The Royal Succession

by Maurice Druon

  Valois turned pale. Only the day before he had been signing ordinances and sealing them with his seal. Today he was being offered, as if it were a great honour, a place on a council to which he belonged by right.

  ‘You will also hand over to us the keys of the Treasury,’ Philippe added, lowering his voice. ‘I know that there is nothing in it but air. But I don’t want any more to blow away.’

  Valois retreated. He was being asked to give up everything.

  ‘Nephew, I cannot,’ he replied. ‘I must have the accounts drawn up.’

  ‘Are you really so anxious to put the accounts in order, Uncle?’ said Philippe, with scarcely perceptible irony. ‘For we should then be compelled to look into them, and to examine also the administration of the sums confiscated from Enguerrand de Marigny. Give us the keys, and we will hold you exempt.’

  Valois understood the threat.

  ‘Very well, Nephew; the keys will be brought you within the hour.’

  Philippe extended his hands to receive the homage of his most powerful rival.

  The Constable of France then came forward in his turn.

  ‘Now, Gaucher,’ Philippe whispered to him, ‘we must deal with the Burgundian.’

  8

  The Count of Poitiers’s Visits

  THE COUNT OF POITIERS had no illusions. He had just had a first, quick and spectacular success; but he knew that his adversaries were not to be disarmed so easily.

  As soon as he had received the meaningless oath of loyalty from Monseigneur of Valois, Philippe crossed the Palace to pay his respects to his sister-in-law, Clémence. He was accompanied by Anseau de Joinville and the Countess Mahaut. Hugues de Bouville, as soon as he saw Philippe, burst into tears and fell on his knees, kissing his hands. The ex-Chamberlain, though he was a member of the Council of Peers, had not put in an appearance at the afternoon’s meeting; he had not left his post nor sheathed his sword during all these last hours. The assault on the Palace by the Constable and the panic and departure of the Count of Valois’s men had subjected his nerves to too harsh an ordeal.

  ‘Forgive me, Monseigneur, forgive my weakness; it is from joy of seeing you back …’ he said, wetting the Regent’s hands with his tears.

  ‘It’s all right, my friend, it’s all right,’ replied Philippe.

  The old Joinville did not recognize the Count of Poitiers. Nor did he recognize his own son and, when he had been told three times that they stood before him, he mistook one for the other and bowed ceremoniously to Anseau.

  Bouville opened the door of the Queen’s room. But, as Mahaut made to follow Philippe, the Curator, recovering his energy, cried: ‘You alone, Monseigneur, you alone!’

  And he shut the door in the Countess’s face.

  Queen Clémence was pale and weak and clearly did not share the preoccupations that excited the Court and the people of Paris. As she saw the Count of Poitiers come towards her, his hands outstretched, she could not help thinking: ‘If I had been married to him, I should not be a widow today. Why should it have been Louis? Why was it not Philippe?’ She forbade herself questions of this nature, which seemed to her reproaches to Almighty God. But nothing, even piety, could prevent a widow of twenty-three from wondering why other young men, other husbands, were alive.

  Philippe told her that he had assumed the regency and assured her of his utter devotion.

  ‘Oh, yes, Brother, oh yes,’ she murmured, ‘help me!’

  She wanted to say, without knowing how to express herself: ‘Help me to live, help me against despair, help me to put into the world this new life which from now on is my only task on earth.’ She went on: ‘Why did our uncle Valois make me leave my house at Vincennes almost by force? Louis gave it to me with his last breath.’

  ‘Do you wish to return there?’ Poitiers asked.

  ‘It is my only desire, Brother! I shall feel better there. And my child will be born as near as possible to his father’s spirit, in the place where he left this world.’

  Philippe took no decisions, even lesser ones, lightly. He turned his eyes away from the white veils which framed Clémence’s face and looked out of the window at the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, whose outline seemed uncertain and misty to his short-sighted eyes, like a great gold-and-stone stalk, on the summit of which seemed to blossom the royal lily.

  ‘If I grant her this wish,’ he thought, ‘she will be grateful to me, will look on me as her defender and will obey my decisions in all things. On the other hand, my adversaries will have less easy access to her at Vincennes than here, and will have less chance of using her against me. Besides, in her present state of grief, she is of no use to anyone.’

  ‘I want to do everything you wish, Sister,’ he replied; ‘as soon as the Assembly of Notables has confirmed me in my position, my first care will be to take you back to Vincennes. Today is Monday; the assembly, which I am hastening on, will doubtless take place on Friday. I think you will be able to hear mass in your own house next Sunday.’

  ‘I knew you were a kind brother, Philippe. Your return is the first relief God has granted me.’

  When he came out of the Queen’s apartment, Philippe found his mother-in-law waiting for him. She had been disputing with Bouville and was walking alone, with long mannish strides, up and down the flagstones of the gallery beneath the wary eyes of the equerries of the guard.

  ‘Well, how is she?’ she asked Philippe.

  ‘Pious and resigned, and well worthy of giving France a king,’ replied the Count of Poitiers, loud enough to be heard by all those present.

  Then, in a low voice, he added: ‘I think, in the state of health in which I found her, that she will lose her child before her time.’

  ‘It would be the best present she could give us, and would make everything much easier,’ replied Mahaut in a whisper; ‘and then we should have done with all this mistrust and armed men about her. Since when have the peers of the realm been forbidden access to the Queen? I’ve been widowed too, devil take it, and people could always come and see me on affairs of state!’

  Poisoner though she was, she was genuinely indignant that the general security measures should apply to her.

  Philippe, who had not yet seen his wife since his return, went with Mahaut to the Hôtel d’Artois.

  ‘Your absence has seemed very long to my daughter,’ said Mahaut. ‘But you will find her wonderfully well. No one would think that she was on the point of being brought to bed. I was just the same in my pregnancies, active till the last day.’

  The meeting between the Count of Poitiers and his wife was moving but there were no tears. Jeanne, though she was heavy and moved with difficulty, showed every sign of health and happiness. Night had fallen, and the glow of the candles, so becoming to the complexion, blurred any signs on the young woman’s face of her condition. She was wearing a number of necklaces of red coral, well known to have a beneficent effect on childbirth.

  It was in Jeanne’s presence that Philippe became truly aware of the successes he had already achieved, and allowed himself some self-satisfaction. Taking his wife in his arms, he said: ‘I really think, my darling, that I can now call you Madame la Régente.’

  ‘Pray God, my dear Lord, that I may give you a son,’ she replied, clinging to her husband’s strong, spare body.

  ‘God will put the crown on His mercies,’ Philippe whispered to her, ‘if He does not allow the child to be born till after Friday.’

  An argument soon arose between Mahaut and Philippe. The Countess of Artois thought that her daughter should be moved to the Palace at once, to share her husband’s apartments. Philippe took the opposite view and wished Jeanne to remain in the Hôtel d’Artois. He put forward several arguments, sound in themselves, though they did not reveal the whole of his thought and failed to convince Mahaut. The Palace, during the next few days, might be the scene of violent assemblies and considerable turmoil, dangerous to a woman in labour; besides, Philippe thought it more fitting to await Clémence’s departure fo
r Vincennes before installing Jeanne in the royal Palace.

  ‘But look at her, Philippe!’ cried Mahaut. ‘Tomorrow she may no longer be able to be moved. Don’t you want your child to be born in the Palace?’

  ‘That is precisely what I do not want.’

  ‘Well, really, I don’t understand you, my son,’ said Mahaut, shrugging her powerful shoulders.

  The argument wearied Philippe; he had not slept for thirty-six hours, had ridden thirty-seven miles the previous night, and had followed it with the busiest and most difficult day of his life. He felt the stubble on his chin and, at moments, his eyes seemed to close of their own accord. But he had made up his mind not to give way. ‘Bed,’ he thought; ‘let them obey me, so that I can go to bed!’

  ‘Let us ask Jeanne’s opinion. What do you wish, my dear?’ he said, certain of his wife’s submissiveness.

  Mahaut had a man’s intelligence and strength of will, as well as a constant determination to assert the prestige of her family. Jeanne, whose nature was quite other, had become accustomed through fate to never being at the summit of events. Betrothed first to the Hutin, merely to have been given later, by a sort of exchange, to the second son of Philip the Fair, she had missed both the Crown of Navarre and the Crown of France. In the affair of the Tower of Nesle, if she had been compromised in the loves of her sisters-in-law, she had skirted adultery without committing it; and in her punishment, imprisonment for life had been avoided. She had been implicated in every drama, but had never taken the leading part. Out of a sort of delicacy, rather than from any moral consideration, she disliked all excess; the years she had spent in the Fortress of Dourdan had reinforced her prudence. She was shrewd, sensible, intelligent and knew how to make use of that entirely feminine weapon: submission.

  Guessing that Philippe’s insistence was based on strong reasons, she suppressed a slight feeling of legitimate vanity and said: ‘I should like to have my child here, Mother. I should be more comfortable.’

  She did not care overmuch whether her fourth child was born in the Palace or elsewhere. Philippe thanked her with a smile. Sitting in a great, upright chair, his crossed legs extended, he asked the names of the matrons and midwives who were to attend Jeanne, wishing to know where each came from, and whether she could be completely relied upon. He recommended that they should be made to take an oath, a precaution which was normally taken only at the birth of the King’s children.

  ‘What a good husband I have, and what care he takes of me!’ Jeanne thought, as she listened to him.

  Philippe ordered also that, from the moment the Countess of Poitiers’s pains began, the gates of the Hôtel d’Artois should be closed. No one was to leave it, except for one person who would bring him news of the birth.

  ‘You,’ he said, indicating the beautiful Béatrice d’Hirson, who was present at the conversation. ‘Orders will be given to my chamberlain that you may come to me at any hour, even if I am in council. And if there are people about me, you will give me the news in a whisper, and tell it to no one else, if it is a son. I trust you, because I remember that you have already rendered me good service.’

  ‘And greater indeed than you know of, Monseigneur,’ replied Béatrice, making a slight bow.

  Mahaut threw Béatrice a furious glance. The wench, with her meek expression, her false ingenuousness and her sly audacities, made her tremble. Béatrice continued to smile. These facial expressions did not escape Jeanne, who nevertheless asked no questions. Between her mother and the lady-in-waiting there were dark secrets of which she preferred to know nothing.

  She looked anxiously at her husband, but he had noticed nothing. With his head against the back of the chair, he had suddenly dropped off, overcome with the sleep of victory. On his angular face, normally so severe, was an expression of sweet concern in which could be traced the child he once had been. Jeanne, much moved, went to him silently and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

  9

  Friday’s Child

  ON THE FOLLOWING DAY the Count of Poitiers began to make preparations for the Assembly to be held on Friday. If he emerged from it the victor, no one for many long years would be able to contest his power.

  He sent messengers and couriers to summon, as had been arranged, all the great men in the kingdom – all those, that is, who lived no further away than two days’ journey on horseback, thus allowing him to prevent the situation from getting out of hand and to eliminate certain great vassals, whose enmity Philippe had reason to fear, such as the Count of Flanders and the King of England.

  At the same time he entrusted to Gaucher de Châtillon, to Mille de Noyers and to Raoul de Presles the task of preparing the act of regency that would be submitted to the Assembly. The following principles, based on the decisions already made, were incorporated: the Count of Poitiers was to administer both kingdoms with the provisional title of Regent, Governor and Guardian, and would receive all the royal revenues.

  If Queen Clémence bore a son, the latter would naturally be King, and Philippe would hold the regency until his nephew’s majority. But if Clémence bore a daughter … This was where all the difficulties began. For, in all justice, in these circumstances the crown should go to the little Jeanne of Navarre, the Hutin’s elder daughter. But was she really his daughter? That was the question which the Court, indeed the whole kingdom, was asking. Without the love affair of the Tower of Nesle, without the scandal and the sentence pronounced at Pontoise, the rights of this child would have been unquestioned and, in the absence of a male heir, she would have had to be made Queen of France. But there hung over her a grave suspicion to which Charles of Valois, in particular, had given weight when arranging Louis X’s second marriage, and of which Philippe, in the circumstances, did not fail to take advantage. The dates of the beginning of Marguerite’s guilty love affair and the birth of Jeanne corresponded suspiciously. It was also suspicious that Louis had always shown a dislike for this child, and had always kept her at a distance. There was, therefore, some reason for people to whisper: ‘She is the daughter of Philippe d’Aunay.’

  Thus the affair of the Tower of Nesle, which popular imagination through the ages turned into a sort of mythical fable of legendary love, vice, crime and horror, though it was in fact a fairly simple case of adultery, created, two years after the event, a grave dynastic problem altering the natural succession of the French monarchy.

  Someone suggested that it should be decided at once that the crown should definitely go to Clèmence’s child, whether it were a boy or a girl.

  Philippe of Poitiers did not welcome the suggestion, and found good arguments for putting it aside. Certainly the suspicions about Jeanne of Navarre were strongly based, but there was no formal proof. Neither Marguerite’s mother, old Agnès, dowager Duchess of Burgundy, nor her son, Eudes IV, the present Duke, could subscribe to this harsh barring of their niece. All the enemies of the Crown, beginning with the Count of Flanders, would not fail to use it to serve their personal interests. There was a risk of giving France over to an immediate civil war, the War of the Two Queens.

  ‘In that case,’ said Gaucher de Châtillon, ‘let us decree here and now that girls are unable to inherit the crown. There must be some precedent to support it.’

  ‘Alas, Brother-in-law,’ replied Mille de Noyers, ‘I have already had search made, for your idea also occurred to me, but nothing has been found.’

  ‘Further search must be made! Put your friends, the Masters of the University and of Parliament, on to the research. Those people can always find precedents for everything, if they take the trouble. They go back to Clovis in order to prove that you ought to have your head cut off, be burnt at the stake or quartered.’

  ‘It’s true’, said Mille, ‘that I haven’t had the researches carried as far back as that. I was thinking only of royal precedents since the great Hugues. We must look earlier than that. But I don’t think we shall find anything between now and Friday.’

  The Constable was a misogynist li
ke all good soldiers, and he jutted his square chin and screwed up his saurian eyes. ‘It would be madness to allow a girl to ascend the throne,’ he went on. ‘Can you see a woman or a wench commanding the armies, unclean every month, pregnant every year? Can you see them dealing with the vassals when they cannot even control their own bodies’ heat? No, I don’t see it, and I should put up my sword at once. Messeigneurs, I tell you France is too noble a country to fall to the distaff and be handed over to a woman. Lilies do not spin!’

  This last suggestion was not adopted on the spot, but it made a strong impression, and was put to good use later.12

  Philippe of Poitiers gave his assent to a somewhat tortuous document; it postponed all these decisions for a long time to come.

  ‘Draft it in such a way that the difficulties are apparent, but without our proposing solutions,’ he said. ‘Confuse the issues a little so that everyone may believe he finds in it something to his own advantage.’

  Thus, if Queen Clémence gave birth to a daughter, Philippe would keep the regency until the majority of his eldest niece, Jeanne. And only then would the devolution of the crown be decided, either to the advantage of the two Princesses, who would then share between them France and Navarre, or to the advantage of one of them, who would preserve the unity of both kingdoms, or again to the advantage of neither should they renounce their rights or if the Assembly of Peers, summoned to debate the issue, decided that a woman could not rule over the kingdom of France; in this last case, the crown would go to the nearest male relative of the late King, which was to say, Philippe. In this way his candidature was officially put forward for the first time, but subject to so many conditions that it looked as if the eventual solution must be made by compromise or arbitration.

  This law, submitted individually to the chief barons who favoured Philippe, received their acquiescence.

  Only Mahaut seemed strangely to have reservations about an act which, in fact, was preparing the accession of her son-in-law and her daughter to the throne of France. Something in the draft upset her.