The She Wolf of France (29 page)

`And this is why, very dear brother,"' read the Chancellor, ` "we pray you once more, as affectionately and as much from the heart as we can, that in this thing we desire above all others, you will listen to our requests and carry them out with good will, and soon, to the profit and honour of our mutual relations; and so that we
shall not be dishonoured .'

Jean de Marigny shook his head and sighed. Such awkward and uneven prose pained him. Neverth
eless, however badly the letter
might be written, its meaning was clear enough.

The Countess Mahaut of Artois remained silent; she
was taking care not to express
her triumph too soon, and her grey eyes glittered in the light of the candles. Her secret accusations made last autumn and her intrigues with the Bishop of Exeter had now borne ripe fruit at the beginning of summer, and fit to pick.

`It would seem clear, Sire,' the Chancellor made up his mind to say at last, since no one had helped him out by intervening, `it seems clear, Sire, that, in
accordance with the laws both
of the Church and the kingdoms, King Edward must somehow or other be satisfied. He
is demanding his wife.
'

Jean de Cherchemont was a priest, as his position required, and he turned to Bishop Marigny, seeking his support with a look.

`Our Holy Father the Pope has sent us a message in that sense by Bishop Thibaud de
Chatillon,'
said Charles the Fair.

For Edward had gone so far
as to write to. Pope John XXII and had sent him copies of all the correspondence dealing with his matrimonial difficulties. And what could Pope John do, except reply that a wife should live with her husband?

`It would seem, therefore, that Madame my sister must leave for the country of her Marriage,' added Charles the Fair.

He looked at no one while he said this, but dropped his eyes to his embroidered' shoes: A candelabrum which stood above his chair lit up his forehead, which suddenly had something of the stubborn expression of his brother, the Hutin.

`Sire Charles,' said Robert of Artois, `to oblige Madame Isabella to return to England is to hand her over bound hand and foot to the Despensers. Was it not because she feared assassination that she came to seek refuge with you? How much greater the danger will be now.'

`Really, Sire, my cousin, you cannot ...' said tall Philippe of Valois, who was always prepared to adopt Robert's point of view.

But his wife, Jeanne of Burgundy, pulled him by the sleeve, and he stopped short; and, had it not been night, he would undoubtedly have been seen to blush.

Robert of Artois had seen the gesture and was aware of the reason for Philippe's sudden silence; he had also noticed the, glance exchanged between
Mahaut and the young Countess of
Valois. Had he had the chance, he would have wrung the lame woman's neck.

`My sister may have exaggerated the danger,' the King went on. `These Despensers do not appear to be so wicked as she has ' made out. I have received a number of most polite letters from them, which go far to show they desire my friendship ...'

`And you have had presents from them, too, fine goldsmith's work,' cried Robert, getting to his feet, and all the candle-flames flickered and the shadows waver
ed over their faces. `Sire
Charles, my beloved cousin, have you changed your opinion of these people who declared war on you, and are like he-goats to a goat in their relationship with your brother-in-law, for three silver
-
gilt sauce-boats lacking to your sideboard? We have all received presents from them; am I not right, Monseigneur de Beauvais, and you Cherchemont, and you Philippe? An agent, and I can give you his name, he's called Arnold, received a few months ago five casks of silver, to the value of five thousand marks sterling, with instructions to use it in making friends for the Earl of Gloucester in the Council of the King of France. These presents cost the Despensers nothing, for they are easily paid for out of the revenues of the County of Cornwall which they seized from your sister. That, Sire, is what you must know and remember. And what loyalty can you expect from men who dress up as women to serve the vices of their master? Do not forget what they are, and what is at the bottom of their power.'

And Robert could not resist making an obscene remark: `Bottom,' he said, `would appear to be the right word!'

But his laugh got no response except from the Constable. In the old days the Constable had had no love for Robert of Artois, and he had given sufficient proof of this in helping Philippe the Long, when he was Regent, to defeat the giant and put him in prison. But for some time past, old Gaucher had discovered good qualities in Robert, largely because of his voice, which was the only one which he could hear without an effort.

There were few partisans of Queen Isabella present this evening. The Chancellor was indifferent, or rather he was intent on keeping his appointment, which depended on favour; he would support the majority. Queen Jeanne, who had few thoughts on the subject, was also indifferent. Her main concern was to avoid any emotion which might interfere with her pregnancy. She was Robert of Artois' niece, and could not but be sensible of his authority, his height and his assurance; but she was anxious to show what a good wife she was,
and
was therefore ready to condemn on principle all wives who became a cause of scandal.

The Constable was on the whole in favour of Isabella. Mainly because he loathed Edward of England on account of his morals, his incompetent government of his kingdom, and his refusal to pay
homage.
In general,
he did not like
the English; but he had to admit that Roger Mortimer had ''rendered good service
"
; and it would be cowardly to abandon him now. And old Gaucher did not mind saying so and declaring also that Isabella had a good deal of excuse.

`To hell with it, she's a woman, and her husband's not a man. The chief fault's his.'

Monseigneur de Marigny;
raising his voice a little, replied that Queen Isabella might well be forgiven, and that he, for his part, was prepared to give her absolution; but Madame Isabella's error, her great error was to have made her sin public; a
queen should not set an example
of adultery.'

`Oh yes, that's quite right,' said Gaucher. `There was no need for them to attend every ceremony hand in hand and share the same bed, as it's said they do.'

On that point lie agreed with the Bishop, The Constable and the prelate were therefore on Queen
Isabella's
side, but with considerable reservations, and, as far as the Constable was concerned, that was
as
far
as his thoughts on the subject
went. He began thinking of the College of Romance Languages he had founded near his Castle of Chatillon-sur-Seine where he would be at this moment if he had not been summoned to deal with this business. He would console himself later on by going to listen to the monks chanting the midnight office, a strange pleasure perhaps for a man who was becoming deaf; but there it was, Gaucher could hear better amid a noise.
Besides,
this soldier had a taste for the arts; not so unusual a predilection.

The Countess of Beaumont, a pretty young woman whose mouth was always smiling though her eyes were not, was much amused. How was this giant she had been given as a husband,
and who provided her with perpetual entertainment, to get out of the difficulty in which he found himself? He would win, she knew he would win; Robert always won, and she would help him to win if she could, but not by committing herself in public.

Philippe of Valois, her half-brother, was wholly in favour of Madame of England, but he was prepared to betray her, because his wife, who hated Isabella, had made a scene about it before the Council, and would refuse herself to him this night and with a great deal of shouting and temper if he acted otherwise than as she had decided. And the long-nosed man hesitated and stuttered in his anxiety.

Louis of Bourbon lacked courage. He was no longer sent into battle because he always ran away. He had no affection for Queen Isabella.

The King was weak, but capable of being stubborn, as on the occasion which everyone remembered when he had refused for a whole month to give Charles of Valois the commission of Royal Lieutenant in Aquitaine. He was ill-disposed towards his sister because Edward's absurd letters, by dint of repetition, had finally had their effect on him, and, above all, because Blanche was dead and he was thinking of the pitiless Isabella of twelve years ago. Except for her, he would never have known. And even had he known, he would have forgiven, had it not been for Isabella, so as to keep Blanche. Did it really deserve all the horror, all the scandal, all those days of agony, and such a death at the last? Betrayals in love are generally bearable to weak men so long as no one else knows of them.

The party of Isabella's real enemies consisted of two people only, Jeanne the Lame and Mahaut of Artois, but they were closely allied by their common hatred.

And so it turned out that Robert of Artois, the most powerful man after the King, and even, from many points of view, more important than the Sovereign, whose opinion always prevailed, who decided everything to do with the administration and dictated his orders to governors, bailiffs and seneschals, was suddenly alone in supporting his cousin's cause.

For such is the nature-of influence at Courts; it depends on a strange and fluctuating concatenation of states of mind, in which situations become insensibly transformed with the march of events and the sum of the interests at stake. And fortune carries within it the germs of misfortune. Not that Robert was threatened with misfortune; but Isabella was in real danger. She who, but a few months ago, was pitied, protected and admired, who
was allowed every latitude and whose love affair was applauded as a splendid revenge, had now in the King's Council but one supporter of her sojourn in Paris. And yet, to compel her to return to England was no more nor less than
to put her neck on the block
in the Tower of London, and everyone knew it. But suddenly no one cared about her any more, her triumph had been too great; No' one was prepared to compromise himself for her any longer, except Robert, but in his case it was
a
means of fighting Mahaut.

And now Mahaut too
k
the initiative at last and launched her, attack which had been long prepared.

`Sire, my dear son, I know the love you have for your sister, which does you honour,' she said; `but it must be admitted that Isabella is a wicked woman from whom we have all suffered or are suffering: Look at the example she has set your Court ever since she has been here. And to think that it is the same woman who in the past told so many lies about my daughters and the sister of Jeanne here present. When, at the time, 'I told your father - may God rest his soul! that he was being deceived by his daughter, was I not right? She has wantonly sullied us all, because of the wicked thoughts she detected in the hearts of others when they were merely in her own; as she has now, proved to us. Blanche who was pure, and who loved you to the last day of her life, as you know, has
died of it this very week.
She was innocent, my daughters were innocent.'

Mahaut's huge forefinger, which was as tough as a piece of wood, took Heaven to witness. And to please her ally of the moment she turned to Jeanne the Lame and said: "Your sister was most certainly innocent, my poor Jeanne, and we have all suffered misfortunes from Isabella's calumnies, and my mother's heart has bled because of them.'

Had she been allowed to go on like this, she would no doubt have reduced the Council to
tears.
But Robert said: `Your Blanche inno
cent? I: should like to believe
it, Aunt. But it really cannot have been the Holy Ghost who got her with chil
d
in prison.'

King Charles the Fair frowned nervously. Really, Cousin Robert had no business to remind people of that.

`It was despair that drove my little girl to it,' cried Mahaut angrily. `What had my dove to lose, when she was dishonoured by calumny, imprisoned in a fortress and driven half mad? I'd

like to know who could withstand such treatment.'

`I've been in prison, too, Aunt, at the time when your son-in
-
law Philippe put me there at your behest. But that didn't make
me put the jailer's daughters in the family way, nor, from despair, make use of the turnkey for wife, though these things seem to happen in our family!'

The Constable's interest in the discussion began to revive.

`And how do you know, Nephew, though you take such pleasure in sullying the memory of a dead woman, that my Blanche was not taken by
force? After all,
her cousin was strangled in the same prison,' she said, looking Robert straight in the eyes, `so she
may w
ell have been raped. No, Sire, my son,' she went on, turning back to the King,' `since you have summoned me to your Council

`No one, summon
ed you,' said Robert; `you came
of your own accord.'

But it was not so easy to interrupt the old giantess.

`I will give you this counsel which comes straight from a mother'
s heart, which has never ceased
to beat for you, despite everything that may have estranged us. I say this to you, Sire Charles: expel your sister from France, for each time she has returned here some misfortune has befallen the Crown. The
year you were dubbed
knight with your brothers and my nephew Robert, who may well remember it, Maubuisson caught fire and we were nearly all burnt to death. The following year she brought such a scandal on us that we were all covered with infamy. A scandal which a good King's daughter, and a good sister to her brothers, even had there been any shadow of truth in it, ought to have kept quiet about, instead of spreading slander everywhere, with the help of I know, whom. And again, in the time of your brother Philippe, when she came to Amiens that Edward might render homage, what happened? The
pasto
ureaux ravaged the realm. And now that she's, come back again, I positively tremble. For you are expecting a child, who one hopes will be a son, since you must give France a king; so I warn you, Sire, my son, to keep this harbinger of misfortune as far removed as possible from your wife's womb.'

She had indeed aimed the quarrel of her crossbow with precision. But Robert was already making reply: `And when our cousin the Hutin died, my good aunt, where was Isabella then? Not in France, so far as I know. And when his son, the little Jean the Posthumous, died so suddenly in your arms, when you were holding him, my good aunt, where was Isabella then? Had she visited Louis' room? Was she among the assembled barons? My memory may well be at fault, but I do not recollect her presence. Unless, of course, the deaths of those two kings are not, in your
view, to be counted among the misfortunes of the realm?'

Rascality was face to face with even greater rascality. It needed but another couple of words and they would be openly accusing each other of murder.

The Constable had known the family for
nearly sixty years. He puckered
his saurian eyes and said: `Let us not stray from the point, Messeigneurs, but come back to the subject at issue.'