The Royal Succession (19 page)

'Are you sure that there is no other stone surmounted by a cross in the neighbourhood? For he would be quite capable of
playing us a trick on that account, go elsewhere and then say that I was not at the meeting-place. Do you really think he will come?'

`I think so, Monseigneur, for he seemed very perturbed. I told him the size of your army, and I also informed him that Monseigneur the Constable was holding the Flanders borders and the towns to the north, that he would thus be taken between pincers, and would not even be able
to escape by the gates. Then I
gave him Monseigneur of Valois' letter and advised him to surrender without fighting, since he could not but be defeated, and I informed him that you were so incensed against him that he might well fear the loss of his head if you took him in arms. This seemed to depress him greatly.'

The Regent bent his long body forward over his horse's neck. He decidedly disliked wearing, armour; the twenty pounds of steel weighed on his shoulders and prevented him from stretching himself.

`He then went into Council with his barons,' went on Gamaches, 'and I don't know what they said to each other. But I gathered that some among them were refusing to support him further while others were beseeching him not to abandon them., Finally be came out to me
and
gave me the answer I have brought you, assuring me that he has too great a respect for Monseigneur the Regent to disobey him in anything.'

Philippe of Poitiers was incredulous. He suspected this too easy surrender, and feared a trap. Screwing up his eyes, he gazed over the melancholy countryside.

`
It would be a good enough place
to turn our flank and fall on us from behind while we stand here waiting, Corbeil! Le Derame!' he called to his two marshals. `Send a few ban
nerets to reconnoitre both our
flanks, search the valleys, and make sure that there are no troops concealed in them or making their way along the roads behind us. And if, when tierce has rung from the steeple behind us,
Robert has not come,' he added
to Louis of Evreux, `we shall advance.' But soon there were shouts from the ranks of the banners.

`Here he is! Here he is!' '

The Regent screwed up his eyes again but could see nothing. `Straight to the front, Monseigneur,' someone said, `just to the
right of your horse's head, on the ridge!' .

Robert of Artois was riding towards them; he had no companions, no equerries, not even a servant. He was advancing at a
walk, sitting erect on his huge horse, and appeared, in his solitariness, even bigger than he in fact was. His tall figure stood out red against the murky sky, and the point of his lance seemed to be pricking the clouds.

`It's another way of defying you, Monseigneur, coming to you like this.'

`Well, let him defy me, let him!' replied Philippe of Poitiers.

The knights who had been sent to reconnoitre returned at a gallop and reported that the neighbourhood was completely quiet.

`I should have thought him more implacable in despair,' said the Regent.

Another man would have wished to display panache and would doubtless have ridden for
ward alone to meet the solitary
figure. But Philippe of Poitiers had a different conception of his dignity; it was no knightly gesture he needed to make, but that of a king. He therefore waited, making no move, till Robert of Artois, all mud-stained and steaming; came to a halt in front of him.

The whole army seemed to hold its breath; there was nothing to be heard but the chink of bits in the horses' mouths.

The giant threw his lance to the ground; the Regent looked down at the lance lying in the stubble and said nothing.

Robert unfastened his helm and his great two-handed sword from the saddle and threw them to join the lance.

The Regent still kept silence; instead of raising his eyes to Robert, he stared at the arms, as if he were awaiting something more.

Robert of Artois decided to dismount. He took two paces forward. Quivering, with anger, he went down on one knee so as to meet the Regent's eyes.

`My noble cousin...' he cried, spreading wide his arms.

But Philippe cut him short.

`Are you not hungry, Cousin?' he said.

And the other, expecting a splendid scene and noble words, that he would be raised to his feet, embraced, pardoned, was left aghast.

The Philippe added: `Very well, mount your horse; we shall go to Amiens as quickly as we may, and I shall there dictate to you my terms for peace. You will ride beside me; we shall eat on the way. Heron! Gamaches! Pick up my cousin's arms.'

Robert of Artois paused before remounting and stared about him.

`Are you looking for something?' the Regent asked.

`No, Philippe. I'm merely gazing at this field that I may not forget it,' replied Artois. '

And he put his hand to his breast where, through the hauberk, he could feel the velvet bag on which he had placed, together with relics, the ears of corn, now reduced to powder, which he had plucked in this very place one summer's day. His lips parted in an arrogant smile.

As he rode along by the Regent's side he began to recover his usual assurance.

`This is a splendid army you've gathered, Cousin, to take one prisoner,' he said banteringly.

`The capture of twenty banners, Cousin,' replied Philippe in the same tone, `would give me less pleasure today than your company. But tell me, what persuaded you to surrender so soon, for though I have numbers on my side, I know well that you do not lack courage!'

`I thought that, if we went to war, too many poor people would suffer.'

`How sensitive you have suddenly become, Robert,' said Philippe of Poitiers. `I had not heard that you have given much proof of charity in recent times.'

`Our Holy Father, the Pope, was kind enough to write to
me and recall me to my duty.'

'Ah, pious too!' cried the Regent.

`I long meditated the good Pope's, letter. He was. elected without difficulty, I'm told. And indeed, since it was couched in much the same terms as your summons, I determined to show myself both a loyal
subject
and a good Christian,'

`Kindliness, religion,
loyalty, you have much changed, Cousin!'

Meanwhile, Philippe, looking sideways, at the giant's jutting chin, was thinking: `You may mock, you may well mock; but you'll be a little less merry later on, when you know the terms of the peace I shall dictate to you.'

But face to face with the Council, which met as soon as they reached Amiens, Robert adopted the same attitude. He agreed to everything
that was asked of him, without
cavil or objection, almost as if he had not been listening to the treaty as it was read out-to him.

He agreed to surrender `all castles, fortresses, manors and all else that he had taken or occupied'. He guaranteed the restitution of all the places seized by his partisans. He made a truce with Mahaut until the following Easter; between now and then the
Countess would make her claims, and the Court of Peers would judge between the rights of both parties. For the moment the Regent would govern Artois direct and would install such guardians, officers and commanders of castles as he thought fit. Finally, until the peers had given their decision, the revenues of the county would be received by the Count of Evreux and by the Count of Valois.

When he heard this last clause, Robert realized the price of his principal ally's defection. But he did not hesitate even then, and signed every clause.

This extraordinary humility began to worry the Regent.' `What card has he up his sleeve?' Philippe wondered.

As he was in haste to return to Paris for the Queen's lying-in, he left his two marshals, with some of the regular troops, to relie
ve the Constable in Artois and
see for themselves that the treaty was carried out. Robert smiled as he watched the marshals set off.

His plan was a simple one. In coming to surrender alone he had averted the destruction of his army. Fiennes, Souastre, Picquigny and the others would continue a limited, harassing war of attrition. The Regent could not organizee an expedition of this size once a fortnight; the Treasury could not afford it. Robert had therefore several months of peace before him. At the moment he preferred to return to Paris, and found the occasion given him of doing so opportune enough. For it was quite possible that in the near future there would be no longer either a regent or a Mahaut.

In fact - and it was the real reason for his smile - Robert had discovered the Dame de Feriennes, who provided the Countess of Artois with poisons. He had found her by having two of the Regent's spies, who were also in search of her, followed. Isabelle de Feriennes and her son had been arrested as they were selling the necessary materials for casting spells. Robert's people had killed the Regent's spies, and now the witch, having dictated an admirably complete confession, was sequestered in an Artois castle.

`You'll cut a pretty figure, Cousin,' he thought, as he looked at Philippe, `when I tell Jean de Varennes to bring me this woman and I produce her before the Council of Peers and let her tell them how you had your brother murdered! Your dear Pope himself won't be able to do anything about it then.'

The Regent kept Robert at his
side throughout the whole journey; at the halts they ate at the same table; at night, in the
monasteries or royal castles, they slept in adjacent rooms; and the Regent's numerous servants kept Robert under strict surveillance. But when you drink, dine and sleep beside your enemy, you cannot help developing a certain human feeling for him; the two cousins had never known each other so intimately before. The Regent appeared to bear Robert no particular grudge for the trouble and expense he had occasioned; he even seemed to be quite amused by the giant's gross jokes and his air of specious frankness.

`But a little more, and he really will like me, the idiot!' Robert thought. `What a fool I'm making of him, what a proper fool!'

On the morning of November 11th, as they approached the gates of Paris, Philippe suddenly stopped his horse.

`My good cousin, the other day, at Amiens, you guaranteed that all the castles would be handed over to my marshals. But I am now sorry to hear that several of your friends are disobeying

the treaty and refusing to surrender them'

Robert smiled and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

`But you guaranteed it,' repeated Philippe.

`Yes, Cousin, I signed everything you wished. But as you have taken all power from me, it's up to your marshals to make you obeyed.'

The Regent thoughtfully stroked his horse's neck.

`Is it true, Robert,' he went on, `that you often call me Philippe of the Closed Gates??

'Yes, it is, Cousin, yes indeed it is!'
-
said
the other laughing. `It seems that you use gates a good deal in governing.'

`Well, Cousin,' said the Regent, `in that case you will be lodged in the prison of the Chatelet, and there you will remain until the last castle of Artois is handed over to
me.'

For the first time since his surrender Robert paled a little. His whole plan had collapsed, and the Dame de Feriennes would be of little immediate use to him.

PART THREE

FROM MOURNING TO CORONATION

1. A wet-nurse for the King

JEAN I, King of France, posthumous son of Louis X, the Hutin, and of Queen Clemence of Hungary, was born during the night of November 13th to 14th, 1316, in the Chateau of Vincennes.

The news was proclaimed at once and the lords put on their silken robes. In the taverns the idlers and drunkards, for whom every event was an opportunity for a drink, began getting drunk and brawling by midday. And the traders in rich and rare goods, goldsmiths, silk merchants, weavers of fine cloth and makers of lace, sellers of spices, rare fishes and produce from overseas, rubbed their hands as they calculated the money that would be spent on the rejoicings.

The streets were a gay scene. People shouted to each other: `Well, my friend, so we've got a king!'

The people of Paris felt enlivened, and the prostitutes with their yellow hair had plenty of business that day, in spite of the cold north wind which blew through the sordid alleys behind Notre-Dame, to which an edict of Saint Louis had confined them.

In the hospice of the Convent of the Clarisses, Marie de Cressay had given birth four days earlier to a boy who weighed his full eight pounds, gave promise of being fair like his mother, and sucked, his eyes tight shut, like a voracious young puppy.

The novices, in their white hoods, were continually entering Marie's cell to watch her dress her baby, gaze at her radiant face as she fed him at her pink, abundant, expansive breast, while they who were destined to perpetual virginity admired the miracle of motherhood outside a painted figure in a window.

For if it sometimes happened that a nun sinned, this did not occur as frequently as the public rhymesters stated in their songs,
and a newborn child in a convent of the Clarisses was not a very frequent occurrence.

There was great excitement, on this particular day, for the chaplain had announced the birth of a king; the joy of the town penetrated even to the cloister.

`The King is called Jean, like my baby,' said Marie.

In this she saw a good augury. A whole
generation would be
born to whom the King's Christian name would be given, and it was all the more striking because it was new to the monarchy. To all the little Philippes, to all the little Louis, would succeed an
infinity of little
Jeans throughout the kingdom. `Mine is the first,' thought Marie.

The short twilight of autumn was beginning to fall when a young nun entered the cell.

`Dame Marie,' she said, `the Mother Abbess is asking for you in the parlour. There is someone to see you,' `Who is it?'

`I don't know, I didn't see: But I think you are going to
leave.'

The blood flowed to Marie's cheeks.

`It's Guccio. It's Guccio! It's his father,' she explained to the novices. `It's my husband come to take us away, I'm sure.'

She closed the opening: of her bodice, quickly
did her hair,
gazing into the window-pane which served her as a dull mirror, put her cloak about her shoulders, and then hesitated a moment before the cradle which lay on the ground. Should she take the child down with her and give Guc
cio this wonderful surprise at
once?

`Look how he sleeps, the angel!' said the little novices. `Don't wake him or let him catch cold! Run along; we'll watch over him.'

`Don't take him
out of
his cradle, don't touch him!' said Marie.

As she went downstairs, she was already a pre
y to maternal anxiety. `As long
as they don't play with him and drop him!' But her feet flew on towards the visiting-room, and she was astonished to find herself feeling so light.

In the white room, whose only decoration was a huge Crucifix and two candles which duplicated the huge shadows, the Mother Abbess, her hands folded in her sleeves, was talking to Madame de Bouville.

When she saw the Curator's wife, Marie felt more than mere disappointment; she had an immediate certainty, inexplicable
but absolute, that this dry woman with vertical wrinkles on her face was bringing her bad luck.

Anyone else but Marie would merely have thought that they did not like Madame de Bouville; but with Marie de Cressay all feelings took on a sort of passionate quality, and she attributed to her likes and dislikes the importance of harbingers of fate. `I'm sure she has come to do me harm,' she thought.

Madame
de Bouville glanced at her sh
arply, looking her up
and down without kindness.

`Only four days since
you had your baby,' she cried,
'and here you are as fresh and pink as an eglantine! I compliment you, my girl; one might think, you were ready to begin all over
again. In truth
God is very merciful towards those who despise His commandments and seems to reserve His trials for the most meritorious. For, would you believe it, Mother,' went on Madame de Bouville, turning to the Abbess, `our poor Queen's pains lasted thirty hours? Her screams are still ringing in my ears. The King presented himself seat first and they had to use forceps. He was within an ace of dying, and the mother too. It's the Queen's sorrow at the death of her husband which is the cause of it all, and if you ask me, it's a miracle the child was born alive. But when fate takes a hand, you have to admit that everything goes wrong! There was Eudeline, the linen-maid - you know whom I mean?-'

The Abbess discreetly nodded her head. She had, among the little novices in the convent, a child of eleven who was the natural daughter of the Hutin and Eudeline.

` ..who was a great help to the Queen, and whom Madame Clemence liked to have continually at her bedside,' went on Madame de Bouville; `well,; Eudeline broke her arm falling off a step-ladder, and had to be taken to the Hotel-Dieu. And now, to crown all, here's the wet-nurse we engaged, who's been ready waiting for a week, with her milk suddenly dried up. Really, to do a thing like that to us at such a moment! For the Queen, of course, is in no condition to feed the King; she has the fever. My poor Hugues turns this way and that till he's utterly exhausted and has no idea what to do next, for these are not matters for a man; as for the Sire de Joinville, who no longer has a glimmering of sight or memory, all that we can hope for from him is that he should not take it into his head to expire in our arms! In other words, Mother, I am the only person capable of seeing to things.'