Hella Haasse - In a Dark Wood Wandering

Isabeau preferred the castle of Vincennes; if she had to reside at Saint-Pol she stayed mostly in her own apartments which, although not spacious, were comfortably furnished. However, there were too many eyes and ears there — a confidential conversation was impossible; greater security was offered by these deserted salons in the old section of the palace.

The Queen sat near the hearth. The projecting mantelpiece was decorated to the ceiling with immense sculptures in relief: twelve heraldic beasts and the figures of prophets in pleated robes. Along the walls hung somber tapestries depicting hunting scenes. Some wax candles burned on a table before Isabeau. The silk damask of her clothing and her jewels glowed crimson and violet in the candleflames and the light of the setting sun which streamed in through the windows behind her. In a dark corner of the room the Duke saw a few court ladies and other members of Isabeau’s retinue; he ordered his own followers to remain near the door and approached the Queen. He knelt before her despite the stiffness of his limbs. He attached great importance to the conventions and was particularly punctilious about the expression of all due marks of respect. Not the difference in age between Isabeau and himself, not the fact that they tolerated each other only out of self-interest, nor that he was essentially the more powerful of the two, could prevent him from the performance of these ceremonies. Three times he allowed himself to be encouraged by the Queen to rise, before he stood up.

Isabeau, who usually enjoyed Burgundy’s voluntary — although purely formal — self-abasement, was in no mood for compliments. She was frowning and her full lips were pursed; with her that was always a sure sign of annoyance. She sat erect with her hands on the arms of her chair. She had put aside her robes of state and so, despite the fact that her garments had been cleverly altered by her seamstress, it could no longer remain a secret that she was pregnant again as a result of the rapprochement between herself and the King during Charles’ short period of relative lucidity in the spring. There was a general sentiment that a second son was needed; the Dauphin was weak and frail. Isabeau had already lost two children who had suffered from the same lack of vitality. That she, with her strong healthy body, apparently was not capable of giving the country a robust heir was a disappointment and a source of amazement to many people. But the sickly blood of the most recent generation of France’s royal House seemed to be predominant.

The Duke of Burgundy waited. The candlelight seemed to emphasize the sharpness of his features; the shadows lay deep around his nose and in his eyesockets. He held his mouth rigidly closed; Isabeau knew that only carefully tested and rehearsed words passed those lips. She had become accustomed, during the years when Charles was underage and Burgundy acted as his guardian, and now again during his renewed regency — which actually amounted to single-handed control of the government — to look for double, even triple, meanings behind the Duke’s words. Despite the fact that she considered him to be dangerous, she had a great deal of admiration for him. She recognized the similarity between them: like him, she was intent on working to her own advantage, on safeguarding her own position, on amassing gold and property, and on building power for herself. And she knew now that it was he whom she had to thank, in the main, for her marriage. His own children were married to members of the Bavarian royal house, whose possessions in the Netherlands Burgundy craved. Nothing could be more precious to him than a stronger bond between France and Bavaria. Isabeau had found that she could learn a great deal from him. Already she knew how to keep secret any plans of hers which ran counter to his. Now she concealed her growing desire for power behind a show of docility.

“The King is not well,” she said abruptly, without preamble. Her manner of speech was unique in that court: she had never completely lost her foreign accent and had the habit of using short sentences, coming right to the point without the fashionable flowery circumlocutions and paraphrases.

“Madame, I regret the incident in the apartments of the Duchess of Orléans,” said Burgundy in a low voice, without looking at her. “The King must, indeed, be far from well to demonstrate publicly an inclination which—”

“Be still!” Isabeau cried. A dark flush spread over her face. The Duke of Burgundy fell silent; the released arrow quivered in the target.

“How is he now?” Isabeau asked after a moment. “You brought him back to his chambers? What is he doing?”

“The King is resting for a while. He was extremely excited.” Burgundy’s tone was, as usual, unruffled. “I believe that the physicians do not find it advisable for him to appear at the christening feast.”

“That’s absurd!” Isabeau tossed her head; the pear-shaped pearls trembled in her ears. “Why can’t he come to the table? A meal is less tiring than going to church. I do not want them to bring food to his chamber,” she announced with sudden brusqueness.

The Duke looked at her directly for the first time, and raised his eyebrows. “What objection can you possibly have to that?” he asked. Isabeau glanced toward her courtiers who stood talking in low voices in the farthest corner of the darkening room. She did not answer at once but stared, her face averted, at the fire, while she toyed with an ornament which the King had sent her when they were first married and he was staying in the south of France: a small golden triptych with a tiny mirror in the back.

“The King is bewitched,” she said finally, leaning toward him. Burgundy’s eyes did not change expression; only his mouth showed a trace of satisfaction.

“Madame, may I ask on what grounds you base your opinion?”

“Someone came to me — a man from Guyenne — his name is Arnaud Guillaume,” replied the Queen without looking at the impassive face opposite her.

“Came to Your Majesty?” The Duke’s lips barely moved. Isabeau felt the reproof. She raised her head defiantly. “I had him brought — I had heard about him,” she said shortly. “He believes he can protect the King against sinister influences. He knows all about magic …”

“Magic?” repeated Philippe. Isabeau shrugged. She let the gold triptych drop into her lap and looked at him almost defiantly. “What else helps against sorcery?” she asked haughtily. “We see all the time how little comes from the measures of the learned physicians. The King no longer recognizes me.” She lowered her eyes and fell silent.

The Duke of Burgundy maintained the silence. A new fruit had ripened on the tree which he had so carefully planted.

“Maitre Guillaume says,” Isabeau continued, “that those who bewitched the King are concentrating all their energies to prevent his recovery.”

“Why should anyone—” the Duke stressed the last word. “—cast a spell upon the King? Does the King have enemies then, Madame?”

Isabeau looked into his eyes. “ I have enemies,” she said. “They bewitch the King in order to remove my influence on him. There are those who want to use him for their own purposes. You know that, Monseigneur. The Duchess of Orléans …”

Burgundy raised his hand.

“Madame, my Queen,” he said evenly, “is there any reason to mention names between us? We both know that a highly-placed man at the court dabbles in politics …”

“I don’t mean that,” the Queen replied hastily. She was fond of Louis d’Orléans. She found it in her interest to protect her brother-in-law. On her mother’s side Isabeau came from the Visconti family, to which Valentine also belonged. But since Gian Galeazzo had come to power in Milan and damaged the interests of her Bavarian kinsmen, mutual forbearance had chilled to mutual enmity. “Before his marriage there was no talk of political dabbling,” she said significantly. The Duke smiled. Isabeau continued more vehemently. “Surely everyone knows how the tyrant of Milan came to power — the poisoner Gian Galeazzo!”