The Royal Succession

by Maurice Druon

  Then, one morning towards the end of October, the Regent, as he sat in council, declared with that extraordinary calm which was the accompaniment to his decisions: ‘Our cousin Robert has too long made mock of our power. Since we must resolve to go to war, we will take the oriflamme at Saint-Denis against him on the last day of this month and, since Messire Gaucher is absent, the army, which I shall lead myself, will be under the command of our uncle …’

  Everyone looked at Charles of Valois, but Philippe went on, ‘… our uncle, Monseigneur of Evreux. We would willingly have confided this duty to Monseigneur of Valois, who has given proof of being a great leader in war, if he had not to go to his territories of Maine in order to receive the annates of the Church.’

  ‘I thank you, Nephew,’ replied Valois, ‘for you know that I dearly love Robert, and that, though I disapprove his rebellion, which is a piece of pig-headed foolishness, I should not like to take up arms against him.’

  The army which the Regent gathered to go into Artois bore no resemblance to the enormous host his brother, sixteen months earlier, had engulfed in the mud of Flanders. The army for Artois consisted of permanent troops and levies made in the royal domain. Its pay was high: thirty sols a day for a knight banneret, fifteen sols for a knight, three sols for a foot-soldier. Not only were nobles called up, but also commoners. The two marshals, Jean de Corbeil and Jean de Beaumont, called the Déramé, Lord of Clichy, assembled the banners. Pierre de Galard’s crossbowmen were already in commission. Geoffroy Coquatrix had secretly received instructions a fortnight earlier to organize transport and supplies.

  On the 30th of October Philippe of Poitiers took the oriflamme at Saint-Denis. On the 4th of November he was at Amiens, whence he immediately sent his second chamberlain, Robert de Gamaches, escorted by a few equerries, to carry a last summons to the Count of Artois.

  5

  The Regent’s Army Takes a Prisoner

  THE STUBBLE FROM THE already distant harvest was grey and rotting in the bare muddy fields. Heavy dark clouds were moving across the autumn sky and one might have thought that the world ended at the edge of the plateau. The sharp wind, blowing in short gusts, carried with it an underlying smell of smoke.

  Near the village of Bouquemaison, at the very place where, three months before, Count Robert had entered Artois, the Regent’s army was drawn up in battle array, pennants flying at lance-heads along more than a mile of front.

  Philippe of Poitiers, surrounded by his principal officers, was at the centre, a few yards from the road. He had crossed his gauntleted hands on the pommel of his saddle; his head was bare. Behind him an equerry was carrying his helm.

  ‘It was here he told you that he would come and surrender?’ the Regent asked Robert de Gamaches, who had returned from his mission that morning.

  ‘Yes, here, Monseigneur,’ replied the second chamberlain. ‘He chose the place. “In the field by the stone with a cross on it,” he said. And he assured me that he would be here at the hour of tierce.’

  ‘Are you sure that there is no other stone surmounted by a cross in the neighbourhood? For he would be quite capable of playing us a trick on that account, go elsewhere and then say that I was not at the meeting-place. Do you really think he will come?’

  ‘I think so, Monseigneur, for he seemed very perturbed. I told him the size of your army, and I also informed him that Monseigneur the Constable was holding the Flanders borders and the towns to the north, that he would thus be taken between pincers, and would not even be able to escape by the gates. Then I gave him Monseigneur of Valois’s letter and advised him to surrender without fighting, since he could not but be defeated, and I informed him that you were so incensed against him that he might well fear the loss of his head if you took him in arms. This seemed to depress him greatly.’

  The Regent bent his long body forward over his horse’s neck. He decidedly disliked wearing armour; the twenty pounds of steel weighed on his shoulders and prevented him from stretching himself.

  ‘He then went into council with his barons,’ went on Gamaches, ‘and I don’t know what they said to each other. But I gathered that some among them were refusing to support him further while others were beseeching him not to abandon them. Finally he came out to me and gave me the answer I have brought you, assuring me that he has too great a respect for Monseigneur the Regent to disobey him in anything.’

  Philippe of Poitiers was incredulous. He suspected this too-easy surrender, and feared a trap. Screwing up his eyes, he gazed over the melancholy countryside.

  ‘It would be a good enough place to turn our flank and fall on us from behind while we stand here waiting. Corbeil! Le Déramé!’ he called to his two marshals. ‘Send a few bannerets to reconnoitre both our flanks, search the valleys, and make sure that there are no troops concealed in them or making their way along the roads behind us. And if, when tierce has rung from the steeple behind us, Robert has not come,’ he added to Louis of Evreux, ‘we shall advance.’ But soon there were shouts from the ranks of the banners.

  ‘Here he is! Here he is!’

  The Regent screwed up his eyes again but could see nothing.

  ‘Straight to the front, Monseigneur,’ someone said, ‘just to the right of your horse’s head, on the ridge!’

  Robert of Artois was riding towards them; he had no companions, no equerries, not even a servant. He was advancing at a walk, sitting erect on his huge horse, and appeared, in his solitariness, even bigger than he in fact was. His tall figure stood out red against the murky sky, and the point of his lance seemed to be pricking the clouds.

  ‘It’s another way of defying you, Monseigneur, coming to you like this.’

  ‘Well, let him defy me, let him!’ replied Philippe of Poitiers.

  The knights who had been sent to reconnoitre returned at a gallop and reported that the neighbourhood was completely quiet.

  ‘I should have thought him more implacable in despair,’ said the Regent.

  Another man would have wished to display panache and would doubtless have ridden forward alone to meet the solitary figure. But Philippe of Poitiers had a different conception of his dignity; it was no knightly gesture he needed to make, but that of a king. He therefore waited, making no move, till Robert of Artois, all mudstained and steaming, came to a halt in front of him.

  The whole army seemed to hold its breath; there was nothing to be heard but the chink of bits in the horses’ mouths.

  The giant threw his lance to the ground; the Regent looked down at the lance lying in the stubble and said nothing.

  Robert unfastened his helm and his great two-handed sword from the saddle and threw them to join the lance.

  The Regent still kept silence; instead of raising his eyes to Robert, he stared at the arms, as if he were awaiting something more.

  Robert of Artois decided to dismount. He took two paces forward. Quivering with anger, he went down on one knee so as to meet the Regent’s eyes.

  ‘My noble Cousin …’ he cried, spreading wide his arms. But Philippe cut him short.

  ‘Are you not hungry, Cousin?’ he said.

  And the other, expecting a splendid scene and noble words, that he would be raised to his feet, embraced, pardoned, was left aghast.

  Then Philippe added: ‘Very well, mount your horse; we shall go to Amiens as quickly as we may, and I shall there dictate to you my terms for peace. You will ride beside me; we shall eat on the way. Héron! Gamaches! Pick up my cousin’s arms.’

  Robert of Artois paused before remounting and stared about him.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’ the Regent asked.

  ‘No, Philippe. I’m merely gazing at this field that I may not forget it,’ replied Artois.

  And he put his hand to his breast where, through the hauberk, he could feel the velvet bag in which he had placed, together with relics, the ears of corn, now reduced to powder, which he had plucked in this very place one summer’s day. His lips parted in an arrogant smile.


  As he rode along by the Regent’s side he began to recover his usual assurance.

  ‘This is a splendid army you’ve gathered, Cousin, to take one prisoner,’ he said banteringly.

  ‘The capture of twenty banners, Cousin,’ replied Philippe in the same tone, ‘would give me less pleasure today than your company. But tell me, what persuaded you to surrender so soon, for though I have numbers on my side, I know well that you do not lack courage!’

  ‘I thought that, if we went to war, too many poor people would suffer.’

  ‘How sensitive you have suddenly become, Robert,’ said Philippe of Poitiers. ‘I had not heard that you have given much proof of charity in recent times.’

  ‘Our Holy Father, the Pope, was kind enough to write to me and recall me to my duty.’

  ‘Ah, pious too!’ cried the Regent.

  ‘I long meditated the good Pope’s letter. He was elected without difficulty, I’m told. And indeed, since it was couched in much the same terms as your summons, I determined to show myself both a loyal subject and a good Christian.’

  ‘Kindliness, religion, loyalty: you have much changed, Cousin!’

  Meanwhile, Philippe, looking sideways at the giant’s jutting chin, was thinking: ‘You may mock, you may well mock; but you’ll be a little less merry later on, when you know the terms of the peace I shall dictate to you.’

  But face to face with the Council, which met as soon as they reached Amiens, Robert adopted the same attitude. He agreed to everything that was asked of him, without cavil or objection, almost as if he had not been listening to the treaty as it was read out to him.

  He agreed to surrender ‘all castles, fortresses, manors and all else that he had taken or occupied’. He guaranteed the restitution of all the places seized by his partisans. He made a truce with Mahaut until the following Easter; between now and then the Countess would make her claims, and the Court of Peers would judge between the rights of both parties. For the moment the Regent would govern Artois direct and would install such guardians, officers and commanders of castles as he thought fit. Finally, until the peers had given their decision, the revenues of the county would be received by the Count of Evreux and by the Count of Valois.

  When he heard this last clause, Robert realized the price of his principal ally’s defection. But he did not hesitate even then, and signed every clause.

  This extraordinary humility began to worry the Regent. ‘What card has he up his sleeve?’ Philippe wondered.

  As he was in haste to return to Paris for the Queen’s lying-in, he left his two marshals, with some of the regular troops, to relieve the Constable in Artois and see for themselves that the treaty was carried out. Robert smiled as he watched the marshals set off.

  His plan was a simple one. In coming to surrender alone he had averted the destruction of his army. Fiennes, Souastre, Picquigny and the others would continue a limited, harassing war of attrition. The Regent could not organize an expedition of this size once a fortnight; the Treasury could not afford it. Robert had therefore several months of peace before him. At the moment he preferred to return to Paris, and found the occasion given him of doing so opportune enough. For it was quite possible that in the near future there would be no longer either a Regent or a Mahaut.

  In fact – and it was the real reason for his smile – Robert had discovered the Dame de Fériennes, who provided the Countess of Artois with poisons. He had found her by having two of the Regent’s spies, who were also in search of her, followed. Isabelle de Fériennes and her son had been arrested as they were selling the necessary materials for casting spells. Robert’s people had killed the Regent’s spies, and now the witch, having dictated an admirably complete confession, was sequestered in an Artois castle.

  ‘You’ll cut a pretty figure, Cousin,’ he thought, as he looked at Philippe, ‘when I tell Jean de Varennes to bring me this woman and I produce her before the Council of Peers and let her tell them how you had your brother murdered! Your dear Pope himself won’t be able to do anything about it then.’

  The Regent kept Robert at his side throughout the whole journey; at the halts they ate at the same table; at night, in the monasteries or royal castles, they slept in adjacent rooms; and the Regent’s numerous servants kept Robert under strict surveillance. But when you drink, dine and sleep beside your enemy, you cannot help developing a certain human feeling for him; the two cousins had never known each other so intimately before. The Regent appeared to bear Robert no particular grudge for the trouble and expense he had occasioned; he even seemed to be quite amused by the giant’s gross jokes and his air of specious frankness.

  ‘But a little more, and he really will like me, the idiot!’ Robert thought. ‘What a fool I’m making of him, what a proper fool!’

  On the morning of the 11th of November, as they approached the gates of Paris, Philippe suddenly stopped his horse.

  ‘My good Cousin, the other day, at Amiens, you guaranteed that all the castles would be handed over to my marshals. But I am now sorry to hear that several of your friends are disobeying the treaty and refusing to surrender them.’

  Robert smiled and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘But you guaranteed it,’ repeated Philippe.

  ‘Yes, Cousin, I signed everything you wished. But as you have taken all power from me, it’s up to your marshals to make you obeyed.’

  The Regent thoughtfully stroked his horse’s neck.

  ‘Is it true, Robert,’ he went on, ‘that you often call me Philippe of the Closed Gates?’

  ‘Yes it is, Cousin, yes indeed it is!’ said the other, laughing. ‘It seems that you use gates a good deal in governing.’

  ‘Well, Cousin,’ said the Regent, ‘in that case you will be lodged in the prison of the Châtelet, and there you will remain until the last castle of Artois is handed over to me.’

  For the first time since his surrender Robert paled a little. His whole plan had collapsed, and the Dame de Fériennes would be of little immediate use to him.

  PART THREE

  FROM MOURNING TO CORONATION

  1

  A Wet-nurse for the King

  JEAN I, KING OF FRANCE, posthumous son of Louis X, the Hutin, and of Queen Clémence of Hungary, was born during the night of the 13th to 14th November 1316 in the Château of Vincennes.

  The news was proclaimed at once and the lords put on their silken robes. In the taverns the idlers and drunkards, for whom every event was an opportunity for a drink, began getting drunk and brawling by midday. And the traders in rich and rare goods, goldsmiths, silk merchants, weavers of fine cloth and makers of lace, sellers of spices, rare fishes and produce from overseas, rubbed their hands as they calculated the money that would be spent on the rejoicings.

  The streets were a gay scene. People shouted to each other: ‘Well, my friend, so we’ve got a King!’

  The people of Paris felt enlivened, and the prostitutes with their yellow hair had plenty of business that day, in spite of the cold north wind which blew through the sordid alleys behind Notre-Dame, to which an edict of Saint Louis had confined them.

  In the hospice of the Convent of the Clarisses, Marie de Cressay had given birth four days earlier to a boy who weighed his full eight pounds, gave promise of being fair like his mother, and sucked, his eyes tight shut, like a voracious young puppy.

  The novices, in their white hoods, were continually entering Marie’s cell to watch her dress her baby, gaze at her radiant face as she fed him at her pink, abundant, expansive breast, while they who were destined to perpetual virginity admired the miracle of motherhood outside a painted figure in a window.

  For if it sometimes happened that a nun sinned, this did not occur as frequently as the public rhymesters stated in their songs, and a newborn child in a convent of the Clarisses was not a very frequent occurrence.

  There was great excitement on this particular day, for the Chaplain had announced the birth of a King; the joy of the town penetrated
even to the cloister.

  ‘The King is called Jean, like my baby,’ said Marie.

  In this she saw a good augury. A whole generation would be born to whom the King’s Christian name would be given, and it was all the more striking because it was new to the monarchy. To all the little Philippes, to all the little Louis, would succeed an infinity of little Jeans throughout the kingdom. ‘Mine is the first,’ thought Marie.

  The short twilight of autumn was beginning to fall when a young nun entered the cell.

  ‘Dame Marie,’ she said, ‘the Mother Abbess is asking for you in the parlour. There is someone to see you.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t see. But I think you are going to leave us.’

  The blood flowed to Marie’s cheeks.

  ‘It’s Guccio. It’s Guccio! It’s his father,’ she explained to the novices. ‘It’s my husband come to take us away, I’m sure.’

  She closed the opening of her bodice, quickly did her hair, gazing into the window-pane which served her as a dull mirror, put her cloak about her shoulders, and then hesitated a moment before the cradle which lay on the ground. Should she take the child down with her and give Guccio this wonderful surprise at once?

  ‘Look how he sleeps, the angel!’ said the little novices. ‘Don’t wake him or let him catch cold! Run along; we’ll watch over him.’

  ‘Don’t take him out of his cradle, don’t touch him!’ said Marie.

  As she went downstairs she was already a prey to maternal anxiety. ‘As long as they don’t play with him and drop him!’ But her feet flew on towards the visiting-room, and she was astonished to find herself feeling so light.

  In the white room, whose only decoration was a huge Crucifix and two candles which duplicated the huge shadows, the Mother Abbess, her hands folded in her sleeves, was talking to Madame de Bouville.