isabelle’s tears, her fits of convulsive laughter; he had been too young then to be a good husband and now he feels he is too old to please his wife. He is well-disposed toward Marie; in his eyes she is a child with little in her head except concern for clothes, jewels, pleasure trips and similar things; she has birds and dogs, fools and musicians in abundance, a good horse and a whole retinue of young people around her. For his part, she may amuse herself to her heart’s content; what could she want with the company of a man whose years of worry and affliction have lasted longer than her life? He doesn’t want to trouble her; what would be the point? He is courteous and friendly to her and does his best to fulfil her wishes, but no one could expect him to behave like an ardent youth when he is one no longer. Never is it brought home to him more clearly how sluggish, fat and unattractive he is than when he walks beside Marie at receptions or on the way to church — a rather stout, grey-haired man trudging wearily beside a slim young woman who is taller than he.

When Cailleau thoughtfully suggests possible remedies, Charles shakes his head: pills and herbs cannot make Marie contented and happy. He watches her from a window above the inner court as she rides out among laughing, blushing maids, adroit young horsemen and frolicsome pages. Their clothing, in Charles’ eyes, is ridiculous: fierce colors, crenellated and scalloped sleeves, loops of small bells, shoes with long, turned-up toes that constantly threaten to trip them. But they are young: warm-blooded, seething with a lust for life. He is filled with deep pity for Marie: is she doomed to wither at his side?

Sighing, he turns back to the book which lies open on the table. It is a day when Marie and her cortege have ridden out to celebrate May Day. They have planted a maypole in the flower-covered meadow outside Blois. He cannot distract himself with reading and study. For the first time in many years, for the first time since he foreswore poetry after Bonne’s death, he picks up again the old copybook in which, during his captivity, he jotted down verse after verse. The bittersweet melancholy which he feels seems to him too narrow and transient for a ballad; he manages to capture it in a few rondelets. When the young people return laughing and singing from the meadow, carrying bouquets of flowers, Charles too has plucked his souvenir of the first day of May. Standing before the window he repeats under his breath the lines now written on the pages of his Thought Book:

Les fourriers d’Eate sont venus

pour appareillier son logis,

et ant fait tendre ses tapis,

de fleurs et verdure tissus,

The servants of Summer have come

to prepare his residence

and have hung his tapestries

woven from flowers and green leaves.

En estendant tapis val us,

de vart herbs par Ie pais,

les fourriers d’Este sont venus.

Spreading thick carpets

of green grass over the land,

The servants of Summer have come.

Cueurs d’annuy pisca morfondus,

Disu mercy, sont sains et jolis;

Allez vous en, prenez pais,

Hiver, vous ne demeurez plus;

les fourriers d’Eate sont venus!

Hearts long sunken in misery,

Thank God, are now healed and gay.

Go away, find another realm,

Winter, you live here no longer,

The servants of Summer have come!

In the spring of the year 1444, Charles at last received the long-awaited summons from the King. The English armies of occupation, driven back everywhere to the coastline, were more than weary of the struggle. At long last the government in London appeared mellow and ready to renounce all its demands. Although the King of France continued to besiege the cities still held by the English, he announced that he would receive a delegation, for the preparation of which Charles d’Orléans would act as intermediary.

Charles was charged to enter into communication with representatives of the English government; immediately he sent couriers to Suffolk and Sir Robert Roos. He did not have to wait long for an answer. Suffolk wrote back in detail: the legation which would speedily cross the Straits of Calais would serve a two-fold purpose: to conclude peace, or at any rate an armistice and, in order to confirm the good understanding between the two Kingdoms, to negotiate a marriage between Henry VI and the daughter of a French prince.

Princesses of royal blood who were already betrothed were not to be considered; moreover, memories of the tragic nuptials of 1396 and 1420 were still fresh in both countries. “But,” Suffolk wrote formally — Charles knew how strongly his erstwhile warden opposed the idea of a French bride on the English throne—”But we hear that there are daughters in the Houses of Brittany, Armagnac and Alençon.”

Charles paid a visit to his sovereign to acquaint him with the English proposals. The King rejected out of hand any alliance between an English king and a member of those French feudal Houses.

“Do they think I am going to admit the Trojan horse with my own hands?” he asked with his faint, bitter smile. “I charge you, Monseigneur my worthy cousin, to put yourself immediately in communication with my brother-in-law of Anjou; I can trust him without reservations. He has a daughter. It is our wish that you offer her as a bride to our cousin, the King of England.”

So Charles began at once to prepare for the journey to Tarascon in the extreme south of the realm where Anjou lived; still mindful of his claim to Sicily, he always called himself “King”. He was some ten years younger than Charles; from his father he had inherited a glittering series of sonorous and imposing titles and claims to crowns: he should rule — so he had been taught from childhood on — over Jerusalem, Aragon, Valencia, Majorca, Sardinia and Corsica, Barcelona and Piedmont. In actuality he possessed only the domain of Anjou, and the regions of Provence and Lorraine which his wife had brought to him as her dowry. King René—he was never called anything else — had, since succeeding his father, been obliged to wage one war after another to protect his rights, battles in which he had been defeated time after time, so that of so much worldly power and glory, of a kingdom which stretched from Spain to Jerusalem, nothing was left except the gleaming crown emblazoned on his coat of arms.

Along with the Duchy of Lorraine, his wife had brought him armed conflict with Burgundy. The results for René were defeat and six years of captivity in Flanders. During that enforced stay in Burgundy’s court, it became apparent that René was a gentle visionary, an aesthetic dreamer. Burgundy freed him without compunction and saw his assumptions justified: in sunny Provence King René immersed himself in his many hobbies and bothered no more with politics.

“We have definitely settled all our business,” mused King René, rising and drawing the folds of his wide, flowered brocade robe around him. “No more politics, worthy friend, no more of that. Let’s enjoy the sunshine together as friends; here the good God grants us so abundantly all the joys which life has to offer. I have hardly had the chance to tell you how delighted I am at your coming here. We are brothers, dear friend, brothers, more firmly attached to each other than if we had been linked by bonds of blood.”

Charles stood up too, somewhat dizzy from the heat and the blinding glare of the sunlight on the landscape around him. They had held their conversation under a spacious awning of tapestries in the open gallery which King René had had constructed, in the Oriental fashion, against the walls of his castle in Tarascon; one sat there as though one were sitting on a cloud high in the sky, with an unimpeded view over the richly variegated landscape.

The cool amber wine proffered by the pages seemed headier than its aroma might lead one to expect; Charles felt remarkably carefree, as though he had partaken of the nectar of oblivion. He took the hand which his host held out to him and allowed himself to be led inside the cool shadowy halls of the castle; lute players and minstrels accompanied the princes. They passed through many apartments adorned with Moorish mosaics; finally they went down some stairs.

King René clapped his hands and nodded to his followers: nobles, pages and servants stopped behind them. Charles and his host stepped together through a small arched gate cut into one of the outer walls.

“Yes, follow me, worthy friend, follow me!” King René looked behind him, smiling and nodding; his white teeth gleamed in his broad olive face; he made a grandiose gesture of invitation. Charles bowed in assent; he was somewhat taken aback but amused at the almost childlike pleasure of his royal host, who had confessed that he attached infinitely more importance to his visitor’s poetic art than to all the honorable messages from the French and English governments together.

King René opened a little door, so narrow and low that they both had to stoop. When Charles looked up, he could not repress an exclamation of amazement. He was standing in a walled courtyard filled with blossoming trees and bright flowers; paved paths traversed the garden where three fountains played. Exotic, brightly colored birds sat chained to swinging perches set among the branches of the bushes; the air was filled with their penetrating sweet fluting and twittering and with the heavy fragrance of the flowers. The walls surrounding the garden were so high that only the tops of the trees on the other side could be seen. Above the garden and the treetops arched the dazzling deep blue sky.

On one side of the little door through which Charles and René had entered, stood a pavilion without walls; above a floor of large shining tiles a canvas had been stretched between poles; it drooped to one side to temper the light. Beneath that awning stood a bench, a slanted reading desk like the one Charles used and a table heaped with boxes, cases and folio volumes. To this bower King René, still nodding mysteriously, led his guest.

Charles entered the pavilion, feeling that he had left the everyday world for one of the symbolic fairy gardens described in the Romance of the Rose. He stared enchanted at the exotic birds and flowers, at the grass and leaves suffused with a greenish glow, while King René busied himself at the table and the reading desk.

“Look here now.”

Charles gave ear to the gently urgent tone in which the request was made and turned around. King René had set out a number of small wooden panels on which were painted miniatures in brilliant jeweled colors, in the style of the Flemish masters whose work Charles had seen at the court of Burgundy. He was strongly interested; he removed his spectacles and leaned over to inspect the paintings.

“These are singularly beautiful,” he said after a while. “Who painted them, Monseigneur?”

King René had watched Charles with quiet intensity as, one by one, he took the little panels in his hand; now he began to laugh. In his large, round face his jovial black eyes glittered like stars. “Do you really find them beautiful, my friend?” he asked happily. “That pleases me. I too find them excellent. I painted them.”

“You have great skill,” said Charles, surprised. “These are real works of art.”

King René bent over the table so that his face almost touched the paintings; carefully he caressed the wood with his fingertips.

“Yes, they are beautiful, they are good,” he repeated a few times in a pleased voice. “The colors are well-mixed. Look at how lovely that blue is — that cost me a fortune in lapis lazuli. But it’s worth the cost, this beauty is worth it. I taught myself to paint when I sat in Flanders as a prisoner,” he went on, looking at Charles. “That was a pastime for me, just as poetry was for you in England.”

“Apparently you still derive much pleasure from it.” Charles smiled and pointed to the dozens of paints, the reading desk, the brushes and jars for mixing the paints. “Unfortunately, the world claims too much of my attention; I cannot dedicate myself to the thing I love.”

“The world, the world?” For the first time a shadow crossed King René’s childishly good-natured face. “What do you call the world? Conferences, affairs of state, war, diplomatic maneuvering, money worries, obligations to all the world and his wife? Do you know what the world is?” He gripped Charles’ arm and directed him to look once more at the panels: with his broad brown forefinger he pointed at the paintings: holy pictures, scenes from mythology, emblematic figures. “That is the world; there is the world for me,” he said, his voice filled with affection. “During the hours I spent on that, I felt like a completely fulfilled man for the first time in my entire life. I am never so contented, so deeply happy, so filled with gratitude to God who created me, as when I sit here with my brushes and my colors and create little creatures, small worlds, on the wood. This is the world, Monseigneur my friend, and all things outside it are only dreams and illusions, lighter than smoke. Don’t tell me that you don’t know this already.”

“I have often thought almost the same thing,” said Charles thoughtfully, still smiling. “But I was never able to express the idea so clearly as you, Monseigneur. I have never dared to suppose that poetry could constitute the meaning and the purpose of my life. I thought that I had … and have … many other responsibilities to perform. My time does not belong to me alone.”

“Friend, friend!” King René raised his hands and shook his head. His eyes began to twinkle once more. “You still have much to learn. You don’t know yourself, esteemed friend. Be honest, confess that you really only live when you are thinking of poetry, or poetically thinking. I have had the privilege of reading a few of the verses which you sent some time ago to your wife in Rodez. Ah, let us not fall into comparisons, let’s not name names, or mention Virgil or Horace whom we have learned to love and respect as great poets. The blackbird and the skylark know how to sing as well as the nightingale, and the fact that God has created them shows there must be room in the world for their song. Monseigneur, worthy friend, your songs are not the conventional rhymes which we all learn to compose at one time or another. Your heart is in them, they are warm and true as … as …” he waved his large hands back and forth, searching for the right word. Charles, still smiling, shrugged.

“It’s certainly true that if one is touched to the heart, he will write good verse,” he said lightly. He felt that he could never be able to speak so enthusiastically, so openly, as King René did.

“And what prevents you from loving with all your heart, from being overcome with delight or even with grief, if that’s the way you feel?”

Charles followed his host out of the pavilion into the blinding sunlight; they were met by the intoxicating, bittersweet fragrance of roses and oleanders.

“When Madame Bonne d’Armagnac died, I asked in verse to be dismissed from the service of Love,” Charles said, in his usual tone of jocular melancholy. “Since then I have hardly ever taken up the pen. I live under the protection of Nonchaloir — philosophical resignation, calm cool acquiescence … in that state one cannot be incessantly inspired to write verse. Although …”

He stopped and stretched his hand toward a cluster of flowers.

“In your enchanted court, my lord, I could almost imagine myself young and in love again. Yes, if I thought about that possibility long enough, I am afraid that rhymes and images would shoot up in profusion in my heart, like the flowers in his garden. I would need only to pluck them.”

“And what stops you?” René’s face was radiant with happiness. He seemed on the point of saying more, but suddenly he put his finger to his lips and nodded his head toward a flowering thicket. Out of the foliage came two white peacocks walking regally as queens; they moved their plume-crowned heads haughtily from left to right, letting their long, folded tail feathers trail behind them over the grass. When they perceived that they were being watched, they stood still and slowly opened their great snow-white fans.

“Monseigneur my friend,” whispered King René, “don’t our knights hold fast to the beautiful old custom of swearing especially solemn oaths on noble birds — herons, swans, peacocks? It seems to me that everything is conspiring to lure you away from your promise. Swear that you will not disavow the deepest desires of your heart, that you will no longer resist the muse who is our truest friend and mistress. Swear that you will no longer give yourself up to the sin of unhappiness.”

For a moment there was silence in the garden which sparkled with light and colors. The peacocks moved noiselessly over the grass, the glossy leaves and fragrant flowers of the tall shrubs hung motionless against the deep blue of the heavens. Finally, Charles raised his right hand in a gesture of avowal. It seemed to him that he had never made a more significant promise.

Balades, chançons et complaintes

Soot pour moy mises en oubly,

Car ennuy et pensees maintes

M’oot tenu long temps endormy.

Non pour tant, pour passer soussy,

Essaier vueil se je sauroye

Rimer, ainsi que je souloye.

Au meins j’en feray mon povoir,

Combien que je congnois et sçay

Que mon langage trouveray

Tout enroillie de Nonchaloir.

Ballads, chanons and laments

Are put away from me and forgotten,

For ennui and crowded thoughts

Have long held me asleep.

But yet, to pass the lonely time

I should like to try and see

If I can rhyme as I once did,

Although I know, I realize

That I shall find my phrases

All rusted over with Nonchaloir.

…

…

Amoureux ont parolles paintes

Et langage frois et joly;

Plaisance dont ilz soot accointes

Parle pour eux; en ce party

J’ay este, or n’est plus ainsi;

Alors de beau parler trouvoye

A bon marchie tant que vouloye;

Si ay despendu mon savoir,

Et s’un peu espargnie en ay,

Il est, quant vendra a l’essay,

Tout enroillie de Nonchaloir.

Lovers paint with words

And fresh charming language;

They know Pleasure very well,

It speaks for them; I was once

One of them but am no more;

Then sweet talk was cheap for me,

I had all I wanted;

And so I speot my wit,

And if I have saved a little

It proves when put to the test

All rusted over with Nonchaloir.

Mon jubile faire devoye,

Mais on diroit que me rendroye

Sans coup ferir, car Bon Espoir

M’a dit que renouvelleray;

Pour ce, mon cueur fourbir feray

Tout enroillie de Nonchaloir.

I should celebrate my jubilee

But they would say I surrendered

Without striking a blow, for Good Hope

Has told me that I shall be renewed;

So my heart shall be refurbished

That is all rusted over with Nonchaloir.

During the early part of the summer the King received the English legation at Montils. For the first time in years the court set aside its characteristic sobriety: fetes, banquets and tournaments added luster to the visit of the English lords. King René and his wife arrived; they brought their daughter Marguerite with them, a pretty girl of fifteen. Suffolk, charmed in spite of himself by the King’s bride, raised scarcely any objections when the French disagreed with Henry VI and his government about the terms of the peace treaty. The King of France was willing to give up Guyenne and Normandy as fiefs, but insisted on retaining sovereignty over these lands. After long discussions, over which Charles presided, a temporary solution was finally reached by which neither side had to give up an inch: an armistice was signed, to last for two years. Charles took advantage of this opportunity to discuss with Suffolk his own obligations to England: payment terms were set up. At the same time Charles and Suffolk signed a document which laid out the conditions, in minute detail, for the release of Jean d’Angoulême.

Although the embassy returned to London immediately after the discussions, Charles’ work was not over by any means. The King, now that the hostilities with England were part of the past, intended to devote his time to the total annihilation of the marauding bands of mercenaries who still roamed the countryside; accordingly he instructed Charles to take charge of all negotiations and preparations for the marriage by proxy of young Marguerite of Anjou. Charles discharged this duty as conscientiously as possible, although he had no interest in that sort of activity. He felt very tired; the incessant travel to Paris and those places where the King made successive stops, was beginning to weigh heavily upon him. He was not involved only in diplomacy. He made use of his journeys through his own cities and landed estates to get the administration of his possessions in order.

Above all, he left no stone unturned to gather together the amount needed as an advance deposit on his brother’s ransom. Whatever he managed to collect, either as a loan or a gift, he sent in installments to Suffolk’s bankers, who would attend to further arrangements. Finally, in the spring of 1445, he received the news which he had eagerly awaited for so long: the guaranteed sum of 150,000 ecus was now complete, thanks partly to regular contributions from Dunois. Jean d’Angoulême was about to cross the Straits of Calais.

Charles would have liked nothing better than to go at once to Calais to welcome his brother, but because of the nuptials of Marguerite of Anjou, he had to go instead to Nancy. King René had chosen the capital of his province of Lorraine as the scene of the festivities. He spared neither trouble nor expense to make his daughter’s wedding the pinnacle of the art of courtly living.

From all parts of the country, princes and nobles streamed to Nancy to witness all the spectacles and to see the bride, in a dress strewn with silver daisies, being led by Suffolk to the altar where she swore loyalty to her lord and husband, Henry VI, King of England, in joy and sorrow, in sickness and in health, until death should them part.

All day long the great bells of the cathedral of Nancy pealed, and the people, beside themselves with joy at the conclusion of a hundred years of war and upheaval, could not stop cheering the young Queen of England, wishing her a long life, praising and honoring her as though it were she herself who had created the peace. After the festivities the court returned to the castle of Châlons, where the King had chosen to take up residence. Charles d’Orléans and his wife, following the example of most of the nobles gathered in Nancy, accompanied the royal cortege — not so much to attend the tournaments and contests to be held at Châlons, but rather at long last to greet Jean d’Angoulême who had sent word that he intended first of all to pay his respects at court.

Charles d’Orléans was one of the few noblemen who preferred the cool, quiet rooms of the castle to remaining outdoors in the tennis courts, the meadows and the hunting fields. He chose to spend his time in the library; the King had a fine collection of books, chiefly chronicles and histories. While Charles sat comfortably reading — so he whiled away the days until his brother’s arrival — his young wife Marie sought and found, in the company of the courtiers, all the amusement and variety that her heart desired.

Among the knights who had come to Châlons in the hope of winning glory in passages at arms, was a young man named Jacques de Lalaing, who had had the benefit of being brought up at the court of Cleves. He had been a playmate of Marie’s older brothers. Often, when she was a child, she had looked on while the boys were exercising, running or trying to break in their horses. When Jacques de Lalaing came forward to greet her at the court of Châlons, she was moved, almost frightened, to recognize this knightly figure as a vision from her childhood; the man who approached her in the splendor of his youth and fame — he was already considered to be an invincible champion at single combats and tournaments — seemed to her to be the Swan Knight of the legend, the hero whom she had once hoped would come to her over the Rhine. During the following days, Marie tended more and more to curse the fate that had allowed her only now to meet de Lalaing.

They saw each other continually because they were both part of a group who attended upon Margaret of Scotland, the young wife of the Dauphin. Around the crown princess, vivacious, restless and capricious, the celebrations never stopped; there were so many hunting parties, banquets, dances, strolls in the meadows, poetry contests and games of skill that Charles scarcely saw his wife. He was wholeheartedly delighted that she was enjoying herself in this carefree way, but not many days went by before he realized that it was not only the diversions and the sunny open air that brought the flush to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes. Preparations for the tournament were in full swing: an arena had been laid out, a stand built for the spectators and the masters of ceremony had their hands full determining the order of the single combats and mock battles. Charles’ attention was drawn to de Lalaing, who was expected to be the victor.

Charles saw that the young man was skilled at sport and play; he was strong and handsome and knew how to comport himself with courtesy. It was also apparent that he was fairly taken with himself and was interested only in arms and competitions. He reminded Charles of a young cock strutting proudly and pugnaciously around a strange barnyard. The desire to joke about him faded, however, when Charles noticed Marie among the women who were taking pains to induce de Lalaing to wear their colors or their veils and ornaments as good luck charms during the tournaments. Soon it was no secret that two young noblewomen of the court, Madame d’Orléans and King René’s daughter-in-law, were openly bestowing marks of favor on de Lalaing; he was at the side of one or the other at table, at dances, out riding and at the hunt.

Displeased, Charles followed the merry group with his eyes when they were all together in the banquet hall or the gardens. But he did not consider that this was the proper time to point out to Marie the folly of her behavior. Besides, he did not want to make himself ridiculous; there were already enough people who hesitated to congratulate him on the possession of so young a wife.

The day of the great tournament approached; expectations in Châlons rose even higher when it was announced that the King intended to take part in the tourney.

By chance Charles witnessed an encounter between his wife and Jacques de Lalaing that increased his worry and uneasiness. A beautiful house in the city of Châlons had been put at the disposal of the ducal couple; the members of their retinue were housed there too. Usually Charles returned late in the evening with his cortege; Marie not infrequently arrived from the castle after him. On the eve of the tournament the Duchess and her retinue had halted before the gate while Charles, attended only by a page, had just entered the obscurity of the arched doorway. Servants had dashed out holding aloft torches; by this light Charles saw his wife dismount, assisted by de Lalaing, who had accompanied her. Marie did not release the young man’s hand.

“Jacques, dear friend,” she said in a tone which Charles had never heard her use before, “when I was a child I saw you with my brothers. I have known you for so long that I believe I am not making an illegal request if I ask you to wear my colors in the tournament.”

De Lalaing looked at her, smiling. “Madame, he who cares with all his heart for the brothers must also serve the sister.”

“Jacques, you’ve been so busy the last few days preparing for the tournament that we’ve seen each other only to say goodbye in the evenings.”

“Better late than never, Madame,” de Lalaing replied in a subdued voice while he stepped back bowing. Marie’s women had also dismounted and now approached to lead the Duchess into the house. Marie was visibly disappointed and uncertain; she seemed to be torn for a moment by an inner conflict. Finally she drew a ring from her finger and thrust it toward de Lalaing with a brusque, almost desperate gesture that brooked no refusal. Without waiting for a response she dashed through the arched doorway, brushing past Charles who had withdrawn into the shadows. She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she did not see him.

Stands had been set up around the arena and hung with banners and tapestries; since Charles was condemned to spend the greater part of the following day there, he had ample opportunity to observe from close by that Marie was scarcely able to control herself. She showed no interest in the opening skirmishes between knights on foot in heavy armor. But her listlessness vanished when de Lalaing rode into the arena on a charger hung with gold and silver decorations. Charles saw that many eyes were fixed upon her; but his annoyance changed to pity when he became aware of the cause of her confusion.

On his helmet and his arm de Lalaing wore not only Marie’s colors, but also those of the Duchess of Calabria, King René’s daughter-in-law; he had taken care to protect himself from suspicion with a prudence that Charles found less than commendable. For both women the only recourse was to treat the affair as a joke. Madame de Calabria laughed and applauded in apparent unconcern, but Marie d’Orléans sat pale and motionless beside her husband behind the railing hung with tapestries, and did not speak a word. Charles, who was afraid that she was going to burst into tears, took her hand and pressed it hard. She gave him a terrified look, but took the hint to heart.

The next day when Charles returned from the solemn church service which marked the closing of the tournament, the King’s heralds came to inform him that Jean d’Angoulême was expected to arrive in Châlons toward evening. Charles spent the succeeding hours in mounting restlessness; the meeting with his brother signified for him not only the fulfillment of a long-cherished wish, but also the end of all his political and diplomatic worries.

He was now fifty years old; his physical stamina, never put to the test during his years of captivity, was obviously not equal to a life of travel, often under difficult circumstances. He tired easily; dizzy spells and a pain near his heart dictated a quiet life. Besides, his eyesight was not good; he had already had a half-dozen pairs of spectacles made with succeedingly stronger lenses and he had a recurring fear that his eyes might fail him when he had most need of them. He wanted to go back to Blois, to spend a few quiet years on the banks of that sparkling river, at long last to fill his days with thoughts and occupations that were not vain or fleeting. Looking back on his life, he could find only a haphazard tangled cocoon of deeds and thoughts of which, after all, nothing remained except torn webs like those which hang in the hedges after an autumnal evening shower. He was sometimes troubled by the fear that when his time came, he would leave this life dissatisfied, embittered, disappointed, believing that he had missed every opportunity to gain peace of mind and real happiness.

Jean d’Angoulême arrived at the castle before the evening meal. Charles was in the King’s retinue; pale and upset, he looked on as his brother was led into the hall. He scarcely recognized the man who approached, bowing and paying his respects. An ample robe of state hung in loose folds around his thin body; he was somewhat stoop-shouldered and coughed from time to time. He had a large head, a lined, wrinkled face and mournful dark brown eyes. His hand, which he raised when the King greeted him, was so thin that the knuckles protruded. He spoke formally to the King in a soft, toneless voice, but his eyes were seeking Charles’. When at last the brothers embraced, they were overcome by bitterness rather than joy. Silently, each put his arm about the other’s shoulders; each ran his eyes sadly over the face of the other.

My God, what ugly old fellows we have become, thought Charles. What a life we have led, he and I, since we embraced at Blois, so filled with noble, heroic sentiments, when he offered himself as a hostage. He must often have bitterly regretted his willingness to do that.

But in the days following the meeting, Charles had ample opportunity to perceive that in his brother’s heart there were no feelings of regret or reproach. During his captivity, Jean d’Angoulême had become a pious, gentle, philosophic man; he had meditated a great deal, studied a great deal and read extensively. The world and all its turbulence seemed strange to him. He looked on at court life with somewhat childish wonder; to Charles’ surprise he announced that he would like to take part in one of the round dances which were held after the evening meal. “I have never danced,” he said apologetically. “I should like to try it once.”

With a grave expression on his face, he performed the steps he was shown. But he did not let himself be lured into a second attempt. From that time on he was satisfied to remain an onlooker at the amusements of the young people.

At court the carefree stimulation of spring weather brought new excitement and new discontent. Everything seemed as dashing and festive as before, but under the surface streams and counter-streams were beginning to flow. The King had not let the pleasant summer, the period of peace and happiness after so many reverses, go idly by. While his guests amused themselves he, accompanied by Agnes Sorel, had attended the meetings of his Council; the new decrees, so long in preparation, were adopted, the plan for reforming and improving the army had now taken definite shape.

Charles prepared to set forth; his reasons for travel were not the same as those of his equals in rank. He was heartily sick of his stay at court. And more important than that, he thought he had better take Marie away before she inflicted damage on herself and her good name. Marie protested against leaving with tears and entreaties, but Charles remained adamant. They would go to Paris, accompanied by Jean d’Angoulême, to have a full discussion of the affairs of Orléans and the paternal inheritance with Charles’ sister. The prospect of the journey and the stay in Paris could not rouse Marie from her state of dejection. She sat silently beside her husband in the coach, staring listlessly at the landscape bathed in summer sunshine. Charles would have liked to have been able to console her; he tried incessantly to think of ways to express his sympathy for her unhappiness, but he could not find the propitious moment for so intimate a conversation. He was afraid that any attempt on his part would only cause further estrangement between him and his young wife.

In Paris they took up residence in the somewhat dilapidated Hôtel des Tournelles, but they spent most of their time with Charles’ sister Marguerite, Countess d’Etampes, who received them hospitably and with great joy. The problems of the inheritance and administration of the domain were settled amicably. Angoulême wanted to stay in Paris for a while, but Charles, grateful that his labors had ended, decided to leave at once for Blois. However, before he left Paris he wanted to visit the chapel of Orléans in the Celestine monastery; he had never been there before. For a long time he knelt in prayer at the gloomy stone slab beneath which rested his father’s body and his mother’s heart. A few steps away he saw the tiles with the family coat of arms set above the graves of his three brothers, whom he had never known.

He knelt unmoving, lost in thought. Perfect silence reigned in the chapel; a singular odor of incense and faded flowers hung in the air; sparkling motes of dust swirled in the rays of light which entered through the stained glass windows. At last he rose, sighing with the effort. In his prayers he had received no answer to the question which troubled him: whether those who slept here had found peace, whether they knew tranquillity, whether at long last their desires were stilled.

Charles joined his retinue where they waited outside the choir gates, in the church. Accompanied by des Saveuses and Cailleau, his court physician, he walked slowly past the altars and tombs on his way out. At this hour of the day the church was deserted; only one woman knelt praying before the image of the Mother of God, her face concealed by the folds of her headdress. While Charles lingered in the vestibule of the church near the statues of his grandparents — Charles the Wise holding a building on his open palm, Queen Jeanne with her tapering fingers folded in prayer — there was a loud commotion outside the church where the grooms were waiting with the horses.

Charles followed the gentlemen of his retinue who had rushed out together. A youth had tried to cut the purse of one of the squires; he had been caught immediately. Charles looked at the boy who was being held firmly between a pair of soldiers; a thin lad with a dark face and hostile eyes. He was nearly suspended between the two men; his sinewy bare feet were tensed, his eyes roamed uneasily. It was clear that he was looking for the first opportunity to escape. Charles, who knew what fate awaited a thief who was caught in the act, shook his head in annoyance — he did not know how to proceed with this boy. He had no desire to deliver the apprentice cutpurse over to the Provost.

“This means branding,” he said curtly. “At least if it is the first time you have tried to steal.”

“Anyway it is the first time I was caught,” the boy said in the rough, bold tone of one who had grown up in the streets.

Charles stared at him, not without surprise. “If that is proven, then you go to the gallows. Do you know that?”

A spark of mockery glimmered in the youth’s dark eyes. “What do you think? We live on the road to Montfaucon!”

“At any rate, you have a ready tongue,” Charles said drily. “What is your name?”

The thin dark face tightened. “François,” he muttered in a surly voice.

“What are you doing here near the Celestines? I should think you and your companions would be wise to stay in the Halles quarter or on the other side of the Seine.”

François stared sullenly at the ground. But when des Saveuses remarked with irritation that Monseigneur surely did not need to give this boor the chance to defend himself, the youth said quickly, “I am waiting for my mother; she is in the church.”

Charles asked one of the pages to fetch the woman whom he had seen in the church.

“If it turns out that you are lying, I will hand you over myself,” he said sternly, while he drew on his gloves. The youth smirked, but he abandoned his fierce watchfulness; his body relaxed. When the woman was brought before Charles, she burst into tears.

Yes, that was her son, the nail in her coffin, the thorn in her flesh, she acknowledged, weeping, a youth like a devil, whom she could not keep at home, a youth full of tricks and caprices, as slippery as an eel and as cunning as a fox.

Charles gave the woman some money and then turned to François who had listened to his mother’s words with downcast eyes but with his mouth twisted into an expression of contempt. “Do you know who I am?” Charles asked. The youth shrugged indifferently while he cast a quick glance at the banner held by the riders, and the trappings on Charles’ horse.

“The King’s family,” he said gruffly. He looked again and added somewhat hesitantly, despite his show of insolence, “Orléans, I think.”

Charles beckoned to the gentlemen of his retinue and prepared to mount. As he was about to set his foot in the stirrup he said, with a glance over his shoulder, “Let him go.”

The men who held the youth released him reluctantly, but François did not hesitate for a second. Even before Charles was seated in the saddle, the young thief had vanished like lightning among the houses opposite the church.

In the hottest days of August the Duke and Duchess of Orléans arrived in Blois. Marie retired immediately to her apartments, suffering from a fresh attack of melancholy. Charles was worried; he could do nothing but walk back and forth absorbed in thought in his study, or sit in the coolness of a window recess, gazing pensively outside. One evening after supper he broke his routine and went to the series of apartments which Marie occupied, and had himself announced to his wife. Marie lay in bed, but she was not yet asleep. The chamber was full of young ladies busy putting clothing away in chests, carrying jugs and basins, preparing a night drink. Two small dogs ran under everyone’s feet, nipping and yapping angrily at the chambermaid who was pulling the bedcurtains closed. Belon, Marie’s dwarf, sat sadly in a corner, eating figs.

Charles’ arrival created a great sensation: the maids vanished, stumbling and curtseying in haste and confusion, into a side room; it was extremely unusual for Monseigneur to visit the Duchess in her bedroom. Belon tottered, limping, after the ladies; only the dogs remained. They ran to meet Charles, barking fiercely. Marie sat up in bed and looked at her husband in alarmed bewilderment. In her muslin nightcap she looked like a child who is afraid of punishment.

“Lie down, Marie,” said Charles reassuringly, with a soothing gesture. “Lie down. Forgive me for visiting you at such an unusual hour, but you have not left your room for days now. And I would like to speak calmly with you for once, ma mie. Allow me to sit at the foot of the bed. Could you perhaps get those creatures to quiet down? I fear we will not be able to hear our own words if they go on like this.”

Marie clapped her hands; the dogs sprang onto the bed and settled themselves near her on the coverlet. Charles sat down carefully and gave his wife a friendly smile to put her at ease. But Marie remained nervous and fearful; the flush of terror did not leave her face. Charles sighed and ran his hands over his eyes for a moment.

“Do I frighten you so much, child?” he asked, shaking his head with a certain irony. “Surely you must know that I think only of your welfare. I have never desired what you did not wish to give me freely. You know me, Marie.”

Marie hung her head, abashed, but did not answer. Charles went on, looking away from her.

“I know that I am a tedious old man, hardly attractive company for someone like you, ma mie. God is my witness that in my heart I have been bitterly sorry for you since the day that you had to accept me as your husband. I have reproached myself incessantly for not declining the marriage with you while it was still possible. We are a very unequal pair, child. I am fully conscious of the fact that I cannot make you happy.”

He remained silent for a moment, staring with averted face out the window at the evening sky, tinged with yellow and as clear as crystal. “But look, that is the way things are now — we are bound to each other for life. For your sake, ma mie, I hope it will not be too long before you are free. Until that time we must try and live together. I know only too well what it means to have young, restless blood and be unable to allay your desires. Believe me, Marie, I know what you are going through. Because I lacked self-discipline, and because I was in despair and filled with impotent rage, I sinned during my exile; I was tempted when I was wretched, I desired what was not mine, and I took it. I forgot the dignity worthy of my rank and the honor of my House. Experience, bitter experience, has taught me that honor gives the deepest satisfaction after all. It seems meager solace and harsh advice, but unsuspected strength comes from the realization that one lives according to noble laws. The diamond is broken and cut so that it can sparkle as brightly as possible. Do I tire you, do you wish to go to sleep now?” he asked suddenly and gently, for Marie was leaning back against the pillows with her eyes closed. She shook her head in denial.

“Don’t think that I came here to scold you, Marie,” said Charles, attempting a jocular tone. “That would ill become me, I am not good enough to do it. But I have thought long and earnestly about how I could make your life easier, how I could provide amusement for you, how I could help you find a meaning and a purpose for your days. What we both greatly need here is a child to care for; therefore I have asked my worthy cousin of Bourbon to permit us to bring up his youngest son as though he were our own child. I hear that he is a pleasant, handsome lad, five or six years old. Tell me what you think of this, ma mie?”

Tears appeared under Marie’s closed eyelids; she raised her hand quickly and wiped them away.

“Do you think that you would have enough to do if you looked after the little boy?” Charles asked, watching her with tired concern. Marie’s lips began to tremble; she nodded.

“Then there are still all sorts of other things which could bring peace and forgetfulness,” Charles went on cautiously; he leaned against the bedpost and fixed his eyes on a small star which sparkled in the still-light sky. “Here in Blois we have a hidden treasure of books, ma mie, for which great scholars envy us. You told me once that you can read Latin too — so a world lies open to you in which you can travel at will. There are so many landscapes and vistas to admire that one entire lifetime is not enough to see everything and understand everything. I don’t know if I have spoken to you about my mother — but you know her story? For many long years she lived in loneliness and anxiety; it is only now that I understand how deep the sorrow was which she had to bear. But in adversity her nobility of character appeared. She did not complain, but she set an example for everyone. My mother sought and found solace in reading what wise men and great poets had written to direct us to a path in the impenetrable forest which life is. It is an image which was familiar to me when I was a child. My mother said once: Life is a long awaiting of God’s peace. And I know that my father considered himself to be one who had irretrievably lost his way in the forest of long awaiting. We too seek a path in the wilderness, ma mie. Perhaps we shall wander inaccessible to each other, each in a different place. But shouldn’t we try to find each other? Trust and sharing of views, these could bring us together.”

Again he was quiet and turned his face toward her. Marie raised her eyes to meet his.

“Perhaps one day we shall reach the end together, the way out of the forest, where the meaning of our wandering will become clear to us. I know that the journey which I propose to you is fraught with hardship and danger. Perhaps I am demanding too much courage from you. Think about it, but believe that everything that concerns you touches my heart deeply.”

Charles rose and nodded to his wife. “Rest well, ma mie.” Marie did not answer; she lay motionless, gazing at the embroidery on the tester. Quietly, Charles left the room.

As soon as he returned from exile, Charles had sent messengers to his cousin, Filippo Visconti, Duke of Milan, inviting him to discussions concerning the domain of Asti which had been under Filippo’s protection since 1428. According to Dunois, the agreement had been made on the condition that the rights of the protector would expire as soon as the legal heir and owner of Asti was in a position to exercise the rule himself. After a long delay, Filippo Visconti had informed Charles’ messengers that he would return the domain in his own good time; but in spite of warnings, petitions and verbal demands, he had not kept his promises and the taxes went, year in and year out, to Milan.

Charles considered the possibility of selling Asti and its environs to his cousin, but Dunois emphatically pointed out to him the value to France of retaining such a strategic point on the other side of the Alps. The King of France still carried the title of Lord of Genoa, so if he should ever again wish to assert his authority there, the possession of Asti was of inestimable importance.

After Charles had returned to Blois, Dunois visited him almost daily. He too had left Châlons; the summer fetes had come to a tragic end with the sudden death of Margaret of Scotland, the young wife of the Dauphin.

“I don’t know if I should mourn for her,” said Dunois with a shrug. “She had a sad life. The Dauphin made no secret of his dislike for her; we were constant witnesses to the way he tormented her. The poor girl will have peace in her grave anyway. Now a violent quarrel has broken out between the King and Burgundy — or I should say that Burgundy is angry; the King always keeps himself aloof and lets things drift. He sees that in Burgundy’s power lie the seeds of his own destruction. That Kingdom will surely crumble now that all that holds it together is one man’s ambition.

“I believe that six or seven languages are spoken within the borders of Burgundy’s territories; furthermore, all the Dutch and Flemish cities have their own law and privileges which they will protect with tooth and nail. Already deputations of burghers are coming to ask the King for help; the ones from Ghent have visited Chalons many times. Believe me, the King is on the right road, the only road, to cure Burgundy’s arrogance. By waiting to see how Burgundy’s powers are dissolved through domestic uprisings and turmoil, the King will accomplish far more than he could through taking any stronger measures.”

Finally, the matter of Asti came up for discussion. Dunois believed that it was time now for Charles to press energetically for the return of that territory; if necessary, the King should send representatives to Milan to make it clear that their patience was exhausted. Charles named his brother governor of Asti and empowered him to take whatever measures he deemed necessary for its restoration. Dunois had wanted nothing more than this; he decided to cross the Alps as rapidly as possible. However, before he could leave Blois for his own domain where he would make his preparations, there appeared — this happened in the last days of August — couriers from Asti with alarming news.

Filippo Visconti had died childless in Milan; on his deathbed he had named as his sole heir and successor his kinsman, the King of Naples, despite the fact that the latter had considerably less right to the succession than Charles, the son of Valentine Visconti.

It was immediately clear to Charles that he, by himself, was not equal to this flood of complications. He would have to give up his claims on Milan. If he wished to save Asti — the inhabitants of the domain, fearful of new unrest and violence, implored him not to abandon them to their fate — he would have to employ force to defend his rights, to protect his territory. He himself had no money to raise an army, and in any case because of the King’s purges, there were no mercenaries to be found. In all probability the few remaining bands existed only on the other side of the Alps in the service of Sforza and other condottieri.

Nevertheless Charles had reason to believe that he would surely be aided by those who had more power at their disposal than he; Dunois had already gone to discuss the matter with the King, and a courier had arrived posthaste from Flanders to inform him that the Duke of Burgundy was acquainted with the situation and was not disinclined to grant assistance to his worthy cousin of Orléans. Charles understood perfectly well that for this offer he had to thank Burgundy’s desire to thwart the King rather than any friendly solicitude.

So Charles quit Blois once more with a heavy heart. He hurried to Dijon where the Burgundian companies waited. For the first time in more than thirty years he rode again at the head of an army. He did not look forward to sitting on horseback wearing armor for the better part of a day. But the people of Asti were incessantly sending messengers, urging him to prepare the defense of his realm as rapidly as possible; they said that they considered him to be the lawful heir of Milan. While he rode on at the head of his troops, along the roads which led from Lyon to Tarascon — they would cross the mountains at the extreme southern point — Charles weighed over and over what the Lordship of Milan was really worth to him.

His grandfather’s duchy was a valuable but extremely perilous possession; it would perhaps give him temporary power and wealth, but it would also force him to spend the rest of his life in disquiet and great anxiety. On the other hand, he knew that his brothers, his sister, his daughter Jeanne’s children and his kinsmen in the House of Orléans expected that the assertion of his claim would increase their substance, honor the memory of his parents and preserve his mother’s inheritance for her legitimate descendants. Their obligations had to weigh more heavily than his own desires.

After an extremely tiring journey in scorching heat, Charles finally reached Asti. He found the city — with its white and yellow-tinted houses set high amid hilly vineyards with a background of blue mountains — to be as beautiful as a vision. Bubbling streams flowed over crags and stony precipices to the fertile plateau which ringed the city; to honor Charles, banners in the colors of Orléans fluttered from the rooftops against the azure sky. But the delegations of burghers who came, wrapped in festive white garments, to meet the Duke outside the city gates exhibited a pleasure that was obviously forced. Inside Asti were couriers who had arrived a few hours earlier, bringing news of the defeat of the French troops at Bosco. Charles’ captains, on learning this, decided that it would now be senseless and foolhardy to march against Sforza; they refused to spill the blood of their men in the massacre which would undoubtedly result from such recklessness.

Charles consulted with the city administration of Asti; not long afterward he sent three groups of lawyers and orators, each group with strongly armed escorts, to Milan, to the court of the French King and to Burgundy’s court in Flanders. Those who went to Milan had been charged to draw the populace toward loyalty to Orléans; the messengers to France and Flanders would request reinforcements.

The Duke waited in Asti in the house of a notary. In a cool chamber, shaded by an awning, he passed the time playing chess with the physician Cailleau or with his chaplain, when he was not dictating letters or edicts to the secretary whom he had just taken into his service. This was a young man named Antonio who had a beautiful handwriting and spoke and wrote fluent Latin. He had attracted Charles’ attention during the welcoming ceremonies when he paid tribute to the Duke by loudly reciting stately Alexandrine rhymes which he had written himself, and in which he compared the Duke with Aeneas because of his respect for the memory of past generations, with Cato because of his grave dignity, with Job because of his patience, with Ulysses because of his constancy in adversity, and which he concluded by wishing the Duke the military glory of an Alexander, the long life of a Nestor, the abundant offspring of a Piramus and the wealth of a Xerxes. Charles had listened to all this flowery praise and blessing with the necessary self-mockery, but he was amused by the young man’s enthusiasm and imaginative energy. When, in addition, Antonio proved to be a zealous and capable clerk, Charles took him into his service and promised him that later in Blois he would appoint him to the post of secretary.

From France and Flanders came no encouraging responses; the unfolding of events in Lombardy, Sforza’s victories, did not dispose the King or Burgundy to interfere in the Milanese affair in the near future. Charles realized that the vague promises they had made were tantamount to refusal. He disbanded his troops, since he could no longer pay them, and sent them back to their homelands. He too left Asti; not, however, without promising the people and the officials that he would make every effort to persuade the King of France or some other powerful prince to furnish him the means to assemble an army which could defend Asti against the menacing “protection” of Sforza.

Charles kept his promise; he did what he could. Instead of returning to Blois, he travelled with a retinue of trusted friends to see anyone who might be able to give some help in this affair. Although the roads in northern and central France were barely passable because of rain and snow, Charles crossed the country without allowing himself any rest. While he visited his friends and kinsmen and applied for help to the King and Burgundy, his secretary Antonio wrote letter after letter to his fellow countrymen in Asti, urging them in the name of his lord to be patient and have courage. Charles’ efforts were futile: Burgundy made promises but did not keep them, and the King, wholly absorbed by a fresh dispute with the Dauphin, had no interest or inclination to attend to his cousin’s problems. When, after a final interview with the King, Charles returned to his temporary quarters in the city of Tours, he had an attack of dizziness. Cailleau, who was nearby as usual, considered that he had the right this time to be seriously annoyed; Monseigneur made too many demands upon himself and refused to heed the warnings of his physicians. Nature was not to be trifled with; Monseigneur would now learn this for himself.

Charles, lying in bed with his left hand on his painful, irregularly beating heart, agreed silently with everything his physician said. He did not protest when Cailleau gave instructions to prepare for a return journey which would be covered in small stages. So Charles finally made his entry into Blois, to remain there at least for the time being. He who had ridden forth at the head of an army had to be brought back home in a litter, an object of curiosity and pity to the people along the road.

For the secretary Antonio, surnamed Astesano, the years of service to the Duke of Orléans slip by with the careless lightning-speed of the leaping, singing waters which flow through the city of Blois. Antonio is almost as fond of Blois as he is of his native city in the Italian Alps; in one respect, he thinks, Blois wins the laurel: in the little old houses in its narrow streets dwell more beautiful maidens than the easily inflammable clerk has seen anywhere else. The longer he lives there, the more impressive the castle seems to him; he cannot praise the broad shining Loire enough, and not only to please his lord, who can sit hour after hour lost in thought, gazing at that silver-blue or green-black shining water which hurries, hurries to the sea.

As far as life in Blois goes, Antonio is of the opinion that he could not have been able to strike it luckier. In Blois the atmosphere is one of a perpetual holiday. People are lighthearted, always ready to laugh and joke and (a fortunate discovery for one who, like Antonio Astesano, wishes to gather literary laurels!) everyone is interested in poetry. More wonderful still, everyone writes poetry, although often with the aid of a rhyming dictionary. For poetry contests are the order of the day in the castle of Blois; they are, it is said with amusement, the Duke’s only weakness. Nothing pleases him more than to gather guests, officials and servants around him after the evening meal when work is done, and propose a theme to them which they must then work into the form of a ballad or a rondel. After that, silence prevails for hours: there are knit brows everywhere, lips moving without sound, eyes staring vacantly into space.

When at last wine and refreshments are brought in, the competition begins: those who have successfully composed a verse step before the Duke and the judges — who change every week — and recite their work loudly. The Duke is all ears, he sits at ease on his bench, his black mantle thrown comfortably around him, tapping his forefinger softly against his lips, or toying with his spectacles. Beneath his snow-white hair, his dark eyes seem exceptionally large and lively in his faded, wrinkled face as he glances from one to the other. They look, to everyone who sees him thus, like the eyes of a young man.

Usually these poetry contests in Blois are extremely informal: the physician competes with the chancellor, the chief auditor with a chamberlain; the Duchess rhymes hard against a page or clerk, and the Duke has more than once extended the laurel wreath to his valet or to the chaplain of the castle chapel. But occasionally the great hall becomes more solemn, when Monseigneur receives high-born guests, or when a famous scholar or poet visits Blois; then the decorations and the preparation of refreshments receive more than ordinary care. Life in Blois is frugal, although the costs of maintenance are not insignificant, but when guests arrive no effort is spared. The finest fish, the best fruit, the noblest wine are brought and passed around and the Duchess orders her few really valuable pieces of tableware to be polished and displayed on the sideboards.

Antonio is enthralled by what the professional poets come up with; they are obliged by their calling to contrive ingenious rhymes, to employ exceptionally beautiful images, to sustain symbolism in the most precise way once they have chosen it. But all may be said to have acquitted themselves worthily of their tasks, to compose with almost offhand ease verse which is at the same time significant, clever and melodious, or so it seems at any rate to the listener who is nearly blinded by such a dazzling display of ballads, virelays, songs and rondelets. But the Duke has a sharp ear, a keen eye; he can instantly detect a false note, a bit of tinsel. If he nods his head thoughtfully, the poet can sit down satisfied. But when he allows a versemaker to come into his study and pushes a certain book with loosely folded pages toward him, requesting that he inscribe his ballad or song therein, then the poet may be certain that he has won the greatest praise Monseigneur can bestow — a place in the Thought Book. Many have seen it in Monseigneur’s hands or on his writing table, but only a very few have had the privilege of reading it.

Monseigneur’s verses are heard only when he takes his turn during a poetry competition; gazing pensively at a point on the wall or outside the window, he recites, in a soft monotone, what he has just composed. When he finishes, he comes to himself; he smiles rather self-consciously and gives a friendly wave to the next speaker.

Antonio Astesano has begun to write a great chronicle, in which he will record the history of the House of Orléans and demonstrate from documents on hand the legality of the Duke’s claims to Asti and Milan. Monseigneur is interested in his work and has furnished him with much material. But as he writes, Antonio is troubled by feelings of sorrow. He will have to conclude the chronicle with the life of the Duke himself, for the House has no heirs. No son of Orléans will ever turn the leaves of Antonio’s book; it will be no invaluable guide, but only a survey of forgotten things. Antonio is fully conscious that the prospect fills the Duke too with regret and bitterness; from the way in which, in the court or outside on the road, Monseigneur greets the numerous children who have been named for him — whom, at their parents’ requests, he has presented for baptism — it seems obvious enough that he, more than any man, would have rejoiced in the possession of a family of his own.

Insofar as the Duchess is concerned, she behaves with more restraint toward the children who continually cross her path, but the impressionable Antonio finds her coldness more disturbing than Monseigneur’s somewhat melancholy openness and good nature. The Duchess of Orléans has become, over the course of ten years, a pale, taciturn woman who — and this is noteworthy — takes great pains to support her husband in the management of the household at Blois, in the entertainment of guests and in the practice of good works. Madame still likes to hunt, preferably with falcons, but the time of boating on the river, of ecstatic horseback rides or round dances in the meadow, is over for good.

Very old people in Blois, who can still remember the late Lady Valentine, often say that the Duchess shows, day by day, a greater resemblance to Monseigneur’s mother. Each time they see Marie d’Orléans sitting in the great hall or, from a distance, in the cool shadowed garden arbor, dressed in black as always, with an embroidery frame or a book before her and equally industrious court ladies around her, it seems to them that time has stood still for fifty years. Even the black wall coverings with the motto stitched in silver — Rien ne m’est plus, plus ne m’est rien — hang once more in the Duchess’s apartments, and Madame wears the ornament which Duchess Valentine never removed after her husband’s death: a fountain of tears cunningly constructed from silver and tiny glittering gems.

Fancywork seems to have become a passion for Marie d’Orléans; she busies herself chiefly with crocheting beads and buttons from Cyprian gold thread. Everyone has received these as gifts from her; Monseigneur wears them on his jacket and cloak, and they are threaded into his paternoster. It seems to Antonio that the Duchess is never cheerful or happy; she tries to be friendly to everyone, following her husband’s example, but her heart does not seem to be in it. Even the little dogs and birds which she keeps near her always, she caresses absently. Now that Bourbon’s son Pierre de Beaujeu, whom Orléans has raised as a foster child, has grown into young manhood, he no longer needs Marie’s attention. If anything can make her realize profoundly that time gives no quarter, it is the presence of this tall adolescent squire who once — it seems only yesterday — entered Blois as a little child.

One day in the summer of the year 1456, Antonio set out at noon in company with a few other clerks from Monseigneur’s office for the great hall where the repast was about to be served. They walked quickly through the garden, only pausing for a moment near the walled pond which the Duke, not long before, had had fitted with a fountain. Standing in a rock in the center of the pond was a bronze gargoyle. The splashing of the streams of water springing from between its lips, out of its nostrils and ears, was usually audible in the innermost chambers of the castle. But the fountain had been silent since that morning; there was something wrong with the ducts. The Duke, who had missed the familiar sound, had come to the well that morning, joking that he would die of thirst next to his fountain. Antonio and his friends mounted the broad stairs to the hall.

There the preparations for the meal were in full swing; under the supervision of the steward, Alardin de Monzay, three or four servants were busy putting tops on the trestles, unfolding the linen cloths. A youth ran about with a basket, from which he strewed fresh leaves on the floor. From one of the deep window recesses came smothered laughter; two of the Duke’s pages stood there joking with Pierre the fool. The harpist, one foot resting on the steps of a bench, attentively tuned his instrument. Antonio went into another window niche, knelt on the stone seat and leaned forward to look outside.

The southwestern portion of Blois looked like a gigantic green-and-bronze-tinted tapestry. In the last few years vines had taken possession of nearly every open spot on the old wall. The village of Blois lay at the foot of the precipice in the burning midday sun. The river was low; the reflection of the sunlight on the exposed sands was so dazzling that Antonio involuntarily closed his eyes.

As he leaned on the window seat, dozing in the warmth, he caught the conversation going on among the jocular group in the next window niche. With exaggerated intonation, the fool was reciting a rondeau consisting of nothing but nonsense words, accompanied by the jingling of bells.

“Stop it, Pierre,” said one of the pages. “In the name of anything you like, spare us from poetry for a while. If we aren’t in church, we are rhyming. About love, about the four seasons, about the kindness of Madame the Duchess …”

“What do you want then?” replied another youth. “The Duke doesn’t like the hunt and he is too fat for games of skill and horseback riding. Can you imagine him jousting?”

“He had fights enough when he was young, at least if you can believe the stories. He should certainly know something about what goes on. Don’t forget he has been through Agincourt!”

The fool began to titter shrilly.

“We have another hero of Agincourt, gentlemen; only look at Messire de Monzay who stands there surveying the tables like a commander with his battlefields!”

“Hey, de Monzay, I didn’t know that!” cried one of the pages. “Were you at Agincourt, man?”

“Hush, hush, hush!” the fool whispered so sharply that he could be heard in the farthest corners of the hall. “Do not bother Messire. He won’t be happy to be reminded that the English stripped him stark naked and let him run away like that.”

The pages laughed, half in derision and half in scandalized astonishment. De Monzay said, in a choked voice, “It would have been better for me if they had killed me, or sent me to England with the Duke.”

“Man, you would have died from boredom on the other side of the Straits of Calais,” cried the fool. “In that climate! I’ve been told that the fog is so thick in London that you can’t see three steps in front of you.”

“The Duke must still consider himself lucky that they let him go.”

“He may well, but his purse still feels the pain.” The fool uttered a terrifying series of moans and gasps. Suddenly he stopped and said in a normal voice, “Listen, the harpist is playing! There must be a lady nearby. Unless I’m wrong, even two ladies. There come a couple of the Duchess’s young women, the two prettiest if I’m not mistaken …”

The easily enflamed Antonio Astesano, who was accustomed to wooing all the court ladies in turn — until now, however, in vain — hastily emerged from the window niche. The two young ladies, Isabel and Annette, floated gracefully into the hall. From their fashionable pointed hats hung veils of white muslin. They tried to maintain a dignified demeanor, but in their bright eyes sparkled the inexplicable, irrepressible delight that seizes maidens as soon as they enter the company of men whom they know they can tease. They glanced derisively with feigned hauteur at Antonio, who bowed, at the pages who gave them a friendly greeting.

“Messire de Monzay, the Duchess has left her chambers,” said Isabel. “Monseigneur and Madame will be here shortly.”

With a gesture the steward indicated that everything was ready. He clapped his hands; the servants, who had set down the plates and goblets and arranged the slices of bread in a great pile on the serving tables, lined up against the walls.

“Is it true that we will have a poet as guest again tonight?” Annette asked de Monzay curiously. This was the opportunity Antonio had been waiting for; even before the steward could answer, he sprang to the fore to give the requested information.

“Messire François Villon has arrived, a poet from Paris.”

“From Paris, yes above all, from Paris,” cried the fool shrilly. “He is banished from Paris, ladies, I hear he is a fine gentleman. Robbery, murder, whoring … and on and on. He stood once with the rope around his neck. We shall surely hear a different kind of verse this evening from what we heard last week when Monseigneur read a poem about the foolish hats-with-tails that you wear. Monseigneur will soon rhyme as creditably as a fool. Then I can do away with myself.”

“Ah, don’t mock,” said Annette angrily. “Monseigneur is kind and courteous. We know perfectly well that his heart is occupied with other things besides our hats. He is only being cordial to us. This winter he gave me two golden ecus, because I had lost all my money at cards.”

“It is evident that young ladies especially know how to appreciate Monseigneur’s qualities.” The fool slapped his hands together once with exaggerated courtliness. “How many sixty-year-old men have the happiness to be consoled for the misery of life by so merry a young lady as the Duchess?”

The maidens exchanged annoyed glances. Annette said brusquely, “Monseigneur is not ‘happy’ and the Duchess is not ‘merry’. Now keep quiet; they are coming.”

Charles d’Orléans entered the hall through the great door; he led his wife by the hand. He wore, as usual, a loose, dull black cloak with no girdle. His hair was now completely grey and very thin; his teeth were going bad. He walked with difficulty; the spring had been damp and he suffered from stubborn rheumatism. But anyone who caught his dark glance, who noticed the sensitive, ironic lines of his lips, the lively gestures of his still youthful hands, forgot quickly that Monseigneur had crossed the threshold of old age.

The Duchess looked half a head taller than her husband, who always walked with something of a stoop. Her long oval face, with its full cheeks and high forehead, was pale; around her mouth were lines that hinted at mournful resignation. The ducal couple were followed by members of the household; the chamberlain, the treasurer, the court physician, the librarian, the lords of the chancellery and the Duchess’s ladies. Between the clerks and the scribes walked the guest, Villon, in a doublet that had been hastily cleansed of dust and dirt. From time to time he passed his palm over his freshly-shaven jaws. His eyes, dark and restless, took swift and sharp stock of the faces of the household and the interior of the hall. Charles and his wife sat down on the bench under the canopy.

“Take your place, Messire,” Charles said to Villon, who remained standing somewhat uncertainly among the people who were going to sit at the lower end of the table. “De Monzay, bring our guest somewhat closer to us so that we may chat with him …” As Villon was seated, the Duke said to him, “I’m afraid you may find our meals here at Blois rather frugal. But our wine is good.”

“I’m aware of that,” Villon said. “I have had the opportunity to taste it more than once.”

While the dishes were being handed around, Antonio Astesano who, during the customary prayer at table, had glanced stealthily at the guest from time to time, said to his neighbor under his breath, “The fellow looks like an outlaw.”

“He is one, more or less,” replied de Courcelles, one of the masters of the chancellery. “He roams around the neighborhood; he’s usually drunk and he’s always mixed up in something scandalous. It seems he wintered at Chevreuse.”

“Chevreuse? But that’s a nunnery, isn’t it?”

De Courcelles winked. “The abbess is young and I hear that she likes poetry.”

Antonio looked at the guest anew. Villon sat carelessly eating as though he were in a public house along the road. He held his knife constantly in his fist, even when his mouth was full. Meanwhile his dark eyes, sunk deep in shadowed sockets, flitted from one face to another. A barely healed rough red scar protruded from one of his thin cheeks. In his long, sinewy neck his adam’s apple shot up and down as he swallowed. He looked, amid the well-cared-for courtiers of the Duke of Orléans, who sat quietly chatting and eating, like a ragged crow in a dovecote. From time to time he glanced sharply at his host, his mouth pulled wryly down at one corner. Charles, thoughtfully appraising his guest, met this glance more than once.

“What are you thinking about, Messire Villon?” he asked suddenly, with a smile.

Villon put down his knife. “I was thinking, Monseigneur, how much more pleasant this encounter is than our first meeting was.”

“I was not aware that we had met before,” Charles said, raising his brows. Villon laughed shortly.

“You may well have forgotten. I had the pleasure of speaking with you before the doors of the Celestine cloister in Paris when you visited there in ’44. That is more than twelve years ago.”

Host and guest stared at each other for a moment. Then Charles began to laugh softly. He raised his goblet and drank to Villon.

“Welcome to Blois, Messire François. I hardly dare to ask if your life has improved since we saw each other last.”

“No, it is really better if you don’t ask,” replied Villon, in the same tone, while he raised his own goblet. “I hoped by the way to speak about other things with you.”

“I am eager to learn why you have visited me.” Charles gestured to the others to go on with their own conversations. Villon shrugged.

“I could say that I came here to serve you, or something flattering like that. The truth is, I was curious. They say you are fond of poets, you are more liberal and open-handed than many other great lords and that you yourself can write good verse. It would be rather convenient for me just now to have a safe shelter for a few days and nights. And it seems to me to be a beautiful opportunity to hear your poetry.”

“It pleases me to note that you still come out with your opinions as frankly as … before …” Charles’ lips twisted in an ironic laugh. “At that time you must have noticed that honesty of that sort holds an irresistible fascination for me.”

“I am known as the worst liar under God’s heavens,” said Villon carelessly, “and I have earned that reputation ten times over.”

The Duchess, who until now had sat silently eating — she took small bites and broke the bread with extreme care — raised her head and said mildly, with a quick, somewhat timid, suspicious glance at the guest, “Monseigneur, tell us something about the theme of the contest.”

“I have two themes for today,” Charles said. “I cannot decide between them, so you choose, ma mie — or else Villon must throw for heads or tails. This is the first theme: ‘I die from thirst, sitting near the fountain.’”

Marie began to smile sadly, but Pierre the fool who, during the meal had sat on the arm of Charles’ bench, called out in his shrill voice, “Ho ho, Monseigneur, that is poetic license, by your leave. The fountain in the garden is broken, I won’t deny it, but how do you venture to say that you are dying of thirst with a glass full of delicious Beaune standing beside your plate? I am dying of thirst and, believe me, I’m not interested in rhymes at the moment.”

Charles shoved his goblet toward the fool; the small crooked man sprang closer with a jingling of bells and quickly drank a few draughts. Villon repeated the theme: “I am dying of thirst, sitting near the fountain.”

“The notion of thirst can hold no mysteries for Messire Villon,” said Pierre, grinning; he climbed onto the arm of the chair again and nestled there with his shrunken legs crossed.

“The second theme,” continued Charles, “is: ‘In the Forest of Long Awaiting.’”

The Duchess made an involuntary gesture of surprise; she seemed about to say something, but remained silent, staring down at her plate.

“I choose the first theme,” said Villon. “Usually I need more wine to be able to rhyme extemporaneously, but I shall try it.”

Marie rose abruptly and said in voice so loud and cold that all the guests looked up: “I shall withdraw until the tables are removed. I have chosen both themes.”

“You do not make it easy for yourself, ma mie.” Charles came up out of his chair, amazed. Now they all rose, in the customary sign of respect when the Duke or his wife left the table. Charles, perceiving that Marie was displeased or offended for some reason, added courteously, “It goes without saying that you are perfectly free not to take part if you don’t wish to. It’s hardly a suitable amusement for a woman like yourself to be compelled to compose poetry on thirst and long awaiting. I take it, ma mie, that these subjects don’t mean anything in particular to you.”

Marie, about to descend the stairs from the platform — her ladies stood in a row waiting for her — turned and said, so softly that only her husband could hear her, “Monseigneur, I am childless.”

The retinue remained standing in silence, watching her departure. Charles seemed suddenly tired and listless. He beckoned to des Saveuses and asked him to announce that the poetry competition would be put off until the following day. At the same time the chamberlain was told to announce both themes to those who had not been present at the meal, so that they could prepare in tranquillity. To Villon, who had witnessed this sudden change of mood with raised brows, Charles said, “Come with me to my study, Messire François. You will have twenty-four hours more to throw yourself into poetic creativity.”

Villon followed the Duke to the library where an odor of parchment, ink and leather hovered in the air. Charles sat down carefully at the long table strewn with papers and, not without effort, stretched out his aching leg on a low footstool.

“Am I correctly informed, did they want to hang you in Paris?” he asked, signalling his guest to sit down wherever he chose. Villon had been looking up at the books in the tall bookcase. He shrugged.

“I had almost forgotten it, Monseigneur. What was really important I was able to put into verse for myself and the other rabble who were going to dance on the gallows.”

“So you once mentally took leave of life,” Charles said slowly, wiping his spectacles on his sleeve. “I should like to hear from you how it feels to have done with the world.”

“It depends on how closely one is attached to life and the world,” replied Villon; a spark of mockery flashed like a falling star through his eyes. “With the rope around my neck I could not feel that I had left much behind that was worthwhile.”

“Then you are free, Villon. How does it feel to be really free of everything?”

“I did not think about that then. I sat on a pile of stinking straw in a dungeon of the Chatelet and scratched the lice from my rags. I bartered my last meal for a piece of paper to write down my epitaph, that rhyme I mentioned to you just now: ‘Brothers, who will live after me …’ ”

“There was no room in your heart for anything but a poem? And all that happened to you was nothing but the source for the writing of poetry?”

Villon grimaced and raised his long, thin brown hands in protest.

“God knows, Monseigneur, I do not deserve the good will of the muse. I have been untrue to her too often for the sake of more tangible charms. But she is the only one who is not fed up with me. In her honor I proclaimed a year and a day ago—’Blonde, brown or black, it is all the same, and woman’s beauty vanishes like last winter’s trackless snow.’”

Charles stared pensively at his visitor. He does not understand what I mean, he thought in disappointment. He can tell me no more than the others about what I want to know because this being-free, this not-being-bound is innate with him, as flying is with birds. He is bound by no chains of obligation; he is not pinched by any feeling of responsibility for so many lives, by the duty of being an axis around which a world turns, even if it is only a world of trifles. And the man does not appreciate his own freedom. How can I expect that he could explain to me what it’s like to find no obstacles between oneself and the expression of one’s feelings?

He sighed, gave a slight cough and put on his spectacles. Villon, who had sat quietly watching him, said suddenly, “A person can carry his own persecutor, his own prison, about with him, Monseigneur. He can — as you know — die of thirst even when he has the clearest water within his reach. To be free … not to be free … it is all relative. No one has to drag along more ballast than he wants to and he who allows himself to be bound is a fool. The biggest fools are those who wear shackles of cobwebs and believe themselves to be helpless.”

Charles did not reply at once. With his head propped upon his hand he looked at his visitor — that thin, sharply delineated face with the shadowed eyes and the wide, bitter mouth, the face of a man who had lived fiercely and violently. Charles recalled the nervous vigilance, the disillusioned look of the youth who had been caught cutting a purse in front of the Celestine cloister; the face of the man who sat across from him in the quiet library at Blois bore no trace of youth, although Villon was not yet thirty years old. In that mask, only the eyes appeared sometimes to be vulnerable as they blazed for a brief moment with affection or enthusiasm. Charles, who was usually quick to strike a note of friendship with his visitors, found himself almost uneasy in Villon’s company. More than the width of the table divided them: there was a whole world between them.

The setting sun gleamed red against the tapestries on the wall; from the leafy thickets at the base of the precipice a cuckoo called incessantly with a high, clear sound, and the poplars along the river rustled in the evening breeze.

“Someone has challenged me to a game of cards,” said Villon suddenly. His voice sounded rough and indifferent once more as it had when the meal commenced. “Somebody in black and green with a bald head and a chin like a turkey cock.”

Charles, startled from his thoughts, could not suppress a smile. “Messire Jean des Saveuses, probably.”

“I shall have to hide from him; I cannot afford to lose.” Villon shrugged. Charles groped in his sleeve and produced a purse of black plaited silk.

“I find it a very disagreeable thought that a guest of mine should walk through my house with empty hands. Take my purse, but don’t make the stakes too high, Messire.”

For a moment Villon looked at the purse with a grimace which was half challenging and half embarrassed. His hesitation was quickly overcome, however. He put out his hand and drew the small weighty pouch toward him over the table. At the same time he stood up.

“You are extraordinarily generous, Monseigneur,” he said. He made a gesture as if he were going to bend the knee before his host, but Charles forestalled this mark of homage with a curt wave of his hand.

“Leave that, Villon,” he said dryly. “Go now; perhaps des Saveuses is looking for you. Write a poem and win the match tomorrow. Good evening, Messire.”

Villon, who noticed the change in the Duke’s manner and in his voice, raised his brows, bowed swiftly and left the room. Charles sat quietly in the red-gold glow of the evening sun which now poured through the arched window.

“Here I sit imprisoned,” he said, half-aloud, “in my old skin. A man in the declining years of his life — grey, fat and so exhausted and indifferent to the very core of my being that I create the impression of generosity.” He shook his head and sighed; the sun disturbed him; he closed his eyes and turned his face away a little.

He had lived for ten long years in carefree, sunny domestic Blois, a world which he had created himself. Study, easy intercourse with friends and acquaintances, the secret bliss he derived from poetry — had satisfied him so fully that no room remained in his heart for other desires. The pleasures which had been denied him as a youth and as a man in the prime of life he now possessed in abundance. He was surrounded by devoted, affectionate members of his household. Yes, he could allow himself his small whims, his distinct peculiarities. He basked in the respectful, indulgent warmth of his surroundings. The outside world no longer mattered to him; he did not even want to know what was happening in the cities and territories through which he had once travelled, filled with a desire to serve King and Kingdom, or even to serve that distant vision: peace. That peace was indeed only a vision, a chimaera, he had been compelled to believe when, to his great shock and profound disappointment, the English, despite all treaties, all diplomatic protests, had proceeded anew to attack Normandy and Brittany. Since then the battle had raged incessantly in the coastal regions — sometimes to the advantage of France, sometimes not.

Charles had ceased to be engrossed in the results of the struggle, in the shifting fortunes of war; he turned a deaf ear when his courtiers discussed the tidings which messengers continued to bring to Blois. Yes, he did know something — he knew from his noble guests that de Brezé and Coeur had fallen in turn into disfavor and had been repudiated; that Agnes Sorel had died a terrible death; he knew that the people of Gascony, encouraged by the English, had risen in rebellion just when the King seemed to be shattered by grief and reverses. He knew that the Dauphin, after a fierce quarrel with his father which had lasted for many years, had been banished from court for life; he knew too that Burgundy, plagued by illness, was barely able to remain master in his own domains. The greatest cities of Flanders and Hainault, embittered by the way in which the Duke attempted to impose his authority, made known their opposition sometimes passively, often by force of arms.

All this Charles knew well. But it did not affect him.

He felt himself comfortably hidden, securely stowed away in the silence of Nonchaloir. The only disturbance he had to endure was the restlessness which poetic inspiration brought with it. All the conditions seemed fulfilled for a carefree, peaceful life. That in spite of all this he was not really happy astonished Charles anew each day.

A rustling noise at the door startled him; he raised himself, not without difficulty, and bent sideways so that he could look over the back of his chair. Marie had entered; carefully she pushed aside the tapestry which hung before the door and then moved it back again. She sat down opposite him on the footstool on which his aching leg had been propped.

“I hear you have cancelled today’s contest, Monseigneur,” she said softly. She always addressed Charles with formality. “Am I to blame?”

“It seemed to me that the subjects had aroused your displeasure,” replied Charles. “It would make no sense to compete with one another in poetry when not everyone is in a contented and happy frame of mind. You know that I put a good relationship among my household above everything.”

Marie nodded calmly, but her eyes did not lose their expression of mournful resignation. “I find both themes completely attractive. I considered earnestly the question of why you chose precisely these subjects which, each in different words, express the same feeling of helplessness, discontent. I thought that you were contented, Monseigneur.”

“It is a question whether one ever finds the peace which gratifies the spirit.” Charles removed his spectacles and, for a moment, pressed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand against his eyes.

“We can seek our consolation in God,” Marie said quietly.

“Do you do that, ma mie?”

“I did not know that you were troubled, Monseigneur. I did not know that no fountain exists which can quench your thirst.”

Charles raised his head and looked at his wife with surprise. He had never heard her speak that way before; it seemed to him that she was expressing what he had so often thought in secret bitterness. He leaned forward and took Marie’s hand.

“I know a cool deep well which is pure and translucent and reflects God’s blue heaven. If that clear water cannot slake my thirst, ma mie, it is because no cure exists for the drought which scorches me internally. And if in the forest of long awaiting I do not find the path which at long last opens onto a broad vista, then it is perhaps because I must go on wandering.”

“I want nothing more than to share your thirst and to accompany you on your wanderings,” said Marie, with downcast eyes. “It took me a long time to understand that this is a great privilege. But when I was ready to join you in that forest of which you had once spoken to me, I could not find you any more. Often it seemed to me that you had consciously fled from me, that you preferred loneliness to my company. And I thought that this was so because you had found in solitude what you had always sought: the spring which can slake your thirst, the path which leads out into the open fields. Because I did not wish to disturb your peace, I remained behind you, there where I would not trouble you.

“But I know now that you are not happy, Monseigneur, and I know also why. Forgive me for saying this to you, but whoever is self-centered and accepts love without giving it, feels depressed by day and lies awake at night, tormented by bitter thoughts. You are benevolent and friendly to everyone, but that is not praiseworthy because it costs you no effort. You do not really love the world or people, Monseigneur. You meditate only on yourself and live hidden in your own thoughts. And whoever beats at your door to gain entrance to your heart is not admitted. Forgive me, but it’s the truth.”

For a long time Charles sat in silence, with bowed head. Marie did not move. The light of the setting sun glowed on the walls of the library; in the crimson blaze even the images on the tapestries seemed to fade. A glass standing on the table sparkled with a ruby tint as though it contained the burning drink of the legends: those who moistened their lips with it forgot the world and were dazzled; they remained enchanted by love to the end of their days. But the sun sank below the rim of the window frame, the red light streamed back from the walls, the magical goblet became once more only a tumbler with dregs of wine at the bottom. Charles brought his wife’s cool hand to his forehead and sighed.

“Forgive me, ma mie,” he whispered. “Forgive me for having done you so great a wrong.”

The members of the household who, after the card game, still sat chatting in the twilit hall, rose hastily from their seats when Monseigneur and his wife appeared walking hand in hand from the antechamber which bordered the library. But the ducal couple did not respond to their greetings; affectionately close to each other, they went by, walking slowly and silently. For a considerable time after they had passed through the vaulted door, the sound of Monseigneur’s thoughtful footsteps could be heard on the stairs, along with the soft rustle of Madame’s train.

On a certain day in the early spring of 1457, Jean Cailleau, Charles’ physician and trusted friend, came to his master with a fairly solemn face. Cailleau had not lived at Blois for the last few years; he had become canon of Saint-Martin’s abbey at Tours. If, however, he were needed at the castle, he came immediately as of old to let blood and make up medicines.

Around Easter the Duchess had begun to complain of feeling ill. Charles sent a courier to Tours to fetch Cailleau who set out at once to make the journey, partly by ship, partly by mule. He arrived at Blois much sooner than expected, in his dusty travelling cloak and with his heavy flat case filled with instruments and herbs. While he was with the Duchess, Charles waited anxiously and uneasily in the library. He had known for a long time that Marie did not have a strong constitution, but since the couple had become so loving and intimate, the idea of ever having to do without her seemed intolerable to him.

They had passed an autumn and winter in tender affection; daily they recovered what they had allowed to slip away from them during the sixteen long, empty years of marriage. With steadily increasing gratitude and astonishment, Charles had realized that his wife knew how to give him true friendship and deep understanding. In all the solitary hours she had passed over books and her embroidery frame she had been molding her mind and spirit to suit his needs. He perceived — a bewildering experience for a sixty-year-old man — that he was able to make her really happy. Marie loved him despite the fact that he was old and stout. This late bliss did not resemble in any way the radiant joy, the intoxication of youthful passion which he had known with Bonne. But how comforting, how safe, how peaceful it was to be together with such a gentle, understanding woman as Marie. Her illness alarmed Charles exceedingly; when he saw Cailleau’s serious, calm face he could barely suppress his anxiety.

“How is my wife?” he asked, forcing himself to speak without emotion.

“Monseigneur,” replied Cailleau with a searching look at Charles, “Monseigneur, my findings are these: Madame your wife is in blessed circumstances. Within half a year if God wills it she will be confined.”

Charles sank into a chair and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was too surprised to speak. When he became aware that Cailleau was still watching him with grave solicitude, as though he doubted the good reception of his news, he began to laugh loudly, almost boyishly.

“By God, Cailleau, I have never received more joyful news in my entire life!”

Later he stayed for a considerable time in the gallery on the southwestern side of Blois, looking out over the land bathed in clear spring sunshine. The poplars along the river wore light green foliage; the hills were covered with young vines. The world seemed as wholly new and fresh as on the first day after creation.

Charles thought that he had never seen anything lovelier than his little daughter Marie. He had to laugh condescendingly when he heard people insist that all babies were terrifyingly ugly. He sat for hours lost in contemplation beside the cradle of the sleeping child. If he was not near her, he was thinking about her: did she have everything she needed, was she being looked after as carefully as possible? He competed with Marie in expressing his affection for the little girl. How profoundly interesting everything was which concerned her, in comparison with the things which caused turmoil in the world. The breaking through of a little tooth, the first step, the first word, provided Charles the opportunity to make his child the center of domestic festivities, to distribute souvenirs in her name. When the child appeared in her nurse’s arms for the first time in the courtyard at Blois, Charles had three golden écus divided among the stableboys and kitchen servants who had not seen Marie d’Orléans before, with the request that they drink to her health.

In the summer, Dunois appeared in Blois with a great following. The brothers had not seen each other for a long time; Charles never left Blois and Dunois had had his hands full, year in and year out, leading the King’s armies in Normandy and Brittany. That the English were defeated, time after time, that they had gradually been compelled to yield up all their conquests again, was thanks above all to Dunois’ strong and skillful actions. The King, who had blind faith in him, showered him with favors: titles, gifts of land and sums of money. He had Dunois’ birth declared legitimate, granted him and his descendants the right to bear the names of Orléans and Valois, and removed the bar sinister from his escutcheon. Dunois, who had meanwhile married, had accepted that prerogative for his children; he himself continued to cling firmly under all circumstances to the name which his father had given him and, as before, he signed all letters and documents with the words which he had heard added to that name since his youth: Bastard of Orléans.

Charles greeted his half-brother joyfully. Dunois had hardly changed over the course of nearly ten years; there were no wrinkles yet in his weatherbeaten, sunburnt face; no grey in his sandy hair; his green eyes were still as bright as they had been in his childhood. He was dressed in leather and mail; his escort was strongly armed. When Charles jokingly asked about the reason for this martial parade, Dunois frowned and said seriously, “I am travelling through, brother. I have just conveyed a prisoner from Paris to the King’s residence, Nonette in Bourbon. I have to speak to you about it.”

The news which Dunois gave him alarmed Charles, but did not surprise him. It concerned his son-in-law Alençon, whose behavior Charles had observed for so long with suspicion and anxiety.

The King, worn out by defeats and disappointments, had lapsed anew into seclusion, timidity and doubt, and had ordered the ecclesiastic authorities and the Parlement to initiate an inquiry in Rouen and Paris into the manner in which the late Jeanne, Maid of Orléans, had been condemned and executed. In the silence of his apartments the King, afflicted with illness and worry, was prey to morbid fears: he remembered that Agnes Sorel had once reproached him for his indifference to the fate of the Maid whom, in a sense, he had to thank for his crown. At that time he had brusquely rejected her advice that Jeanne’s good name should be restored. But now he felt that his omission was wrong, that it was a sin which weighed heavily upon his conscience. He dared not die before he had discharged his obligation.

Among the many who came to Paris as witnesses in this matter was Alençon, who had spoken repeatedly with Jeanne. While he was making his statement, pleased at the opportunity to place the King’s actions in an unfavorable light, certain letters were discovered on an English spy in Brittany. In these letters which had been written and signed by Alençon, the Duke expressed his desire to conclude an alliance with Henry VI, put himself and the inhabitants of his domain in the service of England, and supplied the names of coastal towns where an invading army could land.

The King did not hesitate; he immediately sent Dunois to Paris to take Alençon prisoner on a charge of high treason. In the castle of Nonette, Alençon confessed his guilt; he had acted, he said, because he felt he had been neglected and given short shrift by the King.

Charles listened in silence. He could not get over this news: the disgrace of Alençon, whose children were Charles’ grandchildren, cast a slur on the honor of Orléans.

“This will end nastily for Alençon,” Dunois remarked gruffly; he had distrusted Charles’ son-in-law practically from the beginning. “It is pretty certain that all his possessions will be declared forfeit and the domain will revert again to the Crown. But I would be surprised if he got off with his life; the King seems firmly resolved to condemn Alençon to the scaffold.”

“Will there be no trial?” Charles asked slowly.

Dunois nodded. “That is why I am here, brother. The trial begins in Vendome on the fifteenth of December. The King summons you there to give your opinion of this business. Do not refuse,” he added hastily, when he saw Charles make a movement of protest. “Our friends of Brittany and Burgundy have defaulted and it goes without saying that we will not see the Dauphin. If you are interested in salvaging whatever can be saved for your grandchildren, you must seize this chance to act as spokesman.”

Charles went on sitting for a few minutes, his head turned away. “It goes against my grain to become involved once again in a questionable matter,” he said at last. “Surely you realize that in order to accomplish anything, I shall have to plead extenuating circumstances for Alençon. But still, you are right. I shall prepare myself for the hearing.”

The trial was held in the great hall of the castle of Vendome. Stands hung with tapestries stood opposite and on both sides of the royal throne; on these platforms sat the great lords of the Kingdom, four rows deep: first, the vassals of the Crown and the princes of the Church; then the representatives of the nobility and the clergy, and finally those who would speak for the burghers. Armed sentries guarded the approaches to the stands and the open spaces between them. A great crowd of spectators filled the hall, overflowing outside onto the steps and into the corridors. At the King’s right hand sat his youngest son and his blood relative, Charles d’Orléans.

The journey and the sojourn at the court had tired Charles greatly; he was not used to all this excitement. In addition, he was uncertain about the effect his words would have on a company most of whom wanted to see Alençon sentenced to death. Only the Archbishop of Reims and an envoy from Burgundy would ask for clemency, the first as a mere formality, the second chiefly to thwart the King.

From time to time Charles glanced at his cousin: he found the King sadly altered; his features were slack, his eyes restless; little or nothing remained of his authoritative tone, his self-assured bearing. Charles knew the reasons for the King’s bitterness: the bad feeling between him and the Dauphin grieved him; he was troubled about the future of the Kingdom under such a rule and filled with regret that he could not give his beloved second son the rights that belonged to the eldest. In twelve years the Dauphin had not once visited his father; he ruled as he wished in his place of exile, surrounded by a household filled with people of unknown origin whom he had elevated to the nobility. That he was involved in other affairs as well became evident when, immediately after Alençon’s arrest, he rode at full speed across France into Flanders and there sought safe accommodation at Burgundy’s court. The King bent under this blow. To Charles he remarked with a sour, nervous laugh when the subject came up, “Burgundy does not know what he is doing; he thinks he will gain an advantage by harboring the future King of France. But he has let a fox into his hencoop!”

The King, motionless in the stiff folds of his robes of state, his face obscured by the broad brim of his hat, listened impassively to the distinguished speakers who came forward to air their opinions. After the words “death penalty” had echoed a number of times through the space around the stands, it was Charles’ turn to speak. He stood up and descended the three steep steps with difficulty. He sensed that most of those present were watching him with disapproval and mistrust; nobody doubted that he would attempt to exonerate his son-in-law, or at least try to mitigate his punishment. Charles held the paper ready on which he had made his notes, but on second thought he hid it away in his sleeve with the spectacles which he did not need now. He bowed and turned to the King.

“Monseigneur! There are three things which must be considered when one is called upon to give one’s opinion upon important affairs: the advisor himself, the person to whom advice is to be given and the matter under consideration. With regard to the first, it is written ‘multi multa sciunt et se ipsos nesciunt—many people know many things but they do not know themselves.’ When I look at myself now and consider that I must advise you about your interests and those of the Kingdom, I find it a very risky undertaking on my part, who am neither wise nor learned enough to speak here after so many capable and renowned lawyers have had their say. I carry only a candle where a number of torches are burning. I beseech you therefore to take my good intentions into account if my insight should fail me.

“Concerning my second point — the person to whom I offer my advice: I see in you my lord and master and, in addition, my blood relative, to whom obviously I am accountable. Finally I honor you as my sovereign. And when I think about that concept of ‘sovereign’, then I realize fully the deep significance of it. For you are only a man like myself, of flesh and blood, subject to dangers, threats, adversity, diseases and other afflictions. That nevertheless you have succeeded in holding the reins of government in these very difficult times is for me a sign that your sovereignty has come to you as a gift from God, the King of kings, the Lord of lords. Therefore you are called Your Most Christian Majesty, and therefore all subjects of France must serve and support you as the representative of God’s authority.

“Thirdly, the matter on which I must counsel you touches you and your family closely, since I, your kinsman, am bound by ties of blood and friendship to the accused, his father and his entire line.” Charles then went on to recall that his father had concluded an alliance with the late Duke of Alençon, that he himself had been supported by the Duke and his vassals in the struggle against Burgundy, that an Alençon had died gloriously in the service of the realm on the field of Agincourt. While he spoke he was well aware that these were nothing but empty phrases; he knew only too well that old Alençon had never sought anything except his own advantage.

He tried another tack and dwelt on all those acts of Alençon’s which could be looked upon as exercises of friendship and chivalry. He ransacked his memory to leave nothing unsaid that would place his son-in-law and the latter’s father in the most favorable light possible. He besought the King to weigh good and evil carefully against each other and if he found that evil tipped the scales, to be merciful.

“For inasmuch as you are God’s deputy, you must follow his example: ‘You will do as I have done’, He said, and ‘As you have judged, so will you be judged.’

“I have the following advice to give you in this matter: in my opinion when we think of saving Alençon’s life we must think of both his body and his soul. God has said, ‘Nolo mortem peccatoris, I do not want the sinner to die.’ So you too cannot desire Alençon’s death. Because his actions show that his common sense has failed him, and if he should now be put to death without the opportunity to amend his life and purify his soul, then all those who had demanded his execution would have neglected to give him that last chance which is every sinner’s due. It is a greater affliction and torment to sit in prison for years than to die suddenly, for then one is delivered from earthly suffering. I know whereof I speak, because when I was a prisoner in England, I often wished that I had been slain at Agincourt.

“Therefore I counsel you for the sake of the security of the Kingdom to keep the Duke in safe custody, in whatever manner you deem best, my lord. It seems to me also eminently fair that you should have the right to dispose of his lands and possessions, but I think that you should provide within reason for his wife and children. It is written, ‘One may not wreak vengeance upon the innocent.’ I implore you as a father to look after those who must now consider themselves orphans. Then it seems to me that you ought not to forget his servants and followers who bore no guilt in what occurred. Care for them, now that they have lost their livelihood. I declare before God, before you, my lord, and before all those assembled here, that I have spoken according to my honor and conscience, to serve the interests of the realm. At all times I would gladly, if that became necessary, put aside all my responsibilities and devote all my energies, to the best of my knowledge and ability, however scanty, to serve those interests. I have finished.”

The King adjourned the hearing. It was obvious that he was extremely displeased.

In the following days it was no secret from Charles that his advice had not been received with favor. He could not help noticing to his dismay and regret that he was now viewed with the same dislike and suspicion that was felt toward Burgundy and the Dauphin. He noticed that he was being shunned; he knew that behind his back people were being told to keep away from him. And he learned that he had aroused the King’s anger. Alençon’s chances for clemency had not been increased by his appeal.

Suddenly Richmont, Duke of Brittany, appeared at Vendome. What had put Charles in a bad light did not damage the King’s former favorite and collaborator. Before long it was proclaimed at the meeting that the King “as a result of the petition made to Us by Our most beloved and cherished cousin the Duke of Brittany, uncle of the aforementioned Alençon” had resolved to change the sentence of death to confinement in a fortress. Charles d’Orléans returned to Blois.

Life in Blois flowed on from day to day in peace and benevolence. Charles read or wrote in the quiet library, sought and found fulfilment in his wife’s company — they spoke together about things which interested them or sat side by side in companionable silence, she crocheting with gold thread, he with a book which actually he scarcely read — and diverted himself with his little daughter in the nursery, in the courtyard or the flower garden outside the walls. Little Marie was the apple of his eye; she was nearly three years old, swift of foot and swifter still of comprehension. He could not get enough of her small, clear voice, her dignified little lady manners. He gave her little psalm-books illuminated with miniatures, small paternosters decorated with red and gold beads, a little purse with tiny gold pieces to wear on her girdle.

When he and his wife left Blois to visit neighboring towns and castles, they took their child with them; Mademoiselle’s flushed little face glowed like a rose against the black garments of the older couple. She was allowed to witness the solemn ceremonies in Orléans when, at the King’s command, the Maid’s honor was restored; the people of the region along the Loire, who had never ceased to love Jeanne and to honor her memory, moved in procession with burning candles, green branches and colorful banners to the bridge over which she had ridden in triumph into Orléans thirty years before.

Some time later a feast was given by the city in honor of little Marie d’Orléans: from her father’s arms she watched the people dancing in the open air, and wine and spiced cake being set out for everyone on long tables in the market square. The Duke ordered the release of all prisoners from the city’s dungeons. Among the pale people wrapped in filthy rags, shouting with excitement as they shoved their way out through the prison gates, was François Villon, who had been imprisoned some years before for a misdemeanor. With his usual directness he went immediately to pay his respects to Charles, who with a nod and an ironic smile pressed his hand and invited him to join the celebrations. Villon’s sharp eyes saw at once where the Duke’s affection and interest lay: in order to ensure continued favor for himself, Villon composed a song praising little Marie for her dignified, regal demeanor and comparing the three-year-old to the wise Cassandra, the beautiful Echo, the chaste Lucretia, the noble Dido. Charles was seized by a fit of laughter at this, but he was touched nonetheless, and gave Villon a generous reward and the privilege of coming and going as he pleased in the ducal residence.

About the middle of July in the year 1461 couriers brought to Blois the news that the King was dead. He had spent the last years of his life in the secluded castle of Mehun-sur-Yevre, hidden away in its neglected rooms, suspicious and fearful of everyone who approached him. Finally, afraid that he was about to be poisoned, he refused to take food. He died of starvation and exhaustion.

Since the Dauphin had not yet returned from Flanders, the task of directing funeral arrangements fell to Charles. He traveled with a large retinue to Mehun to carry out this obligation. The King’s body was placed upon a bier, conveyed to Paris with appropriate pomp, and there, after the mass for the dead, buried in the abbey of Saint-Denis.

On the thirty-first of August the new King, Louis, by the Grace of God the eleventh of that name, rode into Paris accompanied by Burgundy, his son and the Duke of Cleves. Charles was not part of the glittering procession which followed the King through the city: he wished to make known by his absence that he no longer wanted a place in court, that he desired to withdraw from public life. From a window of his Hotel des Tournelles he looked down upon the endless file of richly attired lords and their followers. He saw familiar faces: Dunois, Angouléme, Bourbon, Etampes and many others; under a canopy rode King Louis wearing white garments, but with a strange little black bonnet on his head, as though he wanted to mock the coronation ceremony. His face was as pointed, his eyes as malicious, as ever. He looked about sharply at the people along the way who were cheering him half-heartedly.

Charles saw Burgundy riding behind the King in a mantle sparkling with jewels; he bore himself as though it were he who was being led to his coronation. Charles watched him attentively; he asked himself if the whispers he had heard were true: that Louis, now that he had become King, did not appear prepared to grant to his protector Burgundy the place of honor on the Council and in the government which the latter had expected. It seemed that a violent disagreement had arisen between Louis and Burgundy’s son Charolais. Moreover, the new King of France had declared curtly that he frankly found it excessive that Burgundy should escort him to Paris with a veritable army of courtiers and armed men; surely the King of France could count on a good reception without that.

Charles considered himself fortunate that he could now bid farewell to court life; he had no obligation whatever to King Louis, who most probably would have no further need of him. He was, thank God, too old for politics and diplomacy. With philosophical submission he allowed the stream of festivities and ceremonies to pass over him. While others danced and drank and did themselves only too well at the beautifully-decorated buffets heaped with fabulously costly food, Charles sat in a quiet corner, listening to the music. He remained in Paris chiefly to give Marie the opportunity to take part in the courtly amusements. She had, he thought, lived so long in seclusion; she deserved to go dancing adorned like a princess. But after a few weeks Marie announced that she had had enough of all these tournaments, pageants and banquets; she wanted to go home to her child.

Charles’ thoughts too were incessantly with his small daughter, the more so since the King had let it be known in a manner which brooked no contradiction, that it was his intention to request the hand of Mademoiselle d’Orléans for his younger brother. Charles understood all too well where this must lead: if the King had made up his mind, Orléans would fall under his control once again.

In the spring Charles and his wife reached Blois, where they were overjoyed to find everyone well and everything in good condition. A few days after their return Marie, smiling, approached her husband who was standing in the library looking at a new manuscript.

“What is it, ma mie?” Charles asked absently; he did not look up from the richly illustrated page.

“Monseigneur,” said Cailleau, carefully straightening the sleeves of his robe, which he had pushed up above his elbow. “Monseigneur, do you recall that we once — ten, twelve years ago — made a wager?”

Charles and the physician stood in one of the anterooms to Marie’s bedchamber. Charles had announced that he would wait there while his wife was in labor. From time to time Cailleau came to tell him how the labor was going; there was, he repeated emphatically time and again, no reason at all for alarm.

“Wager?” Charles, who was constantly straining to catch sounds from the closed lying-in room — was it really going well with Marie? — could remember nothing about it. Cailleau kept his head bowed low while he fastened the laces of his sleeves.

“Yes indeed, Monseigneur. When I once told you that you could still have an heir, you wagered five hundred livres that that would never happen. My lord,” he looked up, no longer able to suppress his delight, “my lord, I cannot tell you how pleased and thankful I am to be able to come now and tell you that you have lost your wager. Your wife has just given birth to a son.”

The church bells pealed in Blois, Beaugency and Orléans, in all the cities and villages along the Loire. Flags and banners fluttered blue and gold against the summer sky, heralds traveled everywhere across the land to proclaim to the sound of clarions what the people along the roads already knew: that in the castle of Blois a son, an heir, had been born to Orléans. Those who visited Blois in those days saw that Monseigneur behaved as though he were rejuvenated; he still did not know how to express his delight. He distributed rich presents to everyone who came to congratulate him and entreated each one to pray for the child’s well-being; he considered the birth of his son to be a miracle. While the bells of the district rang out, the infant was rocked to sleep to the tune of an old nursery rhyme — just as Charles himself had once been rocked:

Orléans, Beaugency,

Notre Dame de Cléry,

Vendôme, Vendôme!

Hark, we peal — what sorrow—

All day, all night — willing or not,

All hours, all hours!

Charles ordered everything to be made ready for the christening ceremony. The boy would be called Louis after his grandfather; his godfather must be his nearest blood relation — in this case, to Charles’ annoyance, it was the King.

He hoped and expected that the King would refuse the invitation, but now it appeared that he had misunderstood his sovereign’s character. Louis XI came, although in a far from benevolent mood. He, who as Dauphin had made use of the services of the discontented vassal princes and the ambitious nobility, had, after his accession to the throne, acted against this group more mercilessly than his father had ever done. Ignoring their objections and complaints, he had curtailed their privileges and restricted their independent control of their own territories. During the time when he was still feigning friendship for the great lords, he had learned many things which now proved very useful to him.

He had them in his power, he found their rage and disappointment amusing, but he remained on his guard. He knew quite well that they were conspiring against him; his excellent network of spies had given him all the names and facts which he needed. He bided his time, paying no attention to the hatred of the feudal princes. He had never heard the name of Orléans connected with talk of conspiracies; he suspected, however, that Charles would reveal signs of ambition now that he had a son.

On the way to Blois, the King had summoned one of his trusted retainers and asked him acidly, “How much truth is there in the little tale which I hear is spreading in Orléans and Touraine? Did Orléans predict that his son would wear the crown of France?”

The man could report only that an old woman had indeed said something like that to the Duke of Orléans.

“Hm,” said the King curtly. “My worthy uncle of Orléans may be a dull old fellow, but apparently he has not been too dull and too old to make his wife pregnant. Keep an eye on him, the grey …” The King swallowed the epithet and signalled his servant to withdraw.

On his arrival in Blois, the King did not want to waste his time on compliments and ceremony. The baptismal procession was formed at once in the courtyard near the donjon; from there the noble company, preceded by torchbearers, set out for the church of Saint-Sauveur in the great castle yard where the Archbishop of Chartres welcomed the royal company.

The King, his lips pursed in an expression of slight aversion, held the child over the baptismal font; the infant, alarmed by the touch of less than loving hands, did what would, under other circumstances, have caused no comment. The King quickly delivered the baptized baby to his nurse, wiped his sleeves and said with a sour laugh, “Look what this child — his only achievement is to come into the world — Look what he dares to do!”

Charles apologized hastily for his son, and suggested that they move to the lying-in chamber, where the Duchess awaited the guests. The King walked ahead with his somewhat shuffling gait; apparently he felt no compulsion to laugh or make friendly jokes. He greeted Marie curtly, complained to her about her son’s misbehavior and refused to remain in Blois for the christening feast. As he turned to quit the chamber, he stumbled over one of the tapestries which hung from the bed to the floor.

“This is the second time!” he said angrily; he jerked his mantle tightly around him and left the birth chamber without further ceremony.

Charles was soon to discover that King Louis was not a man who forgot quickly. The events in Blois seemed to have furnished the King with the pretence he had long sought to include Charles in the warnings and criticisms he directed to the feudal princes. He had been right in one respect: Charles had been stimulated by the birth of his son to renew his efforts to secure possession of Asti for his offspring. He applied with considerable reluctance to the King, who responded with obvious enjoyment that the thought of defending the interests of Orléans on the other side of the Alps was the farthest thing from his mind; he considered that he had the honor to be the friend of Sforza and not his enemy and he had no intention of fighting with him.

“Why not sell Asti to Sforza?” he asked at last, with raised brows. “You can always use the money, can’t you, worthy uncle?”

Charles declined this suggestion and left to return home. Not long afterward the King dictated a letter to Francesco Sforza in which he said, among other things: “The Duke of Orléans does not want to give up Asti. However, it seems to me that his health is failing. I am quite sure that Asti will be there for the taking as soon as he is dead — and then we will also own his son.”

Indeed, Charles was feeling far from well; for some time he had been suffering such violent attacks of gout that he could not walk without a cane. But it troubled him more that his right arm was stiff and painful: he found it impossible, after several fruitless attempts, to wield a pen. He was obliged to attach a seal to official documents to signal his approval, because he could no longer sign his name. From time to time his eyes refused to serve him; even with his strongest spectacles, bent forward over his book, he could make out nothing more than vague grey marks. He sought refuge with Marie, or in the nursery with his little daughter and his son — in that safe company he overcame his own fear of the blindness, the infirmity, which perhaps awaited him. As long as he was able, he wanted to act in his children’s interest; he reproached himself bitterly for having wasted so many years in pleasant tranquillity. For his son’s sake he had to enter into important relationships, to conclude alliances; to accomplish this he was prepared to go so far as to join the ranks of the rebel princes. He felt that he had no time to lose; death, or worse, the absolute helplessness of the living dead, could strike him suddenly and when he least expected it.

He sent messengers to Brittany; his nephew François Etampes had succeeded Richmont, who had died childless some years before. The young man promised his uncle to defend Asti by force of arms if necessary, to capture Milan and to stand by his young cousin of Orléans at all times. In addition, Charles ordered a marriage contract to be drawn up in great haste between his daughter Marie and his foster son Pierre, Bourbon’s youngest son. However, before he could make an equally satisfactory arrangement for his son and heir, envoys of the always well-informed King had arrived in Blois with a proposal that gave Charles a new headache: the King offered his daughter Jeanne as a bride for the heir of Orléans, in a manner which was more a command than a request. Charles, annoyed and upset, put off giving a definite answer from day to day in the hope that in the meantime the possibility of another arrangement would arise. And threats of serious disagreements between the King and the vassals of the Crown did in fact shove the matter of the marriage into the background for a while.

The princes, who had vainly attempted through petitions and personal visits, to effect the restoration of the honors which they believed were rightfully theirs, had finally realized what the King’s objectives were: he wanted their participation in the administration of the Kingdom to be reduced to a minimum; he did not want them at his court, nor did he want their advice in the Council — for that, he would choose his own people. The cities and territories which he had peremptorily confiscated from them upon his accession to the throne, would not be returned. He said repeatedly that he would not allow his regime to be poisoned by a group of men who were driven and impelled only by self-interest and ambition and who had always shown hostility to any confident, capable sovereign. Charles, through his negotiations for alliances with Bourbon and Brittany, was embroiled once more in the affairs of the feudal princes; he had to declare his solidarity with the struggle of that group in which, because of his birth and rank, he held so important a place.

He attended the protest meetings convened by Brittany; that Burgundy’s envoys appeared there at every turn did not please Charles. Their complaints and accusations far exceeded all the others in intensity: the King had occupied the cities along the Somme and, through men whom he had met in Flanders years ago, maintained relations with the rebellious commercial cities. Finally, the participants in the meetings decided to unite openly in a coalition “for the interests of the common welfare.” They would gather together to show that the King’s behavior was damaging to the landed interests and the honor of the Kingdom. But before they could proceed, the King summoned them — in a document which demonstrated how well-informed he was — to a meeting in Tours. The vassals of the Crown set out in a less than hopeful mood; they knew they could expect nothing good from a man who, for political reasons, had feigned friendship and familiarity with them for twenty years.

Charles came to Tours accompanied by Dunois; he was present at conferences presided over by the King himself. Coldly and sharply Louis put his case to them once more, arguing that the measures he had taken were necessary because of the confusion into which affairs of state had fallen during the last years of his father’s reign. In connection with the princes’ demands, he made a long speech full of generalities about obligations, about obedience and loyalty. Finally he said, looking at the rows of faces with a somewhat sour smile, that he would be sorry if the maintenance of his authority forced him to victimize anybody.

The lords heard these words in silence. They recognized his iron will and his implacable antipathy. They had no doubt that the sole purpose of this meeting was to impress upon them anew, before they pursued their reckless path, the threat of the King’s power. However, they remained resolute. Brittany, Bourbon, Anjou and, especially, Burgundy wanted nothing more than to take up arms openly against the man who had forthrighdy said that he intended once and for all to crush the political power of the nobility.

Charles d’Orléans sat huddled in his fur-lined mantle — these December days were bitter cold — among the peers of France. He felt extremely tired, and shivered now and then as though with fever. Cailleau had advised in the strongest terms against this journey to Tours; in such damp raw weather Monseigneur was usually half-crippled with gout. Moreover, his heart had been troubling him again for some time. But Charles refused to consider staying at home; he did not want to give the impression that he would shirk his obligations to his kinsmen and allies out of fear of the King.

In the meeting hall in Tours, he regretted his obstinacy; his heart throbbed so irregularly that he could scarcely breathe; his feet were ice cold; it cost him a great effort to sit upright and pay attention to the words of the speakers. Once he nearly dozed off; Dunois nudged him gently. He came to himself in time to hear the King express his lack of confidence in the good faith of François of Brittany who was on such a friendly footing with the envoys of England and Burgundy. Charles’ still-young nephew pressed his lips together in rage, but made no attempt to refute these accusations. When the meeting ended, he withdrew without saying a word. Charles, knowing that his sister’s son was deeply wounded, determined to see the King and attempt to cleanse his name of all suspicion. It was of great importance to Charles to bind the young man to him: Francis of Brittany could be a valuable friend for his son in the future. The King granted Charles a private audience.

When Charles was announced, a few gentlemen were just leaving the King’s apartments; to his deep amazement, Charles saw that one of them was Dammartin, who had been a trusted advisor of Charles VII.

“That surprises you, worthy uncle?” asked the King suddenly. He stood, Charles noticed, leaning his arms on the high back of a chair. “Go sit down — you look as though your legs will barely hold you. Great old age may be worthy of respect but its attendant symptoms are troublesome: tottery legs, trembling fingers, loss of hair and teeth — isn’t that right, uncle?”

Charles sat down, startled by these caustic, derisive words. Passion and pride stirred equally within him, but he controlled himself; for the sake of his son’s security he could afford to put up with a little abuse. “I remembered that Dammartin once aroused your boundless displeasure, Sire, because he served your father so faithfully,” he said calmly.

The King began to laugh softly; he rested his chin on his fists. His body remained invisible behind the chair. That moving head, with its black eyes gleaming with malice and contempt, made a grotesque, almost terrifying impression. “Dammartin is one of those men who always remains loyal to the king — whoever the king might be — the born devoted servant — a possession not to be squandered. What didn’t please me when I was Dauphin, I find excellent now that I am King, my worthy uncle.”

“Yes, I have noticed that, Sire,” replied Charles with a sigh. “Therefore I too have come to you to request your forebearance for my nephew, my Lord of Brittany.”

“Not necessary! Waste no words on that, my lord uncle of Orléans. Spare me your meddling and your pretty speeches. I am not pleasant and courtly enough to hear your platitudes to the end.”

Charles remained in his chair; he asked himself whether he had heard the King correctly. That Louis disliked him he knew very well, but surely his age and rank gave him the right to courteous treatment, at the least.

“You need not stare at me in such surprise,” the King went on, in a tone of cold amusement. “I will readily admit to you that I have always found you an extremely stupid old fellow. If you had only half the brains which you think you have, you would undoubtedly be the wisest man in France.”

“God knows that I have never held an exceptionally high opinion of myself. I willingly admit that I am old and stupid — but I have enough sense to know that such words are not worthy of one who wears the crown of France. And I am your blood relative, Sire.”

The King sniggered again; he raised his hand and pointed a long, tapering finger at his guest. “You are my uncle, my father’s half-brother,” he said, visibly enjoying Charles’ incredulous consternation at hearing these words. “I at least have never doubted that Isabeau, that slut, spoke the truth when she called my father — may God rest his soul — Orléans’ bastard. Don’t think that it disturbs me. On the contrary, better this than to stem from a lunatic.”

Charles rose slowly. He had an answer on his lips. The King’s malicious, grimacing face, his forefinger raised in an almost grotesque gesture, roused irresistible memories of the man who had once been held captive like a wild beast — the man who had had to be hidden from the court and the people because of his bizarre grimaces.

“I do not wish to tire you any longer with my presence, Sire,” Charles said formally. For a moment the room sank into a grey mist; a strange buzzing filled his ears. I am ill, he thought, surprised, I must return to Blois. He heard his own voice as though it came from a distance; the words came slow, dull, with silence between them. “I deeply regret that you doubt the nature of my intentions — that you consider my actions to be meddlesome. All my life I have sincerely endeavored — sincerely endeavored — to serve my king — to fulfil my obligations to friends and kinsmen. I have — been — a—man — of peace …”

“Ah—.” The King made a protracted sound to show his impatience and distaste. “Once more — spare me all the fine talk. What have you done, uncle? What have you accomplished in that long life of yours? How have you used the opportunity which was granted to you — more I know than to others — to maintain order in the realm, to preserve peace and support the royal authority? What have you, with all your good will and so-called wisdom, understood of the evolution we have undergone — of the real significance of the struggle which has been going on since my great-grandfather’s day — between the Crown and the powerful forces who want to smash it to pieces? — For me you are already a dead man, uncle, a residue of something which has died without knowing it. In my eyes you are a ridiculous, foolish old man — you trot along good-naturedly with your peers who stretch out their claws in a last desperate attempt to grasp power.

“But it is over, lord uncle, it is over. Your time, the time when great lords were kings, is over. Henceforth there will be one King in France, one single King, by God’s grace and by your leave, and that King will rule from the Pyrenees to the farthest border of the lowlands. He who dares to nibble at the cake will be sent from the table. Believe me, uncle, if any crumbs are to be picked up it will not be by the flashy, ambitious ne’er-do-wells with their gilt escutcheons and fine-sounding names, but by those who have made the cities great and prosperous, by the men behind the anvil and in the shipyards, by the weavers and smiths, by the merchants, soldiers — by each one with diligence and keen intelligence, even if he comes crawling up from the slime of the sewer. These I shall amply reward for their service — not a high-born weakling like you, uncle, who lets every chance slip through his fingers, who willingly lets himself be led by anyone who puts himself to the trouble of taking him in tow. Distinction, dignity, an affable manner — all at your service — but for all that, you did nothing worth mentioning for either king or country.

“Go back to Blois, putter about with rhymes and rock the cradle. God knows you could have been king, you could have spared the Kingdom a half-century of misery if you had had a drop of true ruler’s blood in your veins. You could have stood where I stand now, instead of whining with humiliation and groping for the way to the door on trembling legs …”

Charles, who was feeling at the wall for support — he could not see; it was growing dark before his eyes — stood still.

“I never imagined that I possessed great gifts. When I was young, I often asked myself bitterly why so heavy a burden had been laid precisely on my shoulders, why I had to carry out a task which was too much for my strength. But now I know that each man over the course of his life receives an assignment which enables him to learn the lesson which he must learn here on earth …”

“And what have you learned, uncle?” asked the King, laughing softly.

Charles shook his head. Now all at once he felt thin and light, then again a leaden weight seemed to press him down to earth.

“I have been a slothful scholar — often wilful and easily distracted — but each day I learn to understand better — that in life people are not charitable enough to one another — and that he who is humble at heart — and sincere — can find and keep God’s gifts, beauty and happiness—”

“Is that all?”

“Green grass in the sunlight — a child’s laughter — and the beauty — the beauty of language—”

“Yes, yes.” The King sighed with impatience; he no longer found the conversation amusing.

“That is only a small portion of the truth,” Charles said with an effort, “but enough to make me realize that I know nothing. Since I realized that, I have had a deep desire to become truly wise. I am aware that what up to now I have considered reality is not reality at all. The world in which one wishes to be great and powerful and feared, your world, Sire, is an illusion.” He coughed and gasped for breath. “I have not lived my life in vain. If I once … may have a glimpse of the real world …”

The King replied sarcastically, but Charles did not understand what he said. He lost all sense of time and place. It seemed to him as though he moaned, warding off a blow; as though he sought support from a friend whom he could not recognize in the darkness.

A long time later he opened his eyes; the darkness had lifted; he lay in deep silence. Against a background of green shadows, he saw the trusted face of his friend, the physician Cailleau. Charles tried to smile; he moved his lips but could utter no sound. Cailleau was looking at him so gravely, so attentively. It suddenly seemed inexpressibly soothing: that large, wrinkled face, drawn by anxiety and tension, hovering above his own. It made him think of something: once he had experienced a similar sensation — long ago.

He knew now what it was — his nurse had looked upon him like this when he was a little child lying in bed. He had tried then to lift his hand and touch the veils of her white headdress. He really could not help laughing at the memory: for a whole lifetime he had forgotten how it felt to be a small, helpless child.

In the greenery above his head, patches of light and shadow seemed to stir, as when the leaves in the treetops quiver above the forest path. The smell of damp earth and ferns, cool and fresh, greeted him; now here and there he could hear the rippling of a little nearby brook, hidden from view by leaves and underbrush. Charles sighed deeply in surprise and pleasure. After the heat and the dazzling brightness of feverish visions, the coolness of the wood moved him with inexpressible emotion. He began to move forward, hesitantly at first, as though he doubted his ability to do it. Slowly he walked beneath the trees, through long, silky, rustling grass. Birds and small creatures fled at his approach with a light whisper of wings and a rustling in the undergrowth. The sun shone through the foliage above his head; he saw the network of dark nerves oudined against the green-gold shading of the leaf. He had wandered alone, but at a turning in the path he saw a figure awaiting him. He recognized him at once: it was Nonchaloir, beckoning with a smile. But oddly enough, for the first time he had no desire to seek his company; he turned instead into the shrubbery.

While he struggled through the tall bushes, defending himself against the boughs which struck back with a rush after he had bent them to one side, he heard familiar voices all around him behind the dense forest growth: his small son cried, his little daughter, laughing, called his name, Marie spoke to him calmly and persuasively — and now it seemed to him that they were all talking together in a kind of chorus; his servants and friends in Blois, his kinsmen and allies: he could distinguish Dunois’ loud, strong voice, Jean d’Angoulême’s thoughtful murmur. He wanted to escape from them, he wanted to be left in peace now so that he could make his way, alone and unhindered, through the quiet cool forest.

He quickened his step; he pushed through the tender rustling greenness of the young saplings as a swimmer cleaves the waves — the acrid fresh odor of new leaves blew toward him and the splashing of the brook seemed closer now. He did not know what he would find at the end of the journey; he was seized by so overwhelming a feeling of anticipation that to return or even to look back seemed to him to be out of the question. It did not matter to him that the ground began to slope upward to a range of hills, that pebbles and roots hampered his progress, that thorny shrubs, stinging nettles and prickly foliage wounded his face and hands. He stumbled and fell but got up again and, head down, plowed into the intertwined growth around him. At times it seemed as though there could be no way out; the birds sang sweedy and enticingly in the cool leafy dome above his head, but he went on, warm and gasping, possessed by the longing to penetrate further, still further, to push on though imprisoned inextricably by twigs and branches. Who was holding him back, who was trying to keep him from finishing his journey?

The greenery receded once more into a twilit background. Cail-leau’s face came before him, large and hazy — it seemed to be asking him something.

“Where are we, Cailleau?” Charles murmured uneasily; he did not understand why he was no longer wandering through the shrubbery. Was this his goal?

“In the castle of Amboise, my lord.” Cailleau’s voice sounded very far away.

Amboise, Amboise, he thought in wonder; at the same time he noticed that the sound he heard was the murmuring of the brook. He waded through the crystal-clear icy water to the other bank; there the tree trunks rose high and smooth from the mossy earth. Far overhead he saw the sun-tinted leaves trembling in the wind. He ran forward quickly with an elastic step; and now from all sides, from the depth of the wood, Youth and Desire, Love, Joy, came toward him, a multitude of light-footed figures who cast no shadow on the forest floor. They were filled with the brilliance of the sun, which shone through the leaves; they were like figures in the windows of a church.

He walked past them with a smile and a greeting. Another procession approached with the jingle of harnesses and the clatter of hooves: the companions of his youth, his friends and comrades with whom he had hunted and gone into battle. But he did not stop to join them; he left them quickly behind. Bonne approached, barefoot, with a blue kerchief on her head; her large golden eyes lit up in a smile of deep happiness, and she stretched out her hand to him. He turned toward her, but the longing drove him on, past all those whom he continued to meet on his way — princes and kings, knights and priests, an almost endless procession of men and women whom he had once known. Silently and attentively, they watched him go by, as he hurried to plunge into the green depths of the forest from which they had just appeared.

Something sparkled before his eyes, someone slid something sweet and melting onto his tongue. High singing sounded very near. Only the odor which pervaded his nostrils made him realize what was happening. They were giving him the last rites. He was dying. He could not move; neither by word nor glance could he make them understand that he was still conscious. He felt himself shackled inside his body. For a few seconds he struggled hopelessly to make himself understood; my son, he thought, in mortal fear.

But now he heard the leaves rustling again, the coolness of the wind drew him irresistibly; he fled on through the soft grass that suddenly seemed very tall. Now he understood why this was so: he was a little child; bracken and plants reached nearly to his waist. The trees seemed as high as steeples. He stumbled on his path and fell. But within reach of his little hands he found the folds of a woman’s gown, the fragrance of honey and roses. He got up and saw above him his mother’s pale, lovely face. He did not stay, although he stretched out his arms, but slipped from the path into the shadows of the forest. He was alone among the terrifyingly tall undergrowth, the menacingly broad leaves covered on the inside with fine hairs, the virulently colored flowers with greedy biting lips and spiny tendrils. He cried for help, gasping for breath.

Now he was singed by pain. When he finally opened his eyes he saw, at the end of the narrow green path, dazzlingly bright light. There it is, he thought breathlessly, there it is. With a shout of joy and deliverance he plunged forward to meet the light.

Jean Cailleau, kneeling beside the bed, felt Monseigneur’s pulse with his fingers, put his ears against his breast; slowly rose. He looked attentively and lovingly at the face, set in an expression of final fulfilment. After that he bent and gently closed the dead man’s eyes.