They went in search of a ladder. Cornillot was hoisted into a tree and tied there by the armpits; when he had been kicking for a bit, while the barons laughed, they cut the rope and let him fall to the ground. The unhappy man, his legs broken, screamed continuously while they dug his grave. He was buried upright, to the neck.
The Countess of Poitiers’s coach was still waiting to continue the journey, while the ladies-in-waiting stopped their ears in order not to hear the victim’s cries. The Countess of Poitiers, strong as she was, felt herself grow faint; and she did not dare to intervene for fear that the barons’ anger should turn upon herself. Beatrice d’Hirson, in spite of the dangers of her position, followed the ceremony with singular attention.
At last Souastre handed his great sword to one of the men-at-arms. The blade flashed across the ground and Sergeant Cornillot’s head rolled upon the grass, while a fountain of blood poured from the severed arteries.
As soon as the coach had set out once more, the pregnant lady was taken with pains; she began screaming, hurling herself upon her back, and raising her skirts. It was soon obvious that she would not reach the natural term of her pregnancy.
3
The Second Couple in the Kingdom
HESDIN WAS A CONSIDERABLE fortress surrounded by three lines of fortifications separated by fosses, bristling with flanking towers, enclosing a large number of outbuildings, stables, barns, and storehouses, and was connected by a number of underground passages with the surrounding countryside. A garrison of eight hundred archers could live there comfortably with all their supporting services and the necessary supplies for a siege of several months. Within the third court was the principal residence of the Counts of Artois, made up of several groups of lodgings, containing rare furniture, tapestries, works of art, and gold plate, accumulated during the course of three generations, an incalculable fortune.
‘As long as I hold this place,’ Mahaut was accustomed to say, ‘my wicked barons will not get the better of me. They’ll exhaust themselves before my walls are breached, and my nephew Robert is deluding himself if he thinks I’ll ever let him get his clutches on Hesdin.’
‘Hesdin belongs to me by right of inheritance,’ Robert of Artois said on his side; ‘my aunt Mahaut has stolen it from me, as she has all the rest of my county. But I’ll fight on till I take it, and her wicked life into the bargain.’
When the allies, still escorting Jeanne’s coach, came at dusk to the first fortifications, their number had already considerably decreased. The Lord of Journy had left the escort, on the excuse that he had to go home to see to the getting in of his harvest, and the Lord of Givenchy had done the same, not wishing to leave his wife alone for too long. Others, whose manors were within an arrow’s flight of the road, went home to supper, taking their friends with them and swearing that they would rejoin the cavalcade later on. This had gone on to such an extent that the keenest among them were now no more than thirty in number; they had ridden for three days without quitting the company. Their armour began to weigh heavily upon their shoulders, and they felt in considerable need of a bath.
They had somewhat slaked their anger on Sergeant Cornillot, whose head was being carried on the point of a lance as a trophy.
They had to argue for some time with the outer guard before they were allowed to enter. Then they had to wait once more, with Jeanne of Poitiers in their midst, between the first and second lines of fortifications. The new moon had risen in the not yet dark sky. But shadows were gathering in the courtyards of Hesdin. All seemed quiet, even too quiet in the barons’ eyes. They were surprised to see so small a number of armed men. A horse, smelling the presence of other horses, neighed from the far end of a stable.
The freshness of the evening fell upon them, and Jeanne recognized the scents of her childhood. Madame de Beaumont was still groaning that she was dying. The barons were arguing among themselves. Some were saying that they had done enough for the moment, that the whole business looked like a trap, and that they would do better to come back in greater strength another day. Jeanne saw the moment coming when she too would be taken away as a hostage, or would be involved in a night battle.
At last the second drawbridge was lowered, then the third. The barons hesitated.
‘Is it really certain that my mother is here?’ Jeanne whispered to Beatrice d’Hirson.
‘I swear it to you, Madam, and indeed I am as anxious to find myself in her company as you can be.’
Jeanne then leant out of the coach.
‘Well, Messeigneurs,’ she said, ‘do you still desire so much to speak to your suzerain, or does your courage fail at the moment of approaching her?’
These words urged the barons on and, so as not to lose face with a woman, they entered the third court, where they dismounted.
It does not matter how prepared for an event one is, it always takes place otherwise than one had imagined.
Jeanne of Poitiers had thought twenty times of the moment when she would be with her family again. She had been prepared for anything, from the cold reception usually accorded the freed gaolbird, to a great official scene of reconciliation and a new, intimate meeting amid joy and happy embraces. She had considered her attitude and her words for every eventuality. But she had never imagined that she would enter her family castle escorted by the riff-raff of a civil war and with, in the back of her coach, a lady-in-waiting in process of having a miscarriage.
When Jeanne entered the Great Hall, lit by candles, where the Countess Mahaut, arms crossed and tight of lip, watched the barons filing in, her first words were, ‘Mother, Madame de Beaumont, who is in process of losing her child, must be given help. Your vassals have frightened her overmuch.’
The Countess Mahaut at once gave instructions to her godchild, Mahaut d’Hirson, a sister of Beatrice’s who was with her (for the whole family of Hirson formed part of her court: Pierre was bailey of Arras, Guillaume was pantler, three other nephews and nieces held sinecures), to go and find Master Hermant and Master de Pavilly, her private physicians, that they might attend to the patient.
Then, pulling up her sleeves she addressed herself to the barons: ‘Wicked lords, do you call this chivalry, attacking my noble daughter and the ladies of her household, and do you think that you can make me relent thereby? Would you like your own wives and daughters to be treated thus when they travel the roads? Answer me, explain your crimes, for which I shall ask the King to punish you!’
The barons nudged Souastre and whispered, ‘Go on, tell her.’
Souastre coughed to clear his throat and rubbed his three days’ growth of beard. He had talked so much, so vituperatively, held so many meetings to win over others, that now, on the most important occasion of all, he no longer knew what to say.
‘As to that, Madam,’ he began, ‘we want to know if you are prepared to disavow your wicked chancellor who strangles our requests, and whether you will consent to recognize our customs as they were at the time of Monsieur Saint Louis ...’
He broke off because a new personage had entered the room, and this was no less than the Count of Poitiers. His head a little to one side, he came forward with long steady strides. The barons, who were but small territorial lords and far from expecting the sudden appearance of the King’s brother, nervously closed their ranks.
‘Messeigneurs ...’ said the Count of Poitiers.
He stopped, having caught sight of Jeanne.
He went up to her and kissed her on the mouth in the most natural manner in the world, before all those present, in order to prove once and for all that his wife was wholly taken back into favour and that at the same time, as far as he was concerned, Mahaut’s interests were a family matter.
‘Well, Messeigneurs,’ he went on, ‘you appear discontented. Well, so are we! And therefore if we are both stubborn, and if we use violence, we shall never arrive at a happy issue. Ah, I know you, Messire de Balliencourt; I saw you with the army. I hope you’re in good health? Violence is the resource of people
who are unable to reflect. How do you do, Messire de Caumont?’
As he spoke, he was moving among them, looking them straight in the eyes, addressing by name those whom he recognized, and extending his hand to them that they might kiss it in sign of homage.
‘It would be easy for the Countess of Artois to punish you for your ill-behaviour towards her should she so wish. Just have a look out of that window, Messire de Souastre, and tell me what chances of escape you have.’
Some of the barons went to the window and saw that the walls had suddenly become lined with men whose helmets made a frieze across the evening sky. A company of archers was drawn up in the courtyard, and sergeants-at-arms were ready, upon a signal, to raise the bridges and lower the portcullises.
‘Let us fly, if there is still time,’ some of the barons murmured.
‘No, Messeigneurs, don’t try to escape,’ said the Count of Poitiers; ‘your flight would take you no farther than the second wall. Once more I tell you that we do not want to use violence, and I am asking your suzerain not to use arms against you. Is not that so, Mother?’
The Countess Mahaut nodded approval.
‘Let us endeavour to resolve our differences in another way,’ the Count of Poitiers continued, sitting down.
He prayed the barons to do likewise, and ordered refreshments to be brought them.
As there were not enough seats for all, some sat on the floor. The alternation of threats and politeness bewildered them.
Philippe of Poitiers talked to them at length. He showed them that civil war could bring nothing but disaster, that they were the King’s subjects before they were the subjects of Countess Mahaut, and that they must submit to the Sovereign’s arbitration. The latter had sent two emissaries, Messire Flotte and Messire Paumier, to conclude a truce. Why had they refused it?
‘We no longer had confidence in the Countess Mahaut,’ replied Jean de Fiennes.
‘The truce was demanded of you in the King’s name; it is therefore the King you are affronting by doubting his word.’
‘But Monseigneur Robert of Artois had assured us ...’
‘Ah, I was waiting for that! Take care, my good lords, not to listen too much to the advice of Monseigneur Robert, who is inclined to talk rather too easily in the King’s name, and is using you for his own ends, paying, perhaps, with his own money, but very little with his own person. Our cousin of Artois lost his case against Madame Mahaut six years ago, and the King my father, God rest his soul, judged the case himself. Whatever happens in this county is between yourselves, the Countess, and the King only.’
Jeanne de Poitiers was watching her husband. She listened with joy to the level cadences of his voice; she noted once more his manner of suddenly raising his eyelids to mark a phrase, and his nonchalance of attitude which, and she now realized it for the first time, was merely a cloak to hide his strength. He seemed to her strangely matured. His features had set; his long thin nose was sharper than ever; his face was beginning to acquire its definitive shape. At the same time Philippe seemed to have achieved an extraordinary authority as if, since his father’s death, some part of the dead king’s natural authority had been passed on to him.
At the end of a full hour’s discussion the Count of Poitiers had obtained what he wanted, or at least the most that could be obtained. Denis d’Hirson would be set at liberty; Thierry, provisionally, would not reappear in Artois, but the Countess’s administration would continue to function till the Commissions had made their report. Sergeant Cornillot’s head would be immediately returned to his family to receive Christian burial. ‘For,’ said the Count of Poitiers, ‘to behave as you have is to act as infidels rather than as defenders of the true faith. Such deeds open the way to acts of vengeance of which you yourselves will shortly be the victims.’
The lords of Liques and Nédonchel were to be left in peace, for they had only desired the good of all and the avoidance of useless bloodshed. The ladies of both sides would be respected as they should be in a chivalrous country. And then everyone was to meet at Arras, in a fortnight’s time, that was to say on October 7th, to conclude a truce which would be maintained until the celebrated conference of Compiègne, so often rejected, could be held, and this was now fixed for November 15th. If the two Guillaumes, Flotte and Paumier, had not succeeded in rallying the barons to the King’s wishes, other negotiators would be sent.
‘There’s no need to sign anything today; I trust your word, Messeigneurs,’ said the Count of Poitiers, who knew that the best way of gaining the confidence of opponents is to pretend to accord them your own. ‘You are reasonable and honourable men; I know very well that you, Balliencourt, and you, Souastre, and you, Loos, and all the rest of you will be determined not to disappoint me or allow me to approach the King in vain. And I count upon you to make your friends see sense and show respect for our agreement.’
He managed them so well that they thanked him as they left, almost as if they had found in him a defender. They mounted their horses, crossed the three drawbridges, and disappeared into the night.
‘My dear son,’ said Mahaut. ‘You have saved me. I could not have been so patient with them.’
‘I’ve gained you a fortnight,’ said Philippe, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The customs of Saint Louis! Really, I’m beginning to get tired of the whole lot of them with their customs of Saint Louis! You might think my father had never existed. When a great King has brought progress to the land, must there always be idiots who are determined to be reactionary. And my brother encourages them!’
‘What a pity that you’re not King, Philippe!’ said Mahaut.
Philippe did not reply; he gazed at his wife. She, now that her fears had been dissipated and so many months of hope at last realized, suddenly felt overcome with weakness and was fighting against the tears which mounted to her eyes.
To hide her distress she walked about the room, gazing once more upon the scene of her childhood. But her emotion was only exacerbated by every object she recognized. She saw once again the chessboard of jasper and chalcedony on which she had learned to play.
‘Nothing is changed, you see,’ Mahaut said.
‘No, nothing has changed,’ Jeanne repeated, her throat constricted, turning towards the bookcase.
It contained a dozen volumes and thereby formed one of the most important private libraries in France. Jeanne stroked the bindings with her fingers: Les Enfances d’Ogier, Le Roman de la Violette, the Bible in French, The Life of the Saints, Le Roman de Renart, Le Roman de Tristan.16 She had so often, with her sister Blanche, looked at the beautiful illuminations painted on the sheets of parchment! While one of Mahaut’s ladies had read to them.
‘You know this one. Yes, I had already bought it. It cost me three hundred pounds,’ said Mahaut, showing her Le Voyage au Pays du Grand Khan by Messire Marco Polo.
She was trying to dissipate the embarrassment that had come upon the three of them.
At that moment Mahaut’s dwarf, who was called Jeannot le Follet, came in, carrying the wooden hobbyhorse on which he was supposed to caracole about the house. He was over forty years of age with a large head, big spaniel eyes, and a little flat nose; he was just about the height of a table, and he wore a robe embroidered with ‘bestelettes’ and a round cap.
When he saw Jeanne he was overcome with amazement; his mouth opened, but no sound came, and instead of advancing into the room making the capers which were his duty, he rushed towards her and threw himself on the ground to kiss her feet.
Jeanne’s fortitude and self-control yielded on the spot. She suddenly began sobbing and, turning to the Count of Poitiers, and seeing that he was smiling at her, threw herself into his arms stammering, ‘Philippe! Philippe! At last, at last, I am with you again.’
The tough old Countess Mahaut felt a little pang at the heart that her daughter should have rushed towards her husband, rather than towards herself, to weep with joy.
‘But what else did I hope for?’ thought Mahaut. ‘After all
, that’s the most important thing. I’ve succeeded.’
‘Philippe, your wife is tired,’ she said. ‘Take her to your apartments. Supper will be brought up to you.’
And as they passed her, she added in a low voice, ‘I told you she loved you, didn’t I?’
She gazed after them as they passed through the door, leaning against each other. Then she signed to Beatrice d’Hirson to follow them discreetly.
Later, during the night, when the Countess Mahaut, to compensate herself for her exhausting day, was in process of eating her sixth and last meal of the day, Beatrice came in, a half-smile on her lips.
‘Well?’ said Mahaut.
‘Well, Madam, the philtre has had the effect we expected. They are now asleep.’
Mahaut leant back among her pillows.
‘God be praised,’ she said. ‘We have brought the second couple in the Kingdom together again.’
4
A Servant’s Friendship
THERE FOLLOWED SEVERAL weeks of comparative peace in the Kingdom. The opposing parties met at Arras, then at Compiègne, and the King promised to announce his arbitration over Artois before Christmas. The barons of the north, temporarily satisfied, returned to their manors.
The fields were black and deserted; the flocks were gathered in the folds. The land of France slept in the silence of winter. These were the shortest days of the year; the misty December dawns were like smoke from greenwood fires; night fell early upon the royal residence of Vincennes as it lay surrounded by its forest.
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