Книга - The She-Wolf
The She-Wolf
Maurice Druon
“This is the original Game of Thrones.” George R.R. Martin.Charles IV is now king of France and his sister is Edward II of England’s Queen. Having been imprisoned by Edward as leader of the rebellious English barons, Roger Mortimer escapes to France, where he joins the war against the English Aquitaine. But it is his love affair with Isabella, the ‘She-Wolf of France’, who has come seemingly to negotiate a treaty of peace that seals his fate…
Copyright (#ulink_f8edf9c9-02c2-5fa2-8715-989ed5dd9ead)
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com (http://www.harpercollins.com)
First published in Great Britain by Rupert Hart-Davis 1960
Arrow edition 1988
First published in ebook in Great Britain 2014
Copyright © Maurice Druon 1955
Jacket layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover illustration © Patrick Knowles
Maurice Druon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007492251
US Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007591879
Version: 2015-01-07
‘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
‘She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate …’
THOMAS GRAY
Contents
Cover (#uf036770b-b710-59d8-8d79-03277fd0155c)
Title Page (#u46856f87-3179-54ff-84d8-ad425f84ae0f)
Copyright (#u1adcfe57-a77f-5a00-b93b-d735acdc4a8b)
Epigraph (#u9b5f5908-6a40-5a22-850e-90963bfabad6)
Foreword (#u2a50e686-88b4-5884-92e4-7980b68c842b)
The Characters in this Book (#u6207a875-fcb1-5c55-9146-fc1f9964a7f4)
Family Tree (#u690a8199-1475-51af-98fe-45bc2f3eaba5)
The She-Wolf of France (#ud7955524-5527-57b1-89a8-585fc9232a4b)
Prologue (#u0d517a0a-1751-5f74-87ce-ef26a9096014)
Part One: From the Thames to the Garonne (#u73bcadab-64cb-5621-aec9-e00d203670f2)
1. ‘No One ever Escapes from the Tower of London’ (#u58b3d6ae-5caa-59ee-8ace-21f22f325ca7)
2. The Harassed Queen (#ub846a71e-b5f4-5d8f-8f03-708e9a10d3fc)
3. Messer Tolomei has a New Customer (#u77ca178f-7849-5130-ac8e-ec726feef692)
4. The False Crusade (#u8388ab63-e334-5d85-b686-203af8438bd1)
5. A Time of Waiting (#litres_trial_promo)
6. The Bombards (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two: Isabella in Love (#litres_trial_promo)
1. Dinner with Pope John (#litres_trial_promo)
2. The Holy Father’s Penance (#litres_trial_promo)
3. The Road to Paris (#litres_trial_promo)
4. King Charles (#litres_trial_promo)
5. The Cross of Blood (#litres_trial_promo)
6. The Happy Year of 1325 (#litres_trial_promo)
7. Each Prince who Dies … (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three: The Disinherited King (#litres_trial_promo)
1. The Hostile Spouses (#litres_trial_promo)
2. The Return to Neauphle (#litres_trial_promo)
3. The Queen in the Temple (#litres_trial_promo)
4. The Council at Chaâlis (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Four: The Cruel Invasion (#litres_trial_promo)
1. Harwich (#litres_trial_promo)
2. The Shining Hour (#litres_trial_promo)
3. Hereford (#litres_trial_promo)
4. Vox Populi (#litres_trial_promo)
5. Kenilworth (#litres_trial_promo)
6. The Camp-kettle War (#litres_trial_promo)
7. The Grass Crown (#litres_trial_promo)
8. ‘Bonum Est’ (#litres_trial_promo)
9. The Red-hot Poker (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Notes (#litres_trial_promo)
Footnotes (#litres_trial_promo)
A Note for English Readers (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
By Maurice Druon (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Foreword (#ulink_b5c00ecb-b248-5e38-a4b1-21858c041bbd)
GEORGE R.R. MARTIN (#ulink_b5c00ecb-b248-5e38-a4b1-21858c041bbd)
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 (#ulink_386418aa-f778-5e2a-97f7-3995963a032b)
THE KING OF FRANCE:
CHARLES IV, called the Fair, fourteenth successor to Hugues Capet, great-grandson of Saint Louis, third and last son of Philip IV, the Fair, and Jeanne of Navarre, formerly husband of Blanche of Burgundy and Count de la Marche, aged 29.
THE QUEENS OF FRANCE:
MARIE OF LUXEMBURG, eldest daughter of Henry VII, Emperor of Germany, and of Marguerite of Brabant, aged 19.
JEANNE OF ÉVREUX, daughter of Louis of France, Count of Évreux, brother of Philip the Fair, and of Marguerite of Artois, aged about 18.
THE QUEEN DOWAGERS OF FRANCE:
CLÉMENCE OF HUNGARY, Princess of Anjou-Sicily, niece of King Robert of Naples, second wife and widow of King Louis X Hutin, aged 30.
JEANNE OF BURGUNDY, widow of King Philippe V, the Long, daughter of Count Othon of Burgundy and of Countess Mahaut of Artois, aged 30.
THE KING OF ENGLAND:
EDWARD II Plantagenet, ninth successor to William the Conqueror, son of Edward I and of Eleanor of Castille, aged 39.
THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND:
ISABELLA OF FRANCE, wife of the above, daughter of Philip the Fair and sister of the King of France, aged 31.
THE HEIR TO THE THRONE OF ENGLAND:
EDWARD, eldest son of the above and future King Edward III, aged II.
THE HOUSE OF VALOIS:
MONSEIGNEUR CHARLES, grandson of Saint Louis and brother of Philip the Fair, uncle of the King of France, Count of the Appanage of Valois, of Maine, of Anjou, of Alençon, of Chartres and of Perche, Peer of the Kingdom, ex-Titular Emperor of Constantinople, Count of Romagna, aged 53.
MONSEIGNEUR PHILIPPE, Count of VALOIS and of Maine, eldest son of Charles of Valois and of his first wife Marguerite of Anjou-Sicily, future King Philippe VI, aged 30.
JEANNE OF VALOIS, Countess of HAINAUT, daughter of Charles of Valois and of Marguerite of Anjou, sister of the above, wife of Count Guillaume of Hainaut, aged 27.
JEANNE OF VALOIS, Countess of BEAUMONT, daughter of Charles of Valois and his second wife Catherine de Courtenay, half-sister of the above, wife of Robert III of Artois, Count of Beaumont, aged about 19.
MAHAUT DE CHÂTILLON-SAINT-POL, Countess of Valois, third wife of Monseigneur Charles.
JEANNE, called THE LAME, Countess of VALOIS, daughter of the Duke of Burgundy and Agnes of France, sister of Marguerite of Burgundy, granddaughter of Saint Louis, wife of Monseigneur Philippe, aged 28.
THE HOUSE OF NAVARRE:
JEANNE OF NAVARRE, daughter of Louis X Hutin and of Marguerite of Burgundy, heir to the Kingdom of Navarre, aged 12.
PHILIPPE OF FRANCE, Count of ÉVREUX, husband of the above, son of Louis of France, Count of Évreux, and cousin-german of Charles the Fair, future King of Navarre, aged about 15.
THE HOUSE OF ARTOIS:
THE COUNTESS MAHAUT OF ARTOIS, Peer of the Kingdom, widow of the Count Palatine Othon IV of Burgundy, mother of Jeanne and Blanche of Burgundy, aged about 54.
ROBERT III OF ARTOIS, nephew and adversary of the above, Count of Beaumont-le-Roger, Lord of Conches, son-in-law of Charles of Valois, aged 36.
THIERRY LARCHER D’HIRSON, Canon, Chancellor to the Countess Mahaut, aged 53.
BÉATRICE D’HIRSON, niece of the above, lady-in-waiting to the Countess Mahaut, aged about 29.
THE HOUSE OF HAINAUT:
JEAN OF HAINAUT, brother of Guillaume the Good, Count of Hainaut, Holland and Zeeland.
PHILIPPA OF HAINAUT, his niece, second daughter of Guillaume the Good and of Jeanne of Valois, affianced to Prince Edward of England, aged 9.
THE GREAT OFFICERS OF THE CROWN OF FRANCE:
LOUIS OF CLERMONT, Lord, then first Duke, of BOURBON, grandson of Saint Louis, Great Chamberlain of France.
GAUCHER DE CHÂTILLON, Lord of Crèvecoeur, Count of Porcien, Constable of France since 1302.
JEAN DE CHERCHEMONT, Chancellor.
HUGUES DE BOUVILLE, one-time Great Chamberlain to Philip IV, the Fair, Ambassador.
THE RELATIONS OF THE KING OF ENGLAND:
THOMAS DE BROTHERTON, Earl of Norfolk, Marshal of England, son of Edward I of England and of his second wife Margaret of France, half-brother to King Edward II and cousin to the King of France, aged 23.
EDMUND, Earl of KENT, younger brother of the above, Governor of Dover, Warden of the Cinque Ports, aged 22.
HENRY, Earl of LEICESTER and LANCASTER, called Crouchback, grandson of Henry III of England, cousin-german to King Edward II, aged 42.
THE COUNCILLORS:
HUGH DESPENSER, the elder, Earl of Winchester, aged 61.
HUGH DESPENSER, the younger, son of the above, Earl of Gloucester, the favourite of King Edward II, aged 33.
BALDOCK, Archdeacon, Chancellor to Edward II.
WALTER STAPLEDON, Bishop of Exeter, Lord Treasurer.
The Earls of ARUNDEL and WARENNE.
THE LADIES-IN-WAITING TO QUEEN ISABELLA:
LADY JEANNE MORTIMER, née Joinville, great-niece of the Seneschal de Joinville, the wife of Roger Mortimer, Baron of Wigmore, aged 37.
LADY ALIENOR DESPENSER, née Clare, the wife of Hugh Despenser, the younger.
THE BARONS OF THE OPPOSITION:
ROGER MORTIMER, the elder, Lord of CHIRK, one-time Justiciar of Wales, aged 67.
ROGER MORTIMER, the younger, eighth Baron of WIGMORE, the King’s former Lord-Lieutenant and Justiciar of Ireland, nephew of the above, aged 36.
JOHN MALTRAVERS, THOMAS DE BERKELEY, THOMAS GOURNAY, JOHN DE CROMWELL, etc., English lords.
THE ENGLISH BISHOPS:
ADAM ORLETON, Bishop of Hereford.
WALTER REYNOLDS, Archbishop of Canterbury.
JOHN DE STRATFORD, Bishop of Winchester.
THE GUARDIANS OF THE TOWER OF LONDON:
STEPHEN SEAGRAVE, Constable.
GERARD DE ALSPAYE, Lieutenant.
OGLE, Barber.
THE COURT OF AVIGNON:
POPE JOHN XXII, ex-Cardinal Jacques DUÈZE, elected at the Conclave of 1316, aged 79.
BERTRAND DU POUGET, GAUCELIN DUÈZE, GAILLARD DE LA MOTHE, ARNAUD DE VIA, RAYMOND LE ROUX, Cardinals and relations of the Pope.
JACQUES FOURNIER, Counsellor to John XXII, future Pope Benedict XII.
THE LOMBARDS:
SPINELLO TOLOMEI, a Sienese banker in business in Paris, aged about 69.
GUCCIO BAGLIONI, his nephew, a Sienese banker of the Tolomei Company.
BOCCACCIO, a traveller for the Bardi Company, father of the poet.
THE CRESSAY FAMILY:
PIERRE AND JEAN DE CRESSAY, sons of the late Lord of Cressay, aged about 31 and 29.
MARIE, their sister, secret wife to Guccio Baglioni, aged 25.
JEAN, called Jeannot or Giannino, supposed son of Guccio Baglioni and of Marie de Cressay, in fact JEAN THE POSTHUMOUS, son of Louis X Hutin and of Clémence of Hungary, aged 7.
All the above names have their place in history; their ages are given as in the year 1323.
The She-Wolf of France (#ulink_f6ab6bde-76b1-5550-8857-9821ab9c3bea)
‘I SEE,’ SAID ISABELLA, ‘that you wish me to be left utterly alone.’
‘What do you mean by alone, Madame?’ cried Hugh the Younger in his fine, well-modulated voice. ‘Are we not all your loyal friends, being the King’s? And is not Madame Alienor, my devoted wife, a faithful companion to you? ‘That’s a pretty book you have there,’ he added, pointing to the volume, ‘and beautifully illuminated; would you be kind enough to lend it to me?’
‘Of course, of course the Queen will lend it to you,’ the King said. ‘I am sure, Madame, that you will do us the pleasure of lending the book to our friend Gloucester?’
‘Most willingly, Sire my husband, most willingly. And I know what lending means when it’s to your friend, Lord Despenser. I lent him my pearls ten years ago and, as you can see, he’s still wearing them about his neck.’
She would not surrender, but her heart was beating wildly in her breast. From now on she would have to bear the daily insults all alone. If, one day, she found means of revenging herself, nothing would be forgotten.
Prologue (#ulink_3738a1c6-c38d-5b31-b103-b8b9e595594f)
THE CHASTISEMENTS PROPHESIED by the Grand Master of the Templars and the curses he had hurled from amid the faggots of his pyre continued to fall on France. Fate had destroyed her kings like pieces on a chess-board.
Philip the Fair having died as if struck down by lightning, and his eldest son, Louis X, having been murdered after eighteen months on the throne, Philippe V, his second son, seemed destined for a long reign. But now six years had gone by, and Philippe V had died in his turn before attaining the age of thirty.
Let us look for a moment at his reign which, compared with the tragedies and disasters that were to follow, seems something of a respite from calamity. If you glance casually through a history of the period, it may seem a colourless reign, possibly because your hand comes away from the page unstained with blood. And yet, if we look deeper, we shall see of what a great king’s days consist if Fate is against him.
For Philippe V, the Long, had been a great king. By a mixture of force and cunning, of legality and crime, he had seized the crown, when it was at auction to the ambitious, while still a young man. An imprisoned conclave, a royal palace taken by assault, an invented law of succession, a provincial revolt put down in a ten days’ campaign, a great lord cast into prison and a royal child murdered in its cradle – or so at least it was supposed – had all been stages on his rapid path to the throne.
On that January morning in 1317, when, as the bells rang out in the heavens, the second son of the Iron King had come out of Rheims Cathedral, he had reason to believe that he had triumphed, and was now free to pursue his father’s grand policies, which he had so much admired. His family had all had to bow to his will. The barons were checkmated; Parliament had submitted to his ascendancy, and the middle classes had acclaimed him, delighted to have a strong Prince again; his wife had been washed clean of the stain of the Tour de Nesle; his succession seemed assured by the son who had recently been born to him; and, finally, coronation had endued him with intangible majesty. There seemed to be nothing lacking to Philippe V’s enjoyment of the relative happiness of kings, not least the wisdom to desire peace and recognize its worth.
Three weeks later his son died. It was his only male child, and Queen Jeanne, barren from henceforth, would give him no more.
At the beginning of summer the country was ravaged by famine and the towns were strewn with corpses.
And then, soon afterwards, a wave of madness broke over the whole of France.
Driven by blind and vaguely mystical impulses, primitive dreams of sanctity and adventure, by their condition of poverty and by a sudden frenzy for destruction, country boys and girls, sheep-, cow- and swineherds, young artisans, young spinners and weavers, nearly all of them between fifteen and twenty, abruptly left their families and villages, and formed barefoot, errant bands, provided with neither food nor money. Some wild idea of a crusade was the pretext for the exodus.
Indeed, madness had been born amid the wreckage of the Temple. Many of the ex-Templars had gone half-crazy through imprisonment, persecution, torture, disavowals torn from them by hot irons, and by the spectacle of their brothers delivered to the flames. A longing for vengeance, nostalgia for lost power, and the possession and knowledge of certain magic practices learnt in the East had turned them into fanatics, who were all the more dangerous because they disguised themselves in a cleric’s humble robe or in a workman’s smock. They had re-formed themselves into a secret society; and they obeyed the mysteriously transmitted orders of a clandestine Grand Master, who had replaced the Grand Master burnt at the stake.
It was these men who had suddenly transformed themselves one winter into village preachers and, like the Pied Piper of the Rhine legends, had led away the youth of France: to the Holy Land, they said. But their real goal was to wreck the kingdom and ruin the papacy.
And Pope and King were equally powerless in the face of these visionary hordes travelling the roads, these human rivers swelling at every cross-roads as if the lands of Flanders, Normandy, Brittany and Poitou were bewitched.
In their thousands, their twenty thousands, their hundred thousands, the pastoureaux were marching towards mysterious goals. Unfrocked priests, apostate monks, brigands, thieves, beggars and whores, all joined their bands. At the head of these columns a cross was carried, while the girls and boys indulged in the utmost licence, committed the worst excesses. A hundred thousand ragged marchers, entering a town to beg, soon pillaged it. And felony, which was at first merely an accessory to theft, soon became the satisfaction of a vice.
The pastoureaux ravaged France for a whole year and, indeed, with a certain method in their madness. They spared neither churches nor monasteries. Paris, aghast, saw an army of plunderers invade its streets, and King Philippe V spoke pacifically to them from a window of his palace. They urged the King to place himself at their head. They took the Châtelet by assault, attacked the Provost, and pillaged the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Then new orders, mysterious as those assembling them, directed them on to the roads to the south. The people of Paris were still trembling with fear when the pastoureaux were already flooding into Orléans. The Holy Land was far away; Bourges, Limoges, Saintes, the Périgord and the Bordelais, Gascony and Agenais had to suffer their fury.
Pope John XXII grew alarmed as the flood approached Avignon and he threatened these false crusaders with excommunication. But they had need of victims, and they found the Jews. From then on, the urban populations applauded the massacres and fraternized with the pastoureaux. Amid the ghettoes of Lectoure, Auvillar, Castelsarrasin, Albi, Auch and Toulouse were to be seen here a hundred and fifteen corpses, and there a hundred and fifty-two. There was not a city in Languedoc that did not suffer this expiatory butchery. The Jews of Verdun-sur-Garonne used their children as missiles, and then cut each others’ throats so as not to fall into the hands of the lunatics.
Then the Pope ordered his bishops and the King his seneschals to protect the Jews, whose commerce was important to them. The Count of Foix, going to the help of the Seneschal of Carcassonne, had to fight a pitched battle with the pastoureaux and drove them back into the marches of Aigues-Mortes, where they died in their thousands, stabbed, bludgeoned, engulfed or drowned. The land of France was quaffing its own blood, devouring its own youth. In the end, the clergy and the officers of the crown joined in hunting down the survivors. The gates of the towns were closed to them; they were denied food and lodging; they were pursued into the passes of the Cévennes. Those captured were hanged in groups of twenty or thirty to the branches of trees. For most of the next two years there were still some bands wandering about; and they ranged as far as Italy before they finally disappeared.
France, the body corporate of France, was sick. Hardly had the pastoureaux fever abated, than lepers appeared.
Who could tell whether these tragic people, their flesh corroded, their faces death-masks, their hands stumps, who could tell whether these pariahs, restricted to lazar-houses or infected, pestilential villages, where they procreated among themselves, and whence they were forbidden to emerge without a clapper in their hands, were in truth responsible for polluting the waters of France? For in the summer of 1321 the springs, brooks, wells and fountains were in many places poisoned. And during that year the people of France panted thirstily beside their generous rivers, or drank only with fear in their hearts, expecting death at every sip. And had the Temple anything to do with that strange poison – compounded of human blood, urine, magic herbs, adders’ heads, powdered toads’ legs, desecrated hosts and the pubic hair of whores – which it was asserted had been introduced into the water supply? Had the Temple incited this accursed race to rebellion, inspiring it, as some lepers admitted under torture, to will the death of all Christians or infect them with leprosy?
It began in Poitou, where King Philippe V was staying; and soon spread over the whole kingdom. The inhabitants of town and countryside attacked the leper colonies and exterminated the members of the diseased race who had suddenly become public enemies. Pregnant women were alone spared, but only till their child was born. Then they were burnt. The royal judges endued these hecatombs with legality, and the nobility supplied men-at-arms. Then the public turned against the Jews once again, accusing them of being involved in a huge, if vague, conspiracy, inspired, so it was said, by the Moorish Kings of Granada and Tunis. It seemed as if France were trying to allay her agony and fear with gigantic human sacrifices.
The wind of Aquitaine was impregnated with the appalling stench of the pyres. At Chinon all the Jews in the bailiwick were thrown into one huge fiery pit; in Paris they were burnt on that island opposite the Château Royal, which so tragically bore their name, and where Jacques de Molay had uttered his fatal prophecy.
Then the King died of the fever and the appalling stomach pains he had contracted in his appanage of Poitou; he died of having drunk the water of his kingdom, poisoned by some of his subjects.
He wasted away till he became a skeleton; and it took him five months to die, suffering the most appalling agonies.
Every morning, in the Abbey of Longchamp, to which he had been carried, he had the doors of his room thrown wide, allowing the passers-by to approach his bed, so that he might say to them: ‘Look on the King of France, your Sovereign Lord, the most miserable man in all his kingdom, for there is not one among you with whom I would not change my lot. My children, look on your temporal Prince, and give your hearts to God at the sight of how it pleases Him to sport with His creatures of this world.’
He went to join the bones of his ancestors, at Saint-Denis, the day after Epiphany 1322; and no one, save his wife, wept for him.
And yet he had been a wise King, careful of the public good. He had declared every part of the royal domains, that is to say, France proper, inalienable; he had unified the currency and weights and measures, reorganized the law so that it might be applied with greater equity, forbidden pluralism in public offices, refused to allow prelates to sit in parliament, and systematized the administration of the country’s finances. It was due to him also that the emancipation of the serfs was developed. He desired that serfdom should disappear altogether from his realms; he wanted to reign over a people who enjoyed the ‘true liberty’ with which nature had endowed them.
He had avoided the temptations of war, had suppressed many of the garrisons in the interior of the country to reinforce those on the frontiers, and had invariably preferred negotiation to foolish military escapades. It was no doubt too soon as yet for the people to grasp the fact that justice and peace were necessarily expensive or, indeed, to understand why the King so ardently required their co-operation. ‘What has happened,’ they asked, ‘to the revenues, to the tithes and annates, to the subventions of the Lombards and the Jews, since less charity has been distributed, no wars have been made, and no buildings constructed? Where has all the money gone?’
The great barons, who were only temporarily submissive, and who had only on occasion, and when faced with the threat of war, rallied round the King from fear, had been patiently awaiting the hour of revenge, and now contemplated the death agonies of the young King they had never loved with a certain satisfaction.
Philippe V, the Long, a lonely man who was too much in advance of his time, died misunderstood by his subjects.
He left only daughters; the law of succession he had promulgated for his own advantage now excluded them from the throne. The crown went to his younger brother, Charles de la Marche, who was as dull of mind as he was handsome of face. The powerful Count of Valois, Count Robert of Artois and all the Capet cousins and the reactionary barons were once again triumphant. At last you could talk of a crusade again, become involved in the intrigues of the Empire, traffic in the price of gold, and watch, not without mockery, the difficulties of the kingdom of England.
For in England an unstable, dishonest and incompetent king, a prey to an amorous passion for his favourite, was fighting his barons and bishops. He, too, was soaking the soil of his kingdom with his subjects’ blood.
And there a Princess of France was living a life of humiliation and ignominy both as wife and queen. She was afraid for her life, was conspiring for her own safety, and dreaming of vengeance.
It was as if Isabella, the daughter of the Iron King and the sister of Charles IV of France, had carried the curse of the Templars across the Channel.
PART ONE (#ulink_b55a4925-13ca-566a-a541-1353087c1f68)
1 (#ulink_ad5839e0-a5db-536d-ae6b-4e7cd396c00e)
‘No One ever Escapes from the Tower of London’ (#ulink_ad5839e0-a5db-536d-ae6b-4e7cd396c00e)
A MONSTROUS RAVEN, HUGE, gleaming and black, nearly as big as a goose, was hopping about in front of the dungeon window. Sometimes it halted, lowered a wing and hypocritically closed its little round eye as if in sleep. Then, suddenly darting out its beak, it pecked at the man’s eye shining behind the bars. His grey, flint-coloured eyes seemed to have a special attraction for the bird. But the prisoner was too quick for it and had already drawn his face back out of danger. The raven continued its constitutional, taking short, heavy hops.
Then the man reached his hand out of the window. It was a long, shapely, sinewy hand. He moved it forward slowly, then let it lie still, like a twig on the dusty ground, hoping to seize the raven by the neck.
But the bird, in spite of its size, could move quickly too; it hopped aside, emitting a hoarse croak.
‘Take care, Edward, take care,’ said the man behind the bars. ‘I’ll strangle you one day.’
For the prisoner had given the treacherous bird the name of his enemy, the King of England.
This game had been going on for eighteen months, eighteen months during which the raven had pecked at the prisoner’s eyes, eighteen months during which the prisoner had tried to strangle the bird, eighteen months during which Roger Mortimer, eighth Baron of Wigmore, Lord of the Welsh Marches, and the King’s ex-Lieutenant of Ireland, had been imprisoned, together with his uncle, Roger Mortimer of Chirk, one-time Justiciar of Wales, in a dungeon in the Tower of London. For prisoners of their rank, and they belonged to the most ancient aristocracy in the kingdom, it was the normal custom to provide a decent lodging. But King Edward II, when he had taken the two Mortimers prisoner at the Battle of Shrewsbury, where he had defeated his rebellious barons, had assigned them to this low and narrow prison, whose only daylight came from ground-level, in the new buildings he had had constructed to the right of the Clock Tower. Compelled, under pressure from the Court, the bishops and even the common people, to commute the death sentence he had first decreed against the Mortimers to life imprisonment, the King had good hopes that this unhealthy prison cell, this dungeon in which their heads touched the ceiling, would in the long run perform the executioner’s office for him.
And, indeed, though Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, who was now thirty-six years of age, had been able to endure the miserable prison, the eighteen months of fog pouring in through the low window and rain trickling down the walls, or, in the summer season, the oppressive, stagnant, stifling heat at the bottom of their hole seemed to have got the better of the Lord of Chirk. The elder Mortimer was losing his hair and his teeth, his legs had swollen and his hands were crippled with rheumatism. He scarcely ever left the oak plank that served him for bed, while his nephew stood by the window, staring out into the light.
It was the second summer they had spent in the dungeon.
Dawn had broken two hours ago over this most famous of English fortresses, which was the heart of the kingdom and the symbol of its princes’ power, on the White Tower, the huge square keep, which gave an impression of architectural lightness in spite of its gigantic proportions, and which William the Conqueror had built on the foundations of the remains of the ancient Roman castrum, on the surrounding towers, on the crenellated walls built by Richard Cœur de Lion, on the King’s House, on the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, and on the Traitor’s Gate. The day was going to be hot, sultry even, as yesterday had been. The sun glowed pink on the stonework and there was a slightly nauseating stench of mud coming from the banks of the Thames, which lay close at hand, flowing past the embankments of the moat.
Edward, the raven, had joined the other giant ravens on that famous and melancholy lawn, the Green, where the block was set up on days of execution; the birds pecked at the grass that had been nourished by the blood of Scottish patriots, state criminals, and fallen favourites.
The Green was being raked and the paved paths surrounding it swept, but the ravens were unconcerned. No one would have dared harm the birds, for ravens had lived here since time immemorial, and were the objects of a sort of superstition. The soldiers of the guard began emerging from their barracks. They were hurriedly buckling their belts and leggings and donning their steel helmets to assemble for the daily parade which had, this morning, a particular importance for it was August 1, the Feast of St Peter ad Vincula – to whom the chapel was dedicated – and also the annual Feast Day in the Tower.
There was a grinding of locks and bolts on the low door of the Mortimers’ dungeon. The turnkey opened it, glanced inside, and let the barber in. The barber, a man with beady eyes, a long nose and a round mouth, came once a week to shave Roger Mortimer, the younger. The operation was torture to the prisoner during the winter months. For the Constable, Stephen Seagrave, Governor of the Tower,
had said: ‘If Lord Mortimer wishes to be shaved, I will send him the barber, but I have no obligation to provide him with hot water.’
But Lord Mortimer had held to it, in the first place to defy the Constable, secondly because his detested enemy, King Edward, wore a handsome blond beard, and finally, and above all, for his own morale, knowing well that if he yielded on this point, he would give way progressively to the physical deterioration that lies in wait for the prisoner. He had before his eyes the example of his uncle, who no longer took any care of his person; his chin a matted thicket, his hair thinning on his skull, the Lord of Chirk had begun to look like an old anchorite and continually complained of the multiple ills assailing him.
‘It is only my poor body’s pain,’ he sometimes said, ‘that reminds me I am still alive.’
Young Roger Mortimer had therefore welcomed barber Ogle week after week, even when they had to break the ice in the bowl and the razor left his cheeks bleeding. But he had had his reward, for he had realized after a few months that Ogle could be used as a link with the outside world. The man’s character was a strange one; he was rapacious and yet capable of devotion; he suffered from the lowly position he occupied in life, for he considered it inferior to his true worth; conspiracy offered him an opportunity for secret revenge, and also enabled him to acquire, by sharing the secrets of the great, importance in his own eyes. The Baron of Wigmore was undoubtedly the most noble man, both by birth and nature, he had ever met. Besides, a prisoner who insisted on being shaved, even in frosty weather, was certainly to be admired.
Thanks to the barber, Mortimer had established tenuous yet regular communication with his partisans, and particularly with Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford; again through the barber, he had learned that the Lieutenant of the Tower, Gerard de Alspaye, might be won over to his cause; and, through the barber once more, he had set on foot the dilatory negotiations for his escape. The Bishop had promised him he would be rescued by summer. And summer had now come.
The turnkey looked through the spy-hole in the door from time to time, not because he was particularly suspicious, but merely out of professional habit.
Roger Mortimer, a wooden bowl under his chin – would he ever again have a fine basin of beaten silver as in the past? – listened to the polite conversation the barber made in a loud voice for appearances’ sake: the summer, the heat, the weather continued fine, very lucky on the feast of St Peter.
Bending low over his razor, Ogle whispered in the prisoner’s ear: ‘Be ready tonight, my lord.’
Roger Mortimer gave no sign. His flinty eyes, under his thick eyebrows, merely looked into the barber’s beady eyes and acknowledged the information with a wink.
‘Alspaye?’ Mortimer whispered.
‘He’ll go with us,’ the barber replied, attending to the other side of Mortimer’s face.
‘The Bishop?’ the prisoner asked again.
‘He’ll be waiting for you outside, after dark,’ said the barber, who began at once to talk again at the top of his voice of the heat, the parade that was to take place that morning, and the games that would fill the afternoon.
The shaving done, Roger Mortimer rinsed his face and dried it with a towel. He did not even feel its rough contact.
When barber Ogle had gone with the turnkey, the prisoner put both hands to his chest and took a deep breath. With difficulty, he prevented himself shouting aloud: ‘Be ready tonight!’ The words were ringing through his head. Could it really be true that it was for tonight, at last?
He went to the pallet bed on which his companion in prison was sleeping.
‘Uncle,’ he said, ‘it’s tonight.’
The old Lord of Chirk turned over with a groan, looked at his nephew with his pale eyes that shone with a green glow in the shadowy dungeon and replied wearily: ‘No one ever escapes from the Tower of London, my boy, no one. Neither tonight, nor ever.’
Young Mortimer showed his irritation. Why should a man who, at worst, had so comparatively little of life to lose, be so obstinately discouraging and refuse to take any risks whatever? He did not reply so as not to lose his temper. Though they spoke French together, as did the Court and the nobility of Norman origin, while servants, soldiers and the common people spoke English, they were still afraid of being overheard.
He went back to the narrow window and looked out at the parade, which he could see only from ground-level, with the happy feeling that he was perhaps watching it for the last time.
The soldiers’ leggings passed to and fro at eye-level; their thick leather boots stamped the paving. Roger Mortimer could not but admire the precision of the archers’ drill, those wonderful English archers who were the best in Europe and could shoot as many as twelve arrows a minute.
In the centre of the Green, Alspaye, the Lieutenant, standing rigid as a post, was shouting orders at the top of his voice. He then reported the guard to the Constable. At first sight, it was difficult to understand why this tall, pink and white young man, who was so attentive to his duty and so clearly concerned to do the right thing, should have agreed to betray his charge. There could be no doubt that he had been persuaded to it for other reasons than mere money. Gerard de Alspaye, the Lieutenant of the Tower of London, wished, as did many officers, sheriffs, bishops and lords, to see England freed from the bad ministers surrounding the King; in his youthful way he was dreaming of a great career; and, what was more, he loathed and despised his immediate superior, the Constable, Seagrave.
The Constable, a one-eyed, flabby-cheeked and incompetent drunkard, owed his high position in fact to the protection of those bad ministers. Overtly indulging in the very practices King Edward displayed before his Court, the Constable was inclined to use the garrison of the Tower as a harem. He liked tall, fair young men; and Lieutenant Alspaye’s life had become a hell, for he was religious and had no vicious tendencies. Alspaye had indeed repelled the Constable’s advances and, as a result, had become the object of his relentless persecution. From sheer vengeance Seagrave seized every opportunity to plague and vex him. Slothful though he was, this one-eyed man found the leisure to be cruel. And now, as he inspected the men, he mocked and insulted his second-in-command over the merest trifles: a fault in the men’s dressing, a spot of rust on the blade of a dagger, a minute tear in the leather of a quiver. His single eye searched only for faults.
Though it was a Feast Day, on which punishments were generally remitted, the Constable, faulting their equipment, ordered three soldiers to be whipped on the spot. They happened to be three of the best archers. A sergeant was sent to fetch the rods. The men who were to be punished had to take their breeches down in front of the ranks of their comrades. The Constable seemed much amused at the sight.
‘If the guard’s no better turned out next time, Alspaye, it’ll be you,’ he said.
Then the whole garrison, with the exception of the sentries on the gates and ramparts, gathered in the Chapel to hear Mass and sing canticles.
Listening at his window, the prisoner could hear their rough, untuneful voices. ‘Be ready tonight, my lord …’ The ex-Lieutenant of the King in Ireland could think of nothing except that he might perhaps be free this very night. But there was a whole day in which to wait, hope, and indeed fear: fear that Ogle would make some silly mistake in executing the agreed plan, fear that Alspaye would succumb to a sense of duty at the last moment. There was a whole day in which to dwell on all the obstacles, all the hazards that might prejudice his escape.
‘It’s better not even to think of it,’ he thought, ‘and take it for granted that all will go well. It’s always something you’ve never even considered that goes wrong. Nevertheless, it’s also the stronger will that triumphs.’ And yet his mind, inevitably, returned again and again to the same anxieties. ‘In any event, there’ll still be the sentries on the walls …’
He jumped quickly back from the window. The raven had approached stealthily along the wall, and this time it was a near thing that it did not get the prisoner’s eye.
‘Oh, Edward, Edward, that’s going too far,’ Mortimer said between clenched teeth. ‘If ever I’m going to succeed in strangling you, it must be today.’
The garrison was coming out of the Chapel and going into the refectory for the traditional feast.
The turnkey reappeared at the dungeon door, accompanied by a warder with the prisoners’ food. For once, the bean soup was accompanied by a slice of mutton.
‘Try to stand up, Uncle,’ Mortimer said.
‘They even deprive us of Mass, as if we were excommunicated,’ said the old Lord.
He insisted on eating on his pallet, and indeed scarcely touched his portion.
‘Have my share, you need it more than I,’ he said to his nephew.
The turnkey had gone. The prisoners would not be visited again till evening.
‘Have you really made up your mind not to go with me, Uncle?’ Mortimer asked.
‘Go with you where, my boy? No one ever escapes from the Tower. It has never been done. Nor does one rebel against one’s king. Edward’s not the best sovereign England’s had, indeed he’s not, and those two Despensers deserve to be here instead of us. But you don’t choose your king, you serve him. I should never have listened to you and Thomas of Lancaster, when you took up arms. Thomas has been beheaded, and look where we are.’
It was the hour at which his uncle, having swallowed a few mouthfuls of food, would sometimes talk in a monotonous, whining voice, recapitulating over and over again the same complaints his nephew had heard for the last eighteen months. At sixty-seven, the elder Mortimer was no longer recognizable as the handsome man and great lord he had been, famous for the fabulous tournament he had given at his castle of Kenilworth, which had been the talk of three generations. The nephew did his best to rekindle a few embers in the old man’s exhausted heart. He could see his white locks hanging lank in the shadows.
‘In any case my legs would fail me,’ the old man added.
‘Why not get out of bed and try them out a little? In any case, I’ll carry you. I’ve told you so.’
‘Oh, yes, I know! You’ll carry me over the walls and into the water though I can’t swim. You’ll carry my head to the block, that’s what you’ll do, and yours too. God may well be working for our deliverance, and you’ll spoil it all by this stubborn folly of yours. It’s always the same; there’s rebellion in the Mortimer blood. Remember the first Roger, the son of the bishop and the daughter of King Herfast of Denmark. He defeated the whole army of the King of France under the walls of his castle of Mortemer-en-Bray.
And yet he so greatly offended the Conqueror, our kinsman, that all his lands and possessions were taken from him.’
The younger Roger sat on a stool, crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and leaned backwards a little to support his shoulders against the wall. Every day he had to listen to an account of their ancestors, hear for the hundredth time how Ralph the Bearded, son of the first Roger, had landed in England in the train of Duke William, how he had received Wigmore in fief, and why the Mortimers had been powerful in four counties ever since.
In the refectory the soldiers had finished eating and were bawling drinking songs.
‘Please, Uncle,’ Mortimer said, ‘do leave our ancestors alone for a while. I’m in no such hurry to go to join them as you are. I know we’re descended from royal blood. But royal blood is of small account in prison. Will Herfast’s sword set us free? Where are our lands, and are we paid our revenues in this dungeon? And when you’ve repeated once again the names of all our female ancestors – Hadewige, Mélisinde, Mathilde the Mean, Walcheline de Ferrers, Gladousa de Braouse – am I to dream of no women but them till I draw my last breath?’
For a moment the old man was nonplussed and stared absent-mindedly at his swollen hands and their long, broken nails, then he said: ‘Everyone fills his prison life as best he can, old men with the lost past, young men with tomorrows they’ll never see. You believe the whole of England loves you and is working on your behalf, that Bishop Orleton is your faithful friend, that the Queen herself is doing her best to save you, and that in a few hours you’ll be setting out for France, Aquitaine, Provence or somewhere of the sort. And that the bells will ring out in welcome all along your road. But, you’ll see, no one will come tonight.’
With a weary gesture, he passed his hands across his eyes, then turned his face to the wall.
Young Mortimer went back to the window, put a hand out through the bars and let it lie as if dead in the dust.
‘Uncle will now doze till evening,’ he thought. ‘He’ll make up his mind to come at the last moment. But he won’t make it any easier; indeed, it may well fail because of him. Ah, there’s Edward!’
The raven stopped a little way from the motionless hand and wiped its big black beak against its foot.
‘If I strangle it, I shall succeed in escaping. If I miss it, I shall fail.’
It was no longer a game, but a wager with destiny. The prisoner needed to invent omens to pass the time of waiting and quiet his anxiety. He watched the raven with the eye of a hunter. But as if it realized the danger, the raven moved away.
The soldiers were coming out of the refectory, their faces all lit up. They dispersed over the courtyard in little groups for the games, races and wrestling that were a tradition of the Feast. For two hours, naked to the waist, they sweated under the sun, competing in throwing each other or in their skill in casting maces at a wooden picket.
Then he heard the Constable cry: ‘The King’s prize! Who wants to win a shilling?’
Then, as it drew towards evening, the soldiers went to wash in the cisterns and, noisier than in the morning, talking of their exploits or their defeats, they went back to the refectory to eat and drink once more. Anyone who was not drunk on the night of St Peter ad Vincula earned the contempt of his comrades. The prisoner could hear them getting down to the wine. Dusk fell over the courtyard, the blue dusk of a summer’s evening, and the stench of mud from the river-bank became perceptible once again.
Suddenly a long, fierce, hoarse croaking, the sort of animal cry that makes men uneasy, rent the air from beyond the window.
‘What’s that?’ the old Lord of Chirk asked from the far end of the dungeon.
‘I missed him,’ his nephew said; ‘I got him by the wing instead of the neck.’
In the uncertain evening light he gazed sadly at the few black feathers in his hand. The raven had disappeared and would not now come back again.
‘It’s mere childish folly to attach any importance to it,’ the younger Mortimer thought. ‘And it’s nearly time now.’ But he had an unhappy sense of foreboding.
But his mind was diverted from the omen by the extraordinary silence that had fallen over the Tower during the last few minutes. There was no more noise from the refectory; the voices of the drinkers had been stilled in their throats; the clatter of plates and pitchers had ceased. There was nothing but the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the garden, and the distant cry of a waterman on the Thames. Had Alspaye’s plot been discovered? Was the silence lying over the fortress due to a shock of amazement at the discovery of a great betrayal? His forehead to the window bars, the prisoner held his breath and stared out into the shadows, listening for the slightest sound. An archer reeled across the courtyard, vomited against a wall, collapsed on to the ground and lay still. Mortimer could see him lying motionless on the grass. The first stars were already appearing in the sky. It would be a clear night.
Two more soldiers came out of the refectory holding their stomachs, and collapsed at the foot of a tree. This could be no ordinary drunkenness that bowled men over like a blow from a club.
Roger Mortimer went to the other end of the dungeon; he knew exactly where his boots stood in a corner and put them on; they slipped on easily enough for his legs had grown thin.
‘What are you doing, Roger?’ the elder Mortimer asked.
‘I’m getting ready, Uncle; it’s almost time. Our friend Alspaye seems to have played his part well; the Tower might be dead.’
‘And they haven’t brought us our second meal,’ the old Lord complained anxiously.
Roger Mortimer tucked his shirt into his breeches and buckled his belt about his military tunic. His clothes were worn and ragged, for they had refused his requests for new ones for the past eighteen months. He was still wearing those in which he had fought and they had taken him, removing his dented armour. His lower lip had been wounded by a blow on the chin-piece.
‘If you succeed, I shall be left all alone, and they’ll revenge themselves on me,’ his uncle said.
There was a good deal of selfishness in the old man’s vain obstinacy in trying to dissuade his nephew from escaping.
‘Listen, Uncle, they’re coming,’ the younger Mortimer said, his voice curt and authoritative. ‘You must get up now.’
There were footsteps approaching the door, sounding on the flagstones. A voice called: ‘My lord!’
‘Is that you, Alspaye?’ Mortimer asked.
‘Yes, my lord, but I haven’t got the key. Your turnkey’s so drunk, he’s lost the bunch. In his present condition, it’s impossible to get any sense out of him. I’ve searched everywhere.’
There was a sniggering laugh from the uncle’s pallet.
The younger Mortimer swore in his disappointment. Was Alspaye lying? Had he taken fright at the last moment? But why had he come at all, in that case? Or was it merely one of those absurd mischances such as the prisoner had been trying to foresee all day, and which was now presenting itself in this guise?
‘I assure you everything’s ready, my lord,’ went on Alspaye. ‘The Bishop’s powder we put in the wine has worked wonders. They were very drunk already and noticed nothing. And now they’re sleeping the sleep of the dead. The ropes are ready, the boat’s waiting for you. But I can’t find the key.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘The sentries are unlikely to grow anxious for half an hour or so. They feasted too before going on guard.’
‘Who’s with you?’
‘Ogle.’
‘Send him for a sledgehammer, a chisel and a crowbar, and take the stone out.’
‘I’ll go with him, and come back at once.’
The two men went off. Roger Mortimer measured the time by the beating of his heart. Was he to fail because of a lost key? It needed only a sentry to abandon his post on some pretext or other and the chance would be gone. Even the old Lord was silent. Mortimer could hear his irregular breathing from the other side of the dungeon.
Soon a ray of light filtered under the door. Alspaye was back with the barber, who was carrying a candle and the tools. They set to work on the stone in the wall into which the bolt of the lock was sunk some two inches. They did their best to muffle their hammering; but, even so, it seemed to them that the noise echoed through the whole Tower. Slivers of stone fell to the ground. At last, the lock gave way and the door opened.
‘Be quick, my lord,’ Alspaye said.
His face glowed pink in the light of the candle and was dripping with sweat; his hands were trembling.
Roger Mortimer went to his uncle and bent over him.
‘No, go alone, my boy,’ said the old man. ‘You must escape. May God protect you. And don’t hold it against me that I’m old.’
The elder Mortimer drew his nephew to him by the sleeve, and traced the sign of the Cross on his forehead with his thumb.
‘Avenge us, Roger,’ he murmured.
Roger Mortimer bowed his head and left the dungeon.
‘Which way do we go?’ he asked.
‘By the kitchens,’ Alspaye replied.
The Lieutenant, the barber and the prisoner went up a few stairs, along a passage and through several dark rooms.
‘Are you armed, Alspaye?’ Roger Mortimer whispered suddenly.
‘I’ve got my dagger.’
‘There’s a man there!’
There was a shadow against the wall; Mortimer had seen it first. The barber concealed the weak flame of the candle behind the palm of his hand. The Lieutenant drew his dagger. They moved slowly forward.
The man was standing quite still in the shadows. His shoulders and arms were flat against the wall and his legs wide apart. He seemed to be having some difficulty in remaining upright.
‘It’s Seagrave,’ the Lieutenant said.
The one-eyed Constable had become aware that both he and his men had been drugged and had succeeded in making his way as far as this. He was wrestling with an overwhelming longing to sleep. He could see his prisoner escaping and his Lieutenant betraying him, but he could neither utter a sound nor move a limb. In his single eye, beneath its heavy lid, was the fear of death. The Lieutenant struck him in the face with his fist. The Constable’s head went back against the stone and he fell to the ground.
The three men passed the door of the great refectory in which the torches were smoking; the whole garrison was there, fast asleep. Collapsed over the tables, fallen across the benches, lying on the floor, snoring with their mouths open in the most grotesque attitudes, the archers looked as if some magician had put them to sleep for a hundred years. A similar sight met them in the kitchens, which were lit only by glowing embers under the huge cauldrons, from which rose a heavy, stagnant smell of fat. The cooks had also drunk of the wine of Aquitaine in which the barber Ogle had mixed the drug; and there they lay, under the meat-safe, alongside the bread-bin, among the pitchers, stomachs up, arms widespread. The only moving thing was a cat, gorged on raw meat and stalking over the tables.
‘This way, my lord,’ said the Lieutenant, leading the prisoner towards an alcove which served both as a latrine and for the disposal of kitchen waste.
The opening built into this alcove was the only one on this side of the walls wide enough to give passage to a man.
Ogle produced a rope ladder he had hidden in a chest and brought up a stool to which to attach it. They wedged the stool across the opening. The Lieutenant went first, then Roger Mortimer and then the barber. They were soon all three clinging to the ladder and making their way down the wall, hanging thirty feet above the gleaming waters of the moat. The moon had not yet risen.
‘My uncle would certainly never have been able to escape this way,’ Mortimer thought.
A black shape stirred beside him with a rustling of feathers. It was a big raven wakened from sleep in a loophole. Mortimer instinctively put out a hand and felt amid the warm feathers till he found the bird’s neck. It uttered a long, desolate, almost human cry. He clenched his fist with all his might, twisting his wrist till he felt the bones crack beneath his fingers.
The body fell into the water below with a loud splash.
‘Who goes there?’ a sentry cried.
And a helmet leaned out of a crenel on the summit of the Clock Tower.
The three fugitives clinging to the rope ladder pressed close to the wall.
‘Why did I do that?’ Mortimer wondered. ‘What an absurd temptation to yield to! There are surely enough risks already without inventing more. And I don’t even know if it was Edward …’
But the sentry was reassured by the silence and continued his beat; they heard his footsteps fading into the night.
They went on climbing down. At this time of year the water in the moat was not very deep. The three men dropped into it up to the shoulders, and began moving along the foundations of the fortress, feeling their way along the stones of the Roman wall. They circled the Clock Tower and then crossed the moat, moving as quietly as possible. The bank was slippery with mud. They hoisted themselves out on to their stomachs, helping each other as best they could, then ran crouching to the river-bank. Hidden in the reeds, a boat was waiting for them. There were two men at the oars and another sitting in the stern, wrapped in a long dark cloak, his head covered by a hood with earlaps; he whistled softly three times. The fugitives jumped into the boat.
‘My lord Mortimer,’ said the man in the cloak, holding out his hand.
‘My lord Bishop,’ replied the fugitive, extending his own.
His fingers encountered the cabochon of a ring and he bent his lips to it.
‘Go ahead, quickly,’ the Bishop ordered the rowers.
And the oars dipped into the water.
Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, who had been provided to his see by the Pope and against the King’s wish, was leader of the clerical opposition and had organized the escape of the most important baron in the kingdom. It was Orleton who had planned and prepared everything, had persuaded Alspaye to play his part by assuring him he would not only make his fortune but attain to Paradise, and had provided the narcotic which had put the Tower of London to sleep.
‘Did everything go well, Alspaye?’ he asked.
‘As well as it could, my lord,’ the Lieutenant replied. ‘How long will they sleep?’
‘Two days or so, no doubt. I have the money promised each of you here,’ the Bishop said, showing them the heavy purse he was holding under his cloak. ‘And I have also sufficient for your expenses, my lord, for a few weeks at least.’
At that moment they heard the sentry shout: ‘Sound the alarm!’
But the boat was well out into the river, and no sentry’s cries would succeed in awakening the Tower.
‘I owe everything to you, including my life,’ Mortimer said to the Bishop.
‘Wait till you’re in France,’ Orleton replied; ‘don’t thank me till then. Horses are awaiting us at Bermondsey on the farther bank. A ship has been chartered and is lying off Dover, ready to sail.’
‘Are you coming with me?’
‘No, my lord, I have no reason to fly. When I have seen you on board, I shall go back to my diocese.’
‘Are you not afraid for your life, after what you have just done?’
‘I belong to the Church,’ the Bishop replied with some irony. ‘The King hates me but will not dare touch me.’
This calm-voiced prelate, who could carry on a conversation in these circumstances and in the middle of the Thames as tranquilly as if he were in his episcopal palace, possessed a singular courage, and Mortimer admired him sincerely.
The oarsmen were in the centre of the boat; Alspaye and the barber in the bows.
‘And the Queen?’ Mortimer asked. ‘Have you seen her recently? Is she being plagued as much as ever?’
‘At the moment, the Queen is in Yorkshire, travelling with the King; his absence has made our undertaking all the easier. Your wife’ – the Bishop slightly emphasized the last word – ‘sent me news of her the other day.’
Mortimer felt himself blush and was thankful for the darkness that concealed his embarrassment. He had shown concern for the Queen before even inquiring about his family and his wife. And why had he lowered his voice to ask the question? Had he thought of no one but Queen Isabella during his whole eighteen months in prison?
‘The Queen wishes you well,’ the Bishop went on. ‘It is she who has furnished from her privy purse, from that meagre privy purse which is all our good friends the Despensers consent to allow her, the money I am going to give you so that you may live in France. As for the rest, Alspaye, the barber, the horses and the ship that awaits you, my diocese will pay the expenses.’
He put his hand on the fugitive’s arm.
‘But you’re soaked through!’ he said.
‘No matter!’ replied Mortimer. ‘A free air will dry me quick enough.’
He got to his feet, took off his tunic and shirt, and stood naked to the waist in the middle of the boat. He had a shapely, well-built body, powerful shoulders and a long, muscular back; imprisonment had made him thinner, but had not impaired the impression he gave of physical strength. The moon, which had just risen, bathed him in a golden light and threw the contours of his chest into relief.
‘Propitious, dangerous to fugitives,’ said the Bishop, pointing to the moon. ‘We timed it exactly right.’
The night air was laden with the scent of reeds and water, and Roger Mortimer felt it playing over his skin and through his wet hair. The smooth black Thames slid along the sides of the boat and the oars made golden sparks. The opposite bank was drawing near. The great Baron of the Marches turned to look for the last time at the Tower, standing tall and proud above its fortifications, ramparts and embankments. ‘No one ever escapes from the Tower …’ And, indeed, he was the first prisoner who ever had escaped from it. He began to consider the importance of his deed, and the defiance it hurled at the power of kings.
Behind it, the sleeping city stood out against the night. Along both banks, as far as the great bridge with its shops and guarded by its high towers, could be seen the innumerable, crowded, slowly waving masts of the ships of the London Hanse, the Teutonic Hanse, the Paris Hanse of the Marchands d’Eau, indeed of the whole of Europe, bringing cloth from Bruges, copper, pitch, wax, knives, the wines of the Saintonge and of Aquitaine, and dried fish, and loading for Flanders, Rouen, Bordeaux and Lisbon, corn, leather, tin, cheeses, and above all wool, which was the best in the world, from English sheep. The great Venetian galleys could be distinguished by their shape and their gilding.
But Roger Mortimer of Wigmore was already thinking of France. He would go first to Artois to ask asylum of his cousin, Jean de Fiennes, the son of his mother’s brother. He stretched his arms wide in the gesture of a free man.
And Bishop Orleton, who regretted that he had been born neither so handsome nor so great a lord, gazed with a sort of envy at this strong, confident body that seemed so apt for leaping into the saddle, at the tall, sculptured torso, the proud chin and the rough, curly hair, which were to carry England’s destiny into exile.
2 (#ulink_324d2792-dc14-5075-afb2-4efc45f6af0e)
The Harassed Queen (#ulink_324d2792-dc14-5075-afb2-4efc45f6af0e)
THE RED-VELVET FOOTSTOOL on which Queen Isabella was resting her slender feet was threadbare; the gold tassels at its four corners were tarnished; the embroidered lilies of France and leopards of England were worn. But what was the use of replacing the footstool by ordering another, if the new one were immediately to disappear beneath the pearl-embroidered shoes of Hugh Despenser, the King’s lover? The Queen looked down at the old footstool that had lain on the flagstones of every castle in the kingdom, one season in Dorset, another in Norfolk, a winter in Warwick, and this last summer in Yorkshire, for they never stayed more than three days in the same place. On August 1, less than a week ago, the Court had been at Cowick; yesterday they had stopped at Eserick; today they were camping, rather than lodging, at Kirkham Priory; the day after tomorrow they would set out for Lockton and Pickering. The few dusty tapestries, the dented dishes, and the worn dresses which constituted Queen Isabella’s travelling wardrobe, would be packed into the travelling-chests once again; the curtained bed, which was so weakened by its travels that it was now in danger of collapsing altogether, would be taken down and put up again somewhere else, that bed in which the Queen took sometimes her lady-in-waiting, Lady Jeanne Mortimer, and sometimes her eldest son, Prince Edward, to sleep with her for fear of being murdered if she slept alone. At least the Despensers would not dare stab her under the eye of the heir-apparent. And it was thus they journeyed across the kingdom, through its green countryside and by its melancholy castles.
Edward II wanted to be known personally to the least of his vassals; he thought he did them honour by staying with them, and that a few friendly words would assure their loyalty against the Scots or the Welsh party. In fact, he would have done better to show himself less. He created latent discord wherever he went; the careless way he talked of government matters, which he believed to be a sovereign attitude of detachment, offended the lords, abbots and notables who came to explain local problems to him; the intimacy he paraded with his all-powerful chamberlain whose hand he caressed in open council or at Mass, his high-pitched laughter, his sudden generosity to some little clerk or astonished young groom, all confirmed the scandalous stories that were current even in the remotest districts, where husbands no doubt deceived their wives, as everywhere else, but did so with women; and what was only whispered before his coming was said out loud after he had passed by. This handsome, fair-bearded man, who was so weak of will, had but to appear with his crown on his head, and the whole prestige of the royal majesty collapsed. And the avaricious courtiers by whom he was surrounded helped considerably to make him hated.
Useless and powerless, the Queen had to take part in this ill-considered progress. She was torn by two conflicting emotions; on the one hand, her truly royal nature, inherited from her Capet ancestors, was irritated and angered by the continuous process of degradation suffered by the sovereign power; but, on the other hand, the wronged, harassed and endangered wife secretly rejoiced at every new enemy the King made. She could not understand how she had once loved, or persuaded herself to love, so contemptible a creature, who treated her so odiously. Why was she made to take part in these journeys, why was she shown off, a wronged Queen, to the whole kingdom? Did the King and his favourite really think they deceived anyone or made their relations look innocent by the mere fact of her presence? Or was it that they wanted to keep her under their eye? She would have so much preferred to live in London or at Windsor, or even in one of the castles she had theoretically been given, while awaiting some change in circumstance or simply the onset of old age. And how she regretted above all that Thomas of Lancaster and Roger Mortimer, those great barons who were really men, had not succeeded in their rebellion the year before last.
Raising her beautiful blue eyes, she glanced up at the Count de Bouville, who had been sent over from the Court of France, and said in a low voice: ‘For a month past you have been able to see what my life is like, Messire Hugues. I do not even ask you to recount its miseries to my brother, nor to my uncle of Valois. Four kings have succeeded each other on the throne of France, my father King Philip, who married me off in the interests of the crown …’
‘God keep his soul, Madame, may God keep it!’ said fat Bouville with conviction, but without raising his voice. ‘There’s no one in the world I loved more, nor served with greater joy.’
‘Then my brother Louis, who was but a few months on the throne, then my brother Philippe with whom I had little in common, though he was not lacking in intelligence …’
Bouville frowned a little as he did whenever King Philippe the Long was mentioned in his presence.
‘And then my brother Charles, who is reigning now,’ went on the Queen. ‘They have all been told of my unhappy circumstances, and they have been able to do nothing, or have wished to do nothing. The Kings of France are not interested in England except in the matter of Aquitaine and the homage due to them for that fief. A Princess of France on the English throne, because she thereby becomes Duchess of Aquitaine, is a pledge of peace. And provided Guyenne is quiet, little do they care whether their daughter or sister dies of shame and neglect beyond the sea. Report it or not, it will make no difference. But the days you have spent with me have been pleasant ones, for I have been able to talk to a friend. And you have seen how few I have. Without my dear Lady Jeanne, who shows great constancy in sharing my fortunes, I would not even have one.’
As she said these words, the Queen turned to her lady-in-waiting who was sitting beside her. Jeanne Mortimer, great-niece of the famous Seneschal de Joinville, was a tall woman of thirty-seven, with regular features, an honest face and quiet hands.
‘Madame,’ replied Lady Jeanne, ‘you do more to sustain my courage than I do to maintain yours. And you’ve taken a great risk in keeping me with you when my husband is in prison.’
They all three went on talking in low voices, for the whisper and the aside had become necessary habits in that Court where you were never alone and the Queen lived amid enmity.
In a corner of the room three maidservants were embroidering a counterpane for Lady Alienor Despenser, the favourite’s wife, who was playing chess by an open window with the heir-apparent. A little farther off, the Queen’s second son, who had had his seventh birthday three weeks earlier, was making a bow from hazel switch; while the two little girls, Jane and Alienor, respectively five and two, were sitting on the floor, playing with rag dolls.
Even as she moved the pieces over the ivory chess-board, Lady Despenser never for a moment stopped watching the Queen and trying to hear what she was saying. Her forehead was smooth but curiously narrow, her eyes were bright but too close together, her mouth was sarcastic; without being altogether hideous, there was nevertheless apparent that quality of ugliness which is imprinted by a wicked nature. A descendant of the Clare family, she had had a strange career, for she had been sister-in-law to the King’s previous lover, Piers Gaveston, whom the barons under Thomas of Lancaster had executed eleven years before, and she was now the wife of the King’s current lover. She derived a morbid pleasure from assisting male amours, partly to satisfy her love of money and partly to gratify her lust of power. But she was a fool. She was prepared to lose her game of chess for the mere pleasure of saying provocatively: ‘Check to the Queen! Check to the Queen!’
Edward, the heir-apparent, was a boy of eleven; he had a rather long, thin face, and was by nature reserved rather than timid, though he nearly always kept his eyes on the ground; at the moment he was taking advantage of his opponent’s mistake to do his best to win.
The August breeze was blowing gusts of warm dust through the narrow, arched window; but, when the sun sank, it would turn cool and damp again within the thick, dark walls of ancient Kirkham Priory.
There was a sound of many voices from the Chapter House where the King was holding his itinerant Council.
‘Madame,’ said the Count de Bouville, ‘I would willingly dedicate all the remainder of my days to your service, could they be useful to you. It would be a pleasure to me, I assure you. What is there for me to do here below, since I am a widower and my sons are out in the world, except to use the last of my strength to serve the descendants of the King who was my benefactor? And it is with you, Madame, that I feel myself nearest to him. You have all his strength of character, the way of talking he had, when he felt so disposed, and all his beauty which was so impervious to time. When he died, at the age of forty-six, he looked barely more than thirty. It will be the same with you. No one would ever guess you have had four children.’
The Queen’s face brightened into a smile. Surrounded, as she was, by so much hatred, she was grateful to be offered this devotion; and, her feelings as a woman continually humiliated, it was sweet to hear her beauty praised, even if the compliment was from a fat old man with white hair and spaniel’s eyes.
‘I am already thirty-one,’ she said, ‘of which fifteen years have been spent as you see. It may not mark my face; but my spirit bears the wrinkles. Indeed, Bouville, I would willingly keep you with me, were it possible.’
‘Alas, Madame, I foresee the end of my mission, and it has not had much success. King Edward has already twice indicated his surprise, since he has already delivered the Lombard up to the High Court of the King of France, that I should still be here.’
For the official pretext for Bouville’s embassy was a demand for the extradition of a certain Thomas Henry, a member of the important Scali company of Florence; the banker had leased certain lands from the Crown of France, had pocketed the considerable revenues, failed to pay what he owed to the French Treasury, and had ultimately taken refuge in England. The affair was serious enough, of course, but it could easily have been dealt with by letter, or by sending a magistrate, and most certainly had not required the presence of an ex-Great Chamberlain, who sat in the Privy Council. In fact, Bouville had been charged with another and more difficult diplomatic negotiation.
Monseigneur Charles of Valois, the uncle both of the King of France and Queen Isabella, had taken it into his head the previous year to marry off his fifth daughter, Marie, to Prince Edward, the heir-apparent to the throne of England. Monseigneur of Valois – who was unaware of it in Europe? – had seven daughters whose marriages had been a continual source of anxiety to this turbulent, ambitious and prodigal prince, who inevitably used his children for the promotion of his vast intrigues. The seven daughters were by three different marriages for Monseigneur Charles, during the course of his restless life, had suffered the misfortune of twice becoming a widower.
You needed a clear mind not to lose your way amid this complicated family tree, to know, for instance, when Madame Jeanne of Valois was mentioned, whether the Countess of Hainaut was meant or the Countess of Beaumont, the wife of Robert of Artois. Just to help matters, the two girls had the same name. As for Catherine, heiress to the phantom throne of Constantinople, who was by the second marriage, she had wedded in the person of Philip of Tarantum, Prince of Achaia, an elder brother of her father’s first wife. It was, indeed, something of a puzzle!
And now Monseigneur Charles was proposing that the elder daughter of his third marriage should wed his great-nephew of England.
At the beginning of the year, Monseigneur of Valois had sent a mission consisting of Count Henry de Sully, Raoul Sevain de Jouy and Robert Bertrand, known as the ‘Knight of the Green Lion’. To curry favour with Edward II, these ambassadors had accompanied him on an expedition against the Scots; but, at the Battle of Blackmore, the English had fled and allowed the French ambassadors to fall into the hands of the enemy. Their freedom had had to be negotiated and their ransoms paid. When, at last after a number of unpleasant adventures, they had been released, Edward had replied, evasively and dilatorily, that his son’s marriage could not be decided on so quickly, that the matter was of such great importance that he could make no contract without the advice of his Parliament, and that Parliament would be summoned to discuss the matter in June. He wished to link this affair with the homage he was due to pay the King of France for the Duchy of Aquitaine. And then, when Parliament had at last been convoked, the question had not even been discussed.
In his impatience, Monseigneur of Valois had taken the first opportunity of sending over the Count de Bouville, whose devotion to the Capet family was undoubted and who, though lacking in genius, had considerable experience of similar missions. In the past, Bouville had negotiated in Naples, on the instructions of Valois himself, the second marriage of Louis X with Clémence of Hungary; he had been Curator of the Queen’s stomach after the Hutin’s death, but that was not a period he cared to recall. He had also carried out a number of negotiations in Avignon with the Holy See; and in matters concerning family relationships his memory was faultless, he knew all the infinitely complex inter-weavings that formed the web of the royal houses’ alliances. Honest Bouville was much vexed at having to go back this time with empty hands.
‘Monseigneur of Valois will be very angry indeed,’ he said, ‘since he has already asked the Holy Father for a licence for this marriage.’
‘I’ve done all I can, Bouville,’ the Queen said, ‘and you can judge from that what weight I carry here. But I do not regret it as much as you do; I do not want another princess of my family to suffer what I have suffered here.’
‘Madame,’ Bouville replied, lowering his voice still further, ‘do you doubt your son? He seems to take after you rather than after his father, thank God. I remember you at his age, in the garden of the Palace of the Cité, or at Fontainebleau …’
He was interrupted. The door opened to give entrance to the King of England. He hurried in; his head was thrown back and he was stroking his blond beard with a nervous gesture which, in him, was a sign of irritation. He was followed by his usual councillors, the two Despensers, father and son, Chancellor Baldock, the Earl of Arundel and the Bishop of Exeter. The King’s two half-brothers, the Earls of Kent and Norfolk, who had French blood since their mother was the sister of Philip the Fair, formed part of his entourage, but rather against their will so it seemed; and this was also true of Henry of Leicester. The last was a square-looking man, with bright, rather protruding eyes, who was nicknamed Crouchback owing to a malformation of the neck and shoulders which compelled him to hold his neck completely askew, and gave the armourers who had to forge his cuirasses a good deal of difficulty. A number of ecclesiastics and local dignitaries also pressed into the doorway.
‘Have you heard the news, Madame?’ cried King Edward, addressing the Queen. ‘It will doubtless please you. Your Mortimer has escaped from the Tower.’
Lady Despenser, at the chess-board, gave a start and uttered an exclamation of indignation as if the Baron of Wigmore’s escape were a personal insult.
Queen Isabella gave no sign, either by altering her attitude or expression; only her eyelids blinked a little more rapidly over her beautiful blue eyes, and her hand, beneath the folds of her dress, furtively sought that of Lady Jeanne Mortimer, as if encouraging her to be strong and calm. Fat Bouville had got to his feet and moved a little apart, feeling himself unwanted in this matter which purely concerned the English Crown.
‘He is not my Mortimer, Sire,’ replied the Queen. ‘Lord Mortimer is your subject, I should have thought, rather than mine; and I am not accountable for the actions of your barons. You kept him in prison; he has escaped; it’s the common form.’
‘And that shows you approve him! Don’t restrain your joy, Madame. In the days when Mortimer deigned to appear at my Court, you had no eyes except for him; you were continually extolling his merits, and you have always put down the crimes he has committed against me to his greatness of soul.’
‘But was it not you, yourself, Sire my Husband, who taught me to love him at the time he was conquering, on your behalf and at the peril of his life, the Kingdom of Ireland, which indeed you had great difficulty in holding without him? Was that a crime?’
Put out of countenance by this attack, Edward looked spitefully at his wife and found some difficulty in replying.
‘Well, your friend’s on the run now, running hard towards your country no doubt!’
As he talked, the King was walking up and down the room, working off his useless agitation. The jewels hanging from his clothes quivered at every step he took. The rest of the company followed him with their eyes, turning their heads from side to side, as if they were watching a game of tennis. There was no doubt that King Edward was a fine-looking man, muscular, lithe and alert. He kept himself fit with games and exercises and had so far resisted any tendency to stoutness though his fortieth birthday was close at hand; he had an athlete’s constitution. But if you looked closer, you were struck by the fact that his forehead was utterly unlined, as if the anxieties of power had failed to mark him, by the pouches beginning to form beneath his eyes, by the uncertain line of the curve of the nostril, and by the long chin beneath the thin, curled beard. It was not an energetic or authoritative chin, nor even a really sensual one, but merely too big and too elongated a chin. There was twenty times more determination in the Queen’s little chin than there was in this ovoid jaw whose weakness the silky beard could not conceal. And the hand he passed from time to time across his face was flaccid; it fluttered aimlessly and then tugged at a pearl sewn to the embroidery of his tunic. His voice, which he hoped and believed was imperious, merely suggested lack of control. His back, which was wide enough, curved unpleasantly from the neck to the waist, as if the spine lacked substance. Edward had never forgiven his wife for having one day advised him to avoid showing his back if he wished to gain the respect of his barons. His knee was shapely and his leg well-turned; indeed, these were the best points of this man who was so little suited to his responsibilities, and to whom a crown had fallen by some curious inadvertence on the part of Fate.
‘Haven’t I enough worries and difficulties already?’ he went on. ‘The Scots are always threatening and invading my frontiers and, when I give battle, my armies run away. And how can I defeat them when my bishops treat with them without my permission, when there are so many traitors among my vassals, and when my barons of the Marches raise troops against me on the principle that they hold their lands by their swords, when some twenty-five years ago – have they forgotten? – it was determined and ordered otherwise by King Edward, my father. But they learned at Shrewsbury and Boroughbridge what it costs to rebel against me, didn’t they, Leicester?’
Henry of Leicester shook his great, crippled head; it was hardly a courteous way of reminding him of the death of his brother, Thomas of Lancaster, who had been beheaded sixteen months before, when twenty great lords had been hanged and as many more imprisoned.
‘Indeed, Sire my Husband, we have all noticed that the only battles you can win are against your own barons,’ Isabella said.
Once again Edward looked at her with hatred in his eyes. ‘What courage,’ Bouville thought, ‘what courage this noble Queen has!’
‘Nor is it altogether fair,’ she went on, ‘to say that they rebelled against you because they hold their rights by their swords. Was it not rather over the rights of the county of Gloucester which you wanted to give to Sir Hugh?’
The two Despensers drew closer together as if to make common front. Lady Despenser, the younger, sat up stiffly at the chess-board. She was the daughter of the late Earl of Gloucester. Edward II stamped his foot on the flagstones. Really, the Queen was impossible. She never opened her mouth except to tease him with his errors and mistakes of government.
‘I give the great fiefs to whom I will, Madame. I give them to those who love me and serve me,’ Edward cried, putting his hand on the younger Hugh’s shoulder. ‘On whom else can I rely? Where are my allies? What help, Madame, does your brother of France, who should behave to me as if he were mine, since after all it was in that hope I was persuaded to take you for wife, bring me? He demands that I go and pay him homage for Aquitaine, and that is all the help I get from him. And where does he send me his summons, to Guyenne? Not at all. He has it brought to me here in my Kingdom, as if he were contemptuous of feudal custom, or wished to offend me. One might almost think he believed himself also suzerain of England. Besides, I have paid this homage, indeed I have paid it too often, once to your father, when I was nearly burnt alive in the fire at Maubuisson, and then again to your brother Philippe, three years ago, when I went to Amiens. Considering the frequency with which the kings of your family die, Madame, I shall soon have to go to live on the Continent.’
The lords, bishops, and Yorkshire notables, who were standing at the back of the room, looked at each other, by no means afraid, but shocked rather at this impotent anger which strayed so far from its object, and revealed to them not only the difficulties of the kingdom, but also the character of the King. Was this the sovereign who asked them for subsidies for his Treasury, to whom they owed obedience in everything, and for whom they were to risk their lives when he summoned them to take part in his wars? Lord Mortimer must have had good reasons for rebellion.
Even the intimate councillors seemed ill at ease, though they well knew the King’s habit of recapitulating, even in his correspondence, all the troubles of his reign whenever a new difficulty arose.
Chancellor Baldock was mechanically rubbing his Adam’s apple above his archidiaconal robe. The Bishop of Exeter, the Lord Treasurer, was nervously biting his thumbnail and watching his neighbours out of the corner of his eye. Only Hugh Despenser the Younger, too curled, scented and overdressed for a man of thirty-three, showed satisfaction. The King’s hand resting on his shoulder made it clear to everyone how important and powerful he was.
He had a short, snub nose and a well-shaped mouth and was now raising and lowering his chin like a horse pawing the ground, as he approved every word Edward said with a little throaty murmur. His expression seemed to imply: ‘This time things have really gone too far; we shall have to take stern measures!’ He was thin, tall, rather narrow-chested and had a bad, spotty skin.
‘Messire de Bouville,’ King Edward said suddenly, turning to the ambassador, ‘you will reply to Monseigneur of Valois that the marriage he proposes, and of which we appreciate the honour, will most certainly not take place. We have other views for our eldest son. And we shall thus put a term to the deplorable custom by which the Kings of England take their wives from France, without ever deriving any benefit from it.’
Fat Bouville paled at the affront and bowed. He looked sadly at the Queen and went out.
The first and most unexpected consequence of Roger Mortimer’s escape was that the King of England was breaking his traditional alliance. By this outburst he had wanted to wound his wife; but he had also succeeded in wounding his half-brothers of Norfolk and Kent, whose mother was French. The two young men turned to their cousin Crouchback, who shrugged his heavy shoulder in resigned indifference. Without reflection, the King had casually alienated for ever the powerful Count of Valois who, as everyone knew, governed France in the name of his nephew Charles the Fair. Caprices such as this have sometimes lost kings both their thrones and their lives.
Young Prince Edward, still motionless by the window, was silently watching his mother and judging his father. After all, it was his marriage that was being discussed and he was allowed to have no say in it. But if he had been asked to choose between his English and French blood, he would have shown a preference for the latter.
The three younger children had stopped playing: the Queen signed to the maidservants to take them away.
And then, with the greatest calm, looking the King straight in the eye, she said: ‘When a husband hates his wife it is natural he should hold her responsible for everything.’
Edward was not the man to make a direct answer to that.
‘My whole Tower guard dead-drunk,’ he cried, ‘the Lieutenant in flight with that felon, and my Constable sick to death with the drug they gave him. Unless the traitor’s malingering to avoid the punishment he deserves. It was up to him to see my prisoner did not escape. Do you hear, Winchester?’
Hugh Despenser the Elder, who had been responsible for the appointment of Constable Seagrave, bowed to the storm. He was thin and narrow-shouldered, with a stoop that was in part natural and in part acquired during a long career as a courtier. His enemies had nicknamed him ‘the weasel’. Cupidity, envy, meanness, self-seeking, deceit, and all the gratifications these vices can procure for their possessor were manifest in the lines of his face and beneath his red eyelids. And yet he was not lacking in courage; but he had human feelings only for his son and a few rare friends, of which Seagrave indeed was one. You could better understand the son’s character when you had observed the father for a moment.
‘My lord,’ he said in a calm voice, ‘I feel sure that Seagrave is in no way to blame.’
‘He’s to blame for negligence and laziness; he’s to blame for allowing himself to be made a fool of; he’s to blame for not suspecting that a plot was being hatched under his nose; he’s to blame perhaps for his bad luck. And I never forgive bad luck. Though Seagrave is one of your protégés, Winchester, he shall be punished; and people will no longer be able to say that I’m unfair and that my favours are lavished only on your creatures. Seagrave will take Mortimer’s place in prison; and perhaps his successor will take care to keep a better watch. That, my son, is how you rule,’ the King added, coming to a halt in front of the heir to the throne.
The boy raised his eyes to him and immediately lowered them again.
Hugh the Younger, who knew how to turn Edward’s anger aside, threw back his head and, gazing up at the beams of the ceiling, said: ‘It’s the other criminal, dear Sire, who’s defying you most contemptuously. Bishop Orleton organized the whole thing himself and seems to fear you so little that he has not even taken the trouble to fly or go into hiding.’
Edward looked at Hugh the Younger with gratitude and admiration. How could one not be moved by that profile, by the fine attitudes he struck when speaking, by that high, well-modulated voice, and that way, at once so tender and respectful, of saying ‘dear Sire’, in the French manner, as sweet Gaveston, whom the barons and bishops had killed, used to do? But Edward had learned from experience, he knew how wicked men were and that you never won by coming to terms. He was determined never to be separated from Hugh, and all who opposed him would be pitilessly struck down, one after the other.
‘I announce to you, my lords, that Bishop Orleton will be brought before my Parliament to be tried and sentenced.’
Edward crossed his arms and looked round to see the effect of his words. The Archdeacon-Chancellor and the Bishop-Treasurer, though they were Orleton’s worst enemies, looked disapproving for they could not help standing by members of the cloth.
Henry Crouchback, who was by nature a wise and moderate man, could not help making an effort to bring the King back to the path of reason. He observed calmly that a bishop could be brought only before an ecclesiastical court consisting of his peers.
‘Everything has to have a beginning, Leicester. Conspiracy against Kings is not, so far as I know, taught by the Holy Gospels. Since Orleton has forgotten what should be rendered to Caesar, Caesar will remind him of it. Another favour I owe your family, Madame,’ the King went on, addressing Isabella, ‘since it was your brother Philippe V who, against my will, had Adam Orleton provided to the see of Hereford by his French Pope. Very well. He shall be the first prelate to be sentenced by the royal judiciary and his punishment shall be exemplary.’
‘Orleton was not originally hostile to you, Cousin,’ argued Crouchback, ‘nor would he have had any reason to become so if you had not opposed, or if your Council had not opposed, the Holy Father’s giving him the mitre. He is a man of great learning and strength of character. And you might even now perhaps, precisely because he is guilty, rally him to your support more easily by an act of clemency than by a trial at law which, among all your other difficulties, will draw upon you the anger of the clergy.’
‘Clemency, forbearance! Every time I’m scorned, provoked or betrayed, that’s all you have to say, Leicester. I was implored to spare the Baron of Wigmore, and how wrong I was to listen to that advice. You must admit that had I dealt with him as I did with your brother, the rebel would not be fleeing down the roads today.’
Crouchback shrugged his heavy shoulder and closed his eyes with an expression of weariness. How very irritating was Edward’s habit, which he considered royal, of calling the members of his family and his principal councillors by the names of their counties, addressing his cousin-german by shouting ‘Leicester’ instead of simply saying ‘my cousin’, as did everyone else including the Queen herself. And his bad taste in mentioning the execution of Thomas on every possible occasion, as if he gloried in it. Oh, what a strange man he was and what a bad king. To imagine you could behead your nearest relations and that no one resented it, to believe that mourning could be effaced by an embrace, to demand devotion from those you had wronged, and expect loyalty from everyone while you yourself were so cruelly inconstant.
‘No doubt you’re right, my lord,’ said Crouchback, ‘and since you’ve now reigned for sixteen years you must know the consequences of your actions. Hail your bishop before Parliament. I won’t stand in your way.’
And, muttering between his teeth so that no one should hear but the young Earl of Norfolk, he added: ‘My head may be set askew on my shoulders, but I’d rather keep it where it is.’
‘You must admit,’ Edward went on, his hand fluttering, ‘that it’s simply snapping his fingers at me to escape by piercing the walls of a tower I built myself especially so that no one should escape from it.’
‘Perhaps, Sire my Husband,’ the Queen said, ‘when it was building you were more preoccupied with the charms of the masons than with the solidity of the stonework.’
A sudden silence fell over the company. The insult was flagrant, and most unexpected. They all held their breath and stared, some with deference, some with hatred, at the rather fragile-looking woman who sat so upright and lonely in her chair, and held her own like this. Her lips drawn back a little and her mouth half-open, she was showing her fine little teeth; they were clenched, sharp, carnivorous. Isabella was clearly delighted with the blow she had dealt, whatever the consequences might be.
Hugh the Younger was blushing scarlet; Hugh the Elder made a pretence of not having heard.
Edward would certainly have his revenge. But what means would he adopt? The retort lagged. The Queen watched the drops of sweat pearling her husband’s brow. And nothing disgusts a woman more than the sweat of the man she has ceased to love.
‘Kent,’ cried the King, ‘I’ve made you Warden of the Cinque Ports and Governor of Dover. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on the coast you’re supposed to be guarding and from which our felon must inevitably take ship?’
‘Sire my Brother,’ said the young Earl of Kent, somewhat taken aback, ‘it was you yourself who ordered me to accompany you on your journey …’
‘Well, now I’m giving you another. Go back to your county, have the towns and countryside searched for the fugitive, and see to it personally that every ship in port is visited.’
‘Send agents on board the ships and apprehend Mortimer, dead or alive, if he embarks,’ said Hugh the Younger.
‘Sound advice, Gloucester,’ Edward approved. ‘As for you, Stapledon …’
The Bishop of Exeter stopped gnawing at his thumbnail and murmured: ‘My lord …’
‘You will make haste to London and go immediately to the Tower on the pretext of checking the Treasure, which is in your charge. Then, furnished with an order under my seal, you will take command of the Tower and supervise it till a new constable is appointed. Baldock will make out the commissions at once, so that you will have the necessary powers.’
Henry Crouchback, his eyes turned towards the window and his ear propped on his shoulder, seemed to be dreaming. He was calculating that six days had elapsed since Mortimer’s escape,
that it would take at least eight days more before these orders could be executed, and that unless he was a fool, which Mortimer most certainly was not, he must already have left the kingdom. He congratulated himself on having joined with the greater part of the bishops and lords who, after Boroughbridge, had succeeded in obtaining a reprieve for the Baron of Wigmore. For now that Mortimer had escaped, the opposition to the Despensers might well find the leader it had lacked since the death of Thomas of Lancaster, and a stronger, cleverer, and more effective leader than Thomas had been.
The King’s back bent sinuously; Edward pirouetted on his heels and came face to face with his wife.
‘What’s more, Madame, I hold you entirely responsible. And, in the first place, let go that hand you’ve been holding ever since I came into the room. Let go Lady Jeanne’s hand!’ cried Edward, stamping his foot. ‘It’s going surety for a traitor to keep his wife so ostentatiously at your side. The people who helped Mortimer to escape well knew they had the Queen’s support. Besides, you can’t escape without money. Treason has to be paid for. Walls aren’t pierced without gold. But the conduit’s evident: the Queen to her lady-in-waiting, the lady-in-waiting to the bishop, the bishop to the rebel. I shall have to look more closely into your privy purse.’
‘Sire my Husband, I think my privy purse is already sufficiently controlled,’ said Isabella, indicating Lady Despenser.
Hugh the Younger seemed suddenly to have lost interest in the discussion. The King’s anger was turning at last, as indeed it usually did, against the Queen. Edward had found an object for his vengeance, and Hugh felt all the more triumphant. He picked up a book that was lying near by and which Lady Mortimer had been reading to the Queen before the Count de Bouville had come in. It was a collection of the lays of Marie of France; the silk marker signalled this passage:
En Lorraine ni en Bourgogne,
Ni en Anjou ni en Gascogne,
En ce temps ne pouvait trouver
Si bon ni si grand chevalier.
Sous ciel n’était dame ou pucelle,
Qui tant fût noble et tant fût belle
Qui n’en voulût amour avoir …
‘France, it’s always France. She never reads anything that doesn’t relate to that country,’ Hugh thought. ‘And who’s the knight they’re dreaming of in their thoughts? Mortimer, no doubt …’
‘My lord, I do not superintend the charities,’ said Alienor Despenser.
The favourite looked up and smiled. He would congratulate his wife on that remark.
‘I foresee I shall have to give up my charities too,’ said Isabella. ‘I shall soon have no queenly prerogative left, not even that of charity.’
‘And also, Madame, for the love you bear me, of which everyone is aware,’ Edward went on, ‘you must part with Lady Mortimer, for not a soul in the kingdom will understand her being near you now.’
And now the Queen turned pale and sank back a little in her chair. Lady Jeanne’s long pale hands were trembling.
‘A wife, Edward, cannot be held responsible for all her husband’s actions. I am an example of it myself. You must believe that Lady Mortimer has as little to do with her husband’s errors as I have with your sins, supposing you commit any.’
But this time the attack was unsuccessful.
‘Lady Jeanne will leave for Wigmore Castle, which from now on will be under the supervision of my brother of Kent, and will remain there until I have decided what to do with the property of a man whose name will never again be mentioned in my presence except to sentence him to death. I believe, Lady Jeanne, that you would prefer to go to your house of your own free will rather than be taken there by force.’
‘I see,’ said Isabella, ‘that you wish me to be left utterly alone.’
‘What do you mean by alone, Madame?’ cried Hugh the Younger in his fine, well-modulated voice. ‘Are we not all your loyal friends, being the King’s? And is not Madame Alienor, my devoted wife, a faithful companion to you? That’s a pretty book you have there,’ he added, pointing to the volume, ‘and beautifully illuminated; would you be kind enough to lend it to me?’
‘Of course, of course the Queen will lend it to you,’ the King said. ‘I am sure, Madame, that you will do us the pleasure of lending the book to our friend Gloucester?’
‘Most willingly, Sire my Husband, most willingly. And I know what lending means when it’s to your friend, Lord Despenser. I lent him my pearls ten years ago and, as you can see, he’s still wearing them about his neck.’
She would not surrender, but her heart was beating wildly in her breast. From now on she would have to bear the daily insults all alone. If, one day, she found means of revenging herself, nothing would be forgotten.
Hugh the Younger put the book down on a chest and made a privy sign to his wife. The lays of Marie of France would go to join the gold buckle with lions in precious stones, the three gold crowns, the four crowns inset with rubies and emeralds, the hundred and twenty silver spoons, the thirty great platters, the ten gold goblets, the hangings of embroidered cloth of gold, the six-horsed coach, the linen, the silver bowls, the harness, the chapel ornaments, all those splendid possessions, the gifts of her father and relations, which had been her wedding presents and whose inventory had been drawn up by the good Bouville himself, before her departure for England. And now they had all passed into the hands of Edward’s favourites, first to Gaveston and now to Despenser. Even the great cloak of embroidered Turkish cloth she had worn on her wedding day had been taken from her.
‘Well, my lords,’ said the King, clapping his hands, ‘hasten to the tasks I have allotted you and may each of you do his duty.’
It was his usual phrase, another of those formulae he believed to be royal, and with which he closed the meetings of his Council. He went out and the others followed him. The room emptied.
Evening was beginning to fall over the cloister of Kirkham Priory and, with its coming, a little freshness entered by the windows. Queen Isabella and Lady Mortimer dared not say a word to each other for fear of weeping. This was the last time they would be together before being separated. Would they ever meet again, and what had fate in store for them?
Young Prince Edward, his eyes as usual on the ground, came and stood silently behind his mother, as if he wished to take the place of the friend who was being taken from her.
Lady Despenser came over to take the book that had attracted her husband’s eye. It was a beautiful book, and its velvet binding was inlaid with precious stones. She had long coveted the volume, particularly since she knew how much it had cost. As she was about to pick it up, young Prince Edward put his hand on it.
‘Oh, no, you wicked woman,’ he said, ‘you shan’t have everything!’
The Queen pushed the Prince’s hand aside, picked up the book and handed it to her enemy. Then she turned to her son with a smile of understanding that showed, once again, her little carnivore’s teeth. A boy of eleven could not be much help to her as yet; but his attitude was important, all the same, since he was the heir to the throne.
3 (#ulink_7a8abf1c-0126-5a6c-bedf-c5ffed10a78b)
Messer Tolomei has a New Customer (#ulink_7a8abf1c-0126-5a6c-bedf-c5ffed10a78b)
OLD SPINELLO TOLOMEI was in his study on the first floor. He moved the arras aside with his foot and pushed open a little wooden shutter to reveal a secret opening which enabled him to keep an eye on his clerks in the great room on the ground floor. By this judas of Florentine invention, concealed among the beams, Messer Tolomei could see everything that went on below, and hear everything that was said.
At the moment his bank and trading-house appeared to be in considerable confusion. The flames of the three-branched candelabra were flickering on the counters, and his employees had ceased moving the brass balls on the abaci by which they kept the accounts. An ell cloth-measure fell with a clatter to the flagstones; the scales dipped on the money-changers’ tables, though no one was touching them. The customers had all turned towards the door, and the senior clerks were standing with their hands to their chests, making ready to bow.
Messer Tolomei smiled; from the general disturbance he guessed that the Count of Artois had entered his establishment. An instant later, he saw through the spy-hole a huge chaperon with a red-velvet crest, red gloves, red boots with ringing spurs, and a scarlet cloak that hung from the shoulders of a giant. Only Monseigneur Robert of Artois had this peculiarly shattering way of making an entrance. He set the staff trembling with terror; he tweaked the women’s breasts in passing, while their husbands dared make no move; and it seemed as if he could set even the walls quaking merely by drawing breath.
However, the old banker was not particularly impressed. He had known the Count of Artois much too long and had watched him too often. And now, as he looked down on him from above, he was aware of how exaggerated, forced and ostentatious this great lord’s manner was. Monseigneur of Artois behaved like an ogre because nature had endowed him with exceptional physical proportions. In fact he was a cunning and crafty man. And Tolomei held Robert’s accounts.
The banker was more interested in the personage accompanying Artois. This was a lord dressed entirely in black; there was an air of assurance about him, though his manner seemed distant, reserved and somewhat haughty. At first sight Tolomei judged him to be a man of considerable force of character.
The two visitors stopped at the counter displaying arms and harness. Monseigneur of Artois’s huge red glove moved among the daggers, stilettos and the patterns of sword-hilts, turned over the saddle-cloths, the stirrups, the curved bits, the scalloped, pinked and embroidered reins. The shopman would have a good hour’s work to put his counter in order again. Robert selected a pair of Toledo spurs with long rowels; the shanks were high and curved outwards to protect the Achilles tendon when the foot exerted a violent pressure against the horse’s flank; a sound invention and certainly of great use in tournaments. The side-pieces were decorated with flowers and ribbons with the device ‘Conquer’ graven in round letters in the gilded steel.
‘I make you a present of them, my lord,’ said the giant to the gentleman in black. ‘The only thing that’s missing is a lady to buckle them to your feet. But she won’t be missing for long; the ladies of France are soon aroused by people from abroad. You can get anything you want here,’ he went on, with a wave at the shop. ‘My friend Tolomei, a master usurer and a fox in business, will supply you with everything you need. I’ve never yet known him fail to produce anything one asks of him. Do you want to present your chaplain with a chasuble? He has thirty to choose from. A ring for your mistress? He has chests full of stones. Scenting the girls before pleasuring them? He’ll provide you with a musk straight from the markets of the Orient. Are you in search of a relic? He has three cupboards full. And what’s more, he sells gold to buy it all. He has currency minted in every corner of Europe, and you can see the exchanges marked up on those slates there. He sells figures, that’s what he really sells: farming profits, interest on loans, revenues from fiefs. There are clerks adding and checking behind all those little doors. What would we do without this man who grows rich on our inability to count? Let’s go up to his room.’
The steps of the wooden corkscrew staircase were soon creaking under the weight of the Count of Artois. Messer Tolomei closed the spy-hole and let the arras fall back into place.
The room the two lords entered was sombrely, heavily and sumptuously furnished; there were massive pieces of silver plate, while figured tapestries muffled every sound. It smelt of candles, incense, spices and medicinal herbs. All the scents of a lifetime seemed to have accumulated among the rich furnishings.
The banker came forward. Robert of Artois, who had not seen him for many weeks – indeed, for almost three months during which he had had to accompany his cousin, the King of France, first into Normandy at the end of August, and then into Anjou for the whole autumn – thought the Sienese was looking older. His white hair was thinner and fell more sparsely over the collar of his robe; time had set its crow’s-feet on his face and, indeed, his cheekbones looked as if they had been marked by a bird’s feet; his jowls had fallen and swung beneath his chin; his chest seemed narrower and his stomach more protuberant; his nails, which were cut short, were splitting. Only his left eye, Messer Tolomei’s famous left eye, which was always three-quarters shut, still lent his face an expression of cunning and vivacity. But the other eye, the open eye, seemed a little absent, a little weary and inattentive, as if he were worn out and less concerned now with the exterior world than with the disorders of his old and exhausted body which was nearing its end.
‘Friend Tolomei,’ cried Robert of Artois, taking off his gloves and throwing them, a pool of blood, on to a table. ‘Friend Tolomei, I’m bringing you another fortune!’
The banker waved his visitors into chairs.
‘How much is it going to cost me, Monseigneur?’ he replied.
‘Come on, come on, banker,’ said Robert of Artois, ‘have I ever made you make a bad investment?’
‘Never, Monseigneur, never I admit it. Payment has sometimes been a little overdue, but in the end, since God has vouchsafed me a fairly long life, I have been able to gather in the fruits of the confidence with which you have honoured me. But just think, Monseigneur, what would have happened had I died, as so many people do, at fifty? Thanks to you, I should have died ruined.’
This sally amused Robert of Artois whose smile, spreading widely across his face, revealed strong but very dirty teeth.
‘Have you ever incurred a loss through me?’ he said. ‘Do you remember how I once made you wager on Monseigneur of Valois against Enguerrand de Marigny? And look where Charles of Valois is today, and how Marigny ended his wicked life. And haven’t I paid you back every penny you advanced me for my war in Artois? I’m grateful to you, banker, yes, I’m grateful to you for having always supported me even when I was in my greatest difficulties. For I was overwhelmed with debts at one time,’ he went on, turning to the gentleman in black. ‘I had no lands but the county of Beaumont-le-Roger, and the Treasury refused to pay me its revenues. My amiable cousin, Philippe the Long – may God keep his soul in some hell or other! – had imprisoned me in the Châtelet. Well, this banker here, my lord, this usurer, this greatest rogue of all the rogues Lombardy has ever produced, this man who would take a child in its mother’s womb in pawn, never abandoned me. And that’s why as long as he lives, and he’ll live a long time yet …’
Messer Tolomei put out the first and little fingers of his right hand and touched the wood of the table.
‘Oh, yes, you will, Master Usurer, you’ll live a long time yet, I’m telling you … Well, that’s why this man will always be a friend of mine, and that’s on the faith of Robert of Artois. And he made no mistake, for today I’m the son-in-law of Monseigneur of Valois; I sit in the King’s Council; and I’m in full possession of the revenues of my county. Messer Tolomei, the great lord I’ve brought to see you is Lord Mortimer, Baron of Wigmore.’
‘Who escaped from the Tower of London on August the first,’ said the banker, making an inclination of the head. ‘A great honour, my lord, a great honour.’
‘What do you mean?’ Artois cried. ‘Do you know about it?’
‘Monseigneur,’ said Tolomei, ‘the Baron of Wigmore is too important a personage for us not to have been informed. I even know, my lord, that when King Edward issued the order to his coastal sheriffs to find you and arrest you, you were already embarked and out of reach of English justice. I know that when he had all the ships sailing for Ireland searched, and seized every courier landing from France, your friends not only in London but in all England already knew of your safe arrival at the house of your cousin-german, Messire Jean de Fiennes, in Picardy. And I know, too, that when King Edward ordered Messire de Fiennes to deliver you up, threatening to confiscate all his lands beyond the Channel, that lord, who is a great supporter and partisan of Monseigneur Robert, immediately sent you on to him. I cannot say that I was expecting you, my lord, but I was hoping you would come; for Monseigneur of Artois is, as he has told you, faithful to me and always thinks of me when a friend of his is in difficulties.’
Roger Mortimer had listened to the banker with great attention. ‘I see, Messer,’ he replied, ‘that the Lombards have good spies at the Court of England.’
‘They are at your service, my lord. You must know that King Edward is very heavily in debt to our companies. When you have money outstanding, you watch it. And for a long time past your King has ceased to honour his seal, at least as far as we’re concerned. He wrote to us through Monseigneur, the Bishop of Exeter, his Treasurer, that the poor receipts from taxes, the heavy expenses of his wars and the intrigues of his barons did not allow of his doing better by us. And yet the duty he places on our merchandise, in the Port of London alone, should suffice to discharge his debt.’
A servant brought hippocras and sugared almonds, which were always offered to visitors of importance. Tolomei poured the aromatic wine into goblets, helping himself to no more than one finger of the liquor to which he barely put his lips.
‘At the moment, the French Treasury seems to be in a better state than that of England,’ he added. ‘Is it known yet, Monseigneur Robert, what the figures for the year are likely to be?’
‘Provided there’s no sudden calamity during the month to run – plague, famine, or, indeed, the marriage or funeral of one of our royal relations – there’ll be a surplus of twelve thousand livres, according to the figures Messire Mille de Noyers, Master of the Exchequer, placed before us at the Council this morning. Twelve thousand livres to the good! The Treasury was certainly never in so healthy a state during the reigns of Philippe IV and V – may God put a term to the list of them!’
‘How do you manage to have surplus at the Treasury, Monseigneur?’ Mortimer asked. ‘Is it due to the absence of war?’
‘On the one hand to the absence of war and, on the other, to the fact that war is continually being prepared, but is never in fact being waged. Not to put too fine a point on it – the crusade. I must say, Charles of Valois uses the crusade to fabulous advantage. But don’t go thinking I look on him as a bad Christian. He is extremely concerned to deliver Armenia from the Turks, indeed just as much as he is to re-establish the Empire of Constantinople, whose crown he once wore though he was never able actually to occupy the throne. But a crusade cannot be organized in a day. You have to arm ships and forge weapons; above all, you have to find the crusaders, to negotiate with Spain and Germany. And the first step must be always to obtain a tithe on the clergy from the Pope. My dear father-in-law has obtained that tithe and, at the moment, the Treasury is being subsidized by the Pope.’
‘That interests me very much, Monseigneur,’ said Tolomei. ‘You see, I’m the Pope’s banker – to the extent, at least, of a quarter share with the Bardi, but even a quarter share is a very large sum – and if the Pope should become impoverished …’
Artois, who was taking a big gulp of hippocras, exploded into the silver goblet and made signs that he was choking.
‘Impoverished, the Holy Father!’ he cried as soon as he had swallowed the wine. ‘He’s worth hundreds of thousands of florins. There’s a man who could teach you your business, Spinello! What a banker he’d have made, had he not entered the priesthood. For he found the papal treasury emptier than was my pocket six years ago …’
‘I know, I know,’ Tolomei murmured.
‘The fact is, you see, the priests are the best tax-collectors God ever put on earth, and Monseigneur of Valois has grasped that fact. Instead of being ruthless about the taxes, whose collectors are hated anyway, he makes the priests collect the tithe. Oh, we shall set out on a crusade, one of these days. But, meantime, the Pope pays by shearing his sheep.’
Tolomei was gently rubbing his right leg; for some time past he had felt a sensation of cold in it, and some pain in walking.
‘You were saying, Monseigneur, that a Council was held this morning. Was anything of particular interest decided on?’ he asked.
‘Oh, just the usual stuff. We discussed the price of candles and forbade the mixing of tallow with wax, and the mingling of old jam with new. For all merchandise sold in wrappers, the weight of the wrappers is to be deducted and not included in the price. But this is all to please the common people and show them we have their interests at heart.’
Tolomei listened and watched his two visitors. They both seemed to him very young. How old was Robert of Artois? Thirty-five, thirty-six? And the Englishman seemed much the same age. Everyone under sixty seemed to him astonishingly young. How much they still had to do, how many emotions still to suffer, battles to fight and ambitions to realize. How many mornings they would see that he would never know. How often these two men would awaken and breathe the air of a new day, when he himself was under the ground.
And what kind of man was Lord Mortimer? The clear-cut face, the thick eyebrows, the straight line of the eyelids across the flint-coloured eyes, the sombre clothes, the way he crossed his arms, the silent, haughty assurance of a man who had sat on the pinnacle of power and intended to preserve all his dignity in exile, even the automatic gesture with which Mortimer ran his finger across the short white scar on his lip, all pleased the old Sienese. And Tolomei felt he would like this lord to recover his happiness. For some time past, Tolomei had acquired almost a taste for thinking of others.
‘Are the regulations concerning the export of currency to be promulgated in the near future, Monseigneur?’ he asked.
Robert of Artois hesitated before replying.
‘Oh, of course, I don’t suppose you’ve been told yet …’ Tolomei added.
‘Of course, naturally I’ve been told. You very well know that nothing is done without my advice being asked by the King, and by Monseigneur of Valois above all. The order will be sealed in two days’ time. No one will be permitted to export gold or silver currency stamped with the die of France from the kingdom. Only pilgrims will be allowed to provide themselves with a few small coins.’
The banker pretended to attach no greater importance to this piece of news than he had to the price of candles or the adulteration of jam. But he was already thinking: ‘That means foreign currency will alone be permitted to be taken out of the kingdom; as a result, it will increase in value … What a help these blabbers are to us in our profession. How the boasters give us for so little the information they could sell so dear.’
‘So, my lord,’ he went on, turning to Mortimer, ‘you intend to establish yourself in France? What can I provide?’
It was Robert who replied.
‘What a great Lord needs to maintain his rank. You’re accustomed enough to that, Tolomei.’
The banker rang a handbell. He told the servant to bring his great book, and added: ‘If Messer Boccaccio has not left, ask him to wait till I’m free.’
The book was brought, a thick volume covered in black leather, smooth from much handling, and its vellum leaves held together by adjustable fastenings so that more leaves could be added as desired. This device enabled Messer Tolomei to keep the accounts of his important clients in alphabetical order and not to have to search for scattered pages. The banker placed the volume on his knees, and opened it with some ceremony.
‘You’ll find yourself in good company, my lord,’ he said. ‘Look, honour where honour is due, my book begins with the Count of Artois. You’ve a great many pages, Monseigneur,’ he added with a little laugh, looking at Robert. ‘Here’s the Count de Bouville for his missions to the Pope and to Naples. And here’s Madame the Queen Clémence …’
The banker inclined his head in deference.
‘Oh, she gave us a lot of anxiety after the death of Louis X: it was as if mourning put her in a frenzy of spending. The Holy Father himself exhorted her to moderation in a special letter, and she had to pawn her jewels with me to pay off her debts. Now she’s living in the Palace of the Templars which she exchanged against the Castle of Vincennes; she gets her dowry and seems to have found peace.’
He went on turning over the pages which rustled under his hand.
‘And now I’m boasting,’ he thought. ‘But one must do something to emphasize the importance of the services one renders, and to show that one’s not dazzled by a new borrower.’
He had a clever way of letting them see the names while concealing the figures with his arm. He was only being half-indiscreet. And, after all, he had to admit that his whole life was contained in this book, and that he enjoyed every opportunity of looking through it. Each name, each figure evoked so many memories, so many intrigues, so many secrets of which he had been the recipient, and so many entreaties by which he had been able to measure his power. Each figure commemorated a visit, a letter, a clever deal, a feeling of sympathy or one of harshness towards a negligent debtor. It was nearly fifty years since Spinello Tolomei, on his arrival from Siena, had begun by doing the rounds of the fairs of Champagne, and then come to live here, in the Rue des Lombards, to keep a bank.
Another page, and another, which caught in his broken nails. A black line was drawn through a name.
‘Here’s Messer Dante Alighieri, the poet, but only for a small sum, when he came to Paris to visit Queen Clémence after she had become a widow. He was a great friend of hers, as he had been of King Charles of Hungary, Madame Clémence’s father. I remember him sitting in your chair, my lord. A man without a spark of kindness. He was the son of a money-changer; and he talked to me for a whole hour with great contempt of the financier’s trade. But he could afford to be ill-natured and go off and get drunk with women in houses of ill-fame, while talking of his pure love for the Lady Beatrice. He made our language sing as no one before him has ever done. And how he described the Inferno, my lord! You have not read it? Oh, you must have it translated. One trembles to think that it may perhaps be like that. Do you know that in Ravenna, where Messer Dante spent his last years, the people used to scatter from his path in fear because they thought he really had gone down into Hell? And, even now, many people refuse to believe that he died two years ago, for they say he was a magician and could not die. He certainly didn’t like banking, nor indeed Monseigneur of Valois who exiled him from Florence.’
The whole time he was talking of Dante, Tolomei was putting out his two fingers again and touching the wood of his chair.
‘There, that’s where you’ll be, my lord,’ he went on, making a mark in his big book; ‘immediately after Monseigneur de Marigny; but be reassured, not the one who was hanged and whom Monseigneur of Artois mentioned a little while ago. No, his brother, the Bishop of Beauvais. From today you have a credit with me of ten thousand livres. You can draw on it at your convenience, and look on my modest house as your own. Cloth, arms, jewels, you will find every kind of goods you may require at my counters and can charge them against this credit.’
He was carrying on his trade by habit; lending people the wherewithal to buy what he sold.
‘And what about your lawsuit against your aunt, Monseigneur? Are you thinking of taking it up again, now that you’re so powerful?’ he asked Robert of Artois.
‘I most certainly shall, but at the right time,’ the giant replied, getting to his feet. ‘There’s no hurry, and I’ve learnt that too much haste is a bad thing. I’m letting my dear aunt grow older; I’m leaving her to exhaust herself in small lawsuits against her vassals, make new enemies every day by her chicanery, and put her castles, which I treated a bit roughly on my last visit to her lands – which are really mine – into order again. She’s beginning to realize what it costs her to hold on to my property. She had to lend Monseigneur of Valois fifty thousand livres which she’ll never see again, for they went to make up my wife’s dowry, and incidentally enabled me to pay you off. So, you see, she’s not quite so noxious a woman as people say, the bitch! I merely take care not to see too much of her, she’s so fond of me she might spoil me with one of those sweet dishes from which so many people in her entourage have died. But I shall have my county, banker, I shall have it, you can be sure of that. And on that day, as I’ve promised you, you shall become my treasurer.’
Messer Tolomei showed his visitors out, walking down the stairs behind them with some prudence, and accompanied them to the door that gave on to the Rue des Lombards. When Roger Mortimer asked him what interest he was charging on the money he was lending him, the banker waved the question aside.
‘Merely do me the pleasure,’ he said, ‘of coming up to see me when you have business with the bank. I am sure there is much in which you can instruct me, my lord.’
A smile accompanied the words, and the left eyelid rose a little to reveal a brief glance that implied: ‘We’ll talk alone, not in front of blabbers.’
The cold November wind blowing in from the street made the old man shiver a little. Then, as soon as the door was closed, Tolomei went behind his counters into a little waiting-room where he found Boccaccio, the travelling representative of the Bardi Company.
‘Friend Boccaccio,’ he said, ‘today and tomorrow buy all the English, Dutch and Spanish currency you can, all the Italian florins, doubloons, ducats, and foreign money you can find; offer a denier, even two deniers, above the present rate of exchange. Within three days they’ll have increased in value by a quarter. Every traveller will have to come to us for foreign currency, since they’ll be forbidden to export French gold. I’ll go halves with you on the profits.’
Having a pretty good idea of how much foreign gold was available and adding it to what he already had in his coffers, Tolomei calculated that the operation would make him a profit of from fifteen to twenty thousand livres. He had just lent ten thousand and would therefore make about double his loan. With the profits he could make further loans. Mere routine.
When Boccaccio congratulated him on his ability and, turning the compliment in his thin-lipped, bourgeois, Florentine way, said that it was not in vain that the Lombard companies in Paris had chosen Messer Spinello Tolomei for their Captain-General, the old man replied: ‘Oh, after fifty years in the business, I no longer deserve any credit for it; it’s simply second nature. If I were really clever, do you know what I would have done? I’d have bought up your reserves of florins and kept all the profit for myself. But when you come to think of it, what use would it be to me? You’ll learn, Boccaccio, you’re still very young …’
Boccaccio had sons who were already grey at the temples.
‘You reach an age when you have a feeling of working to no purpose if you’re merely working for yourself. I miss my nephew. And yet his difficulties are more or less resolved; I’m sure that he’d be running no risk if he came back now. But that young devil of a Guccio refuses to come; he’s being stubborn, from pride I think. And, in the evening, when the clerks have left and the servants gone to bed, this big house seems very empty. I sometimes regret Siena.’
‘Your nephew ought to have done what I did, Spinello,’ said Boccaccio, ‘when I found myself in a similar difficulty with a woman of Paris. I removed my son and took him to Italy.’
Messer Tolomei shook his head and thought how melancholy a house was without children. Guccio’s son must be seven by now; and Tolomei had never seen him. The mother refused to allow it.
The banker rubbed his right leg which felt heavy and cold; he had pins and needles in it. Over the years, death began to catch up with you, little by little, taking you by the feet. Presently, before going to bed, he would send for a basin of hot water and put his leg in it.
4 (#ulink_9a7beeb2-fcb4-5081-88cb-fc246d72438f)
The False Crusade (#ulink_9a7beeb2-fcb4-5081-88cb-fc246d72438f)
‘MONSEIGNEUR OF MORTIMER, I shall have great need of brave and gallant knights such as you for my crusade,’ declared Charles of Valois. ‘You will think me very vain to say my crusade when in truth it is Our Lord’s, but I must confess, and everyone will recognize the fact, that if this vast enterprise, the greatest and most glorious to which the Christian nations can be summoned, takes place, it will be because I shall have organized it with my own hands. And so, Monseigneur of Mortimer, I ask you straight out, and with that frankness you will learn to recognize as natural to me: will you join me?’
Roger Mortimer sat up straight in his chair; he frowned a little and lowered his lids over his flint-coloured eyes. Was he being merely offered the command of a banner of twenty knights, like some little country noble or some soldier of fortune stranded here by the mischances of fate? The proposal was mere charity.
It was the first time Mortimer had been received by the Count of Valois, who till now had always been busy with his duties in Council, or receiving foreign ambassadors, or travelling about the kingdom. But now, at last, Mortimer was face to face with the man who ruled France, who had that very day appointed one of his protégés, Jean de Cherchemont, as the new Chancellor,
and on whom his own fate depended. For Mortimer’s situation, undoubtedly enviable for a man who had been condemned to prison for life, though painful for a great lord, was that of an exile who had nothing to offer and was reduced to begging and hoping.
The interview was taking place in what had once been the King of Sicily’s palace, which Charles of Valois had received from his first father-in-law, Charles the Lame of Naples, as a wedding present. There were some dozen people in the great audience chamber, equerries, courtiers, secretaries, all talking quietly in little groups, frequently turning their eyes towards their master, who was giving audience, like a real sovereign, seated on a sort of throne surmounted by a canopy. Monseigneur of Valois was dressed in a long indoor robe of blue velvet, embroidered with lilies and capital V’s, which parted in front to show a fur lining. His hands were laden with rings; he wore his private seal, which was carved from a precious stone, hanging from his belt by a gold chain; and on his head was a velvet cap of maintenance held in place by a chased circlet of gold, a sort of undress crown. Among his entourage were his eldest son, Philippe of Valois, a strapping fellow with a long nose, who was leaning on the back of the throne, and his son-in-law, Robert of Artois, who was sitting on a stool, his huge red-leather boots stretched out in front of him. A tree-trunk was burning on the hearth near by.
‘Monseigneur,’ Mortimer said slowly, ‘if the help of a man who is first among the barons of the Welsh Marches, who has governed the Kingdom of Ireland and has commanded in a number of battles, can be of help to you, I willingly give you my aid in defence of Christianity, and my blood is at your service from this moment.’
Valois realized that here was a proud man, who spoke of his fiefs in the Marches as if he still held them, and that he must treat him tactfully if he wished to make use of him.
‘I have the honour, my lord,’ he replied, ‘to see arrayed under the banner of the King of France, or rather mine, since it has been arranged that my nephew shall continue to govern the kingdom while I command the crusade, to see arrayed, I say, the leading sovereign princes of Europe: my cousin Jean of Luxemburg, King of Bohemia, my brother-in-law Robert of Naples and Sicily, my cousin Alfonso of Spain, as well as the Republics of Genoa and Venice who, at the Holy Father’s request, will give us the support of their galleys. You will be in no bad company, my lord, and I shall see to it that everyone gives you the respect and honour due to the great lord you are. France, from which your ancestors sprung and which gave birth to your mother, will make sure that your deserts are better recognized than they appear to be in England.’
Mortimer bowed in silence. Whatever this assurance might be worth, he would see that it came to more than mere words.
‘For it is fifty years and more,’ went on Monseigneur of Valois, ‘since anything of importance was done by Europe in the service of God; to be precise, since my grandfather Saint Louis who, if he won his way to Heaven by it, lost his life in the process. Encouraged by our absence, the Infidels have raised their heads and believe themselves masters everywhere; they ravage the coasts, pillage ships, hinder trade and, by their mere presence, profane the Holy Places. And what have we done? Year after year we have retreated from all our possessions and establishments; we have abandoned the castles we built and have neglected to defend the sacred rights we had acquired. And this has all happened as a result of the suppression of the Templars, of which my elder brother – peace to his soul, though in this I never approved him – was the instrument. But those times are past. At the beginning of this year, delegates from Lesser Armenia came to ask our help against the Turks. I give grateful thanks to my nephew, King Charles IV, for his understanding of the importance of this appeal and for giving his support to the steps I then took. Indeed, he now believes the idea to have been originally his. Anyway, it is most satisfactory that he should now have faith in it. And so, as soon as our own forces have been assembled, we shall go to attack the Saracens in their distant lands.’
Robert of Artois, who was listening to this speech for the hundredth time, nodded his head as if much impressed, while secretly amused at the enthusiasm his father-in-law displayed in explaining the greatness of his cause. Robert was well aware of what lay behind all this. He knew that, though it was indeed the intention to attack the Turks, the Christians were to be jostled a little on the way; for the Emperor Andronicos Paleologos, who reigned in Byzantium, was not so far as one knew the champion of Mahomet. No doubt his Church was not altogether the true one, and it made the sign of the Cross a bit askew; nevertheless, it did make the sign of the Cross. But Monseigneur of Valois was still pursuing his idea of reconstructing to his own advantage the fabulous Empire of Constantinople, which extended not only over the Byzantine territories, but over Cyprus, Rhodes, Armenia, and all the old kingdoms of the Courtenays and the Lusignans. And when Count Charles arrived there with all his banners, Andronicos Paleologos, from what one heard, would not be able to put up much of a defence. Monseigneur of Valois’s head was full of the dreams of a Caesar.
It was remarkable, also, that he always indulged in a system which consisted of asking for the maximum so as to obtain a little. In this way he had tried to exchange his command of the crusade and his pretensions to the throne of Constantinople against the little kingdom of Arles by the Rhône on condition that Viennois was added to it. He had negotiated with Jean of Luxemburg about this at the beginning of the year; but the transaction had come to nothing owing to the opposition of the Count of Savoy, and that of the King of Naples who, since he owned lands in Provence, had no wish to see his turbulent relative create an independent kingdom for himself on the borders of his states. So Monseigneur of Valois had resumed plans for the holy expedition with more enthusiasm than ever. It was clear that he would have to go in search of the sovereign crown, which had eluded his grasp in Spain, in Germany, and even in Arles, at the farther ends of the earth. But though Robert knew all these things it would have been unwise to mention them.
‘Of course, all the difficulties have not yet been overcome,’ went on Monseigneur of Valois. ‘We are still in negotiation with the Holy Father over the number of knights and how much they shall be paid. We want eight thousand knights and thirty thousand footmen, and each baron to receive twenty sols a day and each knight ten; seven sols and six deniers for the squires and two sols for the footmen. Pope John wants me to limit my army to four thousand knights and fifteen thousand footmen; he has, nevertheless, promised me twelve armed galleys. He has given us the tithe, but is looking askance at twelve hundred thousand livres a year, during the five years the crusade will last, which is the sum we are asking, and above all at the four hundred thousand livres the King of France requires for ancillary expenses.’
‘Of which three hundred thousand are to be paid to the good Charles of Valois himself,’ thought Robert of Artois. ‘At that price it’s worth while commanding a crusade. But to cavil at it would be unbecoming, since I shall get my share of it.’
‘Oh, if I had only been at Lyons in the place of my late nephew Philippe during the last conclave,’ cried Valois, ‘I should have chosen a cardinal – though I wish to say nothing against the Holy Father – who understood more clearly the true interests of Christianity and did not require so much persuading.’
‘Particularly since we hanged his nephew at Montfaucon last May,’ observed Robert of Artois.
Mortimer turned in his chair and looked at Robert of Artois in surprise. ‘A nephew of the Pope? What nephew?’
‘Do you mean to say you don’t know about it, Cousin?’ said Robert of Artois, taking the opportunity to get to his feet, for he found it difficult to remain still for long. He went over to the hearth and kicked the logs.
Mortimer had already ceased to be ‘my lord’ to him and had become ‘my Cousin’, on account of a distant relationship they had discovered through the Fiennes family; soon he would become simply ‘Roger’.
‘Do you mean to say,’ he went on, ‘that you have not heard of the splendid adventures of the noble lord, Jourdain de l’Isle, so noble and so powerful that the Holy Father gave him his niece in marriage? And yet, when I come to think of it, how could you have heard about it? You were in prison at the time through the good offices of your friend Edward. Oh, it was a little affair that would have made much less stir had it not been for the fellow’s alliances. This Jourdain, a Gascon lord, had committed a few minor misdeeds, such as robbery, homicide, rape, deflowering virgins and a little buggery with the young men into the bargain. The King, at the request of Pope John, agreed to pardon him, and even restored his property to him on a promise of reform. Reform? Jourdain returned to his fief and we soon heard that he had begun all over again, and worse than ever, that he was keeping thieves, murderers and other bad hats about him, who plundered priests and laymen for his benefit. A King’s sergeant, carrying his lilied staff, was sent to arrest him. Do you know how Jourdain received the sergeant? He had him seized, beaten with the royal staff and, just to complete things, impaled on it, of which the man died.’
Robert uttered a loud laugh that made the window-panes rattle in their leads. How gaily Monseigneur of Artois laughed, and how, in his heart of hearts, he approved, even envied, except for his sad end, Messire Jourdain de l’Isle. He would have liked to have had him for a friend.
‘One really does not know which was the greater crime,’ he went on, ‘to have killed an officer of the King, or to have befouled the lilies with a sergeant’s guts! For his deserts, my lord Jourdain was judged worthy to be strung up to the gibbet at Montfaucon. He was taken there with great ceremony, being dragged at the horse’s tail, and was hanged in the robes with which his uncle, the Pope, had presented him. You can still see him in them should you happen to pass that way. They have become a little too big for him now.’
And Robert began laughing again, his head thrown back, his thumbs in his belt. His amusement was so sincere and infectious that Roger Mortimer began laughing too. And Valois was laughing, and his son Philippe. The courtiers at the farther end of the room gazed at them with curiosity.
One of the blessings of our lot is to be ignorant of our end. And these four great barons were right to seize any opportunity to be amused; for one of them would be dead within two years; and another had but seven years to wait, almost to the day, to be dragged to execution in his turn at the horse’s tail through the streets of a town.
Laughing together had made them feel more friendly towards each other. Mortimer suddenly had the feeling that he had been admitted to Valois’s inner circle of power, and felt a little more at ease. He glanced sympathetically at Monseigneur Charles’s face; it was a broad, high-coloured face, the face of a man who ate too much and whom the duties of his position deprived of the opportunity of taking enough exercise. Mortimer had not seen Valois since various meetings long ago: once in England during the celebrations for Queen Isabella’s marriage, and a second time, in 1313, when he had accompanied the English sovereigns to Paris to pay their first homage. And all this, which seemed but yesterday, was already in the distant past. Monseigneur of Valois, who had been a young man then, had since become this massive and imposing personage; and Mortimer himself had lived, on the best expectation of life, half his allotted span, if God willed that he should not be killed in battle, drowned at sea or die by the axe of Edward’s executioner. To have reached the age of thirty-seven was already a long span of life, particularly when you were surrounded by so many jealousies and enemies, when you had risked your life in tournaments and in war, and spent eighteen months in the dungeons of the Tower. Clearly, he must not waste his time, nor neglect opportunities for adventure. The idea of a crusade was beginning to interest Roger Mortimer after all.
‘And when will your ships sail, Monseigneur?’ he asked.
‘In eighteen months’ time, I think,’ replied Valois, ‘I shall send a third embassy to Avignon to make a definite arrangement about the subsidies, the bulls of indulgences, and the order of battle.’
‘It will be a splendid expedition, Monseigneur of Mortimer, in which the people one sees about at courts, who talk so much and so valiantly of war, will be able to show what they can do outside the tournament ground,’ said Philippe of Valois, who had so far not uttered a word and now blushed a little.
Charles of Valois’s eldest son was already imagining the swelling sails of galleys, landings on distant shores, the banners, the knights, the shock of the heavy French cavalry charging the Infidel, the Crescent trampled beneath the horses’ hooves, Saracen girls captured in the secret depths of palaces and beautiful naked slaves in chains. And nothing was going to prevent Philippe of Valois from slaking his desires on those buxom wenches. His wide nostrils were already distending. For Jeanne the Lame would remain in France. He loved his wife, of course, but could not help trembling in her presence, for her jealousy burst out into furious scenes whenever he so much as looked at another woman’s breast. Oh, this sister of Marguerite of Burgundy had a far from easy character! And, indeed, it can so happen that one may love one’s wife and yet be impelled by the forces of nature to desire other women. It would need a crusade at least for tall Philippe to dare to deceive his lame wife.
Mortimer sat up a little straighter and pulled at his black tunic. He wanted to turn the conversation to his own affairs, which had nothing to do with the crusade.
‘Monseigneur,’ he said to Charles of Valois, ‘you can count on me to march in your ranks, but I have come also to ask of you …’
The word was said. The ex-Justiciar of Ireland had uttered that word without which no petitioner can hope to receive anything and without which no powerful man accords his support. To ask, to seek, to pray … But there was no need for him to say anything more.
‘I know, I know,’ replied Charles of Valois; ‘my son-in-law, Robert, has informed me. You want me to plead your case with King Edward. Well, my loyal friend …’
Because he had ‘asked,’ he had suddenly become a friend.
‘Well, I shall not do it, for it would serve no purpose, except to expose me to further insult. Do you know the answer your King Edward sent me by the Count de Bouville? Yes, you must of course be aware of it. And when the licence for the marriage had already been asked of the Holy Father! What sort of figure does he make me cut? And do you really expect me, after that, to ask him to restore your lands to you, give you back your titles, and dismiss, for the one implies the other, those shameless Despensers of his?’
‘And at the same time, to restore to Queen Isabella …’
‘My poor niece!’ cried Valois. ‘I know, my loyal friend, I know it all. Do you think that I or the King of France can make King Edward change both his morals and his ministers? Nevertheless, you must be aware that he sent the Bishop of Rochester to demand that we hand you over. And we refused. We refused even to give the Bishop audience. This is the first affront I have been able to offer Edward in exchange for his. We are linked to each other, Monseigneur of Mortimer, by the outrages that have been inflicted on us. And if either of us has an opportunity of revenge, I can promise you, my dear Lord, that we shall avenge ourselves jointly.’
Mortimer, though he gave no sign, felt an overwhelming despair. The audience, from which Robert of Artois had promised him such wonderful results – ‘My father-in-law Charles can do anything; if he likes you, and he undoubtedly will, you can be sure of gaining the day; if necessary he’ll bring the Pope in on your side …’ – seemed to be over. And what had it achieved? Nothing at all. Merely the promise of some vague command in the land of the Saracens, in eighteen months’ time. Roger Mortimer was already considering leaving Paris and going to see the Pope; and if he could get nothing out of him, then he would go to the Emperor of Germany. Oh, how bitter were the disappointments of exile. His uncle of Chirk had forewarned him.
It was then that Robert of Artois broke the somewhat embarrassed silence by saying: ‘Charles, why should we not create the opportunity for the revenge of which you spoke just now?’
He was the only man at court who called the Count of Valois by his Christian name, having maintained the habit from the time they were mere cousins; besides, his size, strength and general truculence gave him rights no one else would have dared assume.
‘Robert is right,’ said Philippe of Valois. ‘One might, for instance, invite King Edward to the crusade, and then …’
A vague gesture completed his thought. Tall Philippe was clearly of an imaginative turn. He could see them all crossing a ford, or better still riding across the desert; they would meet a band of the Infidel, they would let Edward lead a charge and then coldly abandon him into the hands of the Saracens. That would be a fine revenge.
‘Never!’ cried Charles of Valois. ‘Never will Edward join his banners to mine! Besides, can one even think of him as a Christian prince? Indeed, it’s only the Saracens who have such morals as his!’
In spite of Valois’s indignation, Mortimer felt a certain anxiety. He knew only too well what the speeches of princes were worth, and how the enemies of yesterday became reconciled tomorrow, even if only hypocritically, when it was in their interest to do so. If it occurred to Monseigneur of Valois, so as to increase the size of his crusade, to invite Edward, and if Edward pretended to accept …
‘Even if you did invite him, Monseigneur,’ Mortimer said, ‘there’s very little likelihood of King Edward responding to your invitation; he likes wrestling but hates arms, and it was not he, I can promise you, who defeated me at Shrewsbury, but Thomas of Lancaster’s bad tactics. Edward would plead, and with reason, the danger he is in from the Scots.’
‘But I want the Scots in my crusade!’ said Valois.
Robert of Artois was knocking his huge fists impatiently together. He was utterly indifferent to the crusade and, to tell the truth, had no wish to go on it. To begin with, he was always seasick. He would undertake anything on shore, but not at sea; a new-born babe would be better at it than he was. Besides, his thoughts were concerned in the first place with the recovery of his county of Artois, and to go and wander about the ends of the earth for five years was unlikely to benefit his affairs. The throne of Constantinople was no part of his inheritance, and to find himself one day governing some desert island amid forgotten seas had no attraction for him. He had no interest in the spice trade, nor any need to go and capture Saracen women; Paris was overflowing with houris at fifty sols and of bourgeoises for even less; and Madame de Beaumont, his wife, the daughter of Monseigneur of Valois, closed her eyes to all his infidelities. It was therefore in Robert’s interest to postpone the date of the crusade as long as possible and, while pretending enthusiasm for it, to do his best to delay it. He had a plan in mind, and it was not for nothing he had brought Roger Mortimer to see his father-in-law.
‘I wonder, Charles,’ he said, ‘whether it is really wise to leave the kingdom of France deprived of its men for so long and, without either its nobility or your hand at the helm, at the mercy of the King of England, who has given so much evidence of his ill-will towards us.’
‘The castles will be provisioned, Robert; and we shall leave sufficient garrisons,’ Valois replied.
‘But without the nobility and most of the knights, and without you, I repeat, who are our one great general, who will defend the kingdom in our absence? The Constable, who is nearly seventy-five and can only remain in the saddle by a miracle? Our King Charles? If Edward, as Lord Mortimer tells us, does not much care for war, our dear cousin is still less skilled in it. Indeed, if it comes to that, what can he do except show himself fresh and smiling to the people? It would be folly to leave the field open to Edward’s sly tricks without having first weakened him by a defeat.’
‘Then let’s help the Scots,’ suggested Philippe of Valois. ‘Let’s land on their coasts and support their war. For my part, I’m ready to do so.’
Robert of Artois looked down so as not to show what he was thinking. There’d be a pretty mess if brave Philippe took command of an expedition to Scotland. The heir to the Valois had already shown his capacity in Italy, where he had been sent to support the Papal Legate against the Visconti of Milan. Philippe had arrived proudly with his banners, and had then allowed himself to be so imposed on and out-manœuvred by Galeazzo Visconti that he had, in fact, yielded everything while believing himself victorious, and had come home without even having engaged in a skirmish. One needed to beware above all of any enterprise in which he was engaged. None of which prevented Philippe of Valois being Robert’s best and closest friend, as well as his brother-in-law. But, indeed, you can think what you like of your friends, provided you don’t tell them.
Roger Mortimer had paled a little on hearing Philippe of Valois’s suggestion. For if he was King Edward’s adversary and enemy, England was nevertheless still his country.
‘For the moment,’ he said, ‘the Scots are being more or less peaceful; they appear to be respecting the treaty they imposed on Edward a year ago.’
‘But, really,’ said Robert, ‘to get to Scotland you have to cross the sea. Let’s keep our ships for the crusade. But we have better grounds on which to defy that bugger Edward. He has failed to render homage for Aquitaine. If we forced him to come and defend his rights to his duchy in France, and then went and crushed him we should, in the first place, all be avenged and, in the second, he’d stay quiet enough during our absence.’
Valois was fiddling with his rings and reflecting. Once again Robert was showing himself to be a wise counsellor. Robert’s suggestion was still vague, but already Valois was visualizing its implications. Aquitaine was far from unknown territory to him; he had campaigned there – his first, great and victorious campaign – in 1294.
‘It would undoubtedly be good training for our knights, who have not been properly to war for a long time now,’ he said; ‘and also an opportunity of trying out this gunpowder artillery the Italians are beginning to make use of and which our old friend Tolomei offers to supply us with. And the King of France can certainly sequester the Duchy of Aquitaine owing to the default in rendering homage for it.’
He thought for a moment.
‘But it won’t necessarily lead to a real campaign,’ he went on. ‘As usual, there’ll be negotiations; it’ll become a matter for parliaments and embassies. And eventually the homage will be rendered with a bad grace. It’s not really a completely safe pretext.’
Robert of Artois sat down again, his elbows on his knees, his fists supporting his chin.
‘We can find a more sure pretext than a mere failure to render homage,’ he said. ‘I have no need to inform you, Cousin Mortimer, of all the difficulties, quarrels and battles to which Aquitaine has given rise since Duchess Alienor, having made her first husband, our King Louis VII, so notorious a cuckold that their marriage was dissolved, took her wanton body and her duchy to your King Henry II of England. Nor need I tell you of the treaty with which our good King Saint Louis, who did his best to put things on an equitable basis, tried to put a term to a hundred years of war.
But equity goes for nothing in settlements between kingdoms. The treaty Monseigneur Saint Louis concluded with Henry III Plantagenet, in the Year of Grace 1259, was so confused that a cat couldn’t have found her kittens in it. Even the Seneschal de Joinville, your wife’s great-uncle, Cousin Mortimer, who was devoted to the sainted King, advised him not to sign it. Indeed, we have to admit frankly that the treaty was a piece of folly.’
Robert felt like adding: ‘As was also everything else Saint Louis did, for he was undoubtedly the most disastrous king we ever had. What with his ruinous crusades, his botched treaties, and his moral laws in which what is black in one passage is discovered to be white in another … Oh, how much happier France would have been had she been spared that reign! And yet, since Saint Louis’s death, everyone regrets him, for their recollection is at fault; they remember only how he dealt out justice under an oak and, through listening to the lies of bumpkins, wasted the time he should have been devoting to the kingdom.’
He went on: ‘Since the death of Saint Louis, there has been nothing but disputes, arguments, treaties concluded and broken, homage paid with reservations, hearings by Parliament, plaintiffs non-suited or condemned, rebellions in those lands and then further prosecutions. But when you, Charles, were sent by your brother Philip the Fair into Aquitaine,’ Robert asked, turning to Valois, ‘and so effectively restored order there, what were the actual motives given for your expedition?’
‘Serious rioting in Bayonne, where French and English sailors had come to blows and shed blood.’
‘Very well!’ cried Robert. ‘We must organize an occasion for more rioting like that of Bayonne. We must take steps to see that somewhere or other the subjects of the two Kings come to serious blows and that a few people get killed. And I believe I know the very place for it.’
He pointed his huge forefinger at them and went on: ‘In the Treaty of Paris, confirmed by the peace of 1303, and reviewed by the jurists of Périgueux in the year 1311, the case of certain lordships, which are called privileged, has always been reserved, for though they lie within the borders of Aquitaine, they owe direct allegiance to the King of France. And these lordships themselves have dependencies, vassal territories, in Aquitaine, but it has never been definitely decided whether these dependencies are subject to the King of France or to the Duke of Aquitaine. You see the point?’
‘I do,’ said Monseigneur of Valois.
His son, Philippe, did not see it. He opened wide blue eyes and his failure to understand was so obvious that his father explained: ‘It’s quite simple, my boy. Suppose I gave you, as if it were a fief, the whole of this house, but reserved to myself the use and free disposal of this room in which we are now sitting. And this room has, as a dependency, the ante-room which controls this door. Which of us enjoys rights over the ante-room and is responsible for its furnishing and cleaning? The whole plan,’ Valois added, turning back to Robert, ‘depends on being able to arrange action of sufficient importance to compel Edward to make a rejoinder.’
‘There’s a very suitable dependency,’ the giant replied, ‘in the lands of Saint-Sardos, which appertain to the Priory of Sarlat in the diocese of Périgueux. Their status was argued when Philip the Fair agreed to a Treaty of Association with the Prior of Sarlat, which made the King of France co-lord of that lordship. Edward I appealed to the Parliament of Paris, but nothing was decided.
If the King of France, as co-lord of Sarlat, builds a castle in the dependency of Saint-Sardos and puts into it a strong garrison threatening the surrounding territory, what does the King of England, as Duke of Aquitaine, do about it? He must clearly give orders to his Seneschal to oppose it, and will want to station troops there himself. And the first time a couple of soldiers meet, or an officer of the King is maltreated or even insulted …’
Robert spread wide his great hands as if the result was obvious. And Monseigneur of Valois, in his blue, gold-embroidered, velvet robes, rose from his throne. He could already see himself in the saddle, at the head of his banners; he would leave for Guyenne where, thirty years ago, he had won a great victory for the King of France.
‘I congratulate you, Brother,’ cried Philippe of Valois, ‘on the fact that so distinguished a knight as you are should also have as great a knowledge of procedure as a lawyer.’
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- Жанр: Зарубежное фэнтези, Историческая литература, Историческое фэнтези, Современная зарубежная литература
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- Объём: 430 стр. 4 иллюстрации
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- Дата выхода книги: 17 мая 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
“This is the original Game of Thrones.” George R.R. Martin.Charles IV is now king of France and his sister is Edward II of England’s Queen. Having been imprisoned by Edward as leader of the rebellious English barons, Roger Mortimer escapes to France, where he joins the war against the English Aquitaine. But it is his love affair with Isabella, the ‘She-Wolf of France’, who has come seemingly to negotiate a treaty of peace that seals his fate…
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