move his hearers. He invited the peers to take this opportunity, which might not occur again for centuries, to unite the two kingdoms under the same sceptre. He spoke with profound conviction: let them have done with incessant quarrelling, ill-defined terms of homage, wars in Aquitaine that impoverished both their nations, and let them dissolve the useless rivalry in trade which created such continual problems in Flanders. He wanted to see one single people on both sides of the Channel. Was not the whole English nobility of French stock? Was not the French language common to both Courts? Had not many French lords inherited estates in England and had not English barons lands in France?
‘Very well, if that’s the case, give us England, we shan’t refuse it,’ said Philippe of Valois sarcastically.
The Constable Gaucher was listening to the explanations his brother-in-law was shouting in his ear, and his face suddenly grew dark. What was that? The King of England claiming the Regency and the crown to follow? Was this to be the result of all the campaigns he had fought beneath the harsh Gascony sun, of all the expeditions through the northern mud against those wicked Flemish drapers, who were invariably supported by England, of the deaths of so many valiant knights and the expenditure of so much treasure? Was it all to come merely to this? What nonsense!
He did not get to his feet, but in a deep, old voice that was hoarse with anger, he cried: ‘Never shall France belong to the Englishman! This is no question of male or female, or whether the crown can be transmitted through the womb! But France shall not go to the Englishman because the barons won’t have it! Come on Brittany! Come on Blois! Come on Nevers! Come on Burgundy! Do you mean to say you’re prepared to listen to this sort of thing? We’ve a king to bury, the sixth I’ve seen die in my lifetime, and each one of them had to raise an army against England or those whom England supported. The man who rules France must be of French blood. And let’s have no more of this nonsense; it’s enough to make my horse laugh!’
He had called on Brittany, Blois and Burgundy in the voice he was accustomed to use in battle to rally the leaders of banners.
‘I give my counsel, in right of being the oldest member present, that the Count of Valois, who is nearest to the throne, be Regent, Guardian and Governor of the realm.’
And he raised his hand to show that he was casting his vote.
‘He’s quite right!’ Robert of Artois said quickly, raising his great paw and looking round at Philippe’s supporters to make sure they followed his example.
He was almost sorry he had had the old Constable cut out of the royal will.
‘Agreed!’ said the Dukes of Bourbon and Brittany, the Counts of Blois, Flanders, and Evreux, the bishops, the great officers of State, and the Count of Hainaut.
Mahaut of Artois caught the Duke of Burgundy’s eye, saw he was about to raise his hand, and hastily approved so as not to be the last. But the look she gave Eudes signified: ‘I’m voting for your choice. But you’ll support me, won’t you?’
Orleton’s was the only hand not raised.
Philippe of Valois suddenly felt utterly exhausted. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he thought. He heard Archbishop Guillaume de Trye, his old tutor, say: ‘Long life to the Regent of the Kingdom of France, both for the good of the people and for that of Holy Church.’
The Chancellor, Jean de Cherchemont, had already prepared the document which was to embody the Council’s decision. He had only to insert the Regent’s name. He wrote in a large hand: ‘The most powerful, most noble and most dread Lord Philippe, Count of Valois.’ Then he read out the Act which not only assigned the Regency, but declared that, if the child to be born was a girl, the Regent was to become King of France.
All present appended both their signatures and private seals to the document. All, that is, except the Duke of Guyenne in the person of his representative, Bishop Orleton, who refused, saying: ‘One has nothing to lose by defending one’s rights, even if one knows one cannot succeed. But the future is long and lies in God’s hands.’
Philippe of Valois went over to the catafalque and gazed at his cousin’s corpse, at the crown upon the waxen brow, the long gold sceptre lying on the mantle and the golden boots.
They thought he was praying, and his act earned their respect.
Robert of Artois went to him and whispered: ‘If your father can see you at this moment, the dear man must be delighted … There are only two months to wait.’
PRINCES OF THAT TIME always had to have a dwarf. Poor people almost considered it a piece of good fortune to bring one into the world; they were sure of being able to sell him to some great lord, if not to the king himself.
A dwarf was generally looked on as ranking in the order of creation somewhere between a man and a domestic animal; he was animal because you could put a collar on him, rig him out in grotesque clothes like a performing dog, and kick his backside with impunity; on the other hand, he was human in so far as he could talk and submitted voluntarily to his degrading role for food and pay. He had to clown to order, skip, cry and play the fool like a child, even when his hair had turned white with advancing years. His lack of inches was proportionate to his master’s greatness. He was bequeathed like any other piece of property. He was the symbol of the ‘subject’, of nature’s subordinates, expressly created, so it seemed, to be a living witness to the fact that the human race was composed of different species, of which some had absolute power over the rest.
Abasement nevertheless brought certain advantages, for the smallest, weakest and most deformed in the community were among the best-fed and the best-clothed. Moreover, the dwarf was permitted, indeed commanded, to say things to the masters of the superior race that would not have been tolerated from anyone else.
The mockery and even the insults that every man, however devoted he may be, occasionally addresses to his superior in his thoughts were vented, as it were by delegation, in the traditional and often singularly obscene familiarities of the dwarf.
There are two kinds of dwarfs: the long-nosed, sad-faced hunchback, and the chubby, snub-nosed dwarf with the body of a giant supported on tiny, rickety legs. Philippe of Valois’ dwarf, Jean the Fool, was of the second kind. His head barely reached to the height of a table. He wore bells on his cap, and silk robes embroidered with a variety of strange little animals.
One day he came skipping and laughing to Philippe and said: ‘Do you know what the people call you, Sire?’ They call you “the Makeshift King”.’
For on Good Friday, April 1st, 1328, Madame Jeanne of Evreux, Charles IV’s widow, had been brought to bed. Rarely in history had the sex of a newborn child created such excitement. When it was known to be a girl, everyone recognized it as a sign of God’s will, and there was great relief.
The peers had no need to reconsider the choice they had made at Candlemas; they assembled at once and unanimously, except for the representative of England who objected on principle, confirmed Philippe in his right to the crown.
The people also heaved a sigh of relief. The curse of the Grand Master Jacques de Molay
