The Poisoned Crown

by Maurice Druon

  Queen Clémence spent the hours of the afternoon at her embroidery. She had started upon a great altar-cloth which was to depict Paradise. The elect strolled about beneath a pure blue sky among orange and lemon trees; Paradise bore a peculiar resemblance to the gardens of Naples.

  ‘One does not become a queen to find happiness,’ Queen Clémence often thought, repeating the words of her grandmother, Marie of Hungary. She was not really unhappy in the proper sense of the term; she had no reason to be so. ‘These are wicked thoughts,’ she said to herself, ‘and it is wrong of me not to thank God for all He has given me.’ She could not understand the reason for the lassitude, the melancholy, and the boredom which oppressed her day after day.

  Was she not surrounded by every possible care? She had always about her at least three ladies-in-waiting, chosen from among the most noble ladies of the Kingdom, to carry out her smallest desires, foresee her least wishes, carry her missal, thread her needle, hold her mirror, do her hair, and place a cloak about her whenever the temperature dropped.

  The best minstrels succeeded each other in telling her of the adventures of King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, and the Golden Legend of the saints.

  There were ten couriers with but one duty: to carry her correspondence with her grandmother, her uncle, King Robert, and her other relatives between Naples and Vincennes.

  She had for her own use four white horses, harnessed with silver bits and silken reins woven with gold thread; and, that she might accompany the King to the meeting at Compiègne, so exquisitely luxurious a travelling coach had been built for her that, with its wheels shaped like flaming suns, Countess Mahaut’s seemed no more than a haywain beside it.

  And was not Louis really the best husband upon earth? Once she had said, upon visiting Vincennes, that the castle delighted her and that it was there she would like to live, Louis had decided at once to abandon Paris and make it his permanent residence. All the great lords had immediately set about buying land round Vincennes and building themselves houses. It was even said that Messire Tolomei had considerably assisted them in their purchase of land and that, thanks to him, the neighbourhood had gained enormously in prosperity. And Clémence, who had not realized what a winter at Vincennes could be like, now no longer dared admit that she would have preferred to return to Paris, fearing to disappoint all the people who had been put to considerable expense so as to live in her vicinity.

  The King was overwhelmingly kind. Not a day passed but he bought her some new present; she was almost embarrassed by it.

  ‘Dearest,’ he had said, ‘I want you to be the best endowed woman in the world.’

  But did she really need three golden crowns, one encrusted with ten huge balas rubies, the second with four great emeralds, sixteen small ones, and twenty-four pearls, and the third with pearls again, and emeralds and rubies?17

  For her table Louis had bought her twelve silver-gilt goblets enamelled with the arms of France and Hungary. And because she was devout and he so much admired her piety, he had given her a great reliquary, for which he had paid eight hundred pounds, containing a fragment of the True Cross. It would have discouraged his good intentions to tell him one could pray equally well in the middle of a garden, and that the most beautiful monstrance in the world, in spite of all the arts of goldsmiths and all the fortunes of kings, still remained the sun shining brilliantly down upon the Mediterranean.

  A month ago Louis had made her a present of lands which she had not yet had time to visit: the houses and manors of Maneville, Hébicourt, Saint-Denis de Fermans, Wardes, and Dampierre, the forests of Lyons and of Bray.

  ‘Why, my dear lord,’ she had asked him, ‘do you dispossess yourself of so much property in my favour, since I am but your servant, and can only profit by them through you?’

  ‘I am not dispossessing myself of anything,’ Louis had replied. ‘All these lordships belonged to Marigny, from whom I took them back by a judgement of the court, and I can dispose of them as I wish. In case something happened to me, I want to leave you the richest woman in the Kingdom.’

  In spite of the repugnance she felt at inheriting the possessions of a man who had been hanged, could she refuse them when they were given her as gauges of love? And the King insisted upon proclaiming his love even in the deed of gift itself: ‘We, Louis, by the Grace of God, King of France and Navarre, make known to all by these presents that we, in consideration of the happy and agreeable companionship that Clémence humbly and amiably brings us, by which she merits well that we should courteously make deed of gift ...’

  Could a state paper be more charmingly composed? And he had also made over to her the houses at Corbeil and Fontainebleau. Every night he spent with her seemed to be worth a castle. Yes, indeed, Messire Louis loved her well. Never had he shown himself to be The Hutin in her presence, and she could not understand how he had earned that nickname. There was never quarrel nor anger between them. God had given her a good husband indeed.

  And yet, in spite of it all, Clémence was bored. She did not hear the minstrels’ voices and sighed as she drew golden threads to embroider her lemons.

  She had tried in vain to interest herself in the affairs of Artois concerning which Louis, night after night, discoursed alone in her presence as he strode up and down the room.

  She was terrified by the great bawling speeches of Count Robert which he uttered in a voice loud enough to blow the roofs off Vincennes, calling her ‘Cousin!’ the while, as if he were cheering on his pack of hounds, crying that Madame Mahaut and Madame of Poitiers were no more than a couple of harlots, which Clémence indeed refused to believe.

  She was irritated by Monseigneur of Valois, who buzzed round her saying, ‘Well, Niece, when are you going to give us an heir to the throne?’

  ‘When God wills, Uncle,’ she replied gently.

  The fact was, she had no friends. She realized, because she was intelligent and without vanity, that every mark of affection shown her was interested. She learnt that kings are never loved for themselves, and that those who kneel before them have but one thought: that of picking up the crumbs of power that fall from the august lips.

  ‘One does not become a queen to find happiness; it may even be that being a queen prevents one from finding it,’ Clémence was saying to herself again one afternoon, when Monseigneur of Valois, who always seemed to be in a hurry, as if he were about to repulse some enemy from the frontiers, came in to see her and said, ‘Niece, I am bringing you news which will upset the Court: your sister-in-law, Madame of Poitiers, is pregnant. The matrons have certified it this morning. Your neighbour, the Countess Mahaut, is already bedecking her castle of Conflans with flags as if the feast of Corpus Christi was to take place there.’

  ‘I’m delighted for Madame of Poitiers’s sake,’ said Clémence.

  ‘And I hope she’s grateful to you,’ went on Charles of Valois, ‘because it’s to you she owes her present condition. If you had not asked for her pardon on your wedding day, I very much doubt whether Louis would have granted it.’

  ‘God proves that I did well since he has blessed their union.’

  Valois, who was warming himself at the fireplace, turned round suddenly, making his cloak fly about him as if he were unfurling a standard.

  ‘It seems that God is less eager to bless yours,’ he replied. ‘When are you going to make up your mind, Niece, to follow your sister-in-law’s example? It’s a great pity that she’s got there first. Clémence, you must allow me to talk to you as a father. You know I don’t like beating about the bush. Between ourselves, does Louis fulfil his duties as a husband?’

  ‘Louis is as attentive as a husband could be.’

  ‘Listen, Niece, understand me well; I’m talking of a husband’s Christian duties, physical duties if you prefer it.’

  Clémence blushed. She stammered, ‘I don’t understand your meaning, Uncle. I have but little experience, but I cannot see that Louis is in any way at fault in the matter. I have barely been married five months
and I hardly think there is yet reason for your alarm.’

  ‘Yes, but does he regularly honour your bed?’

  ‘Nearly every night, Uncle, if that is what you want to know, and I cannot do more than be at his service when he desires it.’

  ‘Well, we must hope! We must hope!’ said Charles of Valois. ‘But you must realize, Niece, that it is I who arranged your marriage. And I would not like to be blamed for having made a bad choice.’

  Then, for the first time, Clémence showed some signs of anger. She pushed her embroidery to one side, stood up straight in front of her chair and, in a voice in which could be detected the tones of old Queen Marie, replied, ‘You seem to forget, Messire of Valois, that my grandmother of Hungary had thirteen children, that my mother Clémence of Hapsburg had already had three when she died at about my age. The women of our family are fruitful, Uncle, and if there is any impediment to what you so much desire, it cannot come from my heredity. And what’s more, Messire, we have spoken enough upon this subject for today, and for ever.’

  And she went and shut herself up in her room.

  It was there that Eudeline, the linen-maid, coming to prepare the bed, found her two hours later, sitting before a window beyond which night had now fallen.

  ‘What, Madam,’ she cried, ‘haven’t they brought you a light? I’ll call them!’

  ‘No, no, I don’t want anyone,’ said Clémence wearily.

  The linen-maid revived the fire which was dying on the hearth, plunged a resinous branch into the faggots and used it to light a candle standing in an iron candlestick.

  ‘Oh, Madam, you’re weeping!’ she said. ‘Has someone wounded you?’

  The Queen dried her eyes; she seemed absent, her thoughts far away.

  ‘Eudeline, Eudeline,’ she cried, ‘my mind is troubled with wicked thoughts; I am jealous.’

  Eudeline looked at her in surprise.

  ‘You, Madam, jealous? What possible reason can you have to be jealous? I am sure that our Lord Louis is not deceiving you. The idea hasn’t even entered his head.’

  ‘I am jealous of Madame of Poitiers,’ Clémence replied. ‘I am envious of her because she’s going to have a child, while I still am not expecting one. Oh, I am happy for her. Oh, yes, I’m delighted. But I didn’t know that someone else’s happiness could hurt one so much.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, Madam, other people’s happiness can cause one much sorrow!’

  Eudeline said this with a curious inflexion, not like a servant who approves the words of her mistress, but like a woman who has suffered the same hurt and understands it. Her tone of voice did not escape Clémence.

  ‘Have you too no child?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Madam, indeed, I have a daughter who bears my name and who is eleven years old.’

  She turned away and busied herself with the bed, smoothing down the coverings of brocade and miniver.

  ‘Have you been linen-maid to the castle long?’ Clémence went on.

  ‘Since the spring, immediately before your arrival. Until then I was in the Palace of the Cité, where I looked after the linen of our Lord Louis, after having looked after his father, King Philip’s, for six years.’

  They fell silent and there was no sound but the linen-maid beating up the pillows.

  ‘She must know all the secrets of the house and of the alcove,’ the Queen said to herself. ‘But no, I will not ask her, I will not question her. It’s never right to make servants talk. It would be unworthy of me.’

  But who indeed was there who could tell her the truth, if it were not a servant, one of those beings who share a king’s intimacy without sharing his power? She would never have had the audacity to question the princes of the family about the particular matter which weighed upon her mind since her conversation with Charles of Valois; moreover, she was quite sure she would not get an honest answer. Of the great ladies of the court none really had her confidence, because none of them had really shown herself to be her friend. She felt herself a stranger, oppressed with vain flattery, but watched, observed, her slightest fault or weakness never to be forgiven. Moreover, she felt she could not let herself go except with her servants. Eudeline, in particular, seemed to deserve her friendship; her gaze was frank, her manner simple, her movements calm and sure; the first linen-maid had shown herself daily more attentive, and there was no ostentation about the services she rendered.

  Clémence suddenly made up her mind.

  ‘Is it true,’ she asked, ‘that little Madame of Navarre, who is kept away from the Court and has only been shown me once, is not my husband’s daughter?’

  And at the same time, she was thinking, ‘Should I not have been warned earlier of these secrets of the Crown? My grandmother should have sought more information; indeed, I was allowed to embark upon this marriage ignorant of many things.’

  ‘Indeed, Madam,’ replied Eudeline, still shaking up the pillows and as if the question in no way surprised her, ‘I don’t believe anybody knows, not even our Lord Louis. Everyone hold the point of view that happens to suit him best; those who assert that Madame of Navarre is the King’s daughter have an interest in doing so, and so have those who hold that she is a bastard. There are even some, like Monseigneur of Valois, who change their opinion once a month, concerning a matter which can have but one truth. The only person who could have told for certain was Madame of Burgundy and she is now laid deep in the ground.’

  Eudeline stopped and glanced at the Queen.

  ‘Madam, you are anxious to know if our Lord the King ...’

  She hesitated, but Clémence encouraged her with her eyes.

  ‘Be reassured, Madam,’ said Eudeline, ‘Monseigneur Louis is not incapable of having an heir, as wicked tongues in the Kingdom and even in the Court affirm.’

  ‘Is it known ...?’ Clémence murmured.

  ‘I know it,’ Eudeline replied slowly, ‘and care has been taken to see that I am alone in knowing it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want to speak the truth, Madam, because I too carry a heavy secret. Doubtless, I should still keep silence. But it is no offence to a lady such as yourself, of such high birth and such great charity, to admit to you that I had a child by Monseigneur Louis, in his youth, eleven years ago now.’

  The Queen looked at Eudeline in immeasurable astonishment. That Louis should have had a first wife had not created any problem, except possibly a dynastic one, for Clémence. That union was on the plane of established things. Louis had had a wife who had behaved badly; first prison, and then death, had separated them. But during the whole of the five months since she had married the King of France, Clémence had never once asked herself what Louis and Marguerite of Burgundy’s intimate life had been like. She had never pictured to herself the fact of their physical relations nor had she felt any curiosity about them; she had never connected the fact of their marriage with love. And now love and, what was more, love outside marriage, was standing before her in the person of this beautiful fair woman with her rosy skin, and her luxuriant thirty years; and now Clémence began to think.

  Eudeline took the Queen’s silence for disapproval.

  ‘It was not I who wanted it, Madam, I assure you; it was he who compelled me to it. Besides, he was so young, he had no discernment, and a great lady would doubtless have frightened him.’

  With a gesture of her hand Clémence signified that she desired no further explanations.

  ‘And the child,’ she asked, ‘that’s the one you were telling me about a moment ago?’

  ‘Yes, Madam, it’s Eudeline.’

  ‘I want to see her.’

  An expression of fear appeared upon the linen-maid’s face.

  ‘You can, Madam, you can of course, since you are Queen. But I do ask you not to insist, because it will become known that I have talked to you. She is so like her father that Monseigneur Louis, for fear of upsetting you, had her shut up in a convent just before you arrived. I see her only once a month and, as soon a
s she is of age, she will take the veil.’

  Clémence’s first reactions were always generous. For the moment she forgot her own troubles.

  ‘But why,’ she asked in a low voice, ‘why did he do that? How could anybody think that such a thing would please me, to what kind of women are the Princes of France accustomed? So it’s on my account, my poor Eudeline, that your daughter has been torn from you! I sincerely ask your forgiveness.’

  ‘Oh, Madam,’ Eudeline replied, ‘I know very well that you had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with it, but it was done because of me,’ said Clémence thoughtfully. ‘We are each responsible not only for our own bad actions, but also for the harm of which we are the cause, even unknowingly.’

  ‘And as for myself, Madam,’ Eudeline went on, ‘I was first linen-maid at the Palace of the Cité, and Monseigneur Louis sent me here to this lesser post than the one I held in Paris. No one has the right to question the King’s wishes, but it is small thanks for my having kept silence. Doubtless Monseigneur Louis wishes to conceal me too; it did not occur to him that you would prefer living here among the woods to the great Palace of the Cité.’

  Now that she had begun her confidences, she could no longer stop.

  ‘I don’t mind admitting,’ she went on, ‘that when you arrived, I was prepared to serve you out of duty but certainly not with pleasure. You must be a very noble lady, and as kind-hearted as you are beautiful, for me to feel affection for you growing upon me. You have no idea how much you are loved by the lower orders; you ought to hear them talking of the Queen in the kitchens, the stables, and the laundries! It’s there, Madam, that you have devoted friends, much more so than among the great barons. You have conquered all our hearts, even mine that was most closed against you, and you have now no more devoted servant than I am,’ said Eudeline, going down on her knees and kissing the Queen’s hand.

  ‘I’ll get your daughter back,’ said Clémence, ‘and I’ll protect her. I shall speak to the King.’