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‘I expect so. I was unable to take part in it, for I was already on my way,’ replied Bishop Orleton.
And was my Lord Mortimer in good health? Lord Mortimer was a good friend, and had often mentioned Monseigneur Orleton who had organized his escape from the Tower of London. It had been a great exploit on which Robert complimented the Bishop.
‘Well, you know, I welcomed him to France,’ he said, ‘and provided him with the means of returning somewhat better armed than he had arrived. So we are each responsible for half the business.’
And how was Queen Isabella, his dear cousin? Was she as beautiful as ever?
By his idle chatter Robert was deliberately preventing Orleton from mingling with the other groups, speaking to the Count of Hainaut or the Count of Flanders. He knew Orleton well by reputation and he mistrusted him. Was not this the man whose turbulent career had stirred all England, who had been sent by the Court of Westminster on embassies to the Holy See, and who was the author, so at least it was said, of the famous letter with the double meaning – ‘Eduardum occidere nolite …’ – by which Queen Isabella and Mortimer had hoped to avoid suspicion of having ordered the murder of Edward II?
While the French prelates had all donned their mitres for the Council, Orleton was merely wearing a violet silk travelling-cap with ermine earlaps. Robert noted this with satisfaction; it would diminish the English bishop’s authority when his turn came to speak.
‘Monseigneur of Valois will be voted Regent,’ he whispered to Orleton, as if confiding a secret to a friend.
Orleton made no reply.
At last the one missing member of the Council, for whom they had all been waiting, arrived. It was the Countess Mahaut of Artois, the only woman to be present. Mahaut had aged; she leaned on a stick and seemed to move her massive body with difficulty. Her hair was quite white and her face a dark red. She included all the company in a vague greeting and, when she had sprinkled the corpse with holy water, seated herself heavily beside the Duke of Burgundy. She seemed to be panting for breath.
The Archbishop and Primate, Guillaume de Trye, rose, turned towards the royal corpse, slowly made the sign of the cross, and then stood for a moment in meditation, his eyes raised towards the vault as if seeking Divine inspiration. The whisperings ceased.
‘My noble lords,’ he began, ‘when there is no natural successor upon whom the royal power can fall, that power returns to its source which lies in the assent of the peers. Such is the will both of God and of Holy Church, which sets an example by electing the sovereign pontiff.’
Monseigneur de Trye spoke well and with a preacher’s fine eloquence. The assembled peers and barons had to decide on whom they would confer temporal power in the kingdom of France, first for the exercise of the Regency and then, for it was only wise to look to the future, for the exercise of kingship itself, should the most noble lady, the Queen, fail to give birth to a son.
It was their duty to appoint him who was the best among equals, primus inter pares, and also nearest in blood to the Crown. Was it not in similar circumstances in the past that the temporal and spiritual peers had entrusted the sceptre to the wisest and strongest among them, the Duke of France and the Count of Paris, Hugues I, the Great, founder of the glorious dynasty?
‘Our dead Sovereign, who is still with us this day,’ continued the Archbishop, slightly inclining his mitre towards the catafalque, ‘wished to direct our choice by recommending to us, in his will, his nearest cousin, that most Christain and most valiant Prince, who is in every way worthy to govern us and lead us, Monseigneur Philippe, Count of Valois, Anjou and Maine.’
The most Christian and most valiant Prince, who felt his ears buzzing with emotion, was uncertain what attitude to adopt. Modestly to lower his long nose might imply that he doubted both his capacity and his right to rule. But to hold it up proudly and arrogantly might prejudice the peers against him. He therefore sat perfectly still, not even a muscle of his face twitching, with his eyes fixed on his dead cousin’s golden boots.
‘Let each of us consult his conscience,’ concluded the Archbishop of Reims, ‘and give his counsel for the general good.’
Bishop Orleton got quickly to his feet.
‘I have already consulted my conscience,’ he said. ‘I have come here to represent the King of England, Duke of Guyenne.’
He had considerable experience of meetings of this kind, where the decisions to be taken had been secretly arranged beforehand, but where everyone nevertheless hesitated to be the first to speak. He was quick to take advantage of it.
‘In the name of my master,’ he went on, ‘I am to declare that the person most nearly related to the late King Charles of France is his sister, Queen Isabella, and that the Regency should therefore be vested in her.’
With the exception of Robert of Artois, who was expecting something of the sort, the Council was for a moment utterly astounded. No one had considered Queen Isabella during the preliminary negotiations, nor had anyone for an instant imagined that she would make a claim. They had quite forgotten her. And now here she was emerging from the northern mists through the voice of a little bishop in a fur cap. Had she really any rights? They all looked questioningly at each other. If strict considerations of lineage were to be taken into account, it was clear that she had undoubted rights; but it seemed sheer folly to claim them.
Five minutes later, the Council was in considerable confusion. They were all talking at once and at the tops of their voices, paying no heed to the presence of the dead King.
Had not the Duke of Guyenne, in the person of his ambassador, forgotten that women could not reign in France, in accordance with the law that had been twice confirmed by the peers in recent years?
‘Is that not so, Aunt?’ Robert of Artois asked maliciously, reminding Mahaut of the time when they had been violently opposed over the Law of Succession which had been promulgated in favour of Philippe the Long, the Countess’ son-in-law.
No, Bishop Orleton had forgotten nothing; in particular, he had not forgotten that the Duke of Guyenne had been neither present nor represented – no doubt because he had been deliberately informed too late – at the meetings of the peers at which the extension of the so-called Salic Law to the Crown had been so arbitrarily decided, and that in consequence he had never ratified the decision.
Orleton had none of the unctuous eloquence of Monseigneur Guillaume de Trye; he spoke a rather rough and somewhat archaic French, for the French used as the official language of the English Court had remained unaltered since the Conquest, and it might well have raised a smile in other circumstances. But he was adept at legal controversy and never at a loss for a retort.
Messire Mille de Noyers, who was the last surviving jurisconsult of Philip the Fair’s Council and had played his part in all the succeeding reigns, had to come to the rescue.
Since King Edward II had rendered homage to King Philippe the Long, it was evident that he had recognized him as the legitimate king and had therefore, by implication, ratified the Law of Succession.
Orleton did not see the matter in that light. Indeed, it was not so, Messire! By rendering homage, Edward II had merely confirmed that the Duchy of Guyenne was a vassalage of the Crown of France, which no one denied, though the terms of this vassalage still remained to be defined after more than a hundred years. But this was irrelevant to the validity of the procedure by which the King of France had been chosen. And, in any case, what was the question in dispute, was it the Regency or the Crown?
‘Both, both at once,’ said Bishop Jean de Marigny. ‘For, as Monseigneur de Trye so rightly said: it is wise to look to the future; and we do not want to be confronted with the same problem again in two months’ time.’
Mahaut of Artois was trying to get her breath. Ah, how infuriating this ill-health was, and the singing in the head that prevented her thinking clearly. She disapproved of everything that was being said. She was opposed to Philippe of Valois because to support Valois meant supporting Robert; she was opposed to Isabella whom she had long hated because, in the past, Isabella had denounced her daughters. After a while, she managed to intervene in the discussion.
‘If the crown could go to a woman, it would not be to your Queen, Messire Bishop, but to none other than Madame Jeanne la Petite, and the Regency should be exercised by her husband, Messire of Evreux here, or her uncle, Duke Eudes, here beside me.’
There were signs of excitement on the part of the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Flanders, the Bishops of Laon and Noyon, and even in the attitude of the young Count of Evreux who, for an instant, thought: ‘Why not, after all?’
It was as if the crown were hovering uncertainly between floor and ceiling, while several heads were outstretched to receive it.
Philippe of Valois had long abandoned his noble calm and was making signs to his cousin of Artois. Robert rose to his feet.
‘Really!’ he cried, in a voice that made the candles flicker round the catafalque. ‘Everyone here today seems to be denying his past. It would appear that my beloved aunt, Dame Mahaut, is prepared to recognize the rights of Madame of Navarre’ – he looked at Philippe of Evreux and emphasized the word ‘Navarre’ to remind him of their agreement – ‘those very rights she was instrumental in wresting from her in the past; while the noble English Bishop seems to be basing his argument on the Act of a king whom he first helped to turn off his throne and then sent home to God with his blessing! Really, Messire Orleton, a law cannot be made and remade every time it is applied, and to suit every party. Sometimes it will serve one party, sometimes another. We love and respect Madame Isabella, our cousin, whom many of us here have helped and served. But her demand, which you have pleaded so well, is clearly inadmissible. Is that not your opinion, Messeigneurs?’ he concluded, turning to his supporters for approval.
His speech was received with approbation, in particular by the Duke of Bourbon, the Count of Blois and the spiritual peers of Reims and Beauvais.
But Orleton had not yet shot his bolt. Given that this was a question not only of the Regency but also, eventually, of the Crown itself, given that women could not reign in France, then so as not to reopen the question of a law that already had precedents in its application, he would put forward a claim, not in the name of Queen Isabella, but in that of her son, King Edward III, who was the only male descendant in the direct line.
‘But if a woman cannot reign, she clearly cannot transmit the succession!’ said Philippe of Valois angrily.
‘And why not, Monseigneur? Are not the Kings of France born of woman?’
This retort raised several smiles. Tall Philippe had his back to the wall. After all, was the little English Bishop so very far wrong? The rather doubtful precedent that had been pleaded at Louis’ death gave no guidance on this particular point. And since three brothers had reigned consecutively and failed to produce sons, should not the crown go to the son of the surviving sister, rather than to a cousin?
The Count of Hainaut, who till now had been wholehearted in his support of Valois, began to reflect and to envisage unexpected prospects for his daughter.
The old Constable Gaucher, whose eyelids were as wrinkled as those of a tortoise, was cupping his ear with his hand, for he was hard of hearing, and asking his brother-in-law, Mille de Noyers: ‘What’s that? What’s that they’re saying?’
The discussion was becoming complicated and it irritated him. On the question of women succeeding, his views had remained unchanged over the last twelve years. Indeed, it was he who had proclaimed the right of male succession and had persuaded the peers to it by his celebrated apophthegm: ‘The lily cannot become a distaff; and France is too noble a kingdom to be handed over to a woman.’
Orleton continued his speech in an endeavour to move his hearers. He invited the peers to take this opportunity, which might not occur again for centuries, to unite the two kingdoms under the same sceptre. He spoke with profound conviction: let them have done with incessant quarrelling, ill-defined terms of homage, wars in Aquitaine that impoverished both their nations, and let them dissolve the useless rivalry in trade which created such continual problems in Flanders. He wanted to see one single people on both sides of the Channel. Was not the whole English nobility of French stock? Was not the French language common to both Courts? Had not many French lords inherited estates in England and had not English barons lands in France?
‘Very well, if that’s the case, give us England, we shan’t refuse it,’ said Philippe of Valois sarcastically.
The Constable Gaucher was listening to the explanations his brother-in-law was shouting in his ear, and his face suddenly grew dark. What was that? The King of England claiming the Regency and the crown to follow? Was this to be the result of all the campaigns he had fought beneath the harsh Gascony sun, of all the expeditions through the northern mud against those wicked Flemish drapers, who were invariably supported by England, of the deaths of so many valiant knights and the expenditure of so much treasure? Was it all to come merely to this? What nonsense!
He did not get to his feet, but in a deep, old voice that was hoarse with anger, he cried: ‘Never shall France belong to the Englishman! This is no question of male or female, or whether the crown can be transmitted through the womb! But France shall not go to the Englishman because the barons won’t have it! Come on Brittany! Come on Blois! Come on Nevers! Come on Burgundy! Do you mean to say you’re prepared to listen to this sort of thing? We’ve a king to bury, the sixth I’ve seen die in my lifetime, and each one of them had to raise an army against England or those whom England supported. The man who rules France must be of French blood. And let’s have no more of this nonsense; it’s enough to make my horse laugh!’
He had called on Brittany, Blois and Burgundy in the voice he was accustomed to use in battle to rally the leaders of banners.
‘I give my counsel, in right of being the oldest member present, that the Count of Valois, who is nearest to the throne, be Regent, Guardian and Governor of the realm.’
And he raised his hand to show that he was casting his vote.
‘He’s quite right!’ Robert of Artois said quickly, raising his great paw and looking round at Philippe’s supporters to make sure they followed his example.
He was almost sorry he had had the old Constable cut out of the royal will.
‘Agreed!’ said the Dukes of Bourbon and Brittany, the Counts of Blois, Flanders, and Evreux, the bishops, the great officers of State, and the Count of Hainaut.
Mahaut of Artois caught the Duke of Burgundy’s eye, saw he was about to raise his hand, and hastily approved so as not to be the last. But the look she gave Eudes signified: ‘I’m voting for your choice. But you’ll support me, won’t you?’
Orleton’s was the only hand not raised.
Philippe of Valois suddenly felt utterly exhausted. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he thought. He heard Archbishop Guillaume de Trye, his old tutor, say: ‘Long life to the Regent of the Kingdom of France, both for the good of the people and for that of Holy Church.’
The Chancellor, Jean de Cherchemont, had already prepared the document which was to embody the Council’s decision. He had only to insert the Regent’s name. He wrote in a large hand: ‘The most powerful, most noble and most dread Lord Philippe, Count of Valois.’ Then he read out the Act which not only assigned the Regency, but declared that, if the child to be born was a girl, the Regent was to become King of France.
All present appended both their signatures and private seals to the document. All, that is, except the Duke of Guyenne in the person of his representative, Bishop Orleton, who refused, saying: ‘One has nothing to lose by defending one’s rights, even if one knows one cannot succeed. But the future is long and lies in God’s hands.’
Philippe of Valois went over to the catafalque and gazed at his cousin’s corpse, at the crown upon the waxen brow, the long gold sceptre lying on the mantle and the golden boots.
They thought he was praying, and his act earned their respect.
Robert of Artois went to him and whispered: ‘If your father can see you at this moment, the dear man must be delighted … There are only two months to wait.’
4. (#ulink_dfb1c224-bfd0-5347-a850-e8d33aaf0bdf)
The Makeshift King (#ulink_dfb1c224-bfd0-5347-a850-e8d33aaf0bdf)
PRINCES OF THAT TIME always had to have a dwarf. Poor people almost considered it a piece of good fortune to bring one into the world; they were sure of being able to sell him to some great lord, if not to the king himself.
A dwarf was generally looked on as ranking in the order of creation somewhere between a man and a domestic animal; he was animal because you could put a collar on him, rig him out in grotesque clothes like a performing dog, and kick his backside with impunity; on the other hand, he was human in so far as he could talk and submitted voluntarily to his degrading role for food and pay. He had to clown to order, skip, cry and play the fool like a child, even when his hair had turned white with advancing years. His lack of inches was proportionate to his master’s greatness. He was bequeathed like any other piece of property. He was the symbol of the ‘subject’, of nature’s subordinates, expressly created, so it seemed, to be a living witness to the fact that the human race was composed of different species, of which some had absolute power over the rest.
Abasement nevertheless brought certain advantages, for the smallest, weakest and most deformed in the community were among the best-fed and the best-clothed. Moreover, the dwarf was permitted, indeed commanded, to say things to the masters of the superior race that would not have been tolerated from anyone else.
The mockery and even the insults that every man, however devoted he may be, occasionally addresses to his superior in his thoughts were vented, as it were by delegation, in the traditional and often singularly obscene familiarities of the dwarf.
There are two kinds of dwarfs: the long-nosed, sad-faced hunchback, and the chubby, snub-nosed dwarf with the body of a giant supported on tiny, rickety legs. Philippe of Valois’ dwarf, Jean the Fool, was of the second kind. His head barely reached to the height of a table. He wore bells on his cap, and silk robes embroidered with a variety of strange little animals.
One day he came skipping and laughing to Philippe and said: ‘Do you know what the people call you, Sire?’ They call you “the Makeshift King”.’
For on Good Friday, April 1st, 1328, Madame Jeanne of Evreux, Charles IV’s widow, had been brought to bed. Rarely in history had the sex of a newborn child created such excitement. When it was known to be a girl, everyone recognized it as a sign of God’s will, and there was great relief.
The peers had no need to reconsider the choice they had made at Candlemas; they assembled at once and unanimously, except for the representative of England who objected on principle, confirmed Philippe in his right to the crown.
The people also heaved a sigh of relief. The curse of the Grand Master Jacques de Molay seemed exhausted at last. The Capet line, at any rate in its senior branch, was now extinct. During the last three hundred and forty-one years it had given France fourteen successive kings, though the last four had reigned for no more than fifteen years between them. In any family whether rich or poor, the absence of male heirs is considered, if not a disaster, at least a sign of inferiority, In the case of the royal house, the inability of Philip the Fair’s sons to produce male descendants was looked on as a punishment. But now there was going to be a change.
Sudden fevers seize on peoples, and their cause must be sought in the movements of the planets since no other explanation can be found for them. How else account for such waves of hysterical cruelty as the crusade of the pastoureaux or the massacre of the lepers? How account for the tide of delirious joy that accompanied the accession of Philippe of Valois?
The new King was tall and endowed with the majestic physique so essential to the founder of a dynasty. His elder child was a son, already nine years old and seemingly robust; he had also a daughter, and it was known (Courts make no secret of these things) that he honoured his tall, lame wife almost every night with an enthusiasm the years had in no way abated.
He had a loud and resonant voice, unlike his cousins, Louis the Hutin, and Charles IV, who had stuttered; nor was he inclined to silence as had been Philip the Fair and Philippe V. There was no one who could oppose him, no one who could be put up against him. Amid the general rejoicing, who in France was going to listen to a few lawyers paid by England to draw up objections, which they did without much conviction?
Philippe VI ascended the throne with the consent of all.
And yet he was King only by a lucky chance; he was a nephew and a cousin of kings, but there were many such; he was simply a man who had been luckier than his relations. He was not a king born of a king to be king; he was not a king designated by God and received as such, but a ‘makeshift’ king, who had been made when one was needed.
Yet the popular nickname in no way detracted from the loyalty and rejoicing; it was simply one of those ironical phrases the populace so often uses to mask its emotions and make itself feel that it is on close and familiar terms with power. When Jean the Fool told Philippe about it, he received a kick that sent him flying across the flagstones. He had, nevertheless, uttered the word that was the key to his master’s destiny.
For Philippe of Valois, like every parvenu, was determined to show that he was worthy, by his own innate distinction, of the elevated position to which he had attained, and his behaviour therefore tended to an exaggeration of all that might be expected of a king.
Since the King exercised sovereign powers of justice, he sent the treasurer of the last reign to the gallows within three weeks of his accession. Pierre Rémy had been accused of embezzlement on a large scale. A Minister of Finance suspended from the gibbet was invariably popular with the crowd. France believed she had a just king.
By both duty and office the Prince was defender of the Faith. Philippe issued an edict increasing the penalties for blasphemy and enhancing the powers of the Inquisition. As a result, the higher and lower clergy, the minor nobility and the parish bigots were all reassured: they had a pious king.
A sovereign owed it to himself to recompense services rendered; and a great many services had been rendered Philippe to assure his election. On the other hand, the King must not make enemies of the officials who had been attentive to the public interest under his predecessors. As a result, nearly every dignitary or royal officer was retained in his position, while new posts were created or those already existing duplicated to find places for the supporters of the new reign. Every application put forward by the great electors was granted. Moreover, the Valois household, which was itself of royal proportions, was superimposed on that of the old dynasty; and there was a great distribution of profitable offices. They had a generous king.
A king was also in duty bound to bring his subjects prosperity. Philippe VI hastened to reduce and indeed in some cases to suppress altogether the taxes Philippe IV and Philippe V had imposed on trade, public markets and foreign business, taxes which it was said hindered enterprise and commerce.
And what could make a king more popular than to stop the plaguing by tax-gatherers? The Lombards, who had lent his father so much money and to whom he himself still owed enormous sums, blessed him. It occurred to no one that the fiscal policy of the previous reigns had produced long-term effects and that, if France was rich, if the standard of living was higher than anywhere else in the world, if the people wore good sound cloth and often fur and if there were baths and sweating-rooms even in hamlets, all these things were due to the previous Philippes, who had established order in the realm, the unification of the currency and full employment.
And then a king must also be wise, the wisest man among his people. Philippe began to adopt a sententious tone and, in that fine voice of his, to utter weighty aphorisms in which could be distinguished something of the manner of his old tutor, Archbishop Guillaume de Trye.
‘Action should always be based on reason,’ he would say whenever he was at a loss.
And when he made a mistake, which was often enough, and found himself in the unhappy position of having to countermand what he had ordered the day before, he would declare superbly: ‘Reason lies in developing one’s ideas.’ Or again: ‘It is better to be forearmed than forestalled,’ he would announce pompously, though throughout the twenty-two years of his reign he was to be constantly at the disadvantage of having to face one disagreeable surprise after another.
No monarch ever uttered so many platitudes with so grand an air. When people supposed he was thinking, he was in fact merely pondering a sentence that would seem like thought; his head was as empty as a nut in a bad season.
Nor was it to be forgotten that a king, a true king, must be valiant, chivalrous and gallant. And, indeed, Philippe had no aptitude for anything but arms – not for war, it must be admitted, but for jousts and tournaments. He would have excelled in training young knights at the Court of a minor baron. But, being a sovereign, his house began to look like a castle in the romances of the Round Table, which were much read at the time and had taken firm hold of his imagination. Life was a round of tournaments, festivals, banquets, hunts and entertainments, followed by more tournaments amid a flurry of plumed helms and horses more richly caparisoned than were the women.
Philippe applied himself with great devotion to affairs of State for an hour a day, either on his return, drenched with sweat, from jousting or on emerging from a banquet with a full stomach and a cloudy mind. His chancellor, his treasurer and his innumerable officers made his decisions for him or went to take orders from Robert of Artois. Indeed, Robert governed far more than the Sovereign.
No difficulty arose without Philippe appealing to Robert for advice, and the Count of Artois’ orders were obeyed with confidence, for it was known that any decree of his would be approved by the King.
This was how things stood, when the crowds began to gather towards the end of May for the coronation, at which Archbishop Guillaume de Trye was to place the crown on his former pupil’s head, and the festivities were to last for five days.
The whole kingdom seemed to have come to Reims; and not only the kingdom but a great part of Europe, for there were present the superb, if impecunious, King John of Bohemia, Count Guillaume of Hainaut, the Marquess of Namur, and the Duke of Lorraine. During the five days of feasting and rejoicing, there were a lavishness and an expenditure such as the burgesses of Reims had never seen before, and it was they who had to foot the bill for the festivities. Though they had grumbled at the cost of the previous coronation, they now gladly supplied two or three times as much. It was a hundred years since there had been such drinking in the Kingdom of France. There were even horsemen serving drinks in the courts and squares.
On the eve of the coronation, the King dubbed Louis of Nevers, Count of Flanders, knight with great pomp and ceremony. It had been decided that the Count of Flanders was to carry Charlemagne’s sword at the coronation and hand it to the King. The Constable, whose traditional privilege it was, had oddly enough consented to surrender it. But it was necessary that the Count of Flanders should be a knight; and Philippe VI could hardly have found a more signal means of showing his gratitude for the Count’s support.
Nevertheless, at the ceremony in the cathedral next day, when Louis of Bourbon, the Great Chamberlain of France, had shod the King with the lily-embroidered boots, and then proceeded to summon the Count of Flanders to present the sword, the Count made no move.
‘Monseigneur, the Count of Flanders!’ called Louis of Bourbon once again.
But Louis of Nevers stood still in his place with his arms crossed.
‘Monseigneur, the Count of Flanders,’ repeated the Duke of Bourbon, ‘if you be present, either in person or by representative, I call on you to come forward to fulfil your duty. You are hereby summoned to appear under pain of forfeiture.’
There was an astonished silence beneath the great vault and there was fear, too, reflected on the faces of the prelates, barons and dignitaries; but the King seemed quite unconcerned and Robert of Artois, his head thrown back, appeared to be deeply engaged in watching the play of sunlight through the windows.
