“Madame.” Philippe knelt before her again. “It might be well to allow this Maitre Guillaume the opportunity to do what he can. The King is in a really pitiable plight. He has broken his glass goblets because he was displeased by Your Majesty’s coat of arms.”
“The arms of Wittelsbach?” asked Isabeau fiercely. “But all the tableware bears my coat of arms next to the King’s. He himself gave the order to have it engraved.”
Burgundy bowed his head. “The King did not recognize the coat of arms. He trampled on the splinters — he defiled them.”
Isabeau stood up so suddenly that her long sleeves brushed against his face. She folded her arms over her protruding stomach and choked with rage. Philippe arose also and made a gesture as if to support her. But the Queen quickly composed herself.
“Arnaud Guillaume is in the palace,” she said tensely. “I can have him summoned. We should speak to him as soon as possible.”
“In the presence of my lords Berry and Bourbon,” added Philippe, involving his fellow Regents in the affair with ceremonial modesty. “I shall see that they are told.”
“In my apartments, then,” said the Queen, who was still trembling. “It’s too cold here.”
The Duke of Burgundy struck a silver cymbal which stood upon the table next to the candlesticks. The group of ladies moved forward, preceded by the Comtesse d’Eu, Isabeau’s mistress of ceremonies, who placed a mantle about the Queen’s shoulders.
Isabeau walked slowly from the hall, leaning on Philippe’s arm. Torchbearers appeared at the door. The Queen’s red train and Burgundy’s long violet sleeves seemed to flow into each other, variations of one color. The retinue of courtiers followed them at a leisurely pace.
The room in which the Queen and the Regents met resembled a bower: the tapestries that hung along the walls were so thickly embroidered with flowers and leafy tendrils that their blue background was barely visible. Isabeau sat under a canopy. A greyhound crouched before the old Duke of Bourbon, who urged it to show off its tricks. The Queen looked on with an absent smile. Burgundy and his brother, the Duke of Berry, stood at a table which held some books. They were examining a breviary which had been commissioned not long before by Isabeau. Both men were bibliophiles, especially Berry, who spent vast sums of money on books. His castle of Bicetre contained countless art treasures; painters, writers and sculptors made pilgrimages to his court where they were hospitably received and where their work was paid for with annual allowances and life-long annuities.
Philippe too had been busy for some years putting together a library of ecclesiastical, didactic and historical documents which he had found in his Burgundian and Flemish residences. His motivation, however, was different. While his late brother Charles V had been interested primarily in acquiring knowledge, and Berry was an aesthete, the Duke of Burgundy believed that a ruler must be a Maecenas if he wanted to see himself and his deeds glorified in the art of his time.
Berry held the Queen’s breviary up to the candlelight to get a better look at one of the miniatures. He was sixty-five years old, corpulent, with the somewhat slack features of one who had indulged too abundantly in the good things of the earth; there were bags under his eyes and the drooping flesh of his chin and cheeks was an unhealthy color. He wore his hair cut short like Philippe’s, but his was curled. The cloak which enveloped his shapeless body was of green and gold brocade, trimmed with marten fur. The Oriental pomades with which he liked to be regularly massaged surrounded him with a penetrating aroma.
His brother looked with disapproval at the thick, beringed fingers turning the pages. Philippe’s austere appearance caused Berry, by contrast, to look almost like a gaudy parrot. The Duke of Burgundy cherished a secret contempt for his brother, who had no aspirations beyond the collecting of books and curiosities and the beautification of Bicetre where he spent most of his time with his wife, who was almost fifty years younger than he.
“Look, look,” said Berry keenly. “These initials have been overlaid with gold leaf. By God, there is no handsomer script anywhere! Oh yes, I concede that its production was demanding — the cost of time and paper. But what nobility of form!” He held the book out at arm’s length; the candlelight glinted on the golden ornaments between the blue-and-green-painted vines which framed the text. His small sharp eyes sparkled; he clicked his tongue a few times in admiration and closed the book. Burgundy took it from him and examined the clasps mounted on the leather covers.
“I must say, Madame, the book is magnificent.” Berry went up to Isabeau and stood before her. “I congratulate you. I must have the man too — who is it? Hennecart? Beautiful work — superb work! But at the first opportunity I’ll let you see a few pages from my new breviary. Maitre Paul of Limburg and his brother are illuminating the calendar. I don’t exaggerate when I call it a miracle. One would swear that the flowers could actually be plucked from the grass and that in the next moment the crows would come flying up out of the snow. The initials are especially beautiful — like these here — but in vermilion—”
“Actually, where is that man now?” Burgundy broke testily into the flood of his brother’s words. He put the book back on the table. The workmanship of the clasps was exceptionally exquisite, and they were mounted with cabochon garnets and pearls. He didn’t doubt that it had cost the Queen a considerable amount of money.
Isabeau turned toward him. “He’s being fetched,” she replied coldly. “I gave instructions that he should not be brought directly here. It was necessary first for Messeigneurs de Berry and Bourbon to become acquainted with our intentions.”
The Duke of Bourbon stopped playing with the dog. The animal sprang toward him in invitation, but he paid no more attention to it. Isabeau ordered it to lie down.
“I cannot say that I find this new plan to be entirely as favorable as it looks,” Bourbon said slowly. His caution in all matters was well-known. During deliberations he bored Berry and roused the impatience of Isabeau and Burgundy. “Why should we encourage behavior that is known to engender suspicion and discontent everywhere? Isn’t it wiser for us to stick to remedies which can bear the light of day? In the long run the wisdom of the physicians and the mercy of the Church will help the King much more.”
“In the long run!” Isabeau’s eyes became hard as glass. “Hasn’t this lasted long enough then? Two years of misery and worry and the King’s condition has grown worse, if that’s possible. Surely by now everyone knows that all the sacraments of the Church can do nothing against witchcraft …”
“Madame, Madame!” Berry raised both hands in warning. “Your Majesty does not realize what she is saying.”
Isabeau crossed herself. “That is no blasphemy,” she said with hauteur, to hide her confusion. “But I’m at my wits’ end! What has happened to the King does not come from natural causes. That’s obvious,” she continued more heatedly, bending forward to stare at the three Regents.
Berry made a gesture more eloquent than words, that signified his benevolently impartial attitude toward this problem. Burgundy stood silent; he betrayed his irritation only by rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together. Isabeau saw it. She attempted to control her nervousness, beckoning to the dog, which came to her immediately and laid its head in her lap.