The King, who had stacked the cards neady, pushed them to one end of the table and sat quiet, with downcast eyes, waiting for his brother Louis d’Orléans and the Provost of Paris, whose presence he had requested. The haze in which his mind had been enveloped continually since the previous year, had lifted. He recognized the people in his suite, was aware of events and joined in the festivities honoring the delegation which had arrived from England to make a formal request for the hand of the child Isabelle.
Although the physician Freron had, on the Queen’s insistence, advised him to rest and avoid state affairs, the King wished to take advantage of the brief respite between periods of insanity. He knew only too well that the calm clarity, the comfortable feeling of being free, would not last long; that he would be overcome again by mortal fear, fierce pain in his head, darkness filled with hellish visions — but when? How? He saw with despair how much time had passed since he had last been sane. He could still remember hazily a few of the things which had happened afterward; a conversation with his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Orléans, who lay in bed — why? When? And the birth in January of his youngest daughter, Michelle. Charles shook his head slowly, and pensively bit his nails. He had a strong desire to see Valentine; he had wanted to send her a message but he gathered from what the courtiers said that she was no longer in Saint-Pol. Shame and pride prevented him from asking questions of the gentlemen of his retinue who sneered at him haughtily, or smiled at him with compassion. Only from his intimates could he learn about those things which interested him deeply. He considered himself fortunate that his brother was nearby and that the Provost was an able, honest and upright man, who knew how to hold his ground in the face of all opposition.
The King was secretly relieved that the pressure of business prevented Isabeau from coming to see him. The full responsibility of receiving the English legation rested upon her shoulders. Above all else, he feared an interview with his wife; although no one alluded in his presence to the affronts which he, blinded by madness, had offered the Queen, he knew enough. He remembered Isabeau’s tears and reproaches, her nocturnal revelations; frozen with horror at his own unwitting cruelty, he had lain listening to her whispers.
That had been in the spring of the previous year. What have I said or done since then, he thought uneasily. He looked quickly and diffidently at the courtiers who chatted under the arched entrance. Before him on a table stood a silver tray heaped with fruit; he removed the peaches one by one and raised the tray before his face. He did not yet have the courage to complain about the absence of mirrors from his rooms, because he surmised, with considerable anguish, the reason for this absence.
Now, partially concealed within the tapestries, he looked at himself in the polished bottom of the tray, touching his cheeks and forehead with clammy fingers; his lips parted involuntarily in disbelief and horror. The sound of footsteps and voices reached him from the adjoining corridors; the birds twittered loudly and beat their wings against the bars. Hastily, the King set the tray back on the table. He saw his brother approaching; Louis’ lips trembled with emotion.
“Sire, my King,” he said, kneeling before the King without taking his eyes from his brother’s face. “Are you well again?”
The King patted the cushioned bench. “Come sit beside me,” he said in a low voice, “and tell the others to leave us alone.”
Gentlemen and pages retired to the end of the gallery; Renaud Freron, annoyed, continued his pacing back and forth. The King was receiving against his advice; he feared Isabeau’s displeasure. The brothers sat side by side under the canopy: Louis, tanned from frequent exercise in the open air, his posture that of a man who knew how to control every muscle of his body; and Charles, pale, drab, huddled together like an old man.
“Tell me, how goes it with you, brother?” said Louis, laying his hand on the King’s. “Are you free from pain now? Is your head clearer? Nothing has made me so happy in a long time as this — that we can speak together in good health.”
“I am like someone who has temporarily exchanged hell for purgatory,” replied the King with a melancholy smile. “No, I feel no pain, but I suffer even more from uncertainty.” He looked at his brother timidly, from the corner of his eye. “I cannot remember anything,” he whispered, with a sigh.
Louis was silent. He could find no words to express the pity which consumed his heart. The King sat very still, huddled within the folds of his mantle, blinking his slightly inflamed eyelids.
“You must tell me everything now,” he went on, after a pause. “No one knows how long I shall be able to busy myself with affairs of state. Have you kept a watchful eye, brother, in spite of everything, as you promised me?”
“I have been vigilant,” said Louis, in an equally soft voice. He picked up the playing cards from the table and fanned them out; there was the smiling Queen, who bore a falcon on her wrist, the armored King, and the Jester with bells on his cap.
“Yesterday I received the English delegation in an audience,” the King went on. “It seems I gave them permission to come here just before Christmas.”
“Our uncle of Burgundy was strongly in favor of it,” said Louis lightly, while he examined the handsome cards one by one. “And so Messeigneurs de Berry and Bourbon gave their consent also — at last. As to the Queen — the Bavarians maintain friendly relations with England. There is no better and easier way to strengthen an alliance than by contracting a marriage, especially when one is so indirectly connected to the bride that no financial obligation is entailed.”
“What do you think, then, brother?” asked the King without looking up; he was preoccupied with braiding and unravelling the fringe of the tablecloth. Orléans smiled bitterly.
“I agree with those who say that if s senseless to conclude a treaty between two kingdoms which still have a few more years of armistice between them. And it is meaningless politically, because I don’t believe it is possible to end hostilities. And it will be a crime against the child Isabelle who will suffer if the war goes on when she is queen over there.”
The King shrugged. “They are here now,” he said hesitantly. “They bring gifts and friendly letters from King Richard. This Norwich — he’s Earl of Rudand, isn’t he? — he seems to be a capable, courteous ambassador. Richard must really crave peace,” he added doubtfully, “if he approaches us and leaves us to name the conditions.”
“Ah!” Louis made a passionate gesture. “Don’t think that England — to say nothing of Burgundy — will fare badly after a treaty has been signed. I’m even willing to assume that Richard does not intend to fight again — why shouldn’t I? They say he is a trustworthy man, ready to settle any dispute quickly. But it remains to be seen whether a new armistice will really mean the end of raids and looting. For two years I’ve been working on the plan you and I discussed before you became ill the first time. Surely after Poitiers and Crecy anyone who knew anything about it could see that our soldiers were no match for the English bowmen. It’s incredible that none of our captains thought of teaching our fellows to use English weapons. Now I have that in hand; you can rest easy. Now most towns and cities have bands of archers who can use handbows as well as crossbows. That was really useful last year in Normandy and Brittany when the English kept raiding the coast.”