I was at his home a while back. Because he has done so well, everything of importance in the Christian world passes through his little Court of Orthez, which he has turned into a great court. When I found myself there, I met a Count Palatine, one of King Edward’s prelates, a first chamberlain of the King of Castile, not to mention highly reputed physicians, a famous artist, and great doctors of law. All of these people were splendidly treated.
I know of only one other such charismatic and influential court in such a narrow territory, that of King Lusignan of Cyprus; but he has far more wealth at his disposal from the profits of trade.
Phoebus has a fast and pleasant way of showing you what belongs to him: ‘Here is my pack of hounds, my horses, this is my mistress, these are my bastards … Madame of Foix is well, thanks be to God. You will see her this evening.’
In the evening, in the long gallery that he had opened down the side of his castle, overlooking a most hilly horizon, the whole court meets and strolls a long while, in superb attire, while blue shadows fall upon the Béarn. Here and there, immense fireplaces blaze, and between the fireplaces, the wall is painted al fresco with hunting scenes that are the work of artists come from Italy. The guest who has failed to bring all his jewels and his finest robes, believing he is sojourning in a tiny mountain castle, cuts a poor figure indeed. I am warning you in case you happen to go there one day. Madame Agnes of Foix, which is Navarre, is the sister of Queen Blanche and almost as beautiful, her gown sewn with gold and pearls. She speaks little, or rather, one guesses as much, she is afraid to speak. She listens to the minstrels who sing Aqueres mountanes composed by her husband; the Béarnais love to join in singing them together.
Phoebus himself goes from group to group, greets first one, then another, welcomes a lord, compliments a poet, converses with an ambassador, finds out about the world’s business as he walks, drops an opinion, gives a hushed order and governs while he chats. Until twelve, when vast burning torches carried by valets of his livery come to bid him to supper, with all of his guests. Yes, sometimes he only sits down to eat at midnight.
One evening I surprised him leaning against an arch in his open gallery and sighing before his silvery mountain stream and his horizon of blue mountains: ‘Too small, too small, one might say, monseigneur, that Providence takes malicious pleasure in rolling the dice and mismatching them …’
We had just spoken about France, about the King of France, and I understood what he wanted me to hear. Great men often only receive small land to govern, whereas to the weak man falls the great kingdom. And he added: ‘But as small as my Béarn may be, I intend that it should belong to no one other than itself.’
His letters are wonders. He never fails to inscribe all of his titles: ‘We, Gaston III, Count of Foix, Viscount of Béarn, Viscount of Lautrec, of Marsan and of Castillon,’ and what else … ah, yes: ‘Seigneur of Montesquieu and of Montpezat,’ and then, and then, hear how it sounds: ‘Viguier54 of Andorra and of Capir,’ and he just signs ‘Fébus’, with his F and his é, of course, perhaps even to distinguish himself from Apollo, just as on the castles and monuments that he builds or embellishes, one can see carved in tall letters: ‘Fébus made it.’
There is certainly extravagance in his character; but one must remember that he is only twenty-five years old. For his age he has already shown much skill. Equally, he has shown his courage; he was amongst the most valiant at Crécy. He was fifteen. Ah! I am forgetting to tell you, if you don’t know it: he is the great-nephew of Robert of Artois. His grandfather married Joan of Artois, Robert’s very own sister, who, no sooner widowed, showed such an appetite for men, led such a scandalous life, caused so much carry-on, and could cause a lot more yet, indeed, she is still alive; a little over sixty and in fine health … our Phoebus, her grandson, had to shut her away in one of the towers of the Castle of Foix, where he has her closely guarded. Ah! It is thick blood indeed, that of the Artois!
And this is the man whom La Forêt, the archbishop-chancellor, when all is turning against King John, manages to persuade to come and pay homage. Oh! Make no mistake about it. Phoebus has thought through his decision, and is acting only, precisely, to protect the independence of his little Béarn. Aquitaine adjoining Navarre, and himself adjoining both, their alliance, at present manifest, is not at all in his interests; his short borders are threatened by their combined great power. He would like to protect himself on the Languedoc side where he had a run-in with the Count of Armagnac, governor of the king. So, let us draw closer together with France, let us end this disagreement, and to this aim, let us pay the homage due by our County of Foix. Of course Phoebus would plead for the release of his brother-in-law Navarre, it was agreed, but for form’s sake, only for form’s sake, as if it were the pretext for their reconciliation. It is a subtle game. Phoebus could always say to the Navarrese: ‘But I only paid homage with the intent of serving you.’
In one week, Gaston Phoebus charmed Paris. He had arrived with a diverse escort of gentlemen, any number of servants, twenty carts carrying his wardrobe and furniture, a splendid pack of hounds, and part of his menagerie of wild beasts. The cortège stretched out over a quarter of a league. The smallest page was splendidly dressed, bearing the livery of Béarn; the horses were caparisoned in silk velvets, like mine. At huge expense, but designed to capture the imagination of the crowds. And Phoebus succeeded.
The great lords fought over the honour of entertaining him. All the notables of the town, those from Parliament, university, finance, and even from the Church, grasped at any manner of pretext to come and welcome him at the town house his sister Blanche, the Widowed Queen, had opened up for him for the duration of his stay. Women wanted to gaze at him, hear his voice, touch his hand. Wherever he went around town, he was recognized by his golden hair and people gathered before the doors of the silversmiths and drapers he patronized. The equerry who always accompanied him was also recognized, a giant by the name of Ernauton of Spain, perhaps his half-brother born out of wedlock; similarly, the two enormous Pyrenean mountain dogs that followed him, held on a leash by a page. On the back of one of the dogs sat a little monkey. A most unusual great seigneur, more lavish than the most lavish, was in the capital, and everyone was talking about him.
I will tell you everything in detail; but during this unpropitious July, we were on the ladder of tragedy; and each rung matters.
You will have a large county to govern, Archambaud, and I wager the times will not be any easier than these; one cannot rise up in just a few years from a fall such as ours.
Keep this in mind: when a prince is of a mediocre nature, or as soon as he is weakened by age or illness, unity amongst the royal advisors can no longer be maintained. The king’s entourage splits up, divides, because in order to do their work they take over the pieces of an authority that is no longer being exercised, or is exercised poorly; everyone speaks in the name of a master who is no longer in command; everyone fends for himself with an eye on the future. So coteries form, according to affinity along lines of ambition or temperament. Rivalries are exacerbated. The faithful regroup on one side, and on the other the traitors, who believe themselves to be loyal in their own way.
I call a traitor he who betrays the higher interests of the kingdom. Often, these men are incapable of perceiving it; they see only the interests of certain people of that kingdom; and yet, it is the traitor, alas, who generally prevails.
Around King John, two parties coexisted as they do today around the dauphin, since the same men are in place.
On the one hand, the party of the Chancellor Pierre de La Forêt, Archbishop of Rouen, seconded by Enguerrand du Petit-Cellier; they are the men whom I consider to be the best informed and the most concerned about the good of the kingdom. And on the other hand, Nicolas Braque, Lorris and above all, above all, Simon de Bucy.
Perhaps you will see him in Metz. Ah! Always be on your guard with him and those like him. A man whose head is too big for a body that is too short, is already a bad si
gn; holding himself up straight like a cockerel, rather ill-mannered and violent when he breaks out of his silence, and filled with an immense pride, though this he conceals. He enjoys power that is exercised in the shadows, and nothing pleases him more than humiliating or destroying anyone whom he deems to be taking to himself too much importance at court or who is gaining too much influence over the prince. He imagines that governing is the work only of cunning, lying, constructing machines. He has no great ideas, only mediocre schemes, always evil, which he most stubbornly pursues. Mere clerk for King Philip, he climbed up to where he is. First president of Parliament, member of the Great Council, by acquiring a reputation for loyalty, because he is domineering and brutal. This man has very publicly administered justice, forcing dissatisfied litigants to kneel down before him in the middle of a court hearing to beg forgiveness, or having twenty-three bourgeois from Rouen executed in one go; but he pronounces as many arbitrary acquittals, or postpones serious cases indefinitely, so as to keep his hands on certain people. He knows not to neglect his fortune; he obtained from the Abbot of Saint-Germain-des-Prés the octroi55 of the Saint-Germain Gate, immediately dubbed Bucy Gate, and thereby collects tolls on much of what goes through Paris.
From the moment La Forêt had negotiated the homage of Phoebus, de Bucy was against it and resolved to thwart the arrangement. It is he who went before the king, just back from Breteuil, and whispered to him: ‘Phoebus is deriding you in Paris through a grand display of wealth … Phoebus has twice met with Prevost Marcel … I suspect Phoebus of plotting, with his wife and Queen Blanche, the escape of Charles the Bad. You must demand of Phoebus a tribute for Béarn. Phoebus does not speak well of you … be careful not to welcome Phoebus too graciously, it will hurt the Count of Armagnac, of whom you have great need in Languedoc. Indeed, the Chancellor La Forêt is too indulgent with the friends of your enemies. And besides, what sort of man calls himself Phoebus?’ And just to put the king in a truly foul mood, he gave him some bad news. Friquet of Fricamps had escaped from Châtelet thanks to the ingenuity of two of his servants. The Navarrese were flouting royal power and were regaining a most deft and dangerous man.
The result was that King John appeared haughty and aggressive at the supper that he held the day before the homage, calling Phoebus ‘messire my vassal’ and asking him: ‘Are there any men left in your fiefs with all those escorting you in my town?’
And he even said to him: ‘I would like your troops to stay out of the territory under the command of Monseigneur of Armagnac.’
Most surprised, as it had been agreed with Pierre de La Forêt that these incidents were to be considered effaced, Phoebus retorted: ‘My banners, sire my cousin, wouldn’t have had to enter Armagnac if those who attacked my lands hadn’t come from there and needs must be driven back. But as soon as you have given the order that Monseigneur of Armagnac’s men should cease these incursions, my knights will happily keep to their borders.’ Whereupon the king continued: ‘I would like them to stay a little closer to me. I have called up the army at Chartres, to march upon the Englishman. I am counting on your being scrupulous enough to join them there with the banners of Foix and of Béarn.’
‘The banners of Foix,’ answered Phoebus, ‘will be raised as a vassal’s must, as soon as I have paid my homage to you, sire my cousin. And those of Béarn will follow, if I so wish.’
What a great success as a supper of reconciliation! The archbishop-chancellor, surprised and displeased, vainly went about patching things up. Bucy showed a wooden face. But deep down inside, he exulted. He felt that he was the true master.
The King of Navarre’s name wasn’t even pronounced, even though Queen Joan and Queen Blanche were present.
Upon leaving the palace, Ernauton of Spain, the giant of an equerry, said to the Count of Foix – I wasn’t in there, but this is the gist of what was reported back to me: ‘I admired your patience. If I were Phoebus, I would not wait for another insult, I would leave immediately for my Béarn.’ To which Phoebus responded: ‘And were I Ernauton, that is exactly the advice I would give to Phoebus. But I am Phoebus, and must first and foremost look out for the future of my subjects. I do not wish to be the one who withdraws, and thus appear to put myself in the wrong. I will exhaust every opportunity for an agreement, up to the limits of honour. But La Forêt, I fear, has led me into a trap. Unless a fact of which I am unaware, and of which he is unaware, has turned the king against me. We will see tomorrow.’
And the next day, after Mass, Phoebus entered into the great hall of the palace with six equerries to bear the train of his robe, and for once he was not bareheaded. Because he was wearing his crown, gold upon gold. The hall was filled with chamberlains, advisors, prelates, chaplains, masters of Parliament and great officers of state. But who does Phoebus notice first: the Count of Armagnac, Jean de Forez, standing close by the king as if leaning against the throne, cutting a most arrogant figure. On the other side of the throne, de Bucy pretending to tidy his rolls of parchment. He took one of them and read, as if it had been an ordinary decree: ‘Messire, King of France, monseigneur, grants you audience for the County of Foix and the Viscountcy of Béarn that you have received from him, and you will become his man as Count of Foix and Viscount of Béarn according to the proprieties made between his predecessors and your own. Kneel.’
There was a moment of silence. Then Phoebus responded in the clearest of voices: ‘I cannot.’
The audience showed their surprise, sincere for the most part, feigned by some, with a hint of pleasure. It is not often that an incident occurs in a tribute ceremony.
Phoebus repeated: ‘I cannot.’ And he added very clearly: ‘One of my knees will bend: that of Foix. But that of Béarn cannot bend.’
It was then that King John spoke, and his voice was scored with anger. ‘I have granted you an audience for Foix and for Béarn.’ Those gathered there quivered with curiosity. And the debate went something like this. Phoebus: ‘Sire, Béarn is land of freehold tenure, and you cannot grant me audience for that which is not of your suzerainty.’ The king: ‘It is falsehood, what you allege, and has been for too many years subject of dispute between your relatives and mine.’ Phoebus: ‘It is truth, sire, and shall only remain the matter of discord should you so wish it. I am your faithful and loyal subject for Foix, as my forefathers have always professed, but I cannot declare myself your man for that which I obtained only from God.’ The king: ‘Wicked vassal! You are contriving for yourself treacherous means to shirk the service that you owe me. Last year you brought not one of your banners to the Count of Armagnac, my lieutenant in Languedoc here before you, and because of your failure to lend assistance, he was unable to drive away the English chevauchée!’ Phoebus then said, superbly: ‘If the fate of Languedoc depends only upon my participation, and if Messire of Armagnac is powerless to guard his province, then it is not to him that you should give the lieutenancy, sire, but to me.’
The king had worked himself into a fury, his chin was trembling. ‘You are scoffing at me, good sire, but you will not do so for much longer. Kneel!’
‘Remove Béarn from the homage, and I will bend my knee directly.’
‘You will bend it in prison, evil traitor!’ cried the king. ‘Seize him!’
The play had been put on, planned, staged, at least, by Bucy, who had only to make a sign for Perrinet le Buffle and six other sergeants to promptly surround Phoebus. They already knew that they were to take him to the Louvre.
The very same day, the Prevost Marcel went about the town saying: ‘King John had only one more enemy to make; that work is now accomplished. If all the thieves that hover round the king remain in place, there will soon be not one single honest man able to breathe outside of jail.’
4
The Camp of Chartres
THIS IS A FINE BUSINESS, my nephew, a fine business indeed! Do you know what the pope wrote to me in a letter of the twenty-eighth of November, though its dispatch must have been somewhat delayed, or the courier
first went to find me where I wasn’t to be found, as it only reached me yesterday evening in Arcis? Guess … Well, the Holy Father, deeply concerned about the disagreement I have with Niccola Capocci, holds me to blame for: ‘the lack of charity between you’. I would very much like to know how I could show Capocci any charity. I haven’t seen him since Breteuil, where he promptly slipped away to establish himself in Paris. And so who is at fault for the discord if not the one who wanted at all costs to place me with this selfish, narrow-minded prelate whose only concern is his own comfort, and whose actions have no other design than to foil my own? General peace, he doesn’t care for such things. All that matters to him is that I fail to achieve it. Lack of charity, a fine thing indeed! Lack of charity … I have good reason to believe that Capocci is involved in some shady dealings with Simon de Bucy, and that he had something to do with the imprisonment of Phoebus … let me put your mind at rest, yes, you know … he was released in August; and thanks to whom? Me; that you didn’t know, on the promise that he would join the king’s army.
Finally, the Holy Father is pleased to assure me that I am praised for my efforts and that my activities meet with the approval of not only himself but also the entire college of cardinals. I don’t believe he writes as much to the other one. But he wants, as he has wanted since October, to go back on his recommendation to include Charles of Navarre in the general peace agreement. I can easily guess who suggested that to him.
It was after Friquet de Fricamps escaped that King John decided to transfer his son-in-law to Arleux, a fortress in Picardie where all around the people are devoted to the Artois. He feared Charles of Navarre was receiving benefits from too much collusion in Paris. He would not have him in the same prison as Phoebus, nor even the same town.
And then, having sacrificed nearly all in the affair of Breteuil, as I was telling you yesterday, he returned to Chartres. He had told me: ‘We will speak in Chartres.’ I was there, while Capocci was showing off in Paris …