The Iron King

by Maurice Druon

  A door opened and a lady-in-waiting asked Philippe to follow her. His lips were dry and he felt a constriction about the heart, but he was determined not to let himself be put off this time. He walked down a long corridor and then the lady-in-waiting disappeared, while Philippe entered a low-ceilinged room, crowded with furniture, impregnated with that heady scent he knew so well, essence of jasmin brought by merchants from the Orient.

  It took Philippe a moment to accustom himself to the twilight and heat of the room. A tree-trunk was smouldering above a heap of tinder-wood upon the great hearth.

  ‘Madam …’ he said.

  A voice came from the end of the room, a rather hoarse and sleepy voice.

  ‘Come over here, Messire.’

  Was Marguerite alone? Was she daring to receive him in her room, without witnesses, when the King of Navarre might be in the vicinity?

  He felt at once relieved and disappointed: the Queen of Navarre was not alone. She was reclining upon her bed, while an elderly woman-of-the-bedchamber, half-hidden by the curtain, was engaged in polishing her toe-nails.

  Philippe went forward and in a courtly tone, which was at variance with his expression, announced that the Countess of Poitiers had sent him to ask after the Queen of Navarre, remit her compliments and deliver a present.

  Marguerite listened without moving. Her beautiful naked arms were folded beneath her head and her eyes were half closed.

  She was small, black-haired and olive-skinned. It was said that she had the most beautiful body in the world, and she was well aware of it.

  Philippe looked at her round, sensual mouth, her short chin, her half-naked throat, and her plump, elegant legs revealed by the woman-of-the-bedchamber.

  ‘Put the present on the table, I’ll look at it in a moment,’ said Marguerite.

  She stretched and yawned. Philippe saw her pink tongue, the roof of her mouth and her little white teeth. She yawned like a cat.

  As yet, she had not once turned her eyes in his direction. He made an effort to keep himself under control. The woman-of-the-bedchamber looked covertly at Philippe in curiosity. He thought that his anger must be too apparent. He had never seen this particular duenna before. Was she newly in Marguerite’s service?

  ‘Am I to take back a reply to the Countess?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Marguerite, sitting up, ‘you’re hurting me, woman.’

  The woman murmured an excuse. Marguerite at last consented to look in Philippe’s direction. She had beautiful dark, velvety eyes, which seemed to caress everyone and everything they looked upon.

  ‘Tell my sister-in-law of Poitiers …’ she said.

  Philippe had moved to escape being observed by the woman-of-the-bedchamber. With a quick gesture of his hand he signed to Marguerite to send the old lady away. But Marguerite appeared not to understand; she smiled, but not in Philippe’s direction; she seemed to be smiling into the void.

  ‘On the other hand, perhaps not,’ she went on. ‘I’ll write her a letter for you to give her.’

  Then, to the woman-of-the-bedchamber, she said, ‘That will do for the present. I must dress. Go and prepare my clothes.’

  The old woman went into the next room but left the door open. Philippe realised that she was watching him.

  Marguerite got up and, as she passed him, whispered almost without opening her lips, ‘I love you.’

  ‘Why haven’t I seen you for five days?’ he asked as quietly.

  ‘Oh, how pretty it is,’ she cried, unpacking the girdle. ‘What good taste Jeanne has, and how I love her present!’

  ‘Why haven’t I seen you?’ Philippe repeated in a low voice.

  ‘It’s the very thing to go with my new purse,’ Marguerite went on. ‘Messire d’Aunay, can you spare the time to wait while I write a word of thanks?’

  She sat down at the table, took a goose’s quill and a piece of paper10 and signalled Philippe to draw near.

  She wrote so that he could read the word over her shoulder: ‘Prudence.’

  Then to the woman in attendance, who could be heard in the neighbouring room, she cried: ‘Madame de Comminges, will you fetch my daughter? I haven’t given her a kiss all morning.’

  The woman went out.

  ‘You’re lying,’ said Philippe. ‘Prudence is a good pretext for getting rid of one lover in order to receive others.’

  She was not altogether lying. It is always towards the end of an affair, when lovers either begin to quarrel or get bored with each other, that they betray themselves to those about them, and that the world takes for something new what is in fact upon the point of coming to an end. Had Marguerite said something careless? Had Philippe’s ill-temper been noted beyond the narrow world of Blanche and Jeanne? She felt absolutely certain of the porter and the chambermaid of the tower. They were two servants she had brought from Burgundy and whom she terrified with threats upon the one hand, and rewarded handsomely upon the other. But could one ever be certain? She felt that she was vaguely suspected. The King of Navarre had made several allusions to her success, husband’s jokes which did not quite ring true. And then there was this new woman-of-the-bedchamber, Madame de Comminges, who had been forced upon her a few days ago in response to a recommendation from Monseigneur Charles of Valois. She was always trailing about in her widow’s weeds. Marguerite felt herself less ready to take risks than in the past.

  ‘You know, you’re a bore,’ she said. ‘I love you and you never stop scolding me.’

  ‘Well, I shall have no opportunity to be a bore tonight,’ Philippe replied. ‘The King told us himself that there was to be no Council, so you’ll have all the time in the world to reassure your husband.’

  From her expression Philippe could have guessed, had he not been so angry, that from that quarter at any rate he had nothing to fear.

  ‘And I shall go and visit the whores!’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ said Marguerite. ‘I shall be delighted to know how they set about things.’

  ‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!’ thought Philippe. You never knew how to take her; she was as slippery as an eel.

  She went to an open coffer, and took out a new purse of gold thread with three catches made of large precious stones. Philippe had never seen it before.

  Two days earlier Marguerite had received it as a present from her sister-in-law, the Queen of England, by the hand of a discreet messenger who had brought two similar purses for Jeanne and Blanche. A note from Isabella asked them not to talk of them, for ‘my husband watches carefully over my expenditure, and it might anger him.’

  The three princesses had been somewhat surprised by their sister-in-law’s unaccustomed kindness. ‘She’s having trouble at home,’ they said to each other, ‘and wants to be in our good books.’

  ‘They go splendidly together,’ said Marguerite, passing the girdle through the golden loops, holding it against her waist, and going to look at herself in a huge pewter mirror.

  ‘Who gave you that purse?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘It was …’

  She was quite simply going to tell him the truth. But she saw him stiffen with suspicion and was unable to resist teasing him.

  ‘It was … someone,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Louis?’

  ‘My husband isn’t as generous as that!’

  ‘Then, who?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘I want to know. I have the right to know,’ Philippe said, losing his temper. ‘It’s a present from a man, a rich man, a man in love … and because you’ve given him reason to be so, I should think.’

  Marguerite went on looking at herself in the mirror, first trying the belt on one side, then on the other, then in the middle of her waist.

  ‘It was Robert of Artois,’ said Philippe.

  ‘Oh, what bad taste you credit me with, Messire!’ she said. ‘That great lout, always smelling of game.’

  Neither of them imagined how near they were
to the truth, and what part Robert of Artois had played in the sending of the purse.

  ‘Gaucher de Châtillon, then,’ said Philippe. ‘He’s always hovering round you as he does round every woman he sees.’

  Marguerite put her head on one side as if lost in thought.

  ‘The High Constable?’ she said. ‘I hadn’t noticed that he was interested in me, but since you tell me that he is … Thank you for drawing my attention to it.’

  ‘I shall find out in the end.’

  ‘When you’ve named everyone at the Court of France …’

  She was going to add, ‘Then perhaps you’ll think of the Court of England.’ But she was interrupted by the return of Madame de Comminges, who entered, pushing before her the Princess Jeanne, still almost an infant. The little girl walked slowly, made awkward by a long velvet dress embroidered with pearls. She bore no resemblance to her mother except for her round, swelling, almost convex brow. She was fair, had a thin nose and long eyelashes which fluttered over clear eyes. She might equally have been the daughter of the King of Navarre or of Philippe d’Aunay. But on that point, too, Philippe had never been able to discover the truth, and Marguerite was much too clever ever to give herself away on so important a matter. Every time Philippe saw the little Jeanne, he asked himself, ‘Is she mine?’ And he thought that one day he would have to bow as he received the orders of a princess who was perhaps his daughter and might well succeed to two thrones. For Louis of Navarre, the heir of France, and Marguerite his wife, had so far no other children.

  Marguerite picked up the little Jeanne, kissed her forehead, and commenting that she looked well, handed her back to the woman-of-the-bedchamber.

  ‘There, I’ve kissed her,’ she said. ‘You can take her away again.’

  She became aware from Madame de Comminges’s expression that the latter perfectly understood that she had only been sent to fetch the child in order to get rid of her for a moment. ‘I must be relieved of this old woman,’ thought Marguerite.

  A lady-in-waiting entered hurriedly, asking if the King of Navarre were there.

  ‘He’s not usually to be found with me at this time of day,’ said Marguerite.

  ‘He’s being searched for everywhere,’ said the lady. ‘The King wants him at once. There’s an urgent Council at the palace.’

  ‘Is it known what it’s about?’ Marguerite asked.

  ‘If I understood aright, Madam, the Templars have rejected their sentence. The populace are rioting about Notre-Dame and the guards have been doubled everywhere.’

  Marguerite and Philippe looked at each other. The same idea had struck them both and it had nothing to do with affairs of state. These events might compel Louis of Navarre to spend at least part of the night at the palace.

  ‘Perhaps the day will not end as we thought,’ said Philippe.

  Marguerite looked at him for a moment and thought that she had made him suffer enough. He had resumed a respectful and distant mien; but his expression begged for happiness. She was moved by it and felt her love revive as in the early days.

  ‘Perhaps, Messire,’ she said.

  At the same time, she was thinking that no one would ever love her more than he did.

  She went over and picked up the piece of paper upon which she had written ‘Prudence’ and threw it into the fire, saying as she did so, ‘I don’t care for the letter I’ve written. I’ll send another to the Countess of Poitiers later on; I shall hope for better news to give her. Good-bye, Messire.’

  The Philippe who quitted the Hôtel-de-Nesle was not the same man who had entered it. On the strength of a single word of hope he had a new-found confidence in his mistress, in himself, in life in general, and this particular noon seemed radiant.

  ‘She loves me as much as ever; I’ve been unjust to her,’ he thought.

  As he passed the guard, he ran into the Count of Artois who was coming in. One might have thought that the giant was following up Philippe’s tracks. But it was not so. For the moment Artois was busy with other matters.

  ‘Is Monseigneur the King of Navarre at home?’ he asked Philippe.

  ‘I know that they’ve been looking for him for the King’s Council,’ said Philippe.

  ‘Were you sent to warn him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Philippe instinctively.

  And as soon as he had said it, he realised that the lie was foolish and too easy to check.

  ‘I’m seeking him for the same reason,’ said Artois. ‘Monseigneur of Valois wishes to talk with him before the Council.’

  They separated. But this chance meeting gave the giant a lead.

  ‘Can it be he?’ he suddenly thought as he crossed the courtyard. An hour earlier he had seen Philippe in the Mercers’ Hall with Jeanne and Blanche. And now he had met him again at Marguerite’s door.

  ‘Is that young man their messenger, or is he the lover of one of them? If he is, I shall very soon know it.’

  For he had lost no time since his return from England. Since entering Marguerite’s service, Madame de Comminges sent him a report every day. He had a man of his own watching the surroundings of the Tower of Nesle at night. The net was spread. Bad luck to that gaily feathered bird should he be caught in it!

  6

  What Happened at the King’s Council

  THE PROVOST OF PARIS, who had dashed off to see the King, found him in good humour. Philip the Fair was engaged in admiring three tall greyhounds which had been sent to him with the following letter:

  Sire,

  My nephew, abashed by his offence, has confessed to me that these three greyhounds, while held by him on a leash, have run against you. Humble though they are as an offering, I do not feel that I am worthy to keep them now that they have touched so high and mighty a Prince. They arrived the day before yesterday from England. I ask you to accept them that they may bear towards you the same devotion and humility as your servant,

  SPINELLO TOLOMEI

  ‘A clever man, this Tolomei,’ said Philip the Fair.

  Though he refused all other presents he was prepared to accept hounds. He had the best packs in the world, and to give him animals as beautiful as these was to humour his only passion.

  While the Provost was explaining what had happened at Notre-Dame, Philip the Fair continued fondling the three greyhounds, raising their pendulous lips to examine their white teeth and black jaws, patting their deep chests.

  Between the King and all animals, particularly dogs, there was an immediate, secret, silent understanding. Unlike men, dogs were never afraid of him. And, already, the largest of the three greyhounds had come of his own accord to place his head upon the King’s knee and gaze up at his new master.

  ‘Bouville!’ called Philip the Fair.

  Hugues de Bouville, first Chamberlain to the King, whose hair alternated curiously between white and black locks, making him look like a piebald horse, entered.

  ‘Bouville, assemble the Inner Council within the hour,’ said the King.

  Then, dismissing the Provost, while giving him to understand that it was as much as his life was worth to allow the least disturbance to take place in Paris, Philip the Fair remained meditating in company with his hounds.

  He decided that the largest greyhound, which seemed already to be attached to him, should be called Lombard, because he came from an Italian banker.

  Soon the Inner Council was assembled. It did not meet in the vast Hall of Justice, which could hold a hundred people, and was used for the Grand Council, but in a small neighbouring room where a fire burned on the hearth.

  The members of this smaller Council took their places round a long table to decide the fate of the Templars. The King sat at one end, his elbow on the arm of his great chair, his chin cupped in his hand. To his right sat Enguerrand de Marigny, Coadjutor and Rector of the kingdom, Nogaret, the Keeper of the Seals, Raoul de Presles, Lord Chief Justice, and two other lawyers as secretaries; to his left sat his eldest son, King Louis of Navarre, who had at last been found, and
Hugues de Bouville, the Grand Chamberlain. Two places remained vacant, those of the Count of Poitiers, who had been sent on a mission, and of Prince Charles, the King’s youngest son, who had gone hunting that morning and had not been found in time. There was only Monseigneur of Valois still to come. He had been sent for to his house, where, doubtless, he was conspiring as he did before every Council. The King had decided to begin without him.

  Enguerrand de Marigny spoke first. Six years older than Philip the Fair, less tall but of as imposing an aspect, this great lord had not been born noble. He came of middle class Norman stock, and had been called Enguerrand Le Portier before becoming the Lord of Marigny. He had had a fabulous career, which had aroused as much jealousy as respect, and the title of Coadjutor, created especially for him, had made him the King’s alter ego. He was fifty-two years old, of solid aspect, large-chinned, rugged-skinned, and lived magnificently upon the huge fortune he had acquired. He was considered to have the greatest gift for speaking in the kingdom and his political intellect dominated his period from a lofty eminence.

  It took him only a few minutes to furnish a complete picture of the situation based upon the report that his brother, the Archbishop of Sens, had given him.

  ‘The Grand Master and the Preceptor of Normandy have been remitted into your hands, Sire, by the Ecclesiastical Commission,’ he said. ‘You have absolute power to dispose of them as you will. Could we hope for anything better?’

  He was interrupted by the door bursting open. Monseigneur of Valois, the King’s brother and Emperor of Constantinople, entered. Without bothering to find out what had already been said, he cried, ‘What’s this I hear, Brother? Messire Le Portier de Marigny (he always inisted on saying “Le Portier”) thinks that nothing could be better? Well, Brother, your counsellors are content with very little! I wonder when they’ll think things are going badly!’