“I shall fight for Orléans and my brothers,” said the boy, his forehead pressed against Valentine’s hand.
Now the priests, who had been summoned to administer extreme unction, entered from the adjoining room: Valentine’s confessor from the house chapel of Orléans and the priests of Saint-Saveur, the church in the forecourt of Blois. Valentine, weeping now, bade her children farewell. Silently she made the sign of the cross over Charles’ forehead and grasped the feet of little Marguerite who was not yet a year and a half old, and who understood nothing of what was happening. The child laughed and wriggled in the arms of the Dame de Maucouvent, clutching at the light from the candles reflected in the glittering chalice which the priest held — the governess, blind with tears, stood speechless by the deathbed of the woman whom she had served for twenty long years. They told her she must leave the room; she carried the playful child away.
Charles, praying in a corner of the room, lost all sense of time; he did not know how long he knelt there, murmuring incoherendy, until someone shook his arm gently back and forth and said, “Monseigneur, it is over.”
The Duchess of Orléans lay with her head thrown back, her mouth open, as though she were about to call out. The sight overcame Charles, shattering his final resistance. He hid his face in his hands and repeated in a whisper the vows he had already sworn to his mother. Women entered the room to lay out the dead Duchess; respectfully they requested that Monseigneur depart.
Charles walked slowly through the empty rooms to his own chamber — through the windows he saw the evening sky, colored yellow above the horizon, steel grey and already filled with stars at the zenith. Crows sat in the leafless trees along the river. In Blois and in the forecourt of the citadel bells began to toll, mourning bells for the Lady Valentine, Duchess of Orléans, who had died at noon on the fourth of December in the year 1408 at the age of thirty-eight, precisely one year and eleven days after her husband was murdered in Paris.
Charles felt his heart lying cold and heavy as a stone in his breast. He sent his valet away; he did not respond to the raps on the door. He flung himself across the bed and thrust his fist into his mouth to smother the sound of his violent convulsive sobs. When he opened his eyes — had he slept? — he saw, vaguely in the darkness, the red glow of fire under the ashes. A small streak of light was visible on the floor by the window; outside, the moon was shining.
Charles raised his head to listen: he thought he heard somewhere in the room a soft rustling, like a woman’s dress gliding along the floor. His heart began to thump so violently that he almost choked. He did not dare to look up. He knew that one must call God’s name to drive back the dead who can find no rest, but his tongue lay as though it were paralyzed against his palate; he could not speak. Was she trying to urge him once more; did she not understand that he would do what she had asked, did she want to hear him swear an oath again?
In the reflection of the moonlight on the floor he saw a pale white dress; someone stepped up to him and put an arm on his shoulder. It was Isabelle, his wife.
III. BURGUNDIANS AND ARMAGNACS
La guerre est ma patrie,
mon harnois ma maison,
et en toute saison
combattre, c’est ma vie.
War is my fatherland
my armour is my house,
and in every season
combat is my life.
n the first day of March in the year 1409, the populace of the city of Chartres were surprised by the news that royal guests were arriving in great numbers. Workmen in the King’s service appeared in the cathedral to construct a dais for the royal chair beside the altar; flags and banners were unfurled as though for a fete. Only when more processions — of nobles, courtiers, horsemen and soldiers — entered Chartres did some information begin to circulate about the purpose of this impressive gathering.
Burgundy and Orléans, it seemed, were ready for a new reconciliation before God and the King; scoffers asked, for the umpteenth time? The people had no opportunity to take part in what promised to be a joyous celebration; it became clear before long that the great lords wished this peace treaty to be a private affair. On the day set aside for the ceremonies a hedge of soldiers stood between the city gate and the cathedral. The square before the church was swept clean, streets blocked off to prevent spectators from flocking in. Thus almost no one witnessed the King’s entry; no one saw the sick man, wrapped in a great cloak, helped from his carriage; no one saw the corpulent Queen enter the cathedral wearing a fortune in pearls and rubies, followed by the Dauphin and his young wife; no one was given the chance to see, close up and with his own eyes, the peers of the Kingdom, the dukes, counts and barons, the cardinals and archbishops, the long procession of figures dressed in purple, gold and black, the indispensable extras in every act of this tragedy of kings.
Unobserved, Charles d’Orléans and his brother Philippe also rode into the city; both wore deep mourning. They were attended by only a small retinue, not more than fifty horsemen; so it was stipulated in the decree which summoned the Duke of Orléans to the meeting in Chartres.
The young man sat straight and silent in the saddle; he dreaded this meeting with Burgundy. He felt guilty because he had yielded to the pressure brought to bear on him by the Council and his own royal kinsmen. Since the death of his mother, they had sent him messengers and mediators without interruption; they knew only too well that it would be easier to make demands upon an inexperienced young man than upon Burgundy. The Duke of Berry had visited his nephew and spoken to him sympathetically, as a man of the world: what was the sense, he asked, in clinging obstinately to desires for vengeance and satisfaction? Why should feelings of enmity exist between the young man and his blood relative? There was certainly no question that reconciliation with Louis had been impossible, that Valentine had been filled with hatred—”but come, Monseigneur; you are too intelligent, too courteous, too pious, when all is said and done, to go on with a feud that can’t bring you anything but trouble.” With his sharp nose, Berry had sniffed out the arguments which would sway Charles: with broad strokes he painted the suffering and unrest in the country, the terror and aversion people felt for the armies because the soldiers depended upon the farmers and citizens for food and lodging; he did not neglect to point out that the threat of war interfered with the functioning of the government so that important affairs would be neglected or even ignored.
Despite his counsellors’ advice that he should not cooperate, Charles did not dare to refuse. He felt swamped by the overwhelming numbers of nearly insoluble problems; he could not choose a position or stand up for a point of view. There were many domains to administer, money matters to arrange, household affairs to manage and guidance to be given to officials — he had to keep an eye on a number of things the existence of which he did not even suspect. He was a husband as well as a brother and guardian, the head of a feudal House of one of France’s four most powerful vassal states. He did not know each separate task, but his awareness of the expectations that he would take full control of all these functions together made him extremely receptive to the pressure which was exerted upon him.