Читать книгу The King Without a Kingdom - Морис Дрюон - Страница 17

HAVE YOU NOTICED, my nephew, that wherever we stop for the night, be it at Limoges, Nontron or elsewhere, everyone asks us for news of the King of Navarre, as if our kingdom’s fate depended on this prince? In truth, the situation in which we find ourselves is a strange one indeed. The King of Navarre is being held prisoner in an Artois castle by his cousin the King of France. The King of France is in turn being held prisoner in a Bordeaux house by his cousin, the heir to the throne of England. The dauphin, heir to the French throne, struggles with his restless bourgeoisie and his remonstrating Estates-General in Paris. And yet it is the King of Navarre that everyone seems to be worrying about. You heard the bishop himself say: ‘They said that the dauphin was a great friend of Monseigneur of Navarre. Isn’t he going to release him?’ Good Lord! I sincerely hope not. This young man has been well advised to do nothing of the sort thus far. And I am concerned about that attempted escape that the knights of the Navarre clan put together to deliver their leader. It failed; of that we should be thankful. But there is good reason to believe that they will soon try again.

Yes, yes, I learned a good many things during our stay in Limoges. And I am preparing to write to the pope about them as soon as we arrive in La Péruse this evening. If it was pure stupidity on the part of King John to lock up his Monseigneur of Navarre, it would be more pure stupidity on the part of the dauphin to release him today. I know of no greater meddler than the Charles they call the Bad; and they certainly couldn’t have done better if they’d tried, King John and he, through their feud, to throw France into its current misfortune. Do you know where his name comes from? From the very first months of his reign. He lost no time at all in earning it.

His mother, Louis Hutin’s daughter, died, as I was telling you the other day, during the autumn of ’49. In the summer of 1350 Charles went to be crowned in his capital city of Pamplona, where he had never once set foot in all the eighteen years since his birth in Évreux. Wanting to make himself known, he travelled the length and breadth of his State, which required no great travelling, then he went to visit his neighbours and relations, his brother-in-law, the Count of Foix and of Béarn, the one who calls himself Phoebus, and his other brother-in-law, the King of Aragon, Peter the Ceremonious, and also the King of Castile.

Now, one day, back in Pamplona, he was crossing a bridge on horseback when he met a delegation of Navarrese noblemen who had come to the city to bring him their grievances, as he had allowed their rights and privileges to be flouted. When Charles refused to hear them, things began to get a little heated; the new king then ordered his soldiers to seize those who were shouting closest to him, and, saying that one must be prompt in dealing out punishment if one wishes to command respect, further ordered that they be hanged immediately on the trees nearby.

I have noticed that when a prince resorts to capital punishment too quickly he is often giving in to fits of panic. In this Charles was no exception, as I believe his words are braver than his deeds. These brutal hangings would plunge Navarre into mourning, and soon by common consent he had earned the right to be called el Malo by his subjects, the Bad. He didn’t delay in moving away from his kingdom, whose government he left to his youngest brother Louis, only fifteen at the time, preferring to return to the bustle of the French court accompanied by his other brother Philip.

So, you may say, how can the Navarrese contingent have become so powerful and thick on the ground when in Navarre itself the king is widely hated, and even opposed by many of the nobility? Heh! My nephew, it is because this contingent is mostly made up of Norman knights from the county of Évreux. And what really makes Charles of Navarre dangerous for the French crown, more than his possessions in the south of the kingdom, are the lands he holds, or that he held, near Paris, such as the seigniories of Mantes, Pacy, Meulan, or Nonancourt, which command access to the capital from the westerly quarter of the country.

That danger King John understood well, or was made to understand; and for once in his life he showed proof of some common sense, endeavouring to make amends and reach an understanding with his Navarrese cousin. By which bond could he best tie his cousin’s hands? By a marriage. And what marriage could one offer him that would bind him to the throne as tightly as the union that had, six months long, made his sister Blanche Queen of France? Why, marriage with the eldest of the daughters of the king himself, little Joan of Valois. She was only eight years old, but it was a match worth the wait before it could be consummated. For that matter, Charles of Navarre had no shortage of lady friends to help him bide his time. Amongst others a certain demoiselle11 Gracieuse … yes, that is her name, or the one she answers to … The bride, little Joan of Valois, was herself already a widow, as she had been married once before, at the age of three, to a relative of her mother’s that God wasn’t long in taking back.

In Avignon, we looked favourably upon this betrothal, which seemed to us a strong enough bond to secure peace. This was because the contract resolved all the outstanding business between the two branches of the French royal family. First of all, the matter of the Count of Angoulême, betrothed for such a long time already to Charles’s mother, in exchange for his relinquishing the counties of Brie and Champagne, and exchanging them in turn for Pontoise and Beaumont, but it was an arrangement that was never executed. In the new agreement, the initial agreement was reverted to; Navarre would get Angoumois as well as several major strongholds and castellanies12 that would make up the dowry. King John made a forthright show of his own power in showering his future son-in-law with gifts. ‘You shall have this, it is my will; I shall give you that, it is my word …’

Navarre joked in intimate circles about his new relationship with King John. ‘We were cousins by birth; at one time we were going to be brothers-in-law, but as his father married my sister instead, I ended up being his uncle; and now I am to become his son-in-law.’ But while negotiating the contract, he proved most effective in expanding his prize. No particular contribution was asked of him, beyond an advance: one hundred thousand écus13 that were owed by King John to Parisian merchants, and were by the good grace of Charles to be paid back. However, he did not have the necessary liquid assets, either; the sum was procured for him from Flemish bankers, with whom he consented to leave some of his jewellery as guarantee. It was an easier thing to do for the king’s son-in-law than for the king himself …

It was during this transaction, I realize now, that Navarre must have made contact with the Prevost Marcel … about whom I should also write to the pope, to alert his holiness to the man’s scheming, which at present is something of a cause for concern. But that is another matter …

The sum of one hundred thousand écus was acknowledged in the marriage contract as being due to Navarre; it was to be paid to him in instalments, beginning straight away. Furthermore, he was made knight of the Order of the Star, and was even led to believe that he might become constable, though he was barely twenty years old. The marriage was celebrated in great style and jubilation.

And yet this exuberant friendship between the king and his son-in-law was soon to be soured and the two set at odds. Who caused this falling out? The other Charles, Monsieur of Spain, the handsome La Cerda, inevitably jealous of the favour surrounding Navarre, and worried to see the new star rising so high in the court’s firmament. Charles of Navarre has a failing that many young men share … and I strongly entreat you to guard against it, Archambaud … which consists in talking too much when fortune smiles on them; a demon seems to make them say wicked words that reveal far too much. La Cerda made sure he told King John of his son-in-law’s dubious character traits, spicing them up with his very own sauce. ‘He taunts you, my good sire; he thinks he can say exactly what he likes. You can no longer tolerate such offences to your majesty; and if you do put up with them, it is I who will not bear them, for your sake.’ He would drip poison into the king’s ear day after day. Navarre had said this, Navarre had done that; Navarre was drawing too close to the dauphin; Navarre was scheming with such and such an officer of the Great Council. No man is quicker than King John to fall for a bad idea about somebody else; nor more begrudging to abandon it. He is both gullible and stubborn, all at the same time. Nothing is easier than inventing enemies for him.

Soon he had the role of Lieutenant General of Languedoc, one of his gifts to Charles of Navarre, withdrawn. To whose benefit? To that of Charles of Spain. Then the high office of constable, left vacant since the beheading of Raoul of Brienne, was at long last to be filled: it was handed not to Charles of Navarre, but to Charles of Spain. Of the one hundred thousand écus that he should have been paid back, Navarre saw not a single one, while the king’s avowed friend was showered with presents and benefits. Lastly, lastly, the County of Angoulême, in spite of all the arrangements, was given to Monsieur of Spain, Navarre once more having to make do with a vague promise of a future trade-off.

Thus, where at first there was but coolness between Charles the Bad and Charles of Spain, there grew up abhorrence, and, soon after, open hatred. It was all too easy for Monsieur of Spain to point to Navarre’s behaviour and say to the king: ‘You see how true were my words, my good sire! Your son-in-law, whose evil plans I have unravelled, is taking a stand against your wishes. He takes it out on me, as he can see that I serve you only too well.’

Other times, when he was at the height of favour, he feigned a desire to go into exile from the court should the Navarrese brothers continue to speak ill of him. He spoke like a mistress: ‘I will leave for a deserted region, far from your kingdom, to live on the memory of the love that you have shown me. Or to die there! Because far from you, my soul will leave my body.’ They saw the king shed tears for his constable’s most strange devotion.

And as King John’s head was in a whirl with the Spaniard, and as he could only see the world through his eyes, he was most persistent in making an implacable enemy of the cousin that he had chosen as son-in-law in order to secure himself an ally.

I have already said this: a greater fool than this king is not to be found, nor one more injurious to himself … this would be of little harm if at the same time it had not been so damaging for his kingdom.

The court buzzed with nothing other than this quarrel. The queen, a deserted wife, huddled up to Madame of Spain … for the constable was married, a marriage of appearances, to the king’s cousin, Madame of Blois.

The conseillers du roi, who were the king’s advisors, all acted as if they adored their lord and master, although they were very much divided by the feud, some thinking it best to tie their fate to the constable’s star, others to gamble on the ability of the son-in-law to strike back. And the muffled struggles that divided them were all the more intense in that the king, despite wanting to appear to be the only one to make decisions, had always left the most important decisions to his entourage.

You see, my dear nephew, scheming takes place around all kings. But conspiracies and plots only happen around the weak kings, or around those whom a vice or the effects of illness have weakened. I would have liked to see them conspiring around Philip the Fair! Nobody dreamed of doing such a thing, nobody would have dared. This does not mean that strong kings are safe from conspiracies; but in that case, there have to be real traitors. Whereas around weak princes, it becomes natural even for honest people to become conspirators themselves.

The day before Christmas, 1354, in a Parisian town house, such strong words and insults were being bandied about between Charles of Spain and Philip of Navarre, brother of the king’s son-in-law, that the latter drew his dagger and came this close, if he hadn’t been surrounded, to stabbing the constable! The constable feigned laughter, and shouted at the young Navarre that he would have shown himself rather less threatening if there hadn’t been so many others around to hold him back. Philip is nowhere near as astute as his elder brother, but he is more impassioned in combat. No sooner had he been pulled from the room than he proffered the threat that he would exact prompt vengeance on this enemy of his family, and would make him take back his insult. And this threat he would carry out just two weeks later during the night of the feast of the Magi.

Monsieur of Spain was to visit his cousin, the Countess of Alençon. He stopped for the night at Laigle, at an inn whose name is difficult to forget, the Spinning Sow.14 Overly confident of the respect that was inspired, or so he thought, by his title and the king’s friendship, he thought he had nothing to fear when travelling around the kingdom, and had taken with him but a small escort. Now the market town of Laigle is located in the County of Évreux, just a few leagues away from where the Évreux-Navarre brothers were staying in their vast castle. Forewarned of the constable’s impending visit, the brothers readied themselves and prepared an ambush.

Around midnight, twenty Norman soldiers, all tough noblemen, the Sire of Graville, the Sire of Clères, the Sire of Mainemares, the Sire of Morbecque, the Knight of Aunay … yes! the descendant of one of the suitors of the Tower of Nesle; it wasn’t at all surprising that he would be found on the side of Navarre … In short, I’m telling you, a good twenty armed knights, whose names are well known since the king had later to sign, against his better judgement, their letters of remission … sprang up in the town from nowhere, led by Philip of Navarre, broke down the doors of the Spinning Sow and stormed the stairs up to the constable’s accommodations.

The King of Navarre was not with them. In case things went awry he had chosen to wait on the outskirts of the town, beside a barn, in the company of his horse guards. Oh! I can see him now, my Charles the Bad, wound up in his coat, bounding backwards and forwards like a wisp of hell’s smoke the length and breadth of the frozen ground, like the devil who never touches the earth. He waits. He looks at the winter sky. The cold nips his fingers. His soul is twisted with both fear and hatred. He listens intently. He resumes his worried pacing up and down.

First to appear from the direction of the town is John of Fricamps, known as Friquet, the Governor of Caen, his advisor and most zealous machine15 builder, who tells him, gasping for breath: ‘The deed is done, monseigneur!’

Then Graville, Mainemares, Morbecque arrive, and Philip of Navarre himself, and all the conspirators with him. At the inn, they pulled the handsome Charles of Spain out from under his bed where he had taken refuge, and now he was indeed dead, still dressed in his nightgown. They had wickedly run him through, stabbed him eighty times over; eighty body wounds would later be found on him. Each of Navarre’s men had wanted to stick his sword in four times … That is how, messire my nephew, King John was to lose his good friend, and how Monseigneur of Navarre would fall into rebellion …

Now would you please give up your seat for Dom Francesco Calvo, my papal secretary, with whom I wish to converse before we reach our next stop.