BÉHUCHET, an Admiral.
JEAN THE FOOL, a dwarf.
LORDS, PRELATES AND DIGNITARIES OF THE HOUSE OF ENGLAND:
ROGER MORTIMER, eighth Baron Wigmore, first Earl of March, ex-Justiciar of Ireland, the lover of Isabella, the Queen Mother, aged 42.
WILLIAM DE MELTON, Archbishop of York, Primate of England.
HENRY DE BURGHERSH, Bishop of Lincoln, Chancellor and Ambassador.
ADAM ORLETON, formerly Bishop of Hereford, now of Worcester, and later of Winchester, Treasurer and Ambassador.
JOHN, Baron MALTRAVERS, Seneschal of England, aged about 38.
WILLIAM, Baron MONTACUTE, first Earl of SALISBURY, Councillor and Ambassador, later Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports and Marshal of England, aged 27.
GAUTIER DE MAUNY, Equerry to Queen Philippa.
JOHN DAVERILL, Governor of Corfe Castle.
WILLIAM ELAND, Governor of Nottingham Castle.
THE PRINCIPAL LAWYERS AND ACTORS IN THE ARTOIS CASE:
PIERRE DE VILLEBRESME, the Commissioner.
PIERRE TESSON, a notary.
JEANNE DE DIVION, ex-mistress of the late Bishop Thierry d’Hirson.
BEATRICE D’HIRSON, niece of Bishop Thierry, Lady-in-Waiting to the Countess Mahaut of Artois.
GILLET DE NELLE, Valet to Robert of Artois.
MARIE LA BLANCHE, MARIE LA NOIRE and JEANNETTE DESQUESNES, servants of Jeanne de Divion.
PIERRE DE MACHAUT, a witness.
ROBERT ROSSIGNOL, a forger.
MACIOT L’ALLEMANT, a Sergeant-at-Arms.
SIMON DE BUCY, the King’s Attorney.
THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY:
LOUIS V OF BAVARIA.
THE KING OF BOHEMIA:
JOHN OF LUXEMBURG, son of the Emperor Henry VII of Germany.
THE KING OF NAPLES:
ROBERT OF ANJOU-SICILY, called the Astrologer, uncle of King Philippe VI of France.
THE KING OF ARAGON:
ALFONSO IV.
THE KING OF HUNGARY:
LOUIS I, the Great.
THE POPES:
JOHN XXII, formerly Cardinal Jacques DUÈZE, BENEDICT XII (from 1334), formerly Jacques FOURNIER, called the White Cardinal.
JAKOB VAN ARTEVELDE, leader of the Flemish League.
COLA DI RIENZI, Tribune of Rome.
SPINELLO TOLOMEI, a Sienese banker.
JEAN I, THE POSTHUMOUS, called GIANNINO, son of Louis X, the Hutin, and Clémence of Hungary, pretender to the throne of France.
Mahaut, Countess of Artois, was in a very bad temper all the way home.
‘Did you hear what that great fool we’re unlucky enough to have for King said? He expects me to give up Artois, just like that, and merely to please him! The very idea of making that great foul Robert my heir! My hand would wither away before it signed a thing like that! They’ve clearly been accomplices in roguery for a long time past and owe each other a lot! And to think that if it weren’t for my having cleared the path to the throne …’
‘Mother …’ Jeanne murmured in a low voice.
If she had dared to say what she thought and had not been afraid of a savage rebuff, Jeanne would have advised her mother to accept the King’s proposals. But it would have done no good.
‘He’ll never get me to agree to that,’ repeated Mahaut.
Though she did not know it, she had signed her death-warrant; and her executioner was sitting opposite her in the litter, looking at her through her dark lashes.
FROM BOTH SIDES of the river and from every parish in the city, from St Denis, St Cuthbert, St Martin-cum-Gregory, St Mary Senior and St Mary Junior, from the Shambles and from Tanner Row, the people of York had been flowing for the past two hours in a continuous stream towards the huge but still-unfinished Minster that brooded heavily over the city.
The crowd completely blocked the two winding streets of Stonegate and Deangate which led into the yard. Boys, who had found perches above the crowd, could see nothing but a sea of heads covering the whole area. Burgesses, tradesmen, matrons with their numerous broods, cripples on crutches, servants, apprentices, hooded monks, soldiers in shirts of mail and beggars in rags were all crowded as close together as the stalks in a truss of hay. The light-fingered pickpockets were reaping a year’s harvest. Faces filled the upper windows like so many bunches of grapes. The damp, cold, misty twilight that enveloped the great building and the crowd standing in the mud seemed scarcely that of noon. It was as if the gathering was pressing close together for warmth.
It was January 24th, 1328, and, in the presence of William de Melton, Archbishop of York and Primate of England, King Edward III, who was not yet sixteen, was marrying his cousin, Madam Philippa of Hainaut, who was barely more than fourteen.
There was not an empty seat in the cathedral. They had all been reserved for the high dignitaries of the kingdom, members of the upper clergy and Parliament, the five hundred invited knights and the hundred tartan-clad Scottish nobles, who had come south to ratify the Peace Treaty. Soon the solemn mass would be celebrated, sung by a hundred and twenty choristers.
Now, however, the first part of the ceremony, the marriage proper, was taking place outside the south door of the cathedral in view of the people, according to the ancient rite and peculiar custom of the archdiocese of York, as a reminder that marriage was a sacrament between husband and wife, affirmed by mutual vows taken in public, to which the priest was merely a witness.
The mist had stained the red velvet of the canopy over the door with patches of damp, it had condensed on the bishops’ mitres, and had bedraggled the fur about the shoulders of the royal family assembled round the young couple.
‘Here I take thee, Philippa, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, at bed and at board …’1 fn1
Coming from the King’s young lips and beardless face, his voice was surprisingly powerful, clear and vibrantly intense. Isabella, the Queen Mother, was struck by it, and so were Messire Jean of Hainaut,