‘History is a novel that has been lived’

E. & J. DE GONCOURT

‘It is terrifying to think how much research is needed to determine the truth of even the most unimportant fact’

STENDHAL

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Epigraph

Foreword

The Characters in this Book

Family Tree

The Poisoned Crown

Prologue

Part One: France Awaits a Queen

1. Farewell to Naples

2. The Storm

3. The Hôtel-Dieu

4. Portents of Disaster

5. The King Receives the Oriflamme

6. The Muddy Army

7. The Philtre

8. A Country Wedding

Part Two: After Flanders, Artois

1. The Insurgents

2. The Countess of Poitiers

3. The Second Couple in the Kingdom

4. A Servant’s Friendship

5. The Fork and the Prie-dieu

6. Arbitration

Part Three: The Time of the Comet

1. The New Master of Neauphle

2. Dame Eliabel’s Reception

3. The Midnight Marriage

4. The Comet

5. The Cardinal’s Spell

6. ‘I Assume Control of Artois’

7. In the King’s Absence

8. The Monk is Dead

9. Mourning Comes to Vincennes

10. Tolomei Prays for the King

11. Who is to be Regent?

Footnotes

Historical Notes

Author’s Acknowledgements

By Maurice Druon

Copyright

About the Publisher

Foreword
GEORGE R.R. MARTIN

Over the years, more than one reviewer has described my fantasy series, A Song of Ice and Fire, as historical fiction about history that never happened, flavoured with a dash of sorcery and spiced with dragons. I take that as a compliment. I have always regarded historical fiction and fantasy as sisters under the skin, two genres separated at birth. My own series draws on both traditions ... and while I undoubtedly drew much of my inspiration from Tolkien, Vance, Howard, and the other fantasists who came before me, A Game of Thrones and its sequels were also influenced by the works of great historical novelists like Thomas B. Costain, Mika Waltari, Howard Pyle ... and Maurice Druon, the amazing French writer who gave us the The Accursed Kings, seven splendid novels that chronicle the downfall of the Capetian kings and the beginnings of the Hundred Years War.

Druon’s novels have not been easy to find, especially in English translation (and the seventh and final volume was never translated into English at all). The series has twice been made into a television series in France, and both versions are available on DVD ... but only in French, undubbed, and without English subtitles. Very frustrating for English-speaking Druon fans like me.

The Accursed Kings has it all. Iron kings and strangled queens, battles and betrayals, lies and lust, deception, family rivalries, the curse of the Templars, babies switched at birth, she-wolves, sin, and swords, the doom of a great dynasty ... and all of it (well, most of it) straight from the pages of history. And believe me, the Starks and the Lannisters have nothing on the Capets and Plantagenets.

Whether you’re a history buff or a fantasy fan, Druon’s epic will keep you turning pages. This was the original game of thrones. If you like A Song of Ice and Fire, you will love The Accursed Kings.

George R.R. Martin

The Characters in this Book

THE KING OF FRANCE AND NAVARRE:

LOUIS X, called THE HUTIN, great-grandson of Saint Louis, son of Philip IV, the Fair, and of Jeanne of Navarre, widower of Marguerite of Burgundy, aged 26.

HIS SECOND WIFE:

CLÉMENCE OF HUNGARY, a descendant of a brother of Saint Louis, granddaughter of Charles II of Anjou-Sicily and of Marie of Hungary, daughter of Charles Martel and sister of Charobert, King of Hungary, niece of King Robert of Naples, aged 22.

HIS BROTHERS:

MONSEIGNEUR PHILIPPE, Count of Poitiers, Count Palatine of Burgundy, Lord of Salins, Peer of the Kingdom, future Philip V, aged 22.

MONSEIGNEUR CHARLES, Count de la Marche, future Charles IV, aged 21.

THE VALOIS BRANCH:

MONSEIGNEUR CHARLES, brother of Philip the Fair, Count of Valois, Titular Emperor of Constantinople, Count of Romagna, Peer of the Kingdom, the King’s uncle, aged 45.

PHILIPPE OF VALOIS, son of the above, future Philip VI, aged 22.

THE EVREUX BRANCH:

MONSEIGNEUR LOUIS, brother of Philip the Fair, Count of Evreux, the King’s uncle, aged about 42.

THE ARTOIS BRANCH, DESCENDANTS OF A BROTHER OF SAINT LOUIS:

ROBERT III OF ARTOIS, Seigneur of Conches, Count of Beaumont-le-Roger, aged 28.

THE COUNTESS MAHAUT OF ARTOIS, his aunt, widow of the Count Palatine Othon IV of Burgundy, Peer of the Kingdom, aged about 41.

JEANNE OF BURGUNDY, daughter of Mahaut and wife of the Count Philippe of Poitiers, the King’s brother, aged about 22.

THE GREAT OFFICERS OF THE CROWN:

ETIENNE DE MORNAY, a Canon, Chancellor of the Kingdom.

GAUCHER DE CHÂTILLON, the Constable.

MATHIEU DE TRYE, Grand Chamberlain to Louis X.

HUGUES DE BOUVILLE, late Grand Chamberlain to Philip the Fair, Envoy Extraordinary to the King of Naples.

MILES DES NOYERS, a Justiciar, Councillor to Parliament, Knight Banneret to the Count of Poitiers.

THE HIRSON FAMILY:

THIERRY, a Canon, Provost of Ayré, Chancellor to the Countess Mahaut.

DENIS, his brother, Treasurer to the Countess Mahaut.

BEATRICE, their niece, Lady-in-Waiting to the Countess Mahaut.

THE LOMBARDS:

SPINELLO TOLOMEI, a Siennese banker established in Paris.

GUCCIO BAGLIONI, his nephew, aged about 19.

THE CRESSAY FAMILY:

DAME ELIABEL, widow of the Lord of Cressay, aged about 41.

PIERRE AND JEAN, her sons, aged 21 and 23.

MARIE, her daughter, aged 17.

THE TEMPLARS:

JEAN DE LONGWY, nephew of the last Grand Master.

EVERARD, clerk, an ex-Knight Templar.

AND THESE:

QUEEN MARIE OF HUNGARY, widow of Charles II of Anjou-Sicily, called The Lame, and mother of King Robert of Naples, grandmother of Clémence of Hungary, aged about 70.

CARDINAL JACQUES DUÈZE, Cardinal of the Curia. The future Pope John XXII, aged about 70.

EUDELINE, Louis X’s first mistress.

THE REBELLIOUS ARTOIS BARONS:

CAUMONT, FIENNES, GUIGNY, JOURNY, KENTY, KIEREZ, LIQUES, LONGVILLERS, LOOS, NÉDONCHEL, SOUASTRE, SAINT-VENANT, AND VARENNES.

All the above names have their place in history.

The Poisoned Crown

Standing at one of the windows in the huge Castelnuovo, which had a view over the port and bay of Naples, the old Queen Mother, Marie of Hungary, watched a ship weighing anchor. Making sure that no one could see her, she wiped a tear from the corner of a lashless eyelid with a roughened finger.

‘Now I can die,’ she murmured ...

For her dearly loved Clémence, a princess of twenty-two without territorial inheritance, rich only in her reputation for beauty and virtue, she had recently obtained the most important of alliances, the most imposing of marriages. Clémence was leaving to become Queen of France. Thus she, who was the most deprived by fate of all the princesses of Anjou, who had waited the longest for a match, was now to receive the finest of kingdoms and to reign as suzerain over all her relations. It clearly illustrated the teaching of the Gospel.

Prologue

PHILIP THE FAIR HAD been dead six months. To the government of that remarkable monarch France owed the benefits of a long period of peace, the abandonment of disastrous overseas adventures, the organization of a powerful network of alliances and suzerainties, notable increases of territory by union rather than conquest, a definite economic expansion and a relative stability of currency, the non-interference of the Church in temporal affairs, the control of wealth and large private interests, the expression of the voice of the people in the councils of power, the security of the individual, and the organization of State administration.

His contemporaries were naturally not always very conscious of these ameliorations. Progress has never meant perfection. Some years were less prosperous than others, there were periods of crisis and revolution; the needs of the people were far from being satisfied. The Iron King had methods of making himself obeyed which were not to everyone’s taste; and he was more concerned with the grandeur of his Kingdom than with the individual happiness of his subjects.

Nevertheless, when he died, France was the foremost, wealthiest, and most powerful of all the nations of the western world.

It took his successors thirty years of perseverance to destroy his work, and, inordinate ambition alternating upon the throne with extreme incompetence, to open the country to invasion, deliver society over to anarchy, and reduce the population to the lowest condition of misery and despair.

In the long succession of vain imbeciles who, from Louis X, The Hutin, to Jean the Good inclusive, were to wear the crown, there was to be but one exception: Philippe V, the Long, second son of Philip the Fair, who returned to the methods and principles of his father – even though his passion for reigning led him to commit crimes and invent dynastic laws which led directly to the Hundred Years War.

The processes of decay were therefore to continue during a third of a century, but it must be admitted that a great part of the destruction was completed during the first six months.

Institutions were not sufficiently stable to be able to function without the personal intervention of the sovereign.

The feeble, nervous, and incompetent Louis X, overwhelmed from the very first day by the magnitude of his task, resigned the cares of power to his uncle, Charles of Valois, who was, it appears, a good soldier though a detestable politician, who spent his whole life searching for a throne and had now, at last, found an outlet for his turbulent blundering.

The middle-class ministers, who had been the backbone of the preceding reign, had been imprisoned, and the skeleton of the most remarkable of them all, Enguerrand de Marigny, once Rector-General of the Kingdom, was bleaching on the forks of the gibbet of Montfaucon.

Reaction was triumphant; the Barons’ Leagues were sowing disorder in the provinces and subverting the royal authority. The great Lords, Charles of Valois at their head, minted their own currency which they circulated throughout the country to their own personal profit. The Administration, no longer held in check, became corrupt, and the Treasury was empty.

A disastrous harvest, followed by an exceptionally hard winter, caused famine. The death-rate was rising.

During this time Louis X had been mainly preoccupied with repairing his domestic honour and endeavouring to efface, if it were possible, the scandal of the Tower of Nesle.

For lack of a Pope, whom the Conclave seemed unable to elect, and who was required for the purpose of pronouncing an annulment, the young King of France, so that he might remarry, had had his wife, Marguerite of Burgundy, strangled in the prison of Château-Gaillard.

Thus he became free to marry the beautiful Neapolitan Princess who had been found for him, and with whom he was making preparations to share the felicities of a long reign.fn1

PART ONE
FRANCE AWAITS A QUEEN

1
Farewell to Naples

STANDING AT ONE OF the windows in the huge Castelnuovo, which had a view over the port and bay of Naples, the old Queen Mother, Marie of Hungary, watched a ship weighing anchor. Making sure that no one could see her, she wiped a tear from the corner of a lashless eyelid with a roughened finger.

‘Now I can die,’ she murmured.

She had lived a full life. Daughter of a king, wife of a king, mother and grandmother of kings, she had settled one branch of her descendants upon the throne of central Italy, and obtained for the other, by war and intrigue, the Kingdom of Hungary, which she looked upon as her personal heritage. Her younger sons were princes or sovereign dukes. Two of her daughters were queens, one of Majorca, the other of Aragon. Her fecundity had been a means to power for the Anjou-Sicily family, a cadet branch of the Capet tree, which was now beginning to spread across all Europe, threatening to become as great as its trunk.

If Marie of Hungary had already lost six of her children she had at least the consolation of knowing that they had died as piously as she had brought them up; indeed, one of them, who had renounced his dynastic rights to enter the Church, was shortly to be canonized. As if the Kingdoms of this world were too narrow for this expanding family, the old Queen had dispatched her progeny to the Kingdom of Heaven. She was the mother of a Saint.¹ fn2

At over seventy she had but one duty left to fulfil and that was to assure the future of one of her granddaughters, Clémence, the orphan. This had now been achieved.

Because Clémence was the daughter of her eldest son, Charles Martel, for whom she had so persistently laid claim to the throne of Hungary, because the child had been orphaned at two years of age, because she herself had assumed entire responsibility for her education, and because finally this task was the last of her life, Marie of Hungary had held the girl in particular affection, in so far as a capacity for affection existed in that old heart, subordinated as it was to force, duty, and power.

The great ship, which was weighing anchor in the harbour upon this brilliantly sunny day of the first of June 1315, represented to the eyes of the Queen Mother of Naples both the triumph of her policy and the melancholy of things achieved.

For her dearly loved Clémence, a princess of twenty-two without territorial inheritance, rich only in her reputation for beauty and virtue, she had recently obtained the most important of alliances, the most imposing of marriages. Clémence was leaving to become Queen of France. Thus she, who was the most deprived by fate of all the princesses of Anjou, who had waited the longest for a match, was now to receive the finest of kingdoms and to reign as suzerain over all her relations. It clearly illustrated the teaching of the Gospel.

It was, of course, true that the young King of France, Louis X, was reputed to be neither particularly handsome of face nor pleasant of character.

‘But what does that matter? My husband, upon whom God have mercy, was excessively lame, but I succeeded, without much difficulty, in reconciling myself to the fact,’ thought Marie of Hungary. ‘Moreover, one does not become a queen in order to find happiness.’

People wondered, in covert whispers, that Queen Marguerite should have died in her prison so opportunely, just when King Louis, for the lack of a Pope, was unable to obtain an annulment of his marriage. But need one listen to scandal? Marie of Hungary was little inclined to waste pity upon a woman, particularly upon a Queen, who had betrayed her marriage vows and provided from such an exalted position so reprehensible an example. She saw nothing for surprise in the fact that God’s punishment should so naturally have fallen upon the scandalous Marguerite.

‘My beautiful Clémence will restore virtue to a place of honour in the Court of Paris,’ she told herself.

In a gesture of farewell she made the sign of the Cross upon the window with her grey hand; then, her crown resting upon her silver hair, her chin jerking with a tic, her walk stiff but still firm, she retired to her chapel to thank the Lord for having helped her to the accomplishment of her long royal mission and to offer up to God the deep unhappiness of all women who have come to the end of their earthly task.

In the meantime, the San Giovanni, the great ship with a round hull entirely painted in white and gold and flying from her mast and yards the pennants of Anjou, Hungary, and France, was beginning to tack away from the shore. The captain and his crew had sworn upon the Bible to defend their passengers against storm, Barbary pirates, and all the perils of the sea. The statue of Saint John the Baptist, the patron of the ship, shone in the sun upon the prow. In the fore- and after-castles, half as high as the masts, a hundred men-at-arms, look-outs, archers, and slingers were at their posts to repel the attacks of pirates. The holds were overflowing with provisions, and the sand of the ballast had been filled with amphorae containing oil, flagons of wine, and fresh eggs. The giant iron-bound chests, holding the silk robes, the jewels, the gold plate, and all the princess’s wedding presents, were stacked against the bulkhead of the saloon, a vast compartment between the mainmast and the poop where, among oriental carpets, the gentlemen and equerries were to be lodged.

The Neapolitans crowded upon the quays to watch the departure of what appeared to them a ship of good omen. Women held up their children at arms’ length. Through the loud murmur rising from the crowd were to be heard shouts, uttered with the noisy good nature with which the populace of Naples has always treated its idols:

‘Guardi com’ è bella!’

‘Addio, Donna Clemenza! Sia felice!’

‘Dio la benedica, nostra principessa!’

‘Non si dimentichi di noi!’fn3

For Donna Clemenza personified a sort of legend to the Neapolitans. They remembered her father, the handsome Carlo Martelo, the friend of poets and in particular of the divine Dante, a learned prince, as good a musician as he was valiant in arms, who travelled the peninsula, followed by two hundred French, Provençal, and Italian gentlemen, all dressed, as he was himself, half in scarlet and half in green, their horses caparisoned in silver and gold. It was said of him that he was a true son of Venus, for he possessed ‘the five gifts that incite to love and which are health, beauty, wealth, leisure, and youth’. They had looked forward to his becoming king; but he had died of the plague at twenty-four and his wife, a princess of Hapsburg, had expired upon hearing the news, an event which had struck the popular imagination.

Naples had transferred its affection to Clémence who, as she grew up, had developed a likeness to her father. The royal orphan was adored in the poor quarters of the town to which she went to distribute charity; she was invariably affected by distress. Her face inspired the painters of the school of Giotto in their representations of the Virgin and the saints in their frescoes; and to this day travellers who visit the churches of Campania and Apulia may admire upon the walls of the sanctuaries the golden hair, the clear gentle eyes, the grace of the slightly curving neck, the long slender hands, without knowing that it is the portrait of the beautiful Clémence of Hungary.

Upon the crenellated deck which covered the after-castle, some thirty feet above the waves, the fiancée of the King of France gazed for the last time upon the land of her childhood, upon the old Castell’Ovo in which she had been born, upon Castelnuovo where she had grown up, upon the swarming crowd who threw her kisses, upon the whole lively, wonderful, dusty scene.

‘Thank you, Madam my Grandmother,’ she thought, her eyes raised to the window from which the figure of Marie of Hungary had just disappeared. ‘I shall doubtless never see you again. Thank you for all you have done for me. Having reached the age of twenty-two, I was in despair at not having yet found a husband; I thought that I should never find one and that I should have to enter a convent. It was you who were right to counsel patience. And now I am to be queen of that great kingdom which is watered by four rivers, and lapped by three seas. My cousin the King of England, my aunt of Majorca, my kinsman of Bohemia, my sister the Crown Princess of Vienna, and even my uncle Robert, who reigns here and whose subject I was till today, will become my vassals for the lands they have in France, or the links they have with that crown. But will it not be too heavy for me?’

She was experiencing at one and the same time joy and exaltation, fear of the unknown and that peculiar disquiet which comes upon the spirit at an irrevocable change of destiny, even when it surpasses every dream.

‘Your people are showing how much they love you, Madam,’ said a fat man standing beside her. ‘But I wager that the people of France will soon love you as much, and merely upon seeing you will welcome you as demonstratively as these are bidding you farewell.’

‘Oh, you will always be my friend, Messire de Bouville,’ Clémence replied warmly.

She felt the need of spreading her happiness around her and of thanking everyone.

The Comte de Bouville, once chamberlain to Philip the Fair and King Louis X’s envoy, had come to Naples on a first visit during the winter to ask for her hand; he had returned two weeks ago to fetch the Princess and conduct her to Paris now that the marriage could be celebrated.

‘And you too, Signor Baglioni, you are also my friend,’ she added, turning towards the young Tuscan who acted as secretary to Bouville and controlled the expedition’s finances, which had been lent by the Italian banks in Paris. The young man acknowledged the compliment with a bow.

Indeed, everyone was happy that morning. Fat Bouville, sweating a little in the June heat and throwing his black-and-white locks back behind his ears, felt confident and proud at having succeeded so well in his mission and at conducting so splendid a wife to his king.

Guccio Baglioni was dreaming of the fair Marie de Cressay, his secret fiancée, for whom he was taking home a whole chest of silks and embroideries. He was uncertain whether he had been right to ask for the Neauphle-le-Vieux branch of the bank from his uncle. Should he content himself with so small an establishment?

‘But it’s only a start; I shall easily be able to change it for another post, and besides I shall spend most of my time in Paris.’ Assured of the protection of his new sovereign, he set no limits to his ambition; he already saw Marie as lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and himself becoming Grand Pantler or Grand Treasurer within a few months. Enguerrand de Marigny had started with no greater advantages. Of course he had come to a pretty bad end. But then he was no Lombard.

His hand on his dagger, his chin held high, Guccio looked at Naples deployed before him, as if he were about to buy it.

Ten galleys escorted the ship to the open sea; then the Neapolitans watched this white sea-fortress fade into the distance.

2
The Storm

A FEW DAYS LATER THE San Giovanni was no more than a half-dismasted, tortured hulk, running before the squalls, tossed in huge seas, while the captain endeavoured to keep her afloat and make what he conceived to be the coast of France, though doubtful whether he would ever succeed in bringing his passengers safely into port.

The ship had been caught on the latitude of Corsica by one of those brief but devastating storms which, on occasion, ravage the Mediterranean. Six anchors had been lost in an endeavour to hold the ship to the wind off the coast of Elba, and she had barely escaped being wrecked upon the island’s rocky shore. They had managed to sail upon their course, but in a tremendous sea. A day, a night, and another day had been spent amid the hell of waters. Several sailors had been injured in taking in what remained of the sails. The crow’s nest had gone overboard with all the weight of stones destined for Barbary pirates. The saloon hatch had had to be forced open with axes in order to free the Neapolitan gentlemen imprisoned by the fall of the mainmast. The Princess’s chests of dresses, jewels, and plate, all her wedding presents, had been washed away. The surgeon-barber’s sick bay in the forecastle was crowded. The chaplain was even unable to celebrate the aride² Mass because ciborium, chalice, books, and ornaments had been swept overboard by a wave. Clutching the rigging, crucifix in hand, he listened to the confessions of those who thought they were soon to die.

The magnetized needle was now utterly useless, since it bobbed wildly upon the residue of water left in the container in which it floated. The captain, an excitable Latin, had torn his robe open to the waist as a sign of despair and was heard to cry, between a couple of orders: ‘Lord, come to my help!’ Nevertheless, he seemed to know his business well enough and to be doing his best to extricate them from their difficulties; he had had the oars shipped. They were so long and heavy that seven men were needed to work each one of them. And he had summoned a dozen sailors to control the helm, six on each side.

Nevertheless, Bouville had been furious with him at the beginning of the storm.

‘Well, Master Mariner, is this the kind of shaking you give a Princess engaged to the King my master?’ the ex-Grand Chamberlain had cried. ‘Your ship must be badly loaded to roll like this. You know nothing of navigation or how to make use of favourable currents. If you do not quickly do better, I shall upon arrival have you haled before the justices of the King of France and you’ll learn seamanship on a galley’s bench.’

But his anger had quickly evaporated, since for the next eight hours he had been sick upon the oriental carpets, in company, moreover, with the majority of the suite. His head rolling upon his shoulders, his face pale, his hair, coat, and hose drenched, the unhappy man prepared to give up the ghost every time a wave lifted the ship, groaning between a couple of hiccups that he would never see his family again and that, during the whole of his life, he had not committed sufficient sins to deserve this intensity of suffering.

Guccio, on the other hand, showed remarkable courage. Clear of head and light of foot, he had taken the precaution of carefully lashing his money-chest and, during moments of relative calm, ran through the spray in search of drinking-water for the Princess, or sprayed scent about her in order to overcome the stench of her seasick companions.

There are certain sorts of men, particularly very young ones, who instinctively behave in the manner expected of them. If they are looked upon with contempt, there is every likelihood of their behaving in a contemptible way. On the other hand, if they feel that people esteem them and have confidence in them, they can surpass themselves and, though as frightened as the next man, can conduct themselves like heroes. Guccio Baglioni was to some extent of this breed. Because Princess Clémence had a way of behaving towards people, whether rich or poor, nobleman or commoner, which maintained their self-respect, because she also used the young man with particular courtesy, since he had been to some extent the harbinger of her good fortune, Guccio, in her company, felt himself to be a knight and behaved with more spirit than any of her gentlemen.

He was a Tuscan and therefore capable of daring all in order to shine in female eyes. And yet, at the same time, he remained body and soul a banker and gambled with fate as one gambles on the exchange.

‘Danger presents the best opportunity of becoming intimate with the great,’ he said to himself. ‘If we’ve got to founder and perish our fate will certainly not be changed by lapsing into lamentation like poor Bouville. But, if we escape I shall have acquired the esteem of the Queen of France.’ To be able to think thus at such a moment was in itself evidence of considerable courage.

But Guccio, that summer, believed himself invincible; he was in love and assured of being loved in return. His head stuffed with heroic tales – for dreams, plans, and ambitions were still chaotically mingled in the boy’s mind – Guccio knew that those engaged in adventure always came out safely in the end if a beautiful damsel is awaiting them in a castle! His was at the Manor of Cressay.

He therefore assured the Princess Clémence, against all the evidence, that the weather was improving, asserted that the ship was sound when it was in fact being strained to the limit, and drew comparisons with the much more terrifying storm, or so he pretended it had been, that he had experienced the previous year when crossing the Channel and from which he had issued safely.

‘I was on my way to Queen Isabella of England with a message from Monseigneur Robert of Artois.’

Princess Clémence was also behaving in exemplary fashion. Lodged in the stern cabin, a state apartment arranged for royal passengers in the stern-castle, she was endeavouring to calm her ladies who, like a flock of frightened sheep, moaned at every wave.

Clémence had uttered no single word of regret when she was told that her chests of dresses and jewels had gone overboard.

‘I would have given twice as much,’ she merely said, ‘if it could have saved the poor sailors from being injured by the mast.’

She was less afraid of the storm than of the augury she saw in it.

This marriage was more than I deserved,’ she thought; ‘I have been too happy in the thought of it and have sinned from pride; God will shipwreck me because I do not deserve to become a queen.’

Upon the third morning, when the ship was in a temporary lull, though the sea gave no sign of abating nor the sun of appearing, fat Bouville, his feet bare, dishevelled, wearing only a shirt, was discovered kneeling on the deck with his arms crossed.

‘What on earth are you doing there, Messire?’ asked Princess Clémence.

‘I’m doing what Monsieur Saint Louis did, Madam, when he was nearly drowned off Cyprus. He promised to give a silver ship weighing five marcs³ to Monsieur Saint Nicolas de Warangeville, if God would bring him safely back to France. It was Messire de Joinville who told me the story.’

‘I join you in your vow, Bouville,’ replied Clémence, ‘and since our ship is under the protection of Saint John the Baptist, I promise, if we survive and I am mercifully permitted to give the King of France a son, to call him John.’

She at once knelt down and began praying.

Towards midday the violence of the sea began to decline and everyone became more hopeful. Then the sun burst through the clouds; land was sighted. The captain joyfully recognized the coast of Provence and, as they drew nearer, the calanques of Cassis. He was extremely proud of having kept to his course.

‘You will land us here upon the coast at once, I presume, Master Mariner,’ cried Bouville.

‘I must take you to Marseilles, Messire,’ replied the captain, ‘and we are not far from it. In any case I no longer have sufficient anchors to lie off those cliffs.’

A little before evening the San Giovanni, under oars, was lying off the port of Marseilles. A boat was sent off to warn the city authorities to lower the heavy chain which protected the entrance to the harbour between the Malbert tower and Fort Saint-Nicolas. The Governor, the sheriff, and magistrates (Marseilles was at that time an Angevin city) came off in a strong mistral to welcome the niece of their suzerain lord, the King of Naples.

Upon the quay labourers from the salt-pans, fishermen, makers of oars and rigging, caulkers, money-changers, merchants from the ghetto, clerks from the Genoese and Siennese banks, gaped in astonishment at the huge ship, now a sail-less, dismasted wreck, as the sailors danced and embraced each other on the deck, crying that a miracle had occurred.

The Neapolitan gentlemen and the ladies of the suite endeavoured to put some order in their dress.

Brave Bouville, who had lost a stone during the voyage and whose clothes now hung loose upon him, continually assured those about him that it had been his idea to make a vow and that it was this which had prevented their being shipwrecked, that everyone, in fact, owed their life to him.

‘Messire Hugues,’ Guccio replied with an ironic gleam in his eye, ‘there never has been a storm, from what I hear, in which someone has not made a vow similar to yours. How then do you explain the fact that so many ships manage to go to the bottom all the same?’

‘It must be because they have a miscreant like you on board!’ replied the ex-Chamberlain with a smile.

Guccio was the first to jump ashore. He leaped lightly from the shrouds in order to prove how vigorous he was. There was a rending cry. After several days upon a pitching deck, Guccio had miscalculated the earth’s stability; his foot had slipped and he had fallen into the sea. He barely escaped being crushed between the stone quay and the ship’s hull. The sea around him at once turned red; in his fall he had torn himself on an iron hook. He was pulled out in a half-fainting condition, bleeding, his thigh cut to the bone. He was immediately taken to the Hôtel-Dieu.

3
The Hôtel-Dieu

THE HUGE WARD FOR men was like a cathedral nave. At the end of it was an altar where four masses, vespers, and evensong were celebrated every day. The privileged patients occupied little cells, called ‘rooms of consideration’, which lined the walls; the rest were lying two in a bed and head to foot. The monks, in long brown habits, were continuously passing up and down the centre aisle, either to sing the office, to attend to the sick or serve the meals. Religious exercises were intimately related to medical treatment; the groans of the sufferers were mingled with verses of the psalms; the odour of incense could not overcome the atrocious smell of fever and gangrene; death was a public spectacle. Inscriptions, painted in high gothic letters upon the walls, prepared the patient for death rather than recovery.⁴

For three weeks Guccio had lain there in a cell, gasping for breath in the appalling heat of summer, which always has a tendency to make illness more exhausting and hospitals more disagreeable. He looked sadly at the rays of the sun which entered by the windows pierced high in the wall and threw large golden patches upon this assembly of human desolation. He could make no movement without groaning; the balms and elixirs of the nursing brothers burnt him like so many flames, and every dressing was a time of torture. No one seemed to be able to tell him whether the bone was affected; but he felt sure that the wound was more than a flesh-wound, since he nearly fainted whenever they touched his thigh or the small of his back. The doctors and surgeons assured him that he was in no mortal danger, that at his age one recovered from anything, and that God had performed many another miracle, as He had for that caulker’s boy who had come in the other day, carrying his intestines in his hands, and who had left after a short time even gayer than before. Guccio despaired none the less. He had been there three weeks already and there seemed no reason to suppose he would not be there for another three, or even three months, or that he would not be lame and crippled for ever.

He saw himself condemned for the rest of his life to crouching huddled behind a money-changer’s counter in Marseilles because he could not make the journey to Paris. If, that was, he died from no other disease. Every morning he saw one or two corpses carried out. They had already turned a horrible black colour, since there were always, as in every Mediterranean port, a few cases of plague about. And all this because he had wished to show off by jumping on to the quay before his companions. And when he had just escaped shipwreck too!

He was furious at fate and his own stupidity. He sent for the letter-writer almost every day and dictated to him long letters for Marie de Cressay which he sent by the couriers of the Lombard banks to the branch at Neauphle, so that the chief clerk might give them secretly to the girl.

With all the emphasis and richness of image which Italians use in speaking of love, Guccio sent the most passionate declarations. He assured her he only wished to get well for her sake, for the happiness of seeing her again, looking upon her, and cherishing her day by day for ever. He besought her to be faithful to the pact they had sworn, and promised her enduring happiness. ‘You dominate my whole heart, as no one else will ever do, and if you should fail me, my life too would fail.’

Now that he was confined through his own stupidity to a bed in the Hôtel-Dieu, he was presumptuous enough to begin to doubt everyone and everything and to fear that the girl he loved was no longer waiting for him. Marie would grow tired of an absent lover, would fall for some young provincial squire, a huntsman and champion in tournaments.

‘My good luck,’ he said to himself, ‘was to have been the first to love her. But now it is a year and soon will be eighteen months since we kissed each other for the first time. She will reconsider the matter. My uncle warned me. What am I in the sight of a daughter of a noble house? A Lombard, that is to say a little more than a Jew, a little less than a Christian, and most certainly not a man of rank.’

As he contemplated his wasted, motionless legs, wondering whether he would ever be able to stand upon them again, he described in his letters to Marie de Cressay the wonderful life he would give her. He had become the friend and protégé of the new Queen of France. To read his letters one might have thought that it was he alone who had negotiated the King’s marriage. He told of his embassy to Naples, the storm, and how he had behaved in it, relating the courage of the crew. He attributed his accident to a chivalrous design; he had leapt forward to assist Princess Clémence and to save her from falling into the sea, when she was on the point of leaving the ship, which was, even in harbour, still tossed by waves.

Guccio had also written to his uncle Spinello Tolomei describing his misfortune, begging that the Neauphle branch be kept for him and asking for a credit with their Marseilles correspondent.

He had a number of visitors who distracted his mind a little and gave him a chance of complaining in company, which is more satisfying than complaining to oneself. The representative of the Tolomei Bank was assiduous in his attentions and arranged for better food than that supplied by the hospital brothers.

One afternoon Guccio had had the pleasure of seeing his friend Signor Boccaccio di Cellino, senior traveller of the Bardi company, who happened to be passing through Marseilles. Guccio had been able to unburden himself to him as much as he pleased.

‘Think of all I’ll miss,’ Guccio said. ‘I shall not be able to attend Donna Clemenza’s wedding, where I would have taken my place among the great lords. Having done so much to bring it about, it really is bad luck not being able to be there! And I shall also miss the coronation at Rheims. It’s really quite intolerable. And I’ve had no reply from my darling Marie.’

Boccaccio did his best to console him. Neauphle was not a suburb of Marseilles, and Guccio’s letters were not carried by royal couriers. They had to go by the usual Lombard stages, Avignon, Lyons, Troyes, and Paris; the couriers did not leave every day.

‘Boccacino, my dear friend,’ cried Guccio, ‘since you’re going to Paris, I beseech you, if you have the time, go to Neauphle and see Marie. Tell her all I’ve said! Find out if my letters have reached her safely; try and discover whether she still loves me. Don’t hide the truth from me, even if it’s unpalatable. Don’t you think, Boccacino, that I might travel in a litter?’

‘What, so that your wound can reopen, worms get into it, and that you may die of fever in some filthy inn upon the road? What an idea! Are you mad? Really, Guccio, you’re twenty now, after all.’

‘Not yet!’

‘All the more reason for staying where you are; what’s a month here or there at your age?’

‘If it happened to be the operative month, my whole life might be ruined.’

Princess Clémence sent one of her gentlemen every day to ask news of the invalid. Fat Bouville came three times himself to sit beside the young Italian’s bed. Bouville was overwhelmed with work and anxiety. He was doing his best to get the future Queen’s attendants properly fitted out before setting forth on the road to Paris. Exhausted by the voyage, some of the company had had to retire to bed. No one had any clothes but the soaked and spoiled garments they had been wearing when they disembarked. The gentlemen and ladies of the suite were placing orders with tailors and dressmakers without worrying about payment. The whole of the Princess’s trousseau, which had been lost at sea, was to be made again; silver, china, trunks, all the necessities of the road, which at the period formed the normal equipment for a royal personage’s journey, had to be bought again. Bouville had sent to Paris for funds; Paris had replied that Naples should be approached, since the loss had taken place during that part of the journey which was in the territorial waters of the Crown of Sicily. The Lombards had had to be brought into play. Tolomei had remitted the demands to the Bardis, the usual money-lenders of King Robert of Naples; which explained Signor Boccaccio’s short stay in Marseilles, since he was on his way to arrange matters. In these chaotic circumstances Bouville much missed Guccio’s assistance, and when the ex-Chamberlain came to visit him, it was more to complain of his own lot and to ask the young man’s advice than to bring him comfort. Bouville had a way of looking at Guccio which seemed to imply: ‘Really, how could you do this to me!’

‘When are you leaving?’ Guccio asked him, looking forward to the moment with despair.

‘Oh, my poor friend, not before the middle of July.’

‘Perhaps by then I shall be well.’

‘I hope so. Do your best; your being well again would be a great help to me.’

But the middle of July came without Guccio being up on his feet, far from it indeed. The day before her departure, Clémence of Hungary insisted upon saying goodbye to the sick man herself. Guccio was already much envied by his companions in the hospital for the number of visitors who came to see him, the solicitude with which he was surrounded, and the ease with which his demands were satisfied. He became an almost legendary and heroic figure when the fiancée of the King of France, accompanied by two ladies-in-waiting and six Neapolitan gentlemen, strode in through the doors of the great ward of the Hôtel-Dieu. The brothers, who were singing vespers, looked at each other in astonishment, and their voices turned a little hoarse. The beautiful Princess knelt down, like the most humble of the faithful, and then, when the prayers were over, advanced down between the beds, through the long expanse of suffering, followed by a hundred pairs of astonished eyes.

‘Oh, poor people,’ she murmured.

She immediately ordered her following to give alms in her name to every patient, and that two hundred pounds should be given to the foundation.

‘But, Madam,’ Bouville, who was walking beside her, whispered, ‘we haven’t enough money to pay with.’

‘What does that matter? It’s better than buying chased drinking-cups or silks for dresses. I feel ashamed of such vanities; I even feel ashamed of my own health when I see so much misery.’

She brought Guccio a little reliquary which enclosed a minute piece of Saint John’s robe ‘with a visible stain of the Baptist’s blood’ which she had bought at a great price from a Jew who specialized in this particular business. The reliquary was suspended from a little gold chain which Guccio immediately hung round his neck.

‘Oh, dear Signor Guccio,’ said Princess Clémence. ‘I am so sorry to see you lying here. You have twice made a long journey so as to be, with Messire de Bouville, the messenger of good tidings; you were of great assistance to me at sea, and now you will not be present at the celebration of my wedding!’

The ward felt as hot as an oven. Outside a thunderstorm threatened. The Princess took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped away the sweat which shone upon the invalid’s face with so natural and gentle a gesture that Guccio’s eyes filled with tears.

‘But how did this happen to you?’ Clémence went on. ‘I saw nothing at the time and, indeed, do not yet know what occurred.’

‘I ... I thought, Madam, that you were about to disembark, and as the ship was still rolling, I ... I leapt forward wishing to give you my arm for support. It was growing dark and the light was bad and, there it is, my foot slipped.’

From then on he had to believe in the half-lie himself. He would so like it to have happened like that! And, after all, the sudden whim which had made him want to jump ashore first ...

‘Dear Signor Guccio,’ said Clémence, much moved. ‘I do hope you get well quickly. And come and tell me of it at the Court of France; my door will always be open to you as a friend.’

They gazed into each other’s eyes but with perfect innocence, because she was the daughter of a King and he the son of a Lombard. Had the circumstances of their birth been different, this man and this woman might have fallen in love.

They were never to see each other again, and yet their destinies were to be more strangely and tragically linked than any two destinies have ever been.

4
Portents of Disaster

THE FINE WEATHER WAS short-lived. The tempests, gales, rain, and hailstorms which that summer devastated the west of Europe, and which Princess Clémence had already suffered on her voyage, began again the day after the cavalcade’s departure. After staging first at Aix-en-Provence and then at the Château d’Orgon, they arrived at Avignon in pouring rain. The painted leather hood of the litter in which the Princess was carried poured water like a cathedral gargoyle. Were the fine new clothes to be spoilt so quickly, the trunks flooded with rain, and the silver-embroidered saddles of the Neapolitan gentlemen destroyed before they had even been admired by the people of France? Messire de Bouville had caught cold, which did not make things easier. Could one imagine anything more absurd than to catch cold in the middle of July? The poor man was coughing, spitting, and snivelling in the most horrible way. As he grew older, his health was becoming more delicate, unless it were that the Rhône valley and the neighbourhood of Avignon were peculiarly unlucky for him.

Hardly had the cavalcade installed itself in one of the palaces of the papal town than Monseigneur Jacques Duèze,⁵ Cardinal of the Curia, came to greet Clémence of Hungary with a large number of clergy in his train. This old and alchemistical prelate, who had been a candidate for the triple tiara for the last fifteen months, still preserved, in spite of his seventy years, his strangely youthful walk. He danced among the puddles beneath the pouring rain which had put out the torches his people carried before him.

Cardinal Duèze was the official candidate of the family of Anjou-Sicily. That Clémence should be marrying the King of France was clearly an advantage to him and strengthened his position. He counted upon the new Queen to support him in Paris, and thus to win over to him the votes he lacked among his French colleagues.

Agile as a deer, he dashed up the stairs, compelling the pages who were carrying his train to break into a run behind him. He was accompanied by Cardinal Orsini and the two Colonna Cardinals, who were equally devoted to the Neapolitan interest. They had some difficulty in keeping up with him.

Though his handkerchief was to his nose and his speech hoarse, Messire de Bouville resumed some of his ambassadorial dignity to receive these empurpled dignitaries.

‘Well, Monseigneur,’ he said to the Cardinal, treating him as an old acquaintance, ‘I see that it is easier to meet you when one is accompanying the niece of the King of Naples than when one comes to you on the orders of the King of France. It is no longer necessary to gallop across country in search of you.’

Bouville was in a position to permit himself such amiable teasing; the Cardinal had cost the French Treasury four thousand pounds.fn4

‘The fact is, Monseigneur,’ the Cardinal replied, ‘that Madame Marie of Hungary and her son, King Robert, have consistently done me the honour of giving me their pious confidence and the union of their family to the throne of France, by means of this fair Princess of high repute, is an answer to my prayers.’

Bouville heard once more that strange voice which was at once rapid, broken, smothered, and almost extinct, seeming to issue from some throat other than the Cardinal’s and to be directed at some third person. At the moment, what he had to say was addressed to Clémence, whom the Cardinal never quitted with his eyes.

‘Moreover, Messire Comte, circumstances have some-what changed,’ he went on, ‘and we no longer perceive the shade of Monseigneur de Marigny behind you, and he held power for a long time and seemed always ready to practise defenestration. Is it true that he was proved to be so dishonest in his accountancy that your young King, of whose charity of soul we are all aware, was unable to save him from just punishment?’

‘You know that Messire de Marigny was my friend,’ replied Bouville courageously. ‘He began as a page in my household. I think that his agents, rather than himself, were dishonest. It was a grief to me to see a friend of so old a standing come to disaster through stubborn pride and a desire to control everything himself. I warned him ...’

But Cardinal Duèze had not yet reached the end of his perfidious courtesies.

‘You see, Messire,’ he went on, ‘that there really was no need to press so hastily for your master’s annulment, about which you came to speak to me. Providence often comes to our rescue, provided one is prepared to assist it with a firm hand.’

He never took his eyes off the Princess. Bouville hastened to change the subject and to lead the prelate aside.

‘Well, Monseigneur, how goes the Conclave?’ he asked.

‘It’s still in the same state, that is to say nothing has supervened. Monseigneur d’Auch, our revered Cardinal Camerlingo, has not succeeded, or does not wish to succeed, for reasons known only to himself, to bring us into assembly. Some of us are at Carpentras, others at Orange, we ourselves are here, and the Caetani are at Vienne.’

Thereupon, he launched into a subtle but, neverthe less, ferocious indictment of Cardinal Francesco Caetani, the nephew of Boniface VIII and his most violent adversary.

‘It is so delightful to watch him display so much courage today in the defence of his uncle’s memory; nevertheless, we are unable to forget that, when your friend Nogaret came to Anagni with his cavalry to besiege Boniface, Monseigneur Francesco abandoned his devoted relation, to whom he owed his hat, and, dressed as a footman, took flight. He seems born to felony as others are to the priesthood,’ said Duèze.

His eyes, alight with senile anger, seemed to shine from the depths of his withered, sunken face. To listen to him, one would have thought that Cardinal Caetani was capable of the most heinous crimes; the devil was clearly in him.

‘And, as you know, Satan may appear anywhere; and surely nothing could be more grateful to him than to establish himself within the College of Cardinals.’

And, what’s more, to speak of the devil at that period was not merely a conversational image; his name was not mentioned lightly, since it might be a prelude to a ban of heresy, to torture and the scaffold.

‘I am well aware,’ Duèze added, ‘that the throne of Saint Peter cannot remain indefinitely vacant, and that this is bad for the whole world. But what can I do? I have offered myself, however little I may desire to accept so heavy a task; I have offered to accept the burden since it appears that agreement can be achieved only upon myself. If God, in selecting me, wishes to raise the least worthy to the highest place, I submit to the will of God. What more can I do, Messire de Bouville?’

After which he presented Princess Clémence with a superb copy, richly illuminated, of his Elixir des Philosophes, a treatise on hermetic philosophy which had considerable renown among the specialists of the subject and of which it was extremely doubtful that the Princess would understand a single word. For Cardinal Duèze, a master of intrigue, possessed a universal mind, was versed in medicine, alchemy, and in all the humane sciences. His works were to stand for another two centuries.

He departed, followed by his prelates, vicars, and pages; he was already living a Pope’s life and would deny, to the limits of his strength, election to anyone else.

When, the following morning, Madame of Hungary’s cavalcade took the road for Valence, the Princess asked Bouville, ‘What did the Cardinal mean yesterday when he spoke of assisting Providence to accomplish our desires?’

‘I don’t know, Madam, I don’t very well remember,’ replied Bouville, embarrassed. ‘I think he was talking of Messire de Marigny, but I didn’t very well understand.’

‘It seemed to me that he was speaking rather of my future husband’s annulment, which was impossible of realization. Of what did Madame Marguerite of Burgundy die?’

‘Of a chill she caught in her prison, and of remorse for her sins without doubt.’

And Bouville blew his nose to conceal his disquiet; he knew only too well the rumours which were current about the sudden death of the King’s first wife and had no wish to speak of them.

Clémence accepted Bouville’s explanation, but it did not set her mind at rest.

‘I owe my future happiness,’ Clémence said to herself, ‘to the death of another.’

She felt herself to be inexplicably allied to this queen whom she was to succeed and whose sins caused her as much horror as the punishment inspired her with pity.

Is not true charity, so rarely felt by those who inculcate it, precisely the emotion which impels the individual, however unreasonably, to identify himself with the crime of the criminal as well as with the responsibility of the judge?

‘Her sins led to her death, and her death to my becoming queen,’ Clémence thought. She saw it as a sort of judgement upon herself and felt that she was surrounded with portents of disaster.

The storm, the accident to the young Lombard, and the rain which was becoming calamitous, were all signs of ill omen.

For the weather grew no better. The villages they passed through had an appearance of desolation. After a winter of famine, the harvest had promised well and the peasants had regained courage; a few days of mistral and terrible storms had shattered their expectations. And now apparently inexhaustible rain was rotting their crops.

The Durance, the Drôme, and the Isère were in flood and the Rhône, along whose banks they were journeying, was dangerously swollen. From time to time they had to stop to free the road of a fallen tree.

For Clémence, the contrast between Campania, where the sky was always blue and the people smiling, the orchards laden with golden fruit, and this ravaged valley, haunted by a wasted populace and depressed villages, half-depopulated by famine, was depressing.

‘And the farther north we go, doubtless the worse it will become. I have come to a hard land.’

She wished to relieve all the misery she saw, and constantly halted her litter to distribute charity to anyone who seemed in need. Bouville was compelled to reason with her.

‘If you give at this rate, Madam, we shall not have enough left to reach Paris.’ It was when she arrived at Vienne, the home of her sister Beatrice, who was married to the ruling Prince of Dauphiné, that she learnt that King Louis X had just left to make war upon the Flemings.

‘Dear Lord,’ she murmured, ‘am I to be widowed before even setting eyes upon my husband? Have I arrived in France merely to witness disaster?’

5
The King Receives the Oriflamme

ENGUERRAND DE MARIGNY, during the course of his trial, had been accused by Charles of Valois of having sold himself to the Flemings in negotiating with them a peace treaty which was contrary to the interests of the Kingdom.

And now, when Marigny had but barely been hanged in the chains of Montfaucon, the Count of Flanders had broken the treaty. To do so he had employed the simplest means: he had refused, though summoned, to come to Paris to render homage to the new King. At the same time he ceased to pay the indemnities and reaffirmed his claim to the territories of Lille and Douai.

Upon receiving this news, King Louis X fell into an appalling rage. He was subject to fits of fury which had won for him the nickname of ‘Le Hutin’ and which terrified his entourage, not only for themselves but for him, since at these moments he bordered upon dementia.

His rage, upon hearing of the Flemings’ rebellion, surpassed in violence anything that he had manifested before.

For many hours, as he prowled about his study like a wild beast in a trap, his hair in disorder, his neck empurpled, breaking ornaments, kicking chairs over, he incessantly shouted meaningless words, while his cries were interrupted only by fits of coughing which bent him double, half suffocating him.

‘The indemnity!’ he cried. ‘And the weather! Oh, they’ll pay for the weather too! Gibbets, that’s what I need, gibbets! Who’s refused to pay the indemnity? On his knees! I’ll have the Count of Flanders on his knees! And I’ll put my foot on his head! Bruges? I’ll set fire to it! I’ll burn it down!’

His tirade was a confused mixture of the names of the rebellious towns, the delay of Clémence of Hungary’s arrival and promises of punishment. But the word that came most often to his lips was that of ‘indemnity’. For Louis X had but a few days before decreed the raising of an extra tax to cover the expenses of the previous year’s military campaign.

Without daring to say so openly people were beginning to regret Marigny and his methods of dealing with this form of rebellion; for instance, his reply to the Abbé Simon of Pisa, who informed him that the Flemings were becoming inflamed: ‘Their ardour in no way astonishes me, Brother Simon; it’s the effect of hot blood. Our lords are also hot-headed and in love with war. Yet the Kingdom of France is not to be dismembered by mere words; deeds are necessary.’ People wanted the same tone to be adopted; unfortunately the man who could have spoken thus was no longer of this world.

Encouraged by his uncle Valois, whose bellicose ardour had in no way been diminished by the exercise of power, on the contrary rather, and who never ceased wishing to give proof of his capacity as a great commander, The Hutin began to dream of valour. He would mobilize the greatest army that had ever been seen in France, fall like a mountain eagle on the rebellious Flemings, carve a few thousand of them to pieces, ransom the rest, bring them to their knees in a week and, where Philip the Fair had never completely succeeded, show the whole world what he was capable of. Already he saw himself returning, preceded by triumphant standards, his coffers filled with plunder and with the indemnities imposed upon the towns, having at once surpassed his father’s reputation and effaced the misfortune of his first marriage, for a war at least was necessary to make people forget his marital disaster. Then, amid a popular ovation, he would gallop home, a conquering prince and a hero of war, to meet his new wife and lead her to the altar and to coronation.

Clearly the young man was a fool and one might have pitied him, because there is always something pathetic about folly, if he were not the ruler of France and its population of fifteen millions.

On June 23rd he summoned the Court of Peers, stuttered violently at them, declared the Count of Flanders to be a felon, and resolved to mobilize the army before Courtrai on August 1st.

This concentration-point was not a particularly good choice. It seems that there are places where disaster has a habit of striking, and Courtrai, to people of that period, sounded very much as the name Sedan does to modern ears. Unless it was that Louis X and his Uncle Charles decided presumptuously upon Courtrai precisely so as to exorcize the memory of the disaster of 1302, one of the few battles lost in the reign of Philip the Fair, at which several thousand knights, charging like madmen in the absence of the king, had foundered in the ditches only to get themselves cut to pieces by the knives of the Fleming weavers; a carnage in which no prisoners were taken.

To maintain the formidable army which was to bring him glory, Louis X needed money; Valois, therefore, had recourse to the expediencies which Marigny had previously employed, while people openly wondered whether it had really been necessary to condemn the old Rector of the Kingdom to death merely so as to reapply his methods less efficiently.

Every serf who could pay for his franchise was freed; the Jews were recalled, on payment of a crushing tax for the right to reside and trade; a new levy was raised on the Lombards who, from then on, looked upon the new reign with less favourable eyes. Two urgently demanded contributions within less than a year was rather more than they expected to be subjected to.⁶

The Government wished to tax the clergy; but the latter, arguing that the Holy See was vacant and that no decision could be made without a pope, refused; then, in negotiation, the bishops consented to help provided no precedent were created, and profited by the opportunity to get certain concessions, exonerations, and immunities which ultimately were to cost the Treasury more than the funds obtained.

The mobilization of the army took place without difficulty, and was even conducted with a certain enthusiasm by the barons who, pretty bored at home, were delighted with the idea of donning their breastplates and setting off on an adventure.

There was less enthusiasm among the people.

‘Isn’t it enough,’ they said, ‘that we should be half-starved without having to give our men and our money to the King’s war?’

But the people were assured that every ill derived from the Flemings; the hope of loot and free days of rape and pillage were dangled before the soldiers; for many it was a way of easing the monotony of daily labour and the anxiety of finding enough to eat; no one wished to show himself a coward, and if there were recalcitrants, the sergeants of the King or of the great lords were numerous enough to maintain discipline by decorating the trees bordering the roads with a hanging or two. According to Philip the Fair’s Order in Council, which was still in force, no healthy man could, in theory, be exempted if he were more than eighteen and less than sixty, unless he bought himself out with a money contribution or exercised an indispensable trade.

At that time mobilization was a matter of purely local organization. The knights were sworn men, and it was incumbent upon them to raise a force among their vassals, subjects or serfs. The knight, and even the squire, never went alone to war. They were accompanied by pages, sutlers, and footmen. They owned their own horses and arms and those of their men. The ordinary knight without a banneret held approximately the rank of a lieutenant; once his men were assembled and equipped, he reported to the knight of a superior grade, that is to say his immediate suzerain. The knights with pennons were approximately equivalent to captains, the knights banneret to colonels, and the knights with double banners approximated to generals who commanded the whole tactical force raised from the jurisdiction of their barony or their county.

During the battle itself all the knights would upon occasion, leaving their footmen to one side, rally for the charge, often with the splendid results we know so well.

The ‘banner’ of Count Philippe of Poitiers, the King’s brother, must have rallied something in the nature of an army corps, since it assembled all the troops from Poitou, together with those of the county of Burgundy of which Philippe was Count Palatine by marriage; moreover, ten knights banneret were administratively attached to it, among whom were the Count of Evreux, the King’s uncle, Count Jean de Beaumont, Miles des Noyers, Anseau de Joinville, son of the great Joinville, and even Gaucher de Châtillon who, even though Constable of France, that is to say Commander-in-Chief of the armies, had the troops from his fief incorporated into the enormous unit.

Philip the Fair had had good reason for confiding to his second son, before he even reached the age of twenty-two, so important a military command, and for concentrating under his authority, as if to reinforce it, the men in whom he placed the greatest confidence.

Under the ‘banner’ of Count Charles of Valois marched the troops from Maine, Anjou, and Valois, among whom was the old Chevalier d’Aunay, the father of Marguerite and Blanche of Burgundy’s two dead lovers.

The cities were laid under contribution no less than the country. For this Flanders army, Paris had to furnish four hundred horsemen and two thousand footmen, whose maintenance was guaranteed by the merchants of the Cité, fortnight by fortnight, which showed that in the King’s opinion the war would not last long. The horses and wagons for the supply train were requisitioned from the monasteries.

On July 24th, 1315, after some delay, as was always the case, Louis X received, at Saint-Denis, from the hands of the Abbot Egidus de Chambly, who was its ex-officio guardian, the Oriflamme of France, a long band of red silk embroidered with golden flames (from which its name derived), ending in a swallow-tail and attached to a staff of gilded brass. Beside the Oriflamme, which was venerated as might have been a relic, the two King’s banners were carried, one blue with fleurs-de-lys and the other with the white cross.

The huge army set itself in motion with all the contingents that had arrived from the west, the south, and the southeast, the knights from Languedoc, troops from Normandy and Brittany. At Saint-Quentin it was joined by the ‘banners’ of the duchy of Burgundy and those of Champagne, Artois, and Picardy.

That particular day was a rare one of sunshine in an appalling summer. The sun shone upon a thousand lances, on breastplates, and chain-mail, on brightly painted shields. The knights showed off to each other the latest fashions in armour, a new form of helm or bassinet giving greater protection to the face while affording a wider field of vision, or some larger form of ailette which, placed upon the shoulder, gave greater protection against the blows of maces or made sword-thrusts glance off.

Several miles behind the soldiers followed the train of four-wheeled wagons which carried food, forges, supplies of bolts for crossbows, and a variety of traders who were authorized to follow in the army’s wake, as well as whores by the cartful under the control of the brothel-masters. The whole procession advanced in an extraordinary atmosphere which smacked at once of the heroic and the fairground.

The next day rain began to fall once more, soaking, unceasing, flooding the roads, opening ruts, trickling down steel helmets, dripping from breastplates, plastering the horses’ coats. Every man weighed five pounds the heavier.

And it was rain, continuous rain, throughout the following day.

The army of Flanders never reached Courtrai. It stopped at Bonduis, near Lille, before the swollen river Lys, which barred its advance, flooded the fields, swamped the roads, and soaked the clay soil. As it was no longer possible to advance, the army encamped there in pouring rain.

6
The Muddy Army

INSIDE THE VAST ROYAL TENT, embroidered with fleurs-de-lys, but where the mud was as elsewhere ankle-deep, Louis X, in company with his brother the Count de la Marche, his uncle Count Charles of Valois, and his chancellor, Etienne de Mornay, listened to the Constable Gaucher de Châtillon reporting on the situation. The report was not a happy one.

Châtillon, Count of Porcien and Lord of Crèvecoeur, had been Constable since 1286, that is to say from the very beginning of Philip the Fair’s reign. He had seen the disaster of Courtrai, the victory of Mons-en-Pevèle, and many other battles on this threatened northern frontier. He was in Flanders for the sixth time in his life. He was now sixty-five years of age. He was a tall good-looking man, with a determined jaw; neither years nor fatigue seemed to have affected him; he seemed slow because he was reflective. His physical strength and his courage in battle earned him respect as much as his strategical abilities. He had seen too much of war to be enamoured of it any longer, and now merely regarded it as a political necessity. He neither minced his words nor hid his meaning behind vainglorious phrases.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘food supplies are no longer reaching the army, the wagons are stuck in the mud fifteen miles away, and they’re breaking the traces trying to get them out. The men are hungry and beginning to grumble angrily; the companies who still have food are having to defend their reserves against those who have nothing left; the archers of Champagne came to blows with those of Perche a little while ago, and there is a danger that your troops will fight among themselves before ever they come face to face with the enemy. I shall have to hang some of them, which is not a thing I like doing. But erecting gibbets does not fill stomachs. We’ve already got more sick than the surgeon-barbers can attend to; it will soon be the chaplains who’ll have most work to do. There has been no sign of a break in the weather in the last four days. Two days more and we shall have a famine on our hands, and no one will be able to stop the men deserting in search of food. All the supplies have gone mouldy, rotten, or rusty.’

He pulled off the steel camail which covered his head and shoulders and smoothed his hair. The King walked to and fro, nervous, anxious, and alarmed. From outside the tent came the sound of cries and the cracking of whips.

‘Stop that row,’ cried The Hutin, ‘one can’t hear oneself think!’

An equerry raised the flap of the tent. The rain was still falling in torrents. Thirty horses, sinking in the mud to their knees, were harnessed to a huge wine-cart which they were unable to draw.

‘Where are you taking that wine?’ the King asked the wagoners who were floundering in the clay.

‘To Monseigneur the Count of Artois, Sire,’ one of them replied.

The Hutin looked at them for a moment with his huge pale eyes, shook his head and turned away without another word.

‘As I was saying, Sire,’ Gaucher continued, ‘we may still have some wine to drink today, but don’t count on it for tomorrow. Oh, I should have given you more insistent counsel. I was of the opinion that we should have stopped earlier, establishing ourselves on high ground rather than advancing into this morass. Both my cousin of Valois⁷ and yourself insisted that we should advance and I feared to be taken for a coward and that my age would be blamed if I stopped the army moving forward. I was wrong.’

Charles of Valois was about to reply when the King asked, ‘And the Flemings?’

‘They’re opposite us, on the other side of the river, in as great numbers as we and no more happy, I should think, though they are nearer their supplies, and are maintained by the people of their towns and villages. If the flood waters should diminish tomorrow, they’ll be better prepared to attack us than we shall be to fall on them.’

Charles of Valois shrugged his shoulders.

‘Come now, Gaucher, the rain’s depressed your spirits,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to make me believe that a good cavalry charge won’t account for that rabble of weavers. They’ve only got to see our lines of breastplates and our forest of lances to be off like a flock of sparrows.’

The Count was superb in his surcoat of gold-embroidered silk which he wore over his coat of mail and in spite of the mud that covered him; indeed, he looked more kingly than the King himself.

‘You make it quite clear, Charles,’ the Constable replied, ‘that you were not at Courtrai thirteen years ago. You were then fighting in Italy, not for France but for the Pope. But I’ve seen that rabble, as you call it, destroy our knights when they acted too precipitately.’

‘That was doubtless because I was not there,’ said Valois with his own peculiar conceit. ‘This time I am.’

The Chancellor de Mornay whispered into the ear of the young Count de la Marche, ‘It won’t be long before the sparks are flying between your uncle and the Constable; whenever they’re together one can set fire to the tinder without having to strike a light.’

‘Rain, rain!’ cried Louis X angrily. ‘Is everything always to be against me?’

Uncertain health, a clever but overbearing father whose authority had crushed him, an unfaithful wife who had scoffed at him, an empty treasury, impatient vassals always ready to rebel, a famine in the first winter of his reign, a storm which threatened the life of his second wife – beneath what disastrous conjunction of the planets, which the astrologers had not dared reveal to him, must he have been born, that he should meet with adversity in every decision, every enterprise, and end by being conquered, not even nobly in battle, but by the water and mud in which he had engulfed his army.

At this moment there was announced a delegation of the barons of Champagne, with the Chevalier Etienne de Saint-Phalle at their head, desiring an immediate revision of the Charter of Privileges which had been accorded them in the month of May; they threatened to leave the army if they did not receive satisfaction.

‘They’ve chosen a good day!’ cried the King.

Three hundred yards away, Sire Jean de Longwy, in his own tent, was conversing with a singular personage who was dressed half as a monk and half as a soldier.

‘The news you bring me from Spain is good, Brother Everard,’ said Jean de Longwy, ‘and I am glad to hear that our brothers of Castille and Aragon have resumed their Commanderies. They are better off than we, who must continue to act in silence.’

Jean de Longwy, short of stature and heavy-jowled, was the nephew of the Grand Master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, of whom he considered himself the heir and successor. He had vowed to avenge the blood of his uncle and to re-habilitate his memory. The premature death of Philip the Fair, which fulfilled the famous triple curse, had not quenched his hate; he had transferred it to the Iron King’s heirs, Louis X, Philippe of Poiters, and Charles de la Marche. Longwy caused the Crown all the trouble he could; he was one of the leaders of the baronial leagues; and at the same time he was busily and secretly reconstructing the order of the Knights Templar, by means of a network of agents who maintained contact between the fugitive brothers.

‘I long for the King of France’s defeat,’ he went on, ‘and I am only present with the army in the hope of seeing him killed by a sword-thrust, and his brothers too.’

Thin, ungainly, his dark eyes set close together, Everard, a former Knight Templar, whose foot was deformed by the tortures he had undergone, replied, ‘I hope your prayers are answered, Messire Jean, if possible by God, and if not by the devil.’

The clandestine Grand Master⁸ suddenly raised the tent-flap to make sure that no one was spying on them, and dispatched on some duty two grooms who were doing no more than shelter from the rain beneath the pent-roof of the tent. Then, turning back to Everard, he said, ‘We have nothing to hope for from the Crown of France. Only a new Pope could re-establish the Order, and restore to us our Commanderies here and overseas. Ah, what a wonderful day that would be, Brother Everard!’

For a moment or two both men dreamed. The destruction of the Order dated only from eight years before, its condemnation from still less, and it was barely more than a year since Jacques de Molay had died at the stake. All their memories were fresh, their hopes alive. Longwy and Everard could see themselves donning once more the long white cloaks with their black crosses, the golden spurs, exercising the ancient privileges and indulging once again in great commercial activities.

‘Very well, Brother Everard,’ Longwy went on, ‘you will now go to Bar-sur-Aube, where the Count de Bar’s chaplain, who is well disposed towards us, will give you a position as a clerk so that you need no longer live in concealment. Then you will go to Avignon, from where I am informed that Cardinal Duèze, who was a creature of Clement V’s, has once again a considerable chance of being elected. This we must prevent at all costs. Find Cardinal Caetani – if he is not at Avignon, he will not be far away – who is nephew of the unfortunate Pope Boniface and is also resolved to avenge the memory of his uncle.’

‘I guarantee he’ll receive me well, when he hears that I have already assisted his vengeance by helping to send Nogaret out feet first. You’re creating a league of nephews!’

‘That’s exactly it, Everard. So see Caetani and tell him that our brothers in Spain and England, and all those in France in whose name I speak, have chosen and desired him in their hearts as Pope and are ready to support him, not only with prayers, but by every means in their power. Put yourself under his orders for whatever he may require of you. And, while you’re there, see also Brother Jean du Pré who’s in those parts at the moment and may be of great help to you. And don’t fail to learn during the journey if there be any of our old Brothers in the neighbourhood. Try to organize them into little companies, and get them to take the oath you know. That’s all, Brother; this safe-conduct, which names you Chaplain-Brother of my “banner”, will help you to leave the camp without being asked awkward questions.’

He handed the ex-Templar a document and the latter slipped it under the leather jerkin which covered his rough serge robe down to the thighs; then the two men embraced. Everard put on his steel helmet and left, his back bent, his walk limping beneath the rain.

The Count of Poitiers’s troops were the only ones who still had anything to eat. When the wagons had begun to stick in the mud, the Count of Poitiers had ordered the food to be portioned out and carried by the foot-soldiers. At first they had complained; today they blessed their commander. A strict guard maintained discipline, since the Count of Poitiers loathed disorder; and since he also appreciated his comforts, a hundred men had been put to digging drains, while his tent had been placed on a foundation of logs and faggots upon which one might live more or less in the dry. The tent, almost as large and rich as the King’s, consisted of several different rooms separated by tapestries.

Sitting amid the leaders of his ‘banner’ on a camp-stool, his sword, his shield, and his helmet within reach, Philippe of Poitiers asked one of the bachelors⁹ of his staff, who acted as his secretary and aide-de-camp, ‘Adam Heron, have you read, as I asked you, the book by this Florentine – what does he call himself?’

‘Messire Dante dei Alighieri.’

‘That’s it, the man who treats my family so badly? He is under the special protection, so I’m told, of Charles Martel of Hungary, the father of this Princess Clémence who’s arriving shortly to be our Queen. I should like to know what his poem says.’

‘I’ve read it, Monseigneur,’ Adam Heron replied. ‘This Messire Dante imagines at the beginning of his Comedy that, at the age of thirty-five, he loses his way in a dark forest where the road is barred by terrifying animals, from which Messire Dante realizes that he has strayed from the world of the living.’

The barons surrounding the Count of Poitiers at first looked at each other in surprise. The King’s brother never ceased to astonish them. Here they were in the middle of a warlike camp and in considerable chaos, and he suddenly had no concern other than talking of poetry, as if he were by his own fireside in his Paris house. But the Count of Evreux, who knew his nephew well and who, since he had been under his command, admired him more every day, had understood at once. ‘Philippe is trying to take their minds off this trying inaction,’ he said to himself, ‘and instead of allowing them to fret and fume, he is leading them to dream while waiting to lead them into battle.’

For already Anseau de Joinville, Goyon de Bourçay, Jean de Beaumont, Pierre de Garancière, Jean de Clermont, sitting about on chests, were listening with bright eyes as the bachelor Adam Heron told them Dante’s story. These rough men, often so brutal in their way of life, were charmed by the mysterious and the supernatural. Legends enchanted them; their minds were always ready to accept the marvellous. It was a strange spectacle to see this steel-clad company passionately following the Italian poet’s masterly allegories, longing to know who this Beatrice was who inspired so great a love, trembling at the memory of Francesca da Rimini and of Paolo Malatesta, and suddenly guffawing because Boniface VIII, in company with some other Popes, was to be found in the eighteenth circle of the inferno, in the pit reserved for cheats and simoniacs.

‘The poet’s found a good way of avenging himself upon his enemies and relieving his own feelings,’ said Philippe of Poitiers, laughing. ‘And where has he put my relations?’

‘In purgatory, Monseigneur,’ replied the bachelor who, at the general demand, had gone to fetch the book which was copied out on thick parchment.

‘Very well then, read us what he has written, or rather translate it for those of us who don’t understand Italian.’

‘I hardly dare, Monseigneur.’

‘Yes, go on, don’t be afraid. I must know what people who don’t like us think of us.’

‘Messire Dante pretends that he meets a shade who groans loudly. He questions the shade upon the source of his pain and this is the answer he gets.’

And Adam Heron began to translate the following passage from Canto XX:

I was root

Of that ill plant, whose shade such poison sheds

O’er all the Christian land, that seldom thence

Good fruit is gather’d. Vengeance soon should come,

Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power;

And vengeance I of heav’n’s great Judge implore.

‘Well, that seems prophetic enough and is completely in accord with our present circumstances,’ said the Count of Poitiers. ‘Clearly the poet is perfectly aware of our troubles in Flanders. Go on.’

Hugh Capet was I hight: from me descend

The Philips and the Louis, of whom France

Newly is govern’d; born of one, who ply’d

The slaughterer’s trade at Paris. When the race

Of ancient kings had vanish’d (all save one

Wrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripe

I found the reins of empire.

‘This is completely false,’ the Count of Poitiers interrupted, uncrossing his long legs. ‘It’s a wicked lie that has been spread abroad in recent times to our prejudice. Hugues le Grand was descended from the Dukes of France.’¹⁰

As the reading proceeded, he commented calmly, sometimes with irony, on the ferocious attacks the Italian poet, who was already famous in his own country, made upon the French princes. Dante accused Charles of Anjou, the brother of Saint Louis, not only of having assassinated the legitimate heir to the throne of Naples, but also of having poisoned Saint Thomas Aquinas.

‘Our cousins of Anjou are well peppered,’ said the Count of Poitiers in a low voice.

But the French prince whom Dante attacked with the greatest violence, for whom he reserved his worst curses, was another Charles, who had gone to ravage Florence and had pierced it in the stomach, the poet wrote, ‘with the lance with which he fought Judas’.

‘Ah, that’s my Uncle Charles of Valois he’s talking of there!’ Poitiers cried. ‘That’s why he’s so vindictive. My uncle seems to have made us a lot of friends in Italy.’¹¹

Those present looked at each other, not quite knowing what attitude to adopt. But they saw that Philippe of Poitiers was smiling, rubbing his face with his long white hand. They therefore dared to laugh. Monseigneur of Valois was little liked in the Count of Poitiers’s circle.

The encampment of Count Robert of Artois gave a totally different impression from that of the Count of Poitiers. Here, in spite of the rain, was a constant coming and going, a confusion so universal that it seemed deliberate.

The Count of Artois had let to the merchants accompanying the army stands close to his own tent, which could be recognized from afar by its red cloth and the banners surmounting it. Whoever wanted to buy a new baldrick, replace a buckle on his helm, acquire new iron elbow-pieces or have a coat of chain-mail repaired had to come there. It was as if a fair were going on before Messire Robert’s door; and he had arranged for the prostitutes to be in his neighbourhood too, so that every amenity might be under his control and he could make his friends free of them.

As for the archers, crossbowmen, grooms, servants, and camp followers, they had been kept at a distance and were taking shelter as best they could in the houses of the peasants who had been turned out, or in huts made of branches, or even under the wagons.

They were not talking of poetry inside the great red tent. A cask of wine was constantly on tap, goblets circulated in the hubbub, dice rolled on the lids of the great chests; they played on credit, and more than one knight had already lost more than his ransom would have cost him.

One fact was particularly to be remarked: while Robert had under his command the troops from his County of Beaumont-le-Roger, a great number of knights from Artois, who were part of the ‘banner’ of the Countess Mahaut, were permanently in his camp where they had, militarily speaking, no business to be.

With his back to the central tent-pole, Count Robert of Artois dominated the whole turbulent scene with his colossal height. Wearing a scarlet surcoat upon which fell his lion-like mane, he was amusing himself by playing with a whole array of weapons. Nevertheless, there was a crack in the giant’s spirit, and it was not without intent that he wished to distract himself with drink and noise.

‘Battles in Flanders have never done my family any good,’ he confided to the lords about him. ‘My father, Count Philippe, whom many of you knew well and served faithfully ...’

‘Yes, we knew him! He was a pious and a brave man!’ the barons of Artois replied.

‘Well, my father received a mortal wound at the Battle of Furnes. And my grandfather, Count Robert ...’

‘Oh, he was a brave man and a good suzerain! He respected our good old customs! One never asked justice of him in vain!’

‘He was killed four years later at Courtrai. Two never go without a third. Perhaps tomorrow, Messeigneurs, you’ll be burying me.’

There are two kinds of superstitious people: those who never mention disaster, and those who speak of it so as to defy it and put it to flight. Robert of Artois was of the second sort.

‘Caumont, pour me out another goblet of wine; let’s drink to my last day!’ he cried.

‘No, we won’t do that! Our bodies will be your rampart,’ the barons cried. ‘Who but you defends our rights?’

They looked upon him as their natural suzerain, and his strength and vitality had made of him a sort of idol.

‘Yet see, my good lords, how one is rewarded for so much blood spilt in the service of the Kingdom,’ he went on. ‘Because my grandfather was killed after my father, yes, for that reason alone, King Philip took the opportunity of doing me out of my inheritance and of giving Artois to my aunt Mahaut who treats you so well, with all her ill-omened Hirsons, the chancellor, the treasurer, and all the rest, who crush you with taxes and deny you your rights.’

‘If we go into battle tomorrow, and a Hirson happens to be within arm’s reach of me, I can promise him a blow or two which will not necessarily have been given him by the Flemings,’ declared a fellow with huge red eyebrows who called himself the Sire de Souastre.

Rather drunk though he might be, Robert of Artois’s brain remained clear. So much wine dispensed, so many girls on offer, so much money spent, all had a reason. He was working to gratify his vengeance and advance his own affairs.

‘My noble lords, my noble lords, the King’s war must come first. We are his loyal subjects and he is, at this moment, I assure you, entirely sympathetic towards your just complaints,’ he said. ‘But when the war is over, then, Messeigneurs, I advise you not to disarm. To be on a war-footing with your vassals mobilized is a good opportunity, go back to Artois and chase Mahaut’s agents from the whole countryside, flog their backsides in the marketplaces of the towns. And I will support you in the King’s Council Chamber, and will reopen once again the lawsuit in which I was the victim of a travesty of justice; and I guarantee that you shall have your old customs back, as in the times of my father.’

‘That’s what we’ll do, Messire Robert, that’s what we’ll do!’

Souastre opened his arms wide.

‘Let us swear,’ he cried, ‘not to disperse before our demands have been granted, and our good Lord Robert has been given back to us as our Count.’

‘We swear it!’ the barons replied.

They embraced each other and many more bumpers were poured out; then torches were lit as night was drawing on. Robert of Artois felt a happy thrill of excitement running through his huge body. The league of Artois, which he had secretly founded and led for many months, was gaining strength.

At this moment an equerry came into the tent and said, ‘Monseigneur Robert, the commanders of “banners” are required immediately in the King’s tent!’

The torches spread an acrid smoke which mingled with the strong smell of leather, sweat, and wet iron. Most of the great lords, sitting in a circle about the King, had neither washed nor shaved for the last six days. Normally they would never have spent so long without going to the baths. But dirt was part of war.

The Constable Gaucher de Châtillon had just repeated for the commanders of ‘banners’ his report upon the disastrous situation of the army.

‘Messeigneurs, you have heard the Constable. I desire your counsel,’ said Louis X.

Putting his blue silk surcoat across his knees, Valois began speaking in his haranguing voice.

‘I have already told you, Sire, my Nephew, and now repeat it before everyone: we can no longer remain in this place where everything is going to rack and ruin, the men’s morale and the horses’ condition. Inaction is doing us as much damage as the weather.’

He interrupted his speech because the King had turned round to speak to his chamberlain, Mathieu de Trye; but it was only to ask for a sweet, which was handed him. He was always in need of something to chew.

‘Go on, Uncle, I pray you.’

‘We must move at dawn tomorrow,’ Valois went on, ‘find a ford by which to cross the river upstream, and fall upon the Flemings so as to defeat them before evening.’

‘With hungry men and unfed horses?’ said the Constable.

‘Victory will fill their stomachs. They can hold out for another day; but the day after tomorrow will be too late.’

‘I tell you, Charles, that you’ll either be drowned or cut to pieces. I see no alternative but to withdraw the army to high ground towards Tournai or Saint-Amand, so that the rations can reach us and the flood water have a chance to drain away.’

It often happens that as we mention lightning the skies thunder, or that someone enters the door at the very moment we are speaking ill of them. Coincidence seems malicious in the way it challenges our words.

At the very moment the Constable was counselling them to let the flood water drain away, the roof of the tent caved in over Monseigneur of Valois, who was soused. Robert of Artois, who was sitting in a corner smelling strongly of wine, began laughing and the King followed his example, which made Charles of Valois lose his temper.

‘We all know, Gaucher,’ he cried, rising to his feet, ‘that you are paid a hundred pounds a day while the King is with the army and that you have no wish to bring the war to an end.’

Wounded to the quick, the Constable replied, ‘It is my duty to remind you that even the King cannot decide to attack the enemy without the advice and orders of the Constable. And in the present circumstances I shall not give these orders. That being the case, the King can always change his Constable.’

An extremely painful silence ensued. The matter was a grave one. Would Louis X, to please Valois, dismiss the head of his armies, as he had dismissed Marigny, Raoul de Presles, and all Philip the Fair’s other ministers? The results of that policy had not been altogether happy.

‘Brother,’ said Philippe of Poitiers in his calm voice, ‘I entirely agree with the counsel Gaucher has given you. The troops are in no condition to fight till they have had a good week in which to recuperate.’

‘That is also my advice,’ said Count Louis of Evreux.

‘And so we are never to punish the Flemings!’ cried Charles de la Marche, the King’s second brother, who always shared his uncle Valois’s opinions.

Everyone began to speak at once. Retreat or defeat, that was their choice, the Constable affirmed. Valois replied that he saw no advantage in retreating fifteen miles merely that the army should continue to rot. The Count of Champagne announced that his troops, having been raised only for a fortnight, would return home if no attack were launched; and Duke Eudes of Burgundy, brother of the assassinated Marguerite, took advantage of the argument to show how little eager he was to serve his ex-brother-in-law.

The King remained hesitant, uncertain with which party to side. The whole expedition had been conceived as a rapid campaign. Both the condition of the Treasury and his personal prestige depended upon quick results. He saw the chances of a lightning war diminishing. To follow the path of wisdom and good sense, to regroup elsewhere and wait, was to postpone both his marriage and his coronation. Whereas to expect to be able to cross a river in flood and charge through the mud at a gallop ...

It was at this moment that Robert of Artois rose to his feet and, an impressive sight in his massive scarlet and steel, strode into the centre of the meeting.

‘Sire, my Cousin,’ he said, ‘I understand your concern. You have not enough money to maintain this huge army in idleness. Moreover, you have a new wife awaiting you, and we are all impatient to see her made Queen, as we are to see you crowned. My advice is not to persist. It is not the enemy that forces us to turn back; it’s in the rain I see the will of God before which everyone, however great he may be, must bow. Who can tell, Cousin, whether God has not wished to warn you not to fight before you have been anointed with holy oil? You will gain as much prestige from a fine coronation as from a rash battle. Therefore, renounce for the moment your intention of whipping these wretched Flemings, and if the terror with which you have inspired them is not in itself sufficient, let us come back with as great a force next spring.’

This unexpected advice, coming from a man whose courage in battle could not be doubted, received the support of part of the meeting. No one understood then that Robert was pursuing ends of his own, and that his desire of raising Artois was closer to his heart than the interests of the Kingdom.

Louis X, impulsive but not particularly prompt to act, was always ready to give up in despair when events did not turn out as he wished. He seized the lifeline Artois offered him.

‘You have spoken wisely, Cousin,’ he said. ‘Heaven has given us a warning. Let the army withdraw, since it cannot advance. But I swear to God,’ he added, raising his voice and thinking thus to preserve his grandeur, ‘I swear to God that if I am still living next year, I shall invade these Flemings and will make no armistice with them short of unconditional surrender.’

From that moment he had no concern but to break camp as quickly as possible, and his sole preoccupations were with his marriage and his coronation.

The Count of Poitiers and the Constable had considerable difficulty in persuading him to take certain indispensable precautions, such as maintaining garrisons along the Flanders frontier.

The Hutin was in such a hurry to be gone, as were most of the commanders of ‘banners’, that the following morning, since they lacked wagons and could not extract all their gear from the mud, they set fire to their tents, their furnishings, and equipment.

Leaving behind it a huge conflagration, the foundering army arrived before Tournai that evening; the terrified inhabitants closed the gates of the town, and no one insisted that they should open them. The King had to find asylum in a monastery.

Two days later, on August 7th, he was at Soissons, where he signed a number of Orders in Council which put an end to this distinguished campaign. He charged his uncle Valois with making the final preparations for his coronation, and sent his brother Philippe to Paris to fetch the sword and the crown. Everyone would gather between Rheims and Troyes to meet Clémence of Hungary.

Though he had dreamed of meeting his fiancée as a hero of chivalry, Louis’s only concern now was that the distressing expedition be forgotten, an expedition which was already known as ‘The Muddy Army’.

7
The Philtre

AT DAWN A MULE-BORNE litter, escorted by two armed servants, entered the great porch of the Artois house in the Rue Mauconseil. Beatrice d’Hirson, niece of the Chancellor of Artois and lady-in-waiting to the Countess Mahaut, alighted from it. No one would have thought that this handsome dark-haired girl had travelled nearly a hundred miles since the day before. Her dress was hardly creased; her face with its high cheekbones was as smooth and fresh as if she had just awakened from sleep. Besides, she had slept part of the way under comfortable rugs, to the swinging of the litter. Beatrice d’Hirson, and it was rare in a woman of that period, had no fear of travelling by night; she saw in the dark like a cat and knew that she was under the protection of the devil. Long-legged and high-breasted, walking with steps that seemed slow because they were long and regular, she went straight to the Countess Mahaut, whom she found at breakfast.

‘It is done, Madam,’ said Beatrice, handing the Countess a little horn box.

‘Well, and how is my daughter Jeanne?’

‘The Countess of Poitiers is as well as can be expected, Madam; her life at Dourdan is not too harsh and her gentle disposition has won over her gaolers. Her complexion is clear and she has not grown too thin; she is sustained by hope and by your concern for her.’¹²

‘What of her hair?’ the Countess asked.

‘It has only a year’s growth, Madam, and is not yet as long as a man’s; but it seems to be growing thicker than it was before.’

‘But is she presentable?’

‘With a veil about her face, most certainly. And she can wear false plaits to hide her neck and ears.’

‘You can’t keep false hair on in bed,’ said Mahaut.

She finished up her bacon-and-pea stew in great spoonfuls and then, to cleanse her palate, drank a full goblet of red Poligny wine. Then she opened the horn box and looked at the grey powder it contained.

‘How much did this cost me?’

‘Seventy pounds.’

‘Damn it, these witches make one pay heavily for their art.’

‘They run a big risk.’

‘How many of the seventy pounds have you kept for yourself?’ said the Countess, looking her lady-in-waiting straight in the eye.

Beatrice did not turn her eyes away and, still smiling ironically, replied in her slow voice, ‘Hardly any, Madam. Merely enough to buy this scarlet dress which you had promised me but failed to give me.’

Countess Mahaut could not help laughing; the girl knew how to handle her.

‘You must be hungry, have some of this duck pâté,’ she said, helping herself to a huge slice.

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