CHAPTER 13: IN THE COURT OF GOOD KING RENE

CHAPTER 13: IN THE COURT OF GOOD KING RENÉ

Copyright: Thomas Hoskyns Leonard, Edinburgh, October 2017

                                                                                    

Bagoas didn't feel an ounce of guilt when the Berber soldiers who survived the Swiss campaign were whipped into shape and sold as galley slaves to the Ottoman pirates. He and Duncan moved from their barracks into a modest apartment in the Palace Augustus, Duncan's reward for saving the life of his patron Count René at the Battle of St. Jakob an der Birs, and Bagoas flounced onto the large, quilted bed in delight.

As a Chevalier of France, Duncan received a reasonable income for serving in La Compagnie de Marseilles. He did not, regrettably, receive any further financial imbursement from the grudging, one-eared count. He's scarcely treating me like his son, concluded Duncan.

Bagoas de Frêne was promoted to the rank of lieutenant of infantry, and Duncan spent much of his time helping out in the Hospital of St. John.

One night, Bagoas came diving into the quilted bed right out of the blue,

“I've had enough of your prevarications!” he protested, curving his back. “You've been flirting with my emotions for ages, and you've never once tried to fulfil my passionate dreams. I demand mes droits conjugaux!”

“But we're not married,” replied Duncan, with a smirk.

“That's no excuse,” asserted Bagoas, pretending to be an impudent doggy.

Duncan yawned.

“How will I have to perform next for my king and country?” he asked, rolling over.

“Shizzle!” exclaimed Bagoas.

“I love the way you glisten,” murmured Duncan.

“I love the way you move.”

“Golly Gee!”

Duncan and Bagoas enjoyed taking horse rides through the vineyards to Mont Ventoux and cruises along the coast to Toulon, Saint-Tropez, and Nice, and sea swimming in the Friouls. They became ever closer in body and soul as the fruits of the Tree of Life effervesced through their joint consciousness.

Count René felt obliged to entertain numerous visiting nobility and important personages in his shabby palace on Boulevard de Paris. While his hospitality was meagre, many guests stayed with him while journeying and voyaging between Paris and Rome. There was, in consequence, much tittle tattle to be chewed over and indulged.

During the Spring of 1445, Lieutenant Bagoas was called upon to arrange an honour guard for one Aeneas Piccolomini of Basel and Vienna, an honorary ambassador to Rome for the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick. The forty year old Aeneas, who was stumbling on his own shaky legs, was accompanied by tall Bernard Bernoulli of Farnsburg and Basel, who walked on one leg, and controlled his crutch with his remaining, extremely large, hand.

During the reception that followed, Le Chevalier Duncan de Cottier caught up with his soulful acquaintance Aeneus P. who he'd last seen watching the Battle of St. Jakob.

“What takes you to Rome, dear comrade?” inquired Duncan, with a small sip of his sour claret.

“To seek peace between the Habsburg Empire and Rome, my learned friend,” Aeneas diplomatically replied, “and to persuade Pope Eugene to absolve me from ecclesiastical censures while I attempt to resolve his theological differences with the German imperial electors. The Holy Roman Emperor is seeking on their behalf to reduce the Vatican's control of science and knowledge.”

“Your policies are well-framed,” replied Duncan, tilting his head. “We wouldn't want some crass German professor of theology to devise doctrines which totally supersede those of the Vatican. That could cause an almighty schism.”

“It may well be sacrilege,” replied crafty Aeneas, with a dry smile. “Nevertheless, Rome needs to take itself off its pedestal and permit the flow of free speaking and thought, so that the well-being of all our good citizens can be maintained.”

After further brisk conversation, Duncan turned his attention to young Bernard Bernoulli, who was standing there on his one remaining leg.

“And what is your forte, courageous hero of St Jakob?” inquired the Chevalier of France.

“I am a student of mathematics and related financial matters,” Bernard modestly replied, “and I learnt about algebra at the University of Heidelberg. I studied the works of Hermannus Contractus himself.”

“Very impressive! Herman of Reichenau was a fine composer of music too. And how would you use your algebra to help me with my finances, cher garçon?”

“Thank you for asking! While I was nursing my injuries last year after our battle for freedom outside Basel, I endeavoured to address the futility of money.”

“Futility? I totally agree! Money's completely and utterly futile. We should trade in goods and commodities instead.”

“It's a bit more complicated than that. When considering the worth of an amount of money, say 1000 livres, you may assess a futility adjustment, say 20 livres. Your utility then subtracts your futility from the original amount. In this case your utility is exactly 980 utiles.”

Duncan scratched his chin. “But to what purpose do you put this fanciful piece of algebra?” he inquired.

That initiated a detailed discussion, during which Bernard tried to convince Duncan that his ideas on futility and utility could be used to help an investor choose between several different financial portfolios..

“Gad's zooks!” exclaimed Duncan, after a quarter hour of chit chat. “Your confounded algebra makes bees rush around my head. I'd pay the twerp 9000 livres and have done with it.”

“That would only be correct if your futility for 9000 livres was 129.6 livres,” insisted Bernard.

“Zounds! What is this jiggery-pokery?”

The congenial René, Count of Provence took a whiff of his vintage bubbly wine, and ambled up.

“I'm so glad that you're becoming better acquainted with our dear Bernard,” chirped the Count. “I've recently invited him to help me to improve the local economy by increasing our trading profits.”

“I am sure that his rich ideas will be put to good purpose by the wealthy families of Provence as they feather their nests for the future,” Duncan dryly replied. “They could be used by unscrupulous financiers to take advantage of simple-minded investors.”

“I certainly hope so,” blithered the Count, “though we will need to prevent the Dominican scholars of Salamanca from copying his proposals. Their theological procrastinations are highly influential in the ways some wealthy people think and act.”

“With these ends in mind,” interjected the slick Aeneas P. “I am taking a manuscript which records Bernard's achievements in futility and utility to His Holiness in Rome, in the hope that Eugenius will bless it with holy water, and preserve it for eternity in the Vatican archives. ”

“Perchance some savage will discover it in 500 years time, and either plagiarize it or refute the validity of its content,” suggested Duncan, with a grimace.

“Who knows?” responded Aeneas, with a chuckle.

[Author's Notes: The theory of average or expected utility is generally attributed to Daniel Bernoulli of Basel (1700-1782), who published a seminal article on the topic in St. Petersburg in 1738, though it may, or may not, have been discovered earlier.]

In early May, the increasingly lonesome Count René received a fleeting visit in the Palace Augustus from his sister Queen Marie of France during her pilgrimage to Rome. Then in her early forties, the Queen was of powerful appearance, and beautiful in her own special way. Over the years she'd assumed the Regency on two or three occasions when King Charles was sick. She'd possessed sufficient political acumen to sign acts on behalf of the Council of State in her position of 'lieutenant to the king'..

The Queen was keen to become acquainted with Le Chevalier Duncan Le Cottier, and Duncan gladly met her for drinks on the Cherabim verandah, accompanied by his new friend Bernard Bernoulli. The crafty Queen also brought along her ward, the seventeen year old Countess Ruth de Camando of Saint-Tropez.

Despite her immature appearance, Ruth was a determined young lady. She boasted a slender figure, and her black hair was streaked with purple dye. While she preferred to keep herself to herself, she exuded a quiet confidence in those intimate surroundings where she could become more assertive. She didn't let any of her arrogant relatives push her over.

Bagoas de Frêne took a peek at Ruth from behind a pear tree, because he'd heard that she was both pretty and Jewish.

With a figure like that she could be my sister, he enthused, and with eyes like that she could be my wife.

“What brings you to this fine city, dear Countess?” inquired Duncan, sipping his rosé.

“I own a pleasant château in Sephora,” giggled Ruth, flashing her bright brown eyes, “with a lovely view of the Middle Earth Sea from high on a hill. It's so adorable staying there when I visit hospitable Provence.”

“But you're so young! You're very lucky to own a pretty château overlooking the sea.”

“My poor Papa and Mama died soon after I was born,” murmured Ruth, with a sob, “and in the most terrible of ways. My grandparents looked after me on our estate outside Saint-Tropez until I was fifteen, at which time I upped and left to stay with sweet Marie in crazy Paris.”

“That must have been very sad and troublesome for you,” responded Duncan, as Bernard Bernoulli gave Ruth a gentle and somewhat plaintive look.

“It was terrible! Papa and Mama were murdered while they were visiting Rouen, simply because they were Jewish and for no other reason.”

“How outrageous!” exclaimed Bernard. “Would that I could strangle the assassins with my single bare hand.”

“The Jews have been persecuted in Rouen for well nigh three hundred years ,” explained Queen Marie, nibbling her sweetmeat, “and they have at times been expelled from the city. When the illegitimate William was Duke of Normandy, they were a striving community of similarly high quality to the Jews of Montpellier, but they have received much too much blame for the crucifixion of Christ Jesus ever since.”

Ruth stiffened her eyebrows. “That's totally unfair! Pontius Pilate and the Roman soldier with the spear were solely responsible.”

“How knowledgeable you are,” stammered Bernard Bernoulli, with a nervous shake. “Maybe I'll find the time to study Jewish history myself.”

“Gaul was, of course, for many centuries the centre of the Jewish world outside Jerusalem,” explained Ruth, “and many Jews in Provence were descended from Mary Magdalene herself.”

“Maybe Marseilles is the New Jerusalem,” enthused Bernard.

“Perchance Christ is buried here with Mary and their child,” enjoined Duncan.

“But on to a less fanciful topic, dear friends, before we indulge in frivolous blasphemy,” resolved Queen Marie, stroking her cocker spaniel. “My brother tells me, fair Duncan, that you saved his life outside Basel. I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to you from the whole of the Royal family.”

“I saved your brother's life at the behest of my comrade-in-arms Sir Peregrine Flynn, Your Majesty,” replied Duncan, “after he was mortally injured while protecting Count René with his life.”

“How sweet! But let's get down to the business in hand. Both René and I would be honoured if you would court...I'm so horribly sorry, I mean protect, darling Ruth while I'm confessing my sins to the Holy Father in Rome. Perchance you'd like to drink wine with her in Château Carmel in Sephora? You could even contemplate taking her on a pilgrimage to Mont St. Michel. I simply love pilgrimages.”

I wonder how much dowry comes with the bride? agonised Bernard Bernoulli, feeling forlorn. Ten thousand livres perhaps. And the wretched chevalier is at least twice Ruth's delicate age!

The Queen has been eclipsed at Court by the King's witch of a mistress Agnes Sorel, mused Duncan. I should be careful how I do business with her.

“I should be able to spend some of my spare time with dear Ruth, Your Majesty,” Duncan cautiously replied, “if my duties at the Hospital of St. John thus permit.”

“C'est magnifique!” replied the Queen, with a condescending smile.

Rachel grinned. “I want six babies in quick succession. That would seal the contract.”

I do hope she's jesting, deliberated Duncan. That would scarcely be a bundle of fun.

“That would be perfect, my adorable child,” responded Queen Marie, with due tact. “But prithee, sweet Duncan. Do try some of this delicious quince on a piece of fresh bread.”

“It's called marmelada, Marie, and it comes from Portugal,” explained Ruth, with a pout.

I wonder whether the Pork Chops acquired the recipe from the Soutra or from York? wondered Duncan, sampling a tasty morsel. Or maybe my relatives started manufacturing it in their vineyard in the Algarve.

“It's good, but I've tasted better in York,” he replied. “We call it marmalade.”

“I'd prefer some Swiss cheese for my palate,” moaned poor Bernard.

[Author's Note: 'Pork Chops' is thought to be an affectionate nickname for the Portuguese.]

The first time Duncan visited Château Carmel in the charming village of Sephora a mile or so north of Marseilles, Ruth took him in her arms and gave him a big kiss,

“Pour toi mon cherie, it was love at first sight,” she said, and one kiss led to another.

Not six bairns! agonized Duncan, afterwards. I'll have to work overtime.

When Ruth visited Duncan in his apartment in the Palace Augustus, Bagoas received her with open arms, and Duncan was surprised at his extreme cordiality. Ruth was, however, delighted when Bagoas showed her his collection of Spanish miniatures. When she was about to retreat for a tumble with Duncan, she gave Bagoas a fleeting look.

One day, Duncan arrived home early from his shift in the hospital, and discovered Ruth and Bagoas in bed, like puppy dogs, together.

“Hop in!” cried Bagoas. “And complete our triangle of love.”

“Je t'adore, Ingibiorg!” cried Duncan, at an intimate moment.

“You mean Ruth,” said Bagoas, rubbing Duncan's neck,

“Je t'aime aussi, Cedric!” cried Duncan, stroking Bagoas's nose with his finger.

“Coo!” purred Ruth, whilst they all performed as one.

At the kindly Count René's suggestion, the Chevalier Duncan Le Cottier and the Countess Ruth de Camando were betrothed to be married during July 1445. The Count's entire court celebrated with aplomb. Apart from Bernard Bernoulli, who hung around and moped.

While Duncan did remember that he'd once married Pigfoot McEigg, he regarded that as insignificant.

The frog-eaters will never live to hear about my marriage to a peasant girl in Scotland, he concluded, and the restoration of my finances is of overwhelming importance. Before God, this is bigamy, but before man it is a mere trifle, methinks.

The portly count advised Duncan that he would receive a generous dowry, the deeds of the château in Sephora, and a tenth of the income from the family estates outside Saint-Tropez.

A tear dripped from the Count's right eye, and another from his left. “I have treated you like a son. I trust you will treat me like a father.”

As long as I don't have to part with any of my well-earned lucre, thought Duncan, feeling as tight-fisted as an Aberdonian out for a drink.

“I'll stay in my apartment in your palace when I'm visiting Bagoas,” Duncan replied, “though I'll live with dear Ruth in the pretty Château Carmel while I tend to our flower and herb garden. I'll attend to you and bring herbs when you're sick, and I'll try to visit you occasionally when you're in Tarascon.”

Later that evening, Duncan realised that his life was turning full circle. From wealthy Scottish knight, he mused, to shepherd, to vagrant, then shopkeeper, foot soldier, military officer, Chevalier of France, and now renewed wealth. Three names: de Liddell, Cotter, Le Cottier. What more is God, in his divine viciousness, intending for me?

The happy couple were married in the towering Basilica of Notre Dame de la Garde during September 1445. After a convivial and unusually hospitable reception in the Palace Augustus, Ruth met with Duncan and Bagoas in their apartment, all three feeling quite intoxicated.

“I am with child,” announced Ruth, rubbing her pert belly. “Which of you is the father? It's a toss up.”

“I will be proud to be the father of my Jewish son,” said Duncan, giving his wife a hug.

“Moi aussi,” said Bagoas, putting them both in one big, fond embrace.

“The first of the brood,” cooed Ruth.

“I'll love them as if they were my own,” said Bagoas, tongue in cheek.

Meanwhile, in Roxburgheshire, Scotland, the eight year old twins Seth and Sansa Liddell, both sandy-haired and light of foot, ran amok among the sheep on Soutra Hill.

“Who is my Papa, dear Mama?” pretty Sansa once inquired.

“He was the good knight, Sir Richard de Liddell,” replied her mother Pigfoot, fingering her broken teeth, “but he changed his name and wandered far away, because he had some debts to pay.”

At that, slender Seth wanted to grow up to be a proud knight. But the rusty-haired clown Father Stephanus Le Fleming took him into the friary to tidy the beds and serve the food. And the nuns invited the evocative Sansa into the St. Cecilia's Wing as a novice. Sansa developed a fancy that she wanted to mother the Earth, and she was determined that she would never lose herself, like Eve, to the Devil.

And in the white and green painted Crécy House in York, the toddler Harry de Burgogne was growing up bright, blonde-haired and clean-limbed. He loved his Papa, the much-cuckolded Lord Sheridan, but lived in fear of his older brother, the bully-some knight Sir Percival de Burgogne who would thrash Harry's faithful whipping girl for the merest of trifles, and for reasons which sharp Harry wasn't able to guess.

During 1447, Duncan learnt from his priest during a confessional that his friend Aeneas P. had been appointed Bishop of Trieste, by the new Pope. Duncan was amazed that his outspoken friend had taken to the cloth. The cunning Aeneas had helped achieve a compromise by which the dying pope Eugene accepted a reconciliation tendered by the German princes. Pope Nicholas sorely needed a man of Aeneas's unique abilities.

I suppose that it's good to have as many friends as possible in high places, concluded Duncan.

With the assistance of an eminent engineer from Paris and a fine stonemason from Tarascon-sur-Rhône, the ever frugal Count René continued to rebuild the defences of Marseilles and the series of ramparts guarding the harbour. A huge square tower had previously been built on the foundations of the old Maubert tower to defend the harbour against the Aragonese. It rose high above where Duncan worked in the Commandry of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John.

Trade continued to flourish whilst the merchants of the city organised themselves in a guild and, as Officer of Finance, the Swiss genius Bernard Bernoulli helped the parsimonious count to heap silver and gold into the city's treasury.

During 1448, Count René visited Duncan while he was pottering in his herb garden, which stretched from the lofty Château Carmel in Sephora a modest distance towards the sea.

“I have breathtaking news!” exclaimed the Count of Provence. “England has finally relinquished Maine and Anjou to France. The English always declined to honour the secret agreement which William de la Pole is said to have made with us at Tours, and King Charles had to send in the troops before the lazy skinflints would finally accede to our demands.”

Skinflint? mused Duncan. Now there's a fine choice of words for the miserly count!

“Wonderful!” enthused the bold chevalier. “And how fares the foolhardy Jackanapes? They say he will die like the oath breaker Harold Godwinson with an arrow in his eye and his third leg a-missing.”

“The dolt is now Marquess of Suffolk, Lord High Admiral of England, and in favour with daft King Henry,” added the knowledgeable count. “Nevertheless, the outrageous buffoon is, according to my dearest Margaret, unpopular with the proletariat he mistreats and abuses and heading towards ignominious exile.

“Perchance they'll burn, draw and quarter him,” suggested Duncan.

“In any case, the English attempts to extend their peace agreement with France have thereby been undermined,” added Count René.

“I should hope so,” replied Duncan. “The Treaty of Tours expired in April 1446.”

“King Charles is now, in all verity, in a mighty rage. He wishes to liberate the whole of Normandy, in particular holy Rouen.”

Duncan was lost in deep thought for fully a quarter minute.

“That raises some interesting possibilities. If the Bureau brothers of Champagne were to bombard the city walls, then we could enter Rouen, from the south-west, through the secret tunnel under the Seine, and take Le Grosse Tour before the English have a chance to swing a cat.”

“Capital! The English under King Henry are scattered and weak. This is by no means a time to be meek.”

“The Bureau brothers' expertise makes French artillery the most effective in the world. The knights of Marseilles and Lieutenant de Frêne's élite company of infantry will surely tip the balance.”

In the House of the Holy Trinity on the Soutra in Roxburgheshire, Seth Liddell was turning into a strapping lad, with a striking resemblance to his long departed father.

When Friar Francis Philpott died mysteriously during Spring 1449, crafty Seth suspected that the ill-mannered Brother Stephanus Le Fleming might have poisoned the poor old soul with arsenic to prevent public discovery of the strange secrets in the brother's life (of some of which Seth was only too aware; the horses in the stable would rear in the air when they saw the eccentric brother approaching).

The good nurse Kate Sprat comforted Seth in his grief, and encouraged him to work with her in the asylum in the Bronze Age broch. He tried to cure unfortunate people with disorders of the mind simply by talking to them with humanity, respect and compassion. He also heated and medicated poultices in the Soutra Abbey Hospital for the treatment of diseases and inflammation of the flesh.

Big Hamish Douglas, a noted physician in the Strachan-Crichton Asylum in Leith, visited the Soutra occasionally since he was highly skilled at treating people with disorders of the mind without necessarily resorting to trepanning or other surgeries to the brain.

After a while, the extremely rotund Hamish took lithe Seth under his wing, and taught him how to cure patients by conversing with them in greater detail, and encouraging them to take exercise and to meditate. The highly curious Seth was never quite sure why proud, bald-pated Hamish chose him for a student, and he wondered whether there was some distant family connection.

Duncan Le Cottier laughed his head off during June 1449 when the remnants of the flimsy peace agreement at Tours finally fell apart. He realised the French were in a much stronger political, economic and military situation than the English and could therefore take their pick when deciding what to do next.

Therefore, Duncan wasn't surprised when King Charles the Seventh decided to stick in the boot. The French army cut deep swathes into Normandy during August whilst marching towards the ancient seaport of Caen. But Duncan was absolutely astounded when the brilliant Bureau brothers helped capture Pont-Audemer, Pont-Levêque and Lisieux before turning east towards Rouen with their artillery at the ready.

Bagoas and Duncan packed their bags and prepared to depart for Rouen, on horseback, with Count René's loyal contingent from Marseilles. The Countess Ruth de Camando gave Bagoas and Duncan tearful hugs as they were leaving, before drying her eyes with Bernard Bernoulli's silk handkerchief. Thereupon she returned, heavily pregnant, with kindly Bernard to Château Carmel to comfort her four children. That was when the calculating Swiss mathematician made his move.

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