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Son of the Night

Page 32

by Mark Alder


  A looking-glass was brought for him and Navarre examined himself in the shining steel.

  ‘This band,’ he said, his mismatched eyes flicking up to his forehead, ‘will need to be replaced by a crown. Joan, you are to be my wife.’

  Joan, a lady of breeding, simply bowed her head, registering none of the panic Osbert might have suspected.

  Navarre went on, ‘See to it that a fine crown is made for me. Let it be softly padded and come with a means of adjustment to stop my head falling apart.’

  ‘What has become of you, Charles?’ said John, with genuine tenderness.

  ‘I am the victim of more English sorcery. But let my enemies beware. Other men may have been split in two from shoulder to groin and used that as an excuse to retire from public life, to live in idleness. Not I. Has ever a knight suffered a more grievous wound?’

  ‘None and lived,’ said John.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Navarre, on the third stuttering attempt. ‘So those who would seek to kill me or do me down would do well to look on me and remember how hard that might be.’

  ‘You need some rest,’ said Joan.

  ‘How was the king of Navarre so sorely afflicted, sorcerer?’ said La Cerda.

  ‘I believe the sorcerer Eu – who knew, eh? – I believe he summoned the half of my Lord Navarre that is a devil. That part was split from the nobility of his human form.’

  ‘I am not a devil, nor part devil.’ Navarre spoke like a man with a broken jaw, struggling to control his face. Osbert could not help but notice that the catty left paw had sprouted a vicious set of claws.

  ‘Then you will not mind if I have the sorcerer here perform a devil banishing upon you,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘I will not submit to such an in—’ Navarre could not get the word out so Osbert did it for him.

  ‘Indignity,’ he said.

  The claws retracted and came out again. The King was having difficulty mastering his new body, Osbert was pleased to see, because he felt that – were Navarre more able – those claws might be headed in his direction.

  ‘No need for that,’ said John. ‘But, my Charles, you appear as an abomination, the equal of any that lately affrighted these halls. Though I have no doubt you are no devil, all men might not see it so. You may spark rumour that we are not pure, give solace to our enemies. I must therefore ask you to go to your lands in Normandy.’

  ‘My place is here at c- c- c- c-—’

  ‘A furball?’ said La Cerda.

  The king laughed heartily and, taking his cue from that, so did Osbert. Navarre’s human eye, however, cut him short and Osbert put his fist up to his mouth in a gesture that might be taken for stifling a laugh but also might be taken for biting back his disapproval. He hoped.

  Navarre stiffened, with something of a creak from the leather collar and the iron bands that helped hold him together.

  ‘Very well. Perhaps you are right. My days at the court, and of courtliness, are over. I shall marry and take to my Norman castles. I ask but one thing, sire. The sorcerer. He has restitched me. I need him in case I split again.’

  John shook his head. ‘No more devils in France. The sorcerer remains to see to that.’

  ‘Am I to leave with nothing? No mark of esteem? Cast out. My Lords, a less loyal man than myself might wonder if King Edward would be a more indulgent lord.’

  ‘You have my sister’s hand in marriage!’

  Navarre twitched, in pain or anger Osbert could not tell.

  ‘There might be a suitable gift.’ The little Dauphin had spoken; his voice was on the cusp of manhood, rasping like a dog’s.

  ‘Yes, Charles?’ said John.

  ‘I might go with the king of Navarre. I do love the Norman coast, and who better to teach me matters of policy than my uncle? What greater mark of trust and prestige than that you entrust your heir to him?’

  Navarre turned stiffly to the little boy.

  ‘That would be acceptable. Princess Joan is so fond of her little cousin . . . What a bulwark we would make against the English enemy.’

  ‘That isn’t wise, sir,’ said La Cerda. ‘Send him the duke of Orléans instead.’

  John stiffened slightly. The duke, John’s brother, looked up for a moment with the expression of a puppy discovered by a cook with its head in the pudding bowl. He was a weak-minded boy who was as useless with sword and spear as he was with the arts of diplomacy. He would be a liability rather than an asset and, on top of that, was so far from the throne that Navarre could cut his throat without anyone noticing.

  ‘I have my own affairs, old man,’ said the duke.

  ‘Strumming the lyre and making wine,’ said John.

  ‘Exactly,’ said the duke, as if this was the most important work a man could perform.

  ‘I was all but raised by King John,’ said Navarre, curling half his lip, the other staying furrily unmoved. ‘I would repay what I owe and raise his son to manhood.’

  ‘I would go with the king of Navarre,’ said the Dauphin. ‘He could teach me a great deal, I think.’

  John waved his hand, clearly bored by the talk and having to mediate between favourites like a father between squabbling children.

  ‘Of course! You are a man of extraordinary wit, Charles. You will educate him far better than I in the ways of kingship. And it saves the boy getting under my feet. I see little enough of him but when I do he is always plaguing me with the most perplexing questions.’

  ‘There is no better king than you,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘Yes, but I won’t have time to instruct my little Dauphin. I have the affairs of a great state to run. Charles only has a few mouldering castles and that biting Norman wind to occupy him. The Dauphin may travel with Charles and his aunt. It will show the men of Normandy our love for them and secure them in our fight against the English.’

  ‘Or hand them a valuable prisoner,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘Don’t say so.’ John went to hug Navarre but didn’t quite seem to know how to approach him. ‘Charles is our kin. Charles is family. Charles is blood!’

  He finally threw his arms around the bifurcate king. Navarre winced with the pain.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I am blood.’

  PART IV

  1355-1356

  The Battle of Poitiers

  1

  Finally Clement was dead and Innocent had taken his place – a man more attuned to reason and one who, rather than fritter away his days commissioning paintings and listening to music, was determined to make a mark on the world. He had accepted her request for audience as soon as he had his own cardinals in place, only three years after Clement’s death. Innocent was a man of the world, less fussy about allegations of sorcery, and she felt sure she could do business with him.

  The papal palace at Avignon was vast – far bigger even than Windsor – and gleaming white in the southern French sun, a huge diamond on a foil of golden, autumnal trees. Liveried servants scurried through the streets; a line of cardinals made its way up the stairs to the palace like a flowing scarlet ribbon; the rich carriages of wealthy pilgrims crowded the palace plaza; hawkers moved among them, selling nuts, sweetmeats, indulgences and relics, broken varieties of every imaginable tongue on their lips: ‘Pour la santé de votre ame! For the good soul! Por el bien alma! Diese Torten schmecken schön!’

  Isabella gazed up at the great building, footsore from her great journey, her skin baked brown as a field labourer’s, her hair bleached to straw. The gritty mistral wind stung her eyes. In some ways Avignon reminded her of the Hunger Garden in Hell. Everything looked fine here but no one sat outside and, even in the heat of the day, shutters were drawn against the salt and the sand of the incessant breeze. And then, of course, there was the river they had passed over. The Plague, which was diminished the last two years, had bitten back in Avignon. The Rhône was a horror in itself: corpses floating past, some stuck on the pillars of the bridge, others bobbing on in a ghastly progress towards the sea. The Pope had consecrated the r
iver, so many dead had fallen, and now it was one long grave throughout the city. How did anyone ever get a drink?

  Still, the gaggle of pilgrims with whom she had travelled from Bordeaux were momentarily awestruck by the palace, their gossip and self-congratulation at missing the marauding English ceasing as they gazed up at the building in wonder.

  Isabella, more used to grandeur, was still impressed and a flicker of self-consciousness went through her – she was not exactly dressed for the occasion. The clothes she wore were those of a common nun, which she had been for five long years while she waited for Pope Clement to die.

  Her pack contained her rings, including her seal. She was sincere in her penitence but had to present herself in a way the Pope would understand, to appear as a queen in the clothes of a poor nun, not as a poor nun.

  This Pope was no less indulgent than Clement, surrounding himself with riches, the best musicians and, no doubt, the best whores. But he would expect certain standards. She had her letters in her own hand, only one girl there as a travelling companion, a nun of Navarre – obviously a spy for her nephew but she didn’t mind that. She had helped him in the matter of Eu, he must look kindly on her. Entertaining one of his spies would reassure him further. She saw no need at present to betray him in any way, but had lived long enough to know that one day it might be necessary and she did not want him forearmed.

  No one had run ahead of her, no one announced her visit, so she climbed the steps of the palace with the other pilgrims, reminding herself to join the queue of common pilgrims at the door. It would have been so natural to walk straight in, but then, it would have been so natural to have been announced and to be greeted with bugles and bows.

  The autumn sun was low in the sky by the time she reached the door. Pilgrims were allowed in to the common chapels and those who sought an audience with the Pope were told to go away or fobbed off with a meeting with a lesser churchman. Not so Isabella. She presented her letter, showed her seal.

  The priest on the door looked surprised, exchanging glances with the men-at-arms who stood beside him.

  ‘You are a queen?’

  Isabella fought her instincts, which were to order him whipped for questioning her. There was no one to order, for a start, but she had put the habits of queens behind her. She bowed her head.

  ‘You don’t look like a queen.’

  ‘I am Isabella of France and England, of the House of Capet, mother of the English king and daughter of the last legitimate king of France. I ask audience with His Holiness.’

  More glances between the priest and his men-at-arms.

  ‘Why are you dressed like a shitty nun?’

  She calmed herself. ‘I have done great wrong. I am truly penitent and I would be absolved by the Father of the Church.’

  Conversation in Italian. The queen knew enough to pick out what they were saying. She looked well-bred enough to be a queen. She could be a queen. If she wasn’t a queen they’d be in trouble for taking her to the Pope. If she was, they could be executed. Best take her.

  ‘This way, Majesty,’ said the priest. He led her into the palace and the men-at-arms closed the door to the throng behind her.

  Isabella had grown up around indulgence and riches, but the interior of the Palais des Papes was beyond anything even she had seen. Gold and silver decked the walls like something from a miser’s dream; rich paintings in the most exquisite style hung there too – not religious scenes, but of hunting and the chase.

  Thick carpets lay on the floor, though they were filthy with the dust of the streets; candle holders the worth of a small duchy adorned tables of such fine workmanship that they might have been carved in Christ’s own workshop in Galilee. No rude light of nature had been allowed to intrude, the many candles deepening the lustre of the decorations and giving off the wonderful scent of beeswax – no rough tallow nor fish stink here.

  For an instant Isabella felt the urge to renounce her life of austerity, to step into fine clothes again, outshine even the most beautiful creations of the craftsmen’s hand, but she quelled it. If she was sincere in her purpose, direct and resolute, she would dwell in surroundings like these for eternity, for the Palais des Papes had to be what Heaven was like. There she would sit for ever among gold and silver, fed the most delicious foods from golden plates, drinking nectar and ambrosia from golden cups. She would endure and she would wait.

  Isabella was led through many corridors, through a palace more populous than any she had ever been in. Sometimes it was hard to get by for the press of officials and messengers, of servants bringing food and wine. You’d think the Pestilence had never happened. Eventually she came to a huge gilded door. Outside it, on cushioned chairs, sat twenty or so nobles in their best clothes, long beaked plague masks on their faces so they resembled birds of gaudy plumage, their servants around them. The atmosphere was stuffy and close, and some of the servants fanned their masters with cloths or wiped their brows with perfumed worsted.

  ‘Madame,’ said the priest, ‘I beg you that if you are not who you say you are, you admit it now. Perhaps you are some gentlewoman who has fallen on hard times and who hopes an audience with the Holy Father will restore your fortunes. Perhaps you are the spurned wife of a nobleman. If this is the case, say so and I will arrange for you to meet a court official more suited to your station.’

  Isabella raised her eyebrow.

  The man bowed his head. ‘You are a queen. If you wait here, Your Majesty, I will see if His Holiness’s secretary might give me a date on which he might see you.’

  She inclined her head in the attitude of a humble supplicant, though the words ‘He will see me now’ went through her head.

  The man slid through the door.

  ‘Who let that pauper in here?’ an upper-class French voice enquired.

  ‘The poor door’s at the back,’ said another.

  Isabella said nothing, kept her eyes fixed on the door.

  ‘Remove her!’ Another voice spoke.

  ‘Yes, throw her out, this is the palace of the Holy Father, for the sake of gentle Jesus, not a goose fair. I don’t care if she is a nun, we want a better class than that in here.’

  Still Isabella fixed her eyes on the door. She was aware of a kerfuffle behind her. A hand took her arm but she turned to face its owner. It was a young knight of around sixteen.

  ‘What is your name?’ she said, in her immaculate court French. The boy paused.

  ‘Gaston.’

  ‘Of where ?’

  ‘Of House Arenberg.’

  ‘The Holy Roman Empire,’ she said.

  This gave the boy pause.

  ‘She knows my house, sir,’ he said to someone unseen.

  ‘How the devil does she know that? She’s a low woman, it is plain to see.’

  ‘She doesn’t sound like a low woman.’

  ‘My God, you idiot boy, if you won’t do it, I will.’

  A man dressed in a fine deep blue cloth strode towards her. He grabbed her arm.

  ‘What’s this fine ring on your finger? Who—My God, that’s . . . That’s House Capet!’

  Her eyes settled on his hand. He instinctively took it away from her arm and stood with a foolish look on his face – rather like an old lady seeing her daughter-in-law cooking something of which she disapproved for her son.

  The doors swung open, revealing a vault of scarlet and gold. Bugles sounded, drums beat.

  ‘His Holiness the Pope welcomes Isabella, queen of England and France! All others are dismissed until tomorrow. The Holy Father will see this lady alone.’

  The man sank to his knees, squeezing his hand as if to chastise it for its cheek.

  ‘Spare my lands from your son. I meant no harm!’ he said.

  Isabella bowed her head, walking in all meekness to beg her absolution from the Pope, prepared to embark on whatever course of slaughter it might require.

  2

  The boy, of all people, the ridiculously named Dauphin, had suggested it one freez
ing night at the castle of Mont-Saint-Michel, which towered above the mud flats of its broad estuary.

  ‘Kings,’ said the Dauphin, a pale youth who, to Charles’s eyes, had the looks of a stable hand, ‘cannot see men as others do. We cannot harbour grudges and hatreds but view all men as pieces on a chessboard, to be moved this way and that.’

  Charles smiled half a smile, the cat side of his face refusing to lift. ‘Do I not know it, cousin? Am I not a king?’

  It was not just Normans who lined the tables. There were Clermont and Audrehem, men who might one day be marshals of France. There was the Scot William Douglas, who rode with a retinue of two hundred. All around the rest of the hall sat great men of France, united by one thing. They had all been friends, or admirers, of the count of Eu. Now they were flocking to the king of Navarre, whose outrage at Eu’s murder was said to have shaken the foundations of the castle of Vincennes to its foundations. He had tried to save Eu but the sorcerer La Cerda had laid a foul curse on him, redoubling the one Montagu had enacted, splitting the king in two. Such was his holy indignation that he had stood again. God had granted him a reprieve from death in order to do his work. Or so Charles’s friends said. He did not care to hear what his enemies said – though he heard it. A king always seeks to hear bad things about himself, then he may come as a surprise to plotters, rather than they to he.

  A treaty with the English was in the offing. The Black Prince’s wasp devil buzzed around the candles, the size of a rook but ten times as noisy. He would have had it killed were it not so useful.

  ‘You are a king,’ said the Dauphin, ‘and a great one. You could be greater still. I tell you this, cousin, were I the king of France, you would be constable, no mistake. Why, with a man like you at my side, I’m sure I would confine myself to hunting and pleasure all my days and let you do all that tiresome finance work. How can anyone bear to hear of the re-minting of coins, and yet it’s the only thing the letters from the court speak of!’

 

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