A Convenient Solution

A CONVENIENT
SOLUTION

A Jean Bellimont Mystery
by Trevor Whitton




Copyright 2012 Trevor Whitton

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Chapter 1


1308 – Troyes, Kingdom of France………

The old man sitting before the exquisitely carved oak table
took a deep breath – his pen poised over the official
parchment before him. Beside it sat a small purse of coins.
It was a reasonable price given the gift at his disposal. He
ran his hand through thinning grey hair, his heavy, pouched
eyes straining to make out the characters on the page. His
name was Guichard, and he was the current Bishop of
Troyes – an important appointment by most people’s
reckoning. But his greatest disappointment was the
contempt in which he was held by his townspeople. He
looked at the purse again, and then slowly tipped its
contents onto the table. Twelve coins. What was that,
really? Compared to the post he was giving, it was
nothing. The recipient would be set for life - as would his
family. What price could you put on that? And his enemies
accused him of simony! Well, they could call it what they
liked – those ill-bred, uneducated buffoons. He was the
Bishop, and he was far from being the only churchman in
Christendom to do it. In fact, it would be considered
arrogant of him not to. Besides - his decision was God’s
decision. Anyone who challenged that was a heretic.
He stood slowly, his back bent from the pain in his
joints and his knees stiff from sitting too long at his table.
As the sun came out from behind a cloud it cast a beam
through the Palace window and onto the Bishop's face. He
looked out at the unfinished apse of his Cathedral, another
irritation to add to his woes. It was a sorry state of affairs
for a Bishopric of this standing. Nearly one hundred years
of building – including the setback of the Great Storm in
1228 – and still it was incomplete!
He leant forward on the windowsill so that he could see
whether anyone was working below. Pulleys, ropes,
scaffolding, cranes, mortar buckets, masonry and tools of
all kinds desecrated the site. A frown crossed the Bishop’s



brow as he noticed the idle men. That was the trouble with
paying labourers as they worked – the longer they took to
finish the job, the more they were paid. It practically
amounted to an incentive to be slow! (He neglected to
acknowledge that many of the labourers gave their time
voluntarily in the service of God!)
He turned back into the room with a shake of his
head. Yes, it was indeed necessary – even imperative – for
him to make the most of every financial opportunity that
presented itself. If his detractors could only see that he
didn’t do it in order to line his own pockets but for the
greater glory of God, they might leave him alone to get on
with the business of the Church. What made him
particularly angry was the fact that King Philippe had
caused this problem himself by recalling the Kingdom’s
coinage and replacing it with currency of a lesser value.
What kind of idiot would do that? And – as if that wasn’t
enough - having survived the outrage that followed by
hiding behind the skirts of the Templars (taking refuge in
the Paris Temple), he then proceeded to banish the Italian
bankers! The Jews followed just two years ago - and then
the ultimate proof of his madness. Last year he’d had all
the Templars arrested, and was now trying to coerce Pope
Clement into dissolving the Order altogether. So much for
gratitude! And it was all very well for the King to confiscate
the Order’s wealth and property, but what about the impact
on trading towns such as Troyes? The combined effect of
his policies were devastating! The revenues from the Great
Annual Faire alone had been halved in the last three years.
Well, the irony was that those very Templars who had
once protected the King and were themselves betrayed,
now provided the possibility of a financial solution to the
Bishop’s problems. God knew how to care for His own and
had directed Providence to Troyes. Guichard looked long
and hard at the second document on his desk.
As always, things were made more difficult by the
politics of the day. Even Guichard didn’t know the Pope’s
true position in regard to the Templars. Publicly he
condemned the King’s actions, and the Bishop was sure



that privately he opposed them as well. But it was
rumoured that Clement realised that – in reality - there was
little he could do, and that in order to win the war in the
long run he was prepared to lose this battle. Consequently,
any support of those Templars who had managed to escape
the purge was fraught with danger – both from the Church
and the King.
But no one had any moral right to object to the
methods by which Guichard sought to keep his Bishopric
financed – least of all the King. Philippe ‘the Fair’ indeed!
No, he had absolutely no justification for objecting to the
way in which any Bishop or member of the clergy sought to
compensate themselves for his catastrophic policies. And
with that thought he bent and signed the document without
any further hesitation.

Just a couple of miles away, on the plains to the west,
justice in the form of half a dozen riders was approaching
the gates of Troyes. At their head was Guillaume de
Nogaret, one of the most feared men in France. His
mission was a bold one, and would undoubtedly cause
shock and debate throughout the Christian world for years
to come - but this was of no consequence to him. Fulfilling
the commands of his King was all the justification he ever
needed, but the opportunity to inflict harm on the Church
as well definitely offered an added bonus.
By the time the riders had reached the gates of the
city they were attracting considerable attention. They
navigated their way through the narrow streets in the
direction of the Bishop's Palace with no need for secrecy.
Their mission today would be swift and completed before
anyone had a chance to react. Even the Bailli of Troyes
would be unaware of events until they were well away on
the road back to Paris. It would be much later as news
reached the ears of the Pope when matters would come to
a head.
They crossed the expanse of Saint Jean's market as
the stalls were beginning to pack up for the day.




Guichard’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by the
entrance of one of his staff. Thomas Garonde, the manager
of the Office’s estates, bowed his head politely.
'Sorry to disturb you, Your Eminence, but it has come
to my attention that the Bailli has again acted contrary to
our wishes in regard to the poachers we caught several
months ago.'
'Has he taken any action against them?' asked
Guichard impatiently.
'I believe they have been fined a trifling sum – hardly
a sufficient deterrent, I fear.'
'Well? Why come to me? Surely you should be
harassing Bailli Dubois?'
'I wanted your authority to pursue the matter and to
insist that he prosecute these men,' replied Garonde
humbly.
'Is it absolutely necessary? After all, it’s such a trivial
matter…’ Guichard was only too well aware of his estate
manager’s shortcomings. He was a young, good looking
man, dark of complexion with long, well groomed hair
which fell easily to his shoulders. His prospects in life
seemed promising on the face of it - he had a job that was
usually reserved for men twice his age and experience, and
he had a generally sober disposition. Unfortunately, he
also had a serious gambling problem and, as a
consequence, was as poor as a beggar’s dog. He had no
inheritance at all to look forward to, and his poor temper
made him an unlikely suitor for any woman who might be
able to help him out of his pecuniary difficulties. In many
ways he was a gifted manager, but Guichard knew it was
largely due to his meanness and lack of sympathy for
others less fortunate. There was no doubting he felt a
certain contempt for those worse off than himself, and it
was common knowledge that the tenants loathed him. He
was very good when circumstances demanded a firm hand,
but was often over-zealous when a gentler approach might
have been more effective.
'The incidence of poaching has been growing steadily
for some time, Your Eminence. I believe it is necessary to



make an example of these men,' the young man added,
pressing his cause.
'Very well – but don’t get carried away. Remember
you’re a Christian, Thomas, and should behave with
compassion.'
'Yes, Your Eminence, always.' He bowed respectfully
and backed out of the room. Guichard shook his head
irritably once he was alone again. He liked to be respected,
but he hated sycophancy. He was just about to return to
his work when there was a loud crash from downstairs -
followed by the sound of shouting and the unmistakable
clang of swords.
Fear, anger and bewilderment in equal measure
passed through the mind of the Bishop. Who would cause
such a disturbance? Thieves? The townspeople rising
against him? A disgruntled suitor seeking redress for an
appointment he had been expecting? Eventually the
intruders reached the top of the stairs and burst through
the study door. The first thing Guichard saw as the six men
entered was the gold fleur-de-lys emblazoned on the
soldiers’ sleeves. Fury welled up inside him.
'This is an outrage!' he began to shout, until he looked
beyond the soldiers and recognised the face of the man
standing behind them. Guillaume de Nogaret – Councillor,
Keeper of the Seal, and ruthless prosecutor of the King’s
commands. The colour drained from the Bishop’s face and
he collapsed, terror-stricken, into the chair behind him.
'What is the meaning of this?' he croaked as the men
crossed the room towards him. Nogaret stepped forward,
pulled an official parchment from his belt, broke the seal
and began to read in a confident, powerful voice:
'Guichard, Bishop of Troyes, you are charged with the
murder of Jeanne of Navarre, Queen of France, through
witchcraft. You are also charged with murdering the
Queen’s mother by poisoning, as well as simony, sodomy,
being the son of an incubus, various acts of homicide and
sorcery, usury, counterfeiting, blasphemy and incitement to
riot.' The Bishop’s mouth hung open and his eyes were
wide with horror. Behind the intruders he could see several



members of his staff – the over-zealous Thomas, his legal
adviser Antoine Reynard (a red headed man who was
cursed with a club foot), and his scribe Jean Bellimont.
'You can’t be serious? I haven’t done any of those
things. This is some kind of mistake,' stammered Guichard,
the sweat now pouring off his brow. Nogaret continued,
speaking over the top of the terrified accused:
'I have been authorised by the King himself to place
you under arrest and to convey you immediately to the
Louvre for questioning and trial. You are immediately
stripped of your office and may bring with you no servants
or entourage of any description. An advocate will be
appointed by the State in due course.' The Councillor
smiled, baring broken, rotted teeth. 'You can be assured
that you will receive a fair trial.'
Guichard jumped to his feet, knocking his chair to the
floor in the process. He came from behind the desk to
confront his attacker directly.
'Who do you think you are – you son of heretics – ' (it
was rumoured that Nogaret's parents had been loathsome
Cathars) ' - to cast such ridiculous accusations at me? For
that matter, who is the King to interfere in matters that –
notwithstanding their absurdity - are wholly within the
preserve of the Church? The State has absolutely no
jurisdiction…' Growing impatient, Nogaret gave a sign to
the nearest soldier, who responded by ramming the butt of
his sword hard into the Bishop’s stomach. Guichard’s face
betrayed utter astonishment, before he crumpled to his
knees in agony. He could vaguely hear the town’s bells
ringing outside as he was picked up by the soldiers – one
under each arm – and forcibly removed from the Palace.
Through misty eyes he saw the dim outlines of his staff
wringing their hands, uncertain what to do.
'Send a message to the Pope – quickly. Tell him I’ve
been arrested by the King and will perish if he doesn’t act
immediately,' - then he retched violently and, thankfully,
the world went black.




Chapter 2


When the news reached Pope Clement in Bordeaux two
weeks later, he could hardly credit what he was hearing.
The continued arrogance of the King of France was
astounding. He directed his gaze towards Bernard
Corrente, his most trusted and beloved Cardinal.
'I pity this man when he’s called to account by Our
Lord, my word I do,' he said quietly. Corrente nodded, his
expression taut. It was an extremely difficult time for
everyone, but most of all for His Holiness. The fate of
Christendom seemed to hang on his every decision – all
thanks to the unscrupulous behaviour of one man.
'This situation must be handled very carefully,’ he
said, dismissing the messenger with a gesture. ‘If we
overreact, who knows what catastrophe could befall us –
the King included.' Clement nodded thoughtfully.
'But if I do nothing, the Church is doomed. To allow
Philippe to behave with impunity would be to condone his
actions and the charges against Guichard.' He slumped
onto the velvet cushions of his chair and stroked his chin
distractedly. What a fool man is to covet this job, he
thought.
'He wants you to react rashly, of course,' said the
Cardinal.
'Of course he does!' Clement shouted, waving his arms
in the air impatiently. 'Even stacking his troops in Poitiers
during our meeting in May was an attempt to provoke a
response from me. He’s just itching for an excuse to crush
the Papacy.' Corrente crossed the room quietly – his
measured response in stark contrast to that of his patron.
Although neither ever spoke of it, both understood that his
composure in the face of adversity was the most valuable
asset he brought to the Office.
'He knows that if you do nothing it would acknowledge
the Crown’s jurisdiction over the Church - a precedent it
would be difficult for your successors to ignore. Have you



heard of this latest pamphlet published by the lawyer from
Coutances?'
'Pierre Dubois?'
'The same. He’s now openly advocating that you
relinquish temporal power to the King of France, who will
administer the Papal States on your behalf and pay you an
annual stipend as compensation!' Clement had to laugh at
the audacity of the man.
'You can’t take him too seriously, Bernard,' he said
dismissively.
'But it’s scandalous! It’s beyond scandalous, it’s…'
The Cardinal was lost for words.
'He’s only writing for himself. He’s not employed by
the King – he doesn’t even know him, as far as I’m aware.
His pamphlets are just the ravings of an unfettered
ideologue.'
'But it’s an accurate representation of Philippe’s
ultimate designs, nonetheless,' insisted Corrente.
'I can’t argue with that,' said Clement, nodding sadly.
They fell into silence for a few moments, each
contemplating the state of affairs and trying to anticipate
the consequences of the various options at their disposal.
Eventually Clement rose from his chair and strode to the
trefoil window overlooking the town and river Garonne
beyond. ‘How did we come to this? We should be on the
same side – Philippe and I. Why should it be so difficult to
settle our differences?’ Corrente stepped to his side – close
enough to be intimate, whilst still maintaining a respectable
distance.
‘Well, for a start the man is insane.’ Clement smiled
ruefully, but gave a barely detectable shake of his head.
‘That’s not the whole story, though, is it?’
‘Well, if you’re after a history lesson, it all began with
one of your predecessors – Boniface. He was the one who
had the courage to stand up against Philippe over the
Crown’s right to tax the clergy. It was only a device to
support his obsessive war against England, after all. And
we both know where that led.’



‘Philippe had Bernard de Saisset arrested on charges
of treason.’
‘A Papal legate and Bishop of Pamiers, no less! I
suppose we shouldn’t be so surprised with this latest turn
of events. It’s not the first time he’s done such a thing, is
it?’ They were suddenly interrupted by a short knock at the
door.
‘What is it?’ An attendant stuck his head into the
room and bowed respectfully. ‘Well?’ growled the Pope.
‘There is a delegation from Castille wishing an
audience, Your Holiness.’
‘Send them away. I have no time for anyone today.
Do not disturb me again unless I call for you.’ He
dismissed the attendant with a flick of his wrist and turned
back to the window. ‘What still amazes me is that popular
opinion sided with Philippe. How could that be? Do my
countrymen have no concerns at all for their mortal souls?’
‘It was their unquestioning adoration that gave him
the confidence – the unbelievable arrogance - to denounce
Boniface as a heretic and declare his election illegitimate.
And they will bear that responsibility along with their King
when their souls are judged. They are just as much to
blame.’
‘I have a close friend who was there, you know,’ said
Clement, glancing over his shoulder and shooting another
rueful smile at his Cardinal. Corrente frowned.
‘Where?’
‘Angani – when Philippe sent Guillaume de Nogaret
and Sciarra Colonna to arrest Boniface. And Colonna had
his own agenda, of course. An especially evil man amongst
evil men.’ Clement walked over to a nearby table and
poured himself a glass of red wine. He sipped it slowly and
took solace in the fact that there was something in his
country that he could still be proud of. ‘We all thought the
tide had turned when Boniface escaped, and that it was the
beginning of the end for Philippe. But he died only a month
later in Rome.’ Corrente coughed respectfully. Clement
frowned and stopped mid-sip. ‘What is it?’ Still the
Cardinal hesitated. ‘Come on, speak up. You have no need



to hide anything form me. We have no secrets from each
other.’
‘You do realise that everyone thought your
appointment – as a French Pope and personal confidant to
Philippe – was meant as an appeasement.’ For a moment
Corrente wondered if he had overstepped the mark.
Clement slammed down his wine, spilling most of its
contents on the table. Red liquid trickled to the floor. But
the Cardinal quickly recognised the Pope’s expression – it
was pride, not anger.
‘Of course I realise it. But they’re all – Philippe
included – in for a very rude awakening. I am nobody’s
pawn!’ He regained control of his emotions with an effort
and poured himself another glass of wine. He held it up to
the light – admiring the translucent colour. ‘I really had no
choice but to oppose him, not after he decided to persist
with that posthumous lawsuit against Boniface. It was like
a personal challenge – as if he was saying to me, I know
we were colleagues, so I know you won’t try and stop me.
Well – just you watch. I refuse to be known by history as
the Pope who handed the Church over to the King of
France.’ Corrente poured himself a glass of wine and
stirred it distractedly with his finger.
'I feel I must warn you that there’s considerable
disquiet amongst the Italian Cardinals, Your Holiness,' he
said. He was loath to add to his Pope’s problems, but
ignoring the situation was foolhardy. Clement frowned and
gestured impatiently.
'I know. They object to the appointment of all the
French Cardinals since I took office,' he sighed. ‘I’m not
completely divorced from the day to day goings on in our
Church, you know.’ Corrente shook his head.
'It’s not just that. They’re incensed with your decision
to move the Papal court to Avignon.'
'But it’s only temporary – they know that.' Corrente
shook his head again.
'No they don’t. They know that you say it’s only
temporary, but you’ve been expressing your intention to
return to Rome since your coronation in Lyons four years



ago – yet here we are, still.' He knew that was an
extremely sensitive issue, but it had to be said and no-one
else was in a position to say it. Predictably, Clement
exploded.
'What would they have me do?' he shouted in
exasperation. 'I must remain in France. Philippe continues
to threaten action against Boniface – a precedent which I
cannot allow to happen. On top of that, England and
France are still at war – and everyone knows that freeing
the Holy Land is out of the question until the two can
reconcile their differences and combine their armies in a
Crusade. And would they have me miss the upcoming
Council of Vienne? I know, given the current circumstances
and the plight of our Brother Knights Templar that it won’t
be a very important event…' It was unusual for Clement to
resort to sarcasm unless his temper was roused - and
nothing roused that temper more than the short-
sightedness of the Italian Cardinals. 'Whose side are they
on, anyway? Would they rather see Philippe prevail and
suffer dominion under his tyranny?'
'They're on neither side. They're short-sighted, self-
serving and stupid - all those things. But they're also
feeling extremely vulnerable. They remember you're
previous relationship with Philippe and believe you support
his cause over that of the Church. All they see is your
acquiescence to Philippe’s demands at every step. You
need to find an issue and stand up to him - prove your
independence.'
'Then the arrest of Guichard provides me with such an
opportunity,' replied the Pope. His face suddenly
contracted and he doubled up in pain. Bernard rushed to
his side. These crises were enough to try a young man in
good health, but Clement was neither of these. The fire
burned low in the huge fireplace across the hall, and
Bernard called for an attendant to stoke it.
'And bring the physician for His Holiness – tell him he’s
had another attack.' The sooner they settled into a fixed
place – whether it be France or Italy – the better. All this
travelling around, particularly with winter coming on, was



diabolical for the Pope’s health. Clement found the
strength to squeeze Bernard’s hand.
'Thank you,' he whispered. Having settled the stricken
man into a chair by the fire, Bernard drew the heavy
Flemish curtains across the windows and began lighting the
candles around the huge, vaulted hall. Where was that
damned physician? 'You must choose two of your brother
Cardinals to accompany you to Troyes, Bernard,' said
Clement from across the room. 'And one of them must be
an Italian,' he added weakly. Corrente understood at once.
'Of course – but three Cardinals? Won’t that seem
excessive?'
'You said yourself – I must be seen to act decisively
and with serious intent on this matter. We must show
strength both to the Crown of France, and to the Italians.'
'I understand. But what would you have us do?'
'Find the truth – and report back to me. I will act.
But do nothing to provoke Philippe – be discreet.'
'I shall do my best,' replied the Cardinal, just as the
Pope’s physician arrived.


A few weeks later, in the Louvre Palace in the French
capital, a messenger was shown into King Philippe’s
audience hall by a reluctant usher.
'He insisted on seeing you himself, sire,' the usher
explained nervously. 'He said he was under strict
instructions to do so.' Philippe considered the messenger
waiting obediently behind the guard, and called to him;
'Where have you come from?'
'Troyes, sire,' replied the messenger promptly.
'Show him in, then leave,' said the King quietly to the
usher. 'The rest of you may leave too,' he added, gesturing
to the various attendants, supplicants, retainers and
petitioners scattered about the room. ‘Pierre Soissons.’
The gentleman in question stopped in his tracks and bowed
to his King.
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘You are to stay.’



‘As you command, Sire.’ He waited patiently with his
hands folded before him as the others left the room. When
the last of them had closed the door behind him, Philippe
gestured for the messenger to approach and took the note
eagerly. This eagerness waned as he read the message,
and his brow clouded with concern.
'Do you know what is written in this note?' he asked of
the envoy.
'No Sire. I was only instructed to bring it to you
without delay, which I have done.'
'When did you leave Troyes?'
'Yesterday morning, Sire.'
'Yesterday morning? You’ve done very well.'
'I was told to spare no expense, sire. I used four
horses.' Philippe was by now deep in thought and had
ignored the explanation. He opened the note and read
again;
‘Three Cardinals have been despatched to Troyes to
investigate the arrest of Guichard. I respectfully suggest
that you send a well-armed delegation to keep an eye on
them. Be assured that the people here support your actions
and that the Cardinals will get no co-operation.’
The note wasn’t signed, but the seal guaranteed its
validity.
‘Wait for me outside,’ he said to the messenger. ‘I’ll
send a reply shortly.’ He handed the note to Soissons - his
most trusted chevalier de l’hotel. 'It’s not the news I was
hoping for,' he said, watching closely as the other began
reading. Soissons’s face was emotionless as he folded the
letter and handed it back to his King.
‘Surely you were expecting this, Sire?’
‘Not at all! The man has just rolled over and accepted
it whenever I’ve opposed him in the past.’
‘It couldn’t go on forever, though, could it? He had to
stand up to you eventually.’
‘Still, if I’d expected anything it was that he’d send a
delegation here – to confront me.’ Soissons pursed his lips
and shook his head.

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