“What are the important tidings which have reached your ears, my dear wife?” Burgundy sat down in the window niche next to her. The Duchess folded her long, rather bony hands over each other; on her forefinger was the ring engraved with the Flemish motto of the Burgundies: “Ic houd”. I keep.
“King Richard wishes to remarry,” she said slowly. “He asks if an embassy would be well received here. It seems to be his intention to ask the King for the hand of the small Isabelle. My informant was quite certain of his business.”
The Duke of Burgundy sat quietly; he gazed at his wife, absorbed in thought.
“If that is really true,” he said at last, “then it is the best news I have heard in a long time. A marriage between France and England would make war impossible — or at any rate most undesirable. We cannot underestimate the advantages, ma mie. A war with England would cause the interests of France and of Flanders to be so diametrically opposed to each other that I would have to tear myself in two to satisfy both. I may assume then that you will support Froissart’s errands whole-heartedly and that you will point out to the Queen the advantages of the proposal. For my part I shall speak with the King myself — at least so far as that is possible.”
“And … Orléans?” asked Margaretha, rising. She liked order and punctuality; she was annoyed that her husband had delayed his audiences. The Duke helped her descend the step from the window niche and walked slowly with her to the door.
“Orléans will undoubtedly be against it,” he said. “For that reason it is extremely important that decisions be made before he can exert any influence.”
The Duchess stopped and drew the long, rustling train of her dress over her arm.
“Such things usually reach his ears more swiftly than I would wish. Orléans is on his guard.”
“I know it.” Philippe thrust aside a tapestry to let his wife through the door. “And he does not hide his knowledge, as you may have noticed last night. I shall have to put up strong barriers against him.”
“God be with you, my lord,” said the Duchess of Burgundy ironically.
She was gone, dropping the curtain while Philippe was still making his formal bow. Donning his velvet hat, the Duke strode to the audience chamber.
At dawn Louis d’Orléans sank onto his bed fully clothed, hoping to snatch a few moments of sleep. But because he lay quiet, breathing regularly, his valet Racaille assumed that he was sleeping; he approached cautiously and began to pull off Louis’ muddy shoes. The fire roared in the hearth, for the morning wind was blowing into the chimney; early sunlight gleamed through the small round cut glass window panes. While the servant busily loosened the laces of the Duke’s clothing, loud insistent voices could be heard in the anteroom; a chair was pushed noisily aside.
Racaille went quickly to the door, fearing that Louis’ friends had come to remind him of a pre-arranged morning ride, repast or hunting party. Two gentlemen-in-waiting, along with a page, panting from having raced up many flights of stairs, were standing in the anteroom.
“Where is Monseigneur?” demanded one of the gentlemen. He seemed excited, and attempted to peer past Racaille into the bedroom.
“Monseigneur d’Orléans is asleep,” the servant replied curtly. He was angry at this invasion, but angrier still at the carelessness of Monseigneur who seemed to think he could live without sleep, wandering God knew where while sensible people were getting their good night’s rest. But the gentlemen insisted on an audience.
Louis heard the voices through a dreamy mist. Although he did not wish to be disturbed, he opened his eyes and called, “What is it, Racaille?” The gentlemen appeared in the doorway.
“My lord,” said one, “a courier has just arrived from Lombardy with a message from Messire Enguerrand de Coucy.”
“Well?” Louis heaved himself onto his elbow.
“The city of Savona has surrendered, Monseigneur, even before a siege could begin.” The courtier spoke in a loud, important voice. “The city fathers wish to conclude an alliance with you regardless of Genoa’s position.”
Louis sat up and swung his legs onto the step next to his bed. Racaille hurried to bring him clean, dry shoes. The two noblemen, who had expected expressions of pleasure, or at the least, approval from the Duke, stared at him in surprise. Louis sat expressionless while Racaille tightened the buckles on his shoes.
“So,” he said finally, “very pretty. A success for Chassenage and Armagnac’s mercenaries. Although the Gascons will be sorry they could not use force of arms. If all this had happened in the spring or during the summer,” he continued, standing up, “I would have had more reason to rejoice.” He walked to the window: the gleam of the morning sun on the blue roofs of the towers was almost blinding. He squinted, but did not turn; he had no wish for further conversation with the two noblemen who stood uncertainly in the doorway.
“Send the courier to me when he is ready,” Louis said, with a dismissive gesture.
Later in the day Louis set out for his wife’s apartments. As always, he felt the need to share important events and considerations with her. Some time had passed since he had last talked seriously with Valentine; in recent months he had not wanted to tire her with discussions about the Italian campaign or the matter of the papal elections.
The Duchess of Orléans lay propped up on pillows in the large state bed; two damsels stood on steps on either side, plaiting her hair into braids. She had slept better than she had for days and felt refreshed insofar as she could in the stuffy air of the hermetically sealed chamber. A smile glimmered in her eyes as soon as she saw her husband enter; the court ladies withdrew immediately to an adjoining room. Louis greeted her with more warmth than he had shown in a long time. His eagerness for a willing ear and loving attention woke an almost reluctant surge of affection in him. Valentine’s bright golden brown eyes were fixed upon her husband as he moved a bench beside her bed and sat down; her cheeks were flushed and a smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. She folded her hands before her on the coverlet. She was filled with deep contentment bordering on bliss because he had come to her; although at the same time she was conscious, to her sorrow, that he had not sought her so much as the comfort of her counsel.
Although Gian Galeazzo’s daughter was by no means in full agreement with Milan’s policies, she had no choice but to endorse the plans made or inspired by her father — especially those in which Louis was involved. The Tyrant of Milan had tried repeatedly to use Valentine to exercise influence on both his son-in-law and the King, but she refused to allow herself to be used in that way, although she was willing to involve herself in negotiations or make recommendations. She knew that appearances were against her, especially in the eyes of Isabeau and her Bavarian kinsmen — it seemed almost unnatural that the daughter should not blindly serve the father’s interests.
“Savona has surrendered,” Louis said, after he had asked about the state of her health and the health of their small son. “Enguerrand de Coucy’s courier arrived in the palace this morning. I talked briefly with the man — he was dead tired; he seems to have ridden day and night without stopping.”
“Is that good news then?” she asked. Louis bent forward, tracing lines with his finger on the velvet edging of the coverlet, and shrugged. After a short silence, he said, “De Coucy has appointed Jean de Garencieres captain of the fortress of Savona, and left a fairly substantial garrison behind. But I have the impression that the people of Savona have a few tricks up their sleeves — they are willing to support us in future action against Genoa, so long as the campaign lasts — provided we pay them a monthly stipend — and not a small one, either.”