‘Suppose the King of England became King of France?’ he asked.
Artevelde looked at Robert of Artois with incredulity as if he doubted that he had heard him right.
‘I repeat, Messire: Suppose the King of England was King of France? Suppose he laid claim to the crown, established his right to it, proved that the Kingdom of France was his, and became your legitimate sovereign?’
‘Surely Monseigneur, that is only the wildest of dreams!’
‘Not at all!’ cried Robert. ‘The quarrel has never been decided; the cause has never been lost. When my cousin of Valois came to the throne – that is when I got him his throne and you see how grateful he is to me – the English delegates came over to claim the rights of Queen Isabella and her son Edward. It’s not so long ago; less than seven years. No one would listen to them because no one wanted to listen to them, and I had them escorted back to their ship. You call Philippe “the Makeshift King”; why don’t you make another? Suppose the whole case was reopened and you said to your spinners, weavers and merchants, and to the people of your communes: “Your Count holds his rights illegally; it is not to the King of France he owes homage. Your real sovereign is the King in London.”’
It was a dream, of course, but it appealed to Jakob Van Artevelde. The wool that came by sea from the north-west, the cloth both coarse and fine that was exported by the same route, the traffic in the ports, all encouraged Flanders to turn its eyes towards the Kingdom of England. The money from tithes and taxes was all that went to Paris.
‘Do you really believe, Monseigneur, that anyone in the world can be convinced by what you say and persuaded to take part in such an enterprise?’
‘It is enough, Messire, for one person to be convinced: the King of England himself.’
A few days later, with a passport describing him as a cloth merchant, and accompanied by Gillet de Nelle, who for form’s sake was carrying a few ells of cloth, Monseigneur Robert of Artois took ship at Antwerp on his way to London.
2.
Westminster Hall
ONCE AGAIN, CROWNED AND sceptre in hand, a king was sitting surrounded by his peers. Once again prelates, earls and barons were grouped about his throne. Once again the serried ranks of clerics, doctors, jurists, counsellors and dignitaries stood before him.
But instead of the lilies of France, the leopards of the Plantagenets were embroidered on the royal robes. Nor was it the old stone vaults of the Louvre that echoed the murmur of the crowd, but the splendid oak roof, the huge carved beams, of Westminster Hall. The Parliament of England was in session, and the six hundred knights, squires and sheriffs from town and county covered the big square flagstones of the floor.
Curiously enough, the great assembly had gathered to listen to an address from a Frenchman.
Standing a few paces in front of the throne, halfway up the steps at the end of the hall, his robe scarlet and gold in the light from the great window, Count Robert of Artois was making a speech to the delegates of the people of England.
During the two years that had elapsed since Robert had left Flanders, the wheel of destiny had made a quarter-turn. Moreover, the Pope was dead.
Towards the end of 1334 the now feeble little old man, who, during one of the longest of all pontifical reigns had given the Church both a powerful administration and prosperous finances, had been compelled, as he lay on his deathbed in the green room in his great palace at Avignon, publicly to renounce the only tenets he had ever been able to hold with true conviction. To avoid the schism threatened by the University of Paris, and in pursuance of the orders of the Court of France in whose favour he had settled so many dubious affairs and kept so many secrets, he had to deny his sermons, writings and encyclicals. Master Buridan34 had dictated to the Holy Father what it was proper to hold in matters of dogma: Hell existed, full of roasting souls, the better to assure authority over their subjects to the princes of this world; Paradise, like any good hotel, was open to every loyal knight who massacred on behalf of his king, as well as to all accommodating prelates who blessed crusades. None of these righteous people had need to wait for the Last Judgement before enjoying the Beatific Vision.
The day after this enforced disclaimer, John XXII died; and there were doctors on Mont Sainte-Geneviève malicious enough to observe: ‘At any rate, he must know now if Hell exists.’
The Conclave made ready to assemble, but it was involved in such a maze of rival interests that the election looked as if it might well take longer than ever before, even including the latest of eighteen years ago. France, England, the Emperor, the impetuous King of Bohemia, the erudite King of Naples, the Kings of Majorca and Aragon, the Roman nobility, the Visconti of Milan and the Republics were all exerting influence on the cardinals.
To gain time and not to favour any of these influences, the cardinals, on being locked in, had all decided on the same policy: ‘I shall vote for whoever has the least chance of being elected.’
But God works in a mysterious way. The cardinals had agreed so well on the candidate who could not possibly become Pope that their voting papers all bore the same name: Jacques Fournier, the ‘White Cardinal’ as he was called, since he always wore the Cistercian habit. When the announcement was made, the cardinals, the populace and indeed the Pope-elect were all equally surprised. The new Pope’s first utterance to his colleagues was that they had elected an ass.
He was being too modest.
Benedict XII, having been elected by mistake, showed himself to be a pacific pope. His first concern was to stop the bloody struggle that was going on in Italy, and to re-establish concord, if it were possible, between the Holy See and the Empire. And, for a while, it looked as if it might be possible. Louis of Bavaria had responded favourably to the Pope’s advances and negotiations were being pursued, when Philippe of Valois had angrily entered the lists. How dared they exclude him, the leading monarch in Christendom, from such important negotiations? Was any influence but his to be allowed to hold sway over the Holy See? Was his dear cousin, the King of Bohemia, to renounce his chivalrous plans for Italy?
Philippe VI ordered Benedict XII to recall his ambassadors and break off negotiations, under threat of confiscating all the cardinals’ property in France.
Then, accompanied by his friend the King of Bohemia, by the King of Navarre and an escort of barons and knights so numerous that it was practically an army, Philippe VI went to spend Easter 1336 in Avignon. He had arranged to meet the Kings of Naples and Aragon there. It was his way of reminding the new Pope of his duty, and making it perfectly clear what was expected of him.
But Benedict XII, in his own peculiar way, showed that he was not such an ass as he pretended to be, and that a king would be well advised to assure himself of the Pope’s friendship before undertaking a crusade.
On Good Friday he went into the pulpit to preach on the subject of our Lord’s agony, and to give his blessing to the crusade. He could do no less when four crusading kings and two thousand lances were encamped round the town. But on Low Sunday Philippe VI, who had gone to the coast of Provence to inspect his great fleet, was unpleasantly surprised to receive a letter written in elegant Latin relieving him of his vows and oaths. Since there was still a state of war among the Christian nations, the Holy Father could not possibly allow the greatest defenders of the Church to depart for the lands of the infidel.
The Valois crusade came to an end in Marseilles.
The gallant King had been high-handed, but the Cistercian Pope was more high-handed still. For the hand that blessed could also excommunicate; and it was hard to imagine a crusade which was excommunicated before it had even set off.
‘Settle your differences with England, my son, and your difficulties with Flanders; and leave me to settle the difficulties with the Emperor; give me proof that there will be a sound and lasting peace in our countries, and then you may go to convert the infidel to those virtues which you have shown yourself.’
Since the Pope insisted on it, Philippe fir
st set about adjusting his differences with England. But he chose to do so by reminding young Edward of his obligations as a vassal and demanding that he should hand over immediately that felon, Robert of Artois, to whom he was giving asylum. When their pride is wounded, counterfeit great men such as Philippe are apt to seek these contemptible forms of revenge.
By the time the demand for his extradition had been forwarded to London by the Seneschal of Guyenne, Robert had already obtained a solid footing in the English Court. His manners, his innate force and his readiness of speech had already gained him many friends; old Wryneck was full of his praises. The young King had great need of an experienced man who was an expert in French affairs. And who knew them better than the Count of Artois? Since he might be useful, his misfortunes inspired nothing but compassion.
‘Sire, my cousin,’ he said to Edward III, ‘if you consider my presence in your kingdom troublesome or dangerous, hand me over to the hatred of the Makeshift King. I shall not complain, for you have shown me great hospitality; I shall have only myself to blame for having, against all right, given the throne to that wicked Philippe instead of to yourself, whom I then scarcely knew.’
He said this with a deep bow and his hand on his heart.
Edward III answered quietly: ‘My cousin, you are my guest, and your counsel is precious to me. If I handed you over to the King of France, I would be the enemy not only of my own honour but of my interest. Moreover, you have been welcomed to the Kingdom of England and not to the Duchy of Guyenne, French sovereignty does not rule here.’
Philippe VI’s demand was left unanswered.
And week by week, if not day by day, Robert continued his persuasions. He distilled the poison of temptation into Edward’s ear and into those of his counsellors. He would come in and say: ‘I salute the real King of France!’
He never missed an opportunity of pointing out that the Salic Law had been invented only for a special occasion and that Edward’s right to the crown of Hugues Capet was the better founded. Young Edward was only the latest of the princes on whom Robert had exercised the seductions of his dangerous policies.
When a second demand was made for Robert’s extradition, Edward III had responded by giving the exile three castles, a pension of twelve hundred marcs and settling some of his debts with the Lombard bankers.35
It was also at this time that Edward gave handsome proofs of his gratitude to his servants. He created his friend William Montacute Earl of Salisbury, and distributed titles and lands to the handful of young lords who had supported him in the affair at Nottingham.
And then, for the third time, Philippe VI sent his Grand Master of the Crossbowmen with an ultimatum to the Seneschal of Guyenne, who was to inform the King of England, that Robert of Artois, the mortal enemy of the Kingdom of France, must be handed over within a fortnight or the duchy would be sequestered.
‘That’s just what I expected!’ cried Robert. ‘That fool Philippe can think of nothing better than to repeat the plan I made, my dear Sire Edward, against your father: first issue an order which is contrary to law, then sequester the duchy in default of its execution, and thereby impose the alternatives of humiliation or war. The difference, however, is that England now has a king who really rules, and France no longer has Robert of Artois.’
He did not add: ‘There was then an exile in France playing exactly the same game as I am here, and his name was Mortimer!’
Robert had succeeded beyond his hopes; he was himself becoming the cause of the war he longed to see declared; and in his own person he was now of capital importance. To get the war started, he preached the policy that the King of England should lay claim to the crown of France.
And this was why, on that September day of 1337, he was standing on the steps of Westminster Hall, looking like some huge storm-bird with his wide sleeves spread against the tracery of the great window, and addressing the English Parliament at the King’s request. With thirty years’ training in public affairs behind him, he was able to speak without documents or notes.
Some of the members had only an imperfect knowledge of French and had to get their neighbours to translate certain passages for them.
As the Count of Artois developed his theme, a deep silence fell over the assembly, broken only by murmurs of surprise at some of the more startling revelations. And, indeed, his speech contained much matter for astonishment. Though the two countries were separated by no more than a narrow arm of the sea, though the princes of the two Courts intermarried, though the barons of England held estates in France and merchants travelled from one land to the other, yet neither nation really knew what was happening in the other.
For instance, the rule that ‘France can neither be remitted to nor transmitted by a woman’ was not based on ancient custom at all, but merely the result of the whim of a peppery old dotard of a constable twenty years ago when the succession to a king who had been assassinated was in question. Yes, indeed, Louis X, the Hutin, had been assassinated. Robert of Artois not only asserted it but named his murderess.
‘I knew her well; she was my aunt, and she stole my inheritance from me.’
Robert spiced his speech with the crimes committed by the French princes and the scandals of the Capet Court. The members of the English Parliament shuddered with horror and indignation, just as if the appalling crimes committed in their own land and by their own Court were of no account.
And Robert pursued his arguments, which were precisely the opposite to those he had once put forward in favour of Philippe of Valois. He managed to do so, however, with just as much conviction.
It was clear, therefore, that at the death of King Charles IV, Philip the Fair’s last son, the crown of France, even if one bowed to the French barons’ dislike of being ruled by a woman, should in all justice have gone through Queen Isabella to the only male in the direct line.
The great red robe suddenly swirled before the eyes of the startled English as Robert turned to the King. He fell on one knee on the stone floor. ‘Should have gone to you, noble Sire Edward, King of England, whom I recognize and salute as the true King of France,’ he cried.
There had been no such enthusiasm since the wedding at York. The English were being told that their Sovereign could claim a kingdom twice as large as England and three times as rich. It was as if every man’s fortune and worldly dignity had been increased in proportion.
But Robert knew that an audience’s enthusiasm must never be given time to lapse. He rose quickly to his feet and began reminding the assembly that, at the time Charles IV’s successor was being chosen, King Edward had sent over the famous and much respected Bishop Adam Orleton who, were he not at present in Avignon seeking the Pope’s support for the cause, could have borne witness himself to what had happened when he had claimed the King of England’s rights.
And was Robert to pass over in silence the part he himself had played in the election of Philippe of Valois? Throughout his life he had found that nothing served him better than calculated candour. He employed it now.
Who was it who had refused to listen to the English Bishop? Who had refused to admit the claims he made? Who had prevented him from presenting his case to the barons of France? Robert beat his chest with his huge fists and cried: ‘It was I, my noble lords and squires! It was I, who am standing here before you; I thought I was acting for the best and maintaining peace; and so I chose the part of injustice. And I have not yet fully expiated the crime I committed then, even by all the misfortunes that have since befallen me.’
His voice echoed among the beams and reached the farthest corners of the hall.
Could he have found a more convincing argument? He was accusing himself of having had Philippe VI elected unjustly; he pleaded guilty, but at the same time presented his defence. Before becoming King, Philippe of Valois had promised him an equitable solution to all the outstanding difficulties; a lasting peace would be negotiated, leaving possession of the whole of Guyenne to the King of England; Flanders would be gran
ted certain privileges for the encouragement of trade; and Artois would be restored to himself. He had therefore acted as he did with conciliation in view and for the general good. But here, indeed, was proof that one should never base one’s actions on anything but justice; to listen to the false promises of men was clearly disastrous, for today the heir to Artois was an exile, Flanders starving and Guyenne menaced.
Therefore, if they had to go to war, let it not be over vain quarrels about homage, interpretations of sovereignty or definitions of vassalage, but rather for a real, great and true aim: the possession of the crown of France. The day the King of England donned it, there would cease to be any reasons for discord either in Guyenne or Flanders. Nor would there be lacking allies in Europe, among both the princes and the people.
And if noble Sire Edward required him, Robert of Artois, to spill his blood in this great adventure which would change the fate of nations, he was prepared, he cried, his hands reaching out from his velvet sleeves towards the King, the Lords and the Commons, indeed towards the whole of England, to offer it freely.
3.
The Defiance at the Tower of Nesle
WHEN IN PARIS ON All Saints’ Day Bishop Henry de Burghersh, the Treasurer of England, escorted by William Montacute, the new Earl of Salisbury, William Bohun, now Earl of Northampton, and Robert Ufford, now Earl of Suffolk, presented Edward III’s letters of defiance to Philippe VI, the King of France laughed as the King of Jericho had laughed at Joshua.
Could he have heard right? Was young cousin Edward really claiming the crown of France? Philippe caught the eyes of his cousins the King of Navarre and the Duke of Bourbon. They had just come from dinner, and Philippe was in particularly good humour. His cheeks and long nose turned slightly pink, and he began laughing again.
Had this bishop, who leaned so majestically on his crozier, and these three English lords, who stood so stiffly before him in their emblazoned surcoats, come to make some moderate announcement, such as their master’s refusal to hand over Robert of Artois, or a protest against the decree for the seizure of Guyenne, Philippe would doubtless have been angry. But this claim to his crown and kingdom merely turned the embassy into a piece of buffoonery.
The Lily and the Lion Page 25