The Accursed Kings Series Books 1-3: The Iron King, The Strangled Queen, The Poisoned Crown

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE night two horsemen rode away from the Castle of Maubuisson. They were Robert of Artois and his faithful, inseparable Lormet, who was at once servant, squire, travelling companion, confidant and general factotum.

Since the day that Artois had selected him from among his peasants at Conches and attached him to his own person, Lormet had become, so to speak, his perpetual shadow. It was a marvel to see how anxiously this fat little man, already grey-haired but still hale and hearty, attended his young giant of a master on all occasions, closely following him in order to protect him. His cunning was as great and effective as his devotion. It was he who had pretended to be the ferryman for the brothers Aunay on the night of the trap.

Dawn was breaking as the two horsemen reached the gates of Paris. They put their smoking horses into a walk and Lormet yawned a dozen times or so. At over fifty, he was still able to stand long journeys on horseback better than any young equerry, but he was inclined to suffer from lack of sleep.

In the Place de Grève they came upon the usual assembly of workmen in search of jobs. Foremen of the King’s workshops and employers of lightermen moved among the various groups and hired assistants, dockers, and porters. Robert of Artois crossed the Place and turned into the rue Mauconseil where lived his aunt, Mahaut of Artois, Countess of Burgundy.

‘Listen, Lormet,’ said the giant, ‘I want this fat bitch to hear from me the extent of her disaster. Here begins one of the greatest and happiest days of my life. No beautiful girl in love with me could give me greater pleasure to see than the hideous phiz of my aunt when she hears what I have to tell her about the happenings at Maubuisson. And I want her to come to Pontoise and accelerate her own ruin by braying to the King; I hope she dies of vexation.’

Lormet yawned hugely.

‘She’ll die all right, Monseigneur; she’ll die, you can be certain of that; you’re doing everything you can to bring it about,’ he said.

They came to the splendid town-house of the Counts of Artois.

‘To think that it was my grandfather who built it; to think that it is I who should be living here!’ Robert went on.

‘You’ll live here, Monseigneur; you’ll live here all right.’

‘And I’ll make you doorkeeper with a hundred pounds a year.’

‘Thank you, Monseigneur,’ replied Lormet as if he had already acquired that high position and had the money in his pocket.

Artois leapt from his percheron, threw the bridle to Lormet and, seizing the knocker, banged it hard enough to break down the door.

The noise echoed from top to bottom of the house. The wicket-gate opened and a huge guard came out, wide awake and carrying in his hand a cudgel heavy enough to fell an ox.

‘Who goes there?’ demanded the servant, indignant at the row.

But Robert of Artois pushed past him and entered the house. There were plenty of people in the corridors and upon the staircase; a dozen valets and housemaids doing the morning cleaning. There was anxiety upon every face. Robert, creating disorder in his wake, went up to the first floor, to Mahaut’s apartments, and cried ‘hullo’ loud enough to make a row of horses rear.

A terrified servant ran up, a pail in his hand.

‘Where’s my aunt, Picard? I must see my aunt at once.’

Picard, his head bald and square, put down his pail and replied, ‘She’s having breakfast, Monseigneur.’

‘Well, I don’t care! Tell her I’m here and hurry up about it!’

Having organised his face into an expression of dolour and anguish, Robert of Artois, making the floor tremble beneath the weight of his feet, followed the servant to Mahaut’s room.

The Countess Mahaut of Artois, Regent of Burgundy and Peer of France, was a strong woman of fifty, solid, massive, strong-limbed. Under a covering of fat, her face, which had once been beautiful, still preserved an expression of assurance and pride. Her forehead was high, wide and bulging, her hair still largely black. There was too much down on her lip, her mouth was red and her chin heavy.

Everything about the woman was on a large scale, her features, her limbs, her appetite, her anger and her avarice, her ambition and her lust for power. With the energy of a warrior and the tenacity of a lawyer, she moved from Artois to Burgundy, from her Court of Arras to her Court of Dôle, superintending the administration of her two counties, exacting the obedience of her vassals, setting limits to the power of others, and pitilessly destroying her known enemies.

Twelve years of fighting with her nephew had taught her to know him well. Whenever a difficulty arose, whenever the Lords of Artois proved refractory, whenever a town protested against her taxes, she could be certain that Robert was behind them.

‘He is a savage wolf, a big cruel false wolf,’ she said when speaking of him. ‘But I am more intelligent, and he will end by destroying himself through going too far.’

They had hardly been on speaking terms for many months and never saw each other except by necessity at Court.

That morning, sitting at a little table set at the foot of her bed, she was eating slice after slice of a pâté of hare, the first course of her breakfast.

As Robert took care to feign distress and emotion, she for her part assumed a natural and casual manner when she saw him come in.

‘Well, you’re bright and early, Nephew,’ she said, showing no surprise. ‘You come rushing in like the wind! What’s all the hurry about?’

‘Aunt, Aunt,’ cried Robert, ‘all is lost!’

Without changing position, Mahaut calmly drank off a full tankard of ruby-coloured Artois wine. It came from her own lands and she preferred it to all others to start the day with.

‘What have you lost, Robert? Another lawsuit?’ she asked.

‘I swear to you, Aunt, that this is no moment for bickering. The disaster that has come upon our family is very far from being a joke.’

‘What disaster for one of us could possibly be a disaster for the other?’ said Mahaut with calm cynicism.

‘Aunt, the King holds us in the hollow of his hand.’

Some slight anxiety showed in Mahaut’s expression. She was wondering what trap had been set for her, what this preamble could mean.

With a gesture he knew well, she turned back her sleeves over her forearms. Then she banged the table with her hand and called, ‘Thierry!’

‘Aunt, I cannot possibly talk before anyone but you,’ cried Robert. ‘What I have learnt touches our honour.’

‘Nonsense! You can say anything before my Chancellor.’

She was suspicious and wanted to have a witness.

For a short moment they measured each other with their eyes, she all attention, he delighting in the comedy. ‘Call in everyone,’ he thought. ‘Call them all in, and let them all hear.’

It was a singular sight to see these two taking each other’s measure, to watch these two people with so many natural characteristics in common, these two cattle of the same blood, resembling each other so much, hating each other so well, come face to face.

The door opened, and Thierry d’Hirson came in. An ex-Canon of Arras Cathedral, Mahaut’s Chancellor for the administration of Artois, and perhaps something in love with the Countess, this chubby little man with his round face and white pointed nose gave a surprising impression of assurance and authority. He had curiously thin lips, and great cruelty showed in his eyes. He believed in cunning, intelligence and tenacity.

He bowed to Robert of Artois.

‘A visit from you is rare, Monseigneur,’ he said.

‘It appears that my nephew has a grave disaster to inform me of,’ said Mahaut.

‘Alas!’ said Robert, sinking into a chair.

He took his time; Mahaut began to betray some impatience.

‘We have had our differences, Aunt,’ he said.

‘More than that, nephew; horrible quarrels which have ended ill for you.’