Beatrice was bored, even more than she had been at Conflans during Mahaut’s last months. Her affair with Robert was stuck in a bog. She had thought to trap the giant, but it was he who had won the day. Humiliated and unsatisfied, her passion was beginning to change into secret resentment. She seemed always to be waiting for him! Nor could she go out and do a round of the taverns with a friend in search of adventure, because Robert was certain to come when she was out. Besides, he had her watched.
She was well aware that Robert had cooled towards her, and looked on her now merely as an obligation, an accomplice who had to be humoured. Sometimes a fortnight went by without his showing desire for her.
‘You won’t win in the long run, Monseigneur Robert!’ she whispered to herself. In her heart of hearts she was beginning to hate him, because she could not possess him often enough.
She had tried all the best receipts for love philtres: ‘Draw some of your blood on a Friday in spring; put it to dry in the oven in a little pot with two hare’s testicles and a dove’s liver; reduce the whole to a fine powder and make the person on whom you have designs swallow it; and if it has no effect the first time, repeat on three further occasions.’
Or again: ‘Go on a Friday morning into an orchard before sunrise and pluck from a tree the finest apples you can find; then write on a small piece of white paper with your blood both your name and surname and below them the name and surname of the person whose love you desire; and endeavour to acquire three of his hairs, which you join with three of yours, and with these bind the little paper on which you have written with your blood; then split the apple in half, remove the pips, and put the paper bound with the hair in their place; and with two little skewers made of pointed twigs of green myrtle, neatly join the two halves of the apple together and place them to dry in the oven so that they become hard and have no moisture, like the dry Lenten apples; then wrap the apple in laurel and myrtle leaves and endeavour to place it under the pillow of the bed in which the beloved person sleeps without his perceiving it; and in a short while he will give you proof of his love.’
But it had been no good. The Friday apples had had no effect. Sorcery, in which Beatrice believed herself infallible, seemed to have no power over the Count of Artois. And yet he was not the Devil, after all, in spite of what she had said to win him.
She had hoped to become pregnant. Robert seemed to be fond of his sons; from pride perhaps, but he was fond of them. They were the only people in the world of whom he spoke at all tenderly. Perhaps he would be fond of a little bastard too. Besides, Beatrice could have made good use of such an event; she could have shown her pregnancy and said: ‘I am expecting a child by Monseigneur Robert.’ But whether it was the things she had done in the past or the Evil One himself that had made her barren, she had been disappointed in this also. And now Beatrice d’Hirson, the Countess Mahaut’s former lady-in-waiting, was reduced to waiting, staring at the rain, and dreaming of revenge.
Robert of Artois arrived late, looking worried and scratching at the stubble of his beard with his thumb. He scarcely glanced at Beatrice, who had been careful to don a new dress, and poured himself out a large goblet of hippocras.
‘It’s tepid,’ he said, making a face, and sinking into a chair which groaned beneath his weight.
Of course it was tepid! The decanter had been standing there for four hours!
‘I was expecting you earlier, Monseigneur.’
‘No doubt! Important matters detained me.’
‘Like yesterday and the day before!’
‘You must realize that I cannot be seen entering your house by daylight, particularly at this moment when the utmost prudence is necessary.’
‘A splendid excuse! But you shouldn’t tell me you’re coming in daylight if you intend to do so only by night. But the night, of course, belongs to your wife, the Countess!’
He shrugged his shoulders in exasperation.
‘You know very well that I no longer sleep with her.’
‘Every husband tells his mistress that, from the greatest in the land to the humblest cobbler, and they are all lying. I wonder if Madame de Beaumont would be so gracious and so kind to you if you never visited her bed. As for the days, Monseigneur is always attending the Privy Council, as if the King held Council from dawn to dusk! Or Monseigneur is hunting, or jousting, or has gone to Conches to visit his estate!’
‘Peace, woman!’ Robert cried, slapping the table with his hand. ‘I’ve enough on my mind without listening to your nonsense. I’ve entered my plea at the King’s Court today!’
It was December 14th, the day Philippe VI had fixed for the opening of the Artois case. Beatrice knew it, for Robert had told her. But she had forgotten it in her jealousy.
‘Has it all gone well?’
‘Not altogether,’ Robert replied rather gloomily. ‘I presented my grandfather’s documents, and their authenticity was contested.’
‘And, of course, you believed them authentic,’ said Beatrice with a malicious smile. ‘Who contested them?’
‘The Duchess of Burgundy who insisted on the documents being examined.’
‘Oh, so the Duchess of Burgundy is in Paris, is she?’
Beatrice’s long lashes were raised for an instant and her eyes suddenly glinted, but then the lashes fell and they were concealed once more. Robert was deep in thought and did not notice.
Beating his fists together and thrusting out his jaw, he said: ‘She came expressly to do it, with the Duke. Mahaut will wrong me even through her descendants, will she? There’s bad blood in that family! All the daughters of Burgundy are whores, thieves and liars! That young Duchess they married off to the fool Eudes, who’s old enough to be her grandfather, is only twenty-four. But she’s already a bitch, like the rest of her family. They’ve got Burgundy; what do they want with the county they’ve stolen from me? But I shall win! I’ll raise Artois if necessary, as I did against Philippe the Long, that slut’s father. And this time I shan’t march on Arras, but against Burgundy, lance in rest!’
For all his boastful talk, his heart was not in it. This was not the sort of anger that brought him shouting to his feet, making the walls shake; it lacked the dramatic fury which he knew so well how to use. And, indeed, what audience had he worth the trouble?
In love, custom eats away a person’s character. At first, when the affair is still new, you make an effort because you fear what you do not know. Force is what matters; but when mystery has gone, fear also disappears. Each time you show yourself naked, you lose a little of your power. Beatrice was no longer afraid of Robert.
She no longer feared him because she had seen him asleep so often, and she treated him as no one else would have dared to do.
And it was the same with Robert’s feelings towards Beatrice. She had became a jealous and demanding mistress, full of reproaches, like all women when a secret liaison has gone on too long. Her talents as a sorceress no longer amused Robert. Her magic and Satanic practices had become commonplace. He was on his guard against her, but simply from atavistic habit, since it had always been common knowledge that women were liars and deceivers. Since she had begun demanding he should pleasure her, it no longer occurred to him to fear her, forgetting that she had first thrown herself into his arms merely from a lust for treachery. Even the memory of their two crimes was losing its power and becoming dimmed by the dust of days, while the corpses of their two victims were disintegrating in the earth.
They had reached that stage which is all the more dangerous because one no longer believes in danger. Lovers should remember that when they cease to love they become once again what they were before. Their weapons are never destroyed, merely laid aside.
Beatrice watched Robert in silence. His thoughts were far away, concerned with further machinations by which to win his case. But when, over a period of twenty years, you have made use of every available resource, searched into law and custom, suborned witnesses, forged documents, committed murder even, and the King i
s your brother-in-law into the bargain, and you still cannot carry the day, there is reason for occasional moments of despair.
Changing her attitude, Beatrice suddenly came and knelt beside him. She was tender, coaxing, submissive, nestling consolingly against him.
‘When will my dear Monseigneur Robert take me into his house? When will he make me lady-in-waiting to the Countess, as he promised? Think how splendid that would be! I should always be near you, and you could send for me whenever you liked. I should be able to serve you and watch over you better than anyone else. When is it to be?’
He could not know how much depended on his answer.
‘When I’ve won my case,’ he said, as he always did when she asked that question.
‘At the rate it’s going, I shall have to wait till my hair’s turned white.’
‘When judgement has been given then, if you prefer. I have said it, and Robert of Artois never goes back on his word. But, damn it, have a little patience!’
He now regretted having had to dangle that promise before her. He was utterly determined never to put it into effect. Beatrice in the Hôtel d’Artois? How intolerably troublesome and boring that would be!
She got to her feet and went over to warm her hands at the peat fire burning on the hearth.
‘I think I’ve been patient enough,’ she said without raising her voice. ‘First it was to be after Madame Mahaut’s death; then after Jeanne the Widow’s. Well, they’re both dead now, and New Year’s Eve will soon be sung in the churches. And yet you still won’t take me into your house. A promiscuous whore like La Divion, who was my uncle’s, the Bishop’s, mistress and who has forged such splendid documents for you that a blind man could see they’re false, has the right to sit at your table and flaunt herself at your Court …’
‘Let La Divion alone. You know very well I keep that stupid liar near me only from prudence.’
Beatrice smiled fleetingly. Prudence! So he had to treat La Divion with prudence, had he? And merely because she had heated a few seals. But from her, Beatrice, who had sent two princesses to their graves, he feared nothing and could reward her with ingratitude.
‘You’ve really no cause for complaint,’ said Robert. ‘You have the best of me. If you were in my house, I’d be able to see you less often and less freely.’
Monseigneur Robert was really very conceited; he talked of his presence as if it were some sublime gift he deigned to bestow.
‘Well, if I have the best of you, why do you delay giving it to me,’ replied Beatrice in her drawling voice. ‘The bed is ready.’
And she pointed to the open door that led into the bedroom.
‘No, my dear; I must go back to the palace to see the King in private to confound the Duchess of Burgundy.’
‘Oh, of course, the Duchess of Burgundy!’ said Beatrice, nodding her head as if in assent. ‘Am I to expect the best of you tomorrow then?’
‘Alas, tomorrow I have to leave for Conches and Beaumont.’
‘And how long will you stay away?’
‘Not long. A fortnight.’
‘So you won’t be here for the New Year?’ she asked.
‘No, my beautiful sweet; but I’ll make you a present of a fine jewelled clasp to decorate your bosom.’
‘I’ll wear it to dazzle my menservants, since they’re the only people I’m likely to see.’
Robert should have been more on his guard. There are unlucky days. During the hearing, on this December 14th, his documents had been so firmly protested against by the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy that Philippe VI had frowned heavily and gazed anxiously at his brother-in-law. It was no day on which to be casual and offend a woman such as Beatrice by leaving her for a whole fortnight unsatisfied in mind and body. He got to his feet.
‘Does La Divion go with you in your suite?’
‘Yes, my wife has so decided.’
Beatrice’s bosom heaved in a sudden gust of hatred, and her lashes made dark shadows on her cheeks.
‘In that case, Monseigneur Robert, I shall await you like a loyal and loving servant,’ she said, raising a smiling face to him.
Robert kissed her lightly and automatically on the cheek. He laid his heavy hand on her buttocks, held it there for a moment, and then gave her a little, indifferent slap. No, he definitely did not want her any more; and in her eyes that was the worst offence of all.
5.
Conches
IT WAS A COMPARATIVELY mild winter that year.
Before daybreak Lormet le Dolois came to shake Robert’s pillow. Robert yawned hugely like a wild beast, sprinkled some water on his face from the basin Gillet de Nelle held out to him, and hurried into his hunting-clothes, which were of skins with the fur inside, the only really comfortable kind. Then he went to hear low mass in the chapel; the chaplain had orders to hurry through the office, the Epistle, the Gospel and communion in a few minutes. Robert began tapping his foot impatiently if the chaplain took too long over his prayers; and the ciborium was hardly back in its place before he was out of the door.
He would drink a bowl of hot soup, eat two wings of a capon, or perhaps a piece of fat pork, accompanied by a good goblet of the white wine of Meursault which sharpens the wits, flows like gold in the throat, and reawakens the humours of the body the night has put to sleep. He ate and drank standing. Ah, if Burgundy had produced nothing but its wines, instead of having dukes too! ‘Eating in the morning is good for the health,’ Robert would say, still chewing as he went to his horse. With hunting-knife at waist, horn over the shoulder, and wolfskin cap pulled down over the ears, he was in the saddle.
The hounds, held back by the whip, gave tongue; the horses pawed the ground, their rumps shivering in the sharp morning air. The standard was flying from the keep, since the Lord was in residence in the castle. The drawbridge was lowered, and hounds, horses, grooms and huntsmen debouched with a great clatter towards the pond that lay in the centre of the town, and then, led by the gigantic baron, set off into the fields.
On winter mornings a thin white mist with a scent of wood-smoke tends to lie over the Ouche countryside. Robert of Artois loved Conches. It was only a small castle, of course, but it was pleasant with its good forests around it.
A pale sun was already dispelling the mist by the time they reached the meeting-place with the hunt servants, who had ringed the woods early with the lyam hounds, picked up spoor and slot, and marked the boughs.
The woods of Conches were full of stags and wild boars. The hounds were well broken in. If the boar could be prevented from stopping to stale, he could be taken in little over an hour. The great, majestic stags, however, provided a longer hunt, since they tended to break cover and run in the open, where the turf flew from under the horses’ hooves, till they were brought to bay, stiff, panting, their tongues hanging beneath their great heads, in some lake or swamp.
Count Robert hunted at least four times a week. But his hunting bore no resemblance to the great royal hunts with two hundred lords in the field, where you saw nothing of what was going on and, for fear of losing hounds, hunted the King rather than the stag. Here Robert really enjoyed himself alone with his huntsmen, a few vassals from the neighbourhood, who were very proud to be invited, and his two sons whom he was beginning to instruct in the art of hunting, an accomplishment essential to a knight. He was pleased with his sons, who were now ten and nine years old, and were growing up into strong boys; he super-intended their training in arms and at the quintain. How lucky his boys were! Robert had lost his father when still too young.
When the quarry was brought to bay, he dispatched it himself, using his hunting-knife for a stag and a spear for a boar. He showed great dexterity in this and enjoyed putting the steel to the exact spot where he felt it sink with a single thrust into the yielding flesh. Both stag and huntsman would be smoking with sweat; and then the stag would collapse as if struck by lightning, while the man stood unharmed.
On the way home, while he discussed the incidents of the hunt,
the villeins in the villages, their clothes in tatters and wearing rags bound about their legs, would come running from their hovels to kiss their lord’s spur with mingled dread and ecstasy – a good custom which was dying out in the towns.
As soon as the master returned to the castle, the horn blew for water for the midday meal. In the great hall hung with tapestries bearing the arms of France, Artois, Valois and Constantinople, for the Countess of Beaumont was a Courtenay through her mother, Robert sat down to dinner with a ferocious appetite and ate for three hours on end, teasing his entourage meanwhile. He would send for his master cook, who appeared with his wooden spoon hanging from his belt, to compliment him if the haunch of well-marinated wild pig was properly tender, or to threaten him with the gallows if the hot pepper sauce served with the venison roasted whole on the spit was insufficiently seasoned.
After dinner he would retire for a short siesta, and then return to the great hall to give audience to his provosts and tax-collectors, cast an eye on the accounts, attend generally to the business of his fief and dispense justice. He liked dispensing justice; he enjoyed the sight of envy and fear in litigants’ eyes, the deceit, cunning, malice and lies – in fact, to see himself reflected on the lowly scale of the rabble.
He particularly enjoyed cases of wanton wives and cuckolded husbands.
‘Bring in the cuckold!’ he would order, sitting squarely in his oaken chair.
He would ask the lewdest questions, while the clerks sniggered behind their quills, and the plaintiff became crimson with shame.
The Lily and the Lion Page 18
