“My lord,” said Isabeau, fixing her dark brown, somewhat adamant gaze upon Louis, “I shall try in my prayers to reflect upon what you have said to me today. God knows, I am a person of good will. But there is a limit to everything. Sometimes I feel as though the King were dead. I cannot feel love for the creature who has taken his place.”
Louis d’Orléans took the hand which she held out to him and helped her to rise.
“I have spoken to you only at the behest of my brother, the King,” he said most courteously, as though the subject were closed. “I understand your objections only too well, Madame. And now, if you will allow me, I shall call your women.”
Isabeau’s smile held a trace of her former coquettishness; she almost forgot that she was no longer beautiful, that she was not really an innocent victim: it was not out of patience and timidity that she had accepted the King’s advances over the past ten years. Castles, treasures, great sums of money had been the price of her love.
Orléans had known how to accomplish his ends with the King. The sale of valuables had not been enough to defray the enormous expenses he had incurred for the purchase of Coucy and Luxembourg. Since the possession of these two properties benefited the realm, it was obvious that the realm should help to pay for them. And Louis managed to convince his brother that an eye should be kept on England. Henry of Lancaster would undoubtedly resume the wars as soon as a good opportunity presented itself. Therefore it could only be wise policy to prepare now while circumstances in England guaranteed a postponement of hostilities.
By royal decree all of France was compelled to contribute, for three years, a sum equal to what had been raised for Isabelle’s dowry. This time, however, the clergy, who had previously been spared, were not exempted. Their indignation knew no bounds. Burgundy, who was already offended because he had not been consulted in the matter, did not hesitate to support the clergy. In his own domain he did not encourage the populace to raise the tribute — quite the contrary, in fact. He continually encouraged them not to pay it.
The Parisians had become alarmed by the presence in and about the city of bands of soldiers — Picards, Luxembourgers and armed men from Gelre who said they served the Duke of Orléans, and other troops from the Burgundian dominions of Artois and Flanders. The Elector of Liège, Johann of Bavaria, was Burgundy’s guest in the Hotel d’Artois; the army he had brought — chiefly archers and lansquenets — were lodged in the quarters of the city near the palace. Fear of civil war mounted with each passing day.
The city of Paris sent a delegation to the King petitioning him to put an end to this disorder. The population was assured, in the name of the King, that the troops quartered in the city were not dangerous in any way; their support was paid for, and any infraction of discipline would be severely punished. In spite of these assurances, the city lived in constant fear; many departed but most armed themselves and laid in provisions, as though they were preparing for a siege.
And now a new kind of life began for Charles d’Orléans. His time as a small child had ended; playtime, with no obligation except the faultless recitation of morning and evening prayers, was over. The nine-year-old was taken from the care of the Dame de Maucouvent; he was now too old to have a governess.
The Duke of Orléans sent his secretary, Maitre Nicolas Garbet, who had studied theology, to the Chateau-Thierry, where Valentine lived with her children for increasing periods, to tutor Monseigneur Charles, Count of Angoulême. Charles eagerly awaited the arrival of Maitre Garbet; for a long time he had been impatiently waiting to learn to read. He thought that there could be no pleasure greater than to be able to decipher the rows of beautiful characters in the books which his mother had had so carefully illuminated and bound — unless it was plying the pen. He drew figures in the sand with a stick, pretending that he was writing a story across the enormous page of the courtyard. For hours he would study the densely written leaves of King Arthur’s Histories, of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, or the Gospels. He did not know what was written there, but he was filled with deep satisfaction at the sight of the rectangular pages covered with letters surrounded with gaily colored tendrils, the initials against the gilded background. He obeyed with reluctance when his mother urged him to go out and play with his brother.
“You have time for learning, child,” Valentine said. “You can find pleasure in books when you have forgotten how to play.”
So he rode hobby horse with Philippe in the courtyard or hopped on the pavement of the corridors and halls. Little Jean watched his brothers from the sidelines but Dunois, who was not vet four years old, always wanted to play. He plunged headlong between his older brothers without fear of stumbling or falling, a resolute child with sturdy legs and strong little hands. He spoke little and never cried, but when he wanted to accomplish something, his will was inflexible. Charles and Philippe thought of him as being as old as they; from time to time they remembered with surprise that their indefatigable playmate was younger than Jean, the timid, apprehensive toddler. They did not seem to care that Dunois was only their half-brother and a bastard to boot. He was part of the family, sharing their food and clothing; he slept in bed with Jean and was treated by strangers and inferiors with the same respect accorded the other children of the Duke. Valentine loved him uncommonly well; she was proud of his healthy good looks, his thriving body and spirit.
Her own sons were less robust, paler and more easily tired than he. Charles was short-winded; she found him too quiet, too introspective for a nine-year-old boy. Inclined to day-dream herself, she wanted to spare him the fate that befalls sensitive natures; it was better for him, she thought, to be able-bodied and alert. However, the arrival of Maitre Garbet meant that Charles’ spirit had to be guided into other channels, at least for a time; in a sense she was forced to abandon him.
With flushed cheeks the child watched while the tutor opened his leather bag of books. They were placed on the table in the study room: the Katholicon, Latin grammars, the works of Cato, Teren-tius, Sallustius and Cicero, the Doctrine of Alexander de Villedieu. Nicolas Garbet, a thin, vivacious man not much taller than Charles himself, rushed about, chattering incessantly. He directed the servants who carried the books, told Charles what the thick leather covers contained, recalled aloud what Monseigneur d’Orléans had told him to tell the Duchess. His sleeves fluttered as he made short, choppy gestures. Charles noticed that his shoes were worn down — that did not surprise him, for Maitre Garbet did not stand still for a moment.
The lessons began the following day. Valentine had insisted that Philippe be there too; she hoped that the presence of the younger child would slow things down somewhat and put a necessary rein on the enthusiasms of Maitre de Garbet and the studious Charles. So seated side by side at the long table, the brothers became acquainted with the ABCs; slowly they read psalms from a little book which Hugues Foubert, illuminator of manuscripts, had made for them at Valentine’s request. Above their little black cloaks — they wore in mourning for their grandfather Gian Galeazzo, who had died suddenly in Milan — their young faces were taut and grave as they wielded the pen stiffly, the tips of their tongues between their teeth.
Before long they began to learn Latin words, followed by conjugations, declensions and what-not. Then logic, rhetoric and arithmetic. Charles, especially, made rapid progress. Philippe was more playful; he wanted to be done so that he could go out and amuse himself. When lessons were over, Charles usually lingered in the room filled with books and writing implements. Maitre Garbet, always busy himself — he was writing a theological treatise in poetic form — encouraged the boy to remain. The shouts and laughter of the younger boys echoed outside; they stormed and defended sand hills, threw stones and shot arrows at wooden targets or leapt breathlessly over barricades of sticks, while Charles sat on in the quiet study, his arms resting on the edge of the table.