The Royal Succession (30 page)

Angry though he w
as, the sight of his brother dressed in ve
rmil
lion and lying in a hieratic pose impressed him. He halted for a moment, his eyes wide in astonishment.
How he would like to be in my
place,' Philippe thought,.then
aloud he said: `So here you are, my good brother. I'm grateful to you for having understood your duty and for giving the lie to the wicked talk which had it that you would not be at my
coronation. I
am grateful to you. But you must hurry and, get dressed, for you cannot appear like that. You'll be late.'

`Brother,' replied La Marche, `
I must first talk to you on an
important matter.'

`On an important matter, or something which is merely important to you? The important thing at the moment is not to keep the clergy waiting. In a minute the bishops will be here to fetch me.'

`Well, they'll have to wait,' c
ried Charles. 'Everyone in turn
gets you to listen to him and gets something out of you. I seem to be the only person to whom you pay no attention; this time you'll listen to me!'

`All right, Charles, let's talk,' said
Philippe, sitting on the edge
of the bed. `But I warn you that we shall have to be brief.'

La Marche made a gesture with his head which seemed to say: `We shall see, we shall see.' He took a chair, doing his best to look important and hold his head high.

`Poor Charles,' thought Philippe, `he wants to ape the manners of our Uncle Valois, but he hasn't the presence.'

`Philippe,' went on La Marche
, `I have asked you over and
over again to confer a peerage on me, and increase my apanage
and my revenues. Have I asked you, or haven't I?'

`What a family!' Philippe murmure
d.

`And you've always refused to listen to me. But I'm asking you now for the last time; I've come to Rheims, but I shall attend your coronation only if I am given a peer's place. If I'm not, I shall go away again.'

Philippe looked at him for a moment in silence, and beneath that glance Charles felt himself di
minish and dissolve, lose all
self-assurance and all importance.

In the presence of their father, Philip the Fair, the young Prince had in the old days felt the same sensation of his own insignificance.

`One moment, Brother,' said Philippe, rising to his feet and going to speak to Adam Heron, who,
had withdrawn into a corner
of the room.

`Adam,' he asked in a low voice, `have the barons who went to fetch the holy ampulla from the Abbey of Saint-Remy-returned?'

`Yes, Sire, they are already at the cathedral with the clergy of the abbey.'

'Very well, then
deal with the town gates as at Lyons.'

He made three almost imperceptible movements of the hand, which signified: portcullis, bars, keys.

`On the day of the coronation, Sire?' murmured Heron in stupefaction.

'Exactly, on the day of the coronation. And make haste.'

The Chamberlain left the room and Philippe came back to the bed.

`Well, Brother, what were you asking of me?'

`A peerage, Philippe.'

`Oh, yes, a peerage. Well, Brother, I'll give you one, I'll give you one with pleasure; but not at once, because you have made your request too well known. If I yielded now, it would be said that I was acting not because I
wished but because I was con
strained to it, and everyone would think that he had a right to behave as you do. You must know that there will be no more apanages created or augmented before an ordinance has been promulgated declaring that no part of the royal domains is alienable.'
36

`But you no longer need the peerage of Poitiers! Why don't you give it to me? You must admit that my position is insufficient!'

`Insufficient?' cried Philippe, who was beginning to lose his temper. `You were born the son of a king, you're the brother of a king; do you think that your position is insufficient for a man of your intelligence and capacities?'

`My capacities?' said Charles.

`Yes, your capacities, which are limited. The moment has come when you must be told so to your face, Charles. You're a fool; you always have been and you don't get any better as you grow older. When you were no more than a child you already seemed to everyone so stupid, so backward in intelligence, that our mother herself despised you, sainted woman that she was! She called you "the Goose". Do you remember, Charles? "The Goose." You were one and you've remained one. Our father used to make you sit on his Council; what did you learn there? You used to gape at the flies, while the affairs of the realm were being discussed, and I can't ever remember your uttering a remark which did not make either our father or Messire Enguerrand shrug his shoulders. Do you think that I want to make you more powerful because o
f the great help you'd be to me,
when for the last six months you've done
nothing but conspire against
me? You had everything to
gain from taking another road.
You think you've got a strong character, and that people will hand to your will? No one has forgotten the pitiful figure you cut at Maubuisson when you were bleating: "Blanche, Blanche!" and crying at the injury done you before the whole Court.'

'Philippe! Is it your place to say that to me?' cried La Marche, sitting bolt upright, his features contorted. `Is it your place when your wife
,'

`I won't hear a word against J
eanne, not a word against the
Queen!' Philippe interrupted, raising his hand. `I know that to do me an injury, or to feel less alone in your misfortune, you continue to spread your lies.'

`You have acquitted Jeanne, because you wanted to keep Burgundy, because, as always, you have put your interest before your honour. But perhaps my unfai
thful wife can still also serve
her turn.'

`What do you mean?'

`I mean what I say!' replied Charles de la Marche. `And I tell you, too, that if you want to see me at the coronation, I insist on sitting in a peer's place. A peerage, or I go!'

Adam Heron came into the room and informed the King, by a nod of the head, that his orders had been passed on. Philippe thanked him in the same manner.

`Go then, Brother,' he said. `There is only one person who is necessary to me today, the Archbishop of Rheims who will crown me. And you're not the Arch
bishop, I imagine? So go; go if
you wish.'

`But why,' cried Charles, `does our Uncle Valois get what he wants, whereas I never do?'

Through the half-opened door could be heard the chanting of the approaching procession.

`When I think that if I were to die it would be this fool who would be regent!' Philippe thought. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder.

`When you have injured the kingdom for as many long years as our uncle has, you can demand the same price. But, thank God, you're less assiduous in your folly!'

He glanced at the door, and the Count de la Marche went out, pale, a prey to impotent rage, only to meet a great crowd of clergy.

Philippe went back to the bed and lay down in the same position, his hands clasped, his eyes shut.

There was a knocking
` at the door; this time it was
the bishops
knocking with their crosiers:

`Whom d
o you, want?' 'said Adam Heron.
`We want the King,' replied a grave voice. `Who wants him?'

`The ecclesiastical peers.'

The doors were opened and the
Bishops of Langres and
Beauvais entered, their mitres on their heads, their reliquaries
about their necks. They went up to the bed, helped the King to
rise, presented him with holy water, and, while he knelt on a
silken cushion, said prayers.

Adam Heron placed about Philippe's shoulders a cape of vermilion velvet matching his robe. Then, suddenly, there broke out
a quarrel over precedence. Normally the Duke-Archbishop of Laon took the place at the King's right. But at that time the see
of Laon was vacant. The Bishop of Langres, Guillaume de Durfort, was supposed to replace him. But Philippe chose the Bishop
of Beauvais for the place. He had two reasons for doing this: on the one hand, the Bishop of Langres had somewhat too openly welcomed the ex-Templars into his diocese, giving them places as clerks; on the other hand, the Bishop of Beauvais was a Marigny
a relation of the great Enguerrand and of his brother, the Archbishop of Sens - and Philippe wished to do homage, if not to the Bishop himself, at least to his name.

It therefore happened that the King found himself with two prelates on his right and none on his left.

`I am a duke-bishop; it is for me to be on the right,' said Guillaume de Durfort.

`The See of Beauvais is more ancient than that of Langres,' replied Marigny.

Their faces began to grow red beneath their mitres.

`Messeigneurs, the King decides,' said Philippe.

Durfort obeyed and changed places.

`One discontented man the more,' thought Philippe.

Amid crucifixes, candles and the smoke of incense, they went down into the street where the whole Court, the Queen at its head, was already formed up in procession. They walked to the cathedral.

There was great cheering as the King passed by. Philippe was
somewhat pale and screwed up his short-sighted eyes. The earth of Rheims seemed suddenly to have become strangely hard beneath his feet; he felt as if he were walking on marble.

At the doors of the cathedral there was a halt for more prayers;
then
to the sound of the organ,
Philippe advanced up the
nave touards the altar, the great dais and the t
hrone on which, at last, he took
his
seat. His first gesture was to indicate to
the Queen the
seat prepared for her on the right of his own.

The church was crowded. Philippe could see nothing but a sea of coronets, embroidered breasts and shoulders, jewels and chasubles glittering in the light of the candles. A human firmament was spread at his feet.

He turned his eyes upon his more immediate neighbourhood, looking to right and left to see who was on the dais. Charles of
Valois was there and Mahaut of Artois, monumental, shimmering in brocades and velvets, as she smiled at him; Louis of
Evreux was sitting a little farther away. But Philippe did not see Charles de la Marche, nor Philippe of Valois, whose father was also searching for him.

The Archbishop of Rheims, Robert de Courtenay, weighed down with sacerdotal ornaments, rose from his throne opposite the royal throne. Philippe rose too and went to kneel before the altar.

Throughout the singing of the Te Deum Philippe was wondering: `Have the gates been properly closed? Have my orders been faithfully carried out? My brother is not the man to stay hiding in a room while I'm being crowned. And why is Philippe of Valois absent? What are they plotting? I should have left Galard outside to be in a better position to command his crossbowmen.'

But while the King w
as anxious, his younger brother
was paddling in a marsh.

When he had left the royal ch
amber in a rage, Charles de la
Marche had gone at once
to the Valois lodging. He had
not found his uncle there because he had already gone to the cathedral, only Philippe of Valois, who was finishing dressing and to whom he breathlessly related what he called his brother's `felony'.

The two cousins were somewhat similar, with the difference that Philippe of Valois was physically bigger and stronger than Charles; as regards their intelligence, they complemented each other in vanity and folly.

`If that's the case, I shan't attend the ceremony either; I'll leave with you,' declared Valois the younger.

Thereupon they assembled their escorts and went proudly to one of the town gates: Their pride, however, had had to yield before the sergeants-at-arms.

`No one may enter or leave. The King's orders.'

`Even princes of France?'

`Not even princes; the King's orders.'

'Ah, he wants to coerce us!' cried Philippe of Valois, who was now making the affair his own. `Well, we'll get out all the same!'

`How do you propose to do that, since the gates are closed?'

`Let's pretend to go back to our lodgings, and leave it to me.'

They thereupon indulged in a schoolboy trick. The equerries of the young Count of Valois, were sent to find ladders and these they quickly placed at the end of a blind alley at a place where the walls appeared to be unguarded. And then the two cousins, their bottoms in the air, scaled the wall, not for one moment imagining that on the farther side lay the Vesle marshes. They let themselves down into the fosse with ropes. Charles, de la Marche lost his foothold in the muddy, icy water; he would have been drowned if his cousin, who was six foot tall and had strong muscles, had not fished him out in time. Then they went off, like a couple of blind men, groping across the marshes. There was soon no question of their giving up. Going on or going back amounted to the same thing. They were risking their lives and it took them three full hours to get out of the mire. The few equerries who had followed them were floundering about them and did not hesitate to curse them aloud.

`If ever we get out of here,' cried La Marche to keep up his courage, `I know what I shall do. I shall go to Chateau Gaillard!'

Young Valois, dripping with sweat in spite of the cold, looked his stupefaction across the rotting reeds.

`Do you still care for Blanche?' he asked.

`I no longer care for her at all, but I want some information from her. She is the last person who can say whether Louis' daughter is a bastard or not, and whether Philippe was a cuckold like me! With her evidence I shall be able to disgrace my brother in my turn, and have the crown given to Louis' daughter.'

The clamour of the bells of Rheims came to their ears.

`When I think, when I think it's for him they're ringing!' said Charles de la Marche, up to his waist in mud, pointing a hand towards the town.

In the cathedral the chamberlains had unclothed the King. Philippe the Long, standing before the altar, had nothing on his body but two shirts, one over the other, one of fine linen next to the skin, the other of white silk, wide open at the breast and
under the arms. The King, before being invested with the insignia of his majesty, was presenting himself to, his assembled subjects as an almost naked man, and one, indeed, who was shivering.

All the emblems of coronation were laid out on the altar, under the guardianship of the Abbot of Saint-Denis who had brought them. Adam Heron took from the Abbot's hands the hose, long silken garments embroidered with lilies, and helped the King' to put them on, as also the shoes, also of embroidered cloth. Then Anseau de Joinville, in the absence of the Duke of Burgundy, fastened the gold spurs to the King's feet, and then immediately removed them again. The Archbishop blessed the great sword which was supposed to be that of Charlemagne, and fastened it to the King's side with the baldric while reciting: 'Accipe hunc
gladiuna cum Dei benedictions...' *

*
`Receive this sword with God's blessing, to resist all your enemies by virtue of the Holy Spirit . .

`Gaucher, come here,' said the King.

Gaucher de Chatillon came forward and Philippe, unfastening the baldric, handed him the sword.

Never had a constable, in the whole history
of coronations, better deserved
the honour of holding for his sovereign the symbol of military power. This gesture was more than the accomplishment of a rite; they exchanged a long look. The symbol had become fused with the reality.

With the point of a golden needle the Archbishop took from the holy ampulla, which the Abbot of Saint-Rerny held out to him, a drop of the oil which was said to have been sent down from Heaven and, with his finger, mixed it with the chrism laid ready on a paten. Then the Archbishop anointed Philippe, touching him on the top of the head, on the breast, between the shoulders and in the armpits. Adam Heron fastened the hooks and eyes which closed the shirts. The King's shirt would later be burnt, because it had been touched with the holy oil.

The King was then clothed with the vestments from the, altar: first the vermilion satin cotta embroidered with silver thread, then the blue satin tunic edged with pearls and strewn with golden lilies, and over that the dalmatic of the same material, and over that again the soq, a great square mantle fastened on the right shoulder by a golden cl
asp. Each time Philippe felt a
greater weight on his shoulders. The Archbishop performed the anointing of the hands, slipped the royal ring on to Philippe's finger, placed the heavy gold sceptre in his right hand, and the hand of justice in his left. After genuflecting before the tabernacle, the prelate finally took up the crown, while the Great Chamberlain began calling the roll of the peers present 'The magnificent and puissant Lord, the Count...'

At that very moment a high imperious voice sounded in the nave: `Stop, Archbishop! Do not crown that usurper; it is the daughter of Saint Louis who commands you.'

There was a great stirring among the congregation. All heads turned in the direction whence the cry had come. On the dais and among the officiating priests there were anxious looks. The crowd parted.

Surrounded by a few lords, a tall woman with a still-beautiful face, a firm chin and clear, angry eyes, the narrow coronet and veil of a widow surmounting a mass of almost white hair, advanced towards the choir.

As she went by there were whisperings of: `It's the Duchess Agnes; it's she!'

People craned their necks to look at her. They were surprised that she was still so young in appearance and that her step was so firm. Because she was the daughter of Saint Louis, people thought of her as someone belonging to another age; she was looked upon as an ancestress, a broken shadow in a castle in Burgundy. But now she suddenly appeared as she really was, a woman of fifty-seven, still full of vigour and authority.

`Stop, Archbishop!' she repeated, when she was but to few paces from the altar. `And listen, all of you. Read, Mello!' she added to her councillor who attended her.

Guillaume de Mello
unfolded a parchment and read:
"We, most noble Dame Agnes of France, Duchess of Burgundy, daughter of Monsieur Saint Louis, in our name and in that of our son, the most noble and puissant Duke Eudes, address you, barons and lords here present or without in the realm, in order to prevent the Count of Poitiers, who is not the legitimate heir to the crown, from being recognized King, and to demand that the coronation shall be postponed until such time as have been recognized the rights of Madame Jeanne of France and of Navarre, daughter and heir of the late King and of our daughte
r.'
The anxiety on the dais increased, and uneasy murmurs began to co
me from the back of the church.
The congregation was crowding forward.

The Archbishop seemed embarrassed by the crown, not knowing whether he should replace it on the altar or continu
e with the ceremony
Philippe
stood
still,
his head bare,
impotent, weighed down with forty pounds of gold and brocades, his hands encumbered by Power and Justice. He had never felt so helpless, so threatened and so alone. It was as if a steel gauntlet were gripping him in the hollow of his chest. His calm was terrifying. To make a gesture, to say a word at this moment was to begin an argument, cause a riot, and doubtless fail. He remained frozen within the matrix of his ornaments, as if the battle were taking place on some lower level.

He heard the ecclesiastical peers whispering: `What should we do?'

The Bishop of Langres, who had not forgotten the snub he had received that morning, was of the opinion that the ceremony should be stopped.

`Let us retire and discuss the matter,' proposed another.

`We cannot, the King is already the anointed of the Lord. He is King; crown him,' replied the Bishop of Beauvais.

The Countess Mahaut leaned towards her daughter Jeanne and murmured: `The bitch! She deserves to die for it.'

There was poison in the air.

With his saurian eyes the Constable signed to Adam Heron to continue the roll.

`The magnificent and puissant Lord, the Count of Valois, Peer of the Realm,' announced the Chamberlain.

All eyes then turned on the King's uncle. If he responded to the call, Philippe had won. For it was the support of the lay peers, the real power, that Valois embodied. If he refused, Philippe had lost.

Valois showed no alacrity and the Archbishop, who as a Courtenay was his relation by marriage, was visibly awaiting his decision.

Philippe then at last made a slight movement; he turned his head towards his uncle; and the look he gave him was worth a hundred thousand livres. The Burgundian would never pay so much.

The ex-Emperor of Constantinople rose to his feet, his face expressionless, and tame to take his place behind his nephew.

`How right I was not to be mean with him,' thought Philippe.

`The noble and puissant Dame Mahaut, Countess of Artois, Peer of the Realm,' called Adam Heron.

The Archbishop raised the heavy circle of gold surmounted at the front by a cro
ss and said at last: `Coronet te
Deus.'

One of the lay, peers had then at once to, take the crown and hold it over the King's head, while the other peers placed on it a symbolic finger. Valois was already putting out his hands but Philippe with a gesture of his sceptre, stopped him.

`You, Mother, hold the crown,' he said to Mahaut.

`Thank you, my son,' murmured the giantess.

By this spectacular choice she received thanks for her double regicide. She was taking her place as the first peer of the realm, and the possession of the Co
unty of Artois was confirmed to
her for ever.

'Burgundy will not yield!' cried the Duchess Agnes.

And, gathering her suite, she marched off towards the doors, while Mahaut and Valois slowly led Philippe back to his throne.

When he had taken his seat on it, his feet resting on a silken cushion, the Archbishop removed his mitre and came to kiss the King on the mouth,
saying: 'Vivat rex in aeternum.'

The other peers followed him, repeating: `Vivat rex in aeternum.'

Philippe felt weary. He had won his last battle, after seven months of unceasing struggle for the supreme power, which no one could now dispute with him.