Then he added, ‘I have given orders that your credit shall be extended till next year: I hope my uncle will approve. It is impossible to refuse anything to so noble a lady!’
He said these last words smiling at Dame Eliabel. She bridled a little, and became less anxious.
They were very grateful to Guccio; nevertheless, when he said that he must leave, they did not try very hard to keep him. They had got from him what they wanted; undoubtedly he was a charming young man, this Lombard, and had done them a great service, but they scarcely knew him. And Dame Eliabel, when she thought of the advances she had made him that morning, and how he had left her with a certain abruptness, could not feel altogether pleased with herself. The essential was that their credit had been extended. Dame Eliabel had little difficulty in persuading herself that her charms had materially helped towards this end.
The only person who really wished that Guccio should stay could neither do nor say anything.
Suddenly the atmosphere became a little embarrassed. Nevertheless, they forced upon Guccio a haunch of roe-deer, which the brothers had killed, to take with him, and made him promise to return. He promised, but it was to Marie he gave a secret glance.
‘You may be certain I shall come back to collect the debt,’ he said lightly, though it was intended to put them on the wrong scent.
His luggage having been fastened to his saddle, he mounted his horse.
Watching him go off along the bank of the Mauldre, Madame de Cressay sighed and said to her sons, more for her own sake than for theirs, ‘Children, your mother still knows how to talk to young men. I was singularly tactful with this one, and you would have found him harder if I had not spoken to him alone.’
For fear of betraying herself, Marie had already gone into the house.
As he made his way along the road to Paris, Guccio, galloping along, thought of himself as an irresistible seducer, who had only to appear in a country-house to harvest every heart. The vision of Marie beside the field of rye was constant in his mind. And he promised himself that he would return to Neauphle very soon, perhaps even in a few days’ time.
But these are thoughts one has travelling but which are never put into effect.
He arrived that night at the street of the Lombards and talked to his uncle Tolomei till a late hour. The latter accepted without difficulty the explanations Guccio made about the debt; he had other worries on his mind. But he seemed to take a particular interest in the activities of Provost Portefruit.
All night long, as he slept, Guccio imagined that he was thinking of no one but Marie. But the following day he was already thinking of her rather less.
In Paris he knew two merchants’ wives, handsome townswomen of about twenty years of age, who were far from being cruel to him. After some days he had quite forgotten his conquest at Neauphle.
But destiny moves slowly and no one knows which of our actions, sown at hazard, will burgeon like trees. No one could have foretold that an embrace beside a field of rye on a certain day would alter the history of the kingdom of France, and would lead the beautiful Marie to the cradle of a king.
At Cressay Marie began to wait.
6
The Road to Clermont
THREE WEEKS LATER, the little town of Clermont-de-l’Oise was the scene of extraordinary excitement. From the castle to the gates, from the church to the town hall, the streets were crowded. There was joyful animation as people jostled each other in the alleys and taverns. Since morning, hangings had hung from the windows; the town-criers had announced that Monseigneur Philippe, Count of Poitiers, the King’s second son, and his uncle, Monseigneur of Valois, had come in the King’s name to meet their sister and niece, Queen Isabella of England.
The Queen, having disembarked upon the soil of France two days before, was making her way across Picardy. She had left Amiens that morning and, if all went well, she would arrive at Clermont in the late afternoon. She would sleep there and, next day, her English escort reinforced by that of France, would proceed to Pontoise where her father, Philip the Fair, was awaiting her at the Castle of Maubuisson.
Shortly after vespers, the arrival of the Princes having been announced, the Provost, the Captain of the Guard and the Aldermen went out of the Porte de Paris to present the keys. Philippe of Poitiers, riding in the lead, received their welcome and was the first to enter Clermont.
Behind him, amid a great cloud of dust raised by the horses, followed more than a hundred gentlemen, equerries, valets and men-at-arms, who formed his and Charles of Valois’s suite.
One head overtopped all others, that of the huge Robert of Artois, whose progress attracted every eye. It is true that this lord, mounted upon a huge dappled percheron – a gigantic horse for a gigantic horseman – wearing red boots and cloak and a surcoat of red velvet, was most impressive in appearance. Though many of the horsemen appeared tired, he remained as upright in the saddle as if he had only just mounted.
Indeed, since leaving Pontoise, Robert of Artois had had a feeling of acute triumph to sustain and refresh him. He alone knew the real object of the young Queen of England’s journey; he alone knew how events, put in train by himself to appease his longing for revenge, were about to shake the Court of France. Already he felt a secret, bitter joy.
During the whole journey he had unceasingly watched Gautier and Philippe d’Aunay, who formed part of the retinue, the first as equerry to the Count of Poitiers, the second as equerry to Charles of Valois. The two young men were delighted with the journey and the whole royal train. In their innocence and vanity, the better to shine, they had fastened the handsome purses given them by their mistresses upon their smartest clothes. Seeing the purses at their belts, Robert of Artois had felt a cruel and passionate joy in his heart. He had scarcely been able to prevent himself laughing aloud. ‘Well my young bucks, my young cocks, fools that you are,’ he said to himself, ‘you may well smile in thinking of your mistresses’ beautiful breasts. Think of them well, for you will never touch them again; and breathe deep of the air of day, for I think that you will have but few more. Your handsome, brainless heads will be cracked open like nuts.’
Meanwhile, like a huge tiger playing with its prey, claws retracted, he spoke with the utmost cordiality to the brothers Aunay, from time to time tossing them a loud-mouthed pleasantry. Since he had saved them from the pretended cut-throats at the Tower of Nesle, the two young men had been most friendly and thought themselves much obliged to him.
When the cavalcade halted in the Grande Place, they invited Artois to a cup of cool light wine. They joked together, toasting each other. ‘Drink, my little friends, drink,’ said Artois to himself, ‘and remember well the taste of this light wine.’
All about them the tavern rang with gaiety, shouts and cries under the sun.
In the rejoicing town business was as good as on a fair-day, and from the Royal Castle17 to the church a dense crowd slowed down the horses’ pace.
The great swathes of multi-coloured hangings ornamenting the windows floated in the breeze. A horseman arrived at a gallop and announced the Queen’s approach. There was immediate commotion.
‘Hurry our people along,’ said Philippe of Poitiers to Gautier d’Aunay, who had just rejoined them.
Then the King’s second son turned to Charles of Valois.
‘We are very punctual, Uncle; the Queen will not have to wait.’
Charles of Valois, dressed entirely in blue, a little the worse for fatigue, contented himself with a nod of the head. He could well have done without the ride and was in a bad temper.
The church bells began ringing and their hubbub re-echoed from the town walls. The cavalcade went forward along the Amiens road.
Robert of Artois joined the Princes and went forward stirrup to stirrup with Poitiers. Though he had been dispossessed of his inheritance of Artois, Robert was nevertheless the King’s cousin and his place was in the front rank of the royalty of France. Watching Philippe of Poitiers’s hand clasping the reins of his chestnut horse
, Robert thought, ‘It was for your sake, my skinny cousin, it was in order to give you Franche-Comté that I was deprived of Artois which belonged to me. But before tomorrow is out, you will receive a wound from which a man’s honour does not easily recover.’
Philippe, Count of Poitiers and the husband of Jeanne of Burgundy, was twenty-one years old. Not only physically, but in personality too, he was different from all the rest of the Royal family. He was neither handsome and dominating like his father, nor fat and impetuous like his uncle. Thin in face and body, tall of stature, with curiously long limbs, his gestures were always measured, his voice precise and curt; everything about him, his physical characteristics, the simplicity of his pleasures, the restrained courtesy of his speech, expressed a decisive and reflective nature, in which his head dominated his heart. He was already a power to take account of in the kingdom.
Three miles from Clermont, the two cavalcades, that of the Queen of England and that of the Princes, met. Eight servants of the house of France, grouped by the side of the road, blew a long and monotonous fanfare upon their trumpets. The English trumpeters replied upon instruments similar but with a sharper pitch. Then the Princes walked forward and Isabella, slim and upright upon her white palfrey, listened to a short speech of welcome made by her brother, Philippe of Poitiers. Then Charles of Valois went forward to kiss his niece’s hand; then, when it was the Count of Artois’s turn, he was able to give her to understand, by the manner of his low bow and the glance he gave her, that all had turned out as he had foreseen.
While compliments, questions and news were being exchanged, the two escorts waited and watched each other. The French horsemen were impressed by the English uniforms. Sitting still and upright upon their horses, the sun in their eyes, the English bore proudly upon their breastplates the three lions of England; they seemed self-assured and were obviously out to make a good impression upon a strange land.
From the great blue-and-gold litter which followed behind the Queen came a loud cry.
‘So, Sister,’ said Philippe, ‘you have brought our little nephew upon the journey, have you? It’s a hard road for so young a child.’
‘I would never leave him in London without me. You know enough about the people by whom I am surrounded,’ Isabella replied.
Philippe of Poitiers and Charles of Valois asked her the object of her journey; she told them merely that she wished to see her father, and they realised that for the moment, at least, they would be told no more.
She said that she was somewhat tired with the journey, and, dismounting from her white mare, took her place in the great litter carried by two mules harnessed in velvet trappings, one placed between the forward shafts and the other between the rear. Both cavalcades moved off again towards Clermont.
Taking advantage of the fact that Poitiers and Valois had taken their places at the head of the cavalcade, Artois drew his horse near the litter.
‘You become more beautiful every time I see you, Cousin,’ he said.
‘Don’t talk nonsense; I am certainly not beautiful after twelve hours of dust upon the roads,’ the Queen replied.
‘Having loved you in memory for many long weeks, the dust is invisible; I can only see your eyes.’
Isabella leaned back a little among the cushions. Once again she felt a recurrence of that curious weakness which had seized her at Westminster in Robert’s company. ‘Can he really love me,’ she wondered, ‘or is he merely making compliments as he does, doubtless, to every woman he meets?’ Between the curtains of the litter, she could see the Count of Artois’s huge red boot and golden spur upon the dappled horse’s flank; she could see the giant thigh with its salient muscles, and she wondered whether each time she found herself in this man’s presence she would be conscious of the same disquiet, the same desire to let herself go, the same hope of reaching out to unknown territories. She made an effort to control herself. She was not there on her own behalf.
‘Cousin,’ she said, ‘tell me quickly what there is to tell, and let us make the most of this opportunity to talk.’
Rapidly, pretending to point out the countryside, he told her what he knew and what he had done, the watch he had set over the royal Princesses, the trap set at the Tower of Nesle.
‘Who are these men who are dishonouring the Crown of France?’ Isabella asked.
‘They are riding twenty paces from you. They form part of the escort attending us.’
And he gave her the essential information about the brothers Aunay, their estate, their parentage and their family relationships.
‘I want to see them,’ Isabella said.
Signalling vigorously, Artois called the two young men over.
‘The Queen has noticed you,’ he said, winking broadly, ‘and I have spoken to her of you.’
The faces of the two Aunays reflected their pleasure and their pride.
The giant motioned them towards the litter as if he were in process of making their fortunes, and, as the young men bowed lower than their horses’ withers, he said with feigned joviality, ‘Madam, here are Messires Gautier and Philippe d’Aunay, the most loyal equerries of your brother and your uncle. I recommend them to your notice. They are to some extent protégés of mine.’
Isabella gazed for an instant at the two young men, wondering what there was about their faces and their persons that could turn kings’ daughters from their duty. They were handsome, certainly, and Isabella was always somewhat embarrassed by beauty in men. Then she noticed the purses at the horsemen’s belts and glanced from them to Robert’s eyes. The latter smiled briefly. From now on he could fade into the shadows. He need not even assume the role of informer before the Court. This chance encounter should be sufficient to decide the fate of the two equerries. ‘Good work, Robert, good work,’ he said to himself.
The brothers Aunay, their heads full of dreams, returned to their places in the procession.
From Clermont, in the throes of gaiety, could be heard a great clamour of welcome for the beautiful Queen of twenty-two, who was about to bring the most surprising of disasters upon the Court of France.
7
Like Father, Like Daughter
IT WAS THE EVENING OF Isabella’s arrival; the King was alone with his daughter in a room of the Castle of Maubuisson, where he liked to isolate himself.
‘It is there I think things over,’ he had told his familiars one day when he was being particularly forthcoming.
Upon the table was a three-branched silver candelabra whose light fell upon a file of parchments which the King was reading and signing. Beyond the windows the park rustled in the twilight, and Isabella, looking out into the night, watched the dark absorb the trees one by one.
Since the time of Blanche of Castille, Maubuisson, on the borders of Pontoise, had been a royal residence and Philip had made it one of his regular country retreats. He liked the silence of the place, closed in as it was by high walls; he liked his park, his garden and his abbey in which Benedictine sisters lived out their peaceful lives. The castle itself was not very large, but Philip the Fair liked its quiet and preferred Maubuisson to all his greater houses.
Isabella had met her three sisters-in-law, Marguerite, Jeanne and Blanche, with a serenely smiling face, and had replied conventionally to their words of welcome.
Supper had soon been over. And now Isabella was alone with her father for the purpose of accomplishing the task, atrocious but necessary, upon which she was set. King Philip looked at her with that icy glance with which he regarded every human creature, even his own child. He was waiting for her to speak; and she did not dare.
‘I shall hurt him so much,’ she thought. And suddenly, because of his presence, because of the park, the trees and the silence, Isabella was a prey to a wave of childish memories and her throat constricted with bitter self-pity.
‘Father,’ she said, ‘Father, I am very unhappy. Oh! how very far away France seems since I have been Queen of England. And how I regret the days that are past!’
> She found herself trying to fight an unexpected enemy: tears.
After a brief silence, without going to her, Philip the Fair asked gently but without warmth, ‘Was it to tell me this, Isabella, that you have undertaken the journey?’
‘And to whom should I admit my unhappiness if not to my father?’ she replied.
The King looked at the night beyond the gleaming panes of the window, then at the candles, then at the fire.
‘Happiness …’ he said slowly. ‘What is happiness, daughter, if it is not to conform to one’s destiny? If it is not learning to say yes, always to God … and often to men?’
They were sitting opposite each other on cushionless oak chairs.
‘It is true that I am a Queen,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But am I treated as a Queen over there?’
‘Are you done wrong by?’
But there was little surprise in the tone of his voice as he put the question. He knew only too well what she would answer.
‘Don’t you know to whom you have married me?’ she said with some force. ‘Can he be called a husband who deserted my bed from the very first day? From whom all my care, all my respect, all my smiles, cannot get a single word of response? Who shuns me as if I were ill and confers, not upon mistresses, but upon men, Father, upon men, the favours he denies me?’
Philip the Fair had known all this for a long time, and his reply had also been ready for a long time.
‘I did not marry you to a man,’ he said, ‘but to a King. I did not sacrifice you by mistake. I don’t have to tell you, Isabella, what we owe to our position and that we are not born to succumb to personal sorrows. We do not lead our own lives, but those of our kingdoms, and it is there alone that we can find content … if we conform to our destiny.’
He had drawn somewhat nearer to her while speaking and the light of the candle-flames etched the shadows upon his face, bringing his beauty into better relief, emphasising his air of always searching for self-conquest and being proud of it.