The Accursed Kings Series Books 1-3: The Iron King, The Strangled Queen, The Poisoned Crown. Maurice Druon

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      THE PROVOST OF PARIS, who had dashed off to see the King, found him in good humour. Philip the Fair was engaged in admiring three tall greyhounds which had been sent to him with the following letter:

       Sire,

       My nephew, abashed by his offence, has confessed to me that these three greyhounds, while held by him on a leash, have run against you. Humble though they are as an offering, I do not feel that I am worthy to keep them now that they have touched so high and mighty a Prince. They arrived the day before yesterday from England. I ask you to accept them that they may bear towards you the same devotion and humility as your servant,

      SPINELLO TOLOMEI

      ‘A clever man, this Tolomei,’ said Philip the Fair.

      Though he refused all other presents he was prepared to accept hounds. He had the best packs in the world, and to give him animals as beautiful as these was to humour his only passion.

      While the Provost was explaining what had happened at Notre-Dame, Philip the Fair continued fondling the three greyhounds, raising their pendulous lips to examine their white teeth and black jaws, patting their deep chests.

      Between the King and all animals, particularly dogs, there was an immediate, secret, silent understanding. Unlike men, dogs were never afraid of him. And, already, the largest of the three greyhounds had come of his own accord to place his head upon the King’s knee and gaze up at his new master.

      ‘Bouville!’ called Philip the Fair.

      Hugues de Bouville, first Chamberlain to the King, whose hair alternated curiously between white and black locks, making him look like a piebald horse, entered.

      ‘Bouville, assemble the Inner Council within the hour,’ said the King.

      Then, dismissing the Provost, while giving him to understand that it was as much as his life was worth to allow the least disturbance to take place in Paris, Philip the Fair remained meditating in company with his hounds.

      He decided that the largest greyhound, which seemed already to be attached to him, should be called Lombard, because he came from an Italian banker.

      Soon the Inner Council was assembled. It did not meet in the vast Hall of Justice, which could hold a hundred people, and was used for the Grand Council, but in a small neighbouring room where a fire burned on the hearth.

      The members of this smaller Council took their places round a long table to decide the fate of the Templars. The King sat at one end, his elbow on the arm of his great chair, his chin cupped in his hand. To his right sat Enguerrand de Marigny, Coadjutor and Rector of the kingdom, Nogaret, the Keeper of the Seals, Raoul de Presles, Lord Chief Justice, and two other lawyers as secretaries; to his left sat his eldest son, King Louis of Navarre, who had at last been found, and Hugues de Bouville, the Grand Chamberlain. Two places remained vacant, those of the Count of Poitiers, who had been sent on a mission, and of Prince Charles, the King’s youngest son, who had gone hunting that morning and had not been found in time. There was only Monseigneur of Valois still to come. He had been sent for to his house, where, doubtless, he was conspiring as he did before every Council. The King had decided to begin without him.

      Enguerrand de Marigny spoke first. Six years older than Philip the Fair, less tall but of as imposing an aspect, this great lord had not been born noble. He came of middle class Norman stock, and had been called Enguerrand Le Portier before becoming the Lord of Marigny. He had had a fabulous career, which had aroused as much jealousy as respect, and the title of Coadjutor, created especially for him, had made him the King’s alter ego. He was fifty-two years old, of solid aspect, large-chinned, rugged-skinned, and lived magnificently upon the huge fortune he had acquired. He was considered to have the greatest gift for speaking in the kingdom and his political intellect dominated his period from a lofty eminence.

      It took him only a few minutes to furnish a complete picture of the situation based upon the report that his brother, the Archbishop of Sens, had given him.

      ‘The Grand Master and the Preceptor of Normandy have been remitted into your hands, Sire, by the Ecclesiastical Commission,’ he said. ‘You have absolute power to dispose of them as you will. Could we hope for anything better?’

      He was interrupted by the door bursting open. Monseigneur of Valois, the King’s brother and Emperor of Constantinople, entered. Without bothering to find out what had already been said, he cried, ‘What’s this I hear, Brother? Messire Le Portier de Marigny (he always inisted on saying “Le Portier”) thinks that nothing could be better? Well, Brother, your counsellors are content with very little! I wonder when they’ll think things are going badly!’

      In Charles of Valois’s presence, everything seemed suddenly to quicken in tempo. He seemed to move in a hurricane. He was two years younger than Philip the Fair, whom he resembled little. He was as excitable as the other was calm.

      Semi-bald, with a large nose, his face blotched from a life of campaigning and from the excesses of the table, carrying a paunch before him, he was dressed with an almost oriental sumptuousness which, upon anyone but him, would have looked absurd. Born close to the throne of France, inconsolable at not having succeeded to it, this mischief-making prince had never ceased travelling the world in search of another throne upon which to take his seat. For a short time he had been King of Aragon, had then renounced that kingdom in order to intrigue for the crown of Emperor of Germany; but he had been defeated in the election. By his second marriage, to Catherine of Courtenay, he was Emperor-Pretender to Constantinople, though a real Emperor, Andronic II Paleologos, was at this moment ruling in Byzantium. Everything else about him was in keeping. His greatest claims to fame were his lightning campaign in Guyenne in 1297, for he was a good general, and his campaign in Tuscany where, supporting the Guelfs against the Ghibellines, he had ravaged Florence and sent a certain political rhymer, named Dante, into exile. It was upon this account that the late Pope had created him Count of Romagna. Valois kept royal state, had his court and his own chancellor; and he loathed Enguerrand de Marigny for many reasons, for his plebeian birth, for his title of Coadjutor, because his statue had been placed among those of kings in the Mercers’ Hall, because his policy was hostile to the great feudal barons, indeed on every possible count. Valois could not stomach the fact, grandson of Saint Louis as he was, that the kingdom should be governed by a man of the people. On this particular day he was dressed in blue and gold from hat to shoes.

      ‘What!’ he cried. ‘Four senile old men whose fate, so we were told, was all fixed – and how successfully, alas – can hold the royal power in check, and you say that all is for the best! The populace are spitting upon the verdict of the Ecclesiastical СКАЧАТЬ