William stepped forward showing the confidence I knew so well. He extended his arm in the direction of the throne as he began to speak, as if inviting the king to listen. His voice was strong and could be heard, I was sure, to the far reaches of the presence chamber.
“Your Majesty, the holy father did indeed ask for arms and men to help in the south but the letters he sent with his honorable legates presented here were written some months ago.” William paused and, with almost exaggerated courtesy, bowed to the two monks.
Then he continued, not a trace of mischief in his lifted voice. “However, the pontiff is aware of your own difficulties in defending parts of your land against John of England. After some discussion with me, and further thought, the pontiff wrote a later letter to the king of France, one that offers an alternative.”
Here William, with his fine sense of drama, moved toward the throne and proffered a large rolled scroll with a seal visible as a splash of scarlet that could be seen by all near him. Chastellain moved forward with the speed of a fox chased by hounds, and nearly snatched the scroll from William before he could hand it to the king. Chastellain then turned to the king, but Philippe motioned him away impatiently, continuing to focus his gaze on William.
“The holy father has entrusted these good monks with a mission.” William gestured politely in their general direction, while keeping his gaze on the king. “That general mission, to settle the matter of theological disputes in the south, is still in force. However, as to your own role, the letter I bear suggests another course of action than do the good monks. The holy father asks you to withhold your men and arms for the time being, in order to give diplomacy a chance for victory. He desires one more meeting between Count Raymond and the papal legates here, to see if some agreement can be reached. I am directed to assist such a meeting in Toulouse, as soon as it can be arranged.”
I was beginning to enjoy this audience. Perhaps I would not have to battle Amaury at all to assist Joanna. At least not in public, nor with my brother.
Arnaud Amaury made an almost imperceptible movement forward, but Pierre de Castelnau, standing on his other side, placed his hand firmly on his colleague’s arm. Amaury’s face darkened, but he held his tongue. It was clear the abbot had had no warning that the pontiff had sent William to Philippe with a compromise, an excuse not to commit his men to Amaury. I recalled with amusement what William had told me; the good abbot had not shared his mission with him on their long ride to Paris from Lyons. Why should William have shared his message with the abbot? Turn about—fair play, as the children say.
Philippe pursed his lips, his habit when he was displeased. He scanned the room, then came back to rest his gaze on me. I thought for a moment he would address me, but to my surprise he turned back to the assembly.
“I would hear any of the rank of knight or above who choose to address me on this matter.” I tried to keep the expression of astonishment from my face. It was not Philippe’s habit to consult his subjects on major decisions.
The room fell silent. Either his courtiers were stunned by the offer, or no one wanted to risk a comment that might run counter to their sovereign’s wishes.
“Your Grace!” Hervé de Donzy, Count of Nevers, pushed forward and stood in the center of the room. William fell back slightly, as if to give the count space. The papal legates did not move.
“We will hear you, Count of Nevers,” Philippe said.
I disliked this noble heartily. He was a tall, sinewy reed of a man, clean shaven except for his black moustache which he kept carefully turned upward with the aid of boar grease. Only ten short years earlier he had been a minor knight in the Nivernais. But through warring on his overlord—a clear breach of his oath of fealty—he took both the man’s daughter and his title. I reckoned him among my least favorite courtiers, vain, greedy, and without redeeming grace. He stood now before the king, exuding confidence.
“Your Grace, I bear a letter from Duke Eudes of Burgundy, telling me of the tales coming into his court from the south, of the spread of heresy and the danger to holy mother church. He instructed me without delay to bring this news to you, and to beg you to name an army of a thousand men, with Your Royal Highness at its head and the duke and myself to assist, to go to the south and grind this new heresy out of the people. And now, here we have the same urgent message from these good monks.” The Count of Nevers paused to wipe his brow with a square of linen that he produced from his sleeve before he continued.
“But Your Majesty, if you will not go yourself, or send your armies, permit my humble self and Duke Eudes to represent you, to take our own men and go south at our own expense. I have a score of knights and a hundred yeomen, my own vassals led by Simon of Montfort, my liege man, who are willing to go to the south and fight for Christ and the pontiff of Rome.” The count’s voice trembled. “Permit us to take our own men and conduct a campaign for the glory of France and of our holy mother church.”
The count, seemingly overcome with emotion, went down on his knee and bent his head as if he were a docile child. I was close enough to see the beads gathering again at his temples. One could never be certain how the king of France would take such importuning. He was as like to fly into a temper at such a request as he was to cordially grant the boon. The count was playing a huge game of chance.
Philippe regarded the bent figure thoughtfully, tapped his lips with his forefinger, and then looked out over the crowd as if the count were not there at all.
“Are there others who would be heard?” A silence filled the chamber. After a moment, it became palpable. There were few present who wanted Philippe to engage an army to go to the south in Rome’s cause. All knights and liege men would be required to do service if the English threat in the west widened. Should the king engage an army of mercenaries to fight in the south, it would drain the royal treasury. But the audience waited to see which way the king would move.
Suddenly drama appeared from an unexpected source. The strange and beautiful diminutive woman in my aunt Constance’s retinue, she who had been conversing with my son Francis so intensely, stepped into the center of the room. She advanced until she was standing next to the still-kneeling count. His knees must ache by now. It appeared that Philippe had forgotten to bid the man rise, but I knew that was not the case. Philippe forgot nothing in the royal public appearances.
The woman made a low courtesy, then rose and looked boldly at the king. “Your Majesty, if I may speak.” Her voice was surprisingly full for one so slight. Her bottom lip trembled as she spoke, and I knew Philippe could see it. If she only knew how the king reacted to such tactics from women she might have exercised more control. He cared not for such womanly manipulations. Or so I thought then.
“Who are you?” Philippe barked. I wanted to put my hand on his knee, which was within reach, to counsel patience. But I dared not. He was, after all, the king and we were at a court assembly.
“I am Esclarmonde of Foix, sister of Raymond-Roger, Count of Foix, the vassal of Raymond of Toulouse and thus Your Majesty’s vassal also.”
“And what is your suit? What have you to do with these issues?” But Philippe must know exactly what she, a noblewoman from the south, had to do with these issues. A shadow of suspicion rose in me. I recalled the king’s lingering glance on her at the banquet the previous evening. Could Philippe have planted this woman, like a rose in a cabbage patch, to do his work here? What game was he playing?
“I beg Your Majesty, do not respond to these men who would have you send barons and knights to the south. We of the south are a peaceful people. We do not prepare for war. We are farmers and keepers of animals. Our villages are full of people who are not learned, and who mean no one any harm. We are not heretics. We know a few among us hold unconventional beliefs. But these people are good Christians. Their only difference with Rome is that they want more simplicity in their lives. Protect your friends, the people of the south, Your Majesty. Our overlord, Count Raymond, is your liege. Honor that relat
ionship. Do not send wolves to devour us.”
After this long speech, the young woman turned boldly and glanced at the two monks standing to one side. The abbot returned her look with an impassive face, while Pierre de Castelnau looked down at the floor to avoid meeting her eyes.
In the silence that followed, the Count of Nevers’s head slowly turned upward and the expression on his face was almost comical. His visage registered disbelief and anger and defeat all at once. For he now understood what I had grasped a moment ago. He had been trumped by the little woman from the south.
“Rise, Count of Nevers, and return to your standard. I will announce my decision in a moment.” Philippe finally seemed to take notice of his subject. Hervé rose, somewhat awkwardly due to the length of time Philippe had kept him on his knees, and backed away from the throne until he was some distance from the king. Then he melted into the small group gathered around his pennant, still visible by his height to those who sought him.
“Princesse Alaïs.” The king unexpectedly turned back to me. “You have heard what has been said. You are known for your wisdom. What is your sage advice?” Philippe lifted one eyebrow in question. I sighed. Why did I have the utter certainty that Philippe knew exactly what I was about to say?
“Your Majesty.” My tone escalated and rang out with great clarity, a voice calculated to be heard by all the court. “You have more than six hundred men engaged now outside Chinon, holding back John of England’s forces. I believe any further deployment of the knights and arms of France should be to defend or expand your own borders. On the other hand, if you hired soldiers—not of France—to go to the south, it would deplete your own royal treasury. More important, such action would violate feudal law and custom, since our cousin Raymond of Toulouse is your liege man. Once such violations begin, no one will be able to trust the bonds between vassal and lord, for everyone will then do only what is convenient.”
“But what of the letters from Pope Innocent?” Philippe was pushing the boundaries of my good humor. He wanted me to come up with his reasons for rejecting both the pontiff’s request and Count Hervé de Donzy’s impassioned proposal that men from the north be permitted to go south.
“But Your Grace, the holy father himself must understand that Count Raymond is your sworn vassal. Supporting an attack on your own liege man calls into question our entire system of fealty.” I paused, then my voice rose even more as I had an inspired thought. “To countenance such action as king could shake the foundations of feudalism. If a vassal cannot count on his king’s vow to protect him, the king will no longer be assured that his liege men will keep their vows to him.” There was spontaneous applause when I had finished, an event that startled me more than it did the king! Certain groups pounded their standards on the wooden floorboards, creating a great racket, which took some moments to subside.
“Oh, Your Majesty, heed the wisdom of the Princesse Alaïs,” the brilliant little Esclarmonde said as the last of the noise drifted away. She was speaking without invitation from the king, in defiance of all court protocol, as she sank to the floor in a deep courtesy.
Philippe suddenly stood, but I no longer feared that he would humble the noblewoman from the south: indeed, she was his accomplice in this little scene as much as I. And I had the uncomfortable thought that while I had been an unwitting assistant, she may have been more prepared.
“You have all heard the Princesse Alaïs,” Philippe intoned, sweeping his hand to take in the entire congregation. “Truly, elle a raison. We will take no action at the present time. Nor do we now countenance our vassals to join any conflict in the south. We will, however, watch the situation carefully. The people of the Toulousain must be united with the church of Rome. They must not allow any heretical preaching to flourish.”
Philippe’s tone was stern, as he looked down upon the petite noblewoman from Foix, now nearly prostrate on the floor. She had all but submerged herself under her cloak and skirts, her long, pointed sleeves spreading gracefully to the side as she knelt before the king. “Take that message back to the Count of Foix, and to all the nobles of the south.” He added softly, “And now, madame, you may rise.”
An audible sigh swept the room. The crisis seemed to have been resolved. The king was still in good humor and, somehow, both the royal treasury and the safety of the knights present had been preserved, despite the best efforts of the church’s official representatives.
“And now, to our tourney and then the feast afterward that has been prepared for all of you.” Suddenly the room broke into cheers, which caused a smile to spread across Philippe’s face. Leaving me behind, he swept down from the dais and raised up the southern beauty with all the grace and elegance he could assume so well when he desired. Then, smiling and nodding to each side, he led her through cheering ranks of courtiers.
Protocol demanded that I follow, and I would have done so with ill grace had not I found William immediately by my side on the dais, his eyes dancing as they could when he was amused.
“Quite a scene, that,” I murmured, forcing a smile as we passed through the crowds.
“Don’t say a word, my dearest love, and before you say what you think to your brother count twenty blessings he has provided for you in this life.” He offered his arm, and I took it, shaking my head.
“I suppose you both think you are quite clever,” I remarked, and he broke into laughter so infectious it caught me up. If I could swallow the medicine so injurious to my pride, I could see the humor in it. And they both were counting on that. “Well, the next time you two decide to use me as your puppet, tell me ahead of time.”
“But you would not have played your part nearly as well,” he said. “You know you cannot dissemble, you are honest to a fault. You would have given the game away at the outset.” And as we nodded to courtiers on either side of us and made our parade into my brother’s private rooms, I knew that what he said was true.
And I also knew what neither William nor Philippe could know: that the little scene just played out accomplished my own ends of blocking the monk Amaury completely. And, doing the will of the king, I had given nothing of Joanna’s role away. Still, a small voice lingered in my head with an ominous message: You and this monk have not finished with each other. Not yet.
.8.
The King’s Privy Chambers
Philippe was occupied in bantering with the beautiful Esclarmonde when we entered his private chambers, and he refused to meet my glance when I passed directly in front of him. Only wait, Brother, I thought, until I have you alone! But William pressed my hand, which rested on his arm, and I gathered my wits about me. What was done, was done. And it was ever said I could enjoy a joke as well as the next man—or woman. After all, it had turned out well for matters that concerned William and myself. William’s diplomatic mission from the pontiff was saved as my brother was not going to commit France to war, and I could look forward to the end of my beloved’s task and our marriage and retirement to Ponthieu. Or so it seemed for the moment.
Everyone of our small group seemed to breathe more easily after escaping the crowded assembly room. The long, private chambers, while still cavernous compared to my own modest quarters, were far less intimidating than the reception rooms. And filled with chattering crowds, as it was now, the room seemed much less formidable than it had only days earlier, when my brother and I had conferred here. The many windows allowed light, the smaller alcoves gave room for tête-à-têtes, and the rich velvet bed hangings provided color. Even the tapestries, though filled with hunting and jousting scenes, were now merely ornate backdrops to the rhythm of happy chatter and occasional boisterous bursts of laughter.
All of the hearths had fires, and large oak tables were scattered about the room filled with silver pitchers of the best wine from the Loire Valley, from Burgundy, and even as far away as Bordeaux. Half a dozen minstrels strolled about the chamber, and there was a general air of relief evident in the open greetings and knightly clasping of strong hands to r
enew old friendships. Put aside, if not forgotten, was the tense exchange of not an hour before in the public rooms. The crowd made ready for the tourney with great good cheer.
My uncle Robert strode over to the window embrasure where I stood alone, William having departed to secure goblets of wine for us.
“Good morrow, Uncle.” I greeted him warmly as he bent to kiss both cheeks, for he was a great favorite of mine. “It is a surprise to see you so soon again at court.”
“The tourney is always entertaining, Niece. And I have some important business with the king.” Even as he spoke, his gaze drifted over the room, pausing at the small group surrounding my brother’s chief minister. I knew from William that my uncle trusted that man not one whit. Etienne Chastellain was in deep conversation at that moment with his scribe, Eugene, his head tilted in a manner almost flirtatious toward the younger man. I thought of the court gossip about their private relations. Many were amused, since the king’s counselor’s face was already lining with age, while Eugene had yet to grow a full beard! Eugene was a tall reed of a youth so that stocky Etienne must look up to him when they talked.
As I watched, the Abbé Amaury worked his way through the crowd to the side of the chief minister. I saw Chastellain turn with alacrity, and the younger man, as if on hidden signal, drifted away.
“Now what do you suppose the king’s trusted counselor could have to say to the fiery abbot?” My uncle voiced my own thoughts unexpectedly. “I did not know they were acquainted.”
“It bears reflection,” I responded, my eyes narrowing as I watched the two engage in an intense exchange. I turned back to my uncle.
“What think you of this morning’s entertainment, Uncle?” I had scarce voiced the question when William appeared at my elbow followed by a page bearing our wine. The two men, grand masters of the Templars in England and France respectively, bowed with great ceremony. Then they laughed and embraced heartily, for my uncle was genuinely fond of his younger colleague, even though they sometimes disagreed vigorously.
The Rebel Princess Page 11