That day, however, his familiars looked tense and not in the mood for jokes. The pontiff received the embassy which had arrived from across the Alps and which augured nothing good. Swamped in sumptuous robes, they stood in a compact group, with their heads held high and the haughty gaze of those who stoke the fires of their souls with their pride.
Charles of Valois, uterine brother of King Philip IV, stood ahead of all the others. He was a handsome man: tall with pale blue eyes, a strong constitution and reddish hair. He wore a visibly unhappy expression on his face, even though he was trying not to make it too obvious. Boniface VIII liked him for his open, malleable character, and because he was a man devoted to the Church; but that was precisely the reason that his brother, the king of France, sent him to Rome whenever there was some particularly unpleasant affair to discuss with His Holiness. Or, to put it more bluntly, to argue with him.
Valois was always charged with playing the part of the heavy cushion that wrestlers use when they are training to fight, and despite the loyalty he owed his brother, he was sick of it and hoped that the Pope would reward his self-denial by giving him the crown of some kingdom of his own as soon as possible.
That morning, everyone knew, they needed to deal with the regrettable affair of Bishop Bernard Saisset, who had been in jail for months now, even though Philip IV denied the evidence and swore through the official diplomatic channels that the monsignor was in reality simply a guest of Matifort, the bishop of Paris.
With a furtive step, Crescenzio appeared behind the crush of the clerics who crowded near the casket of gifts brought from Paris. He had decided to brave the arena that he most hated – the corridors of the Curia – because he hoped to be able to approach Charles of Valois and perhaps get some useful information from him for the mission the Pope had entrusted to him. As brother of Philip IV, the prince must necessarily know what it was that tormented the sovereign so much that it made him aggressive and unreasonable. Valois knew with certainty what secret Arnaldo da Villanova was keeping, and although it was unrealistic to hope that he would speak plainly, Crescenzio trusted in the fact that at the end of the day, even lies follow a certain logic: if one knows how to decipher them, they reveal details that the truth sometimes leaves in darkness.
He intended to ask Valois for a private interview, but had brought Maddalena with him to show that his morning visit to the Pope was a private, family one; only that she, as nosy as all women were, was making things difficult. In fact, she had stopped to look at the casket of gifts, one of which was so eccentric that it triggered her curiosity. It was a pair of gloves woven entirely in gold yarn which looked as though they had just been removed from the hands of the archangel Michael. How long they were!
“Did you see them?” she whispered to her brother. “Did Philip IV have them made for himself?”
“Who knows, little sister?” He replied ironically.
“What strange hands he must have! They’re as big as an ogre’s. When he gives someone a slap, there’s a good chance he’ll knock their head off their shoulders!”
“His hands must be proportionate to his body,” Crescenzio said, amused by the idea of teasing her a little. “They say that he is as tall as a man and a half – so tall that he can be seen clearly even when he is standing in the midst of a crowd.”
“Then he must be such a giant as Goliath, and even more mean,” the girl said.
Crescenzio chuckled to himself. “And fat, too, with the squat and massive neck of a bull. So burly and heavy that when he enters a room he makes the floorboards shake.”
A resentful pout appearing on her face, Maddalena crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you making fun of me?”
“It’s the honest truth! According to reliable rumours, Philip IV is a brutal, arrogant bear with the brain of a chicken.”
A cleric of the Curia who had been listening to them and who knew a great deal about the quarrels between the Pope and the King of France, broke in.
“His Holiness must not let himself be intimidated by that yokel’s pushiness,” he said disdainfully. “After all, he’s just an idiot who allows himself to be led by the nose by his minions. The counsellors, the members of Parliament, the Peers of France, they are the real enemies of the pope, not Philip IV. They stand there with the right words ready and the decision already taken while he remains closed up in his perpetual silence. And take note: it is not out of some profundity of spirit – it is out of fear. He knows that if he speaks, he runs the risk of coming out with some foolishness that would make him look tragically ridiculous.”
“So do you think those monstrous gloves were the idea of his counsellors?” asked Crescenzio.
“You can wager money on it, Signor Caetani. They have sent them half as threat and half as mockery. As your uncle knows very well. The glove is used to slap someone in the face with contempt – it is the sign of a duel to the death. For now, the king has them made from pure gold and sent to Rome with the prince of Valois, who will get down on his knees. But if by chance Boniface VIII should cross the line, Philip IV will slap his face with them, and then it will time for gloves made of iron!”
There was something sinister about the words of that cleric, and Crescenzio felt an immediate sense of relief when he saw him leave. In the Curia, as was likely the case at the Louvre, there were those who were blowing on the fire to exacerbate the dispute between the pope and the king of France – and who were certainly doing so out of personal interest.
“You stay here and don’t move,” Crescenzio said to his sister. “I’m going to try and talk to the prince. I hope he will concede me a few minutes.”
And so saying, Crescenzio gently elbowed his way through the excited throng to get a little closer to the papal throne, leaving Maddalena there in the midst of the prelates crowded around the chest, enchanted by the precious objects and by the spirited chatter of their thousand indiscretions.
He managed to position himself reasonably close to Prince Charles. Emanating confidence, Charles was a truly magnificent man, and it was obvious that he came to assert his master’s rank in the world before the pope. He wore a long robe that went down to his ankles and which must be made of silk, given the lustre of the fibre, but it was impossible to work out what they had used to dye it such a bright blue – as bright as the summer sky. How much could that tunic, whose hems and shoulders shone with a double row of embroidered gold lilies, be worth?
“Your Holiness,” said the prince, “my lord and brother Philip IV, king by the grace of God, has many proofs that Monsignor Saisset was plotting against him and was inciting the vassals of Languedoc to revolt. The Peers of France decided that the bishop should be kept in custody for the sake of the kingdom. Even a prelate can sow the plague of revolt, after all.”
The Pope grasped the arms of his chair tightly in annoyance.
“The Peers of France?!” he snapped. “Your brother is ill-advised, by God! He seems to always want to be at war with the whole world. Why did he not ask for the opinion of Rome before Saisset was arrested? The truth is that Philip IV has no respect for the sanctity of the throne of Peter, that’s what it is! He calls himself ‘Bishop of Christ’, and in the meantime plots in the shadows against us!”
“Your Holiness, there have been disagreements between France and the Holy See but no one weaves plots against you, please believe me!”
Boniface’s expression became even grimmer.
“Prince, you certainly know that cardinals Pietro and Giacomo Colonna have rebelled against our sacred authority. They even insinuate that we are not the legitimate pontiff because they claim the resignation of our predecessor, Celestine V of venerated memory, has no value. Heresy! Now, it appears that the two traitors are looking for help to make war upon us. Some say they have gone to Paris, and that your brother have received them and lent your ears to their blasphemous accusations against us. Usurper, they call us. Illegitimate, and therefore unworthy to sit on the throne of St. Peter!”
Va
lois summoned up his courage and looked the pope in the face again.
“Holy Father, my lord my brother gave them an audience, it is true, but Pietro and Giacomo Colonna left the capital of France. I do not know where they are at this moment, but they are certainly not guests of King Philip IV.”
The prince’s frank and sorry expression calmed the pontiff a little; Valois was clearly irked by that awful story, and if anyone would suffer the consequences of the disagreements between France and Rome, it was precisely him. While Boniface VIII and Philip IV were battling one another in diplomatic skirmishes, his dream of becoming king of Sicily did not move one step closer to becoming reality.
Boniface VIII tried to calm himself, then gestured to him to come closer. He wanted to talk to him in absolute confidence. Or as much in absolute confidence as his words could be in that room full of ears straining to hear the slightest whisper.
Valois came over to kneel beside the throne, and rested his elbows on its arms, as if he were about to confess. The Pope in turn bent down to speak to him, putting his lips almost to his ear so that no one could eavesdrop on their words.
“Prince, we believe we know what the cause of your brother’s continuous discontent is. There is a rumour that he does not visit his wife as he should. That he abandons the bridal bed. Is it true?”
Valois squirmed in obvious embarrassment.
“Holy Father, I can hardly spy on how often and when my lord brother and his wife…”
“Answer me, Prince: yes or no? We do not like people who prevaricate. The court of the Louvre, like any court, is a den of snakes, and your dignitaries know perfectly well how many times a month the king enters his wife’s bed. Or even how many times a year! And in any case, we must ask ourselves if your brother suffers from the same malady that afflicted your father, the late lamented King Philip III.”
A shocked expression appeared on Valois’ face.
“What malady, Your Holiness?”
Boniface VIII stared at him suspiciously. Was the prince trying to play him for a fool? But no, if he thought about it, there was a chance that he wasn’t acting the innocent – he was probably too young to remember that incident.
“There was a famous scandal which almost overwhelmed your dynasty when you were just a child, Valois. It involved your father and your stepmother Marie of Brabant, his second wife. Do you really not know anything of it?”
The prince looked confused by those upsetting allusions.
“Your Holiness, if you say it then it must be true, but I have no memory of it.”
“Really. And what about if I said the name Pier de la Brosse, Prince? You must have heard of him!”
Charles of Valois took a deep breath. He knew very little about that squalid story that had involved his father’s secretary and his second wife and above all, was totally unprepared to speak about certain issues. On the other hand, he had understood with dramatic clarity to what the Pope was alluding. He wished he were a thousand miles away from there.
“I… I don’t think that can really…”
“Go back to Paris, Valois, and tell your brother that the great Roman pontiff, the head of the universal Church that Christ founded with His most precious blood, orders him to meditate upon those unfortunate events of the past. Which for now will remain as securely confined to the Pope’s heart as if the king had entrusted them to us in the secrecy of confession. For now,” he concluded in a threatening tone.
Left with no weapons in his arsenal, Charles of Valois bowed respectfully and left the Triclinium hall with his men. He walked in large bellicose strides along the galleries of the papal residence, his face so grim that no one in his entourage dared ask him anything. His mission had been a complete failure, and to boot he would not even be able to tell his brother what the Pope had told him without seeing every hope of repairing the diplomatic dialogue between France and the Holy See torn apart. What a slap in the face…!
He had come to Italy armed with the best intentions, but now, as much as it grieved him, he had to admit that perhaps his brother was right: conflict with Boniface VIII was inevitable, because the root of their problems lay in the arrogance of Benedetto Caetani – in the soul of the man under the crown and in his inability to accept the limits of the mandate that Jesus Christ gave to Saint Peter. He was a politician, not a pastor of souls. A man thirsting for power beyond reason! They had to find another way to solve the problem.
Charles of Valois was brooding upon these questions when from behind him he heard a voice calling his name.
“Your highness! Forgive me!”
Who was this oddly dressed youth hurrying after them?
“I’ve seen him before,” said one of the knights in the French entourage. “He was in Naples two years ago, in the palace of Castelnuovo.”
“Your highness, thank you!” the youth said, panting from his exertions. “My name is Crescenzio Caetani, I am the nephew of His Holiness. I need to talk to you in private.”
Valois looked him up and down; he too felt as if he knew him.
“You are a friend of Robert of Anjou, aren’t you?”
Crescenzio nodded.
“His Highness the Prince of Naples honours me with his confidence.”
The way Valois, who was Robert’s cousin, had heard it, the two young men, together with other young bravos of the same type, loved to make nocturnal sorties around Naples, getting themselves into all kinds of scrapes.
“Come, Signor Caetani. Let us go out towards the portico. It is less crowded down there.”
Walking side by side amid the statues, columns and other Roman relics that furnished the ambulatory, Crescenzio explained to Valois the issue he wished to discuss with him.
“Your highness, I received from my uncle the task of following informally the matter of Bernard Saisset. His Holiness preferred not to go through the usual channels; it is increasingly difficult, and also full of pitfalls.”
“I completely agree, my boy.”
Crescenzio was happy to hear those words, but even happier with the frank look which accompanied them. Valois was undoubtedly a man of good will; whether it was out of patriotic spirit or mere personal interest, he truly wanted to protect relations between France and the Holy See.
“Cardinal Matthew of Acquasparta was a guest in the house of my brother Francesco Caetani. He spoke openly to us, and we seemed to sense a truth in his words that we are unable to decipher. Are you familiar with the watermark used on paper – it can be seen against the light, but it is often hard to tell what the design represents. His words produced a similar effect.”
“A good comparison, Signor Caetani. Go on.”
“Both I and my brother Francesco had the same feeling: Monsignor Saisset was not arrested because the southern vassals are inciting revolt against their king. Or at least, not only because of that. The famous and controversial scientist they call the Catalan – Arnaldo da Villanova – is the real reason for the unhappy bishop ending up in jail.”
Clearly taken by surprise, Charles of Valois stopped walking for a moment and then set off again as if nothing had happened.
“In short, your highness, your brother is keeping Monsignor Saisset prisoner so he can use him as a bargaining chip: Boniface VIII must send the Catalan back to Paris and in return, the bishop of Pamiers will be released.”
Valois bit his lip in puzzlement.
“Your words could be interpreted as an insult, Mr. Caetani,” he murmured. “Nevertheless I would say that the cardinal’s impression is not mistaken and that Arnaldo’s return to Paris would placate the torments of my brother’s soul.”
“I understand,” said Crescenzio, “but to have any hope of convincing the Catalan, there is some fundamental information that I need. I know that the old man is hostile to your brother, which I imagine is because His Majesty didn’t intervene to have him released when he was arrested. The sovereign’s indifference also surprised me, if I am honest. Why didn’t he do anything, if I might ask?”<
br />
The prince gave him a censorious frown.
“The Catalan had not kept the word he had given to the king regarding a very important question.”
“I thought he had been denounced for sacrilege,” Crescenzio objected. “There is also talk of one of his books being full of heretical ideas. Was he really so blasphemous?”
Valois shook his head.
“I know nothing of that book, Signor Caetani. On the other hand, I tell you that Arnaldo was to hold a certain of medicine publicly at the Sorbonne. My brother was very enthusiastic about it, and had even paid the old man a tidy sum. The dissertation, however, was never given, and nor was the content made public.”
Crescenzio was confused.
“But why, your highness? The Sorbonne is a college where theology is taught – the most illustrious and renowned in Europe. It makes no sense to hold a of medicine in its lecture halls. Arnaldo should have held it at the College of Liberal Arts.”
Valois stared at him for several moments without answering, then his expression became allusive.
“You look like a clever young man, Crescenzio Caetani. Think about it. It must have been a medical subject which had a powerful bearing on religion, don’t you think?”
“Very well, your highness, I will think about it. But just one last thing, if I might… The pope just gave you a name, and I was close enough to the apostolic throne to hear it. It was Pier de la Brosse. Could you tell me who he is?”
The Cellars of Notre Dame Page 18
