The She-Wolf, the Lovers, a Curse and Some Big War: The Affair of the Tour de Nesle

Part 1: The Scandal

To say that the Affair of the Tour de Nesle sparked my love of history might be overstating matters a little … but not much. While it is, these days, mostly a footnote in the long histories of the French and English royal lines, oh, what a footnote it is! The story comes with more plot twists than your average lurid soap opera: adultery, murder, family drama, political intrigue, blood curses, not to mention a long-ass war to boot. Reportedly, it was one of the inspirations for George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones and, if you take dragons out of the equation, it isn’t far behind those books in terms of mayhem. I first read about the Affair of the Tour de Nesle in a wonderful series called The Accursed Kings by Maurice Druon, a fictionalized account of the last decades of France’s Capetian dynasty. The books read like potboilers but are, nevertheless, well-grounded in historical fact. They are most definitely NOT young adult-friendly, which is probably why I was obsessed with them as, ahem, a young preteen. Oops. Listen, there was no internet back then, so “naughty” books were all we had, ok? The biggest lesson I took away from The Accursed Kings is that history is FUN. It is full of naughty bits! You just need to know where to look.

The Affair – I’m gonna call it that from now on – embroiled 2 dynasties and indirectly spawned the Hundred Years’ War, which is kind of a big deal, I guess. War is my least favourite part of history, so I’m mentioning it only to establish the table stakes here. The Affair had ramifications that few could have predicted at the time and it’s fun to imagine what might have been, had things unfolded differently. To get a full sense of its context and impact, we are going to have to cover a fair bit of background. Pull up a chair, grab a drink, settle in. Let me tell you a story.

Once there was a man called Philip, who was the king of France.

Actually … technically, his name was Philippe. Because he was French, yeah? But I’m going to use the Anglicized version of everybody’s name henceforth so … Philip it is.

Philip was the son of Philip III of France, which made him the Fourth of his name, in a line descended from one Hugh Capet (hence, the Capetian dynasty). Everyone agrees that Philip was extremely handsome, which is not a given for real-life kings as we all know; in fact, his good looks were sufficiently noteworthy that Philip’s nickname was “Le Bel” or “the Handsome”. I’ve always loved the fact that the French gave their kings nicknames – and not all of them flattering. Like, you might have had a McDreamy, but you could also have a McJerkface. More on that later. We don’t know for sure what Philip looked like, but he was exceptionally tall (relatively speaking; the average male height during the Middle Ages was, like, 5’5) and very possibly fair-haired. Although good-looking, I am not sure that Philip was all that sexy. He had a cold, calculating intelligence and an ascetic bend (he wore a hair shirt under his fancy clothes). Someone once described him thusly: “He is neither man nor beast. He is a statue.” Rocks are not known for their sex appeal.

Philip’s other nickname was the Iron King, for reasons which are exactly what you might expect: he was hella autocratic and oppressive. He worked tirelessly to undermine the French nobility and centralize power in his own hands and he taxed everyone to death. Sometimes literally. Taxes were Philip’s pet subject; he had a beef with the Pope, Boniface VIII, over taxes – both sides were angling for the biggest piece of the oppression pie, in case you were thinking there were any heroes in this story. Philip wasn’t shy about taking on the Catholic Church, even after being threatened with the everlasting fires of Hell and a papal bull called “Listen, son”. I don’t know why, but that detail never not amuses me – you can just tell that Boniface had HAD it with Philip by this point. Unfortunately for Boniface, Philip DIDN’T listen. Instead, he had Boniface captured, roughed up, and held hostage until Philip got what he wanted. Boniface barely survived the manhandling and died shortly after. Following his demise, the papal court was moved to Avignon (in French territory under Philip’s control) and a new, pro-French pope, Clement V, was elected. With his new papal puppet in his pocket, Philip proudly prospered. Say THAT 3 times fast.

Forever short on cash, Philip worked tirelessly to shore up his finances; firstly, by extorting money from Lombard merchants living in France. He did this by arresting them, seizing their assets, and then forcing them to buy French nationality at an exorbitant price. Next, he expelled the Jews from France in 1306, but not before confiscating their property – a stratagem which, unfortunately, was very popular during this period and thereafter. A year later, Philip cast about for another source of revenue and set his sights on the Knights Templar. Instead of expelling them, he had them excommunicated – thanks, Clement! – and brought to trial on charges of heresy and devil worship, which modern consensus deems entirely trumped up.

The Templars were an independent, well-organized militaristic organization with very deep pockets. Philip wasn’t a fan. He was especially not a fan of the fact that the Templars didn’t have to answer to him. Despots gonna despot! Philip tried to get his hands into the Templars’ deep pockets by having himself chosen as their Grand Master (aka the Big Boss), but the Templars were not stupid and wanted no part of it. So, once more, Philip was, like, OK FINE, let’s do this the hard way then. And boom: in October 1307, all the Templars in France were rounded up and thrown in jail. This event spawned a conspiracy cottage industry and a million sh*tty books including but not limited to The Holy Blood and The Holy Grail which is another age-inappropriate book I f*cking loved as a teenager. Please do not judge my parents. Anyway, we don’t have time to get into the full Templars story here, but we are going to circle back later to the death of their last Grand Master, Jacques Molay.

Alright, so we have established that Philip wasn’t an especially nice king. But what was he like when he was at home? We can’t know for sure – he didn’t keep a diary or anything – but he is commonly credited as a man devoted to his wife, Joan of Navarre. He had no known mistresses during her lifetime and, after Joan died in 1305, Philip never remarried. They had a bunch of kids, 4 of whom survived to adulthood: Louis, Philip Junior, Charles, and Isabella. Each of them features prominently in the Affair, and they all went on to become crowned heads of state which is both unusual and something of a spoiler for the rest of this story.

Louis was Philip’s eldest son and the least appealing of his progeny, both physically and temperamentally. His eventual regal cognomen (that’s the fancy word for royal nickname) was “le Hutin” or “the Quarrelsome” which was probably the diplomatic version of whatever people actually called him behind his back. In 1305, at the age of 18, he was married to Margaret, daughter of Robert II, duke of Burgundy. Philip was all about arranging politically advantageous marriages for his kids, and this was one of them. Without going too far down a rabbit hole – the history of the territories known as Burgundy is EXTREMELY complicated – suffice it to say that the duke of Burgundy controlled an area on the eastern side of modern-day France (along with parts of modern-day Germany and Switzerland) that was geopolitically significant. Margaret was a very wealthy heiress and also happened to be a “feisty and shapely” young lady, which was probably more than Quarrelsome Louis deserved … although he may not have been especially impressed with his good luck. Louis was more interested in tennis than his wife. This might explain why their old child – a daughter named Joan – wasn’t born until 1312, 7 years into their marriage. Needless to say, it was not a particularly happy marriage which, to be fair, wasn’t all that unusual for nobility in those days. There was a reason, after all, why the tradition of “courtly love” flowered in the 12^th and 13^th centuries. All those beautiful noble ladies in whose name knights fulfilled chivalrous quests? They all had quarrelsome husbands at home.

But Philip wasn’t done with the matchmaking just yet. He had 2 other sons to marry off. This is where things get a little confusing. In addition to the duke of Burgundy, there was also a count of Burgundy, who was an entirely different person named Otto IV, who controlled a different (but equally important) territory. See, I told you the whole Burgundy situation was complicated. Anyway, Otto conveniently had 2 daughters – Joan and Blanche. So, in 1307, Philip Junior married Joan, and Charles married Blanche.

Look, I know. So many people, all with the same names. It’s confusing! In the interests of clarity, we will call Louis’ daughter Baby Joan, and Philip Junior’s wife Red Joan. Because she’s from Burgundy – and burgundy is a reddish colour, yeah? And since she’s already dead, hereafter we can just ignore Joan of Navarre (wife of Philip IV).

Interestingly, Red Joan had been initially put forward as a potential bride for Louis but, for some reason, Philip IV changed his mind. On the whole, this was probably a blessing for everyone involved. Despite Red Joan being 5 or 6 years older than Philip Junior, they seemed to have hit it off. Philip Junior might not have been quite as handsome as his dad but he was tall, sensitive, and intelligent – the smartest among his brothers, for sure. His marriage to Red Joan was, as far as we know, a happy one; Philip Junior apparently wrote her numerous love letters which have been described by some historians as “formulaic” and others as “passionate”. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Can you have a formulaically passionate love letter? Alas, none of the sources I’ve consulted have ever reproduced an example so I haven’t been able to investigate further. Historians, do better! At any rate, Philip Junior and Red Joan had 4 daughters in quick succession between 1308 and 1313 which suggests that, at a minimum, Philip probably spent less time playing tennis than his brother, Louis. As for Red Joan? There is precious little we know about her – her looks, her personality, or her interests. Along with her sister, Blanche, she is a bit of a cipher. We can only assume that she drew less attention to herself than her sister-in-law, Margaret of Burgundy, since the historical record mentions neither her feistiness nor her shapeliness.

The last and least interesting of Philip’s sons was Charles. He took after his dad in the looks department but was otherwise a “stiff-necked” and “strait-laced” person possessed of no exceptional qualities. I found this summary particularly devastating in its brevity: Charles was “a crashing bore, and his marriage to … Blanche was boring too.” In their defence, they were married at 13 and 11, respectively, and how exciting can we expect 2 children to be?

Let me sidebar here for a second because I am never not confounded by how YOUNG historical figures were during the most crucial moments of their lives. I know life expectancies were vastly different in the Middle Ages but, still: how much more mature would, say, a 12-year old have been in those days as compared to now? Because royalty not only married young, but also often assumed power very young, which means that you had entire kingdoms run by literal teenagers. The mind boggles. On the other hand, we now have the whole globe being run by billionaires so are we any better off? Don’t answer that.

The youngest of Philip IV’s children was Isabella, who was also probably Philip’s favourite. Here, we finally have a character worth our undivided attention. Isabella was her father’s daughter in many ways. She was referred to as one of the most beautiful women of the day and even if we assume this reputation reflects some degree of flattery given her royal status, it’s probably safe to assume that she was at least very pretty. She was also very intelligent and accomplished; of this, there is solid evidence throughout her political career as we shall see later. Her personal life, however, was a BIG MESS thanks to the marriage which Philip arranged for her in 1308 – the marriage that defined her reputation for the next 600+ years.

When she was 12, Isabella was married to Edward II, who had recently become king of England. [His dad was also called Edward. I hope you’re keeping track of all these people. There may be a quiz at the end. Hah! I’m kidding.] The bridegroom was 11 years older than Isabella but otherwise a promising spouse, at least on paper. Edward looked every inch the Disney prince; he was tall with curly fair hair, good-looking, athletic, and articulate. Unusual for a man of his background, he preferred music, poetry, carpentry and other “rural pursuits” – digging ditches, thatching roofs, shoeing horses, and driving carts to name a few – to jousting and violent sports. He was also a snappy dresser. Isabella was probably pleased when she finally met him on their wedding day; he certainly would have made a very good first impression.

Unfortunately, Edward also had plenty of less attractive qualities. He could be difficult, petulant, vindictive and even cruel – he definitely had the famous Plantagenet temper; he was also somewhat indolent and indecisive, potentially deadly qualities in a medieval king. And what Isabella didn’t know was that Edward already had a close relationship that consumed most of his emotional resources. That relationship was with a man called Piers Gaveston, an English nobleman of Gascon origin. Much ink been spilled over this relationship and the endless analysis of its precise nature, and I don’t propose to rehash all of that here because Edward is only a peripheral figure in the Affair. Whether or not Edward was bisexual or homosexual (by today’s definitions), he was passionately devoted to Gaveston long before he married Isabella. It has been said that Edward gave Gaveston many of the wedding gifts which had been intended for Isabella and allowed him a prominent role at his and Isabella’s coronation in 1308. At the same time, though much less talked about, Edward also had mistresses; an illegitimate son was born around 1307.

All in all, Isabella probably had a disappointing first few years of marriage. The fact that it was unconsummated was likely a blessing, given Isabella’s very young age, but we can safely assume that Edward didn’t make much effort to endear himself to her. He was far too taken up by squabbles with his barons, who hated Gaveston and wanted him exiled (or, better yet, dead). If Isabella was hoping for some affection or even a modicum of attention from her husband, it was in short supply. Still, there is evidence to suggest that by 1310, Isabella had managed to come to terms with the situation, and the three of them – Isabella, Edward and Piers – learned to “coexist” peacefully. I mean, it’s not like Isabella had a lot of choices, yeah? She was 14, in a foreign country, and her husband literally owned her. Still, it speaks to Isabella’s diplomatic skills that she was able to build a relatively stable relationship with Edward which survived the death of Gaveston (at the hands of those angry barons) in 1311. By the following year, she gave birth to her first child, a son, the future Edward III.

And so we come to the fateful year, 1313. Double thirteen? Ooooh.

By 1313, the trials of the Templars had petered out; some had been executed, some had escaped, some had never been arrested but had quietly slipped away to join other military orders or go into hiding. Philip IV bullied Pope Clement into officially dissolving the Templars organization in 1312. The only remaining high profile Templars still in prison were Jacques Molay, the former Grand Master, and Geoffroi de Charney, the former Preceptor of Normandy. Both men had previously confessed (under torture) to various charges, but later retracted those confessions; they remained a thorn in Philip’s side.

In England, things weren’t going terribly well for Edward; following Gaveston’s death, it was a minor miracle that all-out civil war didn’t break out between Edward and the barons. Somehow, a tenuous truce was reached. It was kind of a sh*tty time for everyone, not least Isabella who probably had her hands full with a new baby and a husband who was still mourning for the love of his life. I mean, can you imagine? Sometimes I can barely handle my inbox on a Monday morning, much less a f*ckton of traumatic emotional baggage.

It was at this juncture that Edward and Isabella decided to travel to France, in the spring of 1313, to meet with Philip IV to discuss some long-standing disagreements over the administration of Gascony. Gascony belonged to Edward, but he held it as a vassal of Philip’s. Which made Philip Edward’s father-in-law AND his boss. That must have been fun.

As far as we know, this trip went well. There were lots of banquets and celebrations – a proper family reunion, you might say. During these festivities, Isabella gave lavishly embroidered purses to each of her sisters-in-law; some sources suggest she hand-embroidered them herself. In Maurice Druon’s fictionalized account of this incident, Isabella had ulterior motives in giving this generous gift, but most historians seem to think it was simply a gesture of goodwill. Regardless, the consequences turned out to be disastrous.

That summer, Edward and Isabella returned to London. At one of their welcome-back banquets, Isabella noticed that two of the purses she had gifted her sisters-in-law were being worn by a pair of French knights, the brothers Philip and Gautier d’Aunay. Isabella’s spidey senses went hmmmmm.

It is tempting, in hindsight, to wonder if – as Druon suggests – Isabella had put on her Wagatha Christie thinking cap and decided to test her sisters-in-law by giving them presents of a sort that could easily be re-gifted to, say, secret male lovers. If so, the historical record gives no clues as to why she might have come to suspect them of harbouring secret lovers in the first place. Marguerite and Blanche had something of a reputation for frivolity and empty-headedness, but (a) that’s still far removed from possible adultery, and (b) it’s hard to know how much of that reputation was retroactively attributed to them after the Affair. Maybe Isabella just took one look at Louis and figured that nobody as “fiesty” as Margaret could possibly find him a satisfactory husband. Or maybe she really didn’t have a clue and unknowingly set in motion a tragic chain of events.

What Isabella did next, we do know for sure. On her next visit to France, in February 1314, she shared her suspicions with her dad.

I have always found Isabella’s role in the Affair the most fascinating part of the story. Surprisingly – to me, at least – her actions drew criticism at the time. I guess nobody likes a snitch but, honestly, what else could she have done? As a sister, she must have felt compelled to protect her brothers; not to mention, the succession to the throne of France was at stake, Louis being the heir and all. Improbably, some historians have theorized that this was precisely why Isabella acted as she did – she supposedly saw an opportunity to increase the chances of her own son, Edward, inheriting the French throne by removing her sisters-in-law. Honestly, this makes no sense because Isabella could not have reasonably expected that none of her 3 brothers would remarry and have children. I don’t buy it.

No, it’s mainly in hindsight that Isabella comes out of the Affair looking like a petty bitch – her own marriage having subsequently unraveled in spectacular (allegedly murderous) fashion. But who could have known that in 1314? Not Isabella, that’s for sure. In 1314, Isabella could say without qualms that she knew ALL about duty and sacrifice in the service of a dynastic marriage that didn’t offer much in the way of personal fulfillment. She had been saddled with an unsatisfactory husband and she’d made the best of it, without resorting to the consolations of an illicit lover. It’s easy to understand why she would not be sympathetic to Margaret, Blanche, or Red Joan.

For better or worse – and, let’s be honest, it was mostly worse for everyone involved, Isabella did what she did. And Philip IV was not the sort of father or monarch to let suspected treasonous adultery slide. He placed his daughters-in-law under surveillance to gather proof of their duplicity.

It is at this junction that events took on a wild, occultish flavour. In March 1314, Jacques Molay and Geoffroi de Charnay – remember them? – were sentenced to death and burned at the stake. As he was being burned alive, Molay issued a curse, the precise wording of which has been debated ever since. In the (probably) apocryphal version, Molay called Philip IV and Pope Clement to the Judgment of God before the end of the year, and cursed Philip’s line unto the 13^th generation. I mean, good for Molay – he was being murdered in gruesome fashion over trumped-up charges just so Philip could get (a lot) richer. Philip had it coming, honestly. And if you’re gonna put a blood curse on somebody, make it last a long time. No half measures!

According to other sources, what Molay actually said was: Dieu sait qui a tort et a péché. Il va bientôt arriver malheur à ceux qui nous ont condamnés à mort" ("God knows who is wrong and has sinned. Soon a calamity will occur to those who have condemned us to death"). Not quite the same mic drop, but ok. I wonder who was taking notes, though. Imagine having that job! “What did the burning guy say? He’s not enunciating very clearly just now.”

What Philip IV and his sons thought of Molay’s declaration hasn’t been recorded. Philip probably felt justified in his actions – tyrants like Philip always do – but you have to think that, in a superstitious age, a curse couldn’t have sat well with anybody. Still, Philip had other preoccupations. The investigation of his daughters-in-law was nearing its end. In April 1314, Margaret, Red Joan and Blanche, along with the d’Aunay brothers were arrested.

The evidence appeared to have been pretty damning. Margaret and Philip d’Aunay, and Blanche and Gautier d’Aunay, had been lovers for some time, possibly a few years. Their secret love nest was the Tour de Nesle, an old guard tower in Paris along the Seine. In Druon’s telling, Margaret (the ringleader in the affair) asked to be given access to the Tour de Nesle as a retreat for prayer and quiet contemplation – if remotely true, a brilliant cover story. Presumably, the presence of Blanche would also have provided cover, for who could imagine not one but two princesses engaged in adultery at the same time and in the same place. You can begin to see why the scandal, once public, became a cause célèbre.

Red Joan’s role in the affair is more nebulous. No evidence was ever found that she had a lover herself, but it was widely believed that she knew what her sisters-in-law were up to and facilitated their assignations. Some even suggested that she watched. Oh la la! It’s tempting to ask why she would have risked so much despite having no dog in the fight, so to speak. Was she merely bored? A goody-two-shoes who wanted to play with fire, just a little bit, from a distance? Did she get caught up in a dangerous game? It’s worth reiterating that the princesses were still quite young at this stage: Margaret about 23, and Blanche about 18. Red Joan was the eldest at 27 – shouldn’t she have known better? Some historians say that she may have actually tried to persuade the others to stop their shenanigans but, if so, she either didn’t try hard enough or wasn’t persuasive enough.

Whatever their reasons – and Margaret, at least, probably had plenty of provocation given her marriage to Louis – the princesses must have known they were courting disaster. Sex outside marriage, for any noble woman in the Middle Ages, was verboten. For a royal princess married to the son (and heir) of a king? It was unthinkable. The “courtly love” tradition was explicitly founded on the concept that the only thing between a (married) noblewoman and her knightly beau would be an emotional attachment devoid of any physical manifestations. However much people might wink and snigger when listening to the popular tales of spiritual courtly love, the reality was that men could legally murder their wives for adultery. For women, it was no joking matter. As Isabella’s own subsequent history shows, there were no mitigating circumstances that could justify female adultery in the eyes of society. No matter how awful the husband, the wife owed her unyielding loyalty to him.

The wheels of justice, once set in motion, moved inexorably. The brothers d’Aunay were tortured and promptly confessed to the adultery, making them guilty of lèse majesté. Their death was a foregone conclusion; the manner of it was particularly grisly, so I will spare you the details. The princesses were tried before the Paris Parlement; Margaret and Blanche were found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. They also had their heads shaved and likely had to perform some form of public penance – think Cersei’s walk of shame, minus the nudity (hopefully). Red Joan was luckier; most likely due to the intervention of her husband, she was found not guilty but was placed under house arrest at Dourdan for a period of time.

Margaret and Blanche had a much worse go of it. Their husbands were not inclined to ask for clemency on their behalf so the women were banished to the dungeons of Chateau Gaillard, a military garrison in Normandy. The Chateau is most famous for its connection to Richard II the Lionheart, under whose auspices construction of the castle began in 1196. By 1313, it was not in good repair anymore; it made for a pretty grim prison for two young women used to living in the lap of luxury.

A few things are noteworthy about how the scandal played out. I have always found it curious that Margaret and Blanche were not sentenced to death, along with their lovers. I mean, Anne Boleyn had her head chopped off a couple of centuries later, on much less evidence. Philip was not known to be a benevolent person. Alive, the princesses represented a problem for their husbands (Louis and Charles) who could not divorce them and re-marry – and, you will remember, only Louis had a child, and that child was a girl. There was the option of an annulment, yes, but that required the cooperation of a Pope. Something that was about to become trickier than usual, as we shall come to see in a moment. So why weren’t the princesses executed? If I had to guess, Philip couldn’t afford to completely piss off their Burgundian relatives. They had to be punished, but they would be allowed to live. Not well, and not for long, though.

You might also be wondering why Philip Junior chose to support Red Joan after her arrest. Indeed, he was said to have strenuously campaigned for her to be found innocent and, later, to be released from house arrest. I’m sure the fact that Red Joan hadn’t had a lover herself was probably a key factor. Still, it was believed she had helped the other two princesses make cuckolds of Philip Junior’s brothers, and you would expect that a man in his position would not be inclined to forgive and forget easily, were there not good reason for it. Was this the biggest sign of Philip’s true feelings for Red Joan? Was he passionately in love with her, as his letters suggest? Or was it all about money and power? Red Joan was the heiress to the county of Burgundy; as a second son, Philip Junior didn’t have a lot of territories of his own, and his wife’s inheritance made him an important player in European politics. Whatever the reason – and perhaps more than one was in play – Philip Junior stuck by Red Joan throughout the Affair and after.

Remember how I said that annulments were hard to come by for Louis and Charles? And remember Jacques Molay’s curse? I hope so because the denouement is upon us. Less than 40 days after Molay’s death at the stake, around the time of the princesses’ trial, Pope Clement suddenly died. His cause of death is somewhat mysterious. No Pope, no annulments. Squabbling among the cardinals meant that his successor, John XXII, was not elected until August 1316. By then, the throne of France had seen not one, but two new kings.

In November 1314, 8 months after the curse of the Templars had been laid, Philip IV died, aged 46, in a hunting accident. By 1328, his direct male line had been extinguished. It is tempting to conclude that Jacques Molay and his brothers-in-arms were well and truly revenged.

Next week: the conclusion of the Tour de Nesle Affair. We find out what happened to the children of Philip IV and how a great big war got started.

Selected Bibliography

John Julius Norwich, A History of France

Alison Weir, Isabella: Treachery, Adultery, and Murder in Medieval England

Elizabeth Norton: She Wolves: The Notorious Queens of England

Maurice Druon: The Accursed Kings series (fiction)