‘I’ve got a son: I’ve got a son, and they won’t hear of it till tomorrow,’ thought the Count of Poitiers, who supposed that his actions were merely for his own benefit and that of his son. And he prepared to meet the Duke of Burgundy’s inevitable attack. But the attack came from another quarter.
There was one man present at the Assembly over whom no one had an ascendancy; he forgot the money with which he had been bought; noble blood failed to impress him, for his was of the best; he was not subject to force, for he could overturn a horse with his own hands; no party had a hold over him, except those he created himself; and even the spectacle of madness left him indifferent. This was Robert of Artois. And it was he who, as soon as Mille de Noyers had finished reading, rose to his feet to join battle alone.
As everyone was that day making a display of his family, Robert of Artois had brought his mother, Blanche of Brittany, a tiny little woman with a thin face, white hair and fragile limbs, who seemed in a state of constant surprise at having given birth to so wonderful a giant.
Standing firmly planted in his red boots, his thumbs in his silver belt, Robert of Artois said: ‘I am astonished, Messeigneurs, that a new Act of Regency should have been drawn up and laid before us, when there already exists the statement of our last King.’
All eyes turned to the Count of Poitiers and some of those present wondered anxiously whether there was a will of Louis X’s which had been stolen.
‘I do not know, Cousin,’ said Philippe of Poitiers, ‘of what statement you are speaking. You were a witness of my brother’s last moments, with many other lords here present, and no one has ever told me that he expressed his will on the subject.’
‘When I spoke, Cousin,’ replied Robert, with a somewhat cunning expression, ‘of “our last King”, I was not talking of your brother, Louis X – whom God keep! – but of your father, our well-beloved Lord Philip, whom may God keep also! And King Philip decided, had it written down and made his peers swear it, that if he should die before his son were old enough to hold the reins of government, the royal office and the position of regent should fall to his brother, Monseigneur Charles, Count of Valois. So, Cousin, since no act has been made since then, it should, so it seems to me, be that one which must be put into force.’
Little Blanche of Brittany nodded her head, showed her toothless gums in a smile, and glanced round the room with her live bright eyes, inviting her neighbours to approve her son’s speech. There was no word this brawler uttered, no argument this trickster put forward, no violence, escapade or rape this blackguard committed which she did not approve and admire as a sign that he was a prodigy. She received the Count of Valois’s silent thanks, indicated by the flicker of an eyelid.
Philippe of Poitiers, leaning on the arm of his faldstool, slowly waved his hand. ‘I am delighted, Robert, quite delighted,’ he said, ‘to see you so earnestly in favour of my father’s wishes today, when you were so little obedient to his will while he was alive. No doubt a proper feeling comes with age, Cousin! You may be reassured. It is precisely my father’s wishes we are doing our best to respect. Is that not so, Uncle?’ he added, turning to Louis of Evreux.
Lord of Evreux, who had been exasperated for the last six weeks by the manoeuvres of his half-brother Valois and his brother-in-law Artois, did not deny himself the pleasure of putting them in their place.
‘The rule on which you are taking your stand, Robert, is valid for the principle, but not indefinitely for the person. For if, in fifty or a hundred years, a similar accident should once more overtake the Crown, it would not be my brother Charles who would be made regent of the kingdom, though I wish him a long life. For indeed,’ he cried in a loud voice, unusual in this quiet man, ‘the Lord God has not made Charles eternal that he may make an attempt on the throne every time it becomes vacant. If it is to the elder brother that the regency should go, it must be Philippe who is indicated, and that is why we paid him homage the other day. Do not therefore reopen a matter which is already decided.’
It seemed to be checkmate. But they did not know Robert. He took two paces forward, inclined his head a little, so that the sun shone through the windows on his bull-neck, while his shadow lay like a menace across the flagstones reaching to the feet of the Count of Poitiers.
‘The will of King Philip’, he went on, ‘contained nothing about the royal girls, nor that they must renounce their rights, nor that the Assembly of Peers was to decide whether they should reign.’
There was a sign of approval among the Burgundian lords, and Duke Eudes cried out: ‘Well said, Cousin; it is exactly the point I was going to make myself!’
Blanche of Brittany looked brightly round again. The Constable was beginning to fidget in his chair. He could be heard muttering, and those who knew him well foresaw an outburst.
‘Since when’, went on the Duke of Burgundy, rising, ‘has this new departure been introduced into the customs of the Crown? Only since yesterday, I believe! Since when have daughters, if there are no sons, been deprived of the possessions and crowns of their fathers?’
The Constable rose in his turn.
‘Since, Messire Duke,’ he said with calculated deliberation, ‘a certain daughter cannot be guaranteed to the kingdom as having been born of the father whose heir you wish to make her. Indeed, you must know what is generally said and what my cousin of Valois has so often himself mentioned in the Small Council. France is too great and splendid a country, Messire Duke, for its crown to be handed, without the matter having been deliberated by the peers, to a Princess of whom one cannot tell whether she is the daughter of the King or the daughter of an equerry.’
A horrified silence fell over the Assembly. Eudes of Burgundy turned pale. His councillor, Guillaume de Mello, whom Duchess Agnès had sent with him, was whispering into his ear but he could not hear what he was saying. It looked as if he were about to hurl himself on Gaucher de Châtillon, who was waiting for him, ready poised, his body inclined forward, his fists clenched. Even though the Constable was thirty years older than his adversary and shorter by half a head, he appeared to have no fear of a contest and, indeed, one might have expected him to win it. But the Duke of Burgundy’s anger was spent in words against Charles of Valois.
‘So it is you, Charles,’ he cried, ‘you, who sought my other sister’s hand in marriage for your elder son, whom I see here present, it is you who have been dishonouring the dead?’
‘Well, my friend,’ said Valois, ‘if it be a question of dishonour, Queen Marguerite – may God forgive her her sins! – had but little need of my assistance.’
And he said in an undertone to Gaucher de Châtillon: ‘What did you want to bring me into this for?’
‘And you, Brother-in-law,’ continued Eudes, now attacking Philippe of Valois, ‘do you approve these slanders?’
But Philippe of Valois, who was standing awkwardly, because of his great height, a few paces away, was seeking vainly for counsel from his father with his eyes; he merely raised his arms in a gesture of impotence and said: ‘You must admit, Brother, that the scandal was considerable.’
There was a stir in the Assembly. From the back of the hall came sounds of argument; some lords were arguing Jeanne’s bastardy, others her legitimacy. Charles de La Marche, ill-at-ease and pale, lowered his head to avoid other people’s eyes as he did whenever the unfortunate business was mentioned. ‘Marguerite is dead; Louis is dead,’ he thought; ‘but my wife, Blanche, is still living and I still bear my dishonour for all to see.’
At this moment the Count of Clermont, to whom nobody was paying any attention, began to show signs of agitation: ‘I challenge you, Messires, I challenge you all!’ cried Saint Louis’s last surviving son, rising to his feet.
‘Later, Father, later, when we go to the tournament,’ Louis of Bourbon said and signalled the two huge equerries to draw near and stand ready.
Robert of Artois watched the disturbance he had caused, delighted with himself.
The Duke of Burgundy,
in spite of the efforts Guillaume de Mello was making to allay his anger, was still shouting at Charles of Valois: ‘I hope too, Charles, that God will pardon my sister her sins, if she committed any! But I am not so concerned that he should forgive her assassin!’
‘Those are lies you have heard, Eudes,’ replied Valois, ‘and you know well that your sister died in prison of remorse.’
And he glanced at Robert to make sure that he had not flinched.
Now that the Count of Valois and the Duke of Burgundy were wholeheartedly quarrelling, and there was no chance of their uniting in their demands for a long time to come, Philippe of Poitiers stretched out his hand in a gesture of pacification.
But Eudes did not want peace. He had not come there to make it; on the contrary.
‘I have heard Burgundy outraged enough for one day, Cousin,’ he said. ‘I declare to you that I do not recognize you as Regent, and that I maintain before everyone the rights of my niece, Jeanne.’
Then, making a sign to the Burgundian lords to follow him, he left the hall.
‘Messeigneurs, Messires,’ said the Count of Poitiers, ‘this is precisely what our jurists have endeavoured to avoid by postponing the necessity, should it indeed ever arise, of the Council of Peers having to decide this question of the girls. For should Queen Clémence present the kingdom with a male heir, this whole dispute is pointless.’
Robert of Artois was still standing in front of the dais, his hands on his hips.
‘I gather therefore, Cousin,’ he said, ‘that from henceforth it is the custom in France for a woman’s right of succession to be contested. I demand, therefore, that my county of Artois, which was wrongly given to my aunt Mahaut, who is well known to have a female body, the which, I believe, a number of lords can testify, should be returned to me. And as long as you have not done justice by me, I shall not appear at your Council.’
Thereupon he went towards the side door, followed by his mother, who trotted behind him, proud both of him and of herself.
The Countess Mahaut waved her hand towards Philippe in a gesture which meant: ‘There! Didn’t I tell you so!’
Before going out of the door, Robert, passing behind the Count of Clermont, whispered wickedly in his ear: ‘To your lance, Cousin, to your lance!’
‘Cut the cords! Cry battle!’17 shouted Clermont, rising to his feet.
‘Swine, devil take your guts!’ cried Louis of Bourbon to Robert.
Then he said to his father: ‘Stay with us. The trumpets have not sounded.’
‘Oh, they haven’t sounded yet, haven’t they? Well, let them sound. It’s getting late,’ said Clermont.
He was waiting, his stare vacant, his arms outstretched.
Louis of Bourbon limped over to the Count of Poitiers and told him in a low voice that he must hurry. Philippe agreed with a nod of the head.
Bourbon returned to the madman, took him by the hand, and said: ‘Homage, Father; you must give homage now.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, homage!’
The lame man leading the madman, they crossed the dais.
‘Messeigneurs,’ said Louis of Bourbon, ‘here is my father, the eldest of the blood of Saint Louis, who approves the Act on all points, recognizes Messire Philippe as Regent and swears fealty to him.’
‘Yes, Messires, yes …’ said Robert of Clermont.
Philippe trembled to think what the other might say. ‘He’ll call me Madame and ask for my scarf.’
But Clermont continued in a loud voice: ‘I recognize you, Philippe, because you have the best right and are the most wise. May my father’s saintly soul watch over you from heaven to help you keep the peace in the kingdom and defend our holy faith.’
The Assembly stirred in happy surprise. What went on in that man’s head that he could pass without transition from madness to reason, from the absurd to the sublime?
Slowly and with great dignity, he knelt before his great-nephew and held out his hands; when he rose and turned about, having received the embrace, his great blue eyes were drowned in tears.
The whole Assembly rose to its feet and gave the two Princes a long ovation.
Philippe was thus recognized as Regent by the whole kingdom, with the exception of one province, Burgundy, and one man, Robert of Artois.
11
The Betrothed Play Tag
THE GREAT BARONIAL ASSEMBLIES were, in one respect at least, similar to modern international conferences. The member who noisily left the council chamber to protest against a decision would, if he were pressed a little, still accept an invitation to dine afterwards at the same table as his adversaries. And this was what the Duke of Burgundy did when Philippe sent him a messenger to express his regret at the morning’s incident, assure him of his affection, and remind him that he was counting on his company.
The dinner was to be held in the Château of Vincennes; the Regent wished to see what state it was in before he handed it back to Clémence, and had had the necessary furnishings for a banquet taken there. The whole Court went; they sat down at trestle-tables, covered with immense white cloths, between high and low vespers, about five o’clock in the afternoon.
The presence of the Duke of Burgundy made Robert of Artois’s absence all the more conspicuous.
‘My son fainted as he came out of the Palace, he was so upset by what had happened,’ said Blanche of Brittany.
‘Robert fainted! Really!’ said Philippe of Poitiers. ‘I hope he did not hurt himself falling from so great a height? I feel reassured to see that you are not over-anxious.’
On the other hand, no one was surprised at the absence of the Count of Clermont, whom his son had hastily taken home immediately he had paid homage. The Duke of Bourbon was congratulated on the splendid impression his father had created, while it was deplored that his illness – a noble illness, moreover, since it had occurred in an accident of arms – did not allow him to take part in the affairs of the realm more often.
The meal thus opened in comparatively good humour. The Constable had been placed some distance from the Duke of Burgundy, and they took care not to meet each other’s eyes. Valois held forth on his own account.
The most surprising aspect of this dinner was the number of children present; for Eudes of Burgundy, having made it a condition of his own attendance that his niece, Jeanne of Navarre, should be present as some reparation for the outrage done her at the Assembly, the Count of Poitiers had decided to bring his three girls, the Count of Valois his latest offspring by his third marriage, the Count of Evreux his son and daughter, who were still of an age to play with dolls, the Dauphin of Viennois his little Guigues, the betrothed of the Regent’s third daughter, and the Duke of Burgundy his three children. There was continual confusion over Christian names; Blanches, Isabelles, Charleses and Philippes abounded; when someone cried ‘Jeanne!’ six heads turned together.
These cousins were all destined to marry each other to serve the political strategy of their parents, who had themselves all been married in similar fashion: in the closest consanguinity. How many dispensations must be asked of the Pope that territorial interests might take precedence of the laws of religion and the most elementary considerations of health! How many cripples and madmen were there in prospect! The only difference between Adam’s descendants and Capet’s was that the latter had so far avoided incest between brothers and sisters.
The Dauphiniet and his betrothed, the little Isabelle of Poitiers, who would soon be called Isabelle of France, discovered a most touching friendship for each other. They ate out of the same dish; the Dauphiniet selecting the best morsels of eel stew for his future wife, searching diligently in the sauce, stuffing them into her mouth and smearing her face. The other children much envied them their betrothal, for they were to have their own little establishment in the Regent’s house with their own groom, their own footman and their own housemaids.
Jeanne of Navarre ate nothing. It was known that her presence had been forced on the feast, and since children are quic
k at knowing their parents’ feelings and exaggerating them, all the unhappy orphan’s cousins turned their backs on her. Jeanne was the youngest; she was only five. But for the fact that she was fair, she was beginning to show a resemblance in many of her features, the jutting brow and high cheekbones, to her mother, Marguerite of Burgundy. A solitary child, who did not know how to play, living alone with servants in the sinister rooms of the Hôtel de Nesle, she had never seen so many people gathered in one room, nor heard so many voices, and she looked with a mixture of terror and admiration at the constant succession of dishes placed on the huge tables surrounded by hearty trenchermen. She knew very well that she was unloved; when she asked a question, no one answered her; young as she was, her intelligence was sufficiently developed, and her mind subtle enough, to repeat over and over again: ‘My father was King, my mother was Queen; they are dead and no one speaks to me any more.’ She was never to forget that dinner at Vincennes. As the voices rose and laughter spread, little Jeanne’s sadness, her distress at this banquet of giants, weighed more heavily on her. Louis of Evreux who, from far off, saw her on the point of tears, said to his son: ‘Philippe! Look after your cousin Jeanne.’18
Little Philippe wished to imitate the Dauphiniet and put a piece of sturgeon and orange sauce into her mouth but she did not like it and spat it out on to the cloth.
As the cupbearers ceremoniously served the wines to all the guests, it soon became apparent that this crowd of brats, dressed in brocade, were going to be ill and, before the sixth course, they were sent out into the courtyards. Thus these children of kings suffered the same fate as all children at banquets; they were deprived of the food they liked best, sweetmeats, puddings and dessert.
As soon as the feast was over, Philippe of Poitiers took the Duke of Burgundy by the arm and said that he wished to talk to him privately.
The Royal Succession Page 11
