Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  It would be a cut-purse’s gift from God when the divine King had one of his Norman lords beheaded in the square.

  And that was why Raoul avoided the crowded main streets.

  ‘Raoul!’ a man cried as the urchin’s bare feet ran lightly across the soiled streets. ‘Clear this shit!’

  Not today.

  King John II of France, resplendent in his royal robes, waited in the ante-rooms of the Great Chamber of the Parlement. His irritations chafed like an ill-fitting piece of armour. Being king meant having too many decisions to make. He was here to face those who wished to control the royal purse. That, and consider for the last time whether to grant clemency to Count Bernard d’Aubriet, a Norman lord who had surrendered his land to the English. The uncertainty was like a knife in his gut. Beyond the walls, across courtyards and roofs, he sensed the unseen population going about their daily business, isolated as he was in the Royal Palace on the Île de la Cité, the island in the middle of the River Seine. The Grand Pont was the way he crossed the river but it was an excursion infrequently undertaken unless the French Parlement convened or he rode to war. He seldom laid eyes on his subjects; it was their representatives, the Estates General, who spoke on their behalf; it was they who made their demands, fawned and bowed while scheming how best to protect their local wealth, how not to gather the taxes he needed. Well, he needed their money now. A demand had been sent from the Estates in the south, demanding – that word was more insulting and humiliating than being spat upon in public – that he send troops to defend them against the marauding Prince of Wales, whose army, albeit small, wreaked havoc, scorching the land, plundering city, town and village. They demanded he do his royal duty and protect them. And now news had reached him of trusted noblemen in the south who had betrayed him to the English Prince.

  The King suddenly rose from his chair, his thoughts propelling him to his feet. His Lord Chamberlain and close advisers were startled and shuffled back from him, but the King barely saw them; instead he saw disaster looming and the crushing defeat of his reign if he did not force the English to cease their depredations. He needed more money. And once he had shown his command of the situation he would bring the troublesome Norman lords under control, and once he had them brought to heel he would, at last, confiscate his son-in-law’s lands and lock the scheming, murdering bastard Charles of Navarre away in the Châtelet.

  John needed the Estates General of the Languedoïl, who represented the people of northern France. And he needed the people of Paris. He needed their support, their belief in him and their taxes. He needed a subsidy to pay his army. It was of no concern to him if his subjects did not love him as their King, be they peasants or merchants. And following the great pestilence, half the damned so-called nobles had bought their rank and status. His father had made them pay for it though. He had prised the last coin from their grasping hands. Which was about the only good thing he did before he died. The rest? Bankruptcy, dissent and the damned English.

  Seeing the King’s torment of uncertainty one of the other men stepped closer. Simon Bucy was unafraid of the King’s outbursts; he and others like him were the strength behind an uncertain monarch. All were considered friends, and each of them had benefited from John’s largesse. They were capable men who worked diligently for the Crown but, more than high office, wealth was their rank.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Simon, what are we to do?’ the King asked in barely a whisper. ‘Do we execute d’Aubriet or reprieve him? Will his death spark a Norman rebellion? We needed more time. We should have given him a trial – a public trial. Now the Normans will see that we alone have condemned him.’

  ‘Perhaps, my lord, a generous gesture would placate the Norman lords.’

  The King’s temper flared. ‘Our generosity is our failing! We manoeuvre ourselves between a son-in-law who plots intrigue, who nurtures the weakness of our son the Dauphin against us, who gathers the barons ready to strike when Edward invades to support the Prince of Wales – and invade he will!’

  He hurled his goblet of wine across the room. Courtiers and advisers ducked and swayed but those nearest their monarch could not avoid being spattered. King John leaned across the embossed, intricately carved table, his fingers curled like talons. The table, like the kingdom, had been inherited from his father who had squandered the glory of France at Crécy ten years earlier and died months after his noblemen failed to take back Calais. John also inherited empty coffers, drained by years of war. In those years since his father’s death and that final humiliation at Calais, he had raised taxes, secured loyalties, brought errant knights and dissident noblemen back into the royal fold. But it was still not enough to rid himself of certain Norman lords and the English captain, Thomas Blackstone, who tore at his flesh. It was as if France were a boar on a spit, turning slowly over the coals, fat dripping into the spluttering flames and flaring up as had the southern provinces, burned and looted by the English and Gascons, who seized towns and trade routes. And Norman lords still defied him; still made demands; continued to deny they protected the English adventurer Thomas Blackstone, who stole his towns like a thief in the night.

  ‘Are we a flagellant? Are we to be whipped publicly into further humiliation? Do we not bleed enough for France?’ he bellowed, spittle spraying those who had avoided the thrown wine-cup, but who now dared not flinch from the royal phlegm. The royal house of Valois fought burning fires of discontent on a wide front, which at times encircled the King like hounds around a cornered beast.

  ‘Very well. It is done. We will show them! The people of Paris need to see that their King does not grant mercy to those who place France in jeopardy.’

  He turned on his heel and strode towards the door. Simon Bucy glanced at the others in the room. None could quite conceal their despair at their impetuous King, but when their advice was cut at its root, there was no stopping him. He did not learn from past mistakes, and now he was about to make another.

  King John ‘the Good’ sat on a divan raised on a platform beneath a broad canopy at the far corner of the Great Chamber of Parlement. The principals of the realm sat along the wall at the King’s left; to his right were the peers and barons. At a lower level were the representatives of the towns with five hundred inhabitants or more. The impressive barrel-roofed hall was dominated by a wall painting of the crucifixion. The image of divine suffering seemed to be so often reflected in the King’s pained expression.

  Power and majesty were two sides of the same coin. The Normans were resplendent in their tabards – larger than surcoats, they were made of silk embroidered in sumptuous style, emblazoned with the nobleman’s coat of arms. Sir Godfrey and Jean de Harcourt sat with Guy de Ruymont and other Norman lords, among them the older statesmen de Mainemares and Jean Malet, the Lord de Graville – men who would rather see a more capable monarch settle his backside onto the silk cushions embroidered with the fleur-de-lys. They bore their impatience with grim determination as the Chancellor, Pierre de la Forêt, droned on like a glorified moneylender of the difficulties of waging a defensive war from the coffers of the royal treasury alone. More money was required, taxes would be raised and the loyal support of the Estates General was needed in this time of national crisis. The murmur of uncertainty echoed around the vaulted hall. The Chancellor waited a moment, then turned to the King, who nodded; such meetings were always stage-managed. The Estates would want something in return for giving the Crown the money it needed.

  Like a common street entertainer the Chancellor captured his audience’s uncertain expectation. A salt tax would be raised, he told them. That had a calming effect, because salt was an expensive commodity, enjoyed only by those who could afford it. And the rich would be taxed 4 per cent on their wealth. Now it was the bourgeois’s and nobles’ turn to feel the Crown’s lash. Their loyalty would be proven by agreeing to these terms. Refusal was the first step towards treason.

  Godfrey de Harcourt turned to those close to him. ‘He’s using the taxes to b
ind us to him. Can we bargain for d’Aubriet’s life by agreeing?’

  Guy de Ruymont, who was one of the younger nobles and had a less forcible approach than most, was at de Harcourt’s shoulder. He had befriended Blackstone when the young archer was still recovering from his wounds at Jean de Harcourt’s castle all those years ago. He had helped close the gulf between common fighting man and nobles. It had been a slow journey of friendship, because his wife Joanne had lost family beneath the archers’ arrows at Crécy and her hatred for the English intensified when she learnt Blackstone had been one of the men who had slaughtered French nobility. The glue that now bound the two families was her friendship with Blackstone’s wife, Christiana, and their children. Joanne de Ruymont had been kind to Christiana over the years and at times seemed to have softened her animosity towards Blackstone. When there were feasts and celebrations de Ruymont and his family would share it with the Blackstones and their children often played together. They were less than half a day’s ride from the Englishman’s manor, which made them and the de Harcourts the closest neighbours.

  He bent low, his voice barely audible above the rumble of disconcerted voices in the great hall. ‘He will want taxes, our loyalty and Bernard’s life. We should swear it and plead for mercy.’

  The barons considered what he said, and quickly nodded their agreement.

  The older Baron de Mainemares said, ‘Swear it and test his intentions. If he then executes Bernard, we know he’ll bear down on us all sooner or later. Swear it and we will deal with the consequences in our own time. Edward will invade from the north sooner or later. We buy such time as we need until he does.’

  The King waited impassively, observing the hubbub as it went back and forth among the delegates, but the Norman lords said nothing. He knew he had cornered them and that they would be forced to swear their allegiance, at least for the time being, and that was all he needed, because events could alter men’s decisions and loyalty. The more time he had to root out those who plotted against him, the better. He had already found one of the Norman lords was prepared to betray the others. A promise of greater wealth and additional domains that bequeathed his family and their successors riches for generations. Give a traitor such wealth that he would fear losing it and he was enslaved to the Crown.

  He gazed at them, relishing the thought that they did not know there was a Judas among them.

  John turned to face the Provost of Merchants, chosen by the leading citizens, who bowed his head and addressed the King directly.

  ‘Our loyalty is undiminished, despite the losses our beloved France has endured, but we see no point in protecting the realm by defence alone. Our great King should gather the army and call for the arrière-ban, to bring together every lord, knight and soldier and then to attack!’

  There were cheers from the crowded hall. The Provost raised an arm, as if sweeping the wave of enthusiasm across the audience towards the King. ‘If France is to survive, the English must be defeated, not contained. Defeated and made to suffer such grievous losses that they dare not set foot again in France,’ he said with a flourish.

  ‘Ignorant bastard knows nothing of war and killing,’ said de Graville and spat casually down at those below him.

  The hall settled into a murmur. The Estates had gained the great concession of having their own officers in charge of collecting the taxes. The business of the day was almost done. The King was about to rise, but as Godfrey de Harcourt moved to stand, Jean de Harcourt grabbed his arm. ‘No, Uncle. I’m head of the family. I’ll do it.’

  And before the seasoned campaigner could get to his feet Jean de Harcourt was standing, calling across the hall, his voice clear and challenging. ‘Sire!’

  King John and those next to him looked at the man who now stood as if ready to throw down a gauntlet. The King raised a hand, indicating that de Harcourt should speak, and as the gesture ended he picked a piece of imaginary lint from his garment in a gesture of disregard that was not lost on the gathered Norman lords.

  Jean de Harcourt ignored the slight. ‘Sire, we too seek a benevolent concession from your highness.’

  ‘We know, Count de Harcourt, but we are a prisoner of circumstance. Our hands are tied,’ the King said, knowing full well what question would be put to him.

  De Harcourt took a step forward, a pace away from the others, so that he might be seen even more clearly by the hundreds of delegates and advisers. Best to make his Norman sentiments known, in public, so that the King could be seen for the unjust monarch he was. ‘Sire, my father and I fought alongside your father at Crécy. We suffered and bled for France, as did Bernard d’Aubriet. He has caused you no harm. Release him, sire, is what we ask.’

  ‘The Lords of Normandy ask this of us?’ the King answered.

  ‘We do, my lord,’ said de Harcourt.

  ‘Then you side with a traitor of France,’ said the King with the flicker of a smile.

  ‘Bernard d’Aubriet is no traitor. He has given more than most here for his country.’

  The King gestured towards the gathered delegates. ‘These men represent France on our behalf, Count de Harcourt. Your friend surrendered vital land to our enemy. To France’s enemy. What choice do we have but to punish him for placing Frenchmen in jeopardy?’

  The King’s gentle taunting was too much for Godfrey de Harcourt who stood and pointed at the gathered men. ‘You do France an injustice! These men in this hall are merchants and artisans who will go to the people and ask for money to pay for the army. It is not these tax collectors,’ he said with as much derision as he could muster, ‘who will take up the sword, but men like Count d’Aubriet, who bind themselves to their honour!’

  This time Simon Bucy could not prevent King John from giving rein to his temper.

  ‘Honour, Sir Godfrey! You speak of honour? You who sided against our father! Who fought for the English!’

  A decade before Godfrey de Harcourt had risked execution by begging forgiveness from the old King. The defeated French monarch pardoned the lame knight’s treason and settled for Godfrey’s oath of allegiance and public humiliation. Wearing nothing but a shirt, and with a hangman’s noose around his neck, Godfrey had been paraded before the court. King Philip was aware that the Norman barons would sip long from the cup of resentment if he put Godfrey to death. But Philip, like John who followed him, was a poor decision-maker, whose failings had been shown up starkly during the English invasion – and sparing the duplicitous Godfrey de Harcourt was certainly a mistake. Ten years after the battle of Crécy, the traitor’s heart was about to turn again.

  Godfrey de Harcourt was not to be cowed by an intemperate King cocooned by such self-serving men as Bucy. ‘Honour is every man’s creed as he understands it. I fought your father because of a wrong done against me. One of his favourites was given my lands. My honour demanded I sided with he who would help me recover them. If honour is our shield then pride is our downfall. I begged forgiveness. I was humiliated. I bore myself through these streets of Paris in nothing more than an undershirt with a halter around my neck. I prostrated myself before your father!’

  ‘And he forgave you!’ said King John.

  ‘He forgave me because he knew that if justice was to be served then he would need me to fight for the Crown again. You make the same mistake, my Prince: you kill a man who could be put to better use.’

  ‘His death is the better use!’

  ‘No!’ Jean de Harcourt pushed his uncle aside, because he could see the King’s mood was becoming dangerous. Simon Bucy was at the King’s shoulder, his hand hovering close to his sovereign’s arm in case the King went forward to face the Norman lords. The armed guards had shifted position, readying themselves. ‘Sire,’ he said in a more measured tone. ‘When Bernard d’Aubriet was captured by the English last year his ransom was more than he could secure in a lifetime.’

  Bucy’s closeness and de Harcourt’s even-handed manner mollified the King momentarily. ‘He gave his castle to the English in payment an
d now they occupy it. Our border is compromised,’ said the King.

  ‘Every border has its weakness, sire,’ de Harcourt answered.

  ‘Aye, as Normandy is to France!’

  The direct insult to the Norman lords went unchallenged as Jean de Harcourt held up a restraining hand, warning the others to remain silent, but the challenge caused a rippling murmur among the delegates.

  ‘You gave Count d’Aubriet little choice,’ de Harcourt said, raising his voice, wanting even those who stood at the back of the hall to hear his accusation. ‘You had confiscated his lands to recoup taxes, land that could have been redeemed to pay his ransom. He had no choice but to surrender what he had left. Give him his life, sire. An act of justice, an act that would show your gracious mercy.’

  The King turned to face the packed audience, averting his gaze from de Harcourt and the others. ‘The punishment is just,’ he declared. And then he faced the Normans. ‘All those who weaken France by betrayal and false fealty shall meet their reckoning.’

  He strode from the hall. Bucy spared a non-committal glance towards de Harcourt.

  ‘By the blood of Christ, this King is a worthless man and a bad ruler,’ said Jean de Harcourt, pushing his way through the crowd.