by Jean Plaidy
‘What more could I have done?’ Philip demanded. ‘I gave up Agnes, I took back Ingeburga.’ A cold fear came to him. Was God asking him to live with her as her husband? Oh no! That was asking too much. God could not be so cruel. And while he tormented himself he watched his beloved namesake die.
There was deep mourning at court. Young Louis was the important one now. He was a fine upstanding little fellow, a child of whom a King could be proud – but then so had Philip been. Alive and well one week and dead the next! It looked like the hand of an avenging God, for no one could suggest for a moment that the child had been poisoned.
As though in compensation Blanche almost immediately became pregnant and in due course gave birth to another boy. She wanted to call him Alphonso after her father, but this was not a French name. However, Philip was so delighted that there should be another boy in the nursery that he agreed providing the French form of the name – Alphonse – was used. He was delighted, he said, that she showed how deeply she cared for her father that she wished her son to be called after him.
Philip admitted to himself that few kings could be as content with their heirs as he was with his. He thought of his beloved Richard Coeur de Lion – who had had none – and Henry, Richard’s father, who had watched his sons – one by one – turn against him.
Louis would never do that. He could say without reservation that in Louis he had the best of sons. He remembered how, long ago, he had forbidden him to ride into the tourneys and not once had Louis disobeyed him; although the decree had put him into a difficult situation and might secretly have earned him the name of coward in some quarters.
Louis, Robert, Alphonse and then John all following each other and taking as little time as possible to do so. Four healthy grandsons. How Philip gloated! God could not have been displeased after all.
News reached the Court of France which astonished all those who heard it. Queen Isabella, widow of King John, had arrived in Lusignan with her daughter Joan who was betrothed to Hugh de Lusignan, but having set eyes on Isabella he had decided to marry her instead.
Philip laughed heartily.
‘I remember her well. When John made off with her they called her the Helen of the thirteenth century. To see her was to understand why. I believe quite a number of men were completely bewitched by her. John certainly was. As for Hugh de Lusignan he waited all these years for her. But I doubt not that he has married trouble.’
‘I doubt it not either,’ said Blanche.
Philip looked sideways at his daughter-in-law. She would be remembering her meeting with Isabella; and she would feel that natural antipathy to her which he supposed most women would feel towards one who must put them all in the shade.
He wondered whether Isabella had lost any of that allure. He doubted it. Women like that kept it to the end of their days and the fact that Hugh had taken her instead of her young daughter suggested that she still retained that potent power to attract men.
Blanche was uneasy yet she could not understand why the thought of Isabella’s being near should make her so. She had felt an inexplicable revulsion when they had met and in spite of what most people would think, it had nothing to do with envy of a blatant ability to attract men.
‘I trust Hugh will be happy with her,’ she said to Louis.
‘He has never married and it is almost as though he waited for her, so he must be sure of his feelings.’
‘I would suspect that she brought her daughter to Lusignan with the idea of marrying the bridegroom herself.’
Louis did not really believe that was possible, but then he was a very innocent man.
When news came to the court that Hugh refused to send her daughter back to England until Isabella’s dowry was sent out, the comment was that this would be Isabella’s doing. For all his valour Hugh was a quiet man.
‘Depend upon it,’ said Philip, ‘she will lead him by the nose.’
‘I wonder how she likes being the wife of a count when she has been a queen,’ murmured Blanche.
‘I’ll wager you she does not like it at all,’ said Philip.
‘Then,’ replied Blanche, ‘the chances are that she will attempt to do something about it.’
‘What can she do?’ asked Philip. ‘She married him of her own free will. She is back to what she would have been if John had not seen her riding in the forest. At least Hugh won’t hang her lovers over her bed.’
‘It is to be hoped that she will not take any and be satisfied with her husband.’
Philip shrugged his shoulders and Blanche’s uneasiness persisted.
For some time Philip had been plagued by the Albigensians against whom, because they were in the South of France, the Pope had commanded him to campaign. To go into battle with them was going into battle for the Church and it was an opportunity for a man to receive a remission of his sins where, before this sect has arisen, he would have to make the long, tedious and dangerous journey to the Holy Land to achieve the same purpose.
The Albigenses, so called because they lived in the diocese of Albi, were a people who loved pleasure, music and literature; they were by no means irreligious, but they liked to indulge in freedom of thought. Their great pleasure was to discuss ideas and examine doctrines and the Pope, recognising in this a danger, sent men of the Church to preach to these people and point out the folly and the danger of their discourse. The result was what might have been expected. The preachers were listened to at first and when it was discovered that they had not come to develop ideas but to prevent the discussion of them, were ignored.
The Church was watchful. It feared that irrefutable arguments might be put forward against it. Seventy or eighty years earlier Peter Abelard had been such a danger. His rationalistic interpretation of the Christian doctrines had caused him to be branded a heretic and St Bernard, the Abbot of Clairvaux, had thundered against him. His love affair with Heloise, who became Prioress of Argenteuil and Abbess of the Paraclete had been of use to Bernard and Abelard had been defeated.
St Bernard had visited Toulouse which was the centre of this unrest which had been brought about by the interference of the Church. The people of Albi had no wish to interfere with existing Church lore, merely to have the freedom to discuss and worship in their own way.
There had been attempts to carry out persecutions but these had come to little. Raymond, Count of Toulouse, was an easygoing man. He did not want trouble with Rome, nor did he wish to antagonise his subjects. When he died his son Raymond, the sixth Count, reigned in his place. He proved to be pleasure-loving, musical, cultured and was even more lenient than his father had been. At his court religion was freely discussed and he himself became interested in the new ideas.
With the coming of Innocent III to the Papal Throne the persecution of the Albigensians broke into a cruel war, out of which had grown what was known as the Holy Office or the Inquisition. The Church was determined to stamp out heretics and was prepared to go to any lengths to do this. Those who disagreed with the doctrines as laid down by the Church were tortured in various barbaric ways and if they refused to change their views – and sometimes even if they did – were burned alive at the stake.
Innocent had found a man useful to him in Simon, Count of Montfort-l’Amaury. This man had belonged to a family which, from small beginnings, had in a few generations enriched itself. The first Lord Montfort had adopted his name and title simply because he owned a small castle between Paris and Chartres. Marriage brought them wealth and standing and the earldom of Leicester, but the Count had quickly realised that the chances of advancing himself with John were not good and that he would be better under Philip of France, so he came to his Norman estates and lived there.
He saw a chance of making his name and fortune in the war against the Albigensians and as he had qualities of leadership and was also a fierce Catholic, he was soon renowned as the leader of the crusade.
In a short time he became the Captain General; and he was noted for his fierceness in battle, hi
s genius for leadership and his fanatical cruelty.
Philip did not like de Montfort and deplored the campaign against the Albigensians. He was not deeply involved with religion and practised it out of a desire to placate the heavenly powers rather than out of piety. He had a strong sense of justice and from his father he had inherited a belief in moderation; and as the Counts of Toulouse were vassals of his he objected to the armies of the Pope fighting there.
Innocent had sent word to him that as a true Christian he owed it to his conscience and his God to fight with the army of the righteous.
‘The army of the righteous!’ cried Philip. ‘Who is to say which is the righteous? What harm have the Albigensians ever done to anyone but themselves if they are indeed heretics? And surely God is capable of dealing with those who defy His laws … if indeed they are His laws. But it may be that His Holiness has made a mistake in interpreting them.’
He wrote to the Pope. ‘I have on my flanks two terrifying lions – the Emperor Otho and King John of England – who are working with all their might to bring trouble upon the Kingdom of France.’ He had no inclination, he said, at that time to march against the Albigensians nor to send his son but he had intimated to his barons in the province of Narbonne that they might march against disturbers of the peace.
That was an oblique enough command, for who was to say who was disturbing the peace? It was more likely to be the foreign armies than the people of Albi whose simple determination to maintain their freedom was responsible for the trouble.
In the year 1213, Simon de Montfort won the battle of Muret and Philip sent Louis to look on while the crusaders took possession of Toulouse.
Louis came back horrified by what he had seen. The town laid waste was the smallest part of it. Every refinement of cruelty had been perpetrated on the citizens of the town.
Philip took Louis to his private chamber and there they talked. Louis was in his twenty-sixth year at that time – sensitive, brave enough, but liking war even less than his father. He said that he would never forget the fearful atrocities he had seen that day.
Philip clenched his hands and said: ‘I hope before long Simon de Montfort and his men will die at their work, for God is just and their quarrel is unjust.’
However, when the victories of de Montfort were decisive he was forced to accept him as his vassal in place of Raymond but when he died he refused to recognise his son. But by that time Raymond and his son had recaptured much of the territory lost to them and in the year 1218 (two years after the death of Innocent himself ) a shower of stones falling from the ramparts crushed de Montfort to death, when he was trying to recapture the castle of Toulouse.
So Philip was pestered by the Albigensian question, for like all kings he lived in some awe of the Pope and he knew from recent experience over the trouble with Agnes and Ingeburga how uncomfortable popes could make a king’s life.
Now he brooded on the matter. It was not that he was ready to endanger himself or his realm through a sense of righteousness; he had ever been guided by expediency and his discretion had always been a strong point in his favour. He had governed well, he could assure himself; there was evidence of that everywhere; he was a king to be respected, and this was due to his conduct over the years of his sovereignty. He had come to the throne young – a boy of fifteen. He had reigned for nearly forty years and during that time he had learned chiefly when to act and more important when not to act. This was one of the reasons why he had been able to keep moderately aloof from what he considered to be a barbaric war of dubious justice, and at the same time not offend the Pope enough to bring about reprisals.
He had begun to be affected by recurrent fever and his doctors did not know the reason for it. When it attacked him he found it necessary to take to his bed.
There he brooded on the state of the country and often he sent for Blanche that he might talk to her. He found he could do so with absolute frankness. He was concerned about Louis.
He loved his son. ‘He has never willingly caused me a moment’s anxiety,’ he said. ‘He is a good man, but good men can easily be the victims of evil ones, as you well know. My daughter, I rejoice in the day your grandmother brought you to us. It may well be that one day you will stand beside my son and rule this land.’
‘That day, I pray, is a long way off,’ said Blanche fervently.
‘Oh, I am a young man yet,’ replied Philip. ‘Perhaps I shall live for another fifteen years … and a few more … what is that? Young Louis shapes well. And there are the other boys. Young Robert loves his brother Louis well. I hope that affection continues through their lives. As for the others they are too young as yet to show us what they will become. But it rejoices me that you have filled our nursery with good strong boys. As I could not have wished for a better son I could also not have wished for a better daughter.’
Blanche was deeply moved. She said: ‘I have a feeling that once more I am to be enceinte.’
‘Praise God,’ said Philip. ‘And if this time it should be a girl we will bless our good fortune.’
In due course the child was born. He was called Philip, but because his parents were reminded of that beautiful boy who had died in his ninth year, they wished to distinguish between the newcomer and his dead brother and they added Dagobert to his name, so that he was always known as Philip Dagobert – it was considered to be an unusual name at this time though many kings had borne it in the seventh century. Blanche pointed out, so that it was a pleasant idea to revive it, while naming the child after his grandfather.
The King was feeling ill and in no mood to leave his bed when news was brought to him that the Pope had called a council which would take place in Paris.
Philip who was resting at his palace at Pacy-sur-Eure grimaced when he heard the news. The fact that the meeting was to be held in Paris meant, of course, that he was expected to be present. He would like to see the whole matter of this trouble cleared up, but was uneasy because the Church, deciding with great determination to stamp out heresy, was instituting this Holy Office which Philip felt was a dangerous invention. He foresaw that no man would be safe from it, and bearing in mind the Church’s constant need for money, he wondered whether those who possessed it might be selected as victims, as in addition to torturing the so-called heretic they confiscated his wealth which of course went into the coffers of the Church.
Trying to look ahead into a future which he was beginning to think he would not be there to see, he could visualise dangers in this Holy Office or Inquisition. He even wondered whether it would bring good – even if it brought gain – to the Church. He could see men of substance moving away to those countries where it was not upheld. Perhaps he would put these ideas forward at the conference. Perhaps not. It was not for him to concern himself with what went on outside France. It was because he had always followed that belief that France was now in a far better position than she had been when he came to the throne.
So he would go to the conference, speak discreetly, neither condoling nor condemning. He was adept at such manoeuvre.
He felt limp and weak, but nevertheless he was determined to attend. One so often feigned an illness and offered it as an excuse that when one was genuinely sick one was not believed.
He rode on but the heat was too much for him, for it was July and the sultry weather did not suit him.
When they reached Mantes he said he would rest for a while. He took to his bed and it occurred to him as he was helped there by his servants that he might never rise from it.
During the night he awoke and felt the fever was increasing. It had the effect of making his mind hazy and yet as he grappled to keep a hold on his consciousness he was aware all the time that this was the end.
His mind went back to those days which followed the capture of Acre when he had made up his mind to leave Richard and return to France. It was a great decision … the right decision. He had made it for the good of his country. He could remember vividly the excessive heat … the fearful
plagues, the mud, the scorpions, all the discomforts on which Richard had seemed to thrive.
France first … that had been his motto. And it had brought rewards. He was leaving Louis a well-governed land; much of that which France had lost for years was now returned. One day, the English should have no claims in France. It was not quite so as yet … but that would come.
Wise government … that was what was necessary. War only when there is no other way. Justice for the people so that they would accept hardship when need be.
Oh, Louis, he thought, you will have Blanche to help you. I pin my hopes on Blanche, my son, for although you are the best of sons I doubt you will be the strongest of kings.
Ingeburga would not mourn very much. She would be a fool if she did. Now Ingeburga would come into her own. There would be nowhere where she would not now be received with honour. The Dowager Queen of France. He shuddered to remember that first night and only night with her. She had bided her time. In a way her methods were like his own. She had refused to relinquish her hold and had quietly submitted to indignity. He had paid dearly for that hasty marriage. It had cost him Agnes … dear sweet, uncomplaining Agnes. And it was Ingeburga who had won in the end.
Louis the King and Blanche the Queen. They were thirty-five years old, mature and with a fine nursery of sons. Young Louis was nine years old. Well, that was a good age with a father who was only thirty-five. Louis had a long life before him yet and Blanche would train young Louis in the way he must go.
Philip could close his eyes and say: ‘Lord now lettest thy servant depart in peace.’
He had arranged everything and it augured well.
Louis was bewildered. His father ill … possibly dying. He could not believe it.
He went into the death chamber and threw himself on to his knees. He took his father’s hands and looked at him appealingly as though begging him not to die.
Philip said: ‘All will be well, my son. Is Blanche there?’