The King Without a Kingdom

by Maurice Druon

  God’s will, certainly, certainly; but we have to admit that it chose to express itself a little through my modest person. Which allows me a certain freedom with the Holy Father. But there are things, in spite of everything, that I cannot tell him. I can’t tell him, for example, that men who find themselves invested with supreme authority should not use it to justify their elevation by changing the world. With the humble great there is an insidious form of pride that is often the cause of their failings.

  Pope Innocent’s projects, his high undertakings, I know them well. There are three, which are dependent upon each other. The most ambitious one: reunite the Latin and Greek Churches, under the authority of the Catholic Church, of course; bring together East and West, re-establish unity in the Christian world. It has been the dream of every pope for the last thousand years. And I had, with Clement VI, moved matters along considerably, further along than they had ever been before, and, in any case, than they are at present. Innocent took up the project once more in his own name and as if the idea had come to him, brand new, by visitation of the Holy Spirit. Let’s not argue.

  To achieve this, second undertaking, and a prerequisite to the first: re-establish the papacy in Rome, because the authority of the pope over the Christians of the East would only be accepted if it were expressed from the height of Saint Peter’s throne. Constantinople, though at present in a state of bankruptcy, could yield only to the authority of Rome, not Avignon, without losing honour. On that point, as you know, my opinion differs entirely. Such reasoning would be true provided that the person of the pope himself should not, in Rome, be exposed as being even weaker than he is in Provence.

  Now, to return to Rome, first it was necessary, as a third project, to make up with the emperor. Which was undertaken as a matter of priority. Let’s see where we stand regarding these fine projects. We rushed, against my advice, to crown Emperor Charles, elected eight years ago, and over whom we had an advantage so long as we held out on his coronation. Today, we are powerless against him. He thanked us with his Bulla Aurea, that we were forced to swallow, thus losing all of our authority not only over the empire’s elections, but also over the Church’s finances within the empire. This is no reconciliation, it is a capitulation. In return, the emperor has generously left our hands free in Italy, that is to say he has honoured us with the chance to plunge them into a veritable hornets’ nest.

  To Italy the Holy Father sent the Cardinal Álvarez d’Albornoz, who is more of a captain than a cardinal, in order to prepare the return to Rome. Albornoz began by pegging himself to Cola di Rienzi, who for a while held sway over Rome. Born in a Trastevere inn, this Rienzo was one of those men of the people with the face of Caesar who spring up from time to time over there, and who captivate the Romans by reminding them that their forefathers used to hold command over the entire universe. Furthermore, he passed himself off as the son of an emperor, having found himself out to be the bastard of Henry VII of Luxembourg, but he remained alone in this opinion. He chose the title of tribune, wore a purple toga, sat in state atop the Capitoline Hill, on the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter. My friend Petrarch welcomed him as the restorer of Italy’s former greatness. This Rienzo could have been used as a pawn on our chessboard, to be advanced discerningly, but not by placing all our hopes on him. He was murdered two years ago by the Colonnas, because Albornoz took too long in sending him assistance, notwithstanding his attachment. Now we must start everything all over again; and we have never been further from returning to Rome, where anarchy reigns even more so than in the past. One should always dream of Rome, but never return there.

  As for Constantinople … Oh! We have made excellent progress in our talks. The Emperor Palaiologus is willing to recognize us; he has solemnly committed to it; he would even go so far as to kneel before us if only he could leave his cramped little empire. He made just one condition: that we send him an army to deliver him from his enemies. He has reached the point where he would happily recognize a country priest in exchange for five hundred knights and a thousand foot soldiers.

  Ah! You too are astonished! If the unity of Christians, if the reuniting of the Churches depends only upon this, can’t we dispatch this little army to the Grecian Sea? Well no, my good Archambaud, we cannot. Because we have neither the material to equip it nor the money to pay the men’s wages. Because our fine policy has produced its results; because, to disarm our critics, we resolved to reform ourselves and return to the purity of the Church of our origins … Which origins? Most bold is the one who can claim to truly know them! What purity! No sooner were there twelve apostles than there was a traitor amongst them.

  And to start by doing away with the commendams and benefices not contributing to the cure of souls. ‘The flock should be kept by a shepherd, not by a mercenary’, and to order that those who have amassed wealth should be excluded from the divine mysteries – ‘Let us make ourselves in the image of the poor’ – and to ban all tributes coming from prostitutes and games of dice … yes, we have indeed gone down deep into such details. Ah! It is because games of dice encourage the utterance of blasphemy; no impure money; let us not grow fat from sin, which, becoming ever cheaper, only grows and spreads.

  The result of all these reformations is that the coffers are empty, as pure money flows in only the finest of streams; the malcontents have increased tenfold, and there are always false prophets, ‘visionaries’, to preach that the pope is a heretic.

  Ah! If it is true that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the dear Holy Father will have paved a good deal of the way!

  ‘My venerable brother, open up all of your thoughts to me; don’t hide anything from me, even if it is criticism that you have in mind.’

  Can I tell him that if he were to read more attentively what the Creator has written for us in the heavens, he would see that the stars form poor conjunctions and sad quadratures over almost all of the thrones, including his own, on which he is seated precisely because the configuration is ill-fated, whereas, if it were favourable it would probably be me sitting there instead? Can I tell him that when one is in such a bleak sidereal position, that it is not the time to be rebuilding one’s house from top to bottom, but only to be holding it together as best one can, as it was handed down to us, and that it is not enough to turn up from the village of Pompadour in the Limousin, with the simple ways of a peasant, to be heeded by kings and to put right the injustices of the world. The tragedy of our time is that, of the great thrones, none is occupied by a man as great as his charge. Ah! The successors to these kings will not have an easy task!

  He told me again, the day before my departure: ‘Would I be the pope who could have reunited all Christians but who failed to do so? I hear that the King of England is assembling in Southampton fifty vessels to transport near four hundred knights and archers and more than one thousand horses to the continent.’ I do indeed believe that he had heard as much; it was I who gave him the news. ‘It is half of what I would need to satisfy the Emperor Palaiologus. Couldn’t you, with the assistance of our brother the Cardinal Capocci, whom I know well does not have all of your qualities, and whom I cannot manage to love as much as I love you …’ flour, flour to send me to sleep … ‘but who in the eyes of King Edward is not seen as unworthy, couldn’t you together persuade him, instead of putting this expedition to use against France … Yes, I can see what you are thinking. King John has also called up his army; but he is open to feelings of chivalrous and Christian honour. You have power over him. If the two kings gave up the idea of fighting each other and both dispatched the entirety of their forces to Constantinople so that it could return to the fold of the only true Church, what glory wouldn’t they gain from such an act? Try to impress this upon them, my venerable brother; show them that instead of bloodying their kingdoms, and amassing suffering for their Christian peoples, they would make themselves worthy of the loyalty of the most valiant knights and saints.’

  I replied: ‘Most Holy Father, what you wish for will
be the easiest thing in the world to achieve, as soon as two conditions have been met: for King Edward, that he be recognized rightful King of France and crowned in Rheims; for King John, that King Edward relinquish his claims and that he pay homage to him. Once these two things are accomplished, I see no other obstacle.’

  ‘You are making fun of me, my brother; you have no faith.’

  ‘I have faith, Most Holy Father, but I do not feel myself capable of making the sun shine at night. That said, I believe with all my faith that if God wants a miracle, He can accomplish it without us.’

  We remained a moment without talking, as a cart was unloading its cargo of rubble stones in a neighbouring courtyard and a team of carpenters were having a row with the cart drivers. The pope lowered his big nose, his big nostrils, his big beard. Finally, he says: ‘At least, get from them a new truce. Tell them that I forbid them to resume hostilities against each other. Should any prelate or cleric oppose your peace efforts, you will deprive him of all of his ecclesiastical benefices. And remember, if the two kings persist in warmongering, you can go so far as to excommunicate them; this is written in your instructions. Excommunication and interdict.’

  Further to this reminder of my powers, I was very much in need of the benediction he gave me. Because, can you see me, Archambaud, in the state in which Europe finds itself, excommunicating the kings of France and England? Edward would have immediately released his Church from all obedience to the Holy See, and John would have sent his constable to lay Avignon to siege. And Innocent, what would he have done, in your opinion? I am going to tell you. He would have disavowed me, and lifted the excommunications. All of that was just words.

  So the following day, we left.

  Three days earlier, on the eighteenth of June, the Duke of Lancaster’s troops had landed in La Hague.

  PART FOUR

  THE SUMMER OF DISASTER

  1

  The Norman Chevauchée

  NOT EVERYTHING CAN always be disastrous. Ah! You have noticed, Archambaud, this is one of my favourite sentiments. Yes! Yes, in the midst of all setbacks, of all sorrows, of all disappointments, we are always graced with some good that comes to comfort us. One simply needs to be able to appreciate it. God is only waiting for our gratitude to better prove his leniency.

  You see, after a calamitous summer for France, and most disappointing, I confess, for my embassy, look how we are favoured by the season and the beautiful weather we have to continue our journey! It is an encouragement from the heavens.

  I feared, after the rains we had in Berry, that we would come into a spell of bad weather, gusts of wind and the cold as we moved further north. And I was preparing to shut myself away in my palanquin, wrap myself up in furs and sustain us with mulled wine. And yet it is quite the opposite; the air has warmed, the sun is shining, and this December is like a spring. We sometimes experience this in Provence; but I didn’t expect such light, which brightens the countryside, such warmth that the horses sweat under their covers, to greet our entrance into Champagne.

  It was almost cooler, I assure you, when I arrived in Breteuil in Normandy, at the beginning of July, to meet the king.

  For, having left Avignon on the twenty-first of the month of June, it was the twelfth of July … ah! All right, you remember; I have already told you, and Capocci was sick, that’s right, at the speed at which I had him travel.

  What King John was doing in Breteuil? The siege, the siege of the castle, after a short Norman chevauchée which had not been a great triumph for him, that is the least one can say.

  The Duke of Lancaster, may I remind you, landed in the Cotentin on the eighteenth of June. Pay attention to the dates; they are most important, in this instance. The stars? Ah, no, I hadn’t particularly studied the stars for that day. What I meant was that in war, the weather and one’s speed sometimes count as much and sometimes even more than the number of troops.

  So, he lands on the eighteenth of June; over the next three days he effects a junction at the Abbey of Montebourg with the detachments on the continent: the one that Robert Knolles, a good captain, brings from Brittany, and the one raised by Philip of Navarre. How many are the three of them lining up? Philip of Navarre and Godfrey of Harcourt scarcely have more than one hundred knights with them. Knolles supplies the largest contingent: three hundred men-at-arms, five hundred archers, not all English by the way; there are Bretons there who come with John of Montfort, pretender to the duchy against the Count of Blois, who is the Valois’ man. Lastly, Lancaster himself has just one hundred and fifty suits of armour and two hundred archers, but he has a sizeable remount of horses.

  When King John II learned of these figures, he laughed a laugh that shook him from his belly to his hair. Did they think they could scare him with this pitiful army? If that was all his English cousin could muster, he had no great need for concern. ‘I was right, you see, Charles, my son, you see, Audrehem, not to fear putting my son-in-law in jail; yes, I was right to pour scorn upon the challenges of these little Navarrese, since they can only produce such meagre insignificant allies.’

  And he gave himself credit for having, from the beginning of the month, called up the army in Chartres. ‘Wasn’t it good foresight, what do you say, Audrehem, what do you say, Charles, my son? And you see that it sufficed to call up the ban and not the arrière-ban. Let them run, these good Englishmen, let them get deeper into the country. We will swoop down on them and throw them into the mouth of the River Seine.’

  He had rarely been so joyful, I was told, and I am willing to believe it. For this perpetually vanquished man loves war, at least in his dreams. Setting off, giving orders from high up on his charger, to be obeyed, at last! For in war, people obey … in any case at the beginning; leave the worries of finance and of government to Nicolas Braque, Lorris, de Bucy and the others; live in the company of men, no more women in the entourage; moving, moving constantly, eating in the saddle, in big mouthfuls, or at the roadside, sheltered by a tree already laden with tiny green fruit, receiving the scouts’ reports, pronouncing fine words that each one would go and repeat: ‘If the enemy is thirsty, he will drink his own blood’, place his hand on the shoulder of a knight who flushes with pleasure. ‘Never tired, Boucicaut. Your fine sword abounds, noble Coucy!’

  And yet, has he won a single victory? Never. At twenty-two, designated by his father as Chief of War in Hainaut … ah! What a fine name: Chief of War! … He got himself noteworthily torn apart by the English. At twenty-five, with an even finer title, as if he were inventing them himself: Lord of the Conquest, he cost the populations of Languedoc dearly, without succeeding, in four months of siege, to take back Aiguillon, at the confluence of the Lot and the Garonne rivers. But listening to him, one would think that his battles were remarkable exploits, however sad their outcomes. Never has a man acquired so much assurance through the experience of defeat.

  This time, he was making his pleasure last.

  In the time it took him to fetch the oriflamme from Saint-Denis and, still without hurrying, regain Chartres, the Duke of Lancaster had already crossed the River Dives, having passed by Caen in the south, and come to spend the night in Lisieux. The memory of the chevauchée of Edward III, ten years earlier, and particularly of the sack of Caen, was not faded. Hundreds of bourgeois slain in the streets, forty thousand pieces of cloth snatched, all the precious objects removed to the other side of the Channel, the complete immolation of the town avoided by a whisker … the people of Normandy had certainly not forgotten and rather seemed eager to let the English archers through. All the more so that Philip of Évreux-Navarre and Messire Godfrey of Harcourt made it known that these Englishmen were friends. Butter, milk and cheeses were abundant, the cider readily drinkable; the horses in the luxuriant meadows didn’t lack forage. After all, feeding one thousand Englishmen, for one evening, cost less than paying the king all year round, his gabelle, his fouage,40 and his eight denier in the pound tax on purchased goods.

  In Chartres, John I
I was to find his army rather less gathered together and ready than he had thought. He had been counting on an army of forty thousand men. Scarcely a third of that number could be counted. But wasn’t it enough, wasn’t it already too many in comparison with the enemy he was to face? ‘Aha! I will not pay those who did not turn up; all the more to my advantage. But I command that they be sent remonstrances.’

  By the time he had set himself up in his fleur-de-lis-covered battle tent and dispatched those remonstrances … ‘When the king wants, knights must’ … the Duke of Lancaster was in Pont-Audemer, one of the King of Navarre’s fiefs. He was delivering the castle that a French party had been laying siege to for several weeks in vain, and was reinforcing, though not by much, the Navarrese garrison, with whom he was leaving a year’s worth of supplies, before heading south, where he was going to pillage the Abbey of Bec-Hellouin.

  Time for the constable, the Duke of Athens, to bring a semblance of order to the chaos of Chartres, for those who had shown up had been trampling the fields of new wheat for three weeks now and were beginning to lose their patience, time especially to calm the discord between the two marshals, Audrehem and Jean of Clermont, who hated each other with a passion, and tackle Lancaster, who was already at the foot of the walls of the Castle of Conches and had dislodged the occupants in the name of the king. And then he set fire to it. In this way, the memory of Robert of Artois, and more recently that of Charles the Bad went up in smoke. That castle brought no good luck … And Lancaster headed for Breteuil. Apart from Évreux, all of the strongholds that the king had wanted to seize in his son-in-law’s fief were reclaimed one after the other.