Читать книгу The Lily and the Lion - Морис Дрюон - Страница 13

THERE WERE NO BRAINS in the head now, no heart in the breast, nor entrails in the stomach. He was a hollow king. But, indeed, there was little difference between Charles IV alive and now that the embalmers had done their work. He had been a backward child, whom his mother had called ‘the Goose’, a cuckolded husband, and an unsuccessful father, for he had vainly, if stubbornly, endeavoured to assure the succession by marrying three times; he had also been a weak prince, first subject to an uncle and then to cousins, indeed but a fleeting incarnation of the royal entity.

On the state bed, at the far end of the great pillared hall of the Castle of Vincennes, lay his corpse, clothed in an azure tunic, a royal mantle about its shoulders and the crown on its head.

By the light of the massed candles, the peers and barons gathered at the other end of the hall could see the gleam of the corpse’s boots of cloth of gold.

Charles IV was presiding over his last Council, which was known as ‘the Council in the King’s Chamber’, for he was deemed to be ruling still. His reign would end officially only on the following day, when his body was lowered into the tomb at Saint-Denis.

Robert of Artois had taken the English bishop under his wing, while they waited for the latecomers.

‘How long did it take you to get here? Twelve days from York? You can’t have wasted much time saying masses on the way, Messire Bishop. You’ve made as much speed as a courier! Did your young King’s wedding go off well?’

‘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.⁴

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.’