by Robyn Young
“Quiet, Marie!”
“No, Marie, continue,” insisted Gilles, tightening his hold. “Where is this Heloise?”
“Dead, sir. Dead for years now!”
Gilles frowned. He was about to question her further, when Ponsard let out a shout.
“We’ve got something!”
Twisting his head around, Gilles saw one of the guards he had stationed outside coming toward the door. He was carrying two struggling boys, one under each arm.
“Found these two trying to sneak away down the hill, sir.”
“No!” The bulky woman started forward, her face filled with horror.
Gilles turned back. “Why does de Got come here? Answer me!” he shouted, as the hallway filled with the boys’ cries.
“To see his son,” blurted the woman, dropping to her knees. “Please!” she begged. “Please don’t hurt them!”
Gilles studied the yelling children. His eyes quickly dismissed the stocky, older boy, who looked distinctly like the fat woman and went instead to the smaller of the two, who had dark hair, a feeble chin and, now he looked closer, a startling resemblance to the archbishop. Gilles felt a surge of triumph. “You will go to Paris immediately,” he said, turning to two of the guards. “We cannot waste any time in this matter. Tell Minister de Nogaret we have found what he’s been looking for.”
THE ROYAL PALACE, PARIS, MARCH 2, 1305 AD
Nogaret hastened through the palace corridors, ignoring the respectful nods and greetings his presence drew from servants and officials alike. He wanted to grin; this had been long in coming, and even though he hadn’t given up hope of finding something useful, he never expected it would be so advantageous, or, indeed, quite so . . . delicious. But, despite his satisfaction, he made sure his face was set with solemnity as he approached the royal chambers.
Philippe was seated at a table, nursing a steaming bowl of soup. His nose was red where he had been wiping it, his eyes bloodshot. He had been afflicted with the fever for several weeks and his mood was increasingly sour because of it. He glanced up as Nogaret shut the door.
“We have found it, my lord, at last we have found it. The key that will unlock the Temple.”
Philippe set down his spoon. “What?”
“The companies of men we sent out to look for evidence of corruption. Tools of manipulation. One of them has uncovered something on a potential candidate.”
“Who is it?”
Nogaret had to clamp down a renewed urge to smirk. “Bertrand de Got.”
“The archbishop of Bordeaux?” Philippe rose, pushing his soup aside, virtually untouched, and went to the hearth, where the fire was roaring. He shivered. “What has he done?”
“Conceived a child.”
Philippe turned quickly. “This is certain?”
“Our soldiers have imprisoned the boy in his house. De Got was apparently involved in a tryst with a young noblewoman seven years ago. She died in labor, but he has been providing for the child ever since. All out of Church funds,” added Nogaret, with relish.
Philippe’s face was taut with contemplation. “The archbishop wouldn’t want this to be known, certainly. His career would be damaged irrevocably and the Church might decide to imprison him, or worse. The fear of his secret being divulged would make him obedient in the short term. But what about later? How could this be used then?” Philippe looked at Nogaret, the hope dying in his eyes. “It couldn’t. There would be a risk the Sacred College would remove him for such an offense and then where would we be?” His tone was flat. “Right back where we started.”
“I am not talking about divulging his secret. I’m talking about using the child.” Nogaret crossed to Philippe. “We keep the boy in our custody until de Got fulfils our obligations. He clearly cares for his son. Why else would he visit the child so frequently, risking his position, his life even? Any threat to the boy would make him compliant. I am sure.”
Philippe was shaking his head. “No. I will not sanction that. An innocent child?” He shivered. “There has been too much blood shed, Nogaret. Too much. Where does it end? Dear God.” He raised a trembling hand to his brow. “Where does it end?”
“Those deaths were necessary, my lord,” murmured Nogaret. “And you need not fear. You had no hand in either.”
“Does the bow take no part in releasing the arrow?”
“Boniface would have destroyed France. He was deranged.” Nogaret was stalking, emphatic. “A heretic. Corrupt and murderous. He deserved death. We gave the world a blessing.”
“Are you starting to believe your own propaganda, Minister?” Philippe’s voice was low. “What about Pope Benedict? Are you going to tell me that feeble old man deserved death, when his only crime was to deny my requests?” He lurched into his chair, folding his arms about his chest and closing his eyes. “All I can think of is Benedict’s soul winging its way to heaven, his lips, tainted with poison, opening to hiss my name at the gates.”
“You weren’t to blame, my lord. If any name was on his lips it was mine.”
Philippe’s eyes opened. “Why did you do it, Nogaret? Why? You were only supposed to have forced him, coerced him.” He rose. “God, but I think I should have had you executed for such wicked insubordination.”
“You asked Pope Benedict to lift the excommunication order on me and he refused. You requested that he proclaim Boniface a heretic and launch a trial against him, posthumously, and he refused. The old man had more backbone than our allies in the Sacred College realized. None of us was going to get what we wanted from him, least of all the Temple. As soon as I met with him I realized that. What I did was in your interests, my lord, yours and our kingdom’s. There was no evidence it was murder. When he left me for a moment, I poured the poison into some figs he had been eating. His death was proclaimed to be from natural causes. The only two people who know any different are you and me.”
“Three,” snapped Philippe. “There are three who know. You. Me. And God.” He rounded on the minister. “What would you have done had the Sacred College elected a new pope immediately? Would you have stayed in Perugia to poison more until they chose someone who would serve our will?”
“That was an unlikely prospect with so many who support us established in the College. Thanks to the work we have done over the past year, electing archbishops of our choosing as cardinals, the curia stands divided. One half supports France, the other Rome. None of our cardinals was going to elect anyone who wasn’t sanctioned by you. You made a decision, my lord,” Nogaret continued, anger making his voice rise. “A decision to make France great. Do you believe your grandfather never spilled blood or broke a law in his pursuit of that aim? You are a king, ordained by God. You stand above the law! Louis didn’t become a saint by being weak. He took up the Cross, put hundreds to death, exiled the Jews, levied taxes. He fought for his kingdom, his people. The sooner you realize this, the more like him you will become.”
Philippe stared at his minister in silence. After a long moment, he sat. “I will not sanction any more murders.” He raised his eyes. “If you disobey me again, Nogaret, I will not hesitate to have you put to death. We will keep the child in our custody for the time being and send word to our allies in the Sacred College that we have found a candidate who is to our liking.”
“Do not forget de Got has connections with King Edward that may make him useful in other ways,” added Nogaret, relieved that the king was once again primed and ready to act.
“What if the other cardinals vote against him?”
Nogaret shook his head. “This long interregnum hasn’t been to anyone’s liking. Everyone in the College will be glad to see someone installed on the papal throne. I think it will help that Bertrand is outside any of their influences. That is why we had to look beyond the College for suitable candidates; neither faction would support the other’s nominee.”
“That and they were all either too close to Boniface or Benedict, or too strong-willed to be useful,” added Philippe grimly. �
��If de Got is accepted by the others, it will be our responsibility to ensure he complies with our wishes without the need for further bloodshed. We will use the child, but only as a tool. No harm must come to the boy. Is that understood?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“We will meet de Got immediately. I want to make certain he will do as we wish. I want to know this key can be turned.”
27
Château Vincennes, the Kingdom of France
MARCH 4, 1305 AD
Rose climbed the stairs slowly, the smell of the herbs in her hands rising pungent around her. As the sun passed out of a cloud, a shaft of light blazed down the stairwell from the arched window at the top. She paused in its silvery brightness, feeling in that glow a whisper of lighter days and warmth. A moan sounded from above. Opening her eyes, steeling herself, she continued climbing.
The royal chamber was dark, the velvet drapes drawn across the day. An acrid odor lingered in the air, issuing from a toilet bowl placed beside the large bed. Laying the herbs on a table beside the queen’s combs and ointments, Rose padded across to the window and parted the drapes a little, letting the breeze freshen the room. There was another moan. The bedcovers shifted and rolled as Jeanne turned over, wincing at the daylight.
“What is that smell?” she complained.
“Rosemary, rue and yarrow, madam. For your bath.”
The queen’s eyes, puffy with sleep, focused on Rose. “Where is Marguerite?”
Rose paused. “In Paris, madam,” she said hesitantly. “Do you not remember? She was ill and stayed behind when we left yesterday.” As the queen struggled to sit up, Rose hurried to bolster the pillows at her back. The queen’s face was ashen. “Perhaps I should call for the physician?” Rose suggested, worried the queen’s memory loss was some new symptom of her malady.
“No, I am fine. Just tired.”
Rose moved back from the bed and stood there, waiting for an order. The silence seemed to thicken and swell. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, she looked around, relieved to see a host of servants appear, carrying buckets. They crossed to where the bath had been set near the fire and began pouring water in.
Jeanne struggled out of the bed when the servants had gone. “Where is Blanche?” she questioned, not looking at Rose as she lifted her nightgown and squatted over the toilet bowl.
Rose averted her gaze. She heard a brief trickle and a gasp of pain as the queen emptied her bladder. “Lord Philippe sent her and the others to pick more herbs for your medicine. He wanted you to have enough while he was away.”
“I want Blanche,” murmured the queen, crossing to the bath, her hand pressed to her back. “Blanche always bathes me.”
“She won’t be back for a while yet.” Rose went to the toilet bowl, gritting her teeth as the foul odor rose to assault her. As she took it to the window to empty it, she noticed a red hue to the fluid, which, for the past few days, had been a dark, cloudy yellow. Thinking the physician might want to test it, she placed the bowl under the table. “You do not want your bath to get cold, madam,” she insisted, collecting the bundle of herbs. She rubbed them together, the bitter fragrance bursting between her palms, then dunked them into the bath, as the physician had instructed Blanche the day before. The water was tepid, having cooled quickly in the walk from the kitchens, but the servants had stacked the fire and the blaze had taken the chill out of the air. Pushing up her sleeve, Rose swirled the herbs around. “This will help,” she said, soft and coaxing as if she were talking to a child, even though, at twenty-seven, she was five years younger than Jeanne. “And after your bath I will fetch you more medicine and some watered wine to help you rest.”
Morose, but pliable, Jeanne allowed Rose to remove her nightgown and help her into the bath. Rose had seen the queen naked before, but never so close, Marguerite and Blanche having always been the ones favored to dress and bathe her. She found it hard not to stare at Jeanne’s body, so different to her own: her rounded thighs and hips, olive-skinned, covered in downy black hair, her stomach lumpy, webbed with purple lines where the skin had stretched over seven children, her huge breasts, the nipples fat and dark, swinging pendulously as she bent to sit in the water, the bushy black triangle that covered her sex. The queen lay back, shuddering as the water closed over her shoulders.
Rose took up a cloth that had been draped over the side. She walked around to the head of the bath, dipped in the cloth and, crouching down, dabbed at Jeanne’s forehead. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out across her skin, either from the fever or the heat of the fire. As Rose brushed them gently away, the queen gave a sigh. After a moment, it faded into a protracted grimace.
Jeanne’s hand slid down to her abdomen. She rubbed it fretfully. “Why will it not stop? The medicine isn’t helping. There is a burning inside me. I can feel it. Why won’t it stop?”
“I am sure it will.” Rose reached in to dab at the queen’s face, but Jeanne sat up suddenly, a wave of herbs and water sloshing around her.
“Don’t touch me!”
Rose sat back on her heels. “Madam?”
Jeanne had turned to look at her, her black eyes glittering. “This is your doing. Somehow, you have done this. Sorcery, is it?” She rose, water pouring off her, running between her breasts, dripping from her hair. A sprig of rosemary clung to her inner thigh.
Rose stared up at her, speechless.
“You charm me with your smiles, beguile me into keeping you. I should have thrown you out the moment I knew you desired my husband.” Jeanne stepped out of the bath to tower over Rose, still crouched on the floor. “You little witch! What have you done to me?”
“Madam, please! I don’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .”
“What is happening?”
Jeanne and Rose turned at the voice to see Philippe enter the chamber. He rushed to the queen, who fell into his arms.
“Pass me her gown,” the king ordered, pointing to the bed, where a red velvet robe lay crumpled.
At his command, Rose jerked to her feet and fetched the garment. As Philippe took it, his fingers brushed hers. She started back, clutching her hand as if he had burned her. The king didn’t seem to notice, but wrapped the gown around his wife’s body and led her carefully to the bed.
“What happened?” he repeated.
Rose followed. “She said it felt as though there was a burning inside her. Then she started saying . . . She said these things to me . . .” Rose trailed off, unable to repeat the words in front of him, terrified the queen, who was weeping, might do so at any moment.
Philippe nodded as he helped his wife on to the bed and wrapped her in the covers. “The physician said the fever might make her delirious. I will have him examine her again.”
“No!” Jeanne grabbed him as he went to move. “It hurts. I don’t want him to touch me again. Please, Philippe, please just stay with me.”
He held her to him, stroking her hair and rocking her gently. “It will pass, my love. Soon it will pass.”
“Say you’ll stay,” murmured Jeanne, gripping his tunic. “Don’t leave me.”
“I have to,” Philippe said quietly. “There is something I must do. But I will not be gone long.” He bent and kissed her hair. “And when I return you will be better.”
Jeanne sniffed and looked up at him, her eyes red. “Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
There were footfalls on the stairs as Blanche and the other handmaidens returned with the herbs. The queen’s daughter, Isabella, followed them in, clutching a bunch of bright flowers. Jeanne’s face softened as she took them and Philippe lifted the girl onto the bed, with a laugh at how heavy she was becoming. Rose retreated until her back pressed against the far wall while the handmaidens fussed around the royal couple.
After Jeanne discovered her secret, Rose had hidden it away so deeply that no one, including the queen, had ever mentioned it again. She rarely spoke with the king, except to answer his questions, and always kept her head lowered in his prese
nce, afraid even to look at him lest her face betray her. She did as she was told and worked through her chores meticulously, the most obedient and quiet of all the queen’s attendants. Only at night or alone did she allow her desires to live. In shadows and solitude they bloomed, becoming darker, yet more resilient, like weeds that grow in shade. Now, in this gloomy chamber, filled with the smells of sweat and flowers, those fantasies rose before her; a specter with Jeanne’s voice and a finger outstretched in accusation. How often had she imagined the queen sickening and dying, that her desires might live?
TEMPLE GATE, PARIS, MARCH 5, 1305 AD
“Why in God’s name have you kept all this from me?”
Will looked away across the fields as Robert stared at him, his gray eyes stormy.
The knight moved into his line of sight. “Indeed, why tell me now? Why not carry on fighting your own battles? The mercenary, as ever.”
“I thought it was over. After Nogaret killed Boniface and Benedict took the papal throne I waited, biding my time until I knew for certain they had secured the pope’s support for their plan. When I realized Benedict had defied them, I thought their plot had been halted. I had no idea the lawyer would go so far.” Will shook his head. “Boniface was the king’s personal enemy. Ignoring the fact that they wouldn’t have been able to control him and consummate their plan, he could have destroyed Philippe. He was a danger to France. But Benedict . . . ?”
“You know for certain the king’s minister murdered him?” asked Robert sharply.
“No. But I think it far beyond coincidence that the pope died during Nogaret’s visit, given what I know of Boniface’s demise and their plans.”
A cart rumbled toward the gate. They stepped out of the road to let it pass. Robert looked at the Temple, rising white from the bare fields. “I cannot believe the king would do this.”
“Philippe has gone after every possible opportunity to procure wealth during his reign. The clergy. The Jews. Gascony and Flanders. Even so, his coffers are empty and his plans for expansion remain unfulfilled. His subjects are growing resentful. The king’s aggressive methods and the rise in taxes, especially given the poor harvests of recent years, are making them question his ability to rule. Guienne and Flanders are under his yoke, but they are anything but stable. Philippe needs to give his people something more tangible, else their support will start to crumble. He needs to exert himself, but to do that he needs money. This king is not afraid, Robert, of who he might have to step over on his way to sainthood.”
