The She-Wolf (The Accursed Kings, Book 5) Read online

  These engines, which came from Pisa, had been delivered first to the Seneschal of Languedoc, who had sent them on to Castelsarrasin and Agen. The Italian crews called them bombarda because of the noise they made.

  All the great lords and the commanders of banners were assembled to see the bombards work. The Constable Gaucher shrugged his shoulders and said with a growl that he did not believe in the destructive effects of these engines. Why place your trust in such new-fangled things, when you could use good mangonels, trebuchets and perriers, which had proved their worth over the centuries? What need had he, Châtillon, of the founders of Lombardy to reduce the towns he had taken? Wars were won by valour and the strength of men’s arms, not by having recourse to the powders of alchemists which stank rather too much of the Devil’s sulphur.

  Beside each bombard the gunners lit a brazier and set an iron rod to become red-hot. Then, having loaded the bombard by the muzzle, introducing the powder with huge spoons of beaten iron, followed by a wad of tow and then a huge stone ball weighing approximately a hundred pounds, they placed a little powder on the top of the breech in a groove which communicated with the charge inside by a touch-hole.

  The spectators were asked to withdraw to a distance of fifty paces. The gunners lay down with their hands over their ears; only one remained standing by each bombard to set fire to the powder with the long iron rod which had been heated in the brazier. As soon as they had done so, they threw themselves to the ground and lay flat against the beams built round the carriages.

  Red flames gushed forth and the ground shook. The noise rolled down the valley of the Garonne and was heard from Marmande to Langon.

  The whole air about the bombards turned black with smoke. The back ends of them had sunk into the light soil with the recoil. The Constable was coughing, spitting and swearing. When the dust had dissipated a little, it was discovered that one of the balls had fallen among the French; it was a wonder no one had been killed. Nevertheless, it could be seen that a roof in the town had been holed.

  ‘A great deal of noise for very little damage,’ said the Constable. ‘With the old ballisters with weights and slings, all the balls would have reached their target without one’s being asphyxiated into the bargain.’

  In the meantime, within La Réole, no one could at first understand why a great cascade of tiles should suddenly have fallen into the street from the roof of Master Delpuch, the notary. Nor could the people make out where the thunderclap that reached their ears a moment later came from, since there was not a cloud in the sky. But then Master Delpuch came rushing out of his house, shouting that a huge stone ball had fallen into his kitchen.

  Then the population ran to the ramparts only to discover that there were none of those great engines which were the normal equipment for sieges in the French camp. At the second salvo, which was less well aimed, the balls starred the walls, and the defenders were forced to the conclusion that the noise and the projectiles came from the long tubes lying on the hillside with a cloud of smoke hanging over them. They were seized with panic, and the women rushed to the churches to pray against these inventions of the Devil.

  The first cannon-shot in a Western war had been fired.20

  On the morning of September 22 the Earl of Kent was asked to receive Messires Ramon de Labison, Jean de Miral, Imbert Esclau, the brothers Doat and Barsan de Pins, the Notary Hélie de Malenat and all six jurats of La Réole together with several burgesses who were accompanying them. The jurats presented to the Lieutenant of the King of England a long list of grievances, and in a tone that was far from being one of submission and respect. The town was without food, water or roofs. The bottoms of the cisterns were showing, the floors of the granaries were being swept, and the population could no longer stand the hail of balls which had fallen on it every quarter of an hour for more than three weeks now. People had been killed in their beds and children crushed in the streets. The hospital was full to overflowing with sick and wounded. The dead were lying in heaps in the crypts of the churches. The steeple of the church of Saint Peter had been hit and the bells had fallen with a sound like the last trump, which was clear proof that God was not supporting the English cause. Moreover, the time for the grape-harvest had come, at least in the vineyards the French had not ravaged, and the grapes could not be left to rot on the vines. The population, encouraged by the landowners and merchants, was ready to rise in revolt and fight the soldiers of the Seneschal, if necessary, to force the surrender of the town.

  While the jurats were talking, a ball whistled through the air and they heard the sound of a roof caving in. The Earl of Kent’s greyhound began howling. Its master silenced it with weary irritation.

  Edmund of Kent had known for several days past that he would have to surrender. He had continued his obstinate resistance for no valid reason. His few troops were exhausted by the siege and in no condition to repulse an assault. To attempt another sortie against an adversary who was now solidly entrenched would have been mere folly. And now the townspeople of La Réole were threatening rebellion.

  Kent turned to Seneschal Basset.

  ‘Do you still believe in reinforcements from Bordeaux, Messire Ralph?’ he asked.

  It was not the Seneschal, but Kent himself who had believed, against all the evidence, in the arrival of these promised reinforcements, who were to take Charles of Valois’s army in the rear.

  Ralph Basset was at the end of his tether and had no hesitation in accusing King Edward and his Despensers of having let the defenders of La Réole down to a degree that amounted to a betrayal.

  The Lords of Bergerac, Budos and Montpezat looked no happier. No one felt like dying for a king who showed such little concern for his most faithful servants. Loyalty seemed to be far too ill-rewarded.

  ‘Have you a white flag, Messire Seneschal?’ asked the Earl of Kent. ‘Very well, have it hoisted on the top of the castle.’

  A few minutes later the bombards fell silent; and there reigned over the French camp that profound stillness of surprise which tends to greet an event that has been much longed for. Envoys emerged from La Réole and were conducted to the tent of Marshal de Trye, who informed them of the general terms of surrender. The town, of course, would be handed over; but the Earl of Kent must also sign and proclaim the handing over of the whole duchy to the Lieutenant of the King of France. There would be no pillage nor prisoners taken, merely hostages and an indemnity to be fixed later. Furthermore, the Count of Valois invited the Earl of Kent to dinner.

  A great feast was prepared in the tent embroidered with the lilies of France in which Monseigneur had been living for nearly a month. The Earl of Kent arrived in his best suit of armour, but pale and doing his best to conceal beneath an air of dignity his humiliation and despair. He was accompanied by the Seneschal Basset and a number of Gascon lords.

  The two Royal Lieutenants, conqueror and conquered, conversed with a certain coolness, though calling each other ‘Monseigneur my Nephew’ and ‘Monseigneur my Uncle’, as if even war could not break family ties.

  Monseigneur of Valois made the Earl of Kent sit opposite him at dinner. The Gascon knights began gorging themselves as they had had no chance of doing for many weeks.

  Everyone did his best to be courteous and compliment the adversary on his valour as if it were question merely of a tournament. The Earl of Kent was congratulated on his spirited sortie, which had cost the French a marshal. Kent replied by showing great admiration for his uncle’s dispositions for the siege and his use of the bombards.

  ‘Listen, Messire Constable, and all of you, Messeigneurs,’ cried Valois, ‘to what my noble nephew says! Without our bombards the town could have held out for four months! Remember that, all of you!’

  Kent and Mortimer watched each other across the platters, goblets and flagons.

  As soon as the banquet was over, the principal leaders went into conference to negotiate the act of surrender, which had numerous articles. Kent was, in fact, prepared to yield on every poin
t, with the exception of certain clauses, of which one cast a doubt on the legitimacy of the King of England’s power and another placed Seneschal Basset and the Lord of Montpezat at the head of the list of hostages. For since these last had arrested and hanged officers of the King of France, their fate would be only too certain. But Valois insisted that the Seneschal and the man responsible for the rebellion at Saint-Sardos should be handed over to him.

  Roger Mortimer was present at the negotiations. He suggested he should have a private conversation with the Earl of Kent, but the Constable opposed it. You really could not allow the terms of an armistice to be negotiated by a deserter from the opposing camp! But Robert of Artois and Charles of Valois trusted Mortimer. So the two Englishmen went apart into a corner of the tent.

  ‘Are you really anxious, my lord, to return to England at once?’ Mortimer asked.

  Kent made no reply.

  ‘Are you so desirous of confronting King Edward, your brother, with whose fits of passion and injustice you are so familiar?’ Mortimer went on. ‘He’ll reproach you with a defeat for which the Despensers are alone responsible. You must be aware, my lord, that you have been betrayed. We have known all along that you were promised reinforcements were on the way to you, when in fact they had never even been embarked. And the order given the Seneschal of Bordeaux not to come to your assistance before the reinforcements arrived – reinforcements that, in fact, did not exist – was surely nothing but a betrayal? You need not be surprised to find me well-informed, for I owe it merely to the Lombard bankers. And have you not asked yourself the reason for so criminal a negligence towards you? Do you not see the object of it?’

  Kent still remained silent, his head inclined a little to one side, gazing at his fingernails.

  ‘Had you won this war, you would have been a danger to the Despensers, my lord,’ Mortimer went on, ‘and would have achieved too important a position in the kingdom. They have quite naturally preferred to subject you to the discredit of a defeat, even at the price of Aquitaine, which has but little importance for men who have no care but to steal the baronies of the Marches one after the other. Do you not realize that my rebellion of three years ago was for England against the King, or perhaps for the King against himself? How do you know that you will not be accused of criminal negligence and immediately cast into prison on your arrival home? You are still young, my lord, and have no idea of what those wicked men are capable.’

  Kent smoothed his fair curls back behind his ears and replied at last: ‘I’m beginning to know it, my lord, and to my cost.’

  ‘Would you be entirely reluctant to offer yourself as the first hostage, on the guarantee, of course, that you would be treated as a prince? Since Aquitaine is now lost, and I fear for ever, our duty is to save the kingdom itself, and we can do that best from here.’

  The young man looked at Mortimer in surprise, but he was already half-prepared to consent.

  ‘But two hours ago,’ he said, ‘I was still the Lieutenant of my brother the King, and are you asking me so soon to join a rebellion?’

  ‘Without its being apparent, my lord, without its being apparent. Great decisions are made in a few seconds.’

  ‘How many seconds do you give me?’

  ‘There is no need, my lord. You have already made your decision.’

  Roger Mortimer scored no little success when young Edmund, Earl of Kent, came back to the council table and announced that he was prepared to offer himself as the senior hostage.

  Mortimer leaned towards him and said: ‘And now we must work to save your cousin and sister-in-law, the Queen. She deserves our love and can be of the greatest help to us.’

  PART TWO

  ISABELLA IN LOVE

  1

  Dinner with Pope John

  THE CHURCH OF Saint Agricola had recently been entirely rebuilt. The cathedral of the Doms, the church of the Minorites, and those of the Predicant Friars and the Augustinians had been enlarged and renovated. The Hospitallers of Saint John of Jerusalem had built themselves a magnificent commandery. Beyond the Place au Change a new chapel to Saint Anthony was rising, and the foundations for a future church of Saint Didier were being dug.

  The Count de Bouville had been going about Avignon for a week. He no longer recognized it, nor could he find in it a single reminder of the past. Every time he went out, he was surprised and amazed. How could a town have changed its appearance so completely in eight years?

  For it was not only churches that had risen from the earth or acquired new façades, raising on every hand spires, arches, rose-windows, and traceries of white stone which the winter sunlight tinged with gold while the wind from the Rhône sang through them.

  On every hand princes’ and prelates’ palaces, communal buildings, rich burgesses’ houses, offices of Lombard Companies, shops and warehouses were building. On all sides the patient, incessant sound of masons’ hammers seemed to patter like rain; the millions of little taps of metal on soft stone by which capitals are built. Constantly traversed by the torches which preceded the cardinals even in daylight, the swarming, lively, busy crowd trampled the sawdust, the stonedust and the rubbish. The embroidered shoes of power being soiled by the dust of building is the symbol of a period of wealth.

  No, indeed, Hugues de Bouville no longer recognized the place. Not only were his eyes filled with the dust of building by the mistral but they were constantly being dazzled. The shops, which all boasted of being suppliers to the Holy Father, the Pope, or to their Eminences of his Sacred College, were full of the most sumptuous merchandise on earth, the thickest velvets, silks, cloth of gold and the richest braid, sacerdotal jewels, pectoral crosses, croziers, rings, ciboriums, monstrances, patens, as well as eating platters, spoons, goblets and tankards, engraved with the papal or with cardinals’ arms, were heaped on the counters of Tauro the Sienese, of Merchant Corboli and of Master Cachette, the silversmiths.

  Painters were needed to decorate all these naves, ceilings, cloisters and audience chambers; the three Pierres, Pierre du Puy, Pierre de Camelère and Pierre Gaudrac, with the assistance of their innumerable pupils, were spreading gold, azure and carmine as they depicted the signs of the Zodiac round scenes from the two Testaments. Sculptors were needed and Master Macciolo of Spoleto was carving effigies of the saints in oak and walnut which he would then paint or cover with gold. And in the streets everyone bowed low to a man who, though preceded by no torches, was always escorted by an imposing following carrying measuring-rods and huge plans on rolls of parchment; he was Messire Guillaume de Coucouron, the chief of all the papal architects, who had been rebuilding Avignon since the year 1317 at the fabulous cost of five thousand gold florins.

  The women of this religious metropolis were more beautifully dressed than those of anywhere else in the world. To watch them come out of Mass, walk through the streets, visit the shops, hold court in the middle of the street itself, shivering and laughing in their furred cloaks, among assiduous lords and knowing clerics, was an enchantment to the eye. Some of these ladies had no hesitation in being seen walking on the arm even of a canon or a bishop, and the two skirts swept the white dust in harmonious accord.

  The Church’s Treasury enabled every human activity to prosper. It had been necessary to construct new brothels and extend the prostitutes’ quarter, for all the monks, novices, clerics, deacons and sub-deacons who haunted Avignon were not necessarily saints. The town magistrates had posted up strict regulations: ‘Prostitutes and procuresses are forbidden to live in the better streets, to wear the same ornaments as respectable women, to wear veils in public or to touch with the hand bread and fruit on the stalls on pain of being obliged to buy the goods they have so touched. Married courtesans are expelled from the town and will be summoned to appear before the magistrates should they enter it.’ But, despite the regulations, the courtesans dressed in the finest clothes, bought the best fruit, walked in the aristocratic streets and had no difficulty in marrying, so prosperous and sought-after were the
y. They gazed with assurance at the so-called respectable women who behaved no better than they did, for the only difference between them was that chance had given them lovers of higher rank.

  And it was not only Avignon but all the neighbouring countryside that was being transformed. On the farther side of the bridge of Saint-Bénézet, on the Villeneuve bank, Cardinal Arnaud de Via, a nephew of the Pope, was building an enormous collegiate church; and Philip the Fair’s tower was already being called ‘the old tower’ because it was thirty years old. But would any of all this have existed but for Philip the Fair, who in times past had imposed Avignon on the papacy as its headquarters?21 At Bédarrides, Châteauneuf and Noves, the Pope’s builders were raising churches and castles out of the earth.

  Bouville could not help taking a certain personal pride in all this. For it was in part due to him that the present Pope had been elected. Indeed, it was he, Bouville, who eight or even nine years ago now, after an exhausting chase in pursuit of the cardinals who were scattered all over the countryside between Carpentras and Orange, had discovered Cardinal Duèze, given him funds for his electoral campaign and sent his name to Paris as that of the best candidate for France. In fact, Duèze, who was already the candidate of the King of Naples, had taken great care to let himself be discovered. But it is the habit of ambassadors to believe themselves solely responsible for the outcome of their missions when they are successful. And Bouville, on his way to the banquet Pope John XXII was giving in his honour, stuck out his stomach – though he imagined he was throwing out his chest – shook his white hair over his fur collar and spoke rather loudly to his equerries as he passed through the streets of Avignon.

  In any case, one thing appeared to be quite settled: the Holy See would not return to Italy. There was now an end to the illusions that Clement V had prudently allowed to be entertained during his pontificate. The Roman patricians might well conspire against John XXII and threaten that, if he did not return to the Eternal City, they would create a schism by electing another pope who would occupy the true throne of Saint Peter.22 The one-time burgess of Cahors had answered the Roman princes by conferring but one hat on them among the sixteen cardinals he had created since his enthronement. All the other hats had gone to Frenchmen.