He was continually overcome by amazement that a world filled with adventure and beauty could rise from behind the black letters; that within a single page, a life could unfold, that death and heroism could be enclosed in a few strokes on the paper. He read a line aloud as soon as it was taught to him: there rode Perceval through the forest; on the mountaintop could be seen the citadel of Montsalvat. The words “mountain” and “forest” called up a variety of images for the boy: he saw leaves hanging, dark and gleaming, and heard the splashing of a hidden brook; the horses’ hooves left deep tracks in the moss. The sunlight glowed red on the mountainside, and glinted on the windows of the castle, an eagle rose screaming from his craggy nest.
Reading in the study, Charles lost all track of time; he was completely immersed. In the summer he did not notice the flies buzzing along the walls or the scratching of Maitre Garbet’s pen. In the winter he did not hear the wood crackling on the hearth and he never remembered the exact moment when a kindly hand had set a candle down beside him.
The many journeys and processions had ended; they lived now almost the whole year around in Chateau-Thierry. During this period Charles and his mother became very close. They talked and read together, and enjoyed the minstrel’s songs. For the first time the boy realized something of his mother’s unhappiness. He knew now that she had been exiled from the court in Paris and why; he knew too that she had fresh reasons to be sad. Although she never complained and talked about herself with reluctance in his presence, Charles sensed with the sharp intuition of a precocious child what oppressed her spirits.
His father came to visit them very often now, always with a large entourage, usually attended by lords from his provinces or from Luxembourg. But Louis paid little attention to his sons when he stayed at Chateau-Thierry; there was so much to discuss with Valentine and important guests that no time was left for the children. Charles, observing him from a distance, admired him greatly. He had never seen such a handsome and splendidly dressed man as his father — he could not help identifying him with the heroes of the romances, with Perceval, Lancelot, Arthur and Aeneas. He knew his mother felt that way too. Often he saw her looking at her husband — the glow in her eyes was almost frightening.
As a rule the Duchess chose to dress in black; she rarely wore jewels. But when Monseigneur visited Chateau-Thierry, she appeared dressed like a princess, wearing necklaces of precious stones. The child Charles observed the transformation breathlessly; at these times he became aware that his mother was an uncommonly beautiful woman, tall and slender — her hair was golden brown, like leaves in October. The Duke greeted her with courtly elegance, and behaved toward her throughout his stay with deference and gallantry — but in his eyes the boy never saw the look of burning ardor which he sometimes detected in the eyes of his mother.
In the course of time another child had been born, a girl, baptized Marie d’Orléans. But she did not lie long in the green-curtained cradle; even before their mother had risen from the lying-in bed, Charles and Philippe were called to take leave of their sister, who lay in the folds of her shroud like a pale wax doll.
In the spring of 1404, the Duchess of Orléans received a letter from her husband containing important news, especially for Charles. Louis and the former Emperor Wenceslaus had agreed to nullify the marriage agreement between Charles and the young Elisabeth von Goerlitz. A new bride had been found in the person of Madame Isabelle, the fourteen-year-old widow of King Richard of England. The marriage would, it was true, be put off for several years because of the youth of the groom, but the betrothal would be announced as soon as the formalities had been concluded.
The Pope consented to this marriage between cousins; the King declared that Isabelle’s dowry would be 100,000 gold florins, two-thirds of which Orléans would use to buy territory in France.
In the autumn Louis d’Orléans took his oldest son with him to Senlis for the hunt, and to meet the royal personages at the court. Dressed in handsome garments which were — as usual — heavily embroidered with thisdes, crossbows and netdes, the boy walked beside his father between rows of high-placed lords. Never had he seen such a magnificent display of horses, carriages, pennants, colorfully-clad servants and pages. The counts and barons and their wives glittered with gold and precious stones; under a red silk tent the King sat, Charles’ uncle and godfather.
The boy was disappointed. He knew quite well that the King was sick, but still he had expected a more impressive figure than this thin, shrunken man with waxen face and red-rimmed, restless eyes. However, the King greeted him with great geniality; he called Charles first ‘Svorthy nephew” and later “our son”; he gave him beautiful gifts and the promise of an annuity. Charles thanked him with downcast eyes, a little flustered because everyone was looking at him. It was precisely this boyish embarrassment which roused admiration; people found him a well-made, mannerly youth. They said he had his father’s nose and mouth, but Valentine’s eyes. The Duke of Orléans was pleased with the impression his son had made; he gave the boy a signet ring and a horse as souvenirs of his days at Senlis.
That winter brought much snow and rain; in early spring the swollen rivers overflowed their banks; the wind was raw. During the bad weather a new illness broke out, characterized by violent headaches and loss of appetite. Almost no one escaped this sickness but only a few died of it. Among these few was the Duke of Burgundy.
On an evening in the spring of 1405, a great number of people were gathered in the rooms of The Golden Stag, a tavern in the rue Barre du Bee, not far from the Hotel d’Artois. The doors were barred so that no one else could enter; inside, only a couple of torches were burning. The innkeeper was called Thibault the Dice-Player because he could always manage to provide a sequestered room where one could drink wine and gamble undisturbed for any conceivable stakes. If he was paid well and prompdy, Thibault asked no questions — his rooms were notorious as a gathering place for those who wished to amuse themselves or transact business without attracting attention. The sheriffs servants were reluctant to enter there; Thibaulfs tavern was frequented by armed people who, day or night, were all too ready to draw a knife. Scuffles usually became bloodbaths; no one bothered to distinguish between opponents and companions-at-arms, they went at each other for the sheer enjoyment of the fight itself and the chance to cut some purses and steal some valuables. Those who had no business there avoided not only The Golden Stag, but the rue Barre du Bee because of it.
On the evening in question the gathering in Thibault’s rooms had a prearranged character: the men sat or stood almost one on top of the other around a table which served as a rostrum, listening to an orator who, despite his off-putting appearance, possessed to a high degree the ability to enthrall his audience. His filthy rags were held together by a rope about his middle; his long hair hung over his shoulders. There in the tavern no one was present who would find it in his interest to inform the officials that Arnaud Guillaume was preaching rebellion against Orléans; he had therefore pulled off his bonnet. However, his two companions who sat at the table did not want to be recognized: their cloaks were pulled up over their chins, they had drawn the lappets of their hats down across their cheeks. Without moving, silent, they sat staring at the men around them. Arnaud Guillaume spoke in the style that had served him so well throughout his earlier career: slowly, in a low voice that appeared to quiver with deep emotion. Thus had he practiced exorcism over the head of the sleeping King.