‘Are you going to England, Monseigneur?’ Tolomei asked.
‘I’m going first to ask refuge of my sister, the Countess of Namur.’
‘Is your wife going with you?’
‘She’ll join me later. Well, that’s how it is, banker. I want to hand my cash over to you against letters of credit on your branches in Holland and England. And you can keep ten per cent for your trouble.’
Tolomei moved his head a little on the pillow, and began a conversation in Italian with his nephew and cousins of which Robert understood nothing. He heard the words debito … rimborso … deposito. Was the Tolomei Company transgressing the royal edict by accepting the money of a French lord? Clearly not, since this was no question of paying a debt but of a deposito.
Tolomei turned his unshaven cheeks and blue lips back to Robert of Artois.
‘We are going too, Monseigneur; or, rather, they are going,’ he said, pointing to his relations. ‘They will take with them all we have here. At the moment our companies are not in agreement. The Bardi and the Peruzzi are hesitating; they think the worst is over, and that if they cringe a little … They’re like the Jews, who always have faith in the law and believe they’ll be held quit when they’ve paid up; they pay up and then they’re sent to the stake. So, there it is, the Tolomei are leaving. Their departure will cause a certain amount of surprise since they’re taking to Italy all the money that has been invested with us; most of it is already on the road. Since the authorities refuse us the payment of our debts, we’re removing the deposits.’30
The old man’s sunken face looked sly for the last time.
‘I shall leave nothing in France but my bones, and they’re of no great value,’ he added.
‘France has certainly not treated us well,’ said Guccio Baglioni.
‘What do you mean? She’s given you a son, and that’s not too bad!’
‘Of course,’ said Robert of Artois, ‘you’ve got a son, haven’t you? Is he coming on well?’
‘Thank you, Monseigneur,’ replied Guccio, ‘he’ll soon be taller than I am; he’s fifteen now. But he shows little liking for banking.’
‘He’ll come to it, he’ll come to it,’ said the old man. ‘Very well, Monseigneur, we accept. Deposit your cash with us; we’ll take it out of the country and give you letters of credit for the full amount. We’ll take no commission. Ready money is always useful.’
‘I’m grateful to you, Tolomei; my coffers will be brought to you tonight.’
‘When money takes flight from a kingdom, that kingdom’s happiness is measured. You will have your revenge, Monseigneur; I shall not see it, but I tell you, you’ll have your revenge!’
Tolomei, who usually kept his left eye shut, now opened both of them and looked straight at Robert. There was a clear gleam of truth in them at the last. And Robert of Artois suddenly felt moved because an old Lombard, who was soon to die, had looked at him with compassion.
‘Tolomei, I have seen brave men in battle fight on to the end; in your own way you are as brave as they.’
The banker’s lips parted in a sad smile.
‘It is not courage, Monseigneur, very much the contrary. If I were not dealing with banking business, I would be very much afraid at this moment!’
He raised his old hand from the coverlet and signed to Robert to come near.
Robert bent over him, as if to be told a secret.
‘Monseigneur,’ said Tolomei, ‘permit me to bless my last customer.’
And with his thumb he traced the sign of the cross over the giant’s head, as Italian fathers do on the brows of their sons when they are about to set off on a long journey.
10.
The Seat of Justice
PHILLIPPE VI, CROWNED AND wearing a royal robe, was seated on a throne, of which the arms ended in lions’ heads, in the centre of a tiered dais. Above his head were the arms of France, embroidered on a great silk hanging. From time to time he leaned to his left towards his cousin, the King of Navarre, or to his right towards his relative, the King of Bohemia, to catch their eyes and make sure they realized how patient and forbearing he had been.
The King of Bohemia was shaking his splendid chestnut beard in mingled incredulity and indignation. How could a knight, a peer of France, a prince of the fleur de lis, as was Robert of Artois, have behaved like this, had a hand in all the sordid doings that were being read out and compromised himself with such wicked people?
In the front row of the temporal peers, each of whom had a shield with his blazon suspended above his seat, was Prince Jean, the heir to the throne, who was taking his place for the first time. He was thirteen, unusually tall for his age, had a very long chin, and looked sulky and stupid. His father had just created him Duke of Normandy.
Beyond him was the Count of Alençon, the King’s brother, the Dukes of Bourbon and Brittany, the Count of Flanders and the Count of Etampes. There were two empty seats: those of the Duke of Burgundy, who could not sit since he was a party to the case, and of the King of England, who had not even sent a representative.
Among the spiritual peers were Monseigneur Jean de Marigny, Count-Bishop of Beauvais, and Guillaume de Trye, Duke-Archbishop of Reims.
To lend still greater solemnity to the court, the King had summoned the Archbishops of Sens and Aix, the Bishops of Arras, Autun, Blois, Forez and Vendôme, the Duke of Lorraine, Count Guillaume of Hainaut and his brother, Jean, and all the great officers of the Crown: the Constable, the two marshals, Mille de Noyers, Master of the Exchequer, the Lords of Châtillon, Soyecourt and Garencières, who were members of the Privy Council, and many others. They were grouped in front of the dais along the walls of the great hall of the Louvre in which the hearing was taking place.
Sitting on mats on the ground with their legs crossed were the masters of requests, the counsellors of Parliament, the clerks of justice and the minor ecclesiastics.
Some six paces in front of the King stood the Procurator General, Simon de Bucy, surrounded by the commissioners of Inquiry. For the last two hours he had been reading his speech for the prosecution, the longest he had ever had to make in the whole of his career. He had had to recapitulate the whole history of the Artois affair, whose origins dated back to the end of the previous century, to remind the court of the case in the year 1309, of the judgement given by Philip the Fair, of Robert’s armed rebellion against Philippe the Long in 1316, and of the second judgement given in 1318, before dealing with more recent events, the perjury at Amiens, the inquiry, the counter-inquiry, the innumerable depositions, the suborning of witnesses, the forging of documents, and the arrest of the accomplices.
The unbelievable complexity of the facts, as they were now marshalled and brought out into the light of day, made this one of the greatest law cases concerned with an individual the world had ever seen, and for forty years, moreover, it had been intertwined with the history of the kingdom. The audience was at once fascinated and dumbfounded by the Procurator’s revelations. So this was the secret life of the great Baron before whom everyone had still been trembling only yesterday, whose friend everyone had tried to become, and whose decisions had ruled France for so long. It was he who had been at the back of the denunciation of the scandals of the Tower of Nesle, the imprisonment of Marguerite of Burgundy, the annulment of Charles IV’s marriage, the war in Aquitaine, the cancelling of the crusade, the support given to Isabella of England and the election of Philippe VI! It was he who had been the driving force behind all these events, their mainspring, their governor, and yet throughout had been moved by one sole consideration, one single interest: the inheritance of Artois.
And how many of those present – including the King himself – owed their places, their titles and their fortunes to this perjurer, forger and criminal!
The accused’s place in the court was occupied symbolically by two sergeants-at-arms holding up a great silk banner bearing Robert’s blazon: ‘Azure semy de lis or, a label of four points gules charged on each point with three c
astles or.’
And every time the Procurator mentioned Robert’s name, he turned towards the banner as if indicating the man himself.
He had now reached the matter of Robert’s flight.
‘Though the summons was properly served by Master Jean Loncle, officer to the bailiwick of Gisors, at all his ordinary domiciles, the said Robert of Artois, Count of Beaumont, has defaulted before our Lord the King and his court of justice, convened this twenty-ninth day of September. Moreover, we have been apprised and had it confirmed to us from many sources that the said Robert has embarked his horses and his treasure in a ship at Bordeaux, and has had his gold and silver currency illegally exported from the kingdom, and that he himself, instead of appearing before the King’s court of justice, has fled beyond the frontiers.
‘On the sixth day of October, 1331, the woman de Divion, found guilty of numerous crimes both on her own account and in complicity with the said Robert, including forging documents and counterfeiting seals, was burnt at the stake in Paris in the Place aux Pourceaux, and her bones reduced to powder, in the presence of Messeigneurs the Duke of Brittany, the Count of Flanders, the Sire Jean of Hainaut, the Sire Raoul de Brienne, the Constable of France, the Marshals Robert Bertrand and Matthieu de Trye, and Messire Jean de Milon, Provost of Paris, who has reported to the King that the execution has been carried out …’
As their names were mentioned, they stared down at the floor. They remembered only too well La Divion screaming at the stake as the flames caught her hempen shirt, the flesh of her legs swelling and bursting in the heat, and how appalling the stench was that the October breeze wafted towards them. This was how the mistress of the late Bishop of Arras had died.
‘On the twelfth and fourteenth days of October, Master Pierre d’Auxerre, councillor, and Michel de Paris, bailiff, informed Madame de Beaumont, the spouse of the said Robert, first at Jouy-le-Châtel, then at Conches, Beaumont, Orbec and Quatremares, her ordinary domiciles, that the King summoned him to appear on the fourteenth day of December. Nevertheless, the said Robert, on that date, failed to appear for the second time. In his great mercy, our Lord the King once more adjourned the court till the fifteenth, the Feast of Candlemas, and so that the said Robert might not plead ignorance, the proclamation was read first in the Great Chamber of Parliament, then at the Marble Table in the great hall of the palace, and then taken to Orbec and Beaumont, and later to Conches by the same Masters Pierre d’Auxerre and Michel de Paris, where they were unable to have speech with the Dame de Beaumont, but made proclamation at the door of her chamber, and loudly enough for her to hear them …’
Every time Madame de Beaumont’s name was mentioned, the King passed his hand over his face, and his long fleshy nose seemed to quiver; for she was his sister.
‘When the case came before the King’s Parliament of Justice on the said date, the said Robert of Artois failed to appear, but was represented by Master Henry, Dean of the Brussels bar, and by Master Thiébault de Meaux, Canon of Cambrai, appearing for him by proxy and with instructions to plead the reasons for his absence. But in view of the fact that the adjournment was for Monday, the fifteenth, at Candlemas, and that the commission of which they were the bearers was for the Tuesday, their submissions were not recognized as valid, and default was for the third time entered against the defendant. Moreover, it is notorious that during this time Robert of Artois endeavoured to take refuge with his sister, Madame the Countess of Namur; but that, our Lord the King having forbidden Madame de Namur to aid or abet this rebel, she forbade the said Robert, her brother, to sojourn in her estates. Upon which the said Robert wished to take refuge with Monseigneur the Count Guillaume in his estates of Hainaut; but on representations from our Lord the King, Monseigneur the Count of Hainaut similarly denied the said Robert asylum. And, then again, the said Robert asked for refuge and asylum from the Duke of Brabant, but on representations from our Lord the King the said Duke, having first made answer that, being no vassal of the King of France, he could receive into his states whom he pleased, ultimately yielded to the remonstrances made to him by Monseigneur of Luxemburg, the King of Bohemia, and responded courteously by exiling Robert of Artois from the duchy.’31
Philippe VI kept turning to the Count of Hainaut and the King of Bohemia, making them sad yet grateful little signs of friendship. There was no doubt that Philippe was very unhappy about these proceedings; nor was he alone in being so. However guilty Robert of Artois might be, his friends were horrified at the thought of him moving from little Court to little Court, to be welcomed one day and banished the next, only to journey on and be rebuffed once more. Why had he so obstinately pursued his own downfall, when the King had shown himself so determinedly clement to the very end?
‘Notwithstanding that the inquiry was closed, after seventy-six witnesses had been heard, of which fourteen were detained in the royal prisons, and that the King’s justice was sufficiently enlightened thereby and the charges on the indictment clearly proven, our Lord the King, because of his long-standing friendship, made it known to the said Robert of Artois that he was prepared to give him a safe-conduct to return to the kingdom and leave it again, if he so desired, and that he might hear the charges made against him, present his defence, admit his faults and obtain pardon. Yet, the said Robert, far from accepting this offer of clemency, has not returned to the kingdom, but in various places in which he has resided has made contact with all kinds of wicked people, outlaws and enemies of the King, and has informed a great number of persons, who have repeated it, that it is his intention to assassinate by steel or sorcery the Chancellor, the Marshal de Trye and divers councillors of our Lord the King, and finally he has also uttered similar threats against the King himself.’
A murmur of indignation rose on all sides.
‘These things being known and notorious, and in view of the fact that the said Robert of Artois has failed once again to answer the summons, though it has been made in proper form, for this eighth day of April, being the Wednesday before Easter, and that we now summon him to appear for the fourth time …’
Simon de Bucy paused and made a sign to a sergeant mace-bearer, who cried in a loud voice: ‘Messire Robert of Artois, Count of Beaumont-le-Roger, is summoned to appear!’
Everyone turned instinctively to the door as if the accused were really about to appear. There were a few seconds of complete silence. Then the sergeant struck the floor with his mace and the Procurator continued: ‘… and in view of the fact that the said Robert has defaulted, we demand in the name of our Lord the King: that the said Robert be deprived of his titles, rights and prerogatives as a peer of the realm, as well as of all his other titles, lordships and possessions; moreover, that his goods, lands, castles, houses, chattels, rents and perquisites be confiscated and remitted to the Treasury, that they may be disposed of as the King wills; further, that his blazon be destroyed in the presence of the peers and barons, so that it may never more appear on banner or seal, and that his person be banished for ever from the realm, and all vassals, allies, relatives and friends of our Lord the King be forbidden to shelter him; and, finally, we demand that this sentence be cried and proclaimed to the sound of trumpets in the principal centres of Paris and made known to the bailiffs of Rouen, Gisors, Aix and Bourges, and also to the seneschals of Toulouse and Carcassone, that it may be put into execution, by the King’s will.’
Master Simon de Bucy fell silent. The King seemed to be dreaming. He glanced round the assembly but his eyes came to rest on no one. Then, bowing his head, first to the right and then to the left, he said: ‘My peers, I ask your counsel. Silence means consent!’
No one raised a hand or said a word.
Philippe VI clapped his hand on the lion’s head on the arm of the throne and said: ‘Judgement is passed!’
The Procurator ordered the two sergeants who were holding up Robert of Artois’ blazon to advance to the foot of the throne. The Chancellor Guillaume de Saint-Maure, who was one of those Robert in his exile was
threatening with death, stepped forward to the blazon, asked one of the sergeants for his sword, pierced the edge of the stuff, and then slit the blazon in half with a sound of tearing silk.
The peerage of Beaumont was abrogated. The man for whom it had been created, the Prince of France who was descended from King Louis VIII, whose giant strength was legendary and whose intrigues were infinite, was henceforward merely an outlaw. He no longer belonged to the kingdom over which his ancestors had ruled, and nothing within that kingdom belonged to him any more.
For these peers and lords, for all these men whose blazons were an expression not only of their power but almost of their very existence, who flew them on standards from their roofs, from their lances, from their horses, who embroidered them on their own breasts, on the surcoats of their squires and on the liveries of their servants, who painted them on their furniture and engraved them on their plate, marking with them men, animals and everything which in any degree formed part of their power or their wealth, this rending, which was a sort of lay excommunication, was more degrading than the block, the hurdle or the stake. For death effaces crime, and dishonour is extinguished with the dishonoured.
‘Still, as long as you’re alive, you’ve never quite lost the day,’ thought Robert of Artois, travelling by hostile, foreign roads towards yet greater crimes.
PART FOUR
THE WAR-BRAND