“A room full of women!” Berry gave an ugly laugh. “They are used to hearing — and seeing — less beautiful things whenever they wish. You are even crazier than our nephew the King,” he went on to Burgundy, “if you are attempting to insinuate that I …”
“Have I contended such a thing?” Burgundy laughed softly and put his fingertips together. “I only know the facts, brother. I know that you were not especially obliging when the King asked you to march with your vassals to Brittany to seek out the suspects.”
“By the body of Christ!” Berry swore with a gesture of impotent rage. “You distort everything. Did you want to cooperate then? Or Bourbon here? No, my lord of Burgundy, you cannot throw dust in my eyes. I know damned well who always has the final say here. Oh, yes, you can insist that you were pushed into the background when our nephew took advice from the Marmousets, but you knew enough to reach your goal by going through back roads. You are slyer than a fox, brother. And I never doubted that I had you to thank for the matter of Languedoc.”
“You are so certain of your case.” Burgundy rose. “Undoubtedly you will be able to tell me why I played such a nasty trick on you.” He looked fixedly at his brother over Bourbon’s head. The Duke of Berry, who had become so excited that beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, cried, almost choking with rage, “Why, why? Do I know why? So much goes on in that cunning heart of yours that I wager only the Devil knows your thoughts — and perhaps not even he, for you are too wily even for him. Are you going to tell me that you did not want Languedoc for yourself? You are forever swallowing up land, brother. Look at the map. You wind yourself around the heart of France like a serpent. I don’t know where your avarice will end …”
Burgundy walked down the steps leading from the bench, shrugged, and took his velvet hat from a chest nearby. The Duke of Bourbon, taking this as a sign that this painful conversation was over, heaved a sigh of relief. He picked up Berry’s glove which lay near him and returned it to its owner.
“Look upon all this as belonging to the past, Monseigneur,” he said in a low voice. “You — didn’t you? — returned Languedoc to the King …”
Burgundy laughed; a short, dry laugh filled with derision.
Bourbon, who had maintained the calm demeanor of the mediator long enough, lost his patience.
“I find it deeply mortifying, my lords,” he said heatedly, “that we should be busy splitting hairs when it is in our interest to work together harmoniously. There is no authority in France today except our own. We have a heavy responsibility before us, my lords.”
Burgundy smiled sarcastically, but Berry burst out, “Words, words! Don’t play the hypocrite, Monseigneur de Bourbon! We know each other too well, I’m afraid. It’s perhaps better not to describe the interests which we pursue here.”
“I see to my delight, brother,” said Burgundy, who was already at the door, “that you have found for the nonce a new opponent to argue with. Good-bye, my lords. The baptismal feast of little Orléans will be lively this evening if we come to the table in our present frame of mind.”
In the great inner courtyard next to the stables, servants had been holding horses in readiness for some time for the Duke and his retinue. Burgundy’s coal-black stallion, Charlemagne, kicked up the earth impatiently with his front hooves. On the harnesses and saddles, the copper and silver ornaments glittered in the steady light of the torches held high by the servants. A glimmer of light streamed out too from the open stable doors, through which could be seen a swarm of grooms and horses. The men were busily cleaning harnesses and tending to the beasts in the stalls. An acrid odor of hay and manure met everyone who came into the vicinity of these buildings. Dampness hung on the horses in the courtyard. The members of the suite who were already mounted and waiting had great difficulty in keeping their stamping, snorting steeds under control. The Duke allowed one of his servants to throw a fur-lined cloak around him; then he set his foot in a stirrup and deftly swung himself into the saddle. The gates of Saint-Pol were flung open; with a loud clatter of hooves and amid the shouting of the servants and torch-bearers who ran quickly alongside it, the ducal train moved off under the archway in the direction of Burgundy’s residence, the Hotel d’Artois.
The evening was chilly and misty; drops of water clung to Burgundy’s hat and to the fur of his mantle. The torches smoked with a ruddy glow in the fog. They rode at a fairly quick pace through the narrow streets of the Saint-Pol district; mud and stones flew up from under the horses’ hooves. Philippe handled the reins mechanically; his thoughts were elsewhere. He stared fixedly, without seeing it, at the glossy reddish copper band between Charlemagne’s ears.
He had been unusually patient in allowing Berry to talk so much; he had listened because he had a deep aversion to commonplace wrangling. He found it diverting that his brother was so well aware of the nature of the relationship between the two of them; the fact that Berry lacked the pride and tact to preserve a courtly, arrogant silence about these matters was, to Burgundy, merely further proof that Berry had no talent for the craft of diplomacy. Indeed, Burgundy knew that he himself was not blameless in the matter of Languedoc; a resentment, never openly acknowledged but carefully stored away, was the thing that had motivated Philippe to work against his brother at that time.
In 1385, the Duke of Burgundy had come up with a plan to attack England directly as part of — and perhaps as a way to end — the drawn-out war between France and that island. He knew how to turn the head of the King, then seventeen years old and married for only a short time to Isabeau, with promises of great new military victories. The plan was received enthusiastically by the nobility, all of whom had sufficient motivation to want to plunder and extort tribute from the inhabitants of the English coast.
About 1400 vessels had been assembled, most of them only fit for boating and as senselessly and grotesquely dressed up as the pugnacious young noblemen themselves. Even now Burgundy could not think of that fleet without irritation: silvered masts, gilded prows, multi-colored silk pavilions on the decks, streamers and banners on which all of French heraldry seemed to come to life as the colorful ensigns fluttered in the wind: lions and griffins, dragons and unicorns. And even more ludicrous than this, an entire wooden city, complete with houses and palaces, loaded onto seventy-two cargo ships — a city intended to shelter the whole army after it disembarked on English soil.
An invasion at that moment offered Burgundy an unparalleled opportunity for influence over English-Flemish relations. If everything had gone as he had planned, Burgundy might have become the most powerful man on the continent, but his dream was too daring: too many in his circle hated him and were jealous of the apparent ease with which he moved piece after piece on the political chessboard. His brother Berry had been one of these for a long time, and was well aware that the plan depended mostly on taking advantage of the propitious moment to set out to sea and attack; if that moment were allowed to slip past and the departure of the fleet were delayed, winter storms would make the voyage impossible. While Burgundy waited in Arras with the army of nobles, biting his lips in impatience, Berry lingered in Paris with the King, dawdling and delaying. A marriage was arranged between Berry’s son and the King’s youngest sister; the festivities held everyone’s attention. It was not until the middle of September that the King arrived in Arras.
The crossing was still possible because the weather was holding, but now Berry, and his indispensable army, remained absent. Despite letters and urgent messages, he could not be shifted from his intentionally dilatory course. He finally came in December when the storms were breaking out, the nights were long and dark and the sea growled around England. Burgundy had to give up his plan. He suffered this setback in his own way, without in any respect allowing his resentment and rage to be seen. Instead of literally setting his sails to the wind, he did so figuratively: he altered his course in the inimitably adroit manner of the politician and began seeking rapport with England.