The Follies of the King

by Виктория Холт

  Isabella had always been a girl to keep her eyes and ears open. She liked to sit at her father’s table— and he liked her to be there because he was proud of her beauty— and she would be alert, listening to talk. It was gratifying to learn that she was the daughter of the most feared man in Europe.

  They still called him that although it scarcely fitted now. She had heard that when he had come to the throne at the age of seventeen he had been so handsome that women found it difficult to take their eyes from him. He had a cold nature though and rarely any warmth showed. Sometimes she thought he admired her because she had inherited so many of his characteristics— the most obvious being beauty. He no longer possessed his— he had grown too fat and florid― but if he had lost his looks he had gained in power. Some said he was the most ruthless man in Europe. He was cold, harsh and calculating and the more power he achieved, the more he wanted; and he had few scruples when it came to attaining it. That he was vindictive and completely without mercy was well known. It was one of the reasons why he was so feared. He sought not only to rule France but the whole world and even that did not seem to him an impossible dream.

  Isabella knew how pleased he was that Edward of England was kept busy with his border rebels. Of all men, the King of France feared the King of England and Edward’s obsession to bring Wales and Scotland under the English crown was as great as Philip’s dream of complete domination. Edward had died without achieving this success and there was no doubt that her father had looked upon Edward’s death as a happy augury for France.

  She had heard him say. ‘This young cub, my son-in-law will give me no trouble. Or if he does, I shall know how to deal with him.’ Then seeing the look in his daughter’s eyes, he had become alert. He added: ‘My daughter will help me, I know, and she is going to be a power in that troublesome kingdom.’

  It was flattery of course and a reminder. Never forget you are French, daughter. Always remember where your allegiance lies.

  When a Princess married a King and became a Queen his country was hers, and it was to that, she would have thought to which she owed allegiance. But Isabella wondered whether she would ever owe allegiance to any but herself.

  If this were so, she was following the teachings of her father. She had learned not so much through what he had said to her as by watching his actions.

  She had lived through stirring years in the history of her country. She knew that her father had always tried to curb the power of Rome and how it infuriated him to realize that to many of his subjects the Pope stood above him and that they believed they owed first allegiance to the Church rather than to the State.

  There had been a bitter quarrel with Pope Boniface who had dared say that if the King of France did not mend his ways he would be chastised and treated as a little boy. With this admonition had come the threat of excommunication and this was something all dreaded. A weaker man might have sought to placate, but Philip looked for revenge. He demanded that his subjects support him against the Church and so did they fear his ruthless revenge if they did not that most were ready to obey him. The rich Templars were one community which refused to do so.

  Vindictive as he was, Philip vowed he would not forget this and although he never scrupled to break a promise if he saw an advantage in doing so, a vow such as this was he was determined to carry out.

  He was a strong man, her father. Only fools would go against him. Even the Church should have considered before acting rashly. She admired him so much.

  She was proud to be his daughter.

  Philip had sent Guillaume de Nogaret, his trusted minister, to conspire with the Pope’s enemies against him. This he did so successfully that they captured Boniface in the town of Anagni and held him prisoner. He was rescued but that incident had impaired his health and his reason and he died soon after. A new pope was elected who was sponsored by the King of France. This was Benedict.

  Isabella had glowed with pride at her father’s success. Men were right when they said that he was the most powerful man in the world Even the Popes must obey him. But the Pope was far away and Benedict must have forgotten his promises to the King of France which he had given in exchange for his support at the time of his election, for very soon he was talking of excommunicating any who had brought harm to his predecessor Boniface and wanted the matter of his imprisonment inquired into.

  When the shadow of excommunication hung over her father, Isabella had shivered with fear and even he was downcast, dreading that the sentence might be carried out. It was not so much that he would fear to dwell in that unsanctified state as that his soldiers would believe themselves beaten before they went into battle and his ministers would have the idea that working with the King was working against God.

  The King did not fly into tempers; his rages were cold and calculating and his revenge on those who displeased him could be terrible.

  She been working at her embroidery one day when her mother had come to her and sat beside her.

  “The King is in high spirits this day,’ she had commented. “The Pope is dead.” “Oh!” cried Isabella, ‘that is good news for France.’

  “A foolish man,’ commented this Queen. ‘He thought to break his promises to your father.’

  “Then he deserves to die,’ said Isabella. ‘He did not reign long as Pope. Was he an old man that he should die so soon?” The Queen smiled slowly. ‘Let us say that he was a greedy man. A basket of fresh figs was sent to him. He ate too many of them.” ‘Could he die through eating figs?’

  ‘This Pope did,’ said the Queen still smiling.

  What rumours there were about that basket of figs! It was said that the Roman enemies of the Pope had had poison inserted into the luscious fruit before they had been sent to Benedict. It was even whispered that Guillaume de Nogaret had done it. But the chief suspect was one few dared name: the King of France.

  Philip was certainly ready to seize the advantage and was determined that the next Pope should be his man. His choice fell on Bertrand de Goth, a man of great ambitions, and one who would be ready to do anything to gain his ends.

  The very man for Pope. But what chance had the Archbishop of Bordeaux of reaching that mighty pinnacle? None without help of the most powerful man in Europe. And if he had that help?

  ‘Why should we not make a bargain,’ demanded the shrewd King of France.

  A hard bargain it was but the Archbishop knew very well that it was his one hope of becoming Pope, and being the man he was he seized it. In a short time he had become Pope Clement V.

  The papal resident had been moved from Rome to Avignon. This Pope was undoubtedly the King’s man.

  Isabella knew that one of a ruler’s most urgent needs was for money. It was often the topic of conversation in intimate family circles. Subjects thought their rulers were possessed of inexhaustible coffers into which they had but to delve.

  How different was the truth. Those coffers had to be filled and one of the main preoccupations was how to replenish them. Philip was like the rest in this. He had no alchemist’s secret of turning base metal into gold. So he must look about for other means.

  He had hated the Templars since they had opposed him and the desire for revenge on them had been festering in his mind for some time. He would have taken that revenge before had he not been so immersed in papal affairs. Now he saw a means of satisfying two cravings at the same time. He could gain a great deal of money while taking revenge.

  About two years before when there had been riots in Paris, he had been in danger and it had been necessary for him to seek a refuge. This had been offered to him by the Templars in the Temple Palace and during his stay there he had become aware of the amount of treasure which was stored in their vaults.

  Isabella had heard a great deal about the Knights Templars― The Order of the Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem. They were a military religious order of knighthood which had been formed to protect the pilgrims to the Holy Land.

  They had done good service during the
Crusades and they had been maintained and rewarded in many countries and this had been the foundation of their great wealth.

  Lately stories been circulated about the order. Being a rich and successful one, it had generated a great deal of envy. Isabella listened wide-eyed to the gossip. Her women talked of the Templars in hushed whispers while they assisted at her toilette.

  The stories grew more and more outrageous.

  “They have strange ceremonies. They have a Grand Master who is all- powerful. They say that what goes on at the initiation is too evil to be spoken of.’

  ‘But I wish to know,’ Isabella had said.

  Glances were exchanged, reproving ones. ‘These things should not be spoken of before the Princess. ‘They are not for my lady’s ears,’ said one.

  Nothing could anger Isabella more. She wanted to hear everything and the more shocking the more necessary was it for her to hear about it. When her temper was aroused, she had been known to administer many a painful slap or nip.

  ‘You will tell me,’ she said.

  There was moment’s hesitation but only a moment’s, for her attendants had learned it was unwise to offend their imperious mistress. One of them whispered: ‘They spit on the crucifix and deny God.’

  ‘What else?’ demanded Isabella.

  ‘They have to behave― indecently on the altar― with each other.’

  Isabella wrinkled her brows trying to imagine what acts were performed and as she saw that some of her women had a notion of this she was loath to show her ignorance so she repeated: ‘What else?’

  ‘They make obscene images and they worship goats and cats. And there are indecent acts with animals. They kiss them― in all manner of places―’

  This was easier to understand and Isabella stared round-eyed with wonder.

  ‘They have children,’ whispered one woman, ‘when they should not according to law have them. Then they seek to destroy them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They roast them alive over a pan into which the fat drips and this fat they smear over their idols. It is a sort of sacrifice― an offering.’

  ‘It makes me feel sick,’ said Isabella.

  ‘I know we should not have told you, my lady.’

  ‘When I command you to tell me you will tell me, but I do not believe knights would behave so.’

  The women fell silent and then Isabella said: ‘But perhaps they do. My father hates them. He is going to make them sorry for these evil deeds.’

  Then the women shivered for they knew some evil would befall the Knights Templars.

  And they were right.

  They were filling the prisons now; they were confessing their sins. There was only one way of dealing with such wickedness, declared the King. From the squares in Ile de la Cité, the smoke could be seen rising and in the air was the acrid smell of burning flesh. The persecution of the Templars was providing a rich haul, for when a Knight was condemned for his sins his treasures fell naturally into the hands of the King.

  ‘We must impress the English,’ he told Isabella, ‘and as my daughter you must have a dowry worthy of you. We must make much of your bridegroom when he comes to marry you because he is the King of England.’

  She liked to gloat over her treasures with her attendants round her. Her father was true to his word. She was to be magnificently equipped and for this she must thank the Knights Templars for she knew she owed her rich possessions to them.

  ‘It was God’s will that I discovered their villainies at this time,’ commented the King with a wry smile. ‘And there is more to come.’ He rubbed his hands together in glee and the Princess smiled at him. Her brothers thought their father was very clever and so did she, but she hated the smell of burning flesh, which seemed to permeate the air. She would not think of it. After all, it was very wicked of them to burn their babies― even though they should never have had them in the first place― and rub their fat over their idols. That image haunted her, sickened her, so that she turned to her treasures and thought how much better it was for a beautiful young girl to think that they should be buried away in chests in some gloomy vault.

  She had two golden crowns decorated with magnificent jewels and she knew that the jewels had been taken from the Templars’ store and her father had had them set into the golden crowns for her.

  “Remember always, daughter, that you are my daughter. You will have a young husband who is not very serious-minded. You must always remember to make him the friend of France.’

  “Oh, I will my lord, I will.’

  ‘Then you may have these, my child. See how pretty they are. Golden drinking vessels. Shall we wager that they came from the East? Those wicked men picked up many of their treasures there. And see here are silver cups to match. Remember me, dear child, when you drink from them and that you owe your good fortune to your father. Here are golden spoons and look at these porringers, all solid silver.’

  ‘They are beautiful, my lord.’

  ‘They are yours, child. Part of your dowry. I would not have your bridegroom think you go to him as a pauper. It is well that he should know the King of France is in a position to send his daughter to her husband in fitting manner. He must know that whether it be a daughter or an army, there is no lack of treasure to fit out what should be done in a costly manner.’

  So many beautiful garments she had. There were eighteen dresses― all splendid colours and most becoming to her dark beauty― greens, blues and scarlets, all of the finest materials that man could devise. There were surcoats of satin and velvet. There were wimples and filets for her head and gorgets for her throat.

  There were many costly furs to keep her warm in winter, some made into cloaks, some edging her gowns and others to use as coverlets for her bed at night. There was everything she would need, even tapestries to hang on her walls, for these had become fashionable in England since they had been brought in by the late King’s wife, Eleanor of Castile.

  The time had come for her to leave for Boulogne, whither she was to travel with her parents and other members of the family. It was a brilliant cavalcade and she was at the heart of it, riding beside her father and her mother who were clearly proud of their beautiful daughter.

  The princes and members of the nobility were led by her brother Louis, who was the King of Navarre, a title his mother had assigned to him, and like her father he impressed on her the need to remember that she was a daughter of France and that in her new life she must never forget it. She listened intently and assured them fervently that she would remember.

  And in Boulogne, Edward was waiting for her. He was every bit as handsome as they had said. Her heart leaped with delight when she saw the flaxen hair stirred slightly by the breeze and the bluest eyes she had ever beheld.

  Moreover, he was tall and held his head like the King he was.

  Isabella had fallen in love at first sight with the King of England.

  * * *

  He was charming and courteous to her and her parents looked on at the young couple with unfeigned delight. Dear Aunt Marguerite, who herself had gone to England as a young girl to be the bride of the King, the present one’s father, was clearly moved. Aunt Marguerite was gentle and kind and she whispered that she hoped Isabella would be as happy in England as she had been. If there was a faintly apprehensive look in her eyes as she spoke, Isabella did not notice it.

  She noticed nothing but Edward.

  He took her hand and told her how enchanted he was by her beauty. He had heard word of it of course but it exceeded all expectations, and he eagerly awaited their marriage.

  The preparations had been made with the utmost care, and the ceremony in the church of Notre Dame was most impressive. The handsome distinguished looks of the bridegroom, the fresh and startling beauty of the bride, were marvelled and to those who knew nothing of the King’s infatuation for Piers Gaveston it seemed the perfect match.

  Isabella was one of those and she often thought afterwards that had she received some intim
ation of what she would have to expect she might have been able to handle the situation more wisely. For one thing she would never have allowed herself to fall in love.

  Those were happy days— perhaps the happiest of her life. She loved the pomp and ceremony; she loved the homage to her beauty and her rank. In the church of Notre Dame she had become a Queen as well as a wife and Edward appeared to have fallen as deeply in love with her as she with him.

  Edward was in fact chafing against his separation from Gaveston. He knew he must accept this because this marriage was necessary. Isabella was a beautiful girl and she was most enamoured of him so he was lucky for he might have had someone he could not take to at all. This beautiful daughter of the King of France must bear him a child and quickly. Both he and Perrot had agreed on that. He was glad therefore that she was not repulsive to him, and that he could, with some conviction, play the part of the devoted husband.

  This he did and with such success that Isabella believed herself to be the happiest woman in France. Marriage suited her. She had always known it would. She had always liked to hear about her women’s love affairs. Now she understood so much that she never had before and she was going to have few regrets at leaving France because she was going to Edward’s country which she would rule with him.

  She realized quickly that Edward was pliant as well as amiable and that delighted her. She believed he was the kind of man whom she could govern. He clearly wanted to please her. She must keep him thus.

  She began to suspect that he was a little lazy. So much the better. She had energy enough for them both. He would discuss everything with her. They would work together but it would be her will which would be done.

  Oh, she was deeply content in her marriage.

  * * *

  The King of France walked arm-in-arm with his son-in-law in the gardens of the palace.

  ‘It gives me the greatest pleasure,’ said Philip, ‘to see your happiness with my daughter.’

  ‘Your daughter is the most beautiful girl in France,’ replied Edward.