THE IRON
KING
Book One of the Accursed Kings
Maurice Druon
Translated from French by
Humphrey Hare
‘History is a novel that has been lived’
E. & J. DE GONCOURT
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Foreword: George R.R. Martin
The Characters in this Book
Map
Family Tree
The Iron King
Prologue
Part One: A Curse
1. The Loveless Queen
2. The Prisoners in the Temple
3. The Royal Daughters-in-law
4. At the Great Door of Notre-Dame
5. Marguerite of Burgundy, Queen of Navarre
6. What Happened at the King’s Council
7. The Tower of Love
8. ‘I summon to the Tribunal of Heaven …’
9. The Cut-throats
Part Two: The Adulterous Princesses
1. The Tolomei Bank
2. The Road to London
3. At Westminster
4. The Debt
5. The Road to Neauphle
6. The Road to Clermont
7. Like Father, Like Daughter
8. Mahaut of Burgundy
9. The Blood Royal
10. The Judgment
11. The Place du Martrai
12. The Horseman in the Dusk
Part Three: The Hand of God
1. The Rue des Bourdonnais
2. The Tribunal of the Shadows
3. The Documents of a Reign
4. The King’s Summer
5. Power and Money
6. Tolomei Wins
7. Guccio’s Secrets
8. The Meet at Pont-Sainte-Maxence
9. A Great Shadow over the Kingdom
Author’s Acknowledgements
Footnote
Historical Notes
Also by Maurice Druon
Copyright
About the Publisher
Foreword
GEORGE R.R. MARTIN
Over the years, more than one reviewer has described my fantasy series, A Song of Ice and Fire, as historical fiction about history that never happened, flavoured with a dash of sorcery and spiced with dragons. I take that as a compliment. I have always regarded historical fiction and fantasy as sisters under the skin, two genres separated at birth. My own series draws on both traditions … and while I undoubtedly drew much of my inspiration from Tolkien, Vance, Howard, and the other fantasists who came before me, A Game of Thrones and its sequels were also influenced by the works of great historical novelists like Thomas B. Costain, Mika Waltari, Howard Pyle … and Maurice Druon, the amazing French writer who gave us the The Accursed Kings, seven splendid novels that chronicle the downfall of the Capetian kings and the beginnings of the Hundred Years War.
Druon’s novels have not been easy to find, especially in English translation (and the seventh and final volume was never translated into English at all). The series has twice been made into a television series in France, and both versions are available on DVD … but only in French, undubbed, and without English subtitles. Very frustrating for English-speaking Druon fans like me.
The Accursed Kings has it all. Iron kings and strangled queens, battles and betrayals, lies and lust, deception, family rivalries, the curse of the Templars, babies switched at birth, she-wolves, sin, and swords, the doom of a great dynasty … and all of it (well, most of it) straight from the pages of history. And believe me, the Starks and the Lannisters have nothing on the Capets and Plantagenets.
Whether you’re a history buff or a fantasy fan, Druon’s epic will keep you turning pages. This was the original game of thrones. If you like A Song of Ice and Fire, you will love The Accursed Kings.
George R.R. Martin
The Characters in this Book
THE KING OF FRANCE:
PHILIP IV, called Philip the Fair, aged 46, grandson of Saint Louis.
HIS BROTHERS:
MONSEIGNEUR CHARLES, Count of Valois, Titular Emperor of Constantinople, Count of Romagna, aged 44.
MONSEIGNEUR LOUIS, Count of Evreux, about 40 years old.
HIS SONS:
LOUIS, King of Navarre, aged 25.
PHILIPPE, COUNT of Poitiers, aged 21.
CHARLES, aged 20.
HIS DAUGHTER:
ISABELLA, Queen of England, aged 22, wife of King Edward II.
HIS DAUGHTERS-IN-LAW:
MARGUERITE OF BURGUNDY, aged about 21, wife of Louis, daughter of the Duke of Burgundy, granddaughter of Saint Louis.
JEANNE OF BURGUNDY, aged about 21, daughter of the Count Palatine of Burgundy, wife to Philippe.
BLANCHE OF BURGUNDY, her sister, aged about 18, wife to Charles.
HIS MINISTERS AND JUSTICIARS:
ENGUERRAND LE PORTIER DE MARIGNY, aged 52, Coadjutor and Rector of the Kingdom.
GUILLAUME DE NOGARET, aged 54, Keeper of the Seals and Secretary-General of the Kingdom.
HUGUES DE BOUVILLE, Grand Chamberlain.
THE ARTOIS BRANCH, DESCENDED FROM A BROTHER OF SAINT LOUIS:
ROBERT III OF ARTOIS, Lord of Conches, Count of Beaumont-le-Roger, aged 27.
MAHAUT, his aunt, aged about 40, widow of the Count Palatine of Burgundy, Countess of Artois, a peer of France, mother of Jeanne and Blanche of Burgundy and cousin of Marguerite of Burgundy.
THE TEMPLARS:
JACQUES DE MOLAY, aged 71, Grand Master of the Order of Knights Templar.
GEOFFROY DE CHARNEY, Preceptor of Normandy.
EVERARD, one-time Knight of the Order of Templars.
THE LOMBARDS:
SPINELLO TOLOMEI, a Siennese banker living in Paris.
GUCCIO BAGLIONI, his nephew, aged about 18.
THE BROTHERS AUNAY:
GAUTIER, son of the Chevalier d’Aunay, aged about 23, Equerry to the Count of Poitiers.
PHILIPPE, his brother, aged about 21, Equerry to the Count of Valois.
THE CRESSAY FAMILY:
DAME ELIABEL, widow of the Squire of Cressay, aged about 40.
PIERRE AND JEAN, her sons, aged 20 and 22.
MARIE, her daughter, aged 16.
AND THESE:
JEAN DE MARIGNY, Archbishop of Sens, younger brother of Enguerrand de Marigny.
BEATRICE D’HIRSON, first lady-in-waiting to the Countess Mahaut, aged about 20.
The Iron King
The Grand Master felt surging within him one of those half-crazy rages which had so often come upon him in his prison, making him shout aloud and beat the walls. He felt that he was upon the point of committing some violent and terrible act – he did not know exactly what – but he felt the impulse to do something.
He accepted death almost as a deliverance, but he could not accept an unjust death, nor dying dishonoured. Accustomed through long years to war, he felt it stir for the last time in his old veins. He longed to die fighting.
He sought the hand of Geoffroy de Charnay, his old companion in arms, the last strong man still standing at his side, and clasped it tightly.
Raising his eyes, the Preceptor saw the arteries beating upon the sunken temples of the Grand Master. They quivered like blue snakes.
The procession reached the Bridge of Notre-Dame.
Prologue
At the beginning of the fourteenth century, Philip IV, a king of legendary personal beauty, reigned over France as absolute master. He had defeated the warrior pride of the great barons, the rebellious Flemings, the English in Aquitaine, and even the Papacy which he had proceeded to install at Avignon. Parliaments obeyed his orders and councils were in his pay.
He had three adult sons to ensure his line. His daughter was mar
ried to King Edward II of England. He numbered six other kings among his vassals, and the web of his alliances extended as far as Russia.
He left no source of wealth untapped. He had in turn taxed the riches of the Church, despoiled the Jews, and made extortionate demands from the community of Lombard bankers. To meet the needs of the Treasury he debased the coinage. From day to day the gold piece weighed less and was worth more. Taxes were crushing: the police multiplied. Economic crises led to ruin and famine which, in turn, caused uprisings which were bloodily put down. Rioting ended upon the forks of the gibbet. Everyone must accept the royal authority and obey it or be broken by it.
This cruel and dispassionate prince was concerned with the ideal of the nation. Under his reign France was great and the French wretched.
One power alone had dared stand up to him: the Sovereign Order of the Knights Templar. This huge organisation, at once military, religious and commercial, had acquired its fame and its wealth from the Crusades.
Philip the Fair was concerned at the Templars’ independence, while their immense wealth excited his greed. He brought against them the greatest prosecution in recorded history, since there were nearly fifteen thousand accused. It lasted seven years, and during its course every possible infamy was committed.
This story begins at the end of the seventh year.
PART ONE
A CURSE
1
The Loveless Queen
A HUGE LOG, LYING UPON a bed of red-hot embers, flamed in the fireplace. The green, leaded panes of the windows permitted the pale light of a March day to filter into the room.
Sitting upon a high oaken chair, its back surmounted by the three lions of England, her chin cupped in her hand, her feet resting upon a red cushion, Queen Isabella, wife of Edward II, gazed vaguely, unseeingly, at the glow in the hearth.
She was twenty-two years old, her complexion clear, pretty and without blemish. She wore her golden hair coiled in two long tresses upon each side of her face like the handles of an amphora.
She was listening to one of her French Ladies reading a poem of Duke William of Aquitaine.
D’amour ne dois-je plus dire de bien
Car je n’en ai ni peu ni rien,
Car je n’en ai qui me convient …
The sing-song voice of the reader was lost in this room which was too large for women to be able to live in happily.
Bientôt m’en irai en exil,
En grande peur, en grand péril …
The loveless Queen sighed.
‘How beautiful those words are,’ she said. ‘One might think that they had been written for me. Ah! the time has gone when great lords were as practised in poetry as in war. When did you say he lived? Two hundred years ago! One could swear that it had been written yesterday.’
And she repeated to herself:
D’amour ne dois-je plus dire de bien
Car je n’en ai ni peu ni rien …
For a moment she was lost in thought.
‘Shall I go on, Madam?’ asked the reader, her finger poised on the illuminated page.
‘No, my dear,’ replied the Queen. ‘My heart has wept enough for today.’
She sat up straight in her chair, and in an altered voice said, ‘My cousin, Robert of Artois, has announced his coming. See that he is shewn in to me as soon as he arrives.’
‘Is he coming from France? Then you’ll be happy to see him, Madam.’
‘I hope to be … if the news he brings is good.’
The door opened and another French lady entered, breathless, her skirts raised the better to run. She had been born Jeanne de Joinville and was the wife of Sir Roger Mortimer.
‘Madam, Madam,’ she cried, ‘he has talked.’
Really?’ the Queen replied. ‘And what did he say?’
‘He banged the table, Madam, and said: “Want!”’
A look of pride crossed Isabella’s beautiful face.
‘Bring him to me,’ she said.
Lady Mortimer ran out and came back an instant later carrying a plump, round, rosy infant of fifteen months whom she deposited at the Queen’s feet. He was clothed in a red robe embroidered with gold, which weighed more than he did.
‘Well, Messire my son, so you have said: “Want”,’ said Isabella, leaning down to stroke his cheek. ‘I’m pleased that it should have been the first word you uttered: it’s the speech of a king.’
The infant smiled at her, nodding his head.
‘And why did he say it?’ the Queen went on.
‘Because I refused him a piece of the cake we were eating,’ Lady Mortimer replied.
Isabella gave a brief smile, quickly gone.
‘Since he has begun to talk,’ she said, ‘I insist that he be not encouraged to lisp nonsense, as children so often are. I’m not concerned that he should be able to say “Papa” and “Mamma”. I should prefer him to know the words “King” and “Queen”.’
There was great natural authority in her voice.
‘You know, my dear,’ she said, ‘the reasons that induced me to select you as my son’s governess. You are the great-niece of the great Joinville who went to the crusades with my great-grandfather, Monsieur Saint Louis. You will know how to teach the child that he belongs to France as much as to England.’1fn1
Lady Mortimer bowed. At this moment the first French lady returned, announcing Monseigneur Count Robert of Artois.
The Queen sat up very straight in her chair, crossing her white hands upon her breast in the attitude of an idol. Though her perpetual concern was to appear royal, it did not age her.
A sixteen-stone step shook the floorboards.
The man who entered was six feet tall, had thighs like the trunks of oak-trees, and hands like maces. His red boots of Cordoba leather were ill-brushed, still stained with mud; the cloak hanging from his shoulders was large enough to cover a bed. With the dagger at his side, he looked as if he were going to the wars. Wherever he might be, everything about him seemed fragile, feeble, and weak. His chin was round, his nose short, his jaw powerful and his stomach strong. He needed more air to breathe than the common run of men. This giant of a man was twenty-seven years old, but his age was difficult to determine beneath the muscle, and he might well have been thirty-five.
He took his gloves off as he approached the Queen, went down on one knee with surprising nimbleness in one so large, then stood erect again without even allowing time to be invited to do so.
‘Well, Messire, my Cousin,’ said Isabella, ‘did you have a good crossing?’
‘Horrible, Madam, quite appalling,’ replied Robert of Artois. ‘There was a storm to make you bring up your guts and your soul. I thought my last hour had come and began to confess my sins to God. Fortunately, there were so many that we’d arrived before I’d had time to recite the half of them. I’ve still got sufficient for the return journey.’
He burst out laughing and the windows shook.
‘And, by God,’ he went on, ‘I’m more suited to travelling upon dry land than crossing salt water. And if it weren’t for the love of you, Madam, my Cousin, and for the urgent tidings I have for you …’
‘Do you mind if I finish with him, cousin,’ said Isabella, interrupting him.
She pointed to the child.
‘My son has begun to talk today.’
Then to Lady Mortimer: ‘I want him to get accustomed to the names of his relatives and he should know, as soon as possible, that his grandfather, Philip the Fair, is King of France. Start repeating to him the Pater and the Ave, and also the prayer to Monsieur Saint Louis. These are things that must be instilled into his heart even before he can understand them with his reason.’
She was not displeased to be able to show one of her French relations, himself a descendant of a brother of Saint Louis, how she watched over her son’s education.
‘That’s sound teaching you’re giving the young man,’ said Robert of Artois.
‘One can never learn to reign too soon,’ replied
Isabella.
Unaware that they were talking of him, the child was amusing himself by walking with that careful, uncertain step peculiar to infants.
‘To think that we were once like that!’ said Artois.
‘It is certainly difficult to believe it when looking at you, Cousin,’ said the Queen smiling.
For a moment she thought of what the woman must feel who had given birth to this human fortress and of what she herself would feel when her son became a man.
The child went over to the hearth as if he wished to seize a flame in his tiny fist. Extending a red boot, Robert of Artois barred the road. Quite unafraid, the little Prince seized the leg in arms which could barely encircle it and, sitting astride the giant’s foot, he was lifted three or four times into the air. Delighted with the game, the little Prince laughed aloud.
‘Ah! Messire Edward,’ said Robert of Artois, ‘later on, when you’re a powerful prince, shall I dare remind you that I gave you a ride on my boot?’
‘Yes, Cousin,’ replied Isabella, ‘if you always show yourself to be our loyal friend. You may leave us now,’ she added.
The French ladies went, taking with them the infant, who, if fate pursued its normal course, would one day become Edward III of England.
Robert of Artois waited till the door was closed.
‘Well, Madam,’ he said, ‘to complete the admirable lessons you have given your son, you will soon be able to inform him that Marguerite of Burgundy, Queen of Navarre, future Queen of France, granddaughter of Saint Louis, is qualifying to be called by her people Marguerite the Whore.’
‘Really?’ asked Isabella. ‘Is what we suspected true then?’
‘Yes, Cousin. And not only in respect of Marguerite. It’s true for your two sisters-in-law as well.’
‘What? Both Jeanne and Blanche?’
‘As regards Blanche, I’m sure of it. Jeanne …’
Robert of Artois sketched a gesture of uncertainty with his hand.
‘She’s cleverer than the others,’ he added; ‘but I’ve every reason to believe that she’s as much of a whore.’