The She-Wolf (The Accursed Kings, Book 5)

by Druon, Maurice

  Mortimer bowed in silence. Whatever this assurance might be worth, he would see that it came to more than mere words.

  ‘For it is fifty years and more,’ went on Monseigneur of Valois, ‘since anything of importance was done by Europe in the service of God; to be precise, since my grandfather Saint Louis who, if he won his way to Heaven by it, lost his life in the process. Encouraged by our absence, the Infidels have raised their heads and believe themselves masters everywhere; they ravage the coasts, pillage ships, hinder trade and, by their mere presence, profane the Holy Places. And what have we done? Year after year we have retreated from all our possessions and establishments; we have abandoned the castles we built and have neglected to defend the sacred rights we had acquired. And this has all happened as a result of the suppression of the Templars, of which my elder brother – peace to his soul, though in this I never approved him – was the instrument. But those times are past. At the beginning of this year, delegates from Lesser Armenia came to ask our help against the Turks. I give grateful thanks to my nephew, King Charles IV, for his understanding of the importance of this appeal and for giving his support to the steps I then took. Indeed, he now believes the idea to have been originally his. Anyway, it is most satisfactory that he should now have faith in it. And so, as soon as our own forces have been assembled, we shall go to attack the Saracens in their distant lands.’

  Robert of Artois, who was listening to this speech for the hundredth time, nodded his head as if much impressed, while secretly amused at the enthusiasm his father-in-law displayed in explaining the greatness of his cause. Robert was well aware of what lay behind all this. He knew that, though it was indeed the intention to attack the Turks, the Christians were to be jostled a little on the way; for the Emperor Andronicos Paleologos, who reigned in Byzantium, was not so far as one knew the champion of Mahomet. No doubt his Church was not altogether the true one, and it made the sign of the Cross a bit askew; nevertheless, it did make the sign of the Cross. But Monseigneur of Valois was still pursuing his idea of reconstructing to his own advantage the fabulous Empire of Constantinople, which extended not only over the Byzantine territories, but over Cyprus, Rhodes, Armenia, and all the old kingdoms of the Courtenays and the Lusignans. And when Count Charles arrived there with all his banners, Andronicos Paleologos, from what one heard, would not be able to put up much of a defence. Monseigneur of Valois’s head was full of the dreams of a Caesar.

  It was remarkable, also, that he always indulged in a system which consisted of asking for the maximum so as to obtain a little. In this way he had tried to exchange his command of the crusade and his pretensions to the throne of Constantinople against the little kingdom of Arles by the Rhône on condition that Viennois was added to it. He had negotiated with Jean of Luxemburg about this at the beginning of the year; but the transaction had come to nothing owing to the opposition of the Count of Savoy, and that of the King of Naples who, since he owned lands in Provence, had no wish to see his turbulent relative create an independent kingdom for himself on the borders of his states. So Monseigneur of Valois had resumed plans for the holy expedition with more enthusiasm than ever. It was clear that he would have to go in search of the sovereign crown, which had eluded his grasp in Spain, in Germany, and even in Arles, at the farther ends of the earth. But though Robert knew all these things it would have been unwise to mention them.

  ‘Of course, all the difficulties have not yet been overcome,’ went on Monseigneur of Valois. ‘We are still in negotiation with the Holy Father over the number of knights and how much they shall be paid. We want eight thousand knights and thirty thousand footmen, and each baron to receive twenty sols a day and each knight ten; seven sols and six deniers for the squires and two sols for the footmen. Pope John wants me to limit my army to four thousand knights and fifteen thousand footmen; he has, nevertheless, promised me twelve armed galleys. He has given us the tithe, but is looking askance at twelve hundred thousand livres a year, during the five years the crusade will last, which is the sum we are asking, and above all at the four hundred thousand livres the King of France requires for ancillary expenses.’

  ‘Of which three hundred thousand are to be paid to the good Charles of Valois himself,’ thought Robert of Artois. ‘At that price it’s worth while commanding a crusade. But to cavil at it would be unbecoming, since I shall get my share of it.’14

  ‘Oh, if I had only been at Lyons in the place of my late nephew Philippe during the last conclave,’ cried Valois, ‘I should have chosen a cardinal – though I wish to say nothing against the Holy Father – who understood more clearly the true interests of Christianity and did not require so much persuading.’

  ‘Particularly since we hanged his nephew at Montfaucon last May,’ observed Robert of Artois.

  Mortimer turned in his chair and looked at Robert of Artois in surprise. ‘A nephew of the Pope? What nephew?’

  ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know about it, Cousin?’ said Robert of Artois, taking the opportunity to get to his feet, for he found it difficult to remain still for long. He went over to the hearth and kicked the logs.

  Mortimer had already ceased to be ‘my lord’ to him and had become ‘my Cousin’, on account of a distant relationship they had discovered through the Fiennes family; soon he would become simply ‘Roger’.

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ he went on, ‘that you have not heard of the splendid adventures of the noble lord, Jourdain de l’Isle, so noble and so powerful that the Holy Father gave him his niece in marriage? And yet, when I come to think of it, how could you have heard about it? You were in prison at the time through the good offices of your friend Edward. Oh, it was a little affair that would have made much less stir had it not been for the fellow’s alliances. This Jourdain, a Gascon lord, had committed a few minor misdeeds, such as robbery, homicide, rape, deflowering virgins and a little buggery with the young men into the bargain. The King, at the request of Pope John, agreed to pardon him, and even restored his property to him on a promise of reform. Reform? Jourdain returned to his fief and we soon heard that he had begun all over again, and worse than ever, that he was keeping thieves, murderers and other bad hats about him, who plundered priests and laymen for his benefit. A King’s sergeant, carrying his lilied staff, was sent to arrest him. Do you know how Jourdain received the sergeant? He had him seized, beaten with the royal staff and, just to complete things, impaled on it, of which the man died.’

  Robert uttered a loud laugh that made the window-panes rattle in their leads. How gaily Monseigneur of Artois laughed, and how, in his heart of hearts, he approved, even envied, except for his sad end, Messire Jourdain de l’Isle. He would have liked to have had him for a friend.

  ‘One really does not know which was the greater crime,’ he went on, ‘to have killed an officer of the King, or to have befouled the lilies with a sergeant’s guts! For his deserts, my lord Jourdain was judged worthy to be strung up to the gibbet at Montfaucon. He was taken there with great ceremony, being dragged at the horse’s tail, and was hanged in the robes with which his uncle, the Pope, had presented him. You can still see him in them should you happen to pass that way. They have become a little too big for him now.’

  And Robert began laughing again, his head thrown back, his thumbs in his belt. His amusement was so sincere and infectious that Roger Mortimer began laughing too. And Valois was laughing, and his son Philippe. The courtiers at the farther end of the room gazed at them with curiosity.

  One of the blessings of our lot is to be ignorant of our end. And these four great barons were right to seize any opportunity to be amused; for one of them would be dead within two years; and another had but seven years to wait, almost to the day, to be dragged to execution in his turn at the horse’s tail through the streets of a town.

  Laughing together had made them feel more friendly towards each other. Mortimer suddenly had the feeling that he had been admitted to Valois’s inner circle of power, and felt a little more at ease. He gla
nced sympathetically at Monseigneur Charles’s face; it was a broad, high-coloured face, the face of a man who ate too much and whom the duties of his position deprived of the opportunity of taking enough exercise. Mortimer had not seen Valois since various meetings long ago: once in England during the celebrations for Queen Isabella’s marriage, and a second time, in 1313, when he had accompanied the English sovereigns to Paris to pay their first homage. And all this, which seemed but yesterday, was already in the distant past. Monseigneur of Valois, who had been a young man then, had since become this massive and imposing personage; and Mortimer himself had lived, on the best expectation of life, half his allotted span, if God willed that he should not be killed in battle, drowned at sea or die by the axe of Edward’s executioner. To have reached the age of thirty-seven was already a long span of life, particularly when you were surrounded by so many jealousies and enemies, when you had risked your life in tournaments and in war, and spent eighteen months in the dungeons of the Tower. Clearly, he must not waste his time, nor neglect opportunities for adventure. The idea of a crusade was beginning to interest Roger Mortimer after all.

  ‘And when will your ships sail, Monseigneur?’ he asked.

  ‘In eighteen months’ time, I think,’ replied Valois, ‘I shall send a third embassy to Avignon to make a definite arrangement about the subsidies, the bulls of indulgences, and the order of battle.’

  ‘It will be a splendid expedition, Monseigneur of Mortimer, in which the people one sees about at courts, who talk so much and so valiantly of war, will be able to show what they can do outside the tournament ground,’ said Philippe of Valois, who had so far not uttered a word and now blushed a little.

  Charles of Valois’s eldest son was already imagining the swelling sails of galleys, landings on distant shores, the banners, the knights, the shock of the heavy French cavalry charging the Infidel, the Crescent trampled beneath the horses’ hooves, Saracen girls captured in the secret depths of palaces and beautiful naked slaves in chains. And nothing was going to prevent Philippe of Valois from slaking his desires on those buxom wenches. His wide nostrils were already distending. For Jeanne the Lame would remain in France. He loved his wife, of course, but could not help trembling in her presence, for her jealousy burst out into furious scenes whenever he so much as looked at another woman’s breast. Oh, this sister of Marguerite of Burgundy had a far from easy character! And, indeed, it can so happen that one may love one’s wife and yet be impelled by the forces of nature to desire other women. It would need a crusade at least for tall Philippe to dare to deceive his lame wife.

  Mortimer sat up a little straighter and pulled at his black tunic. He wanted to turn the conversation to his own affairs, which had nothing to do with the crusade.

  ‘Monseigneur,’ he said to Charles of Valois, ‘you can count on me to march in your ranks, but I have come also to ask of you …’

  The word was said. The ex-Justiciar of Ireland had uttered that word without which no petitioner can hope to receive anything and without which no powerful man accords his support. To ask, to seek, to pray … But there was no need for him to say anything more.

  ‘I know, I know,’ replied Charles of Valois; ‘my son-in-law, Robert, has informed me. You want me to plead your case with King Edward. Well, my loyal friend …’

  Because he had ‘asked,’ he had suddenly become a friend.

  ‘Well, I shall not do it, for it would serve no purpose, except to expose me to further insult. Do you know the answer your King Edward sent me by the Count de Bouville? Yes, you must of course be aware of it. And when the licence for the marriage had already been asked of the Holy Father! What sort of figure does he make me cut? And do you really expect me, after that, to ask him to restore your lands to you, give you back your titles, and dismiss, for the one implies the other, those shameless Despensers of his?’

  ‘And at the same time, to restore to Queen Isabella …’

  ‘My poor niece!’ cried Valois. ‘I know, my loyal friend, I know it all. Do you think that I or the King of France can make King Edward change both his morals and his ministers? Nevertheless, you must be aware that he sent the Bishop of Rochester to demand that we hand you over. And we refused. We refused even to give the Bishop audience. This is the first affront I have been able to offer Edward in exchange for his. We are linked to each other, Monseigneur of Mortimer, by the outrages that have been inflicted on us. And if either of us has an opportunity of revenge, I can promise you, my dear Lord, that we shall avenge ourselves jointly.’

  Mortimer, though he gave no sign, felt an overwhelming despair. The audience, from which Robert of Artois had promised him such wonderful results – ‘My father-in-law Charles can do anything; if he likes you, and he undoubtedly will, you can be sure of gaining the day; if necessary he’ll bring the Pope in on your side …’ – seemed to be over. And what had it achieved? Nothing at all. Merely the promise of some vague command in the land of the Saracens, in eighteen months’ time. Roger Mortimer was already considering leaving Paris and going to see the Pope; and if he could get nothing out of him, then he would go to the Emperor of Germany. Oh, how bitter were the disappointments of exile. His uncle of Chirk had forewarned him.

  It was then that Robert of Artois broke the somewhat embarrassed silence by saying: ‘Charles, why should we not create the opportunity for the revenge of which you spoke just now?’

  He was the only man at court who called the Count of Valois by his Christian name, having maintained the habit from the time they were mere cousins; besides, his size, strength and general truculence gave him rights no one else would have dared assume.

  ‘Robert is right,’ said Philippe of Valois. ‘One might, for instance, invite King Edward to the crusade, and then …’

  A vague gesture completed his thought. Tall Philippe was clearly of an imaginative turn. He could see them all crossing a ford, or better still riding across the desert; they would meet a band of the Infidel, they would let Edward lead a charge and then coldly abandon him into the hands of the Saracens. That would be a fine revenge.

  ‘Never!’ cried Charles of Valois. ‘Never will Edward join his banners to mine! Besides, can one even think of him as a Christian prince? Indeed, it’s only the Saracens who have such morals as his!’

  In spite of Valois’s indignation, Mortimer felt a certain anxiety. He knew only too well what the speeches of princes were worth, and how the enemies of yesterday became reconciled tomorrow, even if only hypocritically, when it was in their interest to do so. If it occurred to Monseigneur of Valois, so as to increase the size of his crusade, to invite Edward, and if Edward pretended to accept …

  ‘Even if you did invite him, Monseigneur,’ Mortimer said, ‘there’s very little likelihood of King Edward responding to your invitation; he likes wrestling but hates arms, and it was not he, I can promise you, who defeated me at Shrewsbury, but Thomas of Lancaster’s bad tactics. Edward would plead, and with reason, the danger he is in from the Scots.’

  ‘But I want the Scots in my crusade!’ said Valois.

  Robert of Artois was knocking his huge fists impatiently together. He was utterly indifferent to the crusade and, to tell the truth, had no wish to go on it. To begin with, he was always seasick. He would undertake anything on shore, but not at sea; a new-born babe would be better at it than he was. Besides, his thoughts were concerned in the first place with the recovery of his county of Artois, and to go and wander about the ends of the earth for five years was unlikely to benefit his affairs. The throne of Constantinople was no part of his inheritance, and to find himself one day governing some desert island amid forgotten seas had no attraction for him. He had no interest in the spice trade, nor any need to go and capture Saracen women; Paris was overflowing with houris at fifty sols and of bourgeoises for even less; and Madame de Beaumont, his wife, the daughter of Monseigneur of Valois, closed her eyes to all his infidelities. It was therefore in Robert’s interest to postpone the date of the crusade as long as
possible and, while pretending enthusiasm for it, to do his best to delay it. He had a plan in mind, and it was not for nothing he had brought Roger Mortimer to see his father-in-law.

  ‘I wonder, Charles,’ he said, ‘whether it is really wise to leave the kingdom of France deprived of its men for so long and, without either its nobility or your hand at the helm, at the mercy of the King of England, who has given so much evidence of his ill-will towards us.’

  ‘The castles will be provisioned, Robert; and we shall leave sufficient garrisons,’ Valois replied.

  ‘But without the nobility and most of the knights, and without you, I repeat, who are our one great general, who will defend the kingdom in our absence? The Constable, who is nearly seventy-five and can only remain in the saddle by a miracle? Our King Charles? If Edward, as Lord Mortimer tells us, does not much care for war, our dear cousin is still less skilled in it. Indeed, if it comes to that, what can he do except show himself fresh and smiling to the people? It would be folly to leave the field open to Edward’s sly tricks without having first weakened him by a defeat.’

  ‘Then let’s help the Scots,’ suggested Philippe of Valois. ‘Let’s land on their coasts and support their war. For my part, I’m ready to do so.’

  Robert of Artois looked down so as not to show what he was thinking. There’d be a pretty mess if brave Philippe took command of an expedition to Scotland. The heir to the Valois had already shown his capacity in Italy, where he had been sent to support the Papal Legate against the Visconti of Milan. Philippe had arrived proudly with his banners, and had then allowed himself to be so imposed on and out-manœuvred by Galeazzo Visconti that he had, in fact, yielded everything while believing himself victorious, and had come home without even having engaged in a skirmish. One needed to beware above all of any enterprise in which he was engaged. None of which prevented Philippe of Valois being Robert’s best and closest friend, as well as his brother-in-law. But, indeed, you can think what you like of your friends, provided you don’t tell them.