The Iron King (38 page)
The Count of Poitiers forced himself to remain calm, and Charles, the third son, found it difficult to restrain his tears.
Brother Renaud exchanged a look with Monseigneur of Valois which meant, ‘Monseigneur, take a hand, or we shall be too late!’
During these last days the Grand Inquisitor had followed the movement of power with subtlety. Philip the Fair was about to die. Louis of Navarre would succeed him, and Monseigneur of Valois was all-powerful with the heir. And so the Grand Inquisitor, by every gesture he made and every action he took, sought Valois’s advice and manifested a growing devotion.
Valois went up to the dying man and said, ‘Brother, are you sure there is nothing that should be changed in your will of 1311.’
‘Nogaret is dead,’ replied the King.
Brother Renaud and Valois exchanged another look, thinking that the King was no longer in his senses and they had waited too long. But Philip the Fair went on, ‘He was the executor of my will.’
Valois immediately made a sign to Maillard, the King’s private secretary, who came up with his pens and writing materials.
‘It would be a good thing, brother, if you would make a codicil newly appointing your executors,’ said Valois.
‘I am thirsty,’ Philip the Fair murmured.
Once again, a little Holy water was put to his lips.
Valois went on, ‘I think you would wish me to watch over the execution of your wishes.’
‘Certainly,’ said the King. ‘And you too, Brother Louis,’ he added, turning his head towards Monseigneur of Evreux, who asked nothing, said nothing, and was thinking of death.
Maillard had begun to write. The King’s eyelids were still. His eyes still had the same fixity, but instead of that brilliance which had so frightened his contemporaries, his immense blue irises seemed to be covered with a dull veil.
After Louis of Evreux’s name, other names came to the King’s lips, as his glance picked out the faces about him. He thus named a Canon of Notre-Dame, Philippe le Convers, who was there to assist Brother Renaud, and Pierre de Chamely, a friend of his eldest son’s, and then again Hugues de Bouville, the Grand Chamberlain.
Then Enguerrand de Marigny approached and managed to mask the others present with his stout body.
Marigny knew that, during the preceding days, Monseigneur of Valois had unceasingly endeavoured to injure him in the King’s enfeebled thoughts. The accusations made against him had been reported to the Coadjutor. ‘Your illness, Brother,’ Valois had said, ‘is due to all the anxieties that this bad servant has caused you. It is he who has separated you from all those who love you and, for his own profit, has placed the knigdom in the sad state it is at present. And it is he, Brother, who counselled you to burn the Grand Master of the Templars.’
Was Philip the Fair about to name Marigny among the executors of his will and thus give him an ultimate gauge of his confidence?
Maillard, his pen raised, waited. But Valois said at once, ‘I think the list is complete, Brother.’
And he made Maillard a sign which meant that he should close the list. Then Marigny said, ‘I have always served you faithfully, Sire. I pray you to recommend me to your son.’
Between these two wills seeking to sway his mind, between Valois and Marigny, between his brother and his First Minister, the King had a moment of irresolution. How everyone, at this moment, was thinking of his own self and how little anyone was thinking of him!
‘Louis,’ he said tiredly, ‘let no harm come to Marigny if it is proved that he has been faithful.’
With that Marigny realised the accusations had borne fruit.
But Marigny knew his power. He held in his hand the administration, the finances and the Army; he even had the Church upon his side – save for Brother Renaud. He was sure that the Government could not be carried on without him. Crossing his arms, gazing at Valois and Louis of Navarre where they stood at the other side of the bed upon which his sovereign lay dying, he seemed to be defying the reign that was to come.
‘Sire, have you any other wishes?’ asked Brother Renaud.
At that moment, Hugues de Bouville straightened a candle which was threatening to fall from the high candelabra of wrought iron that was already transforming the room into a lying-in-state.
‘Why is it growing so dark?’ asked the King. ‘Is it still night, has day not broken?’
Those present automatically turned towards the windows. Indeed, upon that day, the sun was in eclipse and there was darkness over the whole land of France.
‘I return to my daughter Isabella,’ the King suddenly said, ‘the ring she gave me which carries the great ruby known as the Cherry.’
He fell silent for a moment, then asked, ‘Has Pierre de Latille arrived?’
As no one replied, he added, ‘I leave him my fine emerald.’
And then he went on bequeathing golden sovereigns, ‘To the value of a thousand pounds,’ he added each time, to a variety of churches, to Notre-Dame of Boulogne because his daughter had been married in it, to Saint-Martin-de-Tour, and to Saint-Denis. This man who, all his life, had looked so carefully to his expenditure, still measured out the exact size of his gifts, as if he expected some indulgence from them.
Brother Renaud leant down towards him and whispered in his ear, ‘Sire, do not forget our Priory of Poissy.’
Upon Philip the Fair’s sunken face was visible an expression of annoyance.
‘Brother Renaud,’ he said, ‘I bequeath to your Monastery the fine Bible which I have annotated in my own hand. It will be useful to you, to you and to all the confessors of the Kings of France.’
The Grand Inquisitor who, from having burnt so many heretics and having so often been an accomplice of power, expected more than this, lowered his eyes to hide his vexation.
‘And to your sisters of the Dominican Order of Poissy,’ the King added, ‘I bequeath the great Cross of the Templars. It will be safe in your keeping.’
30
All those present felt a great chill. Valois made an imperious sign to Maillard to finish and ordered him to read the codicil aloud. When the secretary came to the words ‘In the King’s name’, Valois, drawing his nephew Louis towards him and holding him by the arm, said, ‘Add, “And by the consent of the King of Navarre”.’
Then Philip the Fair looked at this son who was to succeed him, and knew that his own reign had come to an end at that moment.
His hand had to be guided as he signed at the bottom of the parchment. Then he murmured, ‘Is that all?’
But it was not, and the last day of the King of France was not yet over.
‘And now, Sire, you must transmit the royal miracle,’ said Brother Renaud.
And he ordered the room to be cleared so that the King might transmit to his son, according to the prescribed rites, the mysterious power of curing the King’s evil.
With his head fallen back, Philip the Fair groaned, ‘Brother Renaud, see what the world is worth. Here lies the King of France!’
Even at the moment of dying, a last effort was demanded of him so that he might teach his successor how to relieve a comparatively mild disease.
It was not Philip the Fair who gave instructions as to the sacramental gestures and words: he had forgotten them. It was Brother Renaud. And Louis of Navarre, kneeling beside his father, his burning hands joined to the King’s icy ones, received the secret inheritance.
When this ceremony was over, the Court was once more admitted into the King’s room, and Brother Renaud began to recite the prayers, which were taken up in low voices by all those present. They were in the middle of reciting the prayer, ‘
In manus tuas, Domine
’, ‘Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit’ when a door opened: Pierre de Latille came in. Everyone looked at the new arrival and, for a moment, while all lips were mechanically reciting, no one paid any attention except to the newcomer.
‘
In manus tuas, Domine
,’ said the Bishop, taking up the refrain with the others.
Then everyone turned back to the bed. Prayer died upon everyone’s lips: the Iron King was dead.
Brother Renaud moved forward to close the King’s eyes. But the eyelids, which had never blinked, opened of their own accord. Twice the Grand Inquisitor tried in vain to close them. They had to use a bandage to conceal the stare of this monarch who was entering eternity with open eyes.
THE END OF
THE IRON KING
fn1
The numerals in the text refer the reader, if he so desires, to a few notes containing additional information placed at the end of the book.
I
AM
most grateful to Georges Kessel, José-André Lacour, Gilbert Sigaux and Pierre de Lacretelle for the assistance they have given me with the material of this book; to Colette Mantout, Christiane Souillard and Christiane Templier for their help in compiling it; and to the
Bibliothèque Nationale
for indispensable aid in research.
1
. In 1314, King Saint Louis had been dead 44 years. He had been canonised twenty-seven years after his decease, in 1297, during the reign of his grandson, Philip the Fair, under the Pontificate of Boniface VIII.
2
. The succession of Artois is one of the greatest dramas of inheritance in the whole of history.
In 1237, Saint Louis had given the county of Artois in appanage to his brother Robert. This Robert I of Artois had a son, Robert II, who married Amicie de Courtenay, Dame of Conches. There were two children, Philippe, who died in 1298 as a result of wounds received in the battle of Furnes, and Mahaut, who married Othon, Count Palatine of Burgundy.
Upon the death of Robert II, killed at the battle of Courtray in 1302, ‘pierced by thirty lances’, the inheritance of the county was claimed both by his grandson Robert III (son of Philippe), and by his daughter Mahaut.
Philip the Fair decided in favour of Mahaut in 1309. The latter, having become Regent of the County of Burgundy through the death of her husband, had in the meantime married her two daughters, Jeanne and Blanche, to the second and third sons of Philip the Fair, Philippe and Charles. The decision in her favour was largely influenced by these alliances which brought to the crown notably the County of Burgundy, called the Franche-Comté, which was given to Jeanne as a marriage portion.
Robert refused to submit to this decision and, for twenty years, using every possible means at his disposal, battled determinedly against his aunt.
3
. Edward II was the first King of England to bear the title of Prince of Wales before succeeding to the throne. According to some authors, he was three days old when the Welsh barons came to ask his father, Edward 1, to give them a prince who might understand them and could speak neither English nor French. Edward I replied that he would accede to their wishes and presented them with his son who as yet could speak no language at all.
4
. The Sovereign Order of the Knights Templar of Jerusalem was founded in 1128 to guard the Holy Places in Palestine and to protect the pilgrim routes. Their rule, which they had received from Saint Bernard, was strict. Chastity, poverty, and obedience were imposed upon them. They must not ‘look women too much in the face,’ nor, ‘love any female whatever, neither widow, nor virgin, nor mother, nor sister, nor aunt, nor any other woman.’ When engaged in warfare, they must fight at odds of one against three and were not allowed to ransom themselves. They were permitted to hunt only lions.
As the only well-organised military force, these soldier-monks formed disciplined cadres among the rabble hordes which were then the crusading armies. The advance-guard of every attack, the rearguard of every retreat, subject to the incompetence or rivalry of the princes who commanded the adventuring armies, they lost during two centuries more than twenty thousand of their effectives on the field of battle, a considerable number in proportion to the size of the Order. None the less, towards the end, they committed some strategical errors which were fatal to them.
But, during all this time, they had also shown themselves to be good administrators. Both because they were necessary, and out of gratitude for all the services they rendered, the gold of Europe flowed into their coffers. Whole provinces were placed under their protection. For a hundred years they guaranteed the effective government of the Latin Kingdom of Constantinople. They travelled the world as masters, having to pay neither tax, tribute, nor toll. They obeyed no one but the Pope. They had commanderies in the whole of Europe and the whole of the Middle East, but the centre of their administration was in Paris. They had set themselves up as great bankers. The Holy See and the principal sovereigns of Europe kept current accounts with them. They lent money on security and advanced the ransoms of prisoners. The Emperor Baldwin pawned ‘the True Cross’ to them.
Everything appertaining to the Templars, their military expeditions, their conquests, their treasure, even the manner in which they were suppressed, has a fabulous quality. Even the roll of parchment which contains the report of the interrogations of 1307 measures twenty-five yards in length. Controversy concerning this prodigious law-case has never ceased. Certain historians have taken the part of the accused, others that of Philip the Fair. There is no doubt that the accusations brought against the Templars were generally exaggerated or false; but it is an undoubted fact, nevertheless, that there were profound deviations of dogma to be found within their ranks. Their long stay in the Orient had placed them in contact with certain surviving rites of primitive Christianity, even with some of the esoteric traditions of ancient Egypt. It was concerning their ceremonies of initiation that, by a process of confusion common to the medieval Inquisition, the accusation of adoring idols, demoniac practices and sorcery arose. This explains why King Philip the Fair, who, like every sovereign of the Middle Ages, showed great respect for the Inquisition and was much attached to the letter of Catholic dogma (whatever may have been, in other circumstances, his conflict with the Papacy), pursued the destruction of the Order with such determination, exactly as if it were the destruction of a heresy. This also explains why the Pope, in spite of all the interest he might have in maintaining the power of the Templars, ended by consenting to their suppression. Besides all this, King Philip was, by suppressing them, conducting a gigantic financial operation.
The suppression of the Templars would not interest us so much if it had not been followed by effects which have lasted into the history of the modern world. It is known that the Order of the Knights Templar, immediately after its official destruction, reconstituted itself in the guise of an international secret society, and the names of the secret Grand Masters are recorded right down to the eighteenth century. The Templars are the origin of the guilds, institutions which still exist today. They had need, in their distant commanderies, of Christian workmen. They organised them in accordance with their own peculiar philosophy and gave them a rule called ‘duty’. These workmen, who did not bear arms, were clothed in white. They went through the Crusades and built in the Middle East the most splendid castles. They acquired there certain methods of construction inherited from antiquity and these served them in building the gothic churches of the West. In Paris, the members of these guilds lived either within the precincts of the Temple or in the neighbouring quarter where they enjoyed certain rights. This district remained for five hundred years the centre for initiated workmen. Finally, the Order, by a natural development of these guilds, is related to the origins of Freemasonry. Here can be found the tests which derive from the ceremonies of initiation, and even the precise emblems which, being not only those of the ancient guilds, are, more astonishingly still, yet to be seen upon the walls of certain tombs of ancient Egyptian architects; these walls are veritable manuals of professional initiation. All the evidence therefore leads one to suppose that these rites, emblems, and professional methods of work, can only have been brought back at this period of the Middle Ages by the Templars and their guilds of workmen.