“Bah!” Berry said contemptuously when the door had closed behind the two men. “Do you really believe, Madame, that this lout is capable of doing anything for the King?”
Isabeau had risen and kicked the heavy train of her gown to one side. She felt deadly tired and no longer capable of arguing.
“Why not?” she said irritably. She did not care for the Duke of Berry with his exaggerated interest in art and artists; she found him untrustworthy and, although less dangerous than Burgundy, altogether insufferable. She knew that he had lashed out at Guillaume mainly because he had not been able to acquire the book in question; undoubtedly he had expected her to cooperate with him by ordering the sorcerer to give it up. Isabeau did not believe for an instant in the sincerity of the Dukes’ solicitude for the madman’s welfare; she knew that the plans of his royal uncles did not depend in any way on the King’s recovery. On this point Bourbon was the least calculating of the three; and the only one whose compassion for the King was genuine. Usually Isabeau found it easy to play the diplomat at gatherings like these; an appetite and talent for intrigue were in her blood. Now however she was suddenly overcome by depression bordering on despair; she was painfully aware that she stood completely alone and that today and in the future she must brace herself firmly with her back against the wall, to protect everything that she considered rightfully hers. She was in the heart of the Kingdom, apparently safely hidden like the stone in the core of a fruit; but on all sides greedy worms were eating through the rich pulp. With a wave of her hand, she prevented Berry from elaborating on his opinion.
She walked past the Regents, who bowed to her politely, to a door opposite the one through which Salaut and Guillaume had vanished; she had to bend her head to one side to prevent the top of her crowned headdress from touching the door frame. The white greyhound bounded after her.
“You forgot yourself just now, Monseigneur,” said Burgundy to Berry, who was beginning to draw on his gloves.
The Duke of Bourbon made an impatient gesture. “There is no sense in stirring up old ashes,” he remarked, approaching Burgundy. “Monseigneur de Berry was somewhat hasty.”
“I don’t care about haste.” Burgundy shoved aside the arm with which Bourbon attempted to restrain him. “My brother of Berry is not hot-blooded enough to blurt out things which he does not customarily think … and say. What you think leaves me cold,” he added, the bitter lines around his mouth becoming sharper, “but what you say, especially what you say about me publicly, touches me deeply. In your eyes then, I am a braggart, a squabbler? And have you no respect for the name which I bear with honor?”
Berry shrugged. He stood half-turned away from the light, and the shadow which fell over his heavy face made him look a little like a toad, an impression intensified by his ample glossy greenish clothing.
“Have you earned my respect then, brother?” he said affably, but not without malice. “Have you, on your side, furthered my interests, or at least not worked against them since you have been occupying a position of power — or say rather, the position of power? You have not given me much inducement to honor you or your name.”
Burgundy frowned and sat down, stiffly erect as always, on the bench under the canopy.
“I have had no reason to approve of the manner in which you have been able to arrange your affairs,” he said coldly. “God knows there is chaos in all the provinces, but the mess in Languedoc and Guyenne surpasses anything we have had to contend with in the dominions. You can’t expect anything better, of course, when you refuse to lower taxes. No sensible governor lets himself go so far for the sake of miniature paintings and carved towers.”
“No, you manage another way,” Berry said; he struck the edge of the table angrily with his right-hand glove which he had not yet put on. “You marry the rich heiress of Flanders and let the roast goose melt in your mouth. You have no trouble being generous and lifting the tax burden. Nevertheless, I have heard it said that you are not averse to extra income, either, if you are able to squeeze it out somewhere without damaging your good name. There are many within these borders who curse your name already, lord brother.”
“It is not unpleasant or dangerous to live in Burgundy or Flanders,” Philippe replied calmly, “and if anything should occur or be expected to occur there which would stir up discontent, I would be prepared to look into the matter. But it may be as you say — that I am called ‘the Bold’ because I thrust Anjou away from his place at table — I am, in any case, not so cowardly that I let my tax collector be burned by the populace to make up for my foolish actions.”
The Duke of Berry raised his glove and took a step forward. Hastily Bourbon placed himself between him and Burgundy, who remained motionless in his seat.
“My lords!” Bourbon exhorted them. “This is really going too far. All these things lie behind us. Wouldn’t it be more sensible to confine our discussion to the present?”
“Agreed, agreed, worthy lord,” Burgundy said, without taking his eyes from Berry. “But can he deny that I am right? Six years ago when the King, our pitiable nephew, went to see how the land lay in Languedoc — because the laments of the people were audible even here — he could not quiet them in any other way except to allow them to burn your treasurer, Messire de Betisac. I have a good memory, brother. Does it still surprise you that the King found it prudent to deprive you of authority for a considerable period of time?”
“The King, the King!” Berry threw his glove on the floor. “Slide everything onto the shoulders of that poor soul again. You gave him good counsel, you knew what you were doing.”
“Don’t make yourself ridiculous, brother.” A shadow slid over Burgundy’s cold, crafty face. “How much influence did I — or any one of us — have after the King thanked us so politely in the great Council at Reims for our help? Do you think that I would try to press my advice on him when he so clearly preferred those fools, the Marmousets, that haughty set of climbing burghers and priests whom he loved to call his ‘Council’?”
“It’s not difficult to talk about hating,” said Berry. “No, Monseigneur de Bourbon, why do you enjoin me to be silent? I’ll say what I think fit to say. My brother is so eager to condemn the way we received our dismissal at Reims. But what have you done about it, Burgundy? Have you presented any resistance or tried to avenge yourself?”
“You did that yourself already, brother, didn’t you?” answered Philippe drily. “Cardinal de Laon, who so cleverly and venemously explained to the Council that our nephew Charles was capable of ruling by himself — not long after that, the Cardinal was no more. Wasn’t that poison? Surely, you know about that,” he added ironically.
“Messeigneurs!” The Duke of Bourbon threw a quick glance at the door through which Isabeau had vanished. “In heaven’s name, remember where we are. The walls have ears. The room next door …”