A Convenient Solution
By Trevor Whitton
Copyright 2012 Trevor Whitton
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Chapter 1
1308 – Troyes, Kingdom of France………
The old man sitting before the exquisitely carved oak table took a deep breath – his pen poised over the official parchment before him. Beside it sat a small purse of coins. It was a reasonable price given the gift at his disposal. He ran his hand through thinning grey hair, his heavy, pouched eyes straining to make out the characters on the page. His name was Guichard, and he was the current Bishop of Troyes – an important appointment by most people’s reckoning. But his greatest disappointment was the contempt in which he was held by his townspeople. He looked at the purse again, and then slowly tipped its contents onto the table. Twelve coins. What was that, really? Compared to the post he was giving, it was nothing. The recipient would be set for life - as would his family. What price could you put on that? And his enemies accused him of simony! Well, they could call it what they liked – those ill-bred, uneducated buffoons. He was the Bishop, and he was far from being the only churchman in Christendom to do it. In fact, it would be considered arrogant of him not to. Besides - his decision was God’s decision. Anyone who challenged that was a heretic.
He stood slowly, his back bent from the pain in his joints and his knees stiff from sitting too long at his table. As the sun came out from behind a cloud it cast a beam through the Palace window and onto the Bishop's face. He looked out at the unfinished apse of his Cathedral, another irritation to add to his woes. It was a sorry state of affairs for a Bishopric of this standing. Nearly one hundred years of building – including the setback of the Great Storm in 1228 – and still it was incomplete!
He leant forward on the windowsill so that he could see whether anyone was working below. Pulleys, ropes, scaffolding, cranes, mortar buckets, masonry and tools of all kinds desecrated the site. A frown crossed the Bishop’s brow as he noticed the idle men. That was the trouble with paying labourers as they worked – the longer they took to finish the job, the more they were paid. It practically amounted to an incentive to be slow! (He neglected to acknowledge that many of the labourers gave their time voluntarily in the service of God!)
He turned back into the room with a shake of his head. Yes, it was indeed necessary – even imperative – for him to make the most of every financial opportunity that presented itself. If his detractors could only see that he didn’t do it in order to line his own pockets but for the greater glory of God, they might leave him alone to get on with the business of the Church. What made him particularly angry was the fact that King Philippe had caused this problem himself by recalling the Kingdom’s coinage and replacing it with currency of a lesser value. What kind of idiot would do that? And – as if that wasn’t enough - having survived the outrage that followed by hiding behind the skirts of the Templars (taking refuge in the Paris Temple), he then proceeded to banish the Italian bankers! The Jews followed just two years ago - and then the ultimate proof of his madness. Last year he’d had all the Templars arrested, and was now trying to coerce Pope Clement into dissolving the Order altogether. So much for gratitude! And it was all very well for the King to confiscate the Order’s wealth and property, but what about the impact on trading towns such as Troyes? The combined effect of his policies were devastating! The revenues from the Great Annual Faire alone had been halved in the last three years.
Well, the irony was that those very Templars who had once protected the King and were themselves betrayed, now provided the possibility of a financial solution to the Bishop’s problems. God knew how to care for His own and had directed Providence to Troyes. Guichard looked long and hard at the second document on his desk.
As always, things were made more difficult by the politics of the day. Even Guichard didn’t know the Pope’s true position in regard to the Templars. Publicly he condemned the King’s actions, and the Bishop was sure that privately he opposed them as well. But it was rumoured that Clement realised that – in reality - there was little he could do, and that in order to win the war in the long run he was prepared to lose this battle. Consequently, any support of those Templars who had managed to escape the purge was fraught with danger – both from the Church and the King.
But no one had any moral right to object to the methods by which Guichard sought to keep his Bishopric financed – least of all the King. Philippe ‘the Fair’ indeed! No, he had absolutely no justification for objecting to the way in which any Bishop or member of the clergy sought to compensate themselves for his catastrophic policies. And with that thought he bent and signed the document without any further hesitation.
Just a couple of miles away, on the plains to the west, justice in the form of half a dozen riders was approaching the gates of Troyes. At their head was Guillaume de Nogaret, one of the most feared men in France. His mission was a bold one, and would undoubtedly cause shock and debate throughout the Christian world for years to come - but this was of no consequence to him. Fulfilling the commands of his King was all the justification he ever needed, but the opportunity to inflict harm on the Church as well definitely offered an added bonus.
By the time the riders had reached the gates of the city they were attracting considerable attention. They navigated their way through the narrow streets in the direction of the Bishop's Palace with no need for secrecy. Their mission today would be swift and completed before anyone had a chance to react. Even the Bailli of Troyes would be unaware of events until they were well away on the road back to Paris. It would be much later as news reached the ears of the Pope when matters would come to a head.
They crossed the expanse of Saint Jean's market as the stalls were beginning to pack up for the day.
Guichard’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of one of his staff. Thomas Garonde, the manager of the Office’s estates, bowed his head politely.
'Sorry to disturb you, Your Eminence, but it has come to my attention that the Bailli has again acted contrary to our wishes in regard to the poachers we caught several months ago.'
'Has he taken any action against them?' asked Guichard impatiently.
'I believe they have been fined a trifling sum – hardly a sufficient deterrent, I fear.'
'Well? Why come to me? Surely you should be harassing Bailli Dubois?'
'I wanted your authority to pursue the matter and to insist that he prosecute these men,' replied Garonde humbly.
'Is it absolutely necessary? After all, it’s such a trivial matter…’ Guichard was only too well aware of his estate manager’s shortcomings. He was a young, good looking man, dark of complexion with long, well groomed hair which fell easily to his shoulders. His prospects in life seemed promising on the face of it - he had a job that was usually reserved for men twice his age and experience, and he had a generally sober disposition. Unfortunately, he also had a serious gambling problem and, as a consequence, was as poor as a beggar’s dog. He had no inheritance at all to look forward to, and his poor temper made him an unlikely suitor for any woman who might be able to help him out of his pecuniary difficulties. In many ways he was a gifted manager, but Guichard knew it was largely due to his meanness and lack of sympathy for others less fortunate. There was no doubting he felt a certain contempt for those worse off than himself, and it was common knowledge that the tenants loathed him. He was very good when circumstances demanded a firm hand, but was often over-zealous when a gentler approach might have been more effective.
'The incidence of poaching has been growing steadily for some time, Your Eminence. I believe it is necessary to make an example of these men,' the young man added, pressing his cause.
'Very well – but don’t get carried away. Remember you’re a Christian, Thomas, and should behave with compassion.'
'Yes, Your Eminence, always.' He bowed respectfully and backed out of the room. Guichard shook his head irritably once he was alone again. He liked to be respected, but he hated sycophancy. He was just about to return to his work when there was a loud crash from downstairs - followed by the sound of shouting and the unmistakable clang of swords.
Fear, anger and bewilderment in equal measure passed through the mind of the Bishop. Who would cause such a disturbance? Thieves? The townspeople rising against him? A disgruntled suitor seeking redress for an appointment he had been expecting? Eventually the intruders reached the top of the stairs and burst through the study door. The first thing Guichard saw as the six men entered was the gold fleur-de-lys emblazoned on the soldiers’ sleeves. Fury welled up inside him.
'This is an outrage!' he began to shout, until he looked beyond the soldiers and recognised the face of the man standing behind them. Guillaume de Nogaret – Councillor, Keeper of the Seal, and ruthless prosecutor of the King’s commands. The colour drained from the Bishop’s face and he collapsed, terror-stricken, into the chair behind him. 'What is the meaning of this?' he croaked as the men crossed the room towards him. Nogaret stepped forward, pulled an official parchment from his belt, broke the seal and began to read in a confident, powerful voice:
'Guichard, Bishop of Troyes, you are charged with the murder of Jeanne of Navarre, Queen of France, through witchcraft. You are also charged with murdering the Queen’s mother by poisoning, as well as simony, sodomy, being the son of an incubus, various acts of homicide and sorcery, usury, counterfeiting, blasphemy and incitement to riot.' The Bishop’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wide with horror. Behind the intruders he could see several members of his staff – the over-zealous Thomas, his legal adviser Antoine Reynard (a red headed man who was cursed with a club foot), and his scribe Jean Bellimont.
'You can’t be serious? I haven’t done any of those things. This is some kind of mistake,' stammered Guichard, the sweat now pouring off his brow. Nogaret continued, speaking over the top of the terrified accused:
'I have been authorised by the King himself to place you under arrest and to convey you immediately to the Louvre for questioning and trial. You are immediately stripped of your office and may bring with you no servants or entourage of any description. An advocate will be appointed by the State in due course.' The Councillor smiled, baring broken, rotted teeth. 'You can be assured that you will receive a fair trial.'
Guichard jumped to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in the process. He came from behind the desk to confront his attacker directly.
'Who do you think you are – you son of heretics – ' (it was rumoured that Nogaret's parents had been loathsome Cathars) ' - to cast such ridiculous accusations at me? For that matter, who is the King to interfere in matters that – notwithstanding their absurdity - are wholly within the preserve of the Church? The State has absolutely no jurisdiction…' Growing impatient, Nogaret gave a sign to the nearest soldier, who responded by ramming the butt of his sword hard into the Bishop’s stomach. Guichard’s face betrayed utter astonishment, before he crumpled to his knees in agony. He could vaguely hear the town’s bells ringing outside as he was picked up by the soldiers – one under each arm – and forcibly removed from the Palace. Through misty eyes he saw the dim outlines of his staff wringing their hands, uncertain what to do.
'Send a message to the Pope – quickly. Tell him I’ve been arrested by the King and will perish if he doesn’t act immediately,' - then he retched violently and, thankfully, the world went black.
Chapter 2
When the news reached Pope Clement in Bordeaux two weeks later, he could hardly credit what he was hearing. The continued arrogance of the King of France was astounding. He directed his gaze towards Bernard Corrente, his most trusted and beloved Cardinal.
'I pity this man when he’s called to account by Our Lord, my word I do,' he said quietly. Corrente nodded, his expression taut. It was an extremely difficult time for everyone, but most of all for His Holiness. The fate of Christendom seemed to hang on his every decision – all thanks to the unscrupulous behaviour of one man.
'This situation must be handled very carefully,’ he said, dismissing the messenger with a gesture. ‘If we overreact, who knows what catastrophe could befall us – the King included.' Clement nodded thoughtfully.
'But if I do nothing, the Church is doomed. To allow Philippe to behave with impunity would be to condone his actions and the charges against Guichard.' He slumped onto the velvet cushions of his chair and stroked his chin distractedly. What a fool man is to covet this job, he thought.
'He wants you to react rashly, of course,' said the Cardinal.
'Of course he does!' Clement shouted, waving his arms in the air impatiently. 'Even stacking his troops in Poitiers during our meeting in May was an attempt to provoke a response from me. He’s just itching for an excuse to crush the Papacy.' Corrente crossed the room quietly – his measured response in stark contrast to that of his patron. Although neither ever spoke of it, both understood that his composure in the face of adversity was the most valuable asset he brought to the Office.
'He knows that if you do nothing it would acknowledge the Crown’s jurisdiction over the Church - a precedent it would be difficult for your successors to ignore. Have you heard of this latest pamphlet published by the lawyer from Coutances?'
'Pierre Dubois?'
'The same. He’s now openly advocating that you relinquish temporal power to the King of France, who will administer the Papal States on your behalf and pay you an annual stipend as compensation!' Clement had to laugh at the audacity of the man.
'You can’t take him too seriously, Bernard,' he said dismissively.
'But it’s scandalous! It’s beyond scandalous, it’s..' The Cardinal was lost for words.
'He’s only writing for himself. He’s not employed by the King – he doesn’t even know him, as far as I’m aware. His pamphlets are just the ravings of an unfettered ideologue.'
'But it’s an accurate representation of Philippe’s ultimate designs, nonetheless,' insisted Corrente.
'I can’t argue with that,' said Clement, nodding sadly. They fell into silence for a few moments, each contemplating the state of affairs and trying to anticipate the consequences of the various options at their disposal. Eventually Clement rose from his chair and strode to the trefoil window overlooking the town and river Garonne beyond. ‘How did we come to this? We should be on the same side – Philippe and I. Why should it be so difficult to settle our differences?’ Corrente stepped to his side – close enough to be intimate, whilst still maintaining a respectable distance.
‘Well, for a start the man is insane.’ Clement smiled ruefully, but gave a barely detectable shake of his head.
‘That’s not the whole story, though, is it?’
‘Well, if you’re after a history lesson, it all began with one of your predecessors – Boniface. He was the one who had the courage to stand up against Philippe over the Crown’s right to tax the clergy. It was only a device to support his obsessive war against England, after all. And we both know where that led.’
‘Philippe had Bernard de Saisset arrested on charges of treason.’
‘A Papal legate and Bishop of Pamiers, no less! I suppose we shouldn’t be so surprised with this latest turn of events. It’s not the first time he’s done such a thing, is it?’ They were suddenly interrupted by a short knock at the door.
‘What is it?’ An attendant stuck his head into the room and bowed respectfully. ‘Well?’ growled the Pope.
‘There is a delegation from Castille wishing an audience, Your Holiness.’
‘Send them away. I have no time for anyone today. Do not disturb me again unless I call for you.’ He dismissed the attendant with a flick of his wrist and turned back to the window. ‘What still amazes me is that popular opinion sided with Philippe. How could that be? Do my countrymen have no concerns at all for their mortal souls?’
‘It was their unquestioning adoration that gave him the confidence – the unbelievable arrogance - to denounce Boniface as a heretic and declare his election illegitimate. And they will bear that responsibility along with their King when their souls are judged. They are just as much to blame.’
‘I have a close friend who was there, you know,’ said Clement, glancing over his shoulder and shooting another rueful smile at his Cardinal. Corrente frowned.
‘Where?’
‘Angani – when Philippe sent Guillaume de Nogaret and Sciarra Colonna to arrest Boniface. And Colonna had his own agenda, of course. An especially evil man amongst evil men.’ Clement walked over to a nearby table and poured himself a glass of red wine. He sipped it slowly and took solace in the fact that there was something in his country that he could still be proud of. ‘We all thought the tide had turned when Boniface escaped, and that it was the beginning of the end for Philippe. But he died only a month later in Rome.’ Corrente coughed respectfully. Clement frowned and stopped mid-sip. ‘What is it?’ Still the Cardinal hesitated. ‘Come on, speak up. You have no need to hide anything form me. We have no secrets from each other.’
‘You do realise that everyone thought your appointment – as a French Pope and personal confidant to Philippe – was meant as an appeasement.’ For a moment Corrente wondered if he had overstepped the mark. Clement slammed down his wine, spilling most of its contents on the table. Red liquid trickled to the floor. But the Cardinal quickly recognised the Pope’s expression – it was pride, not anger.
‘Of course I realise it. But they’re all – Philippe included – in for a very rude awakening. I am nobody’s pawn!’ He regained control of his emotions with an effort and poured himself another glass of wine. He held it up to the light – admiring the translucent colour. ‘I really had no choice but to oppose him, not after he decided to persist with that posthumous lawsuit against Boniface. It was like a personal challenge – as if he was saying to me, I know we were colleagues, so I know you won’t try and stop me. Well – just you watch. I refuse to be known by history as the Pope who handed the Church over to the King of France.’ Corrente poured himself a glass of wine and stirred it distractedly with his finger.
'I feel I must warn you that there’s considerable disquiet amongst the Italian Cardinals, Your Holiness,' he said. He was loath to add to his Pope’s problems, but ignoring the situation was foolhardy. Clement frowned and gestured impatiently.
'I know. They object to the appointment of all the French Cardinals since I took office,' he sighed. ‘I’m not completely divorced from the day to day goings on in our Church, you know.’ Corrente shook his head.
'It’s not just that. They’re incensed with your decision to move the Papal court to Avignon.'
'But it’s only temporary – they know that.' Corrente shook his head again.
'No they don’t. They know that you say it’s only temporary, but you’ve been expressing your intention to return to Rome since your coronation in Lyons four years ago – yet here we are, still.' He knew that was an extremely sensitive issue, but it had to be said and no-one else was in a position to say it. Predictably, Clement exploded.
'What would they have me do?' he shouted in exasperation. 'I must remain in France. Philippe continues to threaten action against Boniface – a precedent which I cannot allow to happen. On top of that, England and France are still at war – and everyone knows that freeing the Holy Land is out of the question until the two can reconcile their differences and combine their armies in a Crusade. And would they have me miss the upcoming Council of Vienne? I know, given the current circumstances and the plight of our Brother Knights Templar that it won’t be a very important event…' It was unusual for Clement to resort to sarcasm unless his temper was roused - and nothing roused that temper more than the short-sightedness of the Italian Cardinals. 'Whose side are they on, anyway? Would they rather see Philippe prevail and suffer dominion under his tyranny?'
'They're on neither side. They're short-sighted, self-serving and stupid - all those things. But they're also feeling extremely vulnerable. They remember you're previous relationship with Philippe and believe you support his cause over that of the Church. All they see is your acquiescence to Philippe’s demands at every step. You need to find an issue and stand up to him - prove your independence.'
'Then the arrest of Guichard provides me with such an opportunity,' replied the Pope. His face suddenly contracted and he doubled up in pain. Bernard rushed to his side. These crises were enough to try a young man in good health, but Clement was neither of these. The fire burned low in the huge fireplace across the hall, and Bernard called for an attendant to stoke it.
'And bring the physician for His Holiness – tell him he’s had another attack.' The sooner they settled into a fixed place – whether it be France or Italy – the better. All this travelling around, particularly with winter coming on, was diabolical for the Pope’s health. Clement found the strength to squeeze Bernard’s hand.
'Thank you,' he whispered. Having settled the stricken man into a chair by the fire, Bernard drew the heavy Flemish curtains across the windows and began lighting the candles around the huge, vaulted hall. Where was that damned physician? 'You must choose two of your brother Cardinals to accompany you to Troyes, Bernard,' said Clement from across the room. 'And one of them must be an Italian,' he added weakly. Corrente understood at once.
'Of course – but three Cardinals? Won’t that seem excessive?'
'You said yourself – I must be seen to act decisively and with serious intent on this matter. We must show strength both to the Crown of France, and to the Italians.'
'I understand. But what would you have us do?'
'Find the truth – and report back to me. I will act. But do nothing to provoke Philippe – be discreet.'
'I shall do my best,' replied the Cardinal, just as the Pope’s physician arrived.
A few weeks later, in the Louvre Palace in the French capital, a messenger was shown into King Philippe’s audience hall by a reluctant usher.
'He insisted on seeing you himself, sire,' the usher explained nervously. 'He said he was under strict instructions to do so.' Philippe considered the messenger waiting obediently behind the guard, and called to him;
'Where have you come from?'
'Troyes, sire,' replied the messenger promptly.
'Show him in, then leave,' said the King quietly to the usher. 'The rest of you may leave too,' he added, gesturing to the various attendants, supplicants, retainers and petitioners scattered about the room. ‘Pierre Soissons.’ The gentleman in question stopped in his tracks and bowed to his King.
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘You are to stay.’
‘As you command, Sire.’ He waited patiently with his hands folded before him as the others left the room. When the last of them had closed the door behind him, Philippe gestured for the messenger to approach and took the note eagerly. This eagerness waned as he read the message, and his brow clouded with concern.
'Do you know what is written in this note?' he asked of the envoy.
'No Sire. I was only instructed to bring it to you without delay, which I have done.'
'When did you leave Troyes?'
'Yesterday morning, Sire.'
'Yesterday morning? You’ve done very well.'
'I was told to spare no expense, sire. I used four horses.' Philippe was by now deep in thought and had ignored the explanation. He opened the note and read again;
‘Three Cardinals have been despatched to Troyes to investigate the arrest of Guichard. I respectfully suggest that you send a well-armed delegation to keep an eye on them. Be assured that the people here support your actions and that the Cardinals will get no co-operation.’
The note wasn’t signed, but the seal guaranteed its validity.
‘Wait for me outside,’ he said to the messenger. ‘I’ll send a reply shortly.’ He handed the note to Soissons - his most trusted chevalier de l’hotel. 'It’s not the news I was hoping for,' he said, watching closely as the other began reading. Soissons’s face was emotionless as he folded the letter and handed it back to his King.
‘Surely you were expecting this, Sire?’
‘Not at all! The man has just rolled over and accepted it whenever I’ve opposed him in the past.’
‘It couldn’t go on forever, though, could it? He had to stand up to you eventually.’
‘Still, if I’d expected anything it was that he’d send a delegation here – to confront me.’ Soissons pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘I doubt anyone would risk that again, Sire. Even someone as naive as Clement.’ The King kicked over a chair and hurled a vase violently across the room – smashing it against the wall. Soissons remained calm and waited for the tantrum to subside.
‘It may actually offer you an opportunity, Sire,’ he said as the King slumped petulantly onto his throne.
‘How so? I can only see that it complicates things.’ Soissons stepped forward – close enough to enable him to whisper. These were highly sensitive matters, and it was common knowledge that these walls had ears.
'If you were to send a formal representation, you’d have one group working out in the open and your existing agent could continue to work undercover. As for the Church – well, I don’t think they’ll pose much of a threat.’ Philippe considered the proposal carefully, but sat up in alarm as a disturbing prospect struck him.
‘Unless this is all a ruse.’ Soissons frowned.
‘Their true intention being…?’
‘The Templars’ gold!’ hissed Philippe, as quietly as his anger allowed. The Knight considered the possibility carefully.
‘But how could Clement know that it’s now in Troyes? It took a considerable amount of – persuasion – to get the information in the first place. And we know for a fact that your source won’t be sharing his knowledge with anyone else - not in this life, anyway.’ Philippe gave him a pitying look.
‘Let me see, Pierre,’ he placed his hand to his chin and began tapping his lips as if considering a complicated puzzle. ‘Clement is the head of the Christian Church and the Templars are men of the Church – where could he have possibly got this information from?’
‘But their treasure is their most closely guarded secret.’
‘True. But I can see them confiding in the Pope if they thought it was under threat from someone – oh, I don’t know – like me!’ Soissons had to admit that the argument was certainly plausible.
‘All the more reason to have two groups working for you, Sire. You need to maintain your advantage.’
‘You’re right. It’s an excellent plan, Pierre. Thank you.’ The Knight bowed deeply.
‘It’s my privilege, Sire.’
'I want you to go yourself – and take Guillaume de Plassan with you.'
‘As you order, Sire. We will leave immediately.’
Chapter 3
Jean Bellimont trudged dejectedly along the narrow backstreets of Troyes in the growing gloom of a foggy, autumn evening. The frost crunched beneath his feet and he occasionally slipped as his foot encountered a firmer patch of ice, but his mind was elsewhere, trying to come to terms with the disaster which had befallen him. He wondered if perhaps this misfortune had been sent as a punishment for not trying to stop the arrest of his Bishop. But what could he have done? Only end up in gaol himself. And if such was the case, why had the same fate not befallen Thomas and Antoine?
His first concern was how he was going to break the news to his wife, Margaret. The sweet smell of burning birch from the surrounding households filled his nostrils as he tried to imagine that conversation. Through the darkness the deep, booming bells of the Cathedral tolled for evening mass. As he turned down the narrow alleyway leading to his home, he was still searching for the words to describe their new situation.
Passing under the low lintel of his doorway, Jean removed his sodden wool coat and muddy boots and considered his plan of attack. He looked down at the holes in his stockings and shook his head in despair. With an effort he entered the kitchen, where the housekeeper Elizabeth was re-stoking the fire and his brother Gastolde sat warming his hands. The three greeted each other briefly, while Marguerite stood stirring a large pot of steaming soup. Jean guessed that it was turnip and leek (again).
'You’re home early.' Marguerite smiled, giving her husband the perfect opening. He hesitated, nevertheless.
'Turnip and leek soup?' he asked, seeking to postpone the inevitable.
'I’m afraid so,' said Marguerite. Gastolde snorted in disgust without looking up from his position by the fire. Briefly, his eyes met Elizabeth’s and they shared a wry smile.
'I don’t mind,' lied Jean and took a seat next to his brother. Elizabeth retired to the back of the room and went back to mending a pair of breeches. 'Claude hasn’t come home yet?' It was part statement, part question.
'Been and gone,' said Marguerite. Their eldest child, Claude, had been apprenticed as a vintner since he was twelve. Jean had more than an inkling of where the absent boy had gone.
'He’s at the Boar’s Head again, isn’t he?' Marguerite’s silence was all the confirmation Jean needed. He was about to launch into a long diatribe over his son’s drinking habits, but, upon reflection, realised that the time was ill-judged and closed his half-opened mouth abruptly. He’d have been singing to the choirmaster, anyway. It was better to wait and speak with his son when he arrived home – perhaps armed with a bucket of ice-cold water. For the moment he sat back and warmed his stockinged feet by the now roaring fire.
'Fetch Janine for me please, Elizabeth,' asked Marguerite a few moments later as she began ladling out the soup into cracked, wooden bowls. Their youngest child, Janine, shared the common domestic duties around the house with Elizabeth.
'I suppose Janine will have to manage the housework on her own – we certainly won’t be able to afford to keep Elizabeth on after this,' thought Jean as the latter left the room.
It was after supper, as Janine and Elizabeth left to collect more wood for the fire, when Jean finally broke the news to his wife and brother.
'A delegation arrived from the Pope today to investigate the arrest of the Bishop,' he began.
'Oh, aye,' murmured Gastolde, not really taking any interest. Marguerite, who knew her husband and realised that he wouldn’t have raised the issue if it wasn’t important, looked up from the tunic she was mending and gave him her full attention. The fire was getting low and the room was getting quite chilly – or perhaps it was just Jean’s imagination.
'What kind of delegation?' she asked.
'Three Cardinals.' He now had the interest of both listeners.
'Three Cardinals?'
'The Pope apparently takes the matter seriously – very seriously. There could be trouble.'
'What kind of trouble?' asked Gastolde, his bushy eyebrows raised so high that it was impossible to determine where they ended and his scruffy hair began. A food merchant who was feeling the pinch of the King’s recent policies, he would have been delighted to see the Pope raise an army to topple the Monarch he called 'that yellow-headed sheep-fondler'.
'They've been sent to discredit the allegations against Bishop Guichard, and they're certain there’s an informant in the household,’ said Jean.
'They don’t suspect you, surely?' said Marguerite, suddenly alarmed.
'It’s too early to tell – they’ve only just arrived.' His off-handedness convinced Marguerite that there was a more important issue that he seemed to be avoiding.
'Something else is worrying you, isn’t it?' she prodded gently. Jean took a deep breath and began studying the fire closely. He shook his head slowly and pursed his lips.
'They’ve dismissed all but four of the household and staff,' he said quietly. There was a brief pause before Gastolde finally dared to ask:
'Including you?' Jean nodded his head miserably.
'Including me.' Both husband and wife were now looking distractedly into the fire.
'Why?' Marguerite asked eventually.
'Something about needing to begin afresh – start with a clean slate.'
'Then they do suspect you,' said Gastolde with disgust.
'Not necessarily. They just want to make sure that whoever takes over – and I don’t think even they expect Guichard to come back – will be in a position to appoint their own staff.'
'So who stayed?'
'The cook, the gardener, the manager of the estates, and the legal adviser.'
'Why them?' asked Gastolde. Jean shrugged. It was clear he was wondering the same thing.
'What do we do now?' Marguerite's head was dizzy with worry.
'We’ll need to tighten our belts, for a start.'
'Meaning what?' Jean shrugged and tried to avoid his wife's glare.
'I suppose Elizabeth will have to go,' he said at last. There was a moment’s strained silence and then – as if on cue – the woman herself re-entered the room. She noticed everyone watching her, and began examining her clothing to see if something was amiss. Noticing nothing, she dumped an armload of wood on the hearth and began re-stoking the languishing fire. Further conversation on the topic was postponed until Jean and Marguerite had retired to bed.
'We may have to send Janine out to work as well,' said Jean, conscious of those asleep around them and keeping his voice to a low whisper.
'So I’ll lose both Elizabeth and Janine! How will I cope with on my own?'
'We’ll just have to find a way to manage.'
'You mean I’ll just have to find a way to manage!' The statement was true enough, and Jean didn’t bother responding. 'Surely it won’t be difficult for you to find another position? Good scribes are always in demand,' she said, trying to find a coin amongst the dung.
'Not long ago that was true. But our town’s been experiencing hard times of late, and record-keeping for many is a luxury they can no longer afford.'
'And with Gastolde struggling in his business…it makes things very difficult for us, Jean.'
'You’re a wonderful woman, Marguerite, but if you died tomorrow I’d make a submission myself to the Pope asking that you be made Patron Saint of the Exceedingly Obvious.' Marguerite ignored the remark, making allowances for the circumstances.
'When should we tell Elizabeth?' she asked.
'We?'
'Yes – we! As I’m supposed to manage this household on my own from now on..'
'Exactly! You’re supposed to manage the household on your own!' – and, so saying, Jean rolled over, turning his back on his wife to indicate that the discussion was over.
Marguerite lay fuming for a few moments, before deciding to leave the matter until morning, when they’d both be in a better mood. Beside her, there was a quiet fart - proof that her husband had fallen asleep.
Not very far away, Thomas Garonde – manager of the estates belonging to the Bishopric of Troyes - strode proudly through the streets on his way home, feeling satisfied with so many things that it was difficult for him to know where to begin congratulating himself. He liked deceiving people, certainly, and there was a vindictive streak in him that simply enjoyed inflicting injury on others - even in circumstances (like now) when those others weren’t even aware of the injury. But that wasn’t his only reason for being pleased.
He was almost strutting as he approached his humble dwelling near the South Gate. Suddenly he hesitated. Should he go home? The evening was still young – perhaps he should go to the Four Princes. Why not? Clearly it was his lucky night, and it would be foolish not to cash in on such luck with a game of dice or cards. With a curt nod and a shrug he turned decisively down the lane leading to the Inn, whistling and feeling on top of the world.
Just one hour later he returned - miserable and broke.
The next morning, in a field overgrown with weeds not far from Troyes, a young Jewish man and his wife cautiously inspected a ramshackle, deserted barn. The two were poorly dressed, emaciated with hunger, and looked like they hadn’t bathed in months. Not so long ago they’d been an attractive young couple, but now – though still only in their late twenties – they looked ragged and could have easily been mistaken as middle-aged. The husband was unimpressed with their prospective abode, but knew they had little choice.
'It’s not beautiful, but I think it will serve us for the moment, Sarah. What do you think?' Sarah tried to put on a brave face, but it was obvious that she shared his reservations.
'As long as the snow holds off a little longer, and the wind doesn’t blow too hard from the north,' she conceded.
'Just until your foot heals,' her husband promised. 'Then we’ll head east. Less than one week’s travel, and we’ll be safely out of France.'
'But how are we to live in the meantime? Where will we get food? How will you earn money to get food?'
'I’ll still go to town on market days. As long as I have this,' he tapped the fiddle by his side, 'we will always have a source of income.' Sarah grasped her husband’s arm.
‘You can’t go back there, Jacob. Someone will report you.’ Jacob placed a hand gently over his wife’s and gave it a reassuring pat.
‘I’m not stupid, dear. I’ll shave my beard before I go.’
‘Shave your beard? But..’
‘It’ll grow back quickly enough once we’re safely out of France. I’m sure God will forgive me this one transgression. It’s the only way I can ensure our safety.’ But Sarah looked far from convinced. ‘No-one will recognise me!’ said Jacob insistently. ‘Besides, you’ve never seen me without a beard. I hardly look Jewish at all. All people will see is a stranger playing a fiddle. I promise you it will be alright.’ He finished by giving her hand a squeeze, and then began to gather old bags and planks of wood to plug some of the larger gaps in the walls. Then he set about dispersing as many of the rats as he could by destroying their nests in the straw. Sarah pulled a face of disgust as the vermin scattered about the barn, and shooed them away when they came too close. Noticing her reaction, Jacob was suddenly acutely aware of their situation, and blushed with shame at his inability to better provide for his wife.
'Try not to blame yourself, Jacob,' said Sarah consolingly, 'If anyone’s to blame it’s King Philippe – and he’ll have to answer to someone greater, one day.' She continued rubbing her feet, occasionally grimacing when the pain became too intense. Jacob knelt by her side and carefully helped remove her stockings.
'I’ll see the Apothecary when I go back into town,' he said. 'I’m sure he’ll have something to help heal those sores.' Sarah smiled appreciatively, trying her best now to hide both her pain and her misery.
'And how will you pay for his medicines? No, better to save our money for food and let my feet heal on their own.' Jacob examined his wife's feet closely and frowned.
'I don't think we can rely on that,' he said. 'Besides, the Apothecary has always proven to be a friend to the Jewish community. I’m sure he’ll be willing to give me a lotion and allow me to pay later.'
‘You’re sure he won’t turn you in?’ Jacob shook his head firmly.
‘Not Godfrey.’ The couple were silent for some moments, contemplating their predicament. At last Jacob decided it was time to be positive and show trust in God.
'I’m sure it will all work out in the end. Some day we’ll be able to look back and laugh at all this.' Sarah looked around the ramshackle building they were calling home, and at the cruel sores on her feet.
'I don’t think I’ll ever be able to laugh at this,' she said gravely.
The large, vaulted room was completely dark, except for the two candles burning on the makeshift altar. It smelt musty – almost fetid – and cobwebs infested every corner. Clearly the place had lain abandoned for many months, perfectly suiting the figure kneeling fervently in prayer.
Eventually the man stood and, after crossing himself respectfully, donned his cloak and strapped a sword to his waist. Then, silently – cautiously – he extinguished the candles and, groping his way carefully towards the short staircase which was the room’s only means of access, he left his place of concealment to join the public world of the town above.
Chapter 4
Both Gastolde and Claude had left for work when Jean awoke. He lay in bed for some time, watching the sunlight dancing on the ceiling and listening to the sound of traffic in the street outside. From both nearby and far away he could hear the tolling of the town’s church bells - unsynchronised and somehow reassuring. He rolled off the mattress, pulled his breeches and coat on over his woollen underwear, and stepped outside for his morning ablutions.
Marguerite looked up from the table as her husband entered a short time later.
'You’re up late,' she said.
'Nothing to get up for, is there?' Marguerite stood and ladled a serving of gruel from the pot above the fire and set it before her husband. 'Have you told Elizabeth or Janine yet?' he asked between slurps. After a moment’s silence he looked up, saw the look on his wife’s face, and quickly went back to his breakfast.
'Where will you start?' Marguerite asked after he’d emptied his bowl. Jean's only response was a quizzical look. 'Looking for a new job,' she explained patiently.
'I told you – there are no..'
'You have to at least look!' Their exchange was interrupted as Elizabeth and Janine entered with the day’s groceries. Jean gaped in horror as the two women placed their purchases on the table.
'Eggs?! Eggs?' he shouted. 'Do you think we shit money?' Marguerite quickly ushered the astonished women from the room, then turned to glare at her husband. 'You can’t think this is right?' he demanded, gesturing to the baskets before them.
'Not now that I know our circumstances – but they don’t! Be reasonable, Jean.' Marguerite was trying very hard not to lose her temper.
'And whose fault is it that they don’t know? For goodness’ sake, woman, didn’t you have sense enough to tell them before they went shopping?' Marguerite realised it was necessary for her husband to vent his rage, but she was determined not to let things get out of control. She handed the soiled pots and bowls out to Janine and Elizabeth, instructing the two women to take them to the well for cleaning. Returning to the kitchen, she sat down across the table from her husband. He looked old today, she thought. His hair was greying, wiry and thin, and his frame – once full and firm –now sagged where once it had bulged. There were bags under his eyes and his nose was blotched and red. He looked a small, vulnerable man, despite his anger.
She placed her hands, palms open, on the rough, wood table – scored and marked from years of cutting and chopping. Jean looked at her patient, worried face gazing up at him, and broke down in tears. He slumped into his chair and buried his head in his hands. Marguerite stood and gently walked around the table. She cradled the sobbing man in her arms like a child, rocking him backwards and forwards and murmuring words of reassurance.
Bernard Corrente leant his chin thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. His long, thin fingers tapped his upper lip distractedly and a frown of concentration made his gaunt, sallow features seem even more serious than usual. This situation had been building from the moment they had arrived.
'Why was the Bishop's staff dismissed without my knowledge?' Matteo Sandini - the token Italian Cardinal - was shaking with fury as he confronted his French colleagues. 'You will not deprive the Italian States of a voice in this matter – it affects us every bit as much as it affects you.' He paced backwards and forwards across the hall like a frustrated, petulant child. Corrente was content to wait until the storm had blown itself out, but Pierre Tours was not as patient.
'We have no intention of depriving you of a voice, Matteo,' he said, trying to be reasonable. Sandini rounded on him with a ferocity that startled everyone. He poked a finger so hard into the other’s chest that he stumbled backwards several paces.
'Spare me your empty platitudes - I already know what you'll say. “We are all one under the banner of Christ.” Well, I am not the dribbling idiot you take me – or my countrymen - for.'
'I don't think you're…' began Tours, trying to use his most conciliatory tone.
'It’s well known that you think all Italians are corrupt fools,' said Sandini - too angry now to listen to anyone. 'You French are all alike!' The man was now red with rage.
'If you’ll just calm down,' said Tours reasonably. The Italian eyed him strangely.
'You, of all people, had better be careful not to cross me, ' he said. The target of his rage looked distinctly uncomfortable and fell silent. Sandini smiled - savouring a minor triumph. 'I know you hope to sweep this scandal under the rug and forget about it,' he said, changing the subject but continuing his tirade unabated. 'Don’t you think I realise that this investigation is a sham – meant to appease the Italian Cardinals and make us think you are acting decisively - for once - against Philippe?' Corrente decided that he had heard enough - it was time to put a stop to this nonsense. He stood and approached the aggrieved man authoritatively.
'Make us think you are acting decisively?' he asked quietly, but with ill-disguised menace. Sandini hesitated and looked confused.
'What?'
'You said “make us think you are acting decisively” – what did you mean?' Sandini was momentarily thrown off balance. He started to reply, but was cut short by the Frenchman. 'Are you insinuating that the policies of the Italian Cardinals are somehow different to that of the Pope? That you know better? That you are in any way separate to the rest of the Church?’ As this was exactly what Sandini was saying in an unguarded moment of anger, there was no rejoinder he could reasonably offer. Corrente let the question hang for a moment or two before continuing in his calmest, most threatening voice: ‘Are you planning a rebellion in the Peninsula, Cardinal Sandini?’
‘Of course not!’ Having been forced to stop his tirade and briefly consider his behaviour, the man began to realise that his indiscretion had put him in a position of disadvantage. Corrente shot home his point.
‘Good. May I remind you that this mission wasn’t instigated by mere Cardinals - it was authorised by His Holiness himself. ' The two men were face to face now – their nose tips barely a hand’s span apart. Sandini was duly apologetic.
'You know that’s not what I meant,' he said quietly.
'I can see no other interpretation. It's one thing to insult your brother Cardinals - I consider it quite another to insult His Holiness.' Corrente paused for a moment in order to emphasise the threat implicit in his next words. 'It's tantamount to heresy.' The room was silent, as if the word itself had struck them all dumb. Sandini realised that he was in a dangerous situation. Whilst they all knew that the aspersions that had been cast had been directed at Clement, to put the claim categorically into words would be to invite swift retribution. In the eyes of all Italians, it was just the sort of excuse the Pope was looking for. Dismiss another Italian Cardinal and appoint a Frenchman in his place. From their perspective, his goal seemed to be to make the entire Papal Court French by stealth. Sandini became contrite.
'Please forgive my outburst. I’m concerned by the arrest of Bishop Guichard, that’s all.' Sandini's apology was unconvincing, but he had been put in his place - as Corrente had intended. The latter turned his back and returned to his chair. When he’d made himself comfortable, he asked;
'Now, tell us what’s brought this on.' There was another charged silence, before Sandini finally repeated his question.
'Why was the Bishop’s staff dismissed without my knowledge?'
'Not all – there are four left to continue with the work that must be done, whether there’s an incumbent Bishop or not,' replied Corrente.
'Four? Which four?' Sandini asked anxiously. Corrente was more intrigued than ever. Who was this man concerned about and why? He was sure that it had nothing to do with feeling left out.
'The gardener, the cook, the estates manager, and the legal adviser,' said Corrente, watching closely for Sandini’s reaction to the names. He couldn’t tell which of the individuals had caused his colleague such concern, but there was no doubting the relief on his face.
'Nevertheless, my question remains. Why were the rest dismissed without consultation?' It was obvious that Sandini was no longer interested, but was only persisting with his questions in order to disguise his true concern.
'As we suspect a spy in the household, it was felt that it would be more appropriate for a new Bishop to appoint his own staff,' said Corrente. 'Unfortunately, there are some who are indispensable for the moment. They can be replaced in due course if necessary.'
'Then you’ve given up on Guichard,' said Sandini contemptuously. 'It’s just as I thought!'
'Not at all.'
'But you just said yourself that you’re clearing out his staff ready for his successor.'
'Bishop Guichard's staff will be re-appointed if he returns – and if he wishes to re-employ them.'
'That still doesn’t explain why you took the action without conferring with me.' Corrente went back to tapping his chin. He was tiring of this nonsense.
'I had no need to confer on this matter with any of you. It was a directive from the Pope before we left.' For a moment it looked like Sandini was going to continue his argument. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it. He shook his head in exasperation, spun angrily on his heal, and stormed out of the chamber – slamming the door furiously behind him. The two remaining Cardinals stared after him, before turning to each other.
'What was that all about?' asked Tours quietly.
'He just feels insulted that I acted without his permission,' said Corrente.
'Do you think the matter is over?'
'Yes. I think he was satisfied with my response,' said Corrente, choosing his words carefully.
'Well, I think the man will be a nuisance until our task here is finished,' said Tours, heading for the door. 'And I think it was a mistake involving him in such a delicate matter,' he added disapprovingly as he left.
Left to himself, Bernard Corrente tried to piece together the events he had just witnessed. Why was Sandini so concerned about the Palace staff? He must have had a vested interest in one of them - but which one, and what was the nature of that interest? And what kind of hold did he have over Tours that he could quell him with a simple threat? The situation here was awkward enough without this brawling between themselves. With these added complexities, it promised to be a long, hard job ahead.
Tours' footsteps echoed noisily on the flagstones as he crossed the Palace courtyard, deep in thought.
He should have anticipated this. Sandini was renowned for using privileged knowledge to his own advantage, and Tours was sure he hadn't seen the last example of it. He took a seat in the feeble sunshine, pondering over their recent altercation. He watched the grooms (from their own entourage, not the Bishop's) in the stable across the courtyard as they fed and brushed the horses, a worried frown on his brow. After a moment or two, he became aware of a figure standing by the open window opposite looking down at him. When he looked more closely, the figure was gone – but there was no doubt in his mind who it had been.
Was it just his imagination, or were there enemies in every corner of this cursed place? As if reflecting his mood, the courtyard was suddenly cast into shadow as a dark, ominous cloud momentarily obliterated the sun.
Matteo Sandini sat nervously in his apartment, conflicting emotions whirling through his mind. Part of him was concerned that he had let his temper get the better of him and had come close to exposing his secret, and part of him was genuinely angry at being marginalised by the Frenchmen. In some ways he wished that he hadn’t agreed to be part of this delegation – the token Italian that gave legitimacy to the enterprise. Although - in actual fact - he knew perfectly well why he’d come. And if his expectations were realised, nothing would make him regret it.
He dreamt of a time when the Papacy was back in Rome, and these upstart Frenchmen were put firmly in their places. Retribution would be swift and thorough – and if the current Pope stood in the way, well…they’d just have to elect a new Pope, wouldn’t they? One that was more in awe of God than of puny, temporal powers – even if that power was the King of France.
After savouring the anticipation of that day, his mind wandered carefully over what he’d said in front of the other Cardinals. He was almost sure that they couldn’t have guessed his secret, but his behaviour certainly might be construed as suspect – to an astute observer. He would have to be a lot more careful in the future – keep his emotions in check. Particularly if his plans began to bear fruit. Perhaps it would be safest if he sought a little medical assistance to ensure that he kept a level head? It had worked well in the past, after all, and he’d be foolish under the current circumstances to leave anything to chance. But he wasn’t going to leave such an errand to one of their stupid French servants – the Lord only knew what he’d end up with!
Chapter 5
Antoine Reynard stepped back from the window, a smile on his face. Through the doorway to his right, he caught Thomas Garonde looking curiously at him from behind his desk.
'Have you seen something funny?' he asked. Reynard shrugged and his smile broadened – changing character slightly from mischief to amusement. He shuffled awkwardly into the other’s chamber.
'The Cardinals don’t appear to be very happy.' Garonde had already lost interest and had returned to his work. The management of the Bishopric’s estates was one of the activities that didn’t stop with the vacancy of the Office. 'I hope they patch up their differences soon,' continued Reynard.
'What does it matter to us?' asked his colleague without looking up.
'Until they stop arguing amongst themselves, they won’t be able to clear our Bishop’s name and secure his release.' Garonde dropped his quill and looked up. In his opinion, Reynard was nothing but an utter fool. How was it that he could so effectively fulfil the role of Bishop’s adviser on civil law?