Louis: The French Prince Who Invaded England (30 page)

Philip Augustus died on 14 July 1223; he was just short of his fifty-eighth birthday and had ruled France for forty-three years, during which time it had grown from a small kingdom precariously sandwiched between the Plantagenet domains and the Holy Roman Empire to become the dominant force in western Europe. Philip’s body was taken in state to Paris, to be buried in full regalia at the abbey of St Denis in the presence of all the assembled bishops and archbishops and, among others, his sons Louis and Philip Hurepel, and John the king of Jerusalem.

The Minstrel of Reims records Philip’s passing quite simply: ‘Death, which spares nobody, neither great nor small, came for him … he confessed and repented of his sins.’ The
Chronicle of Tours
offers a factual yet nonetheless informative assessment of the king and his life:

[He had] an agreeable appearance, well-formed body, cheerful face, a bald pate, ruddy complexion. [He was] given to drink and food, prone to sexual desire, generous to his friends, miserly to his foes, skilled in stratagems, orthodox in belief, solicitous of counsel, holding to his word, a scrupulous and expeditious judge, fortunate in victory, fearful of this life, easily moved, easily assuaged, putting down the wicked of the realm by sowing discord among them, killing no-one in prison, availing himself of counsel of lesser men, bearing grudges only momentarily, subduing the proud, defending the Church, and providing for the poor.

William the Breton, perhaps understandably, gets a bit teary-eyed:

He was a man prudent in his address, strong in courage, great in his actions, of illustrious renown, victorious in combat, distinguished by many and great victories, who augmented marvellously the rights and the power of the kingdom of the French and enriched it considerably … Defender and zealous protector of the Church … most generous distributor of alms to the poor …

He continues in this vein for some while, and then draws his chronicle of the
Deeds of Philip Augustus
to a close, dedicating it to Louis.

For there was a new king in France, a new power in western Europe. As he rose from Philip’s deathbed, as he accompanied his father’s body back to Paris, and as he saw the coffin lowered into the ground, he kept his own counsel. But once he walked out of the abbey of St Denis on that July day, Louis began to make his plans for the future.

CHAPTER NINE

KING OF FRANCE

[In the year 1223] died Philip, the wise king of the French, and was buried at St Denis … he was succeeded by his son Louis, but how dissimilar were the father and the son! (Matthew Paris)

L
OUIS WAS THE
king. Despite being in the unusual position, for a Capetian, of not having been crowned during the lifetime of his father, there was no question over his accession; no better-qualified rival claimant could possibly appear, so the throne passed smoothly from father to son once more. There was a great deal which required the new king’s attention: the appointment of royal officers, the handover of government and administration, and the preparation of official communications, to name but a few, but the most important immediate task was to organise a coronation ceremony. This was arranged speedily for 6 August 1223, the feast of the Transfiguration, and Louis and Blanche set off from Paris a week beforehand so that they could ride in state, at a leisurely pace, through the countryside to the great cathedral at Reims where all French kings were crowned. The nobility and clergy of France had been summoned and all who were able made their way to Reims too, gathering ready on the morning of the big day.

Despite the time of year the summer’s heat would not have penetrated the thick stone walls of the cathedral, which had been reconstructed during the preceding decade after being damaged by fire in 1210. The assembled throng included well-dressed and bejewelled nobles, clerics in their finest robes, and notable guests including John de Brienne, king of Jerusalem; they gathered in the cool and airy space as they waited for the king and queen to arrive. Louis and Blanche made a ceremonial entrance and walked up the towering nave, through the crowds, towards the altar. The coronation was to be performed by William de Joinville, the archbishop of Reims, as was his right. Various nobles were tasked with bearing items of regalia during the ceremony. The privilege of carrying the new king’s sword had briefly threatened to become the subject of conflict among his companions, but the honour eventually went to Philip Hurepel, Louis’s half-brother, who had now reached his majority and assumed his inheritance, in right of his wife, as count of Boulogne.

The first part of the coronation was spiritual: a solemn Mass was sung, and then the archbishop anointed Louis with sacred oil from the holy ampoule, a vial of Roman glass which was reputed to have been associated with the baptism of Clovis, the first Frankish king to convert to Christianity, in the year 492. The sceptre was put in Louis’s right hand, and a rod known as the ‘Hand of Justice’ in his left. And then, finally, after all his years of waiting and the missed opportunities, a golden crown was placed on Louis’s head. How he felt when the cold weight, and its attendant responsibilities, pressed down on his brow we can only imagine.

The second part of the ceremony was military: Louis was the first knight of the kingdom and the leader of the armies of France, and this was reflected in the giving of martial symbols. He was presented with his sword, shield, spurs and standard. Then, amid wild applause, he moved to sit on his throne while the shorter coronation of the queen – who was crowned and presented with a small sceptre – followed.

And then the celebrations could begin. A huge banquet costing some £4,000 (approximately one-fiftieth of the total annual royal income) had been arranged: ‘the feast was the most beautiful and the richest which had ever been seen at a king’s coronation,’ says the Minstrel of Reims, alas without giving us any information about the menu, which remains a mystery to this day. The following day Louis and Blanche started to make their way back to Paris to make a formal entrance into their capital. Nicholas de Bray, chronicler of Louis’s reign, is in fine form as he describes the scene:

The light is outshone by a new light; the sun thinks that another sun has come to illuminate the earth, as its accustomed splendour is eclipsed. In the squares, at the crossroads and in the streets there is nothing to be seen but garments resplendent with gold; fabrics of silk shine from all sides … the churches are decorated with garlands, the altars surrounded with gems, the perfume of incense lifts into the air … joyous young people dance and sing in the streets.

Nicholas is probably (not for the first or the last time) exaggerating here, but there was certainly reason for the citizens to celebrate. As there had not been a coronation for forty-three years, this was a new experience for many if not most of them, and they were determined to enjoy it. They had further cause to rejoice in the peace with which the crown had passed on: there was a new king but he was a familiar and trusted figure in Paris, and there would be no upheaval in their daily lives.

Louis and his nobles reached the royal palace on the Île de la Cité and prepared to receive the citizens and the gifts they offered. The king was able to relax at last, safe in his position and looking forward to the future. Nicholas de Bray, as we noted in the Introduction, is very fond of both hyperbole and obscure references to ancient or mythical figures, but just occasionally in his writing there is a touch of the eyewitness’s realism and an unexpected gem to be found. Here we find one such passage, and in the hot and crowded palace we can peer through the throng and get that rarest of things, a brief glimpse of Louis in person: ‘Seeing so many of his illustrious friends gathered together in front of him, the king cannot contain in his heart the joy which he feels. It shows on his face: his cheeks colour and his features become animated with a vivid expression of energy.’

* * *

Once the emotion of the coronation was over, it was time for work. Louis was now thirty-five, not the hot-headed youth he might once have been, but a mature man. But how to step into his father’s shoes? As Matthew Paris points out in the quote at the beginning of this chapter, Louis was indeed different to Philip, but they shared many of the same goals; Louis would carry on his father’s dynasty-building work, consolidating his gains and extending the Capetian domains and influence still further.

There has long been a view among some historians that Louis and Philip were in conflict for much of Louis’s life, but as we discussed earlier there is little hard evidence for this supposed antipathy. If the father–son rivalry had been intense we might have expected that one of Louis’s first acts on his accession to the throne would have been a wholesale clear-out of Philip’s counsellors, the men who represented the old regime. In fact, Louis did nothing of the sort. He kept on both of his father’s closest advisers, Bartholomew de Roye and Guérin, bishop of Senlis; indeed, he officially named the latter as chancellor, a role he had long been performing without the title, which Philip, with characteristic unwillingness to let anyone have too much power, had not bestowed upon him. Louis also retained Philip’s marshal: although the office was not strictly hereditary, this was John Clément, who had held the office since the death of his father, Henry, on Louis’s campaign at La-Roche-aux-Moines in 1214. Ours de la Chapelle, who had accompanied Louis on his English expedition, retained his position as chamberlain. Louis did add to his circle of advisers by taking on some men of his own: among those welcomed into the new king’s household was Simon Langton, now forgiven by the pope for his part in Louis’s English campaign and his excommunication lifted.

So the early months of Louis’s reign were characterised by both stability and renewal. As part of the process of consolidation, Louis decided to visit straight away the kingdom’s most recently annexed domains, where loyalties were the newest and therefore potentially the shakiest. In September 1223 he and Blanche rode through Touraine, Anjou and Normandy; they made a second journey in November, this time heading north to Arras and Flanders. On both journeys Louis received homage and oaths of fidelity from his nobles, and was welcomed by the people, who were no doubt glad to have a strong and proven man as the new king, which would mean peace. ‘No rebel dares to raise unjust arms against the power of royal majesty,’ says Nicholas de Bray; ‘Normandy does not lift its head, and Flanders does not refuse to wear the yoke of this powerful prince.’

But Louis was not content simply to coast on the back of his father’s achievements; he wanted to add more of his own. And one way in which he could do this was to restart his war with the English crown. The truce which Philip had extended in 1220 was due to expire at Easter 1224, so once Louis returned from his peregrinations he turned his mind to the question of how best to ensure the ascendancy of the French crown over the English one. Invading England again was not a realistic scenario at this point, but he could certainly aim to drive the English out of France.

All had not been peace and prosperity in England during the previous six years. The regent William Marshal had died in 1219, his proto-dynasty as earl of Pembroke and Striguil later to come crashing down as all five of his sons died childless one after the other. The other high-ranking noble who had supported Henry’s cause during the war, the earl of Chester, had left England in 1218 to go on the Fifth Crusade. The regency was therefore for some time held by the trio of Hubert de Burgh, the justiciar, Peter des Roches, the bishop of Winchester, and the papal legate Pandulf, who had replaced his compatriot Guala in 1218 when the latter returned to his native Italy. The major achievement of the triumvirate had been to ensure the re-coronation of Henry in May 1220, this time at Westminster Abbey and with the ceremony conducted by the archbishop of Canterbury so that no doubts could surface over the validity of Henry’s kingship. But they were not a comfortable group, falling out with each other and finding that rule by committee was time-consuming and tiresome. Pandulf resigned as a legate in 1221 and Peter des Roches left his position as Henry’s guardian shortly afterwards, leaving Hubert in sole charge with a council to consult over major decisions. However, Hubert was not from one of England’s foremost noble families and some of the lords resented his power. There had been a number of revolts against him, including one by William de Forz, the earl of Aumale, who as we might remember was one of the notable waverers during the war. In the spring of 1224, as the truce with France was about to expire, Henry was sixteen years old (and still some way off taking the reins of government into his own hands) and Hubert was embroiled in fighting off a rebellion led by Falkes de Bréauté, erstwhile favourite of King John. The time was ripe for Louis to strike.