of flesh and steel; grass, armour, man and beast were all sticky with blood.
The Battle of Mont Cassel, which had begun in so disastrous a way, ended in total victory for France. People talked of it as another Bouvines.
But the real victor was not the King, nor even the old Constable Gaucher, though he had shouted the names of his banners loudly enough, nor Robert of Artois, though he had fallen on the enemy ranks like an avalanche. The man who had saved the day was Count Guillaume of Hainaut. But it was Philippe VI, his brother-in-law, who reaped the glory.
So powerful a king as Philippe could not tolerate any omission on the part of his vassals. He therefore sent a summons to the King of England, Duke of Guyenne, to come to render homage to him without delay.
There are no advantageous defeats, but there can be disastrous victories. Few days in France’s history have cost her so dear as Cassel, for it gave currency to a number of false ideas, such as that the new King was invincible, and that foot-soldiers were worthless in war. The defeat of Crécy, twenty years later, was the consequence of this illusion.
In the meantime, the commanders of banners and the bearers of lances, even to the youngest squire, looked down from their saddles in contempt at the inferior species who fought on foot.
That autumn, towards the middle of October, Madame Clémence of Hungary, the unlucky Queen who had been Louis the Hutin’s second wife, died at the age of thirty-five in the Temple, where she lived. She left so many debts that, a week after her death, everything she possessed, rings, crowns, jewels, furniture, linen and plate, even her kitchen utensils, were auctioned on behalf of her Italian creditors, the Bardi and the Tolomei.
Old Spinello Tolomei, now very fat and lame, one eye open and the other shut, attended the sale. Six goldsmith-valuers, commissioned by the King, had fixed the reserves. Everything Queen Clémence had been given during her one year of illusory happiness was dispersed.
For four successive days the auctioneers, Simon de Clokettes, Jean Pascon, Pierre de Besançon and Jean de Lille, were to be heard crying: ‘A fine gold hat,5 containing four balas rubies, four large emeralds, sixteen small balas rubies, sixteen small emeralds and eight Alexandraian rubies, six hundred livres! Sold to the King!’
‘A ring, with four cut sapphires and one cabochon, forty livres! Sold to the King!’
‘A ring, with six oriental rubies, three cut emeralds and three emerald brilliants, two hundred livres! Sold to the King!’
‘A silver gilt bowl, twenty-five goblets, two platters and a dish, two hundred livres! Sold to Monseigneur of Artois, Count of Beaumont!’
‘A dozen silver-gilt goblets, enamelled with the arms of France and Hungary, a great silver-gilt salt supported by four monkeys, four hundred and fifty livres! Sold to Monseigneur of Artois, Count of Beaumont!’
‘A gold-embroidered purse, sewn with pearls, containing an oriental sapphire, sixteen livres! Sold to the King!’
The Bardi company bought the most expensive lot: a ring containing Clémence’s largest ruby, which was estimated to be worth one thousand livres. They did not, however, have to pay for it, since it would be placed against her account with them, and they were sure of being able to resell it to the Pope who, having long been in their debt in the past, was now fabulously rich.
Robert of Artois, as if to prove that he was not solely concerned with goblets and drinking-vessels, acquired a Bible in French for thirty livres.
The chapel vestments, tunics and dalmatics were bought by the Bishop of Chartres.
A goldsmith named Guillaume le Flament acquired the dead Queen’s eating-utensils for a modest price; among them was a fork, the first ever to be made in the history of the world.
Her horses went for six hundred and ninety-two livres. And Madame Clémence’s coach together with that of her ladies-in-waiting were also auctioned.
And when at last everything was removed from the Temple, people had the feeling that an ill-omened house had been shut up.
Indeed, it seemed, that year, as if the past were wiping itself out of its own accord to make way for the new reign. The Bishop of Arras, Thierry d’Hirson, Countess Mahaut’s chancellor, died in the month of November. He had been the Countess’ adviser for thirty years, her lover too, for that matter, and had served her in all her intrigues. Mahaut was become very lonely now. Robert of Artois had a priest called Pierre Roger, who was a supporter of the Valois party, appointed to the diocese of Arras.6
Things were going against Mahaut, while Robert seemed to be prospering in every way; his influence was continually increasing, and he was rising to the highest honours.
In the month of January, 1329, Philippe VI made the County of Beaumont-le-Roger a peerage; at last Robert was a peer of France.
Since the King of England delayed coming to render homage, it was once again decided to seize the Duchy of Guyenne. But before the threat was put into execution, Robert of Artois was sent to Avignon to obtain the intervention of Pope John XXII.
Robert spent two delightful weeks on the banks of the Rhône. For Avignon, to which flowed all the gold of Christendom, had become, for anyone who enjoyed high living, gambling and beautiful courtesans, an enchanted city over which ruled an ascetic, octogenarian pope withdrawn into the problems of the Beatific Vision. The new peer of France had several audiences with the Holy Father; a banquet was given in the pontifical palace in his honour, and he enjoyed much learned conversation with a number of cardinals. Nevertheless, loyal to the avocations of his turbulent youth, he also frequented persons of more doubtful standing. Wherever Robert happened to be, he did not need to lift a finger to attract loose women, wicked men and fugitives from justice. If there was but one receiver of stolen goods in a town, in the first quarter of an hour Robert had found him out. The monk expelled from his order for causing scandal, the priest guilty of larceny or violating his oath, were inevitably to be found in his anteroom in search of his support. He was often saluted in the street by persons of sinister appearance and he would try vainly to recollect in what brothel of what town he had run across them. There was no doubt that he was trusted by the underworld, and the fact that he had become the second prince in the kingdom made no difference.
His old valet, Lormet le Dolois, was too old now to make long journeys and had not accompanied him to Avignon. But a younger man, Gillet de Nelle, who had been trained in the same school, was charged with Lormet’s duties. It was, indeed, Gillet who discovered for Monseigneur Robert a certain Maciot l’Allemant, a native of Arras and unemployed sergeant-at-arms, who would stick at nothing. Maciot had known Bishop Thierry d’Hirson well; and Bishop Thierry, during his last years, had had a mistress called Jeanne de Divion, who was at least twenty years younger than himself. She was complaining bitterly of the way Countess Mahaut had been treating her since the Bishop’s death. Would Monseigneur like to see this Dame de Divion?
Not for the first time, Robert of Artois concluded that there was much to be learned from people of bad reputation. No doubt there were safer hands than Sergeant Maciot’s into which to confide one’s purse, but the man clearly had much interesting information. Wearing a new suit of clothes and mounted on a good horse, he was sent north.
When he returned to Paris in March, Robert of Artois was in high good humour, prophesying that there would soon be interesting news in the kingdom. He mentioned that royal documents had been stolen by Bishop Thierry on Mahaut’s behalf. And a woman with veiled face came frequently to see him in his study where he held long and secret conferences with her. As the weeks went by, he seemed ever happier
