The Seal(90)

‘Perhaps he has his eye on the Templar fortune, sire?’ de Marigny answered, as bland as custard.

Philip’s ruddy face contorted into a look of hatred. ‘I shall have that eye put out!’ he yelled.

‘Everything now moves too slowly and your Royal Highness wishes it all to end! Is that not why we sent Charles to his chambers that night, to have him bring everything to a close? In return that fat pontiff sends my brother back with a scheme to make it all last till the end of time! Delays and prevarications! Charles is an idiot for not seeing it! And to think he pesters me to make him emperor!’

De Plaisians saw the chamberlain’s face change almost imperceptibly, his eyes became hard and watchful. ‘Sire, I . . . can only wonder if your brother keeps the King’s interests firmly in his heart?’

‘Charles is an opportunist and a fool, Marigny, totally untrustworthy, and blunt of mind!’ The King was suddenly despoiled of temper. ‘But I have always found that one can trust Charles to be Charles, and he has never disappointed me.’

There was a pause. The King observed his own thoughts, and gazed out the window again, as if expecting an answer from the snowflakes that were even now falling over the grounds of his palace.

A sudden draught blew out the candles, and then the lamps flickered and went out, casting the three men into sudden gloom. It was cold.

The King wandered back to his seat and sat down heavily, clicking his fingers. The greyhounds leapt up immediately. ‘Sit!’ he told them, rubbing their chests as attendants rushed in to light the flames. Momentarily a golden light illuminated everything, and yet some darkness was left behind, as though it had gathered strength in that one moment and resisted banishment.

The King turned mercurial. ‘My brother’s sympathies lie where they profit him most – I admire that. He has always resented not having succeeded to the throne, quite naturally. Perhaps the Empire would smooth his feathers. Then we could exert a hold or two over the Church and the Empire. We kill two foxes with one dog, do you see? There are advantages for you also, for you have, it is true, taken his place as my adviser and he is inconsolable. It is no secret that my brother hates you . . .’

He looked at this with fascination. ‘In truth he loathes you! Perhaps, as emperor, he will find his hate diminished?’ There was silence. ‘Perhaps you hate him also?’

De Marigny remained very still. There was a pause rendered more significant by uncertainty. The man reminded de Plaisians of a rat who fears the cat and yet is destined to leap into its mouth. No, no, thought de Plaisians with sudden amusement. That was not it! He was the fattened hen called by the farmer holding a sharpened axe!

‘Sire,’ de Marigny said, ‘I . . . I . . . have the profoundest . . . the most –’

The King waved a hand, bored. ‘Never mind! Hate is a good emotion. Hate and rivalry, they enrich, they blood the hunt, they add vigour to the lungs . . . You see these two?’ He caressed the silky coats of his animals with bejewelled fingers. ‘They are happy now because they are equally loved, but should I caress one and not the other . . .’ He paid particular attention to one dog until the other animal rendered its teeth and growled at his fellow. ‘You see? This rivalry shall make them good hunters, because they shall try to outrun and outwit each other to gain my favour.’ He continued until one jealous dog snapped at the other, drawing blood. ‘Good dog, Prince!’ The King smiled thinly. ‘Attendant! See to it!’

A servant emerged from behind a tapestry and took away the bitten animal.

Philip looked down at his blood-covered hand. He pressed the redness between his fingers, bringing it to his nose to smell it. He tasted it then. ‘Why does blood taste so like metal?’ he asked de Marigny absently.

De Marigny looked about him with helpless agitation, and Guillaume de Plaisians seized his chance. ‘Perhaps there are sub-stances in the blood that resemble metals, sire . . .’

The King’s mouth moved in an odd smile. He clapped his hands, ‘Wine!’ he said, then turned to de Plaisians. ‘Really? Metallic substances? Gold perhaps?’

‘Only in the case of kings, sire,’ said de Plaisians.

Philip Capet raised an eyebrow and turned to his minister with a little less regard than before. ‘Did you know this, Marigny... that there is gold in the blood of kings?’

The minister shook his head. ‘No, sire.’

An attendant brought forth wine.

The King took it and drank. ‘Be sure that you are not weak, Marigny,’ he said. ‘Rather, steel yourself and be ready to bite like Prince for my affections . . . always mindful.’ He smiled and raised a finger in the air. ‘Cave canum, for although my brother is a mangy dog, even such a dog has teeth! But if we hold the Empire in front of his nose like a joint of mutton, then we shall control him and the papacy.’ He changed his mood again and clapped both hands. ‘Is all of it ready?’