The Iron King

by Maurice Druon

  ‘I think that’s funny,’ said Louis of Navarre.

  ‘Be quiet, Louis,’ said the King, annoyed by their whispering.

  To get rid of the uneasiness that was growing upon him, young Prince Charles compelled himself to think of something pleasant. He began to think of his wife Blanche, of Blanche’s wonderful smile, of Blanche’s body, of her tender arms soon to be stretched out to him, making him forget this horrible spectacle. How well she knew how to love him and spread happiness about her! If only their two children had not died when a few months old … But they would have others and then life would contain no single shadow. Enchantment and plenitude. Blanche had told him that tonight she was going to keep her cousin Marguerite company. But she would be home by now. Had she covered herself up well? Had she taken a sufficient escort?

  The roaring of the crowd made him start. Flames were now leaping from the pyre. On an order from Alain de Pareilles, the archers extinguished their torches in the grass, and the night was now lit by the great brazier alone.

  The flames reached the Preceptor of Normandy first. He made a pathetic movement of withdrawal as the tongues of fire licked at him, and his mouth opened wide as if he were trying vainly to breathe. In spite of the rope that bound him, his body bent almost double; his paper mitre fell off and the great white scar across his purple face became visible. The fire was all about him. Suddenly a pall of grey smoke engulfed him. When it had dissipated, Geoffroy de Charnay was in flames, screaming and gasping and trying to tear himself from the fatal stake which was shaken to its base. The Grand Master could be seen shouting something to him, but the crowd was growling so loudly in an attempt to drown its own horror, that it was impossible to hear what he said, except for the word ‘Brother’ twice repeated.

  The assistant executioners were falling over each other in their haste to bring up reserves of wood and poke the fire with long iron prongs.

  Louis of Navarre, whose mind always worked slowly, asked his brother, ‘Did you say that there was a light in the Tower of Nesle?’

  For one moment he seemed disquieted.

  Enguerrand de Marigny had placed a hand before his eyes as if to protect them from the light of the flames.

  ‘A fine vision of hell you’ve given us here, Nogaret!’ said Monseigneur of Valois. ‘Were you thinking of your future life?’

  Guillaume de Nogaret did not reply.

  The pyre had become a furnace and Geoffroy de Charnay was now no more than a blackened, sizzling object, swollen and blistered, slowly collapsing into the cinders, becoming cinder itself.

  Women were fainting. Others were going quickly to the river bank to vomit into the channel, almost beneath the King’s nose. The crowd, after so much shouting, had grown calmer, and was beginning to talk about miracles because the wind obstinately contined blowing in the same direction and the flames had not yet reached the Grand Master.

  How could he last so long? On his side the pyre seemed intact. Then, suddenly, the pyre caved in and the flames, reviving, leapt all about him.

  ‘That’s done for him too!’ cried Louis of Navarre.

  With his long face and neck thrust forward, he was suddenly shaken by one of those incomprehensible gusts of laughter that always seized him at the most tragic moments.

  Even at this spectacle Philip the Fair’s huge cold eyes were unblinking.

  And suddenly the Grand Master’s voice sounded out of the curtain of fire. As if addressed to each one present, it affected everyone individually. With great power, his voice sounding as if it were already coming from on high, Jacques de Molay spoke again as he had done at Notre-Dame.

  ‘Shame! Shame! You are watching innocents die. Shame upon you! God will be your Judge.’

  Flames whipped him, burning his beard, turning the paper hat in one second to ashes, setting his white hair alight.

  The appalled crowd had fallen silent. It might have been a mad prophet who was being burned.

  The Grand Master’s burning face was turned towards the royal loggia. And the terrible voice cried, ‘Pope Clement, Chevalier Guillaume de Nogaret, King Philip, I summon you to the Tribunal of Heaven before the year is out, to receive your just punishment! Accursed! Accursed! You shall be accursed to the thirteenth generation of your lines!’

  The flames seemed to enter his mouth and stifle his last cry. And then, for what seemed an age, he fought against death.

  At last he bent double. The cord broke. He fell forward into the furnace and only his hand remained raised among the flames. It stayed thus till it had turned entirely black.

  Terrified by the curse, the crowd remained rooted to the spot. Nothing could be heard but sighs, murmurs of foreboding, consternation and anguish. The weight of the night and its horror seemed to lie over it; the shadows gradually gained ground against the dying light of the pyre.

  The archers were trying to drive the crowd before them, but the people could not make up their minds to leave.

  ‘It wasn’t us whom he cursed; it was the King, wasn’t it?’ people were whispering.

  People looked towards the loggia. The King was still standing by the balustrade. He was gazing at the Grand Master’s black hand sticking up out of the red embers. A burnt hand; all that remained of so much power and glory, all that remained of the illustrious Order of the Knights Templar. But the hand was motionless, raised in a gesture of imprecation.

  ‘Well, Brother,’ said Monseigneur of Valois with a nasty smile, ‘I suppose you’re happy now?’

  Philip the Fair turned round.

  ‘No, Brother,’ he said. ‘I am not happy. I have committed an error.’

  Valois was already preening himself, ready to enjoy his triumph.

  ‘Yes, I have committed an error,’ Philip repeated. ‘I ought to have had their tongues torn out before burning them.’

  Still impassive, he left to return to his apartments, followed by Nogaret, Marigny and his Chamberlain.

  The pyre had now turned grey, with here and there a spark of fire suddenly glowing only to die as quickly again. The loggia was full of smoke and a bitter stench of burning flesh.

  ‘It stinks,’ said Louis of Navarre. ‘I really think it stinks. Let’s go.’

  Young Prince Charles was wondering whether even in Blanche’s arms he would manage to forget what he had seen.

  9

  The Cut-throats

  ON LEAVING THE TOWER OF NESLE, the brothers Aunay, walking to and fro in the mud, gazed into the darkness with some indecision.

  Their ferryman had disappeared.

  ‘I told you I didn’t like the look of the fellow,’ said Gautier. ‘I ought to have acted on my suspicions.’

  ‘You gave him too much money,’ Philippe replied. ‘The scoundrel obviously thought he’d made enough for the day and went off to the execution.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘What more could there be?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I don’t like the look of it. The fellow came and offered to take us over, pleading that he hadn’t earned a penny all day. We told him to wait; instead of doing so, he goes off.’

  ‘But what else could we have done? We had no choice; he was the only one there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Gautier. ‘And he asked rather too many questions.’

  He stopped, listening for the sound of oars; but there was nothing but the rustling of the river and the widespread rumour from the crowd going back to their homes in Paris. Over there, upon the Island of Jews, which people from tomorrow would begin to call the Island of the Templars, the fire had gone out. A smell of smoke mingled with the dank stench of the Seine.

  ‘There’s nothing for it but to go home on foot,’ said Gautier. ‘We shall get muddy to the thighs. But after all it’s been worth it.’

  Arm in arm to avoid slipping, they made their way by the wall of the Hôtel-de-Nesle. As they went, they continued to search the darkness. There was no sign of the ferryman.

  ‘I wonder who can ha
ve given them to them,’ Philippe said suddenly.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The purses.’

  ‘Oh, you’re still thinking of that, are you?’ said Gautier. ‘For my part, I must admit I don’t care a damn. Of all the presents they’ve made us, we’ve never had finer ones than these.’

  As he talked he stroked the purse at his belt, feeling the precious stones in relief beneath his fingers.

  ‘It can’t be anyone connected with the Court,’ Philippe went on. ‘Marguerite and Blanche would never have risked their being recognised on us. So, who can it be? A present from their family in Burgundy perhaps? It’s so odd that they didn’t want to tell us.’

  ‘Which do you prefer,’ asked Gautier, ‘to know or to have?’

  Philippe was about to reply when they heard a low whistle in front of them. They started, and at once put their hands to their daggers. They had no other weapons with them, having decided to leave their swords behind as they would be in the way.

  An encounter at this hour and in this place had every prospect of being a dangerous one.

  ‘Who goes there?’ said Gautier.

  They heard a second whistle, and had barely time to draw their daggers.

  Six men surged out of the night and hurled themselves upon them. Three attacked Philippe and, holding him back to the wall with arms outstretched, prevented his using his dagger. The other three were not so fortunate with Gautier. The latter had managed to knock one of his attackers down or, more exactly, the man had slipped in trying to avoid a dagger-thrust. But the other two caught Gautier d’Aunay from behind and twisted his wrist till he dropped his weapon. Philippe could feel that they were trying to take his purse from him.

  It was impossible to shout for help. If the guard from the Hôtel-de-Nesle came to their aid, they might be questioned about their presence there. They both had the same instinct not to shout. They must get out of it by themselves, or not get out of it at all.

  Philippe, spread-eagled against the wall, fought with all the violence of despair, and, since he could not use his dagger, kicked out with his feet. He did not want to lose his purse. It had suddenly become his most precious possession in the world, and he intended to save it at all costs. Gautier was more inclined to come to terms. Let them take their money but leave them their lives. The point was, would they leave them their lives, or would they rob them first and throw their bodies into the Seine afterwards?

  It was at this moment that another shadow appeared out of the night. Gautier, who had not at first seen it, had no time to make up his mind whether it was friend or foe.

  Everything happened very quickly.

  One of the assailants cried, ‘Watch out! Watch out!’

  The new arrival rushed into the middle of the fight like a lion, the light shining on his drawn sword.

  ‘Thieves! Scoundrels! Knaves!’ he cried in a powerful voice as he distributed a shower of blows about him.

  The thieves disappeared like flies before his attack. As one of the cut-throats passed within reach of his hand, he took him by the collar and hurled him against the wall. The whole gang decamped along the river bank without asking for more. They could be heard running towards the Petit-Pré-aux-Clercs, and then there was silence.

  Gasping and stumbling, his hands clasped to his chest, Philippe went over to his brother.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Gautier breathlessly, rubbing his shoulder. ‘And you?’

  ‘Nor am I. But it’s a miracle to have got away with it.’

  Together they turned towards the stranger who, for the last few seconds, had been chasing the thieves and was now returning, putting up his sword. He looked very tall, broad and strong; his breath came deep and fierce.

  ‘Well, Messire,’ said Gautier, ‘we’re very grateful to you. Without your help we should soon have been floating down the river. To whom have we the honour to be beholden?’

  The man laughed, a great, fat, rather forced laugh. One could imagine his strong, pointed teeth in the darkness. For an instant the two brothers thought that they recognised the laugh, then the moon came out from behind the clouds and they knew their defender.

  ‘By heaven, Monseigneur, it’s you, is it!’ cried Philippe.

  ‘And by heaven, young sirs,’ replied the man, ‘I know you too!’

  They had been saved by Robert of Artois.

  ‘The brothers Aunay!’ he cried. ‘The handsomest young fellows at Court. Devil take it, I didn’t expect that. I was just passing along the bank when I heard the row down here, and said to myself, “There’s some peaceable townsman getting done in!” I must say, Paris is infested with these rogues, and that fool of a Provost is too busy licking Marigny’s boots to attend to cleaning up the town.’

  ‘Monseigneur,’ said Philippe, ‘we don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Robert of Artois, patting Philippe on the shoulder with a hand that made him reel. ‘It’s a pleasure! It’s every gentleman’s natural instinct to go to the assistance of someone in danger. But it’s a double pleasure if that someone is of one’s acquaintance, and I am delighted to have preserved for my cousins of Valois and Poitiers their best equerries. It’s only a pity it was so dark. By heaven, if the moon had only come out sooner I should have taken great pleasure in ripping up some of those rascals. I didn’t really dare thrust properly for fear of wounding you. But, tell me young gentlemen, what the devil are you doing in this dirty hole?’

  ‘We … we were taking a walk,’ said Philippe d’Aunay, embarrassed.

  The giant roared with laughter.

  ‘Oh, so you were taking a walk, were you? A fine place and a fine hour for a walk! You were taking a walk in mud up to your knees! That’s a likely story! Ah, youth! This is a little matter of some love affair, isn’t it? A question of women,’ he said jovially, crushing Philippe’s shoulder once more. ‘Always on heat, eh! What it is to be your age!’

  He suddenly saw their purses shining in the moonlight.

  ‘Christ!’ he cried. ‘On heat and to good purpose! Fine ornaments, young gentlemen, fine ornaments!’

  He tried the weight of Gautier’s purse.

  ‘Gold thread, and fine work. Italian or English maybe. Equerries’ salaries don’t run to this sort of splendour. The cut-throats would have had a good haul.’

  He grew excited, gesticulated, banged the young men about with friendly blows of his fist, enormous, noisy, red-headed and obscene in the half-light. He was beginning to get seriously on the brothers’ nerves. But how do you tell a man who has just saved your life to mind his own business?

  ‘Love obviously pays, my fine young sirs,’ he said walking beside them. ‘Your mistresses must be very great ladies and very generous ones. Good God, you young Aunays, who would have thought it, eh!’

  ‘Monseigneur is in error,’ said Gautier rather coldly. ‘These purses came to us through the family.’

  ‘Of course they do, I knew it,’ said Artois, ‘from a family you’ve visited at midnight under the walls of the Tower of Nesle! Quite, quite, I shan’t say anything, honour comes first. I approve of you, young sirs. One must respect the reputation of the women one sleeps with! All right. Good-bye. And don’t venture out at night wearing all your jewellery again.’

  He went off into another great gale of laughter. With a huge gesture of embracing them, he banged the two brothers one against the other, and then went off, leaving them there, anxious and disquieted, without even giving them time to repeat their thanks.

  They were at the Porte de Bucy and went on their way to the right, while Artois went off through the fields in the direction of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

  ‘I hope to God he doesn’t go telling all the Court where he found us,’ said Gautier. ‘Do you think he’s capable of keeping his great mouth shut?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Philippe. ‘He’s not a bad sort of chap. And the proof is that without his great mouth, as you call it, a
nd his great arms for that matter, we shouldn’t be here now. Don’t let’s be ungrateful, not yet anyway.’

  ‘That’s true. Besides, we might have asked him what the hell he was doing there anyway.’

  ‘I’d swear he was looking for a whore! And now he’s gone off to a brothel,’ said Philippe.

  He was wrong. Robert of Artois had not gone off to a brothel. He had made a detour through the Pré-aux-Clercs and, returning to the river bank, had come back to the neighbourhood of the Tower of Nesle.

  The moon was obscured once more. He whistled with the same low whistle that had preceded the fight.

  The same six shadowy figures detached themselves from the wall, and a seventh stood up in a boat. The shadowy figures stood in respectful attitudes.

  ‘Good, you’ve done your work well,’ said Artois. ‘Everything went off as I wished. Here, Carl-Hans!’ he called to the chief blackguard, ‘share this between you.’

  He threw him a purse.

  ‘You gave me a terrible blow on the shoulder, Monseigneur,’ said one of the cut-throats.

  ‘Bah! That’s all in the day’s work,’ Artois answered laughing. ‘Now, get off with you. If I should need you again, I’ll let you know.’

  Then he got into the boat. It sank low in the water under his weight. The man who took the oars was the same ferryman who had brought the Aunays over.

  ‘So Monseigneur is satisfied with the night’s work?’ he asked.

  He had lost his whining tone, seemed to have become younger by ten years, and gave way with a will.

  ‘Splendid, my dear Lormet! You played your little trick on them wonderfully well,’ said the giant. ‘Now I know what I wanted to know.’

  He leant back in the stern of the boat, stretched out his monumental legs, and let his huge hand trail in the dark water.

  PART TWO

  THE ADULTEROUS PRINCESSES

  1

  The Tolomei Bank

  MESSER SPINELLO TOLOMEI’S expression took on a reflective seriousness, then, lowering his voice as if he feared someone might be listening at the door, he said, ‘Two thousand pounds in advance? Would that suit you, Monseigneur?’