Paul Doherty - The Magician

The Royal Palace at Poissy: Feast of St Barnabas the Apostle, June 1303

Philip IV of France, nicknamed ‘Le Bel’, knelt on the prie-dieu in the small royal chapel overlooking the fountain in the courtyard of the Palace of Poissy. Philip loved this little church, with its exquisitely tiled floor of black, white and red lozenges, the cushioned oak prie-dieu, the splendid tapestries depicting the exploits of his great predecessor, the Capetian Louis IX, now St Louis, proclaimed so by the Universal Church. Philip knelt before a statue to his glorious ancestor and stared up at the saintly carved face, studying it carefully. He would have words with the sculptor. He wanted Louis’ face to look like his own; that was not blasphemy, for wasn’t Philip a direct descendant? Didn’t the same sacred Capetian blood flow in his veins?

Philip knelt immobile. Despite the warmth, he had a fur-lined blue cloak embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis about his shoulders. His light blond hair, parted down the middle, fell below his ears; his moustache and beard of the same colour were precisely clipped; the light blue eyes which so many of his subjects found terrifying in their gaze moved now and again, distracted by the flames of the countless tapers and candles which surrounded this statue. The memorial to St Louis stood on the left side of the chapel altar in a chantry specially built according to Philip’s precise instructions. This was the place Philip would retreat to to give thanks to God, whom he regarded as an equal, as well as to talk to his sainted ancestor, whom he viewed as his envoy at the heavenly court.

Philip joined his hands, fingers raised heavenwards. He had so much to thank St Louis for, and putting aside his usual icy demeanour, he leaned across and kissed the base of the statue. Philip had nourished dreams, and these dreams, thanks to the intervention of St Louis, were to become a reality. He had married his sons to the daughters of the three great dukes in his kingdom, ensuring that provinces such as Burgundy would be brought firmly under Capetian rule. The only obstacle had been the wine-rich duchy of Gascony in the south-west, controlled and owned by Edward of England. Philip allowed himself a smile, for that too was changing. Philip had threatened Edward with outright war, exploiting the English king’s troubles in his campaign against the Scots. Oh, success tasted so sweet! Last month, by the Treaty of Paris, Edward of England had been forced to concede that in the matter of Gascony, Philip of France was his overlord. Edward had also solemnly sworn that the Prince of Wales would marry Philip’s only daughter, the infant Isabella, she of the light blue eyes and golden hair, a true daughter of her father.

Philip looked up in rapture at the carved face of his ancestor. ‘One day,’ he whispered, ‘my grandson will wear the crown of the Confessor, my daughter will be Queen of England and her second son will be Duke of Gascony.’ Philip could have hugged himself. He had finished what this great saint had begun; he would give France natural boundaries, the great mountain range to the south and the wild seas to the north and west. The Low Countries would become his clients and the power of France would be felt as far east as the Rhine. Philip’s smile faded at the cough behind him. He crossed himself slowly and rose elegantly from the prie-dieu. Taking the silk gloves from his belt, he put them on as he stared at Monsieur Amaury de Craon, Keeper of the King’s Secrets.

‘Your Grace asked to see me?’ De Craon did not like the harsh look on his master’s face.

‘Amaury, Amaury.’ Philip’s face broke into a smile, and striding across, he grasped de Craon’s face between his hands and squeezed tightly. ‘We have matters to discuss, Amaury.’ He led this red-haired, most secretive of councillors over to a small bench halfway down the chapel in a narrow enclave, where he usually met his confessor to whisper his sins and seek absolution. Philip didn’t really believe he needed absolution; after all, God was a king and he would understand. Nevertheless, this was an ideal place to meet and plot where no eavesdropper could lurk or spy take note.

‘Well, Amaury.’ Philip sat down, pulling his robes about him, gesturing for de Craon to sit next to him. ‘I read your memorandum.’ He played with the red tassels on the silken glove. ‘You have insisted,’ he whispered, ‘that I face two problems.’

‘The first, your Grace, is Sir Hugh Corbett.’

‘Is he a problem, Amaury, or the result of your hatred for him?’

‘Your Grace.’ De Craon bowed imperceptibly. ‘You are as astute as always. I hate Corbett for what he represents, for what he leads, that Secret Chancery with its legion of spies.’

‘True, true.’ Philip nodded.

‘And the University of the Sorbonne.’

De Craon kept his head down, but he knew from the long sigh from his master that he had hit a mark.

‘The lawyers,’ Philip hissed. ‘Those men from the gutter who believe my will does not have force of law.’

‘Your Grace, there are measures we can take.’

Philip leaned closer, like a priest listening to a penitent, as there, in that House of God, the French King and his Master of Spies spun their bloody tangled web to draw Edward of England deeper into the mire.

Paris: August 1303

Walter Ufford was good at peering through keyholes. He claimed to have a natural talent for it, and on that Friday, the eve of the Feast of St Monica, the Mother of St Augustine, he was using his talents on behalf of his master, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal of Edward I of England. Ufford was enjoying himself. In fact, when he visited the shriving pew to confess his sins at the beginning of Advent, he would confess to this. Walter Ufford was busy spying on Magister Thibault, Reader in Divinity and Master of the Schools at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris. He glanced quickly up and down the gallery. It was deserted. Only the creak of floorboards and the scampering of vermin echoed along that gloomy passageway. Magister Thibault would not want any distraction; after all, it was his house, a soaring three-storey mansion in the Rue St Veuve, only a walk away from the stinking, turbulent Seine. Ufford strained his ears. From below he could hear the sounds of revelry, the music of the rebec, flute and tambour. The dancing had begun. Those dark-eyed moon girls would be cavorting like Salome, drawing lustful glances and rousing the hot passions of the spectators.

‘There’ll be little schooling done tonight,’ Ufford whispered to himself. He pressed his eye against the keyhole. He was so pleased that Magister Thibault had removed the key. The gap was large and provided Walter with a clear view of the old lecher’s bedchamber, a grand place with its polished floor and woollen rugs, the walls covered in costly drapes. A fire crackled merrily in the mantled hearth, whilst the candles placed around the chamber lit up the tableau taking place on the blue-draped four-poster bed. Magister Thibault, naked as the day he was born, was busy cavorting with Lucienne, fille de joie , one of the best the House of Joy could provide. Ufford groaned quietly to himself. Lucienne was a thing of beauty, with her lustrous red hair and snow-white skin. She had the figure of a Venus and the face of an Aphrodite. He watched in quiet surprise at the agility of this old master of the schools. He could hear his groans of pleasure and Lucienne’s cries of joy.