“I?” Charles fell back, changing colour, his legs trembling under him.
“You!” the King answered him furiously. “His death would never have come about but for your intrigues to keep him out of the royal power, to hinder his coronation.”
“It is false!” cried Charles. “False! I swear it before God!”
“Perjured dog! Do you deny that you sought the aid of your precious uncle the Cardinal of Perigord to restrain the Pope from granting the Bull required?”
“I do deny it. The facts deny it. The Bull was forthcoming.”
“Then your denial but proves your guilt,” the King answered him, and from the leather pouch hanging from his belt, he pulled out a parchment, and held it under the Duke's staring eyes. It was the letter he had written to the Cardinal of Perigord, enjoining him to prevent the Pope from signing the Bull sanctioning Andreas's coronation.
The King smiled terribly into that white, twitching face.
“Deny it now,” he mocked him. “Deny, too, that, bribed by the title of Duke of Calabria, you turned to the service of the Queen, to abandon it again for ours when you perceived your danger. You think to use us, traitor, as a stepping-stone to help you to mount the throne—as you sought to use my brother even to the extent of encompassing his murder.”
“No, no! I had no hand in that. I was his friend—”
“Liar!” Ludwig struck him across the mouth.