The King Without a Kingdom

by Maurice Druon

  Who else was there in Rouen who deserves to be mentioned, beyond the usual servants, and Mitton le Fol, the dauphin’s dwarf, who was prancing about between the tables; he too wearing a pearly hood … pearls for a dwarf, I ask you, is that a good way to spend the écus that one doesn’t have? The dauphin dresses him in a striped drapery, woven specially for him in Ghent … I disapprove of the usage made of dwarfs. They are forced to act the clown, pushed and kicked around, they become a laughing stock. They are God’s creatures after all, even if God didn’t make such a good job of them. Another good reason to show them a little charity. But their families, so it appears, take their birth as a blessing. ‘Ah! He is small. May he never grow up. We will be able to sell him to a duke or perhaps to the king …’

  No, I believe I have mentioned all the guests of importance, with Friquet of Fricamps, Graville, Mainemares, yes, I mentioned them … and then, of course, the most important of them all, the King of Navarre.

  On him the dauphin lavished all his attention. Moreover, on the side of the fat Harcourt little attention was required: that one had eyes only for the platters of food set before him, and any talk was vain while he was engaged in putting away his mountains of food.

  However, the two Charleses, Normandy and Navarre, the two brothers-in-law, talked a great deal. Or rather Navarre talked. They had scarcely seen each other again since their failed expedition to Germany; and it was typical of the Navarrese to seek to win over his young relative once more, through flattery, declarations of hearty friendship, joyful memories and amusing tales.

  Whilst his equerry, Colin Doublel, placed the dishes before him, Navarre, laughing, charming, full of spirit and offhandedness … ‘This is the feast of our reunion; thank you so much, Charles, for allowing me to show you how attached I am to you; I have been bored since you went away …’ reminded him of their finer moments the winter before, the amiable bourgeoises they played dice with, who will have the blonde? Who will have the brunette? ‘… the Cassinel girl is round-bellied now, and nobody doubts that it is yours …’ and from there moved on to affectionate reproach … ‘Ah! So you went and told your father all about our plans! You got the Duchy of Normandy out of it. That was well played indeed, I will give you that. But with me, you could have had the entire kingdom by now …’ to finally whisper in his ear, taking up his refrain once more: ‘Admit that you would make a better king than he!’

  And to enquire, without seeming overly interested in the matter, about the next meeting between the dauphin and King John, if the date had been set, whether it would take place in Normandy … ‘I heard that he was hunting not far from Gisors.’

  And yet he found a more reserved dauphin, more secretive, than in the past. Most certainly affable, but on his guard, only responding to such eagerness with smiles or nods.

  Suddenly a crash of falling tableware rose above the diners’ voices. Mitton le Fol had just dropped a platter. It was the largest silver platter he could find, on which, mimicking the kitchen ushers, he was presenting a single blackbird. And he dropped it while his mouth gaped wide open and he pointed dramatically to the door.

  The good Norman knights, already drunk, laughed at Mitton’s most amusing stunt but their laughter immediately stuck in their throats.

  Because through the door came the Marshal of Audrehem armed to the teeth and brandishing his naked sword before him, shouting in his battle voice: ‘May not one of you move, whatever he may see, should he wish not to die by this sword.’

  Ah! But my palanquin is stopped … Indeed, we are arrived; I hadn’t realized. I will tell you the rest after supper.

  5

  The Arrest

  THANK YOU SO much, Messire Abbot, I am most obliged … No, not at all, I assure you, I need nothing more … only that a few logs be put on the fire … My nephew will keep me company; I have things to discuss with him. That’s right, Messire Abbot, good night to you. Thank you for the prayers you will say for the Most Holy Father and for my humble person … yes, and for all of your devout community … The honour is all mine. Yes, I bless you; may the Good Lord watch over you …

  Ooh! If I had let him, he would have kept us up until midnight, that abbot! He must have been born on the Feast of Saint-Garrulous31 …

  Let’s see now, where were we? I don’t want to keep you in suspense. Ah yes, the marshal, sword raised …

  And from behind the marshal appeared a dozen archers who moved violently to pin the cupbearers and valets against the wall; and then Lalemant and Perrinet le Buffle, and hard on their heels King John II himself, fully armed, helmet on his head, and his eyes shooting fire through the raised ventail. He was closely followed by Chaillouel and Crespi, two other sergeants from his personal guard.

  ‘I am caught in a trap,’ said Charles of Navarre.

  Through the door, the royal escort continued to pour forth, amongst them some of his worst enemies, the Artois brothers, Tancarville …

  The king was headed straight for the table of honour where the Norman lords made half-hearted attempts at bowing acknowledgement to him. With an imperious two-handed gesture, he commanded them to remain seated.

  He seized his son-in-law by the fur-lined collar of his surcoat, shook him, pulled him to his feet, screaming at him from deep within his helmet: ‘Evil traitor! You are not worthy to sit next to my son. By my father’s soul, I will not think of eating or drinking so long as you may live!’

  Charles of Navarre’s equerry, Colin Doublel, upon seeing his master manhandled so, was seized with a mad impulse and grabbed a carving knife which he raised to strike at the king. His intention was thwarted by Perrinet le Buffle twisting his arm out of the way of danger to the king.

  Meanwhile the king let go of Navarre and, losing his composure for a moment, looked with surprise upon this mere equerry who had dared raise a hand against him. ‘Take this boy and his master too,’ he ordered.

  The king’s retinue carried itself forward as one man, the Artois brothers at the front, flanking Navarre like two oaks with a hazel tree squeezed between. The men-at-arms had completely taken over the room; the tapestries seemed to bristle with pikes. The kitchen ushers looked as though they would, if they could, disappear into the walls. The dauphin had stood and was saying: ‘Sire my father, sire my father …’

  Charles of Navarre tried to explain himself, to defend himself. ‘Monseigneur, I fail to understand! Who has so misinformed you against me? May God help me, but never, I beg you to believe, have I thought of betrayal, neither against you nor against monseigneur your son! If there is a man in this world who wishes to accuse me of it, may he do so, before your peers, and I swear that I will purge myself of his words and I will confound him.’

  Even in such a perilous situation, his voice was clear, and the words flowed easily from his lips. He really was very small, very slight, amongst all these men of war; but he maintained assurance in his prattling.

  ‘I am king, monseigneur, of a lesser kingdom than yours, admittedly, but I deserve to be treated as a king.

  ‘You are Count of Évreux, you are my vassal, and you are a traitor!’

  ‘I am your good cousin, I am husband to madame your daughter, and I have never forsaken you. It is true that I had Monsieur of Spain killed. But he was my adversary and had offended me. I have since repented. We made peace and you accorded letters of remission to all …’

  ‘To prison with you, traitor. You have played us with your pack of lies long enough. Go! May he be locked up, may both of them be locked up!’ screamed the king, indicating Navarre and his equerry. ‘And that one too,’ he added, pointing his gauntlet at Friquet of Fricamps whom he had just recognized and who was known to have set up the assassination plot at the Spinning Sow.

  The three men were dragged to an adjoining chamber by sergeants and archers while the dauphin threw himself at the king’s feet. Frightened as he was by his father’s furious outburst, he remained lucid enough to foresee the consequences, at least as far as he was concerned.
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  ‘Ah! Sire my father, may God have mercy, you have dishonoured me! What will they say of me? I had invited the King of Navarre and his barons to dinner, and this is how you treat them. They will say that I have betrayed them. I implore you in God’s name to calm down and reorder your mind.’

  ‘Calm down yourself, Charles! You do not know what I know. They are evil traitors, and their wicked deeds will soon be uncovered. No, you don’t know all that I do.’

  And thereupon our John II, catching hold of a mace from one of the sergeants, struck the Count of Harcourt a mighty blow that would have broken the shoulder of anyone less fat than he. ‘Get up, traitor! To prison with you too. You will have to be smart to get away from me.’

  And as fat Harcourt, dazed, didn’t get up fast enough, John grasped him by his white surcoat, tearing it, pulling apart all his clothing at the seams down to his shirt.

  As John of Harcourt, open-shirted, was pushed along by archers towards his fate he passed before his younger brother Louis, and said something to him that nobody could understand, but which was clearly wicked, and to which Louis responded with a gesture that could have meant any number of things … I couldn’t help it; I am the king’s chamberlain … you were asking for it, tough luck on you …

  ‘Sire my father, insisted the Duke of Normandy, you are doing wrong thus treating these valiant men …’

  But John II no longer heard him. He had exchanged glances with Nicolas Braque and Robert of Lorris, who silently designated certain guests. ‘And that one, in prison! … And that one …’ he commanded, knocking over the Sire of Graville and punching Maubué of Mainemares, two knights who had also played a part in the murder of Charles of Spain, not-withstanding they then received, two years ago now, letters of remission signed by the king’s hand. As you can see, it was a deep-seated hatred.

  Mitton le Fol had climbed onto a stone bench in a windowed alcove, and was making signs to his master that conjured an awareness of the dishes laid out on a sideboard, then to the king, then fluttering his fingers before his mouth … eat …

  ‘My father,’ said the dauphin, ‘would you like something to eat?’ The idea was most propitious; it avoided sending the whole of Normandy to the dungeons.

  ‘By Jove yes! It is true that I am hungry. Do you know, Charles, I started out from beyond the Forest of Lyons; I have been riding since dawn to castigate these wrongdoers. Bring me some food.’

  And with a wave of his hand he called for his helmet to be unlaced. From beneath it, he appeared, his hair plastered to his skull, red-faced, sweat trickling into his beard. Taking his son’s seat, already he had forgotten his oath neither to eat nor drink so long as his son-in-law was alive.

  So they rushed to lay the table for him, poured him wine, made the most of a near-untouched pike pâté, then presented him with a swan, whole and still warm, while new prisoners were brought forward and the valets were tearing back and forth to the kitchens … there reigned a wavering indecision in the room and the stairwell, whereupon the Norman lords took advantage of the moment and escaped, such as Sire of Clères who was another of the handsome Spaniard’s murderers and who got away by the skin of his teeth. The archers let them by, the king not seeming to want to arrest anyone else.

  The escort, too, was dying of hunger and thirst. John of Artois, Tancarville, the sergeants, all had their eyes on the platters of food. They were waiting for a gesture from the king, granting them at last permission to dine. As the gesture didn’t come, the Marshal of Audrehem tore off the leg of a capon that was lying around on a table and began to eat, standing up. Louis of Orléans gave an ill-humoured pout. His brother, really, showed far too little concern for those who served him. He sat down in the seat that Navarre had occupied a moment before, saying: ‘I make it my duty to keep you company, my brother.’

  The king then, with a sort of disinterested benevolence, invited his relatives and barons to sit. And immediately they all sat down to eat up the leftovers of the feast, around the spattered tablecloths. Nobody worried about changing the silver platters. Everyone grabbed whatever appeared before them, the milk cake with the confit de canard, the fatted goose before the shellfish soup. They ate the cold remains of the fried fish. The archers stuffed themselves with slices of bread or ran off to the kitchens to get fed. The sergeants gulped down the wine in abandoned goblets.

  The king, boots spread out under the table, remained shut off in a violent reverie. His anger was not appeased; it even seemed to be rekindled by the mounds of food. Yet he should have good reason to feel satisfied. He was in his role of dispenser of justice, the good king! He had finally claimed victory; he had a fine feat to have recorded by the clerks for the next assembly of the Order of the Star. ‘How Monseigneur King John defeated the traitors … he seized at the Castle of Bouvreuil …’ He suddenly showed surprise at the absence of the Norman knights and became worried. He was wary of them. What if they were off organizing an uprising, they might rouse the town to revolt, set the prisoners free? There he showed his true self, that clever man. First of all, driven by a fury he had long nursed, he rushed in without thinking; then he neglected to consolidate his actions; then he was subject to fantasies, always far-removed from reality, but no one could rid him of them. Now he saw Rouen in rebellion, as had been Arras a month earlier. He wanted the mayor to come. No more Mayor Mustel. ‘But he was here just a moment ago,’ said Nicolas Braque. The mayor was caught in the castle’s courtyard. He appeared before the king, still guzzling down food, white from indigestion. He heard himself order that the town’s gates be closed and that everyone should stay at home. Nobody was allowed to walk around town, bourgeois or villein, for any reason whatsoever. It was a state of siege, curfew in the middle of the day. Enemy soldiers wouldn’t have acted any differently.

  Mustel summoned courage enough to show his outrage. The people of Rouen had done nothing to justify such measures … ‘Yes, they have! You refuse to pay aides, abiding by the exhortations of these evil folk that I came to confound. But, by Saint Denis, they will exhort you no more.’

  As he watched the mayor withdraw, the dauphin must have thought with sadness how futile had been all his painstakingly pursued efforts to reconcile the Normans. Now he had everybody against him, nobility and bourgeoisie alike. Who could possibly think that he was not a party to this ambush? In truth, his father had given him a most unsavoury role.

  And then the king asked that Guillaume … be summoned … ah! Guillaume what’s-his-name … it escapes me, yet I did know it … anyway, his King of the Ribald. And everybody understood that he had resolved to proceed with the immediate execution of the prisoners, without further delay.

  ‘For those who don’t know how to uphold chivalry, there is no reason to uphold their lives,’ said the king.

  ‘Indeed, my cousin John,’ approved John of Artois, that monument of stupidity.

  I ask you, Archambaud, was it really chivalry to deck oneself out in battle attire to take unarmed men, and to use one’s own son as bait? Navarre, most probably, had quite a record of skulduggery, but does King John, beneath his magnificent exterior, really have much more honour in his soul?

  6

  The Preparations

  GUILLAUME À LA CAUCHE … There you are, I remembered it. The name I was looking for; the King of the Ribald. His is a curious office, which originated from an institution of Philip II Augustus. He had set up a corps of sergeants for his close guard, all giants, that were called the Ribaldi Regis, the Ribald of the King. Inversion of the genitive or pun, the chief of this guard became Rex Ribaldorum. Nominally, he has command over sergeants such as Perrinet le Buffle amongst others; and it is he, who, every evening at suppertime, tours the royal household to see if all those who entered court but are not to sleep there, have indeed left. But above all, as I told you, I believe, he is responsible for keeping his eye on places of ill repute in every town where the king resides. That is to say, first and foremost, he regulates and inspects the brothels of Paris, w
hich are not few and far between, not to mention the self-employed strumpets who work in the streets set aside for them. Same goes for the houses in which games of chance are played. All these places of evil are where one is most likely to unearth thieves, bag-snatchers, pickpockets, counterfeiters and assassins for hire; and to discover the vices of people, often in high places, who seem to have the most respectable of appearances.

  So much so that the King of the Ribald has become the chief of a most peculiar police force. He has his spies almost everywhere. He maintains and supports a number of tavern vermin who supply him with information and evidence. If you want a traveller followed, his portmanteau searched, or to find out whom he meets with, you go to him. He is by no account a man loved, but a man feared. I am telling you about him for the day you will be in court. It is better to remain in his good books.

  He earns a good living, as his charge is a lucrative one. Watching over the harlots, inspecting the hovels, is all good business. As well as his moneyed wages and the fringe benefits he gets in the royal household, he is paid a two pence weekly fee on all the brothels and all the women who work there. Now there is a fine tax, wouldn’t you say, and whose collection is less problematic than the gabelle. He also gets five pence from adulterous wives … well, from the known adulteresses. But at the same time it is he who recruits courtesans for the court’s usage. He is paid to keep his eyes open, but he is also paid to keep them shut. And it is he who, when the king is out riding, carries out his sentences or those of the Court of the Marshals of France. He sets the rulings on the tortures and executions; and in cases of the latter, the remains of the condemned come back to him, along with all they had upon their person at the time of their arrest. As it is not usually the crimes of small fry that provoke royal wrath, but rather of the powerful and the rich, the clothing and jewellery he collects from these corpses are not inconsiderable prizes.