The square in front of the Royal Palace, which had been packed with Parisians since the first light of day, looked like a sea into which, from different directions, five or six rivers incessantly poured new waves of heads. The waves of the crowd, which were continually swelling, broke against the corners of the houses that protruded along the street, while the wide staircase that allowed access to the royal gardens was so crowded with Parisians that one could scarcely see the pale stone of which it was made. The cries, the laughter, the continuous calls of all that movement produced a deafening din.
Behind the sovereign, gloomy and fervent, the great barons of France discussed a question of the greatest gravity with the Chancellor Pierre Flotte. The king was not listening to them. A tempest of pain and anger raged in his heart that he would not have dared confide to a living soul.
He had not asked to become king. Life had decided in his place. But since they had put that overwhelming burden on his shoulders, he had lived for nothing except the good of his kingdom. Nothing came before France, which he loved more than anything else in the world. More than himself. He had let his life be devastated by power, for the good of the nation. Had let his marriage turn into an ordeal.
Behind him, the great gentlemen were getting themselves worked up.
“So he has really done it!”
“Indeed. Boniface VIII has published a bull overflowing with insults.”
“It is called ,” said the Chancellor. “On first glance it seems to be paternal advice, but in reality it is nothing but a deception. Boniface warns our sovereign to lower his head before him. His Majesty is to ask for forgiveness and immediately release the bishop of Pamiers.”
A roar of discontent rose from among the barons. Prince Louis of Évreux, half-brother of the sovereign and a man of well-known moderation, raised his hands to try and calm the confusion.
“Gentlemen!” he said loudly. “I understand your resentment and I share it. However, let us bear in mind that the kingdom is in a difficult condition, and that various vassals of His Majesty await nothing more than to see him the victim of apostolic censure to declare revolt. Prudence is a must. Flotte, you are a legal expert and a skilled diplomat, speak sincerely: are the Pope’s tones really so harsh? Are they truly offensive to my brother the king?”
In that healthy invitation to caution, the Chancellor read something else; a subtle, veiled accusation against him. Was the prince trying to insinuate that he was exaggerating on purpose? Accusing him of being a stolid warmonger eager to sow discord?
Annoyed, he swallowed down any reply, since he was dealing with His Majesty’s brother. Half-brother, to be exact. Charles of Valois was still in Italy, engaged in the praiseworthy and vain attempt to quell the disagreements between France and the Holy See, which by now seemed to be heading towards an inevitable conflict; as long as he remained there, it was Luigi of Évreux who would speak for the sovereign. And in principle, even decide in his place.
“I apologize, Highness,” said the Chancellor, “I thought I had been spoken plainly, but I now I realize that in reality the opposite was the case. I will therefore be more explicit. Here, look with your own eyes! I have underlined the most scandalous passages.”
The bull of Boniface VIII thus passed quickly from hand to hand; apart from Prince Louis, none of the great barons was able to read the complex canonical Latin of the papal chancellery with any hope of understanding it. The practically flew from one to another until it ended up in the hands of Évreux. As they lit on a certain passage, the prince blinked with embarrassment.
“Highness, would you please read that sentence to the other gentlemen?”
Under a patina of formal courtesy, Pierre Flotte’s request seethed with provocation. Very reluctantly, because he knew what reaction he could expect from those assembled, Évreux slowly read the incriminating passage with his impeccable Latin pronunciation; and then translated it, his voice full of embarrassment: “‘Know, Your Majesty that We, the Vicar of Christ, have no fear of you. We have faced and annihilated far stronger and more powerful enemies; if you do not make amends for your faults, if you do not bow to the superior authority of the throne of Peter, we will send you away from us like a disobedient child.’“
The dismay on the faces of those present found a worthy counterpart in the indignation that burned in Pierre Flotte; an indignation so fierce that he found the courage to stand up to the prince.
“Highness, your Latin is rusty,” he protested, “that passage means something completely different!”
The prince swallowed and avoided his eyes.
“The bull says sicut garsio,” he said, in an unsteady voice, “and is not a Latin word, but a French one. You must take into account the fact that Boniface is an old man, and my brother the king is young enough to be his son. It goes without saying that the Pope considers him a boy. , in fact. He intends to scold him as a father does his son.”
Pierre Flotte gnashed his teeth in anger and the Grand Constable noticed it. The Grand Constable was the highest-ranking officer in the kingdom, and he wanted to get to the bottom of that filthy business, so he took the Chancellor’s side.
“Highness,” he said to Évreux, “what other translation is possible?”
The gracefulness of his words was at odds with the peremptory tone. The prince took a deep breath and said, in a resigned voice, “‘If you do not make amends for your faults, if you do not bow to the superior authority of the throne of Peter, we will chase you off like a scullion.’ Perhaps Boniface VIII is threatening excommunication. In that case, my brother would be dethroned,” he finally admitted.
The last word left behind it a gloomy echo in the room, so vast and total was the silence it had caused.
Roberto of Artois’ face burned bright red.
“How dare he speak to our king this way?” he thundered furiously. “This is a question of the honour of France itself. And the honour of all of us!”
Even before the others could react, the count tore the papal bull from the Chancellor’s hand, and with a gesture of utter contempt threw it into the flames in the fireplace. The others watched in astonishment as the parchment crumpled irremediably in the flames, but their expressions betrayed a sort of silent consent to the gesture.
“Something must be done,” murmured Rodolfo of Clermont-Nesle, the High Constable of France. “To remain impassive before such a serious insult would be a sign of weakness. If we allow it, Boniface VIII might make any move against the authority of the king of France.”
Pierre Flotte nodded to the constable, then said: “That’s why I asked the guards to gather the people in the gardens of the Palace. After long reflection, I decided that any action directed against Boniface VIII would be counterproductive for us. The Pope remains, at least for now; the other sovereigns might be willing to undertake direct, violent action against him.”
“And so, Flotte?” asked the Count of Artois, exuding angry impatience.
“We will let the discontent against Boniface grow,” replied the Chancellor. “It will seem that our sovereign has been obliged to react. After all, a ruler is also a knight, and when he is outrageously provoked…”
As if by magic, another parchment with a lead seal emerged from his left sleeve – a document which, at least in its appearance, resembled in all respects the papal bull he had just burned.
“Here, see for yourselves,” he said to the others. He gave them the false document, which passed from hand to hand and had soon completed the same circuit as the authentic one. “You will notice that no one, at first sight, would be able to distinguish the lead seal or the writing from the authentic ones of the Apostolic Chancellery. This parchment, however, contains a false bull which is called , or ‘We want you to know it’. In it, Boniface VIII addresses our august lord in unacceptable terms – a genuine slap in the face. I have already prepared a translation that will be read to the crowd gathered in the gardens this morning. The people will never know about the real bull: it will
be as if the Ausculta fili had never been written.”
Luigi of Évreux could not repress his disquiet.
“Chancellor, are you truly convinced that this is a wise move? What would the aim of this sinister deception be?”
A vaguely condescending smirk appeared on Pierre Flotte’s lips.
“Do you really not see, your highness?” he replied in a provocative tone. “When the people have read the false bull and are outraged to the right degree, a reply written by His Majesty will be circulated in which our lord will answer Boniface VIII, of course, in the same tone. And instead of calling it as usual , or ‘Your Holiness’, we will call it . Which is to say, ‘Your Foolishness’.”
All the gentlemen laughed loudly and with gusto, pleased to be able to release a little tension; all except the prince.
“I still do not understand your aim,” he said gloomily, but he already felt he was fighting a losing battle.
“But it is obvious, Highness. The people will exult when they see the boldness with which their king faces this unworthy priest, this abject usurper of the throne of Peter. Whatever action Philip IV wants to take against him will be interpreted as an act of self-defence: the sacrosanct response of one who has been unjustly provoked and cannot accept the outrage without losing his honour forever. Is it clear to you now?”
The prince swallowed his anger, though it cost him terribly to do so. He was in a tiny minority and only in search of peace, while the others, excited and quarrelsome, were foaming at the bit to enter into open conflict with the Holy See.
He turned desperately towards the window. In that moment, there was only one man who could put a halt to the catastrophe, but that man – Philip IV – had spent the whole time gazing out of the window, absorbed by who knew what. It was doubtful that he had listened to a single word of what had been said.
“What do you say, madame?”
Huddled in the back rows of those present, not far from the door, Baron Galard spoke softly with Princess Margaret of Évreux, the wife of Prince Louis who at court was called by the pet name ‘Margot’. Both had heard clearly what the lords of the Royal Council had said, and seen that the distracted and absent sovereign had not even deigned to give them a glance.
“I know nothing of politics, Baron, but I believe that I can correctly interpret the meaning of posture my brother-in-law has maintained all this time.”
“Really?” asked Galard, genuinely amazed.
“I have no doubt of it, Baron. Look at him! He stands thus at the window with his arms outstretched, his ankles crossed one over the other. He might give the impression of being a relaxed pose, one suited to happy thoughts; in reality, it means something quite different.”
“I think I understand, madame. You think the king is posing in imitation of Christ on the cross?”
“He certainly is, Galard! And what else should he do, given the situation?”
The baron stroked his beard meditatively.
“You are not wrong, Highness. The king today must feel just like he has been crucified to his own destiny: whatever he does, he risks unleashing ruinous consequences for the kingdom. Obeying the Pope’s commands means passing over the excesses of Saisset, who quite clearly has his faults, given that he is trying to organize a revolt in the South. If the king frees him, he will seem to all like a puppet devoid of authority, as well as dignity, a foolish marionette who lowers his breeches before Boniface VIII, no matter how serious the offence received. This would make him lose all merit in the eyes of his vassals.”
“And if instead he punishes the bishop of Pamiers,” the princess continued, “then he will be openly opposing the Pope. The bull is clear: he will be excommunicated for certain. And in that case too his vassals will turn against him. I think that this is the reason that the king stands there so at the window, pretending not to even hear the others.”
“Of course! He lets them do it, because there is nothing that can be saved either way. In the worst case, he will always be able to say that the reprisals against His Holiness were decided by the Council, without him having uttered a single word.”
The princess nodded in assent, even though she did not quite agree.
“You are right, Baron. Only that in this moment, His Majesty’s thoughts are directed elsewhere.”
The head of the Louvre guards gave his nose a doubtful tug.
“Oh yes? And what would he be thinking of at such a crucial time for France?”
Princess Margot tilted her head slightly and a shadow of sadness flickered across her eyes.
“He is thinking of his son,” she murmured. “At this moment, Prince Louis and ten little girls from the best families in France are playing blindfold on the lawn of the gardens. It was the king who invited them. He wouldn’t say it openly, but I can read my brother-in-law’s heart. He wants to see if his son shows sympathy for any of them in particular. Do you follow me?”
Galard frowned. “You think he wants Louis to choose his wife?”
The princess nodded and looked at him with eloquent intensity.
“Precisely, Baron. And I can tell you that these invitations are repeated often. The king does not want his son to be condemned to his fate. To get married in obedience to the interests of the State and to find himself bound to a woman he does not love for the rest of his natural life!”
Pierre Galard shifted his gaze to the figure of the king.
“I wish I could say you were wrong, Madame,” he added regretfully, “but to my misfortune I came into the world without the gift of hypocrisy, though it would have been precious to me in court life!”
“Then that makes two of us, Baron,” she replied in a pained voice. “I truly love my brother-in-law, and it pains me to see how unhappy he is. Joan brought him the crown of Navarre, it is true; but God knows, for him that was a crown of thorns!”
There was almost a sob in the princess’s voice. Galard did not reply. He knew very well that the beautiful Margot wasn’t lying when she said she truly loved her brother-in-law. She had loved him for years, in reality, with a secret and unfailing devotion that fed on imagined kisses – of caresses only dreamed of in the shadows of the alcove where her body met Prince Luigi while her heart, instead, flew away far away upon thoughts of being with Philip IV.
Beautiful Margot loved him desperately. And she wasn’t the only one.
A slight rustle of silk, difficult to perceive in the din that the cries of the lords made, distracted the sovereign from his thoughts. He turned to look behind him and made a vague gesture of greeting his cousin Matilda of Artois.
In the countess’s eyes, there was a tumult of emotions.
“Forgive me, sire. May I talk to you?”
Without answering, Philip IV turned his head so he could see her face, but he took care not to change the position of his body; which, his more perceptive courtiers knew, was a silent protest against the frustrating impotence he was forced to endure if he did not wish to risk provoking the great barons to riot. The pose of a poor Christ on the cross who obediently accepts his cruel destiny because he has no other choice. His icy eyes, however, said he was ready to listen to her.
“Majesty, did you listen to the council’s speech?”
“Every syllable, Matilda,” he replied slowly, “but they are both mistaken. Because does not mean either a youth or a scullion.”
“And so…”
“And so it means ‘servant’, in the broadest sense and perhaps even most noble sense of the term. Boniface means that every sovereign, including myself, must serve the Church; if he does not, he can be removed from the throne. He is not threatening excommunication at all with that bull, he simply limits himself to a warning.”
She opened wide her large green eyes of crystalline transparency in astonishment.
“But then why do you not intervene? Your word could end the conflict, Your Majesty!”
Philip IV raised an eyebrow.
“The conflict is inevitable,” he said with a hint of
regret, “and certainly does not depend on interpretation of Latin words.”
“But sire, if you know the truth…”
The king shook his head.
“Each of them is looking after his own interests, Matilda,” he said bitterly. “The Chancellor wants France to enter into an open conflict with the Holy See because that would give him the pretext to keep the tithing money, which is a vast figure and would be a boon for the treasury coffers. As for Louis, my devoted half-brother works for peace, it’s true; but rid yourself of the idea that he does it without the contemplation of his own aims.”
Shocked by his remarks, the beautiful countess looked from the king to the lords of the Council, who continued their lively discussion.
“And what might they be?” she asked.
“It’s very simple, Matilda. Louis is moved by the same interest that keeps my brother Charles in Rome even though relations between France and the Curia are now at loggerheads.”
“Forgive me, Sire, I don’t follow you.”
Squeezing his lips together in a way that might have expressed disgust, Philip IV muttered very quietly, “Charles wants the crown of Sicily, which is a pontifical fiefdom, and, to have it he must stay on the right side of the pope. This is where his virtue as a good Christian and his firm devotion to the Holy See derive. Boniface VIII will end up giving it to him, sooner or later, and if not him, perhaps another pope will. It goes without saying that once on the throne of Sicily, Charles will have to cede all the great French estates he received as second son of the king. The integrity of the kingdom cannot be fragmented.”
The countess’s eyes widened with horror when she realized the awful truth.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “If Charles becomes king of Sicily, the great fiefs he now holds will pass to Philip III’s other son – to your half-brother Louis of Évreux. The county of Anjou and that of Maine, not to mention the minor fiefs … Luigi would find himself with a patrimony almost as large and powerful as yours!”
The Cellars of Notre Dame Page 24