About the Author

John Julius Norwich was born in 1929. After National Service, he took a degree in French and Russian at New College, Oxford. In 1952 he joined the Foreign Service, serving at the embassies in Belgrade and Beirut and with the British Delegation to the Disarmament Conference at Geneva.

Among his many publications are histories of Norman Sicily, the Republic of Venice, the Byzantine Empire, the papacy and the Mediterranean. Most recently he has written the story of the four very different men who created our modern world: Henry VIII, Francis I of France, Charles V of Spain and Suleiman the Magnificent. There are also books on travel, architecture and music. In addition he has made some thirty historical documentaries for BBC Television.

Lord Norwich is former chairman of the Venice in Peril Fund, co-chairman of the World Monuments Fund and a former member of the Executive Committee of the National Trust. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, the Royal Geographical Society and the Society of Antiquaries, and a Commendatore of the Ordine al Merito della Repubblica Italiana. He was made a CVO in 1993.

Also by John Julius Norwich

Mount Athos (with Reresby Sitwell, 1966)

The Normans in the South (1967)

Sahara (1968)

The Kingdom in the Sun (1970)

A History of Venice: The Rise to Empire (1977)

A History of Venice: The Greatness and the Fall (1981)

Fifty Years of Glyndebourne (1985)

A Taste for Travel (1985)

The Architecture of Southern England (1985)

A History of Byzantium: The Early Centuries (1988)

Venice: A Traveller’s Companion (1990)

A History of Byzantium: The Apogee (1991)

A History of Byzantium: The Decline and Fall (1995)

A Short History of Byzantium (1997)

The Twelve Days of Christmas (1998)

Shakespeare’s Kings (1999)

Paradise of Cities: Venice in the Nineteenth Century (2003)

The Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean (2006)

Trying to Please (2008)

The Popes: A History (2011)

A History of England in 100 Places (2011)

Sicily: A Short History (2015)

Four Princes (2016)

Edited by John Julius Norwich

Great Architecture of the World (1975)

The Italian World (1983)

Britain’s Heritage (1983)

The New Shell Guides to Great Britain (1987–90)

The Oxford Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Art (1990)

The Treasures of Britain (2002)

The Duff Cooper Diaries (2005)

The Great Cities in History (2009)

Darling Monster (2013)

Cities that Shaped the Ancient World (2014)

An English Christmas (2017)

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www.johnmurray.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by John Murray (Publishers)

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © John Julius Norwich 2018

The right of John Julius Norwich to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Maps drawn by Rosie Collins

‘Ballade of Unsuccessful Men’ by Hilaire Belloc reprinted by permission of Peters Fraser & Dunlop (www.petersfraserdunlop.com) on behalf of the Estate of Hilaire Belloc.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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To the memory of my mother

who first took me to France

and taught me to love it as she did.

Preface

‘TOUTE MA VIE, je me suis fait une certaine idée de la France.’¹ The opening words of General de Gaulle’s memoirs have become world famous. I too, in my own infinitely humbler way, have always cherished just such a conception. It stems, I suppose, from my first visit, as a child of nearly seven in September 1936, when my mother took me for a fortnight to Aix-les-Bains, largely in an attempt to wean me from my English nanny. I can still feel, as if it were yesterday, the excitement of the Channel crossing; the regiment of porters, smelling asphyxiatingly of garlic in their blue-green blousons; the raucous sound all around me of spoken French (which I already understood quite well, having had twice-weekly French lessons since the age of five); the immense fields of Normandy, strangely devoid of hedges; then the Gare du Nord at twilight, the policemen with their képis and their little snow-white batons; and my first sight of the Eiffel Tower. We fetched up at Aix in a modest pension with a pretty garden, and a young girl called Simone² looked after me while my mother was doing the cure and talked French to me from morning till night.

There were two more pre-war trips, one with both my parents for a week in Paris during which we did all the usual things. We took a bateau mouche down the Seine, went to the Louvre which bored me stiff and to the sewers which I found fascinating, climbed on to the roof of the Arc de Triomphe, where you get a far better view of Paris than you do from the Eiffel Tower, which is like looking at it from an aeroplane. Of course we did the Eiffel Tower as well, not only going up to the top but having lunch in its extremely smart restaurant, which my father claimed was his favourite in Paris because it was the only place you couldn’t see it from. I remember being astonished at the number of restaurants all over the city, at many of which people were eating outside; in pre-war London there were comparatively few, and tables on the pavement were almost unheard-of. My other memory is that almost every teenage boy wore a beret and plus fours, hundreds of them meeting regularly at a huge market for collectors of postage stamps at the Rond-Point des Champs-Elysées.³ Eight years later, when my father became ambassador, we led a very different sort of life. I was still at school, but now holidays were always spent in France – including Christmas 1944, when the war was still on – and in a palace. The Hôtel de Charost (to give it its proper name) on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré is, I believe, the most beautiful embassy of any country in the world. Previously owned by Napoleon’s sister Pauline Borghese, it was bought by the Duke of Wellington when he was briefly ambassador after Waterloo and has been the British Embassy for the past two hundred years. The weather that winter was bitterly cold, and it was one of the few warm places; it could also provide limitless quantities of whisky and gin, which had been non-existent in France since the war began, it was full every night with the Parisian beau monde from Jean Cocteau down. Soon it became a sort of institution, known as the Salon Vert. The queen of it was the poetess – and my father’s mistress – Louise de Vilmorin, who would stay in the embassy sometimes for weeks at a time. (My mother, who had no conception of jealousy, loved her almost as much as my father did, which was no surprise: she was one of the most fascinating women I have ever known. We became great friends, and she taught me lots of lovely old French songs, which I would sing to the guitar after dinner.) There were very few politicians, but writers, painters and actors in plenty. I remember the stage designer Christian Bérard, always known as Bébé, another regular attender. One evening he brought his little pug, which instantly deposited a small dry turd on the carpet. Without hesitation he picked it up and put it in his pocket; my mother said afterwards that it was the best manners she had ever seen. But the company was by no means only French; there were visiting English, and Americans, and anyone whom my parents knew and happened to be passing through.

Looking back on those days, I have only one regret: I was two or three years too young. I was, I think, moderately precocious for my age, but all these celebrities were only names to me; I called Jean Cocteau Jean and mixed him dry martinis, but I had never read a word he had written. Had I been eighteen in 1944 instead of fifteen I would have known – and learnt – so much more. But there: no complaints. I was lucky to have been there at all.

My father deliberately scheduled his official tours to coincide with my holidays, so we visited every corner of the country. At Easter 1945, just as the war was about to end, we drove south – past the occasional rusting and burnt-out tank – for my first sight of the Mediterranean, the blueness of which – after the green-grey Channel – I shall never forget. In 1946, with a school friend, I bicycled through Provence from Avignon to Nice; but the combination of the intense heat, the battle-pitted roads and the endless punctures (thanks to synthetic rubber inner tubes) made the journey only a partial success. In 1947, while waiting to join the navy, I also spent six months living with a delightful Alsatian family in Strasbourg, attending lectures in German and Russian (which I had begun with a Linguaphone course at the age of twelve) at the university. I enjoyed Strasbourg enormously, apart from the hideous embarrassment caused by my landlady’s constant attempt to de-virginise me, often five minutes before her husband was due home. (Now I come to think of it, she probably told him all about it every night in bed, to their combined chuckles.) When we left the embassy at the end of that year, we lived permanently in a lovely house on the lake just outside Chantilly. By this time, France had become my permanent home, the only one I had; and I grew to love it more and more.

It was during those embassy days that I had my first and last meeting with General de Gaulle. On 6 June 1947, the third anniversary of the D-Day landings, a commemorative service on one of the beaches was followed by a huge buffet lunch in an adjacent hotel. For some reason I could not get there, as my parents had, the night before; I therefore drove up on the morning of the day itself. I was seventeen, and it was my first long solo car journey. I had been hoping to arrive in time for lunch; but I got hopelessly lost among the narrow, unmarked lanes of Normandy and arrived only as the meal was ending. On my arrival my father introduced me to the general, who, much to my surprise, stood up to greet me, unwinding all six foot five of him. I was deeply honoured, but also ravenously hungry and all the food seemed to have been cleared away. One plate only remained: the general’s, on which lay a large slice of apparently untouched apple pie. I was transfixed by the sight of it. ‘Do you think he’s going to eat it?’ I asked my mother. ‘How should I know?’ she replied, ‘you’d better ask him.’ There followed a short battle between hunger and shyness; hunger won, and I went up to his table. ‘Excusez-moi, mon général,’ I said, ‘mais est-ce que vous allez manger votre tarte aux pommes?’ He immediately pushed the plate over, with a faint smile and an apology that he had spilt his cigarette ash all over it. Realising, I think, that I might be going a little too far, I said that it would be an honour to eat the general’s ash – a remark that proved a distinct success. It was my only conversation with the great man; unlike most of those he had with my father or Winston Churchill it could hardly have been more friendly.⁴

This book is not written for professional historians, who will find nothing in it that they do not know already. It is intended only for the general reader, to whom the French rather charmingly refer as l’homme moyen sensuel, and is written in the belief that the average English-speaking man or woman has remarkably little knowledge of French history. We may know a bit about Napoleon or Joan of Arc or Louis XIV, but for most of us that’s about it. In my own three schools we were taught only about the battles we won: Crécy and Poitiers, Agincourt and Waterloo.

So here is my attempt to fill in the blanks. I want to talk about the fate of the poor Templars at the hands of the odious Philip the Fair, and what happened to his daughters in the Tour de Nesle; about the wonderful Madame de Pompadour and the odious Madame de Maintenon; about Louis-Philippe, almost forgotten today but probably the best king France ever had; and that’s just for a start. Chapter 1 covers the ground pretty fast, taking us from the Gauls and Julius Caesar to Charlemagne, about eight centuries. But as we continue the pace inevitably slackens. Chapter 21 deals only with the five years of the Second World War. And with that we stop. All history books must have a clearly defined stopping place; if they do not, they drag on until they become works on current affairs, and though I might possibly have gone on to cover Vietnam and Algeria, nothing would have induced me to take on the European Union. No: the year 1945 closed one era and started a new one. The Fourth and Fifth Republics must find another chronicler. (Indeed, they have found several already.)

In introductions like this one, the author is generally allowed to include a personal note; such liberties are not however normally expected in the book itself. I have to admit that in my last two chapters I have occasionally broken this rule. In 1937 my father, Duff Cooper, was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty – the splendid name then given to the Minister for the Navy – an office which he resigned in protest against Neville Chamberlain’s agreement with Hitler at Munich; in 1940 he joined Winston Churchill’s cabinet as Minister of Information; then, after a period first in the Far East and then later doing secret work in London, in January 1944 he became British representative to General de Gaulle’s French Committee in Algiers – going on immediately after the liberation of Paris in August to be Britain’s first post-war ambassador there. In all these positions, in one way or another, he comes into our story. I could hardly leave him out.

I have transgressed in other ways too, notably in the matter of consistency, a virtue I have always deplored. In the pages that follow the reader will find dukes and ducs, counts and comtes, Johns and Jeans, Henrys and Henris. The choice has been dictated occasionally by risks of confusion, but more often by simple euphony – and I am well aware that names that sound right to my ear may well sound hideously wrong to others. If they do, I can only apologise.

I know I have said it before, but this is almost certainly the last book that I shall ever write. I have loved every moment of the work on it, and see it as a sort of thank-offering to France for all the happiness that glorious country has given me over the years.

John Julius Norwich

London, March 2018

1

Very Dark Indeed

58 BC–843

La Gaule unie

Formant une seule nation

Animée d’un même esprit

Peut défier l’Univers.¹

Inscription on Vercingetorix monument

THE FRENCH, LIKE the English, are a racial cocktail: Ligurians, Iberians, Phoenicians and Celts just for a start, not to mention the five hundred-odd different tribes of ancient Gaul. Prehistory, however – as I think I may have mentioned before – is best left to the prehistorians. It is perhaps worth recording that a party of adventurous Greeks from Phocaea on the Aegean coast of Asia Minor founded Marseille around 600 BC; but they left, alas, no surviving monuments behind them, and not much of their culture either. Our story really begins towards the end of the second century BC, when the Romans conquered the south-east corner of what is now France and made it their first province (hence the name it still bears), founding as its capital their new town of Aquae Sextiae, later to become Aix-en-Provence. Other splendid cities – Nîmes, Arles and Orange for a start – followed. Pliny the Elder thought it to be ‘more like Italy than a province’. It must, in those days, have been a wonderful place to live.

When asked to name France’s first hero, few outside the country would go further back than Charlemagne. But to the French, their earliest important leader is Vercingetorix, whose name means either ‘great warrior king’ or ‘king of great warriors’. This is all the more impressive since all the written accounts of him come from the Romans, the people with the most to gain from diminishing his reputation. The South of France was the Roman Empire’s first and most profitable province – so profitable, indeed, that they were keen to expand. Seeing that neighbouring Gaul was, to quote Caesar’s famous opening line ‘divided in three parts’, the wily Romans decided to manipulate the perpetual tensions between the three mutually hostile tribes. Caesar always claimed that his reasons for the invasion of Gaul in 58 BC were primarily defensive and pre-emptive; the Roman province had suffered countless raids – and several quite serious attacks – from the Gallic tribes to the north, and he was determined to prevent any further trouble. This may have been partly true, and the war certainly enabled Rome to establish its natural frontier on the Rhine. But Caesar was, as we know, ambitious. The Roman Republic was rapidly becoming a dictatorship, with more and more power being concentrated in fewer and fewer hands. If, as he hoped, he was ultimately to gather it all into his own, he would need an army; and a major campaign in Gaul would provide one.

Though a number of their tribes had attained a moderate degree of civilisation, the Gauls who opposed him were still essentially barbarians. They had no towns worthy of the name; their villages were often little more than clusters of mud-and-wattle huts, thatched with straw and surrounded with primitive stockades. Of agriculture they knew – or cared – practically nothing. They were herdsmen rather than farmers; they kept sheep and pigs, and they hunted the always plentiful deer. They were carnivores through and through. And they loved fighting. Their horsemanship probably outclassed even that of the Romans, and though they lacked the more sophisticated Roman weaponry their courage and determination, combined with the sheer weight of their numbers, made them formidable enemies. In several of their bloodiest encounters they were victorious; their ultimate defeat was probably due to the simple fact that their tribal society prevented them from achieving any degree of political unity.

Largely for this reason, during the first half of the war they produced no outstanding leaders; but early in 52 BC, when Caesar was away raising troops in Cisalpine Gaul,² the thirty-year-old Vercingetorix became chieftain of the Arverni, who inhabited what is now the Auvergne. Immediately he began forging alliances with the neighbouring tribes, and soon acquired a sizeable army. The first step was to convince the Gauls that it was the Romans, not their own neighbours, who were the enemies. He proved an inspired strategist. His first encounter with the invaders, at Gergovia in the Massif Central, was a decisive victory; according to Caesar himself, the Romans lost some 750 legionaries, including 46 centurions. This brilliant young general represented the most serious threat that he had so far faced. Determined to force the Romans out at all costs, Vercingetorix set up a scorched earth policy. Every village that could offer food or shelter was destroyed: this guerrilla war, however, proved as costly to the inhabitants as the invaders. The tide turned when the tribes baulked at torching the wealthy settlement of Avaricum, arguing that its natural defences (it was built on a hillock and surrounded by marshland) would protect it. Vercingetorix reluctantly agreed, but was proved right when the Roman siege was successful. The following September at Alesia,³ Caesar won the deciding victory. The Gauls, fleeing from the field, were intercepted by the Roman cavalry and slaughtered almost to a man. Among the few survivors was their leader himself, who made his formal surrender on the following day. The great Graeco-Roman historian Plutarch, writing around 100 AD, tells how Vercingetorix, ‘the chief spring of all the war’, put on his finest armour and fitted out his horse in its finest trappings before riding out of the gates. He then made a ceremonial turn around the enthroned Caesar, dismounted, threw off his armour and remained quietly sitting at Caesar’s feet until he was led away to prison.

The temptation must have been to commit suicide, as Queen Boadicea is believed to have done after her defeat in the following century. Instead, Vercingetorix was imprisoned for five years before being paraded, as part of Caesar’s triumph, through the streets of Rome and finally meeting the customary death by strangulation. In the nineteenth century, thanks largely to Napoleon III, he was celebrated as the first of the great French nationalists. In Clermont-Ferrand there is a marvellous equestrian statue of the young general, his horse at full gallop; while on the supposed site of his last magnificent battle there stands another, its cylindrical plinth bearing the inscription quoted at the beginning of this chapter and endowing its subject with a wonderfully luxuriant walrus moustache, seldom rivalled until the days of Georges Clemenceau.

The war dragged on for another year or two, but after Alesia Gaul became to all intents and purposes Roman. The Gauls, heaven knows, had little reason to love their conquerors: Caesar had treated them harshly – often cruelly – and had shown them little respect. He had looted and plundered without mercy, had seized their gold and silver and had sold thousands of prisoners into slavery. But, as the years went by, they began to see that there were, after all, compensations. Nothing unites peoples like a common enemy, and under Roman governorship they became united as never before; their tribal system simply withered away. Three Roman governments were established, for the provinces of Gallia Celtica (with the headquarters of the Governor General in Lyon), Gallia Belgica, corresponding roughly to what is now Belgium, and Aquitania in the south-west corner; and at once they settled down to work. Within fifty years, the Gallic landscape was transformed just as Provence had been the best part of a century before – with new roads, cities, country villas, theatres, public baths and – for the first time – properly ploughed fields. Now, with a little effort, an educated Gaul might obtain Roman citizenship, with all the privileges that it entailed: as a civis romanus, he might even be entrusted with the command of an army, or the administration of a province.

Gaul was to remain Roman for some five hundred years – roughly the same period of time that separates us from the reign of King Henry VIII. By the beginning of the second century, men had begun to talk of a new religion – one that had its origin in the far-distant province of Asia but was set to inaugurate profound changes across Europe and beyond. Like Roman civilisation itself, Christianity spread slowly northward from the Mediterranean. By 100 AD the first missionaries had reached Marseille; it was the best part of another century before the message got as far as Lyon. The Roman Empire – for an empire it had now become – was surprisingly relaxed where religion was concerned: so long as lip-service was paid to the cult of the emperor, people were free to believe more or less what they liked. The Christians, however, were not prepared to go even that far. Persecution was therefore inevitable. It began under Nero in 64, after the Great Fire of Rome, and continued spasmodically for the next 250 years, reaching its darkest hour in the reign of Diocletian at the turn of the third and fourth centuries. Martyrs were innumerable – among them Saint Denis, third-century Bishop of Paris, who when beheaded calmly picked up his severed head and walked several miles⁴ to the site of the abbey that bears his name while preaching a sermon on repentance.

But then came the dawn: in February 313 the two emperors Constantine the Great and Licinius published the Edict of Milan, which permanently established toleration for Christians throughout the empire; and twenty-five years later – though admittedly only when on his deathbed⁵ – Constantine himself was baptised. In the centuries to come, though France would suffer more than her full share of religious wars, the sway of Christianity would not again be threatened until the Revolution.

By the beginning of the fifth century the Roman Empire was on its last legs, almost defenceless against the barbarians – Goths, Huns and Vandals – who swept down from the north-east, ever in search of warmer climates and more fertile lands. These were not invading armies; they were migrations of whole peoples – men, women and children. The eastern Goths (Ostrogoths), the western Goths (Visigoths) and the Vandals were at least semi-civilised; they were all of Germanic origin and were Christians. Unfortunately they were also Arian heretics, steadfastly maintaining that Jesus Christ was not, as the orthodox believed, co-eternal and of one substance with God the Father, but that he had been created by Him at a specific time and for a specific purpose, as His chosen instrument for the salvation of the world. This put them at loggerheads with the Church; but they had no desire to destroy the empire, for which they had nothing but admiration. All they asked was Lebensraum, somewhere to settle; and settle they did.

The Huns, on the other hand, were Mongols, and barbarians through and through. Most of them still lived and slept in the open, disdaining all agriculture and even cooked food – though legend has it that they softened raw meat by massaging it between their thighs and the flanks of their horses as they rode. For clothing they favoured tunics made either from linen or, rather surprisingly, from the skins of field mice crudely stitched together; these they wore continuously, without ever removing them, until they dropped off of their own accord. (A law was passed in 416 banning anyone dressed in animal skins or with long hair from coming within the walls of Rome.) The leader of the Huns, Attila, was short, swarthy and snub-nosed, with a thin, straggling beard and beady little eyes set in a head too big for his body. Within the space of a few years he had made himself feared throughout Europe: more feared, perhaps, than any other single man – with the possible exception of Napoleon – before or since.

These were the people who crossed the Rhine early in 451 and smashed their way through France as far as Orléans, before being defeated on 20 June by a combined Roman and Visigothic force on the Catalaunian Plains, just outside Châlons-sur-Marne. Had Attila continued his advance, French history might have been very different; but the situation was quite bad enough without him. As the whole machinery of the empire began to crumble, even communications across the Alps were broken; orders from Rome simply failed to arrive. The abdication in 476 of the last Emperor of the West, the pathetic child Romulus Augustulus – his very name a double-diminutive – is no surprise.

With the Roman Empire effectively gone – though the Byzantine emperor in Constantinople continued to claim authority – Gaul disintegrated into a mass of small barbarian states under so-called kings, dukes and counts. As we know, however, nature abhors a vacuum; sooner or later one state becomes stronger than the rest and ultimately achieves domination. This time it was the Salian Franks. Relatively recent arrivals, they first appeared in the area in the second century, and over the next three hundred years gradually merged with the Gallo-Roman populations, giving their name to modern France in the process. In the later fourth century their kingdom had been founded by a certain Childeric, son of Merovech, and was consequently known as the Merovingian; and it was Childeric’s son Clovis who became King of the Franks in 481. Uniting as he did nearly all Gaul under Merovingian rule, Clovis has a serious claim to have been the first King of France. His name, in its later version of ‘Louis’, was to be given to eighteen successors before the French monarchy ended.

It would be pleasant indeed if we could look upon Clovis in a heroic light, as we can Vercingetorix. Alas, we cannot. He was a monster. He eliminated his enemies occasionally in a legitimate battle – as he did in 486 at Soissons, when he effectively put an end to all Western Roman authority outside Italy – but far more frequently by cold-blooded murder, cheerfully assassinating all potential threats, Frankish and otherwise. It worked. By the time of his death around 513 – the precise date is uncertain – his rule extended over the greater part of modern France, Belgium and, to the east, a considerable distance into northern Germany. He had also reluctantly abandoned his initial Arianism – largely at the instigation of his Burgundian wife Clotilde – and on Christmas Day 496 had been received into the Catholic faith. On that day the fate of Arianism in France was sealed. Over the coming years more and more of his people were to follow his example, leading eventually to the religious unification of France and Germany, which was to endure for the next millennium. And it was thanks to that same baptism that, three hundred years later, Charlemagne and Pope Leo III could forge the alliance that gave birth to the Holy Roman Empire.

Throughout some two hundred and fifty of those years, the Merovingian dynasty ruled France – and came dangerously near to destroying it. The good old days of settled government were over; cities and towns were left to fall into ruin. The Frankish kings, immediately distinguishable from their subjects by their shoulder-length blondish hair – said to represent the sun’s rays – journeyed endlessly from one village to the next with their officials and their men-at-arms, carrying with them their huge triple-sealed coffers of treasure and cheerfully waging countless and pointless little family wars. Even when they were not so engaged, violence was never far away. For an example we have to look no further than Clovis’s son Chilperic, whom the later French chronicler Gregory of Tours dubbed ‘the Nero and Herod of his time’ and who took as his second wife Galswintha, daughter of the Visigothic King of Spain. The marriage was not a success, and one morning Galswintha was found strangled in her bed. This seems to have been the work of a serving-maid called Fredegund, who had long been the king’s mistress and whom he married a short time later. Now it happened that Galswintha had a sister, Brunhilda, who was the wife of Chilperic’s brother Sigebert. The murder caused a series of fearsome wars between the two brothers, until in 575, just when he had Chilperic at his mercy, Sigebert was murdered by Fredegund. Chilperic lived on for another nine years – during which time he introduced eye-gouging as a new sort of punishment – before being stabbed to death in 584 by an unknown assailant, probably one of Brunhilda’s men; but he was posthumously avenged when his son Chlothar II seized Brunhilda and had her lashed to the tail of a horse, which was then sent off at a gallop.

There were in theory twenty-seven Merovingian kings, but it will be a relief to the reader that their detailed history will play no part in this book. In fact even this figure can be only a very conservative estimate, since for much of the time France was once again broken up into an infinity of minor kingdoms; frequently there were several kings reigning at the same time. Mention must be made, however, of one, simply since he is the most famous of them all: Dagobert I who, as every French schoolboy knows, put on his trousers inside out.⁶ But he also did a good deal more. In 630 or thereabouts he annexed Alsace, the Vosges and the Ardennes, creating a new duchy, and he made Paris his capital. Though his debaucheries were famous – hence the perfectly idiotic little song – he was deeply religious and founded the Basilica of Saint-Denis, in which he was the first French king to be buried. From the tenth century onwards all but three were to join him there.

These were the dark ages; and in France they were very dark indeed. The only glimmering of light came from the Church which, unlike the State, remained firm and well organised. By this time the ecclesiastical hierarchy had been securely established, with a bishop in every diocese and a conscientious if largely uneducated priesthood. Meanwhile, thanks to the benefactions of the faithful and the efficient exaction of tithes, church property was steadily increasing – as indeed was church power: every ruler knew all too well that he was in constant danger of excommunication or even of an interdict, which would condemn not only himself, but all his subjects as well. The monasteries too were beginning to make their presence felt. They had long flourished in the east, where there was only one monastic order, that of St Basil; but the Basilians were essentially contemplatives and hermits. St Benedict, the sixth-century father of monasticism in the west, had very different ideas. The black-robed Benedictines were communities in the fullest sense of the word, dedicated to total obedience and hard physical labour, principally agricultural. But they also found time to study, to copy manuscripts – immensely important in the centuries before the invention of printing – and generally to keep alive a little spark of learning and humanity in the bleak, depressing world in which they lived.

Then the Muslims arrived. In 633 – just a year after the Prophet’s death – they had burst out of Arabia. The speed of their advance was astonishing. Within thirty years they had captured not only Syria and Palestine, but also most of the Persian Empire, Afghanistan and part of the Punjab. They next turned their attention to the west. Constantinople looked too tough a nut to crack, so they swung to the left and headed along the shores of North Africa. At this point their pace became slower; it was not before the end of the century that they reached the Atlantic, and not till 711 that they were ready to cross the Straits of Gibraltar into Spain. But by 732, still less than a century after their eruption from their desert homeland, they had made their way over the Pyrenees and, according to tradition, pressed on as far as Tours – where, only 150 miles from Paris, they were checked at last by the Frankish king Charles Martel in an engagement which inspired Edward Gibbon to one of his most celebrated flights of fancy:

A victorious line of march had been prolonged above a thousand miles from the Rock of Gibraltar to the banks of the Loire; the repetition of an equal space would have carried the Saracens to the confines of Poland and the Highlands of Scotland; the Rhine is not more impassable than the Nile or the Euphrates, and the Arabian fleet might have sailed without a naval combat into the mouth of the Thames. Perhaps the interpretation of the Koran would now be taught in the schools of Oxford, and her pupils might demonstrate to a circumcised people the sanctity and truth of the Revelation of Mahomet.

Modern historians are quick to point out that the Battle of Tours is scarcely mentioned by contemporary or near-contemporary Arab historians, and then only as a comparatively insignificant episode. The evidence of these writers strongly suggests that the troops encountered by Charles Martel were simply members of a raiding party who had ventured perhaps hundreds of miles in advance of the main army, and that the so-called battle was little more than a protracted skirmish; but we shall never know for sure. More important for us is Charles Martel himself. By the seventh and eighth centuries the Merovingian kings had descended so far into dissipation and debauchery that they had effectively ceased to rule. The real power of the kingdom now rested with a distinguished head official known as the Mayor of the Palace, a post that had by now become hereditary, and was held by succeeding members of the house of Pepin. Charles Martel – ‘the Hammer’ – had succeeded his father in 715, and was de facto ruler of France for the next quarter of a century until he was succeeded by his son Pepin the Short. Not a moment too soon, this spelt the end of the Merovingians. In 751 Pepin forced the last king, Childeric III, into a monastery and had himself proclaimed King of the Franks by the Pope. In doing so he founded a new royal dynasty, named after his father, the Carolingian.

Pepin was by far the greatest European ruler of his time; it was, however, his misfortune to be overshadowed by one greater still – his son Charles, better known as Charlemagne, who came to the throne on Pepin’s death in 768. Thanks to his immense size, his energy, his health and his prodigious vigour – he had five legitimate wives and four supplementary spouses – and the simplicity of his life, wearing as he did (except on state occasions) the linen tunic, scarlet breeches and cross-gartering of his Frankish subjects, Charlemagne was to become an almost legendary figure, whose authority was to spread far more widely than that of his predecessors. In 774 he captured Pavia and proclaimed himself King of the Lombards; returning to Germany, he next subdued the heathen Saxons and converted them en masse to Christianity before going on to annex already-Christian Bavaria. An invasion of Spain was less successful – though it provided the inspiration for the first great epic ballad of western Europe, the ‘Chanson de Roland’ – but Charles’s subsequent campaign against the Avars in Hungary and Upper Austria resulted in the destruction of their kingdom as an independent state and its absorption within his own dominions. Thus, in little more than a generation, he had raised the kingdom of the Franks from being just one of the many semi-tribal European states to a single political unit of vast extent, unparalleled since the days of imperial Rome.

And he had done so, for most of the time at least, with the enthusiastic approval of the papacy. It was nearly half a century since Pope Stephen II had struggled across the Alps to seek help against the Lombards from Charles’s father Pepin; Charles himself had been in Rome on a state visit in 774 when, as a young man of thirty-two, he had been welcomed by Pope Hadrian I and, deeply impressed by all he saw, had confirmed his father’s donation of that central Italian territory which was to form the nucleus of the Papal States. And in 800 he came again, this time on more serious business. Pope Leo III, ever since his accession four years before, had been the victim of incessant intrigue on the part of a body of young Roman noblemen who were determined to remove him; and on 25 April he had actually been set upon in the street and beaten unconscious. Only by the greatest good fortune was he rescued by friends and removed to recover at Charles’s court at Paderborn. Under the protection of Frankish agents he returned to Rome a few months later, only to find himself facing a number of serious charges fabricated by his enemies, including simony, perjury and adultery.

By whom, however, could he be tried? Who was qualified to pass judgement on the Vicar of Christ on Earth? In normal circumstances the only conceivable answer to that question would have been the emperor at Constantinople; but the imperial throne was at that time occupied by a woman, the Empress Irene. The fact that Irene had blinded and murdered her own son was, in the minds of both Leo and Charles, almost immaterial; it was enough that she was a woman. The female sex was believed to be incapable of governing, and by the old Salic tradition was debarred from doing so. As far as western Europe was concerned, the throne of the emperors was vacant.

Charles was fully aware, when he travelled to Rome towards the end of 800, that he had no more authority than Irene to sit in judgement at St Peter’s; but he also knew that while the accusations remained unrefuted Christendom lacked not only an emperor but a pope as well, and he was determined to do all he could to clear Leo’s name. As to the precise nature of his testimony, we can only guess; but on 23 December, at the high altar, the Pope swore a solemn oath on the Gospels that he was innocent of all the charges levelled against him – and the assembled synod accepted his word. Two days later, as Charles rose from his knees at the conclusion of the Christmas Mass, Leo laid the imperial crown upon his head, and the whole congregation cheered him to the echo. He had received, as his enemies were quick to point out, only a title: the crown brought with it not a single new subject or soldier, nor an acre of new territory. But that title was of more lasting significance than any number of conquests; it meant that, after more than four hundred years, there was once again an emperor in western Europe.

Historians have long debated whether the imperial coronation had been jointly planned by Leo and Charles or whether, as appeared at the time, the King of the Franks was taken completely by surprise. Of the two possibilities, the latter seems a good deal more likely. Charles had never shown the faintest interest in claiming imperial status, and for the rest of his life continued to style himself Rex Francorum et Langobardorum – King of the Franks and Lombards. Nor, above all, did he wish to owe any obligation to the Pope; there is every reason to believe that he was in fact extremely angry when he found such an obligation thrust upon him. Leo, on the other hand, was creating an all-important precedent. By crowning Charles as he did, he was emphasising that both the empire and Charles at its head were his creations. The world could make no mistake: it was to the Pope, and to the Pope only, that the emperor owed his title.

Although Charlemagne is credited with what is known as the Carolingian Renaissance, vastly increasing the numbers of monastic schools and scriptoria in his dominions, he himself was almost certainly illiterate. There is a theory that he could read a bit; but his biographer Einhard writes rather touchingly about the emperor’s attempts to master the art of writing, telling us of the wax tablets he kept under his pillow to practise on when he could not sleep. He tried hard; ‘but’, wrote Einhard, ‘his effort came too late in life and achieved little success’. In the words of Sir Kenneth Clark, he simply couldn’t get the hang of it. It hardly mattered: this astonishing figure, more than half barbarian, kept his newly forged empire together by the strength of his personality alone; after his death in 814 its story is one of steady decline, first by family partitioning and finally with virtual disintegration following the extinction of his line in 888. It was probably inevitable: like, ultimately, its Roman predecessor, the Carolingian Empire carried with it the seeds of its own destruction. It was simply too big: proper communication across its length and breadth was impossible.

By his only son, Louis I the Pious, Charlemagne had three grandsons, who after much strife reached an agreement on the division of their territories in 843 at Verdun. Charles the Bald received, very roughly, all France west of the Rhône and the Saône; to Louis II the German went Austrasia (most of north-east France, Belgium and western Germany), Bavaria, Swabia and Saxony; while the youngest, Lothair, had to be content with a long strip of land running from the North Sea, along the valleys of the Meuse, the Rhine and the Rhône, then southwards through the length of Italy into Calabria. It was the partition at Verdun that created the modern countries of France and Germany, together with that territory between them, Alsace-Lorraine, that has bedevilled their relations ever since.

Furthermore, although Charlemagne’s empire perished, his ideas did not. Henceforth, the western Europeans were almost able to forget about Constantinople. Before 800, there was only one empire in the Christian world – the empire of Augustus, Trajan and Hadrian, which was not a jot less Roman for having had its capital transferred to the Bosphorus. But the Bosphorus was nearly 1500 miles from Paris; the West now had an emperor of its own, on its very doorstep. And that emperor had been crowned by the Pope in Rome. In Merovingian days most of the kings had been little more than the leaders of bands of thugs; the Carolingians and their successors would be the Lord’s anointed. Emperor and Pope would rule jointly, hand in hand, the former physically protecting the latter, the latter ensuring not only the spiritual but also the cultural well-being of his flock. To be sure, later centuries would see this system break down on countless occasions, but the thought was always there. After Charlemagne, Europe would never be the same again.