To which the Cardinal of Boulogne had the duty of adding loud and clear: ‘May not one of the king’s lineage venture such actions again, as, be he the king’s son, justice will be done.’
Fine justice indeed, while in reality everyone laughed surreptitiously. And before the entire court, the father- and son-in-law embraced each other. I will tell you the rest tomorrow.
9
The Bad in Avignon
TO TELL YOU THE truth, my nephew, I prefer the way churches used to be built, like the one in Le Dorat we just passed through; the churches built in the last one hundred and fifty or two hundred years may be technical feats in stone, but the shadow is so dense, the ornamentation so profuse and often so frightening, that one’s heart tightens with fear, as much as if one had got lost at night in the middle of the forest. It is not thought well of to have such taste as mine, I know, but it is the taste I have and I will stand by it. Perhaps it comes from my growing up in our old castle in Périgueux, built within the ruins of a monument from Ancient Rome; nearby our venerable Saint-Front, our Saint-Étienne down the road, how I love to come across forms that remind me of them, those beautiful pillars, simple and regular, those high, rounded arches under which light scatters so effortlessly.
Previous generations of monks were very good at building such sanctuaries, where sunlight pours in so abundantly the stone walls seem softly golden under the high vaulted ceilings, where the heavens are represented, and the choirs surge up magnificently, voices rising up like angels to Paradise.
By the grace of God, the English, even if they have pillaged Le Dorat, didn’t destroy this masterpiece amongst masterpieces, not badly enough for it to need rebuilding. Otherwise, I wager that our Northern architects would have enjoyed putting up some stone monstrosity of their own making, a top-heavy vessel standing on stone legs like some fantastical beast, where, upon entering, one could almost believe that the house of God is the antechamber of hell. And they would have replaced the angel of gilded copper, at the tip of the spire, which gave its name to the parish … oh yes, lou dorat … by a grimacing devil with a cloven hoof …
Hell … My benefactor, John XXII, my very first pope, didn’t believe in it, or rather he professed that it was empty. That was going a little too far. If people no longer fear hell, then how can we draw almsgiving and penitences, to redeem their sins? Without hell, the Church could go out of business. It was the hare-brained idea of a great old man. We were forced to make him retract on his deathbed. I was there …
Oh! The weather is really getting colder. One can well feel that in two days we will be entering December. A damp cold, the worst kind.
Brunet! Aymar Brunet, go and see, my friend, if there isn’t a warming pan in the food supplies cart we could put in my palanquin. The furs are no longer enough, and if we carry on this way, it will be a shivering cardinal that will be getting out at Saint-Benoît-du-Sault. There too, I have been told, the Englishman has wreaked havoc … And if there are not enough hot coals in the chef’s cart, as I will need far more than that required to keep a ragout warm, you are to go in quest of them at the first hamlet we pass through … No, I don’t need Master Vigier. Let him continue to wend his way. Whenever I call my doctor to my side, the entire escort imagines that I am at death’s door. I am in excellent health. I need coals, that is all …
So you want to know, Archambaud, what ensued after the Treaty of Mantes, that I told you about yesterday … You are a good listener, my nephew, and it is a pleasure to educate you in what one knows. I suspect that you even take notes whenever we make a stop; is this not true? Very well, I thought as much. It is the Northern lords who glorify themselves by being more ignorant than an ass, as if reading and writing were work for a mere cleric, or pauper. They require a servant to understand the smallest note addressed to them. We, in the south of the kingdom, have always rubbed shoulders with the Roman civilizations, we have every respect for learning. Which gives us the upper hand in a great many matters.
So you take notes. That is a good thing indeed. As, for my part, I will scarcely be able to bear witness of all that I have seen and all that I have done. All my letters and writings are or will be deposited in the papal registers never to be released again, as is the rule. But you will be there, Archambaud, and will be able to, at least for the business related to France, say what you know, and do justice to my memory if certain others, as I have no doubt that Capocci will … (may God keep me on this earth just one day longer than him) … attempt to conspire to.
So, very soon after the Treaty of Mantes, where he had shown himself so inexplicably generous towards his son-in-law, King John accused his negotiators, Robert Le Coq, Robert of Lorris and even his wife’s uncle, the Cardinal of Boulogne, of having sold out to Charles of Navarre.
Let it be said between us, I believe he was not far from the truth. Robert Le Coq is a young bishop burning with ambition, who excels in scheming and revels in intrigue, and who since his quarrel with the king had openly joined Navarrese circles, quick to see his own advantage in joining forces with them. Robert of Lorris, the chamberlain, is certainly devoted to his master; however, he is from a banking family where one can never resist making a few fistfuls of gold in passing. I got to know him, this Lorris, when he came to Avignon around ten years ago to negotiate the loan of three hundred thousand florins King Philip VI had extended to the pope at that time. I, myself, merely took an honest thousand florins for having put the bankers of Clement VI, the Raimondi of Avignon and the Matteis of Florence in contact with each other; but he was rather more generous to himself. As far as Boulogne is concerned, as close a relative of the king as he is …
I fully understand that it is accepted that we, as cardinals, be fairly compensated for our intercessions on our princes’ behalf. Otherwise we would never be able to carry out our duties. I have never made a secret of it, and even consider it an honour, to have received twenty-two thousand florins from my sister of Durazzo for the care of her ducal affairs that I took, twenty years ago … twenty years already! They were severely compromised at the time. And just last year, for the necessary exemption for the marriage of Louis of Sicily and Constance of Avignon, I was duly thanked with five thousand florins. But I have only ever accepted recompense from those who put their cause in the hands of my talent or my influence. Dishonesty begins when one is paid by the enemy. And I believe that Boulogne could not resist this temptation. Since then, the friendship between him and King John II has considerably cooled off.
Lorris, by withdrawing for a while, once more returned to favour, as is always the way with the Lorrises. He threw himself at the king’s feet, last Good Friday, swore his unfailing loyalty, and cast all duplicity and connivance onto Le Coq, who remained on bad terms with the king and was banished from the court.
It is an advantageous thing to disavow one’s negotiators. It serves as justification when not applying the terms of a treaty. And the king did just that. When he was told that he should have kept his deputies under tighter control, and given away a good deal less than he had, he replied irritably: ‘Negotiating, debating, arguing are no business for a knight.’ He has always affected contempt for negotiation and diplomacy, which has allowed him to renege on any commitments.
In fact he had only promised so much because he counted on respecting nothing at all.
But at the same time, he overwhelmed his son-in-law with a thousand feigned courtesies, always wanting him close by at court, and not only him, but his younger brother, Philip, and even the youngest, Louis, whose return from Navarre he keenly insisted upon. He proclaimed himself the protector of the three brothers and encouraged the dauphin to profess friendship to them.
The Bad didn’t submit himself without arrogance to such excessive consideration, to so much incredible solicitude, going so far as to say to the king, in the middle of dinner: ‘Admit that I did you a favour ridding you of Charles of Spain, who wanted to run everything in the kingdom. You won’t say it, but I relieved you of a bur
den.’ You can imagine how much King John enjoyed being reminded of such kindnesses.
Then one summer’s day when Charles of Navarre and his brothers were on their way to attend a feast at the palace, the Cardinal of Boulogne rushed up to Charles and said: ‘Turn back and stay in your house, if you value your life. The king has resolved to have you slain later today, all three of you, during the feast.’
This was no figment of his imagination, nor the result of vague rumours. King John had indeed taken such a decision, that very morning, during his State Council, in which Boulogne had taken part … ‘I have been waiting for the three brothers to be together, as I want all three of them slain so that there be no further male offspring of that evil breed.’
For my part, I don’t blame Boulogne for having warned the Navarrese, even though that must have given credence to the idea that he had been bought. As a priest of the Holy Church … and who, what’s more, is a member of the pontifical Curia, a brother of the pope before the Lord … cannot hear that a triple murder will be perpetrated in cold blood, and accept that it should take place without attempting in the slightest to prevent it. It was to let oneself become an accessory to the crime by remaining silent. Why on earth did King John have to speak in front of Boulogne? He only had to give the order to his sergeants … But no, he thought he was being clever. Ah, that king, when he tries to be crafty! He has never been able to see three moves ahead. He must have thought that when the pope remonstrated with him about how he had bloodied his palace, as he surely would, he could always argue: ‘But your cardinal was there, and he didn’t disapprove of my actions.’ Boulogne is no partridge born of the last brood to walk into such an obvious trap.
Charles of Navarre, thus forewarned, withdrew in haste to his house where he had his escort made ready. King John, when none of the brothers turned up at his feast, summoned them urgently. But his messenger received no response, there was only the thumping of horses’ hooves as, at that very moment, the Navarrese were headed back towards Normandy.
King John entered into an acute rage whereupon he hid his vexation by playing the injured party. ‘Look at that bad son, that traitor who turns his back on the friendship of the king, and exiles himself from my court! He must have many a wicked plan to conceal.’
And from that came his pretext to proclaim he would suspend the terms and effects of the Treaty of Mantes, that anyway he had not even begun to execute.
Upon learning this, Charles sent his brother Louis back to Navarre and dispatched his brother Philip to Cotentin to raise an army, he himself choosing not to stay in Évreux any longer.
Because meanwhile our Holy Father, the Pope Innocent, had called a conference in Avignon … the third, the fourth, or rather, simply the same one begun again … between the envoys of France and England in order to negotiate, not just an extended truce, but a real and lasting peace. This time, Innocent wanted, so he said, to see the work of his predecessor through to a successful conclusion, flattering himself he would succeed where Clement VI had failed. Presumptuousness, Archambaud, lies deep even in a pontiff’s heart.
The Cardinal of Boulogne had presided over the previous negotiations; Innocent reappointed him to this office. King Edward of England had always been suspicious of Boulogne, as he had been of me, believing him too close to the interests of France. And yet, since the Treaty of Mantes and the flight of Charles the Bad, King John was also suspicious of him. Perhaps it was for that reason that Boulogne ran the meeting in Avignon far better than anticipated; he had nobody to mollycoddle. He got along well enough with the Bishops of London and of Norwich, and particularly well with the Duke of Lancaster, who is a fine military leader and veritable lord. And meanwhile, behind the scenes, I myself set about playing my part. Little Navarre must have got wind of …
Ah! Here come the coals! Brunet, slide the pan under my robes, would you? It is well sealed I trust, so that I don’t get burned! Yes, that is fine like that …
So, Charles of Navarre must have got wind of the fact that we were moving towards peace, which would certainly not have helped his cause, because one fine November day … just two years ago … there he was, suddenly, in Avignon, where nobody was expecting him.
This was when I saw him for the first time. Twenty-four years old, but with his diminutive stature not looking a day older than eighteen, really very short, the smallest of the kings of Europe; but so well proportioned, so upright in his posture, so agile, so quick-witted that no one dared dream of making him aware of this. Add to that a charming face that well sets off a nose a little on the large side, handsome fox-like eyes, with corners already creased into crow’s feet by shrewdness. His exterior is so affable, his manners at the same time so polite and light of touch, his speech so fluent, assured and spontaneous, quick to compliment, passing so nimbly from solemnity to bawdiness and from amusement to seriousness, and he appears so openly to offer his friendship to people it is easy to understand why women can’t resist him, and men fall prey to his schemes. No, really, I have never heard a more valiant gabber than that little king there! Listening to him, one tended to forget the wickedness that hid behind so much good grace, and that he was already a hardened liar, criminal and master of stratagems. The personal impression he leaves you with make you forgive the secret blackness of his soul.
When he made his appearance in Avignon, his situation was not of the best. He was insubordinate vis-à-vis the King of France, who went about seizing his castles, and he had seriously offended the King of England by signing the Treaty of Mantes without giving him the slightest warning. ‘Here is a man who calls upon my help, and offers me a clear passage through Normandy. I mobilize my troops in Brittany; I make ready even more for landing; and no sooner has he gained enough strength, through my support, to be able to intimidate his enemy, than he begins negotiations without a word to me … From now on, he may address whomever he sees fit; let him turn to the pope …’
Well, it was precisely to the pope that Charles of Navarre had come to speak. And in just one week, he had brought everyone around to his cause.
In the presence of the Holy Father, and before several cardinals of which I was one, he swore, putting all of his heart into it, that he wanted nothing more than to be reconciled with the King of France, and everyone believed him. With the delegates of John II, the Chancellor Pierre de La Forêt and the Duke of Bourbon, he went further still, leading them to believe that for the price of renewed friendship, that friendship he wished to restore with the king, he would raise an army in Navarre in order to attack the English in Brittany or on their own shores.
He pretended to leave the town with his escort, but over the following days, he came back several times at night, and in stealth, to confer with the Duke of Lancaster and the English emissaries. He chose to hold his secret meetings either at the residence of Pierre Bertrand, the Cardinal of Arras, or at the home of Guy of Boulogne himself. By the way, I later raised the matter with Boulogne, who was eating at every table. ‘I wanted to find out what they were up to,’ he replied. ‘By lending them my house I could have my spies listen in on them.’ His spies must have been stone deaf, as he was to find out nothing at all, or he simply pretended not to know the first thing about it. If they weren’t in league with each other, then it is the King of Navarre who must have pulled the rug right out from under him.
I was in the know. And would you like to know, my nephew, how Navarre went about winning over Lancaster? Well now! He proudly proposed to recognize King Edward of England as the rightful King of France. Nothing less than that. The two of them even went so far as to draw up a treaty of understanding between the two countries.
Firstly: Navarre would thus have recognized Edward as King of France. Secondly: they agreed to wage war together against King John. Thirdly: Edward acknowledged Charles of Navarre’s right to the duchies of Normandy, Champagne, Brie, Chartres, and also the Lieutenancy of Languedoc, in addition of course to his kingdom of Navarre and his county of Évreux. Suffice to say
that they were dividing up France between them. I will spare you the rest.
How did I get to know of these plans? Ah! I can tell you that an account of them was noted down in person by the Bishop of London, who was travelling with Messire of Lancaster. But don’t ask me who passed on the information at a later date. You must remember that I am Canon of the Cathedral of York and that, as poorly looked upon as I am in court on the other side of the Channel, still I have maintained several informants.
I fear there is little need to assure you that if we had started out with several opportunities to work towards peace between France and England, they were all undermined by the incursion of the spirited little king.
How could the ambassadors have ever been able to consider any form of agreement when each party was obliged to go to war by the promises of Monseigneur of Navarre? In Bourbon he would say: ‘I speak to Lancaster, but I lie to him in order to serve your best interests.’ Then he would whisper in Lancaster’s ear: ‘Indeed I saw Bourbon, but to mislead him. I am your man.’ And one must admire him for being able to make both sides believe him.
So much so that when he finally left Avignon, to set out for the Pyrenees, people on both sides were all convinced, while taking great care to say nothing of the sort, that they were seeing off a friend.
Then it was the conference took an acrimonious turn; nothing more would be conceded. And the town fell into a slumber. For three weeks, the only concern had been Charles the Bad. The pope himself surprised us by becoming morose, sullen and moaning; the wicked charmer had entertained him for a while …
Ah! I am much warmer again now. Your turn, my nephew; pull the pan of embers towards you, and warm yourself up a little.
10
The Annus Horribilis
HOW RIGHT YOU are, how right you are, Archambaud, and I feel the same way. We have only been gone from Périgueux ten days, and yet it seems that we have already been travelling for a month. Travel makes time go by more slowly. Tonight we will sleep at Châteauroux. I make no secret of the fact that I would not be unhappy to reach Bourges tomorrow, God willing, and to rest there at least three whole days, maybe even four. I am beginning to tire of these abbeys where we are served poor fare and where my bed is scarcely warmed, deliberately, so that I am made aware how the war has brought them to ruin. They should not think, these little abbots, that it is by starving me and having me sleep in a draught that they will save themselves from paying their dues! And my escort too needs to rest, to dry off their clothes and to repair the harnesses. Because this rain doesn’t make their life any easier. Listening to my gentlemen sneeze on all sides of my palanquin, I wager that more than one of them will spend his stay in Bourges getting treated with cinnamon, cloves and mulled wine. As for me, I will hardly have time to dawdle. Going through the correspondence from Avignon, dictating my missives by way of reply …