“Oh God, Monseigneur, how could you have done that?” Anjou turned hastily from the window. “Not even twenty-four hours after you went together with Orléans to communion and swore on the body of Christ to make peace!”
Jean of Burgundy shrugged.
“The Fiend entered into me,” he answered indifferently, with contempt. “A man isn’t answerable for his actions when that happens, Monseigneur. You know that.”
“Nephew, nephew,” said Berry, trembling with emotion. “You have burdened yourself with a dreadful sin — that blood cannot be so quickly wiped away!”
“I haven’t filthied my hands with it.” Burgundy spoke harshly, holding his hands palm up. “Other enemies of Orléans did that for me. Messire de Courteheuse, the King’s valet, lured him into an ambush. The attack was led by Arnaud Guillaume of Guyenne, and the whole plan was devised and worked out by a very clever and useful man whom I can certainly recommend to you for similar things — Messire Ettore Salvia of Milan.”
“Orléans’ astrologer?” cried Berry, aghast. “I refuse to believe it!”
“Ah come.” Jean laughed shortly and bent to pick up his glove. “For money everything and everyone is for sale, Monseigneur de Berry.”
“My God,” continued Berry, “why didn’t Orléans listen to me and have the criminal from Guyenne hanged when he had him in his power? Where are they now, the villains?”
“In safety,” replied Jean of Burgundy. “It’s no use attempting to find them, my lord. They stand under my protection.”
Berry, who had been pacing back and forth, stopped before his nephew again. He looked suddenly very old and tired. “Do you realize what this means?” he asked in a low voice. “You must place yourself at the King’s disposal. We must deliberate seriously about this …”
Burgundy cut him off rudely. “Monseigneur, you had better stick to your stuffed animals and your collection of holy relics,” he said. “Don’t meddle in my affairs. I would regret it if you too had to learn to your sorrow that one does not stand in Burgundy’s way with impunity.”
He spat on the floor before Berry and unceremoniously left the Hotel de Nesle, stamping and swearing. Inwardly, he was far from confident; he cursed himself for his imprudence. Now that the Duchess of Orléans was in Paris, he considered it not unlikely that the King would order his arrest. After a furious ride through the city, he arrived at the Hotel d’Artois and went at once to the tower which he had had built in the inner courtyard, a donjon made from massive blocks of stone, where he could entrench himself against impending danger.
In a room on the highest floor he found the men who only a few weeks before had fled in wild haste from the rue Vieille du Temple; Salvia and Arnaud Guillaume were there as well. Most of them lounged on straw mattresses; three or four were playing a listless game of dice. The enforced stay in the donjon had begun, after two weeks, to bore them thoroughly.
“Men,” said Jean of Burgundy, “pack up — disguise yourselves and get out of the city. The truth is known; I expect very shortly a visit from the Provost and his bailiffs. Seek shelter in my domains, preferably in Flanders, it won’t be difficult for you there. But clear out before it gets dark. Talk to Messire Salvia about the how and when; he knows all about escapes and disguises.”
Salvia approached cringing humbly before his new master; the flaps of his red bonnet hung down loosely on either side of his sly, sallow face.
“Where are you sending us, Monseigneur?” he asked tensely.
Burgundy thought for a moment. “Go to the castle of Lens in Artois,” he said at last. “Wait there until you hear from me. No, don’t bother me with questions,” he added irritably as the astrologer bowed again. “Save yourself; conjure up the Devil if you must — it’s all the same to me.”
Late in the evening a troop of gypsies were seen passing through the outskirts of Paris; they declared that they had leave to spend the night in one of the fields near the ramparts. The following morning no trace of their camp was to be seen anywhere. At midnight the watch at the gate of Saint-Denis was alarmed by loud shouts and the sound of horses’ hooves. The Duke of Burgundy, one of the riders said, had to leave the city hastily; Monseigneur did not wish to be interfered with. The watch, who had as yet received no orders to detain Burgundy, opened the gates; the Duke and his followers dashed out at full gallop in the direction of the city of Bapaume on the Flemish border.
While these events were taking place in Paris, Charles d’Orléans and his brother Philippe and half-brother Dunois, were traveling to the castle of Blois. Charles was attended by Maitre Nicolas Garbet and Messire Sauvage de Villers, his chamberlain and advisor, along with horsemen, servants and many members of the ducal household. Charles sat on horseback; his brothers, much against their will, had to ride in a carriage. There was so much to see that the boys almost forgot the mournful reason for their journey. The procession had to stop repeatedly in Orléans’ domains so that delegations of the populace could greet the young Duke.
They came from everywhere to meet him; in carts along rural roads, by boat and raft over the Loire. Abundant gifts were offered to him: fat capons and beautiful pheasants, loaves of white bread and casks of country wine. Charles accepted the generous gifts and good wishes in as dignified a manner as possible. From his horse he looked down on the weather-beaten faces, the coarse hands, and the bent, warped bodies of the peasants; the dark, anxious looks of the city dwellers. The people, staring at their young Duke, saw against the grey-blue winter sky, the slender figure of a boy in black mourning damask. Most people thought he had friendly eyes.
“Alas, Monseigneur,” they dared to say, “be kind to us. Times are hard, and they say it will be a bad winter. We are poor, my lord, we have heavy burdens. Taxes are high, my lord, we beg you to lower them. May God and all the saints bless you, Monseigneur; be generous with us.”
Jean of Burgundy’s flight had made a deep impression upon the people of Paris who, long biased toward Burgundy, wanted to see in him a benefactor who had delivered them from imminent danger. They thought that the murder could have only good consequences: maintenance of the armistice with England — wasn’t it enough that skirmishes took place repeatedly along the coast? — peace in the city; remission of a part of their taxes. There was great need for this, especially in light of the severe winter, which was one of the coldest in memory.
Meanwhile, Valentine, through her chancellor and advocate, demanded punishment of the murderers and especially of the instigator of the deed, a confession of guilt from Burgundy and various forms of compensation for her and her children. But Jean of Burgundy sat safely in Flanders: the snow and cold formed an almost insuperable barrier between him and his kinsmen in Saint-Pol. In addition, the court knew the mood of the people of Paris, who shouted from the rooftops that they eagerly anticipated the return of Burgundy, the defender of their interests, whom they would greet with enthusiasm.
Berry, Bourbon and the young Anjou consulted with Isabeau who, recovered from her illness and fright, participated again in all discussions. To the amazement of the Dukes she seemed to deplore only formally what had happened; she even forgot more than once that an unwritten law forbade one to speak ill of the dead. It was as though her memory of Orléans and her passion for him had died together — or so her behavior would lead one to believe. In reality, she felt secretly relieved; she often thought with remorse and shame that for the sake of a fleeting pleasure she had allowed herself to lose sight of her real interests. Once more messengers went back and forth regularly between her and Ludwig of Bavaria.