The King Without a Kingdom (18 page)

After which, as soon as there is tuppence in the privy purse, Braque takes the opportunity to whisper into the king’s ear: ‘Sire, for the sake of your honour and renown, I didn’t want to leave this glaring debt outstanding, all the more so as the creditor was becoming furious and threatening to cause a scandal. For your sake, I extinguished the debt out of my own pocket.’ And first in order of priority for services rendered, he is repaid in full. In addition, as Treasurer it is he who signs off all palace spending, his palms are greased with countless beautiful gifts for each order made. He gains at both ends, this honest man.

On the day of the banquet, he was concerned less with the business of securing the payment of aid hitherto refused by the states of Normandy than his negotiations with the Mayor of Rouen, Master Mustel, for the purchase of Rouennais tradesmen’s debts. Memoranda dating back to the king’s previous visit, and even prior to that, had remained unpaid; as for the dauphin, even before receiving the title of duke he had been the king’s lieutenant in Normandy and he ordered and ordered, without ever settling any of his accounts. And Messire Braque went about his usual trade, assuring the mayor that it was out of friendship for him and the high esteem in which he held the good people of Rouen that he was to make off with one-third of their profits. Even more still, as he would pay them in
Francs à la chaise
, put differently, a thinned-down currency, and thinned down by whom? By he himself who decided on all devaluations … We should acknowledge that when the states complain about the great officials of the crown, they have good grounds for doing so. When I think that some time ago Messire Enguerrand of Marigny was hanged because he had been accused, ten years after the fact, of having whittled down the coinage! But he was a saint compared to the Ministers of Finance of today!

Who else was there in Rouen who deserves to be mentioned, beyond the usual servants, and Mitton le Fol, the dauphin’s dwarf, who was prancing about between the tables; he too wearing a pearly hood … pearls for a dwarf, I ask you, is that a good way to spend the écus that one doesn’t have? The dauphin dresses him in a striped drapery, woven specially for him in Ghent … I disapprove of the usage made of dwarfs. They are forced to act the clown, pushed and kicked around, they become a laughing stock. They are God’s creatures after all, even if God didn’t make such a good job of them. Another good reason to show them a little charity. But their families, so it appears, take their birth as a blessing. ‘Ah! He is small. May he never grow up. We will be able to sell him to a duke or perhaps to the king …’

No, I believe I have mentioned all the guests of importance, with Friquet of Fricamps, Graville, Mainemares, yes, I mentioned them … and then, of course, the most important of them all, the King of Navarre.

On him the dauphin lavished all his attention. Moreover, on the side of the fat Harcourt little attention was required: that one had eyes only for the platters of food set before him, and any talk was vain while he was engaged in putting away his mountains of food.

However, the two Charleses, Normandy and Navarre, the two brothers-in-law, talked a great deal. Or rather Navarre talked. They had scarcely seen each other again since their failed expedition to Germany; and it was typical of the Navarrese to seek to win over his young relative once more, through flattery, declarations of hearty friendship, joyful memories and amusing tales.

Whilst his equerry, Colin Doublel, placed the dishes before him, Navarre, laughing, charming, full of spirit and offhandedness … ‘This is the feast of our reunion; thank you so much, Charles, for allowing me to show you how attached I am to you; I have been bored since you went away …’ reminded him of their finer moments the winter before, the amiable bourgeoises they played dice with, who will have the blonde? Who will have the brunette? ‘… the Cassinel girl is round-bellied now, and nobody doubts that it is yours …’ and from there moved on to affectionate reproach … ‘Ah! So you went and told your father all about our plans! You got the Duchy of Normandy out of it. That was well played indeed, I will give you that. But with me, you could have had the entire kingdom by now …’ to finally whisper in his ear, taking up his refrain once more: ‘Admit that you would make a better king than he!’

And to enquire, without seeming overly interested in the matter, about the next meeting between the dauphin and King John, if the date had been set, whether it would take place in Normandy … ‘I heard that he was hunting not far from Gisors.’

And yet he found a more reserved dauphin, more secretive, than in the past. Most certainly affable, but on his guard, only responding to such eagerness with smiles or nods.

Suddenly a crash of falling tableware rose above the diners’ voices. Mitton le Fol had just dropped a platter. It was the largest silver platter he could find, on which, mimicking the kitchen ushers, he was presenting a single blackbird. And he dropped it while his mouth gaped wide open and he pointed dramatically to the door.

The good Norman knights, already drunk, laughed at Mitton’s most amusing stunt but their laughter immediately stuck in their throats.

Because through the door came the Marshal of Audrehem armed to the teeth and brandishing his naked sword before him, shouting in his battle voice: ‘May not one of you move, whatever he may see, should he wish not to die by this sword.’

Ah! But my palanquin is stopped … Indeed, we are arrived; I hadn’t realized. I will tell you the rest after supper.

T
HANK YOU SO
much, Messire Abbot, I am most obliged … No, not at all, I assure you, I need nothing more … only that a few logs be put on the fire … My nephew will keep me company; I have things to discuss with him. That’s right, Messire Abbot, good night to you. Thank you for the prayers you will say for the Most Holy Father and for my humble person … yes, and for all of your devout community … The honour is all mine. Yes, I bless you; may the Good Lord watch over you …

Ooh! If I had let him, he would have kept us up until midnight, that abbot! He must have been born on the Feast of Saint-Garrulous
31
…

Let’s see now, where were we? I don’t want to keep you in suspense. Ah yes, the marshal, sword raised …

And from behind the marshal appeared a dozen archers who moved violently to pin the cupbearers and valets against the wall; and then Lalemant and Perrinet le Buffle, and hard on their heels King John II himself, fully armed, helmet on his head, and his eyes shooting fire through the raised ventail. He was closely followed by Chaillouel and Crespi, two other sergeants from his personal guard.

‘I am caught in a trap,’ said Charles of Navarre.

Through the door, the royal escort continued to pour forth, amongst them some of his worst enemies, the Artois brothers, Tancarville …

The king was headed straight for the table of honour where the Norman lords made half-hearted attempts at bowing acknowledgement to him. With an imperious two-handed gesture, he commanded them to remain seated.

He seized his son-in-law by the fur-lined collar of his surcoat, shook him, pulled him to his feet, screaming at him from deep within his helmet: ‘Evil traitor! You are not worthy to sit next to my son. By my father’s soul, I will not think of eating or drinking so long as you may live!’

Charles of Navarre’s equerry, Colin Doublel, upon seeing his master manhandled so, was seized with a mad impulse and grabbed a carving knife which he raised to strike at the king. His intention was thwarted by Perrinet le Buffle twisting his arm out of the way of danger to the king.

Meanwhile the king let go of Navarre and, losing his composure for a moment, looked with surprise upon this mere equerry who had dared raise a hand against him. ‘Take this boy and his master too,’ he ordered.

The king’s retinue carried itself forward as one man, the Artois brothers at the front, flanking Navarre like two oaks with a hazel tree squeezed between. The men-at-arms had completely taken over the room; the tapestries seemed to bristle with pikes. The kitchen ushers looked as though they would, if they could, disappear into the walls. The dauphin had stood and was saying: ‘Sire my father, sire my father …’

Charles of Navarre tried to explain himself, to defend himself. ‘Monseigneur, I fail to understand! Who has so misinformed you against me? May God help me, but never, I beg you to believe, have I thought of betrayal, neither against you nor against monseigneur your son! If there is a man in this world who wishes to accuse me of it, may he do so, before your peers, and I swear that I will purge myself of his words and I will confound him.’

Even in such a perilous situation, his voice was clear, and the words flowed easily from his lips. He really was very small, very slight, amongst all these men of war; but he maintained assurance in his prattling.

‘I am king, monseigneur, of a lesser kingdom than yours, admittedly, but I deserve to be treated as a king.

‘You are Count of Évreux, you are my vassal, and you are a traitor!’

‘I am your good cousin, I am husband to madame your daughter, and I have never forsaken you. It is true that I had Monsieur of Spain killed. But he was my adversary and had offended me. I have since repented. We made peace and you accorded letters of remission to all …’

‘To prison with you, traitor. You have played us with your pack of lies long enough. Go! May he be locked up, may both of them be locked up!’ screamed the king, indicating Navarre and his equerry. ‘And that one too,’ he added, pointing his gauntlet at Friquet of Fricamps whom he had just recognized and who was known to have set up the assassination plot at the Spinning Sow.

The three men were dragged to an adjoining chamber by sergeants and archers while the dauphin threw himself at the king’s feet. Frightened as he was by his father’s furious outburst, he remained lucid enough to foresee the consequences, at least as far as he was concerned.

‘Ah! Sire my father, may God have mercy, you have dishonoured me! What will they say of me? I had invited the King of Navarre and his barons to dinner, and this is how you treat them. They will say that I have betrayed them. I implore you in God’s name to calm down and reorder your mind.’

‘Calm down yourself, Charles! You do not know what I know. They are evil traitors, and their wicked deeds will soon be uncovered. No, you don’t know all that I do.’

And thereupon our John II, catching hold of a mace from one of the sergeants, struck the Count of Harcourt a mighty blow that would have broken the shoulder of anyone less fat than he. ‘Get up, traitor! To prison with you too. You will have to be smart to get away from me.’

And as fat Harcourt, dazed, didn’t get up fast enough, John grasped him by his white surcoat, tearing it, pulling apart all his clothing at the seams down to his shirt.

As John of Harcourt, open-shirted, was pushed along by archers towards his fate he passed before his younger brother Louis, and said something to him that nobody could understand, but which was clearly wicked, and to which Louis responded with a gesture that could have meant any number of things … I couldn’t help it; I am the king’s chamberlain … you were asking for it, tough luck on you …

‘Sire my father, insisted the Duke of Normandy, you are doing wrong thus treating these valiant men …’

But John II no longer heard him. He had exchanged glances with Nicolas Braque and Robert of Lorris, who silently designated certain guests. ‘And that one, in prison! … And that one …’ he commanded, knocking over the Sire of Graville and punching Maubué of Mainemares, two knights who had also played a part in the murder of Charles of Spain, not-withstanding they then received, two years ago now, letters of remission signed by the king’s hand. As you can see, it was a deep-seated hatred.

Mitton le Fol had climbed onto a stone bench in a windowed alcove, and was making signs to his master that conjured an awareness of the dishes laid out on a sideboard, then to the king, then fluttering his fingers before his mouth … eat …

‘My father,’ said the dauphin, ‘would you like something to eat?’ The idea was most propitious; it avoided sending the whole of Normandy to the dungeons.

‘By Jove yes! It is true that I am hungry. Do you know, Charles, I started out from beyond the Forest of Lyons; I have been riding since dawn to castigate these wrongdoers. Bring me some food.’

And with a wave of his hand he called for his helmet to be unlaced. From beneath it, he appeared, his hair plastered to his skull, red-faced, sweat trickling into his beard. Taking his son’s seat, already he had forgotten his oath neither to eat nor drink so long as his son-in-law was alive.

So they rushed to lay the table for him, poured him wine, made the most of a near-untouched pike pâté, then presented him with a swan, whole and still warm, while new prisoners were brought forward and the valets were tearing back and forth to the kitchens … there reigned a wavering indecision in the room and the stairwell, whereupon the Norman lords took advantage of the moment and escaped, such as Sire of Clères who was another of the handsome Spaniard’s murderers and who got away by the skin of his teeth. The archers let them by, the king not seeming to want to arrest anyone else.