It was truly a tragedy, thought Joan, that the most beautiful man in the world was also the most difficult to love…
But at least now she knew what she was secretly tearing at her husband’s heart. He was frightened for himself, but even more so for their children, who, from being scions of the most elite lineage in the Christian world, might now suddenly become a bunch of common bastards.
Now Joan knew, and the idea that he could have a lover seemed suddenly ridiculous.
But how to help him, before the irreparable happened?
III
Trumpets sounded. Drumrolls. It was the dawn of a crucial day for France. His Majesty had summoned Parliament to decide upon the fate of the rebel bishop. Perhaps the Peers of France would mobilize the army, and then the ten thousand knights who obeyed the Crown would pour into the south of the kingdom to bring the rebellious vassals to better counsel through the use of force. All the great barons would soon rush to the command of the sovereign and would gather outside the walls of the capital, each leading their own ranks of knights and awaiting the arrival of His Majesty. He who was not an individual but rather all the people of France. Not a man, but twenty million subjects. The abbot of Saint-Denis would extract from the treasury chests the Joyeuse, the priceless sword that had belonged to Charlemagne, and the sapphire-studded crown of Saint Louis. The two Marshals of France would come to escort the Oriflamme, the glorious banner of the country that must be defended at the price of one’s life. Because the monarchy is based on the right of blood, and to defend it, blood must be shed. Even that of the king and of all his warriors, if necessary.
The capital broiled with ferment, but in the chambers of the Louvre someone was in a cold sweat.
“They will soon be arriving, Majesty. Are you ready?” asked Alphonse de la Cerda.
His cousin nodded. It wasn’t true, though. He would never be ready for that moment.
“Did you sleep at all?” asked the Castilian. “I didn’t sleep a wink myself.”
Decisive steps resounded in the corridor. They were coming, an army of them. Beads of sweat dripped down the king’s temples. It was absurd, but he couldn’t help it. His emotions became uncontrollable during the fateful transition that would soon take place. He suffered intensely each time before that moment; ever since the day he had become king.
The knocks on the door made him jump. Philip IV gave his cousin an alarmed look which was a request for help. Alphonse was the only person on earth to whom the king of France ever showed his own human weaknesses, because his cousin would not have betrayed him for anything or for anyone in the world; therefore in that moment he laid bare before him all the scars that criss-crossed his soul, tortured though hard as steel. Alphonse, however, could not help him and was unable to reverse the painful and mysterious metamorphosis that was about to take place in the person of his cousin. Castilian could only offer him all the warmth of his friendship and let him know once again that he would remain at his side, whatever happened; then he walked over and opened the door. The ritual as ancient as the French monarchy began.
A crowd of great lords, courtiers and dignitaries entered, bringing His Majesty the tribute of the artisans and the armigers, of the peasants and merchants. The tribute of the multitude that fought the sovereign’s wars and paid the price for them, financing his warriors with the sweat of their own brows.
He stood before them, alone and clad only in a pair of short breeches. The only garment that he insisted on putting on which his own two hands, because there was at least a small part of himself that he wanted to keep exclusively himself.
Alphonse de la Cerda retired to the window. As a foreigner, he could not take part in the ritual but only stand silent and observe the long, solemn ceremony from a corner: the dressing of the king of France. Inevitable and composed of a series of steps each of which possessed powerful symbolic value in memory of the rite that had taken place in the cathedral of Reims almost twenty years before.
Philip IV saw himself that day, distant but engraved upon his memory in indelible characters of fire. The day his life had changed forever and Philip of Fontainebleau had become the most feared monarch of the Christian world.
He had entered the cathedral of Reims. He was only seventeen years old, but all recognized in him the traits of majesty from the way he looked at others, from the precocious maturity of his intellect, which had nothing in common with the intemperance so typical of the young, and from his noble bearing and equestrian skill. Admired by all, he walked towards the high altar with a solemn and cadenced step – an emperor’s step. Perfectly calm and self-possessed, the heir to the throne advanced towards the archbishop; none of those present would have imagined that deep down the young man had been quaking with fear.
The most important barons of the kingdom had brought for him the , the sacred royal chair which was placed at the entrance of the choir and covered with a cloth woven entirely in pure gold, while the Chamberlain had handed him the fine linen shirt, which the great lords passed from hand to hand, each of them kissing with devotion the embroidered monogram bearing the initials of Jesus Christ. Because there is no power that does not come from above.
While the great dignitaries had held the future monarch’s tunic of purple and blue, the archbishop of Reims, with the assistance of his chanting clerics, had invoked divine grace upon him, so that God would always guide him and grant him the wisdom to hold firmly and with justice the reins of power.
The procession bearing the Holy Ampulla had passed through the entire cathedral; with that chrism, descended from heaven by a miracle, all the Capetian kings had been consecrated: the Thaumaturgical Kings, anointed by the Lord like David and like the sovereigns of Israel who are image and prefiguration of the last and true Messiah, the King of Kings.
After lying with his face on the ground, humbled and prostrated before God, the young prince had risen to be anointed seven times – seven like the number of gifts of the Holy Spirit: from now on his body would no longer belong to him but was made vehicle of divine grace and instrument of healing. Marked by God with the invisible seal of the chrism, it would become a sacred object to be kept indefatigably pure and free from sin.
The young Philip had prayed. Seated on the throne, he had invoked God with clasped hands while the great dignitaries had tied his tunic buckles and put on his shoulders the cloak lined with ermine. By now there was nothing left for him to do but stretch out his hands to receive the ring of justice, the primary emblem of power, and the golden sceptre blessed by the archbishop.
Philip of Fontainebleau was only seventeen that day; but suddenly he had become another person, an old man whom all the French would call Father. And once again, in that moment, in his room, now dressed in his priceless clothes, the king was on his knees. Like Jesus in Gethsemane, he prayed intensely and secretly to God that the bitter chalice pass away from him, if it were possible, but swore that he would in any case bend obediently under the weight of the divine will.
The twelve Peers of France approached him and placed upon his sovereign head the same crown they had placed that day upon the head of the adolescent, intimidated but already aware of his role. The sacred crown of St. Louis which weighed almost ten pounds and was heavy not only with sapphires but also with duties. The Peers spread their hands together to touch it. All loyal to the sovereign, for the good of the country; because it was from them that the king derived his strength.
Philip IV took a deep breath. That intense and poignant moment had passed, the dramatic instant in which each time he wondered if there was a way to rid himself of the overwhelming burden to which life had condemned him.
The crown which had sat upon the heads of all his ancestors radiated a mysterious force which had the power to restore him and to dissolve all his fears instantly. Like them, men like all the others but called to a superior destiny, he had the duty to fight and to win all the battles that fate imposed upon him. And he would do it, whatever the cost.
He
opened his eyes again: no longer alarmed, now, but fearsome and steadfast. The piercing eyes of a patrician lord which gazed commandingly at men and at things. Now, Philip of Fontainebleau no longer existed – there was only the king of France, who would stop at nothing for the sake of his kingdom.
Alphonse de la Cerda had held his breath for a few moments, amazed by the transformation. His cousin didn’t just put on a costume or inhabit a role, he actually became another person. He was Philip IV, in all his regal and frightening reality. In body. In heart. And in soul.
The barons, the dignitaries and the gentlemen who had the right of access to the royal chamber had now all departed. The crucial moment came: it was time to decide.
“Please, your majesty, “said Alphonse. “We have to go.”
Philip IV walked slowly in his heavy mantle studded with gold lilies. As he reached the threshold, a valet came running up and threw himself at the king’s feet.
“One moment, Majesty,” he said breathlessly. “Cardinal Lemoine’s courier has just delivered this letter.”
The object passed from the hands of the servant to the hands – as steady as those of a surgeon – of the sovereign, who took it calmly. Philip IV looked at it carefully: it was a small packet of plain paper tied closed by a humble string, without any seal or other external mark. It was too bulky, however, to be a simple letter. With a sinking feeling in the heart, the king thought of the only thing that, in light of his long experience of government, it could plausibly be: it must contain a secret letter from the Pope.
IV
The crowd in the square in front of Notre-Dame was at boiling point. A restless murmur snaked through the crush of heads, bare or covered with costly hats, humble labourer’s caps, women’s veils or the red caps of clerics.
“They are agitated by some news. But what?” thought Bernard Saisset, bishop of Pamiers, who for weeks now had been the undisputed protagonist of the nation’s thoughts. With all likelihood, the fact concerned him, and it was for that reason that he was clinging to the iron bars of the window of the Episcopal Palace where he had for some time been a guest, although he preferred to declare himself in fact a prisoner of the king of France, that sinister tyrant who was capable of tearing to shreds any law and was willing to outrage the sacred authority of the supreme Roman pontiff without restraint.
The door opened, and the creaking of the hinges was followed by a discreet rustling of fabrics on the stone of the floor. Saisset turned and greeted Monsignor Simon Matifort, the bishop of Paris and his host for several weeks now, with a curt nod of his head. Bernard Saisset was small in stature, plump and dark-skinned, and straight as he liked to stand, to emphasize his authority or perhaps to seem taller, he recalled one of those funny curved-beaked birds with a ruffled, fierce demeanour which are actually all belly. He made a striking contrast with Simon Matifort who stood before him, tall, athletic and with a powerful preacher’s voice.
“There is great excitement in the square,” said Saisset, half-closing his intriguing little eyes. “Do you know what has stirred them up so?”
Monsignor Matifort closed his mouth in a grimace of cautious disapproval. He had nothing for which to reproach himself – he had, in fact, complied with commendable efficiency with the needs of the very uncomfortable position he had been put in as prelate of Paris which made him subject both to the orders of Boniface VIII and to the wishes of Philip IV. Which, as everyone knew, in Europe were more than orders and demanded immediate obedience. Matifort had done everything possible to quell His Majesty’s wrath and had defended Monsignor Saisset’s position energetically. In his heart, though, he knew full well that Saisset had been stirring the waters and had never missed the slightest opportunity to stoke the fires of discontent against the sovereign. “That son of a bitch,” he had heard him say as he spoke of the king, “that son of a Spanish whore!”
Saisset had spent all his time in the royal prisons where he had been held shouting to all and sundry about the king’s terrible infamies, and revealing details of his private life which were enough to make your hair stand on end. Getting him out of jail had been a brilliant idea, a true diplomatic masterpiece by Monsignor Matifort; he’d had him transferred to his own house, an expedient that at least had confined that avalanche of insults to the walls of the episcopal palace. With the unfortunate upshot that everyday life had become an ordeal since Saisset had been there, and the quiet life was now a distant dream. But now, like a glimmer of sunlight that pierces the black curtain of clouds after the storm, a letter had arrived from the Roman Curia.
To Monsignor Simon Matifort, bishop of Paris and dear brother in Christ.
Arnaldo da Villanova sent me this portfolio of closed and sealed documents, of the contents of which I am ignorant; I ask you in any case to convey them to the knight Philip of Fontainebleau. The message can thus soothe the soul of the king of France as to make him far more malleable regarding the thorny question of the bishop of Pamiers, whose custody is a heavy burden that has been placed on your shoulders.
In this way, I believe I have fulfilled the prayer addressed to me by Cardinal Matthew of Acquasparta, in the common interest of protecting peace in the Church by resolving the grave conflict which is ruining relations between France and the Holy See.
I have no idea who this Fontainebleau is or what relations he has with His Majesty the King of France, but you Matifort, who know the sovereign and his court better, will perhaps know where to find him.
+ Franciscus, Sanctae Mariae in Cosmedin.
Of course Matifort knew where to find Fontainebleau! And he was so shamefully grateful to Pope Boniface’s nephew for getting those papers from the Catalan that he prayed to God to give him health and long life. You certainly couldn’t call Francesco Caetani a model of probity, but his mediation had saved peace in the Church by avoiding a catastrophic accident.
“Good news?” asked Bernard Saisset in a piqued tone.
He had noticed that letter in the hands of Matifort bore a sumptuous cardinal seal, which meant that it came from the Curia.
“Monsignor,” replied Matifort, “I believe the situation with your case has been moving along in Rome. They tell me that His Holiness has made a decision.”
Saisset punched the air victoriously with the fist of his right hand.
“Finally!” he exclaimed. “The Pope could certainly no longer tolerate such an affront to the freedom of the Church that my person still represents.”
The bishop of Paris exhaled slowly and with visible annoyance.
“You know, Saisset, I didn’t realize that you had been in Rome two years ago. Apparently, you tried to make contact with the Colonna family. Which is very strange, for someone like you who professes to be so very faithful to Pope Boniface.”
“What are you trying to insinuate? I have always been devoted to the Supreme Pontiff. And it is precisely for that reason that I suffer the oppression of the king of France.”
“That’s not the way it looks to me, Saisset. I’ll tell you what I think. While you were in Rome, someone must have told you that Pietro and Giacomo Colonna were gathering evidence to attack the legitimacy of Boniface VIII. You attempted to speak with their relative Otto Colonna, but without managing to find him. Then you went to the Pope and told him what you had discovered. You told him the various rumours circulating in France about the king and his father Philip III.”
Bernard Saisset glared at him.
“What if I did? It was my duty to warn His Holiness,” he pointed out.
“Liar!” snapped Matifort. “You had no intention of serving the Pope’s interests at all. You simply offered Boniface VIII the opportunity to blackmail Philip IV. You showed him where the king of France’s flank was undefended. All out of pure ambition, of course. You wanted to become a cardinal!”
Saisset now stared at the other with a gaze that swung between reproach and pity. How pathetic the bishop of Paris was, so fervent and with that condemning index finger pointed directly at him!
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“And what if I did?” he asked with quiet sarcasm. “Everyone wants the purple, and I deserve it more than many others because I have always been on the right side of things. The Pope knows, and is grateful. I put a formidable weapon into his hands.”
“Saisset, are you sure that interpret the will of the pontiff correctly? Are you certain that Boniface VIII is champing at the bit to enter into conflict with the King of France?”
Saisset’s eyes were full of anger, but he refrained from replying: Matifort’s granite-like resolve suggested that the bishop of Paris still kept his sharpest weapon in store.
“It will be better if you show yourself humble and repentant,” suggested Matifort. “Remember this advice of mine when you reach your destination.”
Those words took Saisset by surprise.
“What destination?”
In response, the bishop of Paris opened the door and let in a knight with shaved hair and a long beard. He was dressed entirely in white and his surplice and the left shoulder of his cloak bore a red cross. He wore chain mail and a sword hung at his side. His grim eyes and rough soldier-like demeanour did little to cheer Bernard Saisset.
“Let me introduce Brother Gerardo de Villiers,” said Matifort, “Commander of the Templars in France.”
The soldier entered with great strides and cast look at the bishop of Pamiers which was anything but reassuring.
“Gather your things, Monsignor,” the Templar said in a harsh voice. “You are to be escorted to Rome and handed over to the papal gendarmes. His Holiness has summoned you to respond to the accusations of slander and sedition against the king of France. Pack your bags quickly: we leave in an hour!”
The Cellars of Notre Dame Page 26
