He thought to himself, for he dared not say it . . .
I know you! You are the Devil!
37
THE LAWYER
And there were stings in their tails.
Revelation 9:10
Paris, November 1309
Guillaume de Plaisians, assistant lawyer to Guillaume Nogaret, walked briskly towards a small room behind the hall of the episcopal palace of Paris and with each step his full mouth affected a deeper smile. He stopped for a moment and in one of the many mirrors that lined the halls he examined his face intensely. The smile of self-contentment, which moved over the fine bones, wrinkling the soft, blue eyes and ending in two dimples on either cheek, had settled upon his face some days ago, with the first hearings of the papal commission, and he did not seem to be able to quench it. He resumed his walk, past guards posted at every door, reflecting on the auspicious evidence of the previous days given by de Melot, his own spy, and Pierre de Sornay of Amiens. Today they would be interrogating the Grand Master and he would be there to see it, whether or not he was a member of the commission. What could prevent him from defying the secrecy of the hearings? After all, he was the King’s lawyer, and a very tenacious man.
He thought of his tenacity. How when he set his sights on Paris, he had managed in so short a time to become the perfect addendum to the circle of royal lawyers so that even Nogaret himself, his former teacher, had been astonished. Right from the start de Plaisians had insinuated himself into Nogaret’s affection, persuading the man that he was, and would remain, a loyal dog. One could always do with a loyal dog in a court full of foxes.
From youth he had known that flattery, diplomacy and persuasion, in the right portions, could get a man anything – in and out of bed. And so it stood to reason that he should be a natural talent for the practice of law. For the soft battles of the boudoir were no less demanding than those he waged in court; they both required a certain cunning, intelligence, an articulate tongue,
impeccable syntax, the ability to understand weaknesses and, of course, a little cruelty.
He looked out to the cold wet day and thought of the warm afternoon ensconced in the round, firm assets of the Queen of Navarre, Marguerite, who was also, as it happened, the young wife of Louis, the King’s eldest son. What a delicious afternoon it had been! He had freed himself with the greatest difficulty from his duties at court and had made his way to the hotel de Nesle feeling a great anticipation since, some days before, he had received a note heavily scented from the queen that had left him in no doubt of her intentions. The message was worded cleverly; to make such a meeting possible she had stated her desire for counsel in her affairs pertaining to the kingdom of Navarre. It would be, she said, a surprise for her dear husband, who thought her uninterested. She was, the note read, eager to be more involved in the running of the kingdom, as she wished, most desperately, to do her duty by her subjects.
She will do her duty, he had thought when entering the sombre tower with its high narrow windows and conical roof, and quite possibly excel at it.
He was ushered to the queen’s apartment by a lady-in-waiting. Along the way he asked the girl concerning her majesty’s health and the girl replied, ‘She is melancholy, monsieur, her heart flutters like a bird’s, and I have tried to cheer her spirits by reading to her. The doctor will call at any mo –’
Guillaume raised a hand to stop the girl. ‘Yes, good.’ He looked at her, plump, firm, not too pretty. ‘What have you been reading to her, mademoiselle?’
‘From a French poet, monsieur, a love poem.’ The girl looked away, flushed.
‘Ahh . . .’ He frowned, feigning displeasure. ‘That is not good, my dear, no more poems of love . . . instead read to her of the martyrs. That would be far more profitable study for a queen.’
The girl curtsied awkwardly and led him to Marguerite’s chamber in silence.
She announced the lawyer, lifted her liquid eyes to him briefly, parting her two lips just so. For a moment he could see the moisture of her tongue against her teeth, and then she left.
He had sensed that she would be his for the choosing . . . the queen and her maid? A smile touched his lips. Perhaps at the same time?
He turned his gaze toward the bedroom and found Marguerite lying in her green-curtained bed beneath a sumptuous red coverlet. The windows permitted a bright cheering autumn light into the large, otherwise drab room, and on the fire a huge log glowed red with embers. She lay motionless with her eyes closed, beautiful without blemish, raven tresses loose about her olive neck, unusually flushed about the face. At sixteen years of age, time had not yet assaulted her delightful, sensual mouth, her pointed chin, her nubile body, plump and delicious. Seeing her this way stirred his appetite and it was all he could do to keep from pouncing on her like a blooded dog.