The next day he sent couriers to the city of Provins with a hundred golden ecus to buy roses for Her Majesty.
When Jean of Burgundy learned that Orléans was approaching the city with an army, he ordered his horse to be saddled, and rode to the palace where the Council was assembled.
“Well, Messeigneurs,” he called contemptuously to Berry and Bourbon who sat among the peers of the realm, “what I predicted is happening. Orléans is on his way to Paris with about 2,000 men; Alençon and Lorraine are with him, and the Queen rides in the procession. Don’t say now that he comes in friendship, although his reply to the lords of the University might perhaps have led you to believe that.”
Bourbon rose, with some difficulty, and held up his hands in a placatory gesture.
“No one can tell our nephew of Orléans not to gather men around him, now that you have armed half the city!”
Jean of Burgundy kicked his long riding cloak to one side.
“It is no accident,” he remarked, “that Orléans’ banners carry the motto ‘I challenge’ in defiance of my own device ‘I hold’. Well, this time he can count on a warm reception. Most quarters are fortified — the burghers have been given weapons and students who can handle pitch and stones as well as Latin are waiting outside the bridge. Yes, the brave citizens intend to defend themselves and me, my lords. They know where their interests lie!”
Bourbon threw up his hands, looking helplessly about him, but Berry who, like an old bird of prey on a branch, surveyed the hall from his elevated chair, said ironically, “But that means civil war.” He declared himself ready to work with both sides to reconcile their differences. This attitude reflected the line he had taken since his illness.
After due deliberations the Provost of Paris, de Tignonville, was sent as the head of a delegation to meet Orléans in the name of the Chancellor and the chairman of Parlement. De Tignonville and Louis had always gotten on well together and Louis, following de Tig-nonville’s advice, sent an announcement to Paris that, for the sake of the populace and in order to preserve peace in the Kingdom, he had voluntarily renounced armed conflict, although he had every right to attack. Jean of Burgundy, not wishing to hurt his reputation as the people’s benefactor, had no choice but to lay down his arms.
Most of the troops billeted in and around the city were sent home. Once more Isabeau entered Paris, but this time the festive note was struck only by the gay trappings of her procession. The people stood in silence, darkly watching as the entourage wound through the streets. There were gold-brocaded palanquins, plumed horses, a plethora of banners and canopies, but the escort was armed to the teeth and the smiles of the beautiful ladies were joyless.
On the following day the royal kinsmen proceeded to Notre Dame where, before the Queen, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berry and Bourbon and a great number of dignitaries, Jean of Burgundy and Louis of Orléans shook hands in a formal show of mutual apology. From a distance it seemed a noble gesture, but those who stood close by were later to recall vividly not the handshake but the look in both men’s eyes.
On the twenty-ninth of June, in the year 1406, Charles d’Orléans married his cousin Isabelle, once Queen of England. The wedding was celebrated in Compiegne; on the same day the King’s second son took to wife the small daughter of the Countess of Hainault. Charles, carefully coached by his mother about what he must say and do at the altar and at the great receptions, seemed a good deal more at ease than he had been a few years earlier at Senlis. His father’s presence gave him self-confidence; he could see now with his own eyes that his father was indeed the most powerful man in the Kingdom. The boy spoke little, but noticed everything; it was not natural for him to push himself forward.
In a hall where, in the torch and candlelight, the pomp and splendor of the chivalric romances seemed to become reality, Charles met his bride for the first time. She stood amid queens and princesses, under a canopy embroidered with lilies; she was clad in gold, azure and purple. Charles, kneeling before her, dared not raise his eyes higher than the gleaming hem of her dress: she was so much older than he, weighed more than he did, and — most important — was already the widow of a king. He felt he could not possibly be worthy of this high and noble lady. He was — and he knew it better than anyone else — still a boy, and not accomplished in chivalry. He knew little of courtly behavior, and even less about dancing and love-making. The only women he knew were his mother and the ladies of her court and the beautiful queens about whom he read in his favorite books. In short, he was not yet thirteen years old, and deeply conscious of his disadvantages as a bridegroom.
Isabelle greeted him courteously, but her voice lacked warmth and she did not smile. She was sixteen years old and almost a head taller than her intended husband. No one would ever know about the tears she had shed over the humiliation of this marriage to a small boy who was, moreover, her inferior in rank. Isabelle had been long accustomed to controlling her emotions in a royal manner; she was determined to conceal her dismay at any price, in order to avoid pity or ridicule. Pale and impassive, she stood once more in bridal finery among her ladies. Charles d’Orléans she ignored; she felt his embarrassed uncertainty, and this added to her irritation. Standing beside Isabelle, Charles did his best to follow his mother’s advice and make up in outward dignity for his insecurity.
He was distracted momentarily when the heralds raised their trumpets to announce the approach of the Duchess of Holland and Hainault with her little daughter Jacoba of Bavaria, the bride of the King’s second son. The opulence displayed by the Princess from the Netherlands and her retinue surpassed anything ever seen at Saint-Pol — to the considerable annoyance of Isabeau, who was jealous of her kinsmen’s wealth. This rivalry went on during the entire week of festivities: where France was arrayed in silver, Hainault gleamed with gold; ten Flemish knights escorted the bridal procession to five French; and the largesse distributed among the attending populace at the request of the Bavarian bride was more than royal.
For the first few days Charles enjoyed the crowds, the pageants, tournaments and solemn services; banquet followed upon banquet; the music did not seem to stop even for an instant. But finally the festivities tired the boy, who was accustomed to a life of routine, without much excitement or diversion. After the marriage ceremony, he sat, sleepy and silent, at the great banquet given in honor of the two young couples. Isabelle, seated beside him on the garlanded bench, did not speak; on the other side of the table were the prince and his bride, young children who barely understood what was happening. The adults at the royal table, after the obligatory speeches and toasts, wasted little more attention on the bridal couples. They became involved in lively conversations. It was rare for so illustrious a company to come together; there were many questions to be asked, and much to talk about and, after cups of wine, much to joke about and to argue about.
The Countess of Hainault wished to take her small son-in-law to her castle in Quesnoy. Isabeau did not want her child to leave. The advantages and disadvantages of his departure were discussed in detail by the royal kinsmen.
For Charles, who could scarcely keep his eyes open, the impressions flowed together; the red and gold of his father’s clothes, the women’s sparkling headdresses, the long purple row of clergy; the light of the setting sun glowing in the stained glass windows in the festive hall, the profusion of splendidly served dishes. He was just dozing off when Isabelle pulled roughly at his arm.