The She-Wolf (The Accursed Kings, Book 5) Page 25

  She had arrived at Chaâlis arrayed in mourning like a walking catafalque, draped like a church in Passion week. In fact, her daughter Blanche had recently died in the Abbey of Maubuisson to which she had finally been admitted, after first being transferred from Château Gaillard to a less forbidding residence near Coutances, a privilege Mahaut had obtained for her in exchange for the annulment of her marriage. But Blanche had not profited much by this amelioration of her lot. She had died only a few months after entering the convent, exhausted by the long years of imprisonment and by the terrible winter nights in the fortress at Andelys. She had died of emaciation, coughing and misfortune, at the age of thirty, wearing a nun’s veil and almost mad. And all this for one year of love, if indeed her adventure with Gautier d’Aunay could be called love; all this because she had allowed herself to be drawn into imitating the pleasures of her sister-in-law, Marguerite of Burgundy, and at the age of eighteen, when she scarcely knew what she was doing.

  The woman who would at this moment have been Queen of France, the only woman Charles the Fair had ever really loved, had thus died at the very moment she had at last achieved a relative peace. And King Charles the Fair, in whom her death aroused so many painful memories, was sad, and though his third wife knew very well what he was thinking of, she pretended not to notice it.

  And Mahaut had seized the opportunity this death afforded her. She had come, unbidden and unannounced, as if, a sorrowing mother, she was responding merely to the dictates of her heart, and desired to present her condolences to the unhappy former husband; and they had fallen into each other’s arms. Mahaut had placed her mustachioed lips to her former son-in-law’s cheeks; Charles, with a childish gesture, had rested his brow on that monumental shoulder and had shed a few tears among the giantess’s hearse-like draperies. And thus, as so often, human relations were changed by the passage of death and the obliteration of the springs of resentment.

  But Mahaut knew very well what she was doing by hurrying to Chaâlis; and her nephew Robert was fretting. He smiled at her, they smiled at each other, they called each other ‘my good aunt’ and ‘my dear nephew’ and both showed that ‘proper love between relations’ to which they had bound themselves by the Treaty of 1318. They hated each other. They would have done their best to kill each other had they ever found themselves alone in the same room. The real reason for Mahaut’s coming – she had not said so, but Robert was well aware of it – was because of a letter she had received. Indeed, everyone present had received a similar letter, with merely a few minor variations: Philippe of Valois, Jean de Marigny, the Constable, and the King – above all the King.

  Beyond the windows the clear night was spangled with stars. Here were eleven people of the highest importance, sitting in a circle under the arched ceiling, between the pillars with their carved capitals, and they felt insufficient. They were unable to persuade themselves they had any real power.

  The King, weak in character and limited in understanding, had moreover no immediate family and no personal servants. Who were these princes and dignitaries assembled about him this evening? Cousins or councillors inherited from his father or his uncle. Not one of them was really his, created by him and bound to him. His father had had three sons and two brothers sitting in his Council; and even on days when there were quarrels, days when the late Monseigneur of Valois stormed at everyone, they remained family rows. Louis the Hutin had had two brothers and two uncles; Philippe the Long, the same two uncles, who supported him in their diverse ways, as well as a brother, Charles himself. But the survivor had almost no one. His Council gave the irresistible impression of the end of a dynasty; the only hope of a continuation of the line, of a direct succession, was asleep in the womb of that silent woman who, neither particularly pretty nor ugly, was standing beside Charles with her hands clasped, knowing well that as Queen she was merely a replacement.

  The letter, the notorious letter they were now considering, was dated June 19, at Westminster. The Chancellor held it in his hand, and the green wax of the broken seal was peeling from the parchment.

  ‘The matter that has caused King Edward such great anger appears to be that Monseigneur Mortimer carried the train of the Duke of Aquitaine’s mantle at Madame the Queen’s coronation. And, naturally, the fact that his personal enemy should have been appointed to his son’s entourage with such a considerable mark of dignity can be felt by our Lord Edward only as a personal affront.’

  It was Monseigneur Jean de Marigny who was speaking in that suave, melodious, well-modulated voice of his, which he accompanied from time to time with a gesture of his fine hands, on which gleamed his bishop’s amethyst. His three superimposed robes were of thin cloth, as was suited to the season, and the outer robe, which was shortest, fell in elegant folds. They were impregnated with that particular scent with which Monseigneur de Marigny liked to anoint himself on coming from the bath or the sweating-room; a bishop rarely smelled so fine. His face seemed to have no weaknesses and his eyebrows made a horizontal line each side of his straight nose. If the sculptor reproduced his features accurately, Monseigneur de Marigny would make a handsome effigy for the cover of his tomb; but that would be a long time hence, for he was still young. He had known how to profit by his brother’s position as Coadjutor to the Iron King, and had also correctly judged the right moment at which to betray that brother. Indeed, he had succeeded in surmounting with ease those vicissitudes which occurred when reigns changed, and had gone from one see to another, ultimately to attain, at the age of forty, the distinction of being a Peer Spiritual and a member of the King’s Council.

  ‘Cherchemont,’ said King Charles to his Chancellor, ‘read again that passage in which our brother Edward complains about Messire de Mortimer.’

  Jean de Cherchemont unfolded the parchment, held it under a candle, mumbling a little as he searched for the passage, and read: ‘The adherence of our wife and our son to our notoriously known traitors and mortal enemies, in particular the said traitor, Mortimer, who carried at Paris the train of our son, in public, during the solemnization of the coronation of our very dear sister, your wife, the Queen of France, at the last Pentecost, with such great shame and vexation to us.’

  Bishop Marigny leaned towards Constable Gaucher and murmured: ‘That’s an ill-written letter, and his Latin’s worse still.’

  The Constable had not heard very well; he contented himself with muttering: ‘An unnatural sodomite!’

  ‘Cherchemont,’ went on the King, ‘have we any right to refuse the request of our brother of England when he asks us to put a term to his wife’s sojourn?’

  The way Charles the Fair addressed his Chancellor, instead of turning, as he normally did, to Robert of Artois, who was at once his senior Councillor and his uncle by marriage, proved that for once he had a plan in mind.

  Both because he was not absolutely sure of the King’s intentions and because he feared to offend Monseigneur Robert of Artois, who was so powerful, Jean de Cherchemont, before answering, took refuge in the end of the letter as if he required to reconsider the last lines before giving his advice.

  ‘And this is why, very dear Brother,’ read the Chancellor, ‘we pray you once more, as affectionately and as much from the heart as we can, that in this thing we desire above all others, you will listen to our requests and carry them out with good will, and soon, to the profit and honour of our mutual relations; and so that we shall not be dishonoured …’

  Jean de Marigny shook his head and sighed. Such awkward and uneven prose pained him. Nevertheless, however badly the letter might be written, its meaning was clear enough.

  The Countess Mahaut of Artois remained silent; she was taking care not to express her triumph too soon, and her grey eyes glittered in the light of the candles. Her secret accusations made last autumn and her intrigues with the Bishop of Exeter had now borne ripe fruit at the beginning of summer, and fit to pick.

  ‘It would seem clear, Sire,’ the Chancellor made up his mind to say at last, sin
ce no one had helped him out by intervening, ‘it seems clear, Sire, that, in accordance with the laws both of the Church and the kingdoms, King Edward must somehow or other be satisfied. He is demanding his wife …’

  Jean de Cherchemont was a priest, as his position required, and he turned to Bishop Marigny, seeking his support with a look.

  ‘Our Holy Father the Pope has sent us a message in that sense by Bishop Thibaud de Châtillon,’ said Charles the Fair.

  For Edward had gone so far as to write to Pope John XXII and had sent him copies of all the correspondence dealing with his matrimonial difficulties. And what could Pope John do, except reply that a wife should live with her husband?

  ‘It would seem, therefore, that Madame my sister must leave for the country of her marriage,’ added Charles the Fair.

  He looked at no one while he said this, but dropped his eyes to his embroidered shoes. A candelabra which stood above his chair lit up his forehead, which suddenly had something of the stubborn expression of his brother, the Hutin.

  ‘Sire Charles,’ said Robert of Artois, ‘to oblige Madame Isabella to return to England is to hand her over bound hand and foot to the Despensers. Was it not because she feared assassination that she came to seek refuge with you? How much greater the danger will be now.’

  ‘Really, Sire my Cousin, you cannot …’ said tall Philippe of Valois, who was always prepared to adopt Robert’s point of view.

  But his wife, Jeanne of Burgundy, pulled him by the sleeve, and he stopped short; and, had it not been night, he would undoubtedly have been seen to blush.

  Robert of Artois had seen the gesture and was aware of the reason for Philippe’s sudden silence; he had also noticed the glance exchanged between Mahaut and the young Countess of Valois. Had he had the chance, he would have wrung the lame woman’s neck.

  ‘My sister may have exaggerated the danger,’ the King went on. ‘These Despensers do not appear to be so wicked as she has made out. I have received a number of most polite letters from them, which go far to show they desire my friendship …’

  ‘And you have had presents from them, too, fine goldsmith’s work,’ cried Robert, getting to his feet, and all the candle-flames flickered and the shadows wavered over their faces. ‘Sire Charles, my beloved Cousin, have you changed your opinion of these people who declared war on you, and are like he-goats to a goat in their relationship with your brother-in-law, for three silver-gilt sauce-boats lacking to your sideboard? We have all received presents from them; am I not right, Monseigneur de Beauvais, and you Cherchemont, and you Philippe? An agent, and I can give you his name, he’s called Arnold, received a few months ago five casks of silver, to the value of five thousand marks sterling, with instructions to use it in making friends for the Earl of Gloucester in the Council of the King of France. These presents cost the Despensers nothing, for they are easily paid for out of the revenues of the county of Cornwall which they seized from your sister. That, Sire, is what you must know and remember. And what loyalty can you expect from men who dress up as women to serve the vices of their master? Do not forget what they are, and what is at the bottom of their power.’

  And Robert could not resist making an obscene remark: ‘Bottom,’ he said, ‘would appear to be the right word!’

  But his laugh got no response except from the Constable. In the old days the Constable had had no love for Robert of Artois, and he had given sufficient proof of this in helping Philippe the Long, when he was Regent, to defeat the giant and put him in prison. But for some time past, old Gaucher had discovered good qualities in Robert, largely because of his voice, which was the only one which he could hear without an effort.

  There were few partisans of Queen Isabella present this evening. The Chancellor was indifferent, or rather he was intent on keeping his appointment which depended on favour; he would support the majority. Queen Jeanne, who had few thoughts on the subject, was also indifferent. Her main concern was to avoid any emotion which might interfere with her pregnancy. She was Robert of Artois’s niece, and could not but be sensible of his authority, his height and his assurance; but she was anxious to show what a good wife she was, and was therefore ready to condemn on principle all wives who became a cause of scandal.

  The Constable was on the whole in favour of Isabella. Mainly because he loathed Edward of England on account of his morals, his incompetent government of his kingdom, and his refusal to pay homage. In general, he did not like the English; but he had to admit that Roger Mortimer had rendered good service; and it would be cowardly to abandon him now. And old Gaucher did not mind saying so and declaring also that Isabella had a good deal of excuse.

  ‘To hell with it, she’s a woman, and her husband’s not a man. The chief fault’s his.’

  Monseigneur de Marigny, raising his voice a little, replied that Queen Isabella might well be forgiven, and that he, for his part, was prepared to give her absolution; but Madame Isabella’s error, her great error, was to have made her sin public; a Queen should not set an example of adultery.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s quite right,’ said Gaucher. ‘There was no need for them to attend every ceremony hand in hand and share the same bed, as it’s said they do.’

  On that point he agreed with the Bishop. The Constable and the prelate were therefore on Queen Isabella’s side, but with considerable reservations, and, as far as the Constable was concerned, that was as far as his thoughts on the subject went. He began thinking of the College of Romance Languages he had founded near his Castle of Châtillon-sur-Seine where he would be at this moment if he had not been summoned to deal with this business. He would console himself later on by going to listen to the monks chanting the midnight office, a strange pleasure perhaps for a man who was becoming deaf; but there it was, Gaucher could hear better amid a noise. Besides, this soldier had a taste for the arts; not so unusual a predilection.

  The Countess of Beaumont, a pretty young woman whose mouth was always smiling though her eyes were not, was much amused. How was this giant she had been given as a husband, and who provided her with perpetual entertainment, to get out of the difficulty in which he found himself? He would win, she knew he would win; Robert always won, and she would help him to win if she could, but not by committing herself in public.

  Philippe of Valois, her half-brother, was wholly in favour of Madame of England, but he was prepared to betray her, because his wife, who hated Isabella, had made a scene about it before the Council, and would refuse herself to him this night and with a great deal of shouting and temper if he acted otherwise than as she had decided. And the long-nosed young man hesitated and stuttered in his anxiety.

  Louis of Bourbon lacked courage. He was no longer sent into battle because he always ran away. He had no affection for Queen Isabella.

  The King was weak, but capable of being stubborn, as on the occasion which everyone remembered when he had refused for a whole month to give Charles of Valois the commission of Royal Lieutenant in Aquitaine. He was ill-disposed towards his sister because Edward’s absurd letters, by dint of repetition, had finally had their effect on him, and, above all, because Blanche was dead and he was thinking of the pitiless Isabella of twelve years ago. Except for her, he would never have known. And even had he known, he would have forgiven, had it not been for Isabella, so as to keep Blanche. Did it really deserve all the horror, all the scandal, all those days of agony, and such a death at the last? Betrayals in love are generally bearable to weak men so long as no one else knows of them.

  The party of Isabella’s real enemies consisted of two people only, Jeanne the Lame and Mahaut of Artois, but they were closely allied by their common hatred.

  And so it turned out that Robert of Artois, the most powerful man after the King, and even, from many points of view, more important than the Sovereign, whose opinion always prevailed, who decided everything to do with the administration and dictated his orders to governors, bailiffs and seneschals, was suddenly alone in supporting his cousin’s cause.

/>   For such is the nature of influence at courts; it depends on a strange and fluctuating concatenation of states of mind, in which situations become insensibly transformed with the march of events and the sum of the interests at stake. And fortune carries within it the germs of misfortune. Not that Robert was threatened with misfortune; but Isabella was in real danger. She who, but a few months ago, was pitied, protected and admired, who was allowed every latitude and whose love affair was applauded as a splendid revenge, had now in the King’s Council but one supporter of her sojourn in Paris. And yet, to compel her to return to England was no more nor less than to put her neck on the block in the Tower of London, and everyone knew it. But suddenly no one cared about her any more; her triumph had been too great. No one was prepared to compromise himself for her any longer, except Robert, but in his case it was a means of fighting Mahaut.

  And now Mahaut took the initiative at last and launched her attack which had been long prepared.

  ‘Sire, my dear Son, I know the love you have for your sister, which does you honour,’ she said; ‘but it must be admitted that Isabella is a wicked woman from whom we have all suffered or are suffering. Look at the example she has set your Court ever since she has been here. And to think that it is the same woman who in the past told so many lies about my daughters and the sister of Jeanne here present. When, at the time, I told your father – may God rest his soul! – that he was being deceived by his daughter, was I not right? She has wantonly sullied us all, because of the wicked thoughts she detected in the hearts of others when they were merely in her own, as she has now proved to us. Blanche who was pure, and who loved you to the last day of her life, as you know, has died of it this very week! She was innocent, my daughters were innocent.’