The Lily and the Lion

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It was Mahaut of Artois.

The congregation showed some surprise perhaps, but no very great astonishment. Robert was following the precedent of the Count of Flanders at the coronation. It seemed to have become customary for a peer who thought himself wronged to bring his complaint forward on these solemn occasions; and it was obviously done with the King’s prior consent.

Duke Eudes of Burgundy looked inquiringly at his sister, the Queen of France, who gazed back at him and with a movement of her open hands gave him to understand that she was as much surprised as he was and knew nothing of the matter at all.

‘Cousin,’ said Philippe, ‘can you produce documents in evidence to prove your rights?’

‘I can,’ Robert said firmly.

‘He can’t, he’s lying!’ cried Mahaut, who now left the stalls and came to stand beside her nephew in front of the King.

How alike Robert and Mahaut were. They were wearing identical coronets and robes; they were both equally angry, and the blood was mounting in their bull-necks. Mahaut, too, was wearing the great, gold-hilted sword of a peer of France on her Amazonian flank. They could have looked no more alike had they been mother and son.

‘Aunt,’ said Robert, ‘do you deny that the marriage contract made by my noble father, Count Philippe of Artois, appointed me, his first-born, heir to Artois, and that you took advantage of my being a child to dispossess me after my father’s death?’

‘I deny every word of it, you wicked nephew! How dare you try to disgrace me?’

‘Do you deny there was a marriage contract?’

‘I deny it!’ shouted Mahaut.

There was an angry murmur throughout the cathedral, and old Count de Bouville, who had been Chamberlain to Philip the Fair, was distinctly heard to utter a scandalized ‘Oh!’ Though it was not everyone who had as good reason as Bouville, who had been Curator of Queen Clémence’s stomach at the time of the birth of Jean I, the Posthumous, to know Mahaut of Artois’ remarkable capabilities in the realms of perjury and crime, it was quite obvious that she was flagrantly denying the evidence. A marriage between a son of the House of Artois, a prince of the fleur de lis,

and a daughter of the House of Brittany would most certainly not have been arranged without a contract ratified both by the King and the peers of the time. Duke Jean of Brittany, though he had been a child at the time of the marriage, remembered it perfectly and was telling his neighbours so. This time Mahaut had gone too far. It was one thing to plead, as she had done in two lawsuits, the ancient custom of Artois, which was in her favour owing to the premature death of her brother, but it was quite another to deny that there had been a marriage contract. She merely succeeded in confirming everyone’s suspicions; and, in particular, that she had done away with the documents herself.

Philippe VI turned to the Bishop of Amiens.

‘Monseigneur, please bring the Holy Gospels and hand them to the plaintiff.’

He paused for a moment, then added: ‘And also to the defendant.’

And when it was done, he said: ‘My cousins, do you agree to maintain your statements by swearing on the Holy Gospels in the presence of ourself, your suzerain, and in the presence of the Kings, our cousins, and all your peers here assembled?’

Philippe looked really majestic as he said this, and his young son, Prince Jean, who was ten years old, gazed at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed, lost in admiration of his father. But the Queen of France, Jeanne the Lame, had a wicked, indeed a cruel line each side of her mouth, and her hands were trembling; while Mahaut’s daughter, the Dowager Queen Jeanne, the widow of Philippe the Long, a thin, dried-up woman, had gone as pale as her white dowager’s robe. And no less pale were Mahaut’s granddaughter, the young Duchess of Burgundy, and her fifty-year-old husband, Duke Eudes. They looked as if they would have liked to rush forward and stop Mahaut taking the oath. There was a great silence and everyone was watching.

‘I agree!’ said Mahaut and Robert together.

‘Take off your gloves,’ said the Bishop of Amiens.

Mahaut’s gloves were green, and the heat had made their dye run too. And when the two huge hands were stretched out towards the Holy Book, one was as red as blood and the other green as gall.

‘I swear,’ said Robert, ‘that the County of Artois is mine and that I shall produce documents in evidence to establish my right to it.’

‘My fine nephew,’ cried Mahaut, ‘do you dare swear that you have ever seen or possessed such documents?’

Face to face, grey eyes staring into grey eyes, their big square chins almost touching, they defied each other.

‘Bitch,’ thought Robert, ‘so it really was you who stole them!’ And since in such circumstances decision is vital, he said in a clear voice: ‘I swear it. But do you, my fine aunt, dare swear that these documents have never existed, and that you have never had knowledge or possession of them?’

‘I swear it,’ she replied with an assurance equal to his own, and she gazed at him, returning hate for hate. Neither of them had gained any advantage over the other. The balance was in equilibrium, the false oaths they had compelled each other to take weighing equally in the opposite scales.

‘Commissioners will be appointed tomorrow to make inquiry and enlighten my justice. Whoever has lied will be punished by God, whoever has sworn the truth shall be established in his right,’ said Philippe, signing to the Bishop to take the Gospels away.

God does not need to intervene directly to punish perjury, and the heavens may remain dumb. The wicked bear within themselves the seeds of their own misfortunes.

PART TWO (#ulink_4a34ac1e-53ef-521d-83a0-600476aa23ac)

THE DEVIL’S GAME (#ulink_4a34ac1e-53ef-521d-83a0-600476aa23ac)

1. (#ulink_564af156-7864-5fb5-9fad-0a898eab5214)

The Witnesses (#ulink_564af156-7864-5fb5-9fad-0a898eab5214)

A GREEN PEAR, STILL NO larger than a man’s thumb, was hanging from the espalier.

There were three people sitting on a stone bench: old Count de Bouville, whom the others were questioning, was in the middle, on his right was the Chevalier de Villebresme, the King’s commissioner, and on his left the notary Pierre Tesson, who was recording his deposition.

Notary Tesson was wearing a clerk’s cap on his huge domed head, and his straight hair hung down from beneath it; he had a pointed nose, a curiously long and narrow chin, and his whole profile looked rather like the moon in its first quarter.

‘Monseigneur,’ he said with great respect, ‘may I read your evidence over to you?’

‘Do so, Messire, do so,’ replied Bouville.

And his hand moved fumblingly to the little, hard green pear. ‘The gardener ought to have that branch fastened back,’ he thought.

The notary leaned over the writing-board on his knee and began reading. ‘“On the seventeenth day of the month of June in the year 1329, We, Pierre de Villebresme, Chevalier …”’

King Philippe VI had allowed no delay. Two days after the oaths had been taken in Amiens Cathedral, he had appointed a commission of inquiry; and less than a week after the Court’s return to Paris, the investigation had begun.

‘“… and We, Pierre Tesson, Notary to the King, have come to take the evidence of …”’

‘Master Tesson,’ said Bouville, ‘are you the same Tesson who was formerly attached to the household of Monseigneur of Artois?’

‘The same, Messire …’

‘And you are now Notary to the King? Splendid, splendid, I congratulate you …’

Bouville sat up a little straighter and clasped his hands across his round paunch. He was wearing a worn velvet robe, old-fashioned and rather too long, which dated from the days of Philip the Fair. He now used it in his garden.

He was twiddling his thumbs, three times one way, three times the other. It was going to be a warm, fine day, but there was still a trace of the cool of the night about the morning.

‘“… have come to take the evidence of the high and mighty Lord, Count Hugues de Bouville, and have heard it in the garden of his town house, situated not far from the Pré-aux-Clercs …”’

‘The neighbourhood has changed a great deal since my father built this house,’ said Bouville. ‘At that time, there were barely three houses between the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des Prés and Saint-André-des-Arts: the Hôtel de Nesle, on the river-bank, the Hôtel de Navarre, which stood back a little, and the house of the Counts of Artois, which they used as a country residence, since there were only fields and water-meadows round it. Look how it’s all been built up! All the new rich have come to set themselves up in the district; and now the roads have become streets. In the old days I could see nothing but trees beyond my wall; today, with such sight as is still left in me, I see nothing but roofs. And the noise! Really, the noise in this district these days! You might think you were in the heart of the Cité. Had I even a few more years to live, I’d sell this house and build another elsewhere. But in the circumstances there’s no question of that …’

And his hand reached out to the little green pear again. The time that must elapse till it grew ripe was all he could hope for now. He had been losing his sight for many months past. Trees, people, the world were visible to him only through a sort of wall of water. He had been active and important, had travelled, had sat on the Royal Council, and had taken part in great events; and now he was drawing to his end in his garden, his mind slow and his sight confused. He was lonely and almost forgotten, except when younger men needed to refer to his memories.

Master Pierre Tesson and the Chevalier de Villebresme exchanged a glance. They were bored. The old Count de Bouville was not an easy witness, for his mind wandered constantly off the point. Yet he was far too old and far too distinguished for one to be sharp with him. Tesson went on:

‘“… and he declared to us in person that which is recorded below, in particular: that when he was Chamberlain to our Sire Philip IV, before the latter became King, he had knowledge of the marriage contract between the late Monseigneur Philippe of Artois and Madame Blanche of Brittany, and that he had the said contract in his hands, and that the said contract declared in precise terms that the County of Artois would devolve by right of inheritance to the said Monseigneur Philippe of Artois and, after him, to his heirs male, the issue of the said marriage …”’

Bouville waved a hand.

‘I did not assert that. I had the contract in my hands, as I have told you, and as I told Monseigneur Robert of Artois himself, when he came to visit me the other day, but in all conscience I have no memory of having read it.’

‘But why, Monseigneur, would you have had the contract in your hands if it was not to read it?’ asked the Chevalier de Villebresme.

‘To take it to my master’s chancellor for sealing; and I very well remember that the contract was sealed by all the peers, of which my master Philip the Fair was one, in his capacity as heir to the throne.’

‘This must be recorded, Tesson,’ said Villebresme: ‘all the peers applied their seals. Though you did not actually read the document, Monseigneur, you were nevertheless aware that the inheritance of Artois was assured to Count Philippe and his heirs male?’

‘I have heard it said,’ replied Bouville, ‘but I cannot go further than that.’

The way young Villebresme was trying to make him say more than he knew rather irritated him. Why, the fellow hadn’t even been born, nor, if it came to that, had his father even thought of begetting him, when the facts he was inquiring into had occurred. These junior Crown officials were all over-zealous in their new duties. But one of these days they too would be old and lonely, and sitting by an espalier in their garden. Yes, Bouville remembered the terms of Philippe of Artois’ marriage contract. But when had he first heard them spoken about? Was it at the time of the marriage itself, in ’82, or when Count Philippe died, in ’98, from wounds received in the Battle of Furnes? Or, again, was it after old Count Robert II had been killed at the Battle of Courtrai, in 1302, having survived his son by four years, which fact had given rise to the lawsuit between his daughter Mahaut and his grandson the present Robert III?

Bouville was being asked to give a precise date to a memory which might well relate to almost any time in a period of over twenty years. And it was not only Tesson and this Chevalier de Villebresme who had come to pick his brains, but Monseigneur Robert of Artois himself, courteously and respectfully, it must be admitted, but nevertheless talking loud and walking restlessly up and down the garden, crushing the flowers beneath his boots!

‘Very well, we will make the necessary correction,’ said the notary, turning to his manuscript: ‘“… and that he had the said contract in his hands, but only for a short while, and remembers also that it was sealed with the seals of all the peers; and the Count de Bouville has also declared to us that he heard tell at that time that the said contract stated in precise terms that the County of Artois …”’

Bouville nodded agreement. He would have preferred that ‘at that time’ be suppressed; the phrase ‘heard tell at that time …’ had been introduced by the notary into his evidence. But he was tired of struggling. And did one little phrase matter all that much?

‘“… would devolve to his heirs male of the said marriage; and he has also certified that the contract was placed in the archives of the Court, and also believes it certain that it was later subtracted from the said archives by wicked contrivance on the orders of Madame Mahaut of Artois …”’

‘I didn’t say that either,’ Bouville remarked.

‘You didn’t say it in that form, Monseigneur,’ replied Villebresme, ‘but it emerges from your deposition. Let us go back to what you do certify. In the first place, the marriage contract existed. Secondly, you saw it. Thirdly, it was placed in the archives …’

‘Sealed with the seals of the twelve peers …’

Villebresme exchanged a weary glance with the notary.

‘Sealed with the seals of the peers,’ he repeated to conciliate the witness. ‘You also certify that the contract excluded the Countess Mahaut from the inheritance, and that it disappeared from the archives, so that it cannot be produced at the lawsuit Monseigneur Robert of Artois is bringing against his aunt. Who do you think subtracted it? Do you think King Philip the Fair gave the order?’

It was a cunning question; for it had often been whispered that Philip the Fair had given a partial judgement in favour of the mother-in-law of his two youngest sons. People would be pretending next that it was Bouville himself who had been ordered to see that the documents disappeared!

‘Messire, do not associate the memory of my master King Philip the Fair with so villainous a deed,’ he replied with dignity.

The bells of Saint-Germain-des-Prés rang out above the roofs and the trees. It occurred to Bouville that it was the hour at which he was brought a bowl of curds; his doctor had advised him to take them three times a day.

‘In that case,’ went on Villebresme, ‘it is clear that the contract was subtracted without the King’s knowledge. And who could have any interest in doing that except the Countess Mahaut?’

The young commissioner tapped the stone bench with the tips of his fingers; he was rather pleased with his argument.

‘Oh, of course,’ said Bouville, ‘Mahaut is capable of anything.’

Bouville required no convincing on that point. He knew Mahaut to be guilty of two crimes which were far more serious than the mere stealing of documents. She had undoubtedly killed King Louis X; and, under his very eyes, she had killed a five-day-old child whom she believed to be the little posthumous King – and she had done these things in order to retain her County of Artois. It seemed almost silly to be so scrupulous about one’s evidence if it were going to benefit her. She had most certainly stolen her brother’s marriage contract, which she now had the face to deny on oath had ever existed. What a horrible woman she was! Because of her, the true heir of the Kings of France was growing up in a little Italian town far from his own realm, in the house of a Lombard merchant, who believed him to be his son. But one must not think of that. Bouville had once confessed the secret, which he alone knew, to the Pope. But he must never think of it now, for it might lead him into indiscretion. Oh, if only these officials would go away!

‘You’re quite right, let what you have written stand,’ he said in a rather quavering voice. ‘Do I have to sign?’

The notary handed Bouville the pen. But Bouville could scarcely see the edge of the paper. His signature overran the document. They heard him murmur: ‘God will certainly see to it that she expiates her sins before he hands her over to the Devil’s care.’

The notary sanded his signature and put the paper and writing-board into his black leather bag; then the two officials rose to take their leave. Bouville saluted them with his hand, without rising. By the time they were ten paces off they had become no more than vague shadows dissolving behind a wall of water.

The old Chamberlain rang a little handbell beside him to ask for his curds. His thoughts were disturbing. How could his venerated master, King Philip the Fair, have given judgement about Artois and yet forgotten the marriage contract he had once sealed? How could he have failed to be aware that the document had disappeared? Ah, well, even the best of kings did not do only good deeds …

Bouville determined to go one day soon to visit the banker Tolomei; he would ask for news of Guccio Baglioni and the child – quite casually, of course, simply as a polite inquiry during the course of conversation. Old Tolomei hardly ever moved from his bed these days. With him it was his legs that had failed him. Life was like that: in one man the ears grew hard of hearing, in another the eyes grew dim, and in a third the limbs lost the power of movement. One thought of the past in terms of years, but one no longer dared think of the future except in terms of months or weeks.

‘Shall I still be alive by the time this fruit is ripe, shall I be here to pluck it?’ Count de Bouville wondered as he gazed at the pear on the espalier.

Messire Pierre de Machaut, Lord of Montargis, was a man who never forgave an injury, even to the dead. The death of his enemies was not enough to allay his resentments.

His father, who had held a high post at the time of the Iron King, had been relieved of it by Enguerrand de Marigny, and the family fortunes had thereby gravely suffered. The fall of the all-powerful Enguerrand had been a personal revenge for Pierre de Machaut; the greatest day in his life was still that on which, as an equerry to King Louis the Hutin, he had led Monseigneur de Marigny to the gallows. Led, of course, was not to be taken too literally: accompanied had been nearer the mark; and not in the first rank either, but lost amid a great number of dignitaries who were all more important than he was. Nevertheless, as the years passed, these lords had died off one after the other, and whenever Messire Pierre de Machaut told of that memorable progress, he moved himself one place forward in the procession.