The chamberlain stepped into the antechamber and announced: “The regent will see you now.”
François stopped pacing and allowed himself to usher him into the room beyond. Charles, dauphin of Viennois, heir to the throne of France, acting regent during the captivity of his father King Jean at the hands of the English, was standing with Pepin next to a window overlooking the Seine and chatting with him as if they were old school chums. The dauphin came over when François entered and greeted him warmly. “My dear François, thank you so much for coming here on such short notice!”
François bowed deeply. “My Lord,” he said reverently.
“Oh François, we leaders of the nation must not be so formal with each other. Call me Charles. Please, have some wine.”
The chamberlain served François. Pepin gestured with his own goblet towards the chamberlain, who studiously ignored him. We leaders of the nation? puzzled François. What is he talking about? He took a sip from his goblet, spilling some on himself before realizing that the goblet was nearly brimming. He smiled weakly in embarrassment and hazarded a comment of “an excellent vintage” on the theory that King Jean would not have permitted anything less in his cellars.
“Oh, you like it?” The dauphin seemed pleased, but there was something predatory about his smile that unsettled François. “I make it a point to ensure that we leaders of France are always well provided for on our campaigns.” He raised his goblet. “To France!” he toasted, then drank deeply. François took another sip in response. The chamberlain, who had been hovering near François’ right elbow swooped in to refill his goblet, arresting himself when he realized that it was still nearly full. François sensed a subconscious shrug passing from the chamberlain to the dauphin, who sighed inwardly, and seemed to contemplate his next move. François studied him. The regent was a small, gaunt man. Only twenty-one, he carried himself with a mature demeanor. As he had to. Nineteen when his father, King Jean “the Good” was captured at Poitiers, he had managed the business of the state for the last year and a half. From what François had heard, he was as pragmatic and sensible as his father was pleasure seeking and fanciful. And he’s plotting something, thought François, but what?
François turned to look at Pepin to try to get some idea of what was going on when the dauphin awoke from his brief reveries. “Pepin has been telling me all about you, François. I didn’t know you were in Tunisia.”
François’ head jerked towards him in surprise, then back to Pepin. “I wasn’t aware that I was in Tunisia either, my Lord,” he said, casting dagger eyes at Pepin who retreated a step.
“So, geography not your strong suit? No matter. Besides,” the dauphin confided, “it’s not as important for a leader to know where he is, as it is for him to know where the enemy is. Isn’t that so, François?”
“Umm... why, I believe you’re right, Sire.”
“Call me Charles. Yes, Pepin told me all about your campaign against the fierce black African tribes.”
François stared at Pepin and adopted a menacing grin. “Oh really? You don’t recall which tribes he mentioned, do you?”
“Oh, I think he only described the fiercest of them, the Beri.”
“Ah, yes, the fierce black... Beri tribe...” François renewed his glare at Pepin, whose retreat was interrupted by the wall behind him. “I remember them now. They were especially pernicious. We had to arm everyone with mattocks to get rid of them, isn’t that so Pepin?” Pepin nodded in terror.
The dauphin continued. “And Pepin’s also told me about the work you’ve done to stave off troubles with ‘the House’. He was a bit vague on the details. So tell me, François, which house was it? Burgundy? Orleans? Or was it Navarre? Yes, I bet that was the one. Charles and Philip are always plotting something.”
François stepped towards Pepin who slunk down against the wall. “How careless of Pepin to not tell you. It was the house...”
The dauphin cut off the reply. “Oh, don’t bother me with the details. You can fill in my councillors on them later. But I do want to say that I deeply appreciate all that you have done on behalf of France.” He gestured to the chamberlain, who brought forth a small, bulging pouch. François interrupted his stalking of Pepin to face the dauphin again. The chamberlain advanced and put the pouch in François’ hand. “I give this to you as a measure of my gratitude,” the dauphin said. It was quite heavy. François’ mind raced. Why is the regent doing this?
The dauphin herded François over to a window. “Now there is another matter that I would like to discuss with you.”
First he tried to ply me with wine, thought François, then bribe me. I feel like a pig on a platter. All plumped, roasted and ready to serve. What is he setting me up for?
“The long and the short of it is,” said the dauphin, grasping François’ shoulders in his arms, “I want you to be a marshal of France!”
François’ thoughts, already disordered, reorganized themselves into a general rout. “There must... such an honor... think of... surely...” François’ mind finally rallied. “My foot is wet,” he said.
“Yes, and mine as well,” observed the dauphin. “Your goblet was quite full when you dropped it.” With some embarrassment François stepped aside while the chamberlain scurried over with a cloth and began to soak up the spill. “So, you accept?” The dauphin grinned wolfishly.
“I... I must collect my thoughts first. Could I step outside and discuss this with Pepin a moment?” The dauphin spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture.
François motioned to Pepin, who nervously skittered out to the antechamber with a manic smile pasted to his face and proceeded to search for a defensible position. When François entered the antechamber following quickly behind he turned to face him and began, “Now François, I understand that...”
François grabbed Pepin by the collar with both hands and pinned him up against the wall. “You turned our work clearing out blackberries on the farm into a military expedition, didn’t you!”
“Well, it was a success after all and...”
“And then you turned our house repairs into a case of political intrigue!”
“Well, some of the roof leaks were very underhanded and you dealt with them so...”
François glowered and hoisted Pepin up higher.
“But François,” squeaked Pepin, “a marshal of France. Just think of the honor...”
“Pepin, you wouldn’t perchance have the least idea why the dauphin has some vacancies in his marshalships at the moment, would you?” François growled.
Pepin hazarded a guess. “The previous holders retired with a fat pension?”
“They were killed!”
“War will do that to you sometimes,” Pepin winced.
“By a mob!”
Pepin cringed. “Oh dear. They must have been in a distant province...”
“In Paris!”
“far from the dauphin’s protection ...”
“In the dauphin’s bed chambers!”
“...ah, who was very cross when he found out...”
“In the very presence of the dauphin’s himself!”
“Oh?” Pepin blanched. “Perhaps Charles ordered their murders to begin with?”
“They were trusted councillors, loyal to the throne and the dauphin!”
“And the perpetrators weren’t apprehended and brought to swift justice?”
“The perpetrators are part of the mob that rules Paris these days, while the regent is powerless to bring them to judgment.”
Pepin paused reflectively. “Sounds like it could be a tough job,” he concluded feebly.
François lifted Pepin further still. “You must all think I’m the world’s biggest fool, don’t you!”
“Shh! Charles might hear you,” Pepin said nervously.
“And the dauphin is a bigger fool if he believes your tales!”
Pepin’s gasped in terror. “François! He...”
“In fact, he must be an utter moron...”
Pepin started gesturing, eyes growing wide.
“...an imbecile of profound depth...”
Pepin grew more frantic, eyes bulging while a desperate gurgle emanated from his throat.
“...indeed, a complete lunatic to offer a marshalship to...”
“My apologies,” came the dauphin’s voice from behind them. “The fault lays with me, not Pepin.”
François’ head slowly turned around to look at the dauphin who had entered the ante-chamber unnoticed and stood there staring at him while Pepin’s flailing slowly weakened. The dauphin gestured towards them. “Perhaps you should put Pepin down,” he suggested.
François turned back to look at Pepin, uttered a tiny “oh,” and lowered him to the floor. Pepin gasped for air and proceeded to a nearby bench where he collapsed. François turned back to the dauphin and bowed deeply. “My Lord, what I...” François paused, straightened up and said in exasperation, “...what I would like is - would you please tell me what is going on? Why do you want me to be a marshal of France? There must be a score of more qualified candidates. What makes me so suitable?”
“You’re expendable,” he said.
François, who had been gearing up for a counter-argument, stopped short. “Expendable?” he asked.
The dauphin started pacing the antechamber. “As the recent murders of the marshals of Champagne and Normandy have shown, the offices of marshal have become dangerous. Until the political situation settles down, which probably means until my father is returned to power, I can’t risk placing anyone actually important into the office. And whoever does accept the position will probably be replaced by father soon after he returns... if the office-holder survives that long.”
“Oh,” said François, still trying to take this all in. “Couldn’t you just leave the office unfulfilled?” he suggested.
“That would be politically dangerous for me,” the dauphin explained. “A regent doesn’t go around leaving offices unfilled. At least, that’s the arguments my enemies would use. So I need to fill them with someone whose loss won’t damage the state.”
“Ah,” François replied. “So... expendable. I’m so honored.”
“But there’s another qualification that you fulfill.”
“Extreme gullibility?” speculated François. “Hopeless naivete? Lack of close relatives?”
The dauphin smiled and shook his head. “A marshal needs some semblance of military sense. After all, one is still a marshal of France, and the English still covet our lands.”
“I’m not so sure I qualify...”
“Or at least the sense to know when to take good advice.” The dauphin shook his head. “It was said that in the days of Vercingetorix, military tactics consisted of deciding on which war-cry to use. Now it seems to consist of deciding whether to charge heedlessly into the enemy on horseback or to charge heedlessly into the enemy on foot. [Editor’s note: The passage is garbled. It might actually read “ ...or to stand around stupidly on foot while being shot up by archers.”] I need a leader with more sophistication than that. From what I’ve heard, you don’t seem to be enamored with those glorious notions of chivalry that have led to so many French disasters recently. And I wasn’t going to leave you unsupported. I had arranged for Bertrand du Guesclin to be your military advisor.”
“Wasn’t he the one that lead the defense of Rennes?”
The dauphin nodded. “A marshal could do worse than to simply follow du Guesclin’s advice. But... I tried to deceive you into taking the office. Despite Pepin’s...‘interpretation’ of your exploits...” Pepin smiled weakly from his bench, “...I already had a clearer picture of your character from my informants.”
Pepin gasped. “The domain de Coucy is riddled with spies?” then clasped his hands over his mouth when he realized who the spy master must be.
The dauphin laughed. “Given that the major informant is the Sire de Coucy himself, then yes, they are riddled with spies through and through, Pepin.” He faced François. “I thought you would be swept away by the prize and heedless of its dangers. But you are not as foolish as I thought. More so’s the pity. I apologize that I have taken up your time. And now, I have some vacant offices which I must set about filling.”
The dauphin turned and was halfway through the doors of the antechamber when Pepin called out after him, “François will do it for the glory of France!”
The dauphin stopped, turned around and asked, “Is that so?” he asked skeptically.
“Indeed it is, Sire!” confirmed Pepin. “Many are the men that are motivated by greed, but I know it is not so with François. He is motivated by his love for France and its people!”
“Pepin, you are so eloquent.” The regent looked at François. “But is what he says true? Will you accept the office simply on the basis that I think it is in the best interest of France?”
François looked long at Pepin. The scholar had gotten up from his seat on the bench and this time he stood his ground proudly. François looked back at the dauphin who waited expectantly, his chamberlain at his side. Finally François said “I fear Pepin may have hit upon a weakness of mine. I have no desire to be marshal, but I do love France.” A smile crept upon François’ face. “And I have my share of personal pride as well. In the fight to keep the English in their place and out of ours I will not let it be said that I refused the banner when offered. If you truly feel, my Lord, that I would bring some small aid to our cause by taking this office for a time, then I will do so. Still, I make one request.”
The dauphin cocked his eyebrow.
“If you would, please arrange some guards to stay in my house to afford the village some protection in my absence.” François glanced at the pouch at his side, then took it up and tossed it at the chamberlain who caught it despite his startlement. “I think this should cover the expenses.” Charles gave a shallow nod. “As you wish.”
François sighed. “I must be a fool to do this.”
The dauphin smiled. “I would surround myself with such fools.” His face grew serious. “Very well. But I cannot bestow the office on you in Paris while Marcel and his mob still control Paris. Return home and await my summons.”
“As you command,” François said.
“Until then, may God’s grace be with you.” With that, the dauphin turned and left.
François went to the bench where Pepin was and sat down next to him. “Mon dieu,” he murmured, “what have I gone and done now?”
Pepin sat back down next to him. “François,” he said, “I’m sorry if I’ve done something wrong.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” assured François.
“I think it’s a wonderful thing that Charles made you a marshal! But François, if you do die, I’ll... I’ll write about you such that no one will ever forget your name.”
François looked at Pepin, and saw nothing but sincerity in his face. “Thank you, my friend,” he said.
On February 22nd, a mob led by the provost of the tradesmen of Paris, Etienne Marcel, marched on the royal apartments at the Louvre. On the way they encountered and murdered Regnault d’Aci, the advocate-general of France. Upon reaching the chamber of the dauphin, they presented a list of demands. Then, on a signal from Marcel, the marshals of Normandy and Champagne who had been in attendance with the dauphin were murdered. The dauphin’s nightgown was stained with their blood.
On March 25th, the dauphin escaped from Paris and made his way to Senlis, and from there to Provins in the Champagne region.
Two soldiers brought the summons to François in late March. The dauphin had left Paris and was gathering forces on the plains of Champagne. François was to meet him there. François arrived on the last day of the month. The next day was Easter Sunday and the beginning of the year by the French custom at the time which tied the calendar to the liturgical seasons. At dawn François heard mass in the presence of the dauphin and attendant nobility. Afterwards as the morning sun greeted the first day of the one thousandth three hundredth and fifty-eighth year of our Lord Jesus Christ, François de Fargniers was elevated to the office of Marshal of Champagne.