‘SINS OF THE FLESH? Naturally, since you’re a man. Sins of gluttony? One has only to look at you; you’re fat. Sins of pride? You’re a great lord. But your very position obliges you to be attentive to your devotions; so you confess all these sins, which are the common basis of human nature, and are regularly absolved of them before you approach the Holy Table.’
It was a strange confession in which the Vicar of Christ both asked the questions and answered them. From time to time his whispering voice was drowned by the cries of birds, for the Pope kept a chained parrot in his room and there were parakeets, canaries, and those little red birds from the islands, called cardinals, fluttering about in an aviary.
The floor of the room was of painted squares on which had been laid Spanish rugs. The walls and the chairs were covered in green; the bed-hangings and the curtains at the windows were of green linen. And against this leafy, woodland colour, the birds showed up bright as flowers.25 In a corner was a bathroom with a marble bath. Next door was the wardrobe, where huge cupboards contained white habits, red capes and embroidered robes, and beyond that again was the study.
As fat Bouville entered the room, he had made to kneel, but the Holy Father had put him into one of the green chairs near himself. Indeed, no penitent could have been treated with greater consideration. Philip the Fair’s ex-Chamberlain was at once surprised and relieved for, great dignitary that he was, he had feared having to make a real confession, and to the Sovereign Pontiff, of all the dust, the dross, the mean desires and the nasty actions of a life, of all the dregs that fall to the bottom of the soul through the days and the years. But the Holy Father seemed to consider these kinds of sins to be trifles or, at least, to be within the competence of humbler priests than himself. But on leaving the table, Bouville had not noticed the glances exchanged between Cardinal Gaucelin Duèze, Cardinal du Pouget and Jacques Fournier, the ‘White Cardinal’. They were well acquainted with this particular stratagem of Pope John, the post-prandial confession, which he used so as to be able to talk in real privacy to an important guest, and by which he gained knowledge of many state secrets. Who could resist this sudden offer, as flattering as it was terrifying? Everything – surprise, religious awe and the beginnings of the digestive process – was calculated to break down intellectual resistance.
‘All that matters,’ went on the Pope, ‘is that a man should have behaved well in that particular station to which God has called him in this world, and it is in this matter that his sins are visited on him most severely. You, my son, have been chamberlain to a king and entrusted with most important missions under three others. Have you always been truly conscientious in the performance of your duties and responsibilities?’
‘I think, Father, Most Holy Father I mean, that I have performed my tasks with zeal, and have been to the best of my ability a loyal servant to my suzerains …’
He broke off, realizing suddenly that he was hardly there to utter his own eulogy. Changing his tone, he went on: ‘I must accuse myself of having failed in certain missions in which I might have succeeded. The fact is, Most Holy Father, I have not always been clever enough, and I have sometimes realized, only when it was too late, that I have made mistakes.’
‘It is no sin to be a little slow-witted. It can happen to us all and, indeed, is the precise opposite of malice prepense. But have you committed on the occasion of your missions, or because of your missions, such grave sins as homicide, or bearing false witness?’
Bouville shook his head in denial.
But the little grey eyes, lacking both eyelashes and eyebrows, gazed luminously and fixedly at Bouville out of that wrinkled face.
‘Are you quite certain? Here, my dear son, is the opportunity for the complete purification of your soul! You have never borne false witness – never?’ asked the Pope.
Again Bouville felt ill at ease. What lay behind this persistence? The parrot uttered a raucous cry from its perch, and Bouville started.
‘Indeed, Most Holy Father, there is one thing weighing on my mind, though I do not really know whether it is a sin, nor which sin’s name to give it. I have not myself committed homicide, I swear it, but I was unable once to prevent it. And, afterwards, I was compelled to bear false witness; but I could not act otherwise.’
‘Tell me about it, Bouville,’ said the Pope.
But it was now the Pope’s turn to adopt a more suitable tone: ‘Confess to me this secret that weighs on you so much, my dear son.’
‘It certainly does weigh on me,’ Bouville said, ‘and even more so since the death of my dear wife Marguerite, with whom I shared it. I often think that, should I die, without having entrusted it to anyone …’
Tears suddenly sprang to his eyes.
‘Why have I never thought of confiding it to you before, Most Holy Father? As I was saying, I am often slow-witted. It was after the death of King Louis X, the eldest son of my master, Philip the Fair …’
Bouville glanced at the Pope and already felt comforted. At last he was going to be able to discharge his conscience of the burden it had borne for eight years. It had undoubtedly been the worst moment of his life and remorse still lay heavily on his mind. Of course, he must confess the whole thing to the Pope!
And now Bouville began to talk more easily. He recounted how, having been appointed the Curator of Queen Clémence’s stomach after the death of her husband, Louis Hutin, he had feared that the Countess Mahaut of Artois would make an attempt on the lives both of the Queen and the child she was carrying. It was at the time when Monseigneur Philippe of Poitiers, the late King’s brother, was manoeuvring for the Regency against the Count of Valois and the Duke of Burgundy.
At the recollection, John XXII raised his eyes to the painted beams of the ceiling, and his thin face looked thoughtful for a moment. For it was he himself who had announced the death of his brother to Philippe of Poitiers, having learned it from the young Lombard, Baglioni. Oh, the Count of Poitiers had managed things very well, both with regard to the Conclave and the Regency! It had all been arranged that June morning in 1316, at Lyons, in the house of Consul Varay.
So Bouville had feared that the Countess of Artois would commit a crime, another crime, since it was common gossip that she had murdered Louis Hutin by poison. And she had had every reason to hate him, moreover, for he had just confiscated her county. But she had also had very good reason, after his death, to wish for the success of the Count of Poitiers, for she was his mother-in-law. If he became King, she was certain of holding her possessions. The one obstacle in her way was the child the Queen was carrying. The child who was born and was a male.
‘Unhappy Queen Clémence,’ said the Pope.
Mahaut of Artois had arranged to be appointed godmother. In this capacity it was her duty to carry the new little King to the ceremony of presentation to the barons. Bouville had been certain, as had Madame de Bouville, that if the terrible Mahaut intended committing a crime, she would do so without hesitation during the ceremony, for it was the only occasion she would have of carrying the child in her arms. Bouville and his wife had therefore decided to hide the royal infant during those hours, and to substitute for him the wet-nurse’s son, who was but a few days older. Under the state swaddling clothes, no one would notice the substitution, for no one had as yet seen Queen Clémence’s child, not even herself, for she was suffering from a serious fever and almost at the point of death.
‘And indeed,’ said Bouville, ‘Countess Mahaut smeared poison over the child’s mouth and nose after I had handed him to her, and he died in convulsions in the presence of the barons. It was this innocent little creature I delivered over to death. And the crime was accomplished so smoothly and so quickly, and I was so perturbed, that it never occurred to me to cry out at once, and in public: “This is a lie!” And then it was too late. How could I explain?’
The Pope was leaning forward a little, his hands clasped over his robe, losing not a word of the story.
‘What happened to the other child, the little King, Bouville? What did you do with him?’
‘He is alive, Most Holy Father, he is alive! My late wife and I confided him to the wet-nurse. And, indeed, we had considerable difficulty. The unfortunate woman hated us both, as you can well imagine, and was groaning in her anguish. With mingled threats and appeals we made her swear on the Gospel to look after the little King as if he were her own child, and never to reveal what had happened to anyone at all, even in the confessional.’
‘Oh, oh,’ murmured the Holy Father.
‘And so little King John, the real King of France, is being brought up in a manor in the Île-de-France, without his or anyone else’s knowing who he really is, apart from the woman who passes for his mother and myself.’
‘And who is this woman?’
‘She is Marie de Cressay, the woman the young Lombard, Guccio Baglioni, was in love with.’
Everything was now clear to the Holy Father.
‘And does Baglioni know nothing about it?’
‘Nothing, I’m sure of it, Most Holy Father. For the Cressay woman refused ever to see him again, as we had ordered her, so as to keep her oath. Besides, it all happened very quickly, and the boy set out at once for Italy. He thinks his son is still alive. He gets news of him from time to time through his uncle, the banker Tolomei.’
‘But why, Bouville, since you had proof of the crime, and it should have been easy enough to bring it home to her, did you not denounce the Countess Mahaut? When I think,’ added Pope John, ‘that she was sending her chancellor to me, at that very time, to try to persuade me to support her cause against her nephew Robert …’
It suddenly occurred to the Pope that Robert of Artois, the rowdy giant, the sower of discord, the assassin even – for it seemed more than likely he had had a hand in the murder of Marguerite of Burgundy at Château Gaillard – Robert of Artois, the great baron of France, the black sheep, was nevertheless more worthy perhaps, when all was said and done, than his cruel aunt, and that he possibly had some right on his side in his fight against her. What a world of wolves these sovereign courts were. It was the same in every kingdom. And was it to govern, to pacify and to direct this sort of flock that God had inspired him, a poor little burgess of Cahors, with the great ambition of attaining to the tiara which, indeed, he now wore and sometimes felt to be a trifle heavy?
‘I kept silent, Most Holy Father,’ Bouville went on, ‘largely on the advice of my late wife. As I had let the opportune moment of confounding the murderess go by, my late wife pointed out with some truth that, if we revealed what had happened, Mahaut would turn furiously on the little King and on us too. Therefore, if we wanted to save him, and ourselves as well, we had to let her believe her crime had been successful. I therefore took the wet-nurse’s child to the Abbey of Saint-Denis that he might be buried among the kings.’
The Pope was thinking.
‘Therefore, the accusations made against Madame Mahaut in the lawsuit that took place the next year were well-founded?’ he asked.
‘Indeed they were, Most Holy Father, indeed they were. Monseigneur Robert was able, through his cousin, Messire Jean de Fiennes, to lay his hands on a poisoner, a sorceress, named Isabelle de Férienne, who had given to a lady-in-waiting of Countess Mahaut the poison she used to kill first King Louis, then the child who was presented to the barons. This Isabelle de Férienne, together with her son Jean, was brought to Paris to give evidence against Mahaut, You can imagine how this suited Monseigneur Robert’s book! Their depositions were taken, and it clearly appeared that they had supplied the Countess, for they had previously given her the philtre by which she boasted of having reconciled her daughter Jeanne to her son-in-law, the Count of Poitiers.’
‘Magic and sorcery! You could have had the Countess burnt,’ whispered the Pope.
‘But not at that time, Most Holy Father, not at that time. For the Count of Poitiers had become King and was giving Madame Mahaut such protection that, in my heart of hearts, I am sure he had been her accomplice, at least in the second crime.’
The Pope’s narrow face seemed to crumple even more beneath his furred skull-cap. These last words had pained him. For he had been fond of King Philippe V, to whom he owed his tiara, and with whom he had always been in perfect accord over all state matters.
‘But God’s punishment fell on them both,’ Bouville went on, ‘for within a year they had both lost their sole male heir. The Countess’s only son died at the age of seventeen. And young King Philippe lost his at only a few months old, and he never had another. But the Countess put up a clever defence against the accusations brought against her. She pleaded the irregularity of the procedure before Parliament; and the disqualification of her accusers, for, she maintained, her rank as a peer of France rendered her liable to be tried only by the Chamber of Barons. However, to establish her innocence, so she said, she besought her son-in-law – it was a fine scene of public hypocrisy – to have the inquiry continued so as to give her the opportunity of confounding her enemies. The Férienne sorceress and her son were heard again, but after being put to the question. They were in no very good state, and were covered in blood. They retracted completely, declared that their earlier accusations were lies and maintained that they had been persuaded to bring them by favours, prayers, promises and also by violence to their persons, instigated, according to the records of the Clerk of the Court, by a person whose name should not at present be mentioned; which was equivalent to naming Monseigneur Robert of Artois. Then King Philippe the Long sat in the seat of justice himself and made all his family and relations and all the intimates of his late brother appear before him: the Count of Valois, the Count of Évreux, Monseigneur of Bourbon, Monseigneur Gaucher, the Constable, Monseigneur de Beaumont, the Master of the Household, and Queen Clémence herself, asking them on their oath whether they knew or believed that King Louis and his son, Jean, had died any but a natural death. Since no proof could be produced, the hearing was being held in public, and the Countess Mahaut was sitting beside the King, everyone declared, though in many cases against their private convictions, that these deaths had been due to natural causes.’
‘But, no doubt, you were summoned to appear yourself?’
Fat Bouville hung his head.
‘I bore false witness, Most Holy Father,’ he said. ‘But what else could I do when the whole Court, the peers, the King’s uncles, the privy servants, and the widowed Queen herself all certified Madame Mahaut’s innocence on oath? I should then have been accused of lying and perjury; and I should have been sent to swing at Montfaucon.’
He seemed so unhappy, so cast down, so sad, that one could suddenly see in that plump and fleshy face the features of the little boy he had been half a century before. The Pope was moved to compassion.
‘Calm yourself, Bouville,’ he said, leaning towards him and putting his hand on his shoulder. ‘And don’t reproach yourself with having done wrong. God set you a problem that was a little heavy for you. I will take your secret on myself. Only the future can tell whether you did the right thing. You wanted to save a life that had been confided to you as part of the responsibilities of your position, and you saved it. You might have endangered many other lives had you spoken.’
‘Oh, Most Holy Father, indeed I feel much calmer now,’ said the ex-Chamberlain. ‘But what will happen to the little hidden King? What should be done about him?’
‘Wait and do nothing. I’ll think about it and let you know. Go in peace, Bouville. As for Monseigneur of Valois, he can have his hundred thousand livres, but not a florin more. And let him stop bothering me about his crusade, and come to an agreement with England.’
Bouville knelt, raised the Pope’s hand effusively to his lips, got to his feet, and backed towards the door, since it appeared the audience was over.
The Pope recalled him with a gesture.
‘Bouville, what about your absolution? Don’t you want it?’
A moment later Pope John was alone and walking up and down his study with little tripping steps. The wind from the Rhône was blowing under the doors and wailing through the fine new palace. The parakeets were chirping in the aviary. The embers in the brazier in the corner of the room had turned dull. John XXII was confronted with one of the most difficult problems he had known since his election. The real King of France was an unknown child, hidden away in the courtyard of a manor. Only two people in the world, or three now, knew of it. Fear prevented the two first from talking. And now that he himself knew, what was he to do about it, when two kings had already succeeded to the throne of France, two kings duly crowned and anointed with the holy oil, thought they were in fact nothing but usurpers? Oh, yes indeed, it was a grave matter, nearly as grave as the excommunication of the Emperor of Germany. What should he do? Reveal the whole affair? It would throw France and, in her wake, a great part of Europe into the most appalling dynastic turmoil. Once again, here were the seeds of war.
There was also another consideration that decided him to keep silent, and it had to do with the memory of King Philippe the Long. Yes, John XXII had been very fond of that young man, and had helped him as much as he could. Indeed, he had been the only sovereign he had ever admired or to whom he was grateful. To tarnish his memory was to tarnish John XXII at the same time; for, without Philippe the Long, would he ever have become Pope? And now dear Philippe was revealed to have been a criminal, or at least the accomplice of a criminal. But was it for Pope John, for Jacques Duèze, to throw the first stone? Did he not owe both his hat and his tiara to the grossest frauds? And suppose, to assure his election, he had had to allow a murder to be committed?
‘Lord, Lord, I thank Thee for having spared me that temptation. But am I worthy of being charged with the care of Thy creatures? And suppose the wet-nurse talked one day, what would happen then? Could one ever trust a woman’s tongue? Lord, it would be merciful, if Thou wouldst sometimes enlighten me! I have given Bouville absolution, but the penance is for me.’
He collapsed on to the green cushion of his prie-dieu and remained there a long time, his face hidden in his hands.