Maurice Druon - The Poisoned Crown

It was, of course, true that the young King of France, Louis X, was reputed to be neither particularly handsome of face nor pleasant of character.

‘But what does that matter? My husband, upon whom God have mercy, was excessively lame, but I succeeded, without much difficulty, in reconciling myself to the fact,’ thought Marie of Hungary. ‘Moreover, one does not become a queen in order to find happiness.’

People wondered, in covert whispers, that Queen Marguerite should have died in her prison so opportunely, just when King Louis, for the lack of a Pope, was unable to obtain an annulment of his marriage. But need one listen to scandal? Marie of Hungary was little inclined to waste pity upon a woman, particularly upon a Queen, who had betrayed her marriage vows and provided from such an exalted position so reprehensible an example. She saw nothing for surprise in the fact that God’s punishment should so naturally have fallen upon the scandalous Marguerite.

‘My beautiful Clémence will restore virtue to a place of honour in the Court of Paris,’ she told herself.

In a gesture of farewell she made the sign of the Cross upon the window with her grey hand; then, her crown resting upon her silver hair, her chin jerking with a tic, her walk stiff but still firm, she retired to her chapel to thank the Lord for having helped her to the accomplishment of her long royal mission and to offer up to God the deep unhappiness of all women who have come to the end of their earthly task.

In the meantime, the San Giovanni , the great ship with a round hull entirely painted in white and gold and flying from her mast and yards the pennants of Anjou, Hungary, and France, was beginning to tack away from the shore. The captain and his crew had sworn upon the Bible to defend their passengers against storm, Barbary pirates, and all the perils of the sea. The statue of Saint John the Baptist, the patron of the ship, shone in the sun upon the prow. In the fore- and after-castles, half as high as the masts, a hundred men-at-arms, look-outs, archers, and slingers were at their posts to repel the attacks of pirates. The holds were overflowing with provisions, and the sand of the ballast had been filled with amphorae containing oil, flagons of wine, and fresh eggs. The giant iron-bound chests, holding the silk robes, the jewels, the gold plate, and all the princess’s wedding presents, were stacked against the bulkhead of the saloon, a vast compartment between the mainmast and the poop where, among oriental carpets, the gentlemen and equerries were to be lodged.

The Neapolitans crowded upon the quays to watch the departure of what appeared to them a ship of good omen. Women held up their children at arms’ length. Through the loud murmur rising from the crowd were to be heard shouts, uttered with the noisy good nature with which the populace of Naples has always treated its idols:

‘Guardi com’ è bella!’

‘Addio, Donna Clemenza! Sia felice!’

‘Dio la benedica, nostra principessa!’

‘Non si dimentichi di noi!’ fn3

For Donna Clemenza personified a sort of legend to the Neapolitans. They remembered her father, the handsome Carlo Martelo, the friend of poets and in particular of the divine Dante, a learned prince, as good a musician as he was valiant in arms, who travelled the peninsula, followed by two hundred French, Provençal, and Italian gentlemen, all dressed, as he was himself, half in scarlet and half in green, their horses caparisoned in silver and gold. It was said of him that he was a true son of Venus, for he possessed ‘the five gifts that incite to love and which are health, beauty, wealth, leisure, and youth’. They had looked forward to his becoming king; but he had died of the plague at twenty-four and his wife, a princess of Hapsburg, had expired upon hearing the news, an event which had struck the popular imagination.

Naples had transferred its affection to Clémence who, as she grew up, had developed a likeness to her father. The royal orphan was adored in the poor quarters of the town to which she went to distribute charity; she was invariably affected by distress. Her face inspired the painters of the school of Giotto in their representations of the Virgin and the saints in their frescoes; and to this day travellers who visit the churches of Campania and Apulia may admire upon the walls of the sanctuaries the golden hair, the clear gentle eyes, the grace of the slightly curving neck, the long slender hands, without knowing that it is the portrait of the beautiful Clémence of Hungary.

Upon the crenellated deck which covered the after-castle, some thirty feet above the waves, the fiancée of the King of France gazed for the last time upon the land of her childhood, upon the old Castell’Ovo in which she had been born, upon Castelnuovo where she had grown up, upon the swarming crowd who threw her kisses, upon the whole lively, wonderful, dusty scene.

‘Thank you, Madam my Grandmother,’ she thought, her eyes raised to the window from which the figure of Marie of Hungary had just disappeared. ‘I shall doubtless never see you again. Thank you for all you have done for me. Having reached the age of twenty-two, I was in despair at not having yet found a husband; I thought that I should never find one and that I should have to enter a convent. It was you who were right to counsel patience. And now I am to be queen of that great kingdom which is watered by four rivers, and lapped by three seas. My cousin the King of England, my aunt of Majorca, my kinsman of Bohemia, my sister the Crown Princess of Vienna, and even my uncle Robert, who reigns here and whose subject I was till today, will become my vassals for the lands they have in France, or the links they have with that crown. But will it not be too heavy for me?’

She was experiencing at one and the same time joy and exaltation, fear of the unknown and that peculiar disquiet which comes upon the spirit at an irrevocable change of destiny, even when it surpasses every dream.

‘Your people are showing how much they love you, Madam,’ said a fat man standing beside her. ‘But I wager that the people of France will soon love you as much, and merely upon seeing you will welcome you as demonstratively as these are bidding you farewell.’

‘Oh, you will always be my friend, Messire de Bouville,’ Clémence replied warmly.

She felt the need of spreading her happiness around her and of thanking everyone.

The Comte de Bouville, once chamberlain to Philip the Fair and King Louis X’s envoy, had come to Naples on a first visit during the winter to ask for her hand; he had returned two weeks ago to fetch the Princess and conduct her to Paris now that the marriage could be celebrated.

‘And you too, Signor Baglioni, you are also my friend,’ she added, turning towards the young Tuscan who acted as secretary to Bouville and controlled the expedition’s finances, which had been lent by the Italian banks in Paris. The young man acknowledged the compliment with a bow.

Indeed, everyone was happy that morning. Fat Bouville, sweating a little in the June heat and throwing his black-and-white locks back behind his ears, felt confident and proud at having succeeded so well in his mission and at conducting so splendid a wife to his king.

Guccio Baglioni was dreaming of the fair Marie de Cressay, his secret fiancée, for whom he was taking home a whole chest of silks and embroideries. He was uncertain whether he had been right to ask for the Neauphle-le-Vieux branch of the bank from his uncle. Should he content himself with so small an establishment?

‘But it’s only a start; I shall easily be able to change it for another post, and besides I shall spend most of my time in Paris.’ Assured of the protection of his new sovereign, he set no limits to his ambition; he already saw Marie as lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and himself becoming Grand Pantler or Grand Treasurer within a few months. Enguerrand de Marigny had started with no greater advantages. Of course he had come to a pretty bad end. But then he was no Lombard.