Orleton got quickly to his feet.
‘I have already consulted my conscience,’ he said. ‘I have come here to represent the King of England, Duke of Guyenne.’
He had considerable experience of meetings of this kind, where the decisions to be taken had been secretly arranged beforehand, but where everyone nevertheless hesitated to be the first to speak. He was quick to take advantage of it.
‘In the name of my master,’ he went on, ‘I am to declare that the person most nearly related to the late King Charles of France is his sister, Queen Isabella, and that the Regency should therefore be vested in her.’
With the exception of Robert of Artois, who was expecting something of the sort, the Council was for a moment utterly astounded. No one had considered Queen Isabella during the preliminary negotiations, nor had anyone for an instant imagined that she would make a claim. They had quite forgotten her. And now here she was emerging from the northern mists through the voice of a little bishop in a fur cap. Had she really any rights? They all looked questioningly at each other. If strict considerations of lineage were to be taken into account, it was clear that she had undoubted rights; but it seemed sheer folly to claim them.
Five minutes later, the Council was in considerable confusion. They were all talking at once and at the tops of their voices, paying no heed to the presence of the dead King.
Had not the Duke of Guyenne, in the person of his ambassador, forgotten that women could not reign in France, in accordance with the law that had been twice confirmed by the peers in recent years?
‘Is that not so, Aunt?’ Robert of Artois asked maliciously, reminding Mahaut of the time when they had been violently opposed over the Law of Succession which had been promulgated in favour of Philippe the Long, the Countess’ son-in-law.
No, Bishop Orleton had forgotten nothing; in particular, he had not forgotten that the Duke of Guyenne had been neither present nor represented – no doubt because he had been deliberately informed too late – at the meetings of the peers at which the extension of the so-called Salic Law to the Crown had been so arbitrarily decided, and that in consequence he had never ratified the decision.
Orleton had none of the unctuous eloquence of Monseigneur Guillaume de Trye; he spoke a rather rough and somewhat archaic French, for the French used as the official language of the English Court had remained unaltered since the Conquest, and it might well have raised a smile in other circumstances. But he was adept at legal controversy and never at a loss for a retort.
Messire Mille de Noyers, who was the last surviving jurisconsult of Philip the Fair’s Council and had played his part in all the succeeding reigns, had to come to the rescue.
Since King Edward II had rendered homage to King Philippe the Long, it was evident that he had recognized him as the legitimate king and had therefore, by implication, ratified the Law of Succession.
Orleton did not see the matter in that light. Indeed, it was not so, Messire! By rendering homage, Edward II had merely confirmed that the Duchy of Guyenne was a vassalage of the Crown of France, which no one denied, though the terms of this vassalage still remained to be defined after more than a hundred years. But this was irrelevant to the validity of the procedure by which the King of France had been chosen. And, in any case, what was the question in dispute, was it the Regency or the Crown?
‘Both, both at once,’ said Bishop Jean de Marigny. ‘For, as Monseigneur de Trye so rightly said: it is wise to look to the future; and we do not want to be confronted with the same problem again in two months’ time.’
Mahaut of Artois was trying to get her breath. Ah, how infuriating this ill-health was, and the singing in the head that prevented her thinking clearly. She disapproved of everything that was being said. She was opposed to Philippe of Valois because to support Valois meant supporting Robert; she was opposed to Isabella whom she had long hated because, in the past, Isabella had denounced her daughters. After a while, she managed to intervene in the discussion.
‘If the crown could go to a woman, it would not be to your Queen, Messire Bishop, but to none other than Madame Jeanne la Petite, and the Regency should be exercised by her husband, Messire of Evreux here, or her uncle, Duke Eudes, here beside me.’
There were signs of excitement on the part of the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Flanders, the Bishops of Laon and Noyon, and even in the attitude of the young Count of Evreux who, for an instant, thought: ‘Why not, after all?’
It was as if the crown were hovering uncertainly between floor and ceiling, while several heads were outstretched to receive it.
Philippe of Valois had long abandoned his noble calm and was making signs to his cousin of Artois. Robert rose to his feet.
‘Really!’ he cried, in a voice that made the candles flicker round the catafalque. ‘Everyone here today seems to be denying his past. It would appear that my beloved aunt, Dame Mahaut, is prepared to recognize the rights of Madame of Navarre’ – he looked at Philippe of Evreux and emphasized the word ‘Navarre’ to remind him of their agreement – ‘those very rights she was instrumental in wresting from her in the past; while the noble English Bishop seems to be basing his argument on the Act of a king whom he first helped to turn off his throne and then sent home to God with his blessing! Really, Messire Orleton, a law cannot be made and remade every time it is applied, and to suit every party. Sometimes it will serve one party, sometimes another. We love and respect Madame Isabella, our cousin, whom many of us here have helped and served. But her demand, which you have pleaded so well, is clearly inadmissible. Is that not your opinion, Messeigneurs?’ he concluded, turning to his supporters for approval.
His speech was received with approbation, in particular by the Duke of Bourbon, the Count of Blois and the spiritual peers of Reims and Beauvais.
But Orleton had not yet shot his bolt. Given that this was a question not only of the Regency but also, eventually, of the Crown itself, given that women could not reign in France, then so as not to reopen the question of a law that already had precedents in its application, he would put forward a claim, not in the name of Queen Isabella, but in that of her son, King Edward III, who was the only male descendant in the direct line.
‘But if a woman cannot reign, she clearly cannot transmit the succession!’ said Philippe of Valois angrily.
‘And why not, Monseigneur? Are not the Kings of France born of woman?’
This retort raised several smiles. Tall Philippe had his back to the wall. After all, was the little English Bishop so very far wrong? The rather doubtful precedent that had been pleaded at Louis’ death gave no guidance on this particular point. And since three brothers had reigned consecutively and failed to produce sons, should not the crown go to the son of the surviving sister, rather than to a cousin?
The Count of Hainaut, who till now had been wholehearted in his support of Valois, began to reflect and to envisage unexpected prospects for his daughter.
The old Constable Gaucher, whose eyelids were as wrinkled as those of a tortoise, was cupping his ear with his hand, for he was hard of hearing, and asking his brother-in-law, Mille de Noyers: ‘What’s that? What’s that they’re saying?’
The discussion was becoming complicated and it irritated him. On the question of women succeeding, his views had remained unchanged over the last twelve years. Indeed, it was he who had proclaimed the right of male succession and had persuaded the peers to it by his celebrated apophthegm: ‘The lily cannot become a distaff; and France is too noble a kingdom to be handed over to a woman.’
