The King Without a Kingdom (20 page)

A marshal, Archambaud, as much as a constable, is always difficult to handle. You set him up in a position of authority and then, all of a sudden, he makes use of it to contradict you. Audrehem is an old soldier … not as old as all that, all things considered; he is younger than I … but in the end a man who for a long time obeyed the king and kept quiet, witness to much foolishness without being able to say a word against it. Now he was making up for lost time.

‘If only we had caught all the foxes in the same trap!’ he went on. ‘But Philip of Navarre is free, and is just as determined. Dispose of the elder brother and the younger one takes his place, and he will rouse his party just as well, and will negotiate equally well with the Englishman, all the more so that he is a better horseman and more ardent in battle.’

Louis of Orléans sided with the dauphin and the marshal, endorsing their points of view and impressing upon the king that as long as he kept Navarre in prison, he would keep a hold over his vassals.

‘Conduct a long investigation against him, bring his black deeds out into the open, have him judged by peers of the realm; then no one will resent your sentence. Our father the king proceeded no differently than by public and ceremonious trial when our cousin John’s father committed the acts known to us. And when our great-uncle Philip the Fair discovered the debauchery of his daughters-in-law, as speedy as his justice was, it was established through cross-examination and pronounced in a public hearing.’

This speech was not at all to the liking of King John, who blew up once more: ‘What fine, and most beneficial, examples you present me with there, my brother! The great judgement of Maubuisson cast dishonour and disorder upon the royal family. As for Robert of Artois, to have only banished him, whether it pleases your cousin John or not, instead of properly seizing and slaying him, meant he brought war upon us from England.’

Monseigneur of Orléans, who has no love for his elder brother and who takes pleasure in standing up to him, retorted … I am assured that this was said … ‘Sire, my brother, must I remind you that Maubuisson did us no great disservice? Without Maubuisson where our grandfather Valois, may God preserve him, played his part, our cousin Navarre would most probably be seated on the throne at this time, instead of us. As for the war with England, Count Robert may have pushed for it, but he only contributed a single lance, his own. Meanwhile the war has been going on for eighteen years …’

Apparently the king flinched under this final thrust. He turned to the dauphin, staring at him harshly, saying: ‘It is true, eighteen years; and such exactly is your age, Charles …’ as if he held this coincidence against him.

Whereupon Audrehem muttered: ‘We would find it easier to rid ourselves of the Englishman if only we French weren’t always fighting amongst ourselves.’

The king remained silent for a moment, looking most incensed. One has to be very sure of oneself to maintain a decision when none of those who serve you approve of it. That is how one can judge the character of princes. But King John is not determined; he is stubborn.

Nicolas Braque, who learned the art of using silence in the councils and had said nothing during this exchange, now provided the king with a way out of the situation, sparing both his pride and his rancour.

‘Sire, wouldn’t his crimes be expiated rather too quickly were he to die at once? Monseigneur of Navarre has been a cause of suffering to you these two years and more. And you grant him such a short punishment? By keeping him in jail you could make him feel like he is dying every day. Besides, I wager that his partisans will not fail to make some attempt or other to set him free. In that case, you will be able to capture those who today have slipped through your net. And you would have a good pretext to bring your justice to bear upon such an obvious rebellion …’

The king rallied round to this advice, saying that his traitor of a son-in-law indeed did need somewhat longer to atone for his treachery. ‘I will defer his execution. May I not be made to regret it. But now let us make haste with the punishment of the others. Enough words have been said and we have wasted too much time.’ He seemed to fear that he would be made to relinquish another head.

Audrehem, from the window, called once more to the King of the Ribald and showed him four fingers. And as he wasn’t sure that the other had understood, he dispatched an archer with the message that just four carts were required.

‘Make haste!’ repeated the king. ‘Deliver these traitors.’

Deliver … a strange word, perhaps surprising to those unfamiliar with this strange prince! It is his usual turn of phrase, when he orders an execution. He doesn’t say: ‘Deliver me of these traitors’, which would make sense, but ‘deliver these traitors’ … what could that mean for him? Deliver them to the executioner? Deliver them from life? Or is it just a slip of the tongue that his confused mind clings to stubbornly, as in a state of anger he no longer has control over his words?

I am telling you all this, Archambaud, as if I had been there myself. This is because the tale was told to me in July, barely three months later, when memories were still fresh, and told by Audrehem and by Monseigneur of Orléans, and by monseigneur the dauphin himself, and also by Nicolas Braque, each one in turn, of course, remembering above all what he himself said. In that way, I pieced together, rather well I believe, this whole business, and in great detail, and I wrote about it to the pope, who had already received shorter and somewhat different versions. The detail in these affairs has more importance than one might think, as it informs us about the characters of those involved. Lorris and Braque are both above all greedy for money and immodest in their ferocity to make more; but Lorris is of a rather inferior nature, whereas Braque is a judicious diplomat …

It is still raining … Brunet, where are we? Fontenoy … Ah yes, I remember; it was in my diocese. A famous battle was fought here, which had important consequences for France;
Fontanetum
, by its old name. It was here, around the year 840 or 841, Charles and Louis the German defeated their brother Lothair, further to which they signed the Treaty of Verdun. And it is from that moment on that the kingdom of France would forever be separated from the empire … With all this rain we can’t make out a thing. Anyway, there is nothing to see. From time to time, while ploughing, the yokels come across a few swords, a rusted helmet, five hundred years old … Let’s carry on, Brunet, let’s carry on.

T
HE KING, HELMET
once more upon his head, was on horseback, along with the marshal, who was wearing but a chainmail skullcap; the only two mounted. The danger was not so great as to require his wearing full battle attire. Audrehem is not one of those who make a show of military splendour when there is no need of it. If the king took some pleasure in displaying his crowned helmet in order to witness four beheadings, then that was up to him.

The rest of the company, from the grandest of the lords to the lowliest of the archers, were to go on foot to the site of the execution. The king had decided so, being a man who wastes a great deal of time planning parades, with a preference for bringing in minor innovations rather than letting them take place according to tradition.

There were only three carts remaining, because between order and counter-order misunderstandings had arisen, and one too many had been sent back.

Nearby stood Guillaume … in fact, it wasn’t Guillaume à la Cauche; I was getting mixed up. Guillaume à la Cauche is a manservant; but it is a similar name … la Gauche, le Gauche, la Tanche, la Planche … I don’t even know if his Christian name is indeed Guillaume; anyway, it is of little importance … So nearby stood the King of the Ribald and the makeshift executioner, white as a turnip further to his stay in the dungeons, scrawny, I was told, and not at all how one would imagine a miscreant guilty of four murders, and the Capuchin who was fiddling, as they always do, with his hemp cord.

Bareheaded and hands bound behind their backs, the condemned men left the keep. First came the Count of Harcourt in his white surcoat that the king had ripped to the armholes, his shirt with it. He showed his enormous shoulder, pink like pigskin, and his fat breast. In a corner of the courtyard the axes were still being sharpened on a grindstone.

Nobody looked at the condemned men, nobody dared look at them. Everyone stared at a patch of cobblestone or wall. Who would have dared, under the watchful eye of the king, a look of farewell that spoke of friendship, or even compassion for those four who were about to perish? Even those who found themselves at the back of the crowd kept their heads down, for fear of what their neighbours should say they had seen on their faces … There were many who held the king to blame. But to go so far as to show it … Many amongst them knew the Count of Harcourt of old, having hunted with him, jousted with him, dined at his table, which was hearty indeed. At that moment, not one of them seemed to remember this acquaintance; the castle’s roofs and the April clouds had become more enthralling things for them to contemplate. So much so that John of Harcourt, looking on all sides through his fat-lidded eyes, could find not a single face to share his misfortune. Not even his brother, especially not his brother! Why yes! His concern was what the king would decide for his titles and possessions once his fat elder brother had had his head chopped off.

The man who was still, for the moment, Count of Harcourt, was made to get into the first cart. It wasn’t without difficulty. A quintal and a half, and with his hands tied. Four sergeants were needed to push him on, pull him up. There was straw spread across the bottom of the cart, as well as across the executioner’s block.

When John of Harcourt was at last perched in his place he turned bare-chested to the king as if he wanted to tell him something … the king immobile in his saddle, dressed in chainmail, crowned with steel and gold, the king, Royal Dispenser of Justice, who wanted to make clear that every life in the kingdom was subject to his decree, and that the richest lord of a province, in an instant, could be reduced to nothing if such was his will. And Harcourt remained silent.

The Sire of Graville was put in the second cart, and into the third were made to climb Maubué of Mainemares and Colin Doublel, the equerry who had raised a dagger to the king. The latter appeared to say to everyone: ‘Remember Monsieur of Spain’s murder; remember the Spinning Sow.’ As the entire audience understood that, it was revenge that was behind this fast and grim justice, if not in the case of Harcourt, then at least for the others. Punishing those to whom remission had been given publicly … One must be able to report new grievances, and most manifest ones, to act in such a way. That should have earned remonstrance from the pope, and of the severest kind, were the pope not so weak …

In the keep, the King of Navarre had been wickedly pushed close to a window so that he would miss nothing of the spectacle.

The Guillaume who is not la Cauche, turns to the Marshal of Audrehem … everything is ready. A wave of the hand from the king. And the cortège set off.

At its head, a squad of archers, iron hats and leather gambesons,
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their stride weighed down by their heavy gaiters. Then, the marshal on horseback, visibly unhappy. Even more archers. And then the three carts. And behind them, the King of the Ribald, the scrawny executioner and the grimy Capuchin.

Then the king, upright on his charger, flanked by the sergeants from his close guard, and bringing up the rear a procession of lords in hoods or hunting hats, fur-lined mantles or cote-hardies.

The town is silent and empty. The people of Rouen wisely obeyed the order to stay in their homes. But behind their thick, greenish windows their heads massing together like blown bottle bottoms; their staring eyes glinting around the edges of their half-opened leaded lights. They cannot believe it is the Count of Harcourt in the cart, whom they have so often seen pass along their streets, once more this very morning, superbly attired. Yet his portliness designates him rather well … ‘It’s him; I tellin’ you, it’s him.’ They have no doubt of the king, for his helmet almost reaches the level of the first floor of the houses. He had been their duke for a long time … ‘It’s him, it is indeed the king …’ But no greater fear would have been seized if they had made out a death’s head under the ventail of the helmet. They were unhappy, the Rouennais, terrified but discontented. Because the Count of Harcourt had always supported them, and they were fond of him. So they whispered: ‘No, this is not fair justice. It is we who are the afflicted ones.’

The carts bumped along. The straw slid under the feet of the condemned, who struggled to keep their composure. I was told that John of Harcourt, throughout the journey, had his head thrown back, and his hair stuck out over his neck, displaying its fleshy folds. What were the thoughts of a man like him, going to his execution, and watching the sky flow between the gables of the houses? I always wonder what goes on in the mind of a man condemned to death, during his final moments … Does he regret not having admired enough all the beautiful things that the Good Lord puts before our eyes every day? Or does he reflect on the absurdity of all that prevents us from enjoying all these blessings? The day before, he was discussing taxes and the gabelle … Or was he saying to himself that there was foolishness in his own behaviour? Because he, John of Harcourt, had been warned, his uncle Godfrey had got word to him … ‘Leave without delay …’ His uncle Godfrey of Harcourt had got wind of the trap early on … ‘This Lent banquet smells like an ambush to me’ … if only his messenger had got to him a little bit earlier … if Robert of Lorris hadn’t found him at the bottom of the stairs … if … if … But it was not the working of fate, he only had himself to blame. All he’d had to do was to give the dauphin the slip, it was as if he had been looking for bad reasons to stay and satisfy his greed. ‘I will leave after the banquet; it is all the same …’