The King Without a Kingdom. Морис Дрюон
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for all her successive marriages, not to mention her lovers.
They must have put new harnesses on my packhorses by now. My palanquin is far too firm. It is always the way when setting off, always the way. From that moment on, God’s vicar ceases to be a tenant, reluctantly seated on an uncertain throne. And the court that we had! It set an example to the world. All the kings were jostling to get in. To be pope, it is not enough to be a priest, one must also be a prince. Clement VI was a great diplomat; he was always glad to hear my advice. Ah! The maritime league that brought together the Latins of the East, the King of Cyprus, the Venetians, the Knights Hospitaller. We cleansed the Greek archipelago of the barbarians overrunning it; and we were going to do more. But then came this ridiculous war between the French and English kings; I wonder if it will ever end; it has prevented us from furthering our grand design, to bring the Church of the East back into the Roman fold. And then there was the plague, and then Clement passed away.
The third time, during the conclave four years ago, my impediment was, ironically, the fact that I was too princely. Too grand seigneur, too extravagant, it would seem, and we had just had a pope of that very ilk. I, Hélie de Talleyrand, known by my title of Cardinal of Périgord: to think it would have been an insult to the poor to choose me of all people! There are occasions when the Church is seized with a sudden passion for humility, for modesty. Which never does it any good. If we strip ourselves of all ornament, hide our chasubles, sell our golden ciboria and offer the Body of Christ in a two-denier bowl, dress ourselves like yokels, and filthy with it, we are no longer respected by anyone, least of all by the yokels themselves. Indeed! Were we to make ourselves the same as them, why on earth should they honour us? And we end up no longer even respecting ourselves. When you take a stand against this, the staunchly humble stick the gospel under your nose, as if they were the only ones who knew it, and dwell on the nativity, the crib between the ox and the ass, and then it’s the carpenter’s workshop they harp on about. Be like Our Saviour Jesus. But Our Lord, where is He now, my vain little clerics? Isn’t He at the right hand of the Father bathed in His omnipotence? Is He not Christ in majesty enthroned in the light of stars and the music of the heavens? Is He not the king of the world, flanked by legions of seraphs and the blessed? What then is it that entitles you to decree which of these images you should, through your very self, offer to the faithful, that of His fleeting earthly existence or that of His eternal triumph?
Enough. Should I pass through any diocese where I see the bishop rather too willing to disparage God, embracing new ideas, this is what I will preach.
To walk bearing twenty pounds of woven gold, and the mitre, and the crosier, it isn’t pleasant every day, especially when one has been doing so for more than thirty years. But it is necessary.
One can attract more souls with honey than with vinegar. When flea-ridden scum address other flea-ridden scum as ‘my brothers’, it doesn’t produce a great deal of effect. Should a king say it, that is different. Bringing people a little self-esteem is the very first act of kindness, of which our Fratricelles and Gyrovagues2 are unaware. It is precisely because the people are poor, and suffering, and sinners, and destitute, that we must give them reason to believe in the afterlife. Oh yes indeed! With frankincense, gold and music. The Church must offer the faithful a vision of the heavenly kingdom, and every priest, beginning with the pope and his cardinals, should reflect something of the image of the Pantocrator.
It is not such a bad thing after all to talk to myself this way; it helps me find arguments for my forthcoming sermons. Although I prefer to find them when in the company of others. I hope Brunet hasn’t forgotten my sugared almonds. Ah! No, there they are. For that matter, he never forgets.
Although I am not a great theologian as so many of my colleagues are – theologians are thick on the ground these days – I do have responsibility for ensuring order and cleanliness in the house of the good Lord upon this earth, and I refuse to reduce the trappings of my position; not even the pope, who knows only too well what he owes me, has dared to force me to do so. He can waste away on his throne, if he so wishes, that is his own business entirely. But I, his nuncio, am careful to preserve the glory of his office.
I know there are some who scoff at my grand purple palanquin, its golden pommels and studs, and my horses upholstered with purple, and the two hundred lances of my escort, and my three lions of Périgord embroidered on my standard and on my sergeants’ livery. In this I travel at present. Because of all the noble display, when I enter a town, the people rush up to bow down before me, they come to kiss my mantle. I even make kings kneel (for Thy glory, Lord, for Thy glory).
However, these qualities of leadership were simply not in the air we breathed at the last conclave, and I was made well aware of it. They wanted a man of the people; they wanted a simple soul, a humble being, a plain one. I was barely able to prevent their electing Jean Birel, a holy man – oh! most certainly, a holy man – but who hasn’t an ounce of a mind suited for government and who would have been another Pietro da Morrone. I had eloquence sufficient to persuade my fellow conclavists how perilous it would be, given the state Europe found itself in, to elect another Celestine V. Ah! I certainly didn’t spare the poor Birel! I spoke so highly of him, demonstrating how his admirable virtues made him unsuited to governing the Church, that he was crushed, and remained so. And I managed to have Étienne Aubert proclaimed Pope, he who was born to poverty, not far from Pompadour, and whose career lacked the lustre that would have spontaneously brought everyone around to his cause.
We are assured that the Holy Spirit lights the way for us to designate the best amongst us; in fact, more often than not we vote to keep out the worst.
Our Holy Father disappoints me. He moans and groans, he hesitates, he makes a decision, he takes it back. Ah! I would run the Church very differently! And furthermore, it was his idea to send the Cardinal Capocci with me, as if it were necessary to have two legates, as if I weren’t knowledgeable and experienced enough to get things done on my own! And with what result? We fell out from the start, because I showed him the foolishness of his ways; he played the injured party, my Capocci; he withdrew; and while I race everywhere from Breteuil to Montbazon, from Montbazon to Poitiers, from Poitiers to Bordeaux, from Bordeaux to Périgueux, he merely writes everywhere, letters from Paris that undermine my negotiations. Ah! I sincerely hope I won’t come across him in Metz before the emperor.
Périgueux, my Périgord. My God, was I seeing them for the last time?
My mother always assumed I would be pope. She made it clear to me on more than one occasion. It was why she made me wear the tonsure from the age of six, and arranged with Clement V, who was most fond of her, that I be enrolled as a papal scholar, and thus become apt to receive benefices. How old was I when she took me to him? ‘Lady Brunissande, may your son, whom we most specially bless, display in the place you have chosen for him those very virtues that we should expect from such noble lineage as his, and quickly rise to the highest offices of our Holy Church.’ No, no more than seven years old. He made me Canon of Saint-Front; my first cappa magna. Almost fifty years ago now … My mother saw me as pope. Was it a dream of maternal ambition, or a prophetic vision as women sometimes have? Alas! I do believe that I shall never be pope.
And yet, and yet, in my birth chart Jupiter is closely tied to the Sun, a beautiful culmination, the sign of domination and of a peaceful reign. No other cardinal has such favourable aspects as I. My configuration was a great deal better than Innocent’s on the day of his election. But there you have it, a peacetime reign, a reign in peace; and yet we are at war, amidst turmoil and storm. My stars are too perfect for the times we are living in. Those of Innocent – which speak of difficulties, errors, setbacks – are better suited to this sombre period. God matches men and moments in the world, and calls up popes who correspond to His grand design, such a man for greatness and glory, another for shadows and downfall.
If I hadn’t entered the Church, as my mother wished, I would be Count of Périgord, since my elder brother died without issue, the very same year as my first conclave, and the crown I couldn’t take on was assumed by my younger brother, Roger-Bernard. Neither pope nor count. Oh well, one has to accept the place where Providence puts us, and try to do the best one can there. I will most probably be one of those men, those leading figures who play