The Lily and the Lion. Морис Дрюон
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his wishes. He had even persuaded Isabella to issue the order for her husband’s death. It was due to him that she was called the She-wolf of France! How could he expect her not to think of it on this wedding day, particularly since the executioner was present? The long, sinister face of John Maltravers, lately promoted Seneschal of England, seemed to be hanging over Mortimer’s shoulder as if to remind her of the crime.
Isabella was not the only person who resented John Maltravers’ presence. He had been the late King’s warder, and his sudden elevation to the post of Seneschal made it only too obvious for what services he was being rewarded. To those, and there were many, who were now almost certain that Edward II had been murdered, his presence was embarrassing, for they felt that the father’s murderer would have done better to keep away from the son’s wedding.
The Earl of Kent, the dead man’s brother, turned to his cousin Henry Wryneck and whispered: ‘It seems as if to kill a king entitles one to rank with his family now.’
Edmund of Kent was shivering. He thought the ceremony too long and the York rite too complicated. Why could the marriage not have been celebrated in the chapel of the Tower of London, or in some other royal castle, instead of making a public show of it? He felt uneasy under the eyes of the crowd; and the sight of Maltravers made it worse.
Wryneck, his head tilted towards his right shoulder – the infirmity which gave him his nickname – muttered: ‘The easiest way to become a member of our house is by sinning. Our friend is proof of it. Be quiet, he’s looking at us.’
By ‘our friend’ he meant Mortimer, and it showed how much the feeling had changed since he had disembarked, eighteen months before, in command of the Queen’s army and been welcomed as a liberator.
‘After all, the hand that obeys is no worse than the head that commands,’ thought Wryneck. ‘And no doubt Mortimer – and Isabella too – are guiltier than Maltravers. But we must all share some of the guilt; we all put our hands to the sword when we turned Edward II off the throne. It could end in no other way.’
In the meantime, the Archbishop was presenting the young King with three gold pieces bearing on one side the arms of England and Hainaut, and on the reverse a semy of roses, the emblematic flowers of married happiness. These gold pieces were the marriage deniers, symbols of the dowry in revenues, lands and castles, which the bridegroom was giving his bride. An accurate inventory of these gifts had been made, and this somewhat reassured Messire Jean of Hainaut, the bride’s uncle, to whom fifteen thousand livres were still owing for the pay of his knights during the campaign in Scotland.
‘Kneel at your husband’s feet to receive the deniers, Madam,’ the Archbishop said.
The people of York had been waiting for this moment, wondering whether the local rite would be observed to the end, and whether it was as valid for a queen as it was for a subject.
But no one had foreseen that Madam Philippa would not only kneel but also, in the excess of her love and gratitude, embrace her husband’s legs and kiss the knees of the boy who was making her his Queen. This chubby Flemish girl could find means of showing the impulses of her heart.
The crowd cheered enthusiastically.
‘I’m sure they’ll be very happy,’ said Wryneck to Jean of Hainaut.
‘The people will love her,’ Isabella said to Mortimer, who had moved closer to her.
The Queen Mother felt the cheers like a wound because they were not for her. ‘Philippa is the Queen now,’ she thought. ‘My day is over. Yet, perhaps, I shall now get France …’
For a courier, with the lilies on his coat, had galloped into York the week before with the news that her last brother of France, King Charles IV, lay dying.
CHARLES IV, THE FAIR, had fallen ill on Christmas Day. At Epiphany the physicians and apothecaries tending him had to admit that he was dying. What had caused the fever that consumed him, the tearing cough that shattered his emaciated chest, the blood that he spat? The physicians impotently shrugged their shoulders, It was the curse, of course: that curse which had fallen on all Philip the Fair’s heirs. And what medicines could operate against such a curse as that? Both the Court and the people were convinced there was no need to look elsewhere.
Louis the Hutin had died at the age of twenty-seven, murdered, as everyone knew, even though the Countess Mahaut of Artois had been exculpated at a public trial. Philippe the Long had died at twenty-nine through having drunk water from a well in Poitou that had been poisoned by the lepers. Charles IV had lived to the age of thirty-three; but this was the limit. It was a known fact that the accursed could never live longer than Christ.
‘It’s up to us, Brother, to seize the reins of government and to hold them with a firm hand,’ said the Count of Beaumont, Robert of Artois, to his cousin and brother-in-law, Philippe of Valois. ‘And this time,’ he added, ‘we won’t let my Aunt Mahaut beat us to it. Anyway, she has no more sons-in-law to push.’
They, at least, both enjoyed the best of health. Robert of Artois, now forty-one, was still the same colossus who had to bend his head to pass through doorways and could overturn an ox by seizing it by the horns. A master of legal procedure, of intrigue and of chicane, he had shown his ability during these last twenty years both in his lawsuit over Artois and in the war in Guyenne, among much else. It had been due to him that the scandal of the Tower of Nesle had come to light. And it was also thanks to him that Lord Mortimer and Queen Isabella had been enabled to take refuge in France, where they had first become lovers, to raise an army in Hainaut, rouse all England and turn Edward II off his throne. Nor, when he went in to dinner, did it embarrass him in the least that his hands were stained with the blood of Marguerite of Burgundy. In recent years, his voice had been more frequently heard in the Council of the weak Charles IV than the Sovereign’s.
Philippe of Valois was six years his junior and nothing like so clever. But physically he was tall, strong, wide-chested, and he moved well; he seemed to be almost a giant when Robert was not by; and he had a splendid knightly presence which was much in his favour. Moreover, he inherited the reputation of his father, the famous Charles of Valois, who had been the most turbulent and adventurous prince of his time, a pretender to phantom thrones and a supporter of unrealized crusades, yet a great warrior, whom Philippe did his best to emulate in prodigality and magnificence.
Though Philippe of Valois’ talents had not as yet made any particular mark on Europe, everyone had confidence in him. He was a brilliant performer in tournaments, which were indeed his passion; and the valour he displayed there was not negligible.
‘Philippe, I’ll make you Regent,’ Robert of Artois was saying, ‘that’s what I want, and I promise to do it. Regent, and very possibly King, if God so wills, provided my niece,2 who’s pregnant to her back teeth, doesn’t have a son in a couple of months’ time. Poor Cousin Charles! He won’t see the child he so longed for. And, even if it’s a boy, you’ll still have the Regency for twenty years. And in twenty years …’
He emphasized his thought with a wave of the arm, which seemed to include every possible hazard: infant mortality, hunting accidents, the impenetrable designs of Providence.
‘And you, as the good friend I know you to be,’ went on the giant, ‘will see to it that I get back my County of Artois, of which Mahaut, thief and poisoner that she is, has been so unjustly possessed since the death of my noble grandfather, as well as the peerage that goes with it. Just think, I’m not even a peer of France! Absurd, isn’t it? It makes me ashamed for my wife, who is after all your sister.’
Philippe nodded his head, lowering that great nose of his, and blinking his eyes in agreement.