The Lily and the Lion

by Maurice Druon

  ‘Since when, Madame, have you sent out orders in my name?’

  The Queen assumed a perfectly calculated expression of innocent surprise.

  ‘An order, my beloved Sire?’

  Her voice was low and melodious, with that underlying warmth of affection she was so adept at lending it.

  ‘And since when have you purloined my seal while I’m asleep?’

  ‘Your seal, sweetheart? I’ve never touched your seal. Which seal do you mean?’

  She was silenced by a tremendous slap in the face.

  It was a savage and painful blow and Jeanne the Lame’s eyes filled with tears; her mouth hung open in surprise and she put her hand to her cheek which was already turning red.

  Robert of Artois was surprised too, but he was also delighted. He could never have believed that his Cousin Philippe, whom everyone said was ruled by his wife, could raise his hand to her. ‘Has he really become King at last?’ Robert wondered.

  Philippe of Valois had certainly become a man and, like every husband, whether a great lord or the least of servants, was ready to correct his wife when she lied. He gave her another slap as if the first had made his hand itch for more; and then a hail of blows followed. Jeanne was terrified and put up her hands to defend her face. But Philippe’s blows fell wherever they could, from the crown of her head down to her shoulders. And he was shouting: ‘It was the other night you played this trick on me, wasn’t it? Have you the nerve to deny it, when Mulet has admitted everything? You wicked whore to fondle and caress me, to tell me how much you love me, and then take advantage of my love to make a fool of me and steal my royal seal! Do you realize the crime you’ve committed, that it’s worse than theft? No subject in my realm, however great, shall use another’s seal without being flogged. And you have used mine. You wicked woman, to bring dishonour on me before my peers, my cousin, my own brother! Am I not right, Robert?’ he said, interrupting his blows for a moment to seek Robert’s approbation. ‘How can we govern if our subjects use our seals for their own purposes and issue orders we have never willed? It violates our honour.’

  He turned back to his wife, his anger rising again, and cried: ‘So this is the use to which you put the Hôtel de Nesle I was weak enough to give you! God knows, you worried me for it enough! Are you as wicked as your sister was, and is that accursed Tower to be the scene of the crime of Burgundy for ever? If you were not Queen and I had escaped the misfortune of marrying you, I’d have you thrown into prison. Since no one else can punish you, I shall do it myself.’26

  And the blows started raining down again.

  ‘I hope he kills her,’ thought Robert.

  Jeanne had fallen on the bed, her legs were kicking from beneath her robe, and every blow drew a groan or a scream from her. Then she suddenly turned on him like a cat with her claws out, and began shouting, her cheeks wet with tears: ‘Yes, I did it! Yes, I stole your seal while you were asleep, because you’re being unjust. I did it to help my brother of Burgundy against this wicked Robert who has always tried to injure us by his guile and his crimes. It was he who plotted with your father to kill my sister, Marguerite.’

  ‘Don’t let me hear my father’s name in your viper’s mouth!’ cried Philippe.

  Frightened by the anger in her husband’s eyes, she fell silent, for he really seemed quite capable of killing her.

  Laying a protective hand on Robert of Artois’ shoulder, he said: ‘And beware, you wicked woman, of trying to injure my brother who is the greatest support of my throne.’

  He went over to the door to tell his chamberlain to cancel the day’s hunting, and twenty listening ears retreated hurriedly. Jeanne the Lame was hated by the servants, whom she harassed by her demands on them and reported for the smallest fault; among themselves, they called her ‘the Wicked Queen’. The story of the beating she had received would be heard with delight by the whole palace.

  Later that morning Philippe and Robert were slowly walking up and down in the garden of Saint-Germain as the frost was melting. His head bowed, the King was saying: ‘Is it not a terrible thing, Robert, to have to be on guard against one’s own wife, even when one’s asleep? What can I do about it? Keep my seal under my pillow? She’d merely slip her hand in and take it, for I’m a sound sleeper. Yet I can’t very well shut her up in a convent; she’s my wife! There is only one thing I can do and that is no longer to have her sleep with me. The trouble is, I’m in love with her, the bitch! Keep it to yourself, but like everyone else I have enjoyed a few other women. But I’ve always come back to her with all the greater enthusiasm. However, if she does it again, I shall beat her again.’

  At that moment Trouillard d’Usages, Vidame du Mans, and a gentleman of the household, came down the path to announce the Provost of Paris who was just behind.

  Trotting paunchily along on his short legs, Jean de Milon looked far from happy.

  ‘Well, Messire Provost, have you released the woman?’

  ‘No, Sire,’ replied the Provost, sounding rather embarrassed.

  ‘Why not? Was my order forged? Perhaps you didn’t recognize my seal?’

  ‘Not at all, Sire, but before obeying it I wished to speak to you about it, and I am very glad to find Monseigneur of Artois with you,’ said Jean de Milon, looking at Robert in some embarrassment. ‘The woman has confessed.’

  ‘What has she confessed?’ Robert asked.

  ‘To every kind of crime, Monseigneur, forgery, counterfeiting, and other things too.’

  Robert managed to maintain his self-control and pretended to take the news as a joke. He shrugged his shoulders and cried: ‘Of course, if she’s been put to the question, I’ve no doubt at all that she’s confessed to a great deal! If I handed you over to the torturers, Messire de Milon, I guarantee you’d confess to have committed sodomy on me!’

  ‘Alas, Monseigneur,’ said the Provost, ‘the woman confessed before being put to the question, simply from fear of being put to it. And she named a long list of accomplices.’

  Philippe VI stared silently at his brother-in-law. A new suspicion was working in his head.

  Robert felt the trap closing in on him. A king who had just beaten his wife, and in the presence of a witness, for having purloined his seal and forged a document, would find it difficult to release an ordinary subject who had committed similar misdeeds, even to please his dearest cousin.

  ‘What do you advise, Brother?’ Philippe asked Robert, never taking his eyes off him. Robert realized that his safety depended on his answer. He had to pretend to be honest. And so much the worse for La Divion. He would simply declare everything she had or might say to be shameless lies.

  ‘Your justice, Sire, my brother, your justice!’ he cried. ‘Keep the woman in prison, and if she has deceived me be sure that I shall ask you to exercise the greatest severity.’

  Meanwhile he was wondering. ‘Who can have informed the Duke of Burgundy?’ But he was immediately aware of the obvious answer. There was only one person who could have informed the Duke of Burgundy, or the wicked Queen herself, that La Divion was at Conches. And that was Beatrice.

  It was not until the end of March, when the Seine, swollen by the spring rains, had overflowed its banks and flooded the cellars, that in the neighbourhood of Chatou some watermen fished a sack out of the river containing the body of a naked woman.

  Paddling in the mud, the whole population of the village gathered round the macabre find, and the mothers slapped their brats and cried: ‘Go on, get along with you; this is no fit sight for you!’

  The body was hideously swollen and had the horrible green tinge of advanced decomposition; it must have been over a month in the river. It was clear, nevertheless, that it was the body of a young woman. Her long black hair seemed to be moving because of the bubbles bursting in it. The face had been crushed and lacerated to prevent identification; and there was the mark of a cord round the neck.

  The watermen, torn between disgust and a horrible attraction, poked at the obscene body w
ith their boathooks.

  Suddenly the water swelling it poured out of the body, which began to move of its own volition, giving a momentary illusion of coming to life again. The women fled screaming.

  The bailiff had been sent for and, when he arrived, asked a few questions, took a look at the dead woman and inspected the objects that had been in the sack with the body. These were drying on the grass and consisted of a goat’s horn, a wax figure wrapped in rags and pierced with pins, and a crude pewter ciborium engraved with satanic emblems.

  ‘A witch,’ declared the bailiff; ‘presumably killed by her fellows after some sabbath or black mass.’

  The women crossed themselves. The bailiff detailed a party to go and bury the body at once, together with the wicked objects, in a spinney at some distance from the village. No prayer was said over it.

  It had been a well-organized and well-disguised crime, in which Gillet de Nelle had followed the expert advice of Lormet le Dolois; and it had now turned out just as the murderers had intended.

  Robert of Artois had avenged Beatrice’s betrayal, though this was far from implying that he was being successful on other counts.

  Two generations later, the villagers of Chatou would no longer remember why a spinney downstream was called ‘The Witch’s Wood’.

  7.

  The Tournament at Evreux

  ABOUT THE MIDDLE OF May, heralds in the livery of France, accompanied by trumpeters, appeared in the market-squares of towns, at the crossroads in villages and at the entrance gates of castles. The trumpeters sounded their long instruments from which hung pennons embroidered with lilies, while the herald unrolled a parchment and proclaimed in a loud voice:

  ‘“Oyez! Oyez! This is to make known to all princes, lords, barons, knights and squires of the Duchies of Normandy, Brittany and Burgundy, of the Counties and Marches of Anjou, Artois, Flanders and Champagne, and to all others, whether they be of this kingdom or of any other Christian kingdom, provided they be not banished or enemies of our Lord the King, whom God preserve, that on the day of Saint Lucy, July 6th, nearby the town of Evreux, there will be held a great festival of arms and most noble tournament, which will be contested by the noble jousters with light maces and blunted swords, in appropriate harness, helms, coats of mail and horse armour, in accordance with ancient custom.

  ‘“And the leaders in this tournament are the most high and mighty princes, my most dread lords, our beloved Sire, Philippe, King of France, the challenger, and the Sire John of Luxemburg, King of Bohemia, the defendant. And by these presents I make known to all princes, lords, barons, knights and squires of the said territories and of all other nations whatsoever, who wish and desire to joust so as to acquire honour, that they should wear the little badges I shall presently give them, so that they may be recognized as jousters, and whosoever desires one may ask for it. And at the said tournament there will be rich and noble prizes presented by the ladies.

  ‘“Moreover, I announce to all princes, barons, knights and squires, who have intention to joust, that you are required to be present at the said place of Evreux and take up your quarters there on the fourth day previous to the tournament. And this I make known by order of my lords, the stewards, and so I crave your pardon.”’

  The trumpets sounded again, and the urchins ran beside the herald’s escort as far as the outskirts of the town, as he rode on to cry his news elsewhere.

  Before dispersing, the villagers said to each other: ‘If our lord goes to this tournament, it’s going to cost us a pretty penny. He’ll take his lady and all his household along. They have all the fun and we have to pay the poll-tax.’

  Nevertheless, more than one of them was thinking: ‘Suppose the lord took my eldest with him as stableboy, he’d certainly get a good tip, and perhaps even some future employment. I’ll talk to the priest and ask him to put in a word for my Gaston.’

  For the next six weeks the tournament was the main preoccupation in every castle. The young dreamed of astonishing the world by their first exploits.

  ‘You’re still too young; wait another year! You’ll have plenty of opportunity,’ the parents replied.

  ‘But the son of our neighbour at Chambray, who’s the same age as I am, is going!’

  ‘If the Lord of Chambray has gone out of his mind, or if he can afford to chuck his deniers away, that’s his business.’

  There were many boys impatient to become orphans.

  The old men’s memories were stirred. To listen to them, you might have thought that men were stronger, armour heavier and horses faster in their day.

  ‘At the Kenilworth tournament, given by Lord Mortimer of Chirk, the uncle of the man they hanged in London last winter …’

  ‘At the tournament at Condé-sur-Escaut, given by Monseigneur Jean d’Avesnes, the father of the present Count of Hainaut …’

  They borrowed against the next harvest, mortgaged their woods, and took their silver to the nearest Lombard to pay for plumes for my lord’s helm, muslins and silks for my lady’s dresses, and caparisons for horses.

  The hypocrites complained: ‘What an expense and trouble we’re being put to! How much pleasanter it would be to stay at home! But we simply must appear at the tournament for the honour of the house. Since our Lord, the King, has sent a herald to the very door of our manor, we should certainly displease him if we failed to put in an appearance.’

  Everyone was busy, hammering iron, sewing mail on to leather jerkins, training horses and practising in parks from which the birds fled in terror of the charging knights, the shock of lances going home and the great clashing of swords. Little barons would devote three hours to fitting their basinets.

  The local lords organized tournaments at home to get their eyes in. And the older men, puffing into their moustaches, judged the hits as they watched their juniors knock each other down. After which everyone ate a great deal.

  These war-like games, taking one barony with another, cost in the end as much as a real campaign.

  Finally they all set out. At the last moment grandfather would have decided to come to recapture the atmosphere of his youth, and the fourteen-year-old son would also have got his way: he could serve as a junior squire. The war-horses were led by hand so as not to tire them; robes and armour were packed into travelling-chests and loaded on to mules. The serving-men walked in the dust. On the way they stayed in the guest-houses of monasteries or in the manor of a relative, who was himself going to the tournament. There would be a splendid supper and a skinful of wine; and as dawn broke they would all take the road together.

  And so, from halt to halt, the companies grew in numbers till they met the count, whose vassals they were, travelling with a huge train. They would kiss his hand, and exchange a few commonplaces, which would form a subject of conversation for some time to come. The ladies would don a new dress from their travelling-chest and the company would join the count’s suite, which already covered a league of road, its banners floating in the spring sunshine.

  Mock armies, equipped with lances without points, swords without edge and maces without weight, were crossing the Seine, the Eure and the Risle, or marching up the banks of the Loire, to take part in a mock war in which there was nothing at stake except personal vanity.

  For a week before the tournament there was not an empty room or attic in the whole of Evreux. The King of France was holding his Court in the largest abbey, and the King of Bohemia, in whose honour the tournament had been organized, was lodging with the Count of Evreux, the King of Navarre.

  John of Luxemburg, the King of Bohemia, was a most singular prince who was also completely impoverished; he had more debts than lands, and lived at the expense of the French Treasury. It had not, however, occurred to him to appear with a lesser train than his host, from whom he derived such resources as he had. Luxemburg was nearly forty, though he looked ten years younger; he had a spreading, silky, chestnut beard, an amused if rather haughty expression, but a most prepossessing and friendly manner. He was st
rong, vital, audacious and gay, but also very stupid. Nearly as tall as was Philippe VI, he had a magnificent presence and looked every inch a king as conceived by the popular imagination. He had the gift of making himself liked by all, both princes and commoners; he had even succeeded in being friends with both Pope John XXII and the Emperor Louis of Bavaria, those inveterate enemies, which was remarkable in a fool, for everyone agreed that John of Luxemburg was as stupid as he was attractive.

  But stupidity is no bar to enterprise; on the contrary, it tends to conceal difficulties which an intelligent man would consider insuperable. John of Luxemburg had forsaken Bohemia, where he was bored, to embark on a series of absurd adventures in Italy. ‘The struggles of the Ghibellines are destroying the country,’ he thought. ‘The Emperor and the Pope are quarrelling over republics whose inhabitants are in a state of virtual civil war. Since I’m a friend of both parties, why don’t they hand these states over to me, and I’ll restore peace to them?’ The most astonishing thing about it was that he had very nearly succeeded. For a few months he had been the idol of the whole of Italy, except for the Florentines, who are difficult people to take in, and King Robert of Naples, who soon became concerned at the activities of this embarrassing interloper.

  In April, John of Luxemburg had conferred secretly with the Cardinal Legate, Bertrand du Pouget – who, so it was said, was a natural son of Pope John XXII – with the object of settling the fate of Florence, removing the Malatesta from Rimini, and establishing an independent principality of which Bologna would be the capital. But then, somehow or other, though he could never quite understand how it had come about, just when his affairs seemed to be going so well and he was even thinking of replacing his intimate friend, Louis of Bavaria, on the Imperial throne, John of Luxemburg had suddenly found two formidable coalitions ranged against him, in which the Guelphs and the Ghibellines were for once in a way allies, Florence was in league with Rome, and the King of Naples, the Pope’s friend, was attacking him from the south, while the Emperor, the Pope’s enemy, was attacking him from the north, and the two Dukes of Austria, the Margrave of Brandenburg, the King of Poland and the King of Hungary, were all coming to their support. To a prince who was so generally beloved, and whose only desire had been to bring peace to the Italians, this indeed seemed a most unwarranted situation!