The Poisoned Crown. Морис Дрюон
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a gallop ...
It was at this moment that Robert of Artois rose to his feet and, an impressive sight in his massive scarlet and steel, strode into the centre of the meeting.
‘Sire, my Cousin,’ he said, ‘I understand your concern. You have not enough money to maintain this huge army in idleness. Moreover, you have a new wife awaiting you, and we are all impatient to see her made Queen, as we are to see you crowned. My advice is not to persist. It is not the enemy that forces us to turn back; it’s in the rain I see the will of God before which everyone, however great he may be, must bow. Who can tell, Cousin, whether God has not wished to warn you not to fight before you have been anointed with holy oil? You will gain as much prestige from a fine coronation as from a rash battle. Therefore, renounce for the moment your intention of whipping these wretched Flemings, and if the terror with which you have inspired them is not in itself sufficient, let us come back with as great a force next spring.’
This unexpected advice, coming from a man whose courage in battle could not be doubted, received the support of part of the meeting. No one understood then that Robert was pursuing ends of his own, and that his desire of raising Artois was closer to his heart than the interests of the Kingdom.
Louis X, impulsive but not particularly prompt to act, was always ready to give up in despair when events did not turn out as he wished. He seized the lifeline Artois offered him.
‘You have spoken wisely, Cousin,’ he said. ‘Heaven has given us a warning. Let the army withdraw, since it cannot advance. But I swear to God,’ he added, raising his voice and thinking thus to preserve his grandeur, ‘I swear to God that if I am still living next year, I shall invade these Flemings and will make no armistice with them short of unconditional surrender.’
From that moment he had no concern but to break camp as quickly as possible, and his sole preoccupations were with his marriage and his coronation.
The Count of Poitiers and the Constable had considerable difficulty in persuading him to take certain indispensable precautions, such as maintaining garrisons along the Flanders frontier.
The Hutin was in such a hurry to be gone, as were most of the commanders of ‘banners’, that the following morning, since they lacked wagons and could not extract all their gear from the mud, they set fire to their tents, their furnishings, and equipment.
Leaving behind it a huge conflagration, the foundering army arrived before Tournai that evening; the terrified inhabitants closed the gates of the town, and no one insisted that they should open them. The King had to find asylum in a monastery.
Two days later, on August 7th, he was at Soissons, where he signed a number of Orders in Council which put an end to this distinguished campaign. He charged his uncle Valois with making the final preparations for his coronation, and sent his brother Philippe to Paris to fetch the sword and the crown. Everyone would gather between Rheims and Troyes to meet Clémence of Hungary.
Though he had dreamed of meeting his fiancée as a hero of chivalry, Louis’s only concern now was that the distressing expedition be forgotten, an expedition which was already known as ‘The Muddy Army’.
AT DAWN A MULE-BORNE litter, escorted by two armed servants, entered the great porch of the Artois house in the Rue Mauconseil. Beatrice d’Hirson, niece of the Chancellor of Artois and lady-in-waiting to the Countess Mahaut, alighted from it. No one would have thought that this handsome dark-haired girl had travelled nearly a hundred miles since the day before. Her dress was hardly creased; her face with its high cheekbones was as smooth and fresh as if she had just awakened from sleep. Besides, she had slept part of the way under comfortable rugs, to the swinging of the litter. Beatrice d’Hirson, and it was rare in a woman of that period, had no fear of travelling by night; she saw in the dark like a cat and knew that she was under the protection of the devil. Long-legged and high-breasted, walking with steps that seemed slow because they were long and regular, she went straight to the Countess Mahaut, whom she found at breakfast.
‘It is done, Madam,’ said Beatrice, handing the Countess a little horn box.
‘Well, and how is my daughter Jeanne?’
‘The Countess of Poitiers is as well as can be expected, Madam; her life at Dourdan is not too harsh and her gentle disposition has won over her gaolers. Her complexion is clear and she has not grown too thin; she is sustained by hope and by your concern for her.’12
‘What of her hair?’ the Countess asked.
‘It has only a year’s growth, Madam, and is not yet as long as a man’s; but it seems to be growing thicker than it was before.’
‘But is she presentable?’
‘With a veil about her face, most certainly. And she can wear false plaits to hide her neck and ears.’
‘You can’t keep false hair on in bed,’ said Mahaut.
She finished up her bacon-and-pea stew in great spoonfuls and then, to cleanse her palate, drank a full goblet of red Poligny wine. Then she opened the horn box and looked at the grey powder it contained.
‘How much did this cost me?’
‘Seventy pounds.’
‘Damn it, these witches make one pay heavily for their art.’
‘They run a big risk.’
‘How many of the seventy pounds have you kept for yourself?’ said the Countess, looking her lady-in-waiting straight in the eye.
Beatrice did not turn her eyes away and, still smiling ironically, replied in her slow voice, ‘Hardly any, Madam. Merely enough to buy this scarlet dress which you had promised me but failed to give me.’
Countess Mahaut could not help laughing; the girl knew how to handle her.
‘You must be hungry, have some of this duck pâté,’ she said, helping herself to a huge slice.
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