Epitaph for Three Women (46 page)

There was no doubt that all parties were growing tired of the war and it was agreed that there should be a conference over which the legates of Pope Eugenius should preside. This was to be in Arras and it should not be a matter for the French and English only, but several of the European states should join in. The war between England and France for the right to govern France had been going on for nearly a hundred years. There had been times when it had seemed to be near conclusion with victory for one side or the other; then there would be more victories, more reverses and the tables would be turned. A short while ago it had seemed that the war was over with victory for the English, but then a peasant girl had appeared and there was change again.

It was a splendid occasion that took place at Arras in the July of that year 1435. The Papal legates arrived with great pomp and there were also ambassadors from Castile, Aragon, Portugal, Sicily, Denmark, Brittany and other states. But the principal parties were those from the King of France, the Duke of Bedford and the Duke of Burgundy.

The Duke of Burgundy arrived on the thirtieth of the month looking very splendid and escorted by three hundred archers all wearing the Burgundian livery. He caused some concern by riding out of the town to meet his brothers-in-law, the Duke of Bourbon and the Comte de Richemont, because naturally these men were fighting on the side of the French. Burgundy seemed to be drawing attention to the incongruous situation in which he, a member of the French royal family, should be in conflict with his own people. This seemed significant to those who were aware of the strain which existed between Burgundy and Bedford and which had never been healed since the latter’s marriage because neither Duke would suppress his pride sufficiently to approach the other.

It was to be expected that an agreement would be difficult to come by. The English did not want to make peace, which would have surely meant giving up all that had seemed to be in their hands before the coming of the Maid. They suggested a truce and perhaps a marriage between their King Henry and a daughter of Charles VII.

No, said the French, there must be peace; there must be an end to the war and English claims on France.

‘We have no right,’ said the English ambassador, ‘to despoil our King of a crown to which he has a right.’ He pointed out to the Papal legates that unless they agreed it was not possible for Burgundy to make peace with France for he had sworn not to do so without the consent of his allies.

As far as the English were concerned this seemed to settle the matter. They would agree to a truce only. Their claim to the crown of France could not be waved aside, and since the French would not agree to a truce merely the conference might never have been called for all the good that had come from it.

All thoughts were now turned to the Duke of Burgundy. His brother-in-law, the Comte de Richemont, talked to him very earnestly.

‘You are French in blood,’ he said. ‘You are so in heart and wishes. You belong to the Royal House. You have seen this kingdom all but destroyed; you have seen the suffering poor. You do not love the English. You have often said how arrogant they are. Even at this time you are not on friendly terms with Bedford. He has insulted you and our sister. You went into this alliance because of the murder of your father. Brother, my lord, you do not fit into it.’

Burgundy listened with attention.

‘You speak truth,’ he said. ‘But you know I have made promises. I have entered into treaties with the English. I do not wish to forfeit my honour.’

Richemont was persistent. He went to the Pope’s legates. ‘While the Duke allies himself to the English the war will go on,’ he said. ‘If we could break that alliance it would mean the English would have no alternative but to return to their own country. Burgundy wants to break it. It is unnatural. I beg you to help.’

As a result the legates spent hours talking with Burgundy.

‘For the love of Jesus Christ,’ they said to him, ‘put an end to this strife. Put your country out of its misery. We are ordered by the Holy Father to beg you to forget your vengeance against the King of France. You must no longer seek vengeance for the death of your father. Nothing would add more to your fame and standing in the world than if you forgave and forgot the injury you have suffered. The King of France is close to your blood. He is your kinsman … yet for the sake of revenge you have joined his enemies and the enemies of France.’

The Duke, who had always prided himself on his honour, was deeply disturbed. He greatly desired to put an end to his alliance with England, yet he did not see how he could extricate himself from the dilemma in which he found himself.

‘I must have time to ponder this,’ he said. ‘It is a matter which deeply concerns my conscience.’

The Comte de Richemont said that he should have several days to consider.

‘He is a wise man,’ he said to the Papal legates. ‘He will see what is best.’

The Duke of Bedford rode back to Rouen. He felt old and tired. The conference now in progress at Arras was an indication of how much had been lost since the ill-fated siege of Orléans. Ever since then his health had declined with his spirits. It was as though a curse had been put upon him.

God knew that he had tried to keep his word to his brother, and he had always acted in a manner which he believed would please him. That noble image had been before him always and at first it had seemed that he could not falter.

And then … the tide had changed, so swiftly, so unaccountably that one could almost believe in supernatural influences, and in spite of all his skill and dedication he had been fighting a losing battle ever since.

He would never understand it, but he would never forget that fearful day in Rouen when he had stayed behind stone walls but in spirit was out there in that square.

By the time the towers of Rouen came into sight he was exhausted. What had happened to him? Only a year or so ago he could spend hours in the saddle and hardly knew the meaning of fatigue. Affliction had come to him swiftly. He thought often of Henry, who had died so young. He had been but thirty-five years of age. And he, Bedford, well he was forty-six – not exactly young, ageing perhaps but not yet old surely. Young enough to lead his armies for a few more years.

The Cardinal was watching him anxiously. There was something wrong. Bedford was the last man to betray any weakness and now he was too tired to attempt to disguise it. The Cardinal, too, was remembering how suddenly Henry the Fifth had died.

‘It has been an exhausting matter,’ he said. ‘There is so much anxiety about Burgundy.’

‘He is a man of honour,’ said Bedford. ‘He will not find it easy to break his word to me.’

‘Nay,’ said the Cardinal, ‘but methinks it is only this one point of honour that keeps him with us.’

‘If he breaks with us,’ replied Bedford, ‘we must perforce count him among our enemies.’

‘He has always been an uneasy friend,’ answered the Cardinal.

There was small comfort in the contemplation of a break with Burgundy. The last King had said his friendship was essential to them and that was as true today as it had been when he said it.

It was a period of great anxiety and Bedford felt too exhausted to consider it in all its menacing possibilities.

As soon as he reached the castle he went straight to his apartments and remained there. The next day he felt too weak to rise.

His young wife came to him in consternation. He had always seemed very mature to her but now he looked like an old man.

‘My lord,’ she said, ‘you are ill.’

‘Tired,’ he said, ‘just tired and disappointed.’

She knelt by the bed.

‘Oh, my lord, what can I do?’

‘There is little anyone can do,’ he answered.

She said: ‘I can send for the physicians.’

He lifted a hand to protest but dropped it again. He was too listless to care whether they came or not.

The next day he was asking for news from Arras. There was none.

The Cardinal came to see him. God help us, he thought. He has the stamp of death on him.

He went back to his apartments in a state of gloom. He prayed fervently for the health of Bedford. He dared not contemplate what the future would hold if Bedford were not there to apply his sane and steady judgements.

A few days later Bedford was in a fever. His thoughts were muddled. He was not sure where he was. He kept thinking that Anne was near him and that he could not quite reach her.

His eyes wandered round the apartment. It was in this very chamber where he had waited, while the crowds gathered in the square. He thought it was happening now. He could picture Joan with those calm clear eyes raised towards the skies as though she saw something there which was denied to the rest of those who were with her. What was it in those clear, limpid eyes? Innocence, he thought. Yes. Innocence of guilt, innocence of the world, innocence of evil. It was a beautiful quality.

‘We should never have burned her as a witch,’ he muttered.

And I … am I to blame? I could have stopped it. They gave her to the English and we burned her as a witch.

Dear God, I had to do it. She was a menace to my armies. With what power had You endowed this girl that she could affect us so. We burned her; but it was her own people who betrayed her. And the King of France for whom she had done so much deserted her and allowed her to die … miserably … horribly. And yet they had said that when she cried out in her final agony they saw her soul in the form of a white dove ascend to Heaven.

I did it … I did … but what else could I have done? Forget her. She is dead. What of the future? Burgundy … Burgundy … will you break with us? Anne … Anne won’t let it happen. But Anne was gone and he was trying now to reach her.

‘We should send for the priests,’ said Jacquetta.

The end was very near, they all knew it.

The Cardinal felt a sudden despair. What would happen now … not only to him but to England? It seemed that the future of both was very bleak.

Gloucester would now be next to the throne. If only Henry were older; if only he had a wife and an heir. But he was but a boy yet. It would be necessary to keep an eye on Gloucester.

The death of the Duke was received with a shocked silence throughout Rouen. People began to talk about the Maid. Was it not strange that the Duke had died here in the very town close to the very square where Joan the Maid had been burned at the stake?

Was it a curse on Bedford? Was it a curse on the English?

They buried the great Duke in the Cathedral at Notre Dame and they wondered gloomily what would happen now that he was dead.

‘Dead!’ mused Burgundy. His old friend and enemy!

Who would have believed it possible? Bedford with those ruddy healthy looks had seemed far from death.

And now he was gone and that, of course, made all the difference to Burgundy. His alliance had been with Henry the Fifth, a man whom he had admired as much as any other he had ever known; Bedford had followed his brother and he had admired him also. It had seemed good to ally himself with such men. But now they were dead and surely that could be an end to an alliance which had always seemed an incongruous one.

He understood Bedford well. An astute man, a far-seeing man. He would have realised at once that if he, Burgundy, signed the treaty of Arras and his old friend became his enemy that would be the end of English dominance in France.

The French were wooing him with sweet promises. Charles disowned the murder of the old Duke of Burgundy. It had been no wish of his, he declared. He would deliver up the murderers to the Duke; he would pay fifty thousand crowns of gold for the property which had been taken from Burgundy at the time of the assassination; he would place certain towns in the Duke’s hands. This would compensate him for what he had lost in the war.

Yes, thought Burgundy, I will sign the treaty of Arras. The English have left the conference and now the only one to whom I owed allegiance is dead. Why should I not join my own kinsman?

This unholy alliance should be brought to an end.