Slitting the late Count Robert’s seal with a razor was an anxious process. To think that a single seal could cost three hundred livres! And if it happened to break, how could another be obtained?
Monseigneur Robert was becoming rather impatient. The witnesses had all been interrogated; and the King kept asking him, though still with no more than friendly interest, if the documents to whose existence he had sworn would soon be available.
Two days more, one day more – and Monseigneur Robert’s impatience would be satisfied.
4.
The Guests at Reuilly
DURING THE SUMMER, whenever the cares of State and the anxieties of his lawsuit left him the time, Robert of Artois liked to spend the weekends at Reuilly, a castle belonging to his wife through her Valois inheritance.
He enjoyed the freshness of the woods and the fields that lay about the castle, and it was here that he kept his hawks. He had a large household, for many young nobles, before attaining to knighthood, took service with Robert as equerries, cupbearers, or gentlemen of the bedchamber. If you failed to get a place in the King’s household, you got your influential relatives to recommend you to the Count of Artois, and having been accepted you tried to distinguish yourself by your zeal. To hold the bridle of Monseigneur’s horse, hand him his leather hawking-glove, serve him at table, or tip the ewer of water over his powerful hands before meals, was to advance yourself a little in the hierarchy of the State; while to shake his pillow to awaken him in the morning, was almost like shaking God’s own pillow itself, since Monseigneur, as everyone knew, ruled the roost at Court.
On this Saturday at the beginning of September, Robert had invited a number of friends to Reuilly; among them were the Sire de Brécy, the Chevalier de Hangest, who was a member of Parliament, the Archdeacon of Avranches, and the old Count de Bouville, who was half blind, and for whom he had sent a litter. He had organized hawking for those who liked getting up early in the morning.
His guests were now, however, assembled in the Justice Room. Robert himself, dressed in country clothes, was sitting relaxed in his great chair. His wife, the Countess of Beaumont, was also present, as was the notary Tesson, who had placed his writing-board and pens on a table.
‘My good lords, my friends,’ he said, ‘I have requested your company so that you may give me your counsel.’
People are always flattered by being asked for their advice. The noble young pages were offering the guests pre-prandial drinks, aromatic wines, and handing round peeled and sugared almonds in silver-gilt dishes. They were taking care to be precise and silent in their duties, and were watching the proceedings with wide-eyed attention for they were garnering memories. In after years they would say: ‘I was present that day at Monseigneur Robert’s; the Count de Bouville was there, and he had been Chamberlain to King Philip the Fair …’
Robert was talking quietly and seriously: a certain Dame de Divion, whom he scarcely knew, had come to him with a document, which she had acquired among others from Bishop Thierry d’Hirson, whose mistress she had been, he added lowering his voice. La Divion wanted money for it, of course – all these women were the same. But the document appeared to be of some importance and, before acquiring it, Robert wished to make sure that he was not being imposed on, that the document was genuine, could be put in as evidence in his lawsuit, and that it was no forgery fabricated simply to extract money from him. He therefore wanted his friends, who were wiser and cleverer than he was in such matters, to examine it.
From time to time Robert glanced at his wife for reassurance as to the effect he was producing. Jeanne encouraged him with an almost imperceptible nod of the head. She admired her husband’s remarkable astuteness and his ability to appear ingenuous in order to deceive. He was pretending to be uneasy and suspicious. But there was no doubt that his guests would approve so evidently authentic a document; and once they had approved it, they would certainly not go back on their opinion, and the news would spread through Court and Parliament that Robert possessed proof of his rights.
‘Bring in this Dame de Divion,’ said Robert, looking severe.
Jeanne de Divion came in looking very shy and provincial. The triangle of her face with its dark and shadowed eyes was framed in a linen wimple. She had no need to pretend to be nervous; she was so.
She drew a roll of parchment from a cloth bag. There were several seals depending from it. She handed it to Robert, who unrolled it, looked at it for a moment and passed it to the notary.
‘Examine the seals, Master Tesson.’
The notary checked that the seals were properly attached to the silk laces and bent his huge black cap and crescent profile over the vellum.
‘It is without doubt the seal of your grandfather, the late Count, Monseigneur,’ he said with conviction.
‘Have a look at it, my good lords,’ said Robert.
They passed the document from hand to hand. The Sire de Brécy confirmed that the seals of the bailiwicks of Arras and Béthune were genuine. The Count de Bouville held the parchment close to his dim eyes; he could see nothing but a green blur at the bottom of the document and, as he felt the smooth wax with his finger, there were tears in his eyes and he murmured: ‘Ah, the green seal of my good master, Philip the Fair!’
Everyone was much moved and for a moment they all fell silent out of respect for the old servant of the Crown’s long memories. The young pages would not forget that moment.
La Divion, who was standing to one side against the wall, exchanged a discreet glance with the Countess of Beaumont.
‘Now read it to us, Master Tesson,’ Robert ordered.
The notary resumed the parchment and began:
‘“We, Robert of France, Peer and Count of Artois …”’
It was the usual opening formula; the guests listened calmly.
‘“… hereby, declare in the presence of the Lords of Saint-Venant, Saint-Paul, Waillepayelle, knights, who will seal this with their seals, and in that of Master Thierry d’Hirson, my clerk …”’
One or two of those present glanced at La Divion, who bowed her head.
‘Very, very clever to have mentioned Bishop Thierry,’ thought Robert; ‘it will help to support the evidence as to the part he played; it all fits in very well.’
‘“… that on the occasion of the marriage of our son, Philippe, we settled our county upon him, reserving to ourselves the right to its enjoyment during our lifetime, and that our daughter, Mahaut, consented to this and renounced her rights to the said county …”’
‘But this is of capital importance!’ cried Robert. ‘It’s a great deal more than I ever expected! No one ever told me that Mahaut had actually given her consent! You see what a villain she is, my friends! Go on, Master Tesson.’
The guests were much impressed. They nodded their heads and looked at each other. It was undoubtedly a most important document.
‘“… and now that God has summoned to himself our dear and beloved son, Count Philippe, we pray our Lord the King, if we should suffer God’s will in the wars, graciously to see that the heirs of our son be not disinherited …”’
The heads all nodded in dignified approval; the Chevalier de Hangest, who was a member of Parliament, spread wide his hands and, turning to Robert, seemed to be saying: ‘Monseigneur, your case is won.’
The notary concluded, ‘“… and we have sealed this with our seal, in our Hôtel d’Arras, this twenty-eighth day of June in the year of grace 1322.”’
Robert could not repress a start. The Countess of Beaumont turned pale. La Divion felt as if she were dying with her back to the wall.
Nor were they alone in having heard the words 1322. The guests turned in surprise to the notary, who was looking rather panic-stricken.
‘Did you say 1322?’ asked the Chevalier de Hangest. ‘Surely you must mean 1302, the year of Count Robert’s death?’
Master Tesson wished he could plead that his reading was at fault; but the text was there, under his eyes, and bore o
nly too clearly the date 1322. They would most certainly ask to examine the document again. How could it have happened? Oh, how angry Monseigneur Robert would be! And what a business he, Tesson, had allowed himself to get mixed up in! The Châtelet, that’s where it would all end for him, in the Châtelet!
He did what he could to repair the disaster. ‘It’s not very well written,’ he stuttered. ‘Oh, yes, of course, it’s 1302 that’s meant …’
And he quickly dipped his pen in the ink and corrected the figure to the right date.
‘Have you the right to make such a correction?’ said the Chevalier de Hangest, sounding rather shocked.
‘Certainly, Messire,’ said Tesson; ‘there are two dots under the date and it is the usual practice for a notary to correct ill-written words under which dots have been placed.’
‘That’s perfectly correct,’ the Archdeacon of Avranches confirmed.
But the incident had destroyed all the good impression the reading of the document had made.
Robert summoned a page, whispered to him to hurry dinner along, and then did his best to start the conversation going again.
‘Well, Master Tesson, so in your view the document is genuine?’
‘Certainly, Monseigneur, certainly,’ Tesson replied quickly.
‘And what do you think, Messire Archdeacon?’
‘I think it perfectly genuine.’
‘You ought perhaps,’ said the Sire de Brécy in a friendly way, ‘to have it compared with other of the late Count of Artois’ documents drawn up in the same year.’
‘And how do you suppose I can do that, my dear friend,’ replied Robert, ‘when my Aunt Mahaut has them all in her archives? I believe the document to be genuine. You can’t invent a thing like that! I didn’t know the facts myself, in particular that Mahaut had renounced her rights.’
At that moment there was a sound of horns in the courtyard. Robert clapped his hands.
‘They’re announcing the water, Messeigneurs! Let us go and wash our hands, and then to dinner.’
Robert was walking up and down the Countess’ room in a fury, making the boards tremble beneath his feet.
‘And you read it! And Tesson read it! And La Divion read it! And none of you had the wit to see this frightful mistake which endangers our whole plan.’
‘But you read the document yourself over and over again, my dear,’ the Countess replied calmly, ‘and you seemed delighted with it.’
‘Yes, of course I read it! And I didn’t see the mistake either! To read something to yourself and to read it aloud are two quite different things. Besides, how should I possibly imagine that anyone could make such a ridiculous mistake as that! That fool of a notary! And that other fool who wrote the document! What’s he called? Rossignol? He pretends he’s capable of writing a document, extracts more money from you than it would take to build a house, and then he can’t even put the right date on it. I’ll have that Rossignol seized, and whipped till he bleeds!’
‘You’ll have to fetch him from Santiago de Compostela to which he’s gone on pilgrimage at your expense, my dear.’
‘Well, when he comes back then!’
‘Aren’t you afraid he may talk a bit too much during the whipping?’
Robert shrugged his shoulders.
‘It’s damned lucky it happened here and not while the document was being read out to Parliament! You must keep a closer watch on the other documents, my dear, and make sure there are no more errors of that kind.’
Madame de Beaumont thought it unfair that her husband’s anger should fall on her. She was as much concerned at the mistake as he was, and just as sorry for it, but after all the trouble she had gone to, and with her hands flayed from cutting the wax of so many seals, she thought Robert might really exercise a little self-control and not blame her.
‘After all, Robert,’ she said, ‘why are you so determined on this lawsuit? What’s the point of running all these risks, and making me and so many members of your household run them too? We shall end only by being convicted of perjury and forgery.’
‘This is not perjury! And it’s not forgery either!’ Robert shouted. ‘I am going to bring the real and hidden truth out into the light of day!’
‘Very well, it’s the truth,’ she said; ‘but you must admit that the truth in this instance makes no very handsome appearance. In this guise, there is a grave risk that it will not be recognized! You’ve already everything you could possibly want, my dear. You’re a peer of the realm, the King’s brother-in-law through me, and all-powerful in the Council; your revenues are enormous, and the dowry and inheritance I brought you make you the envy of all. Why not leave Artois alone? Don’t you think we’ve already staked enough on a gamble that may cost us so dear?’
‘My dear, your argument is all wrong and I’m surprised to hear you talking like this when you’re usually so sensible. I may be the premier baron of France, but I’m a baron without lands. My little County of Beaumont, which was given me only in compensation, is a domain of the Crown. I have no power over it and am merely handed the revenues. I have been made a peer because, as you have just said, the King is your brother. It may well be that God will give him long to reign over us, but no king is eternal. We have seen enough of them die in our time! Suppose Philippe died, would I be given the Regency? If that wicked lame woman, his wife, who hates us both, became Regent with the support of Burgundy, what power would I have? Would the Treasury even continue to pay me my revenues? I have no ruling powers, nor power to administer justice; I have no great vassals who are really mine; I have no lands from which to draw men of my own who owe me complete obedience and whom I can place in jobs. Who are the men in high positions today? Men from Valois, Anjou, Maine, the fiefs and apanages of your father, Charles. Where do I find my own servants? Among them. I repeat, I have nothing of my own. I cannot raise enough banners to make people tremble before me. Real power lies only in the number of castellanies one commands and from which one can raise fighting men. My fortune depends on myself alone, on the strength of my arm and the place I occupy in the Council; my credit is founded merely on favour, and favour lasts only as long as God wills. We have sons – think of them, my dear. And since we cannot yet tell whether they have inherited my brains, I should much like to leave them the coronet of Artois, which is after all their just inheritance.’
Never had he expressed his real thoughts at such length. The Countess of Beaumont forgot her irritation of a moment before and saw her husband in a new light. This was not the cunning giant who delighted in intrigue, the bad hat capable of every kind of roguery, the seducer of women, whether noble, bourgeoises or servant girls, but a true great lord talking logically about the basis of his power. When, in the past, Charles of Valois had negotiated for a kingdom, an emperor’s crown or sovereign alliances for his daughters, he used to justify his actions with similar arguments.
A page knocked at the door: the Dame de Divion was urgently demanding an interview with the Count.
‘What the hell does she want now? Isn’t she afraid I’ll strangle her? Send her in.’
La Divion came in, looking very pale. She had just heard that her two servants in Artois, Marie the White and Marie the Black, who had helped her buy the seals for the forged document, had been arrested by the Countess Mahaut’s sergeants-at-arms.
5.
Mahaut and Beatrice
‘TO HELL WITH THE lot of you and may the Devil burn your guts!’ cried Countess Mahaut. ‘What’s the use of my having those two women arrested, if they’re immediately set free again? We could have got all the information we want out of them.’
The Countess Mahaut was at her Château of Conflans on the Seine, by Vincennes, and she had just heard that La Divion’s two servants, who had been arrested by the bailiff of Arras on her orders, had been set free. She was furiously angry and, for the moment, ‘the lot of you’ at whom she was directing her curses was represented by Beatrice d’Hirson, her lady-in-waiting. The fact was that the bail
iff of Arras was Beatrice’s uncle, a younger brother of the late Bishop Thierry.
‘The servants were released on an order from the King presented by two sergeants-at-arms, Madame,’ Beatrice replied calmly.
‘To hell with that! What the Devil does the King care about two servants employed in a kitchen in an Arras suburb? They were released on orders from Robert who went to the King to demand their freedom. Did anybody even take the names of the sergeants and make sure they really were the King’s officers?’
‘Their names are Maciot l’Allemant and Jean Le Servoisier, Madame,’ replied Beatrice still quite unmoved.
‘Two of Robert’s sergeants-at-arms! I know that Maciot l’Allemant; he’s the man my scoundrel of a nephew employs on all his wicked work. Besides, how did Robert know that two of La Divion’s servants had been arrested?’ Mahaut asked, looking suspiciously at her lady-in-waiting.
‘Monseigneur Robert has a considerable intelligence system in Artois; you know that, Madame.’
‘I can only hope,’ said Mahaut, ‘that he has found no recruits to it among the people about me. In any case, to serve me ill is to betray me! I’m betrayed on all sides. Since Thierry’s death, one might well suspect that you’re none of you loyal to me any more. You’re ungrateful, all of you! And when I think how generous I’ve been! For fifteen years I’ve treated you as my own daughter.’
Beatrice d’Hirson lowered her long black lashes and stared vaguely at the flagstones. Her smooth, amber-complexioned face and the well-marked curve of her lips betrayed no expression of any kind whatever, neither humility, nor rebellion, though there was perhaps something a little false about the lowered lashes concealing her eyes.
‘Your Uncle Denis, whom I made my treasurer to please Thierry, robs me right and left. Where are the accounts for the produce of my cherry orchard which he sold this summer on the Paris market? I’ll have his accounts audited one of these days. You’ve got everything, lands, houses and castles, all bought out of the money you make out of me. And then your fool of an Uncle Pierre, whom I made bailiff because I thought he was too stupid to be anything else but loyal to me, can’t even keep the doors of my prisons shut! People just walk out as they please, as if they were inns or brothels!’
The Lily and the Lion Page 10
