The King Without a Kingdom

by Maurice Druon

  Farewell, Châlons … Oh no, oh no! I do not wish to get involved in the appointment of a new bishop. The Count-Bishop of Châlons is one of the six Ecclesiastical Peers. It is business for King John or the dauphin. May they take care of it directly with the Holy Father, or may they pass on the pain to Niccola Capocci; he will make himself useful for once.

  All the same we mustn’t condemn the dauphin; his job is not an easy one. The guilty one is King John; and never could the son commit as many errors as the father has accumulated.

  To calm my temper, or perhaps make myself even angrier, may God forgive me my sins … I will tell you about his undertaking, King John’s planned action. And you will see how a king can lose his kingdom!

  At Chartres, as I was telling you, he had pulled himself together. He had stopped talking of chivalry when he was supposed to talk about finances, or thinking of finances when he should have been concerning himself with war, worrying about trifles when the fate of the kingdom was at stake. For once he seemed to emerge from his internal confusion and his ill-fated penchant for contretemps; for once his state of mind appeared to coincide with the moment. He had taken real measures to fight a campaign. And as the leader’s mood is contagious, these measures were implemented with speed and precision.

  First, prevent the English from crossing the Loire. Substantial detachments, commanded by captains familiar with these lands, were sent to hold all the bridges and crossing points between Orléans and Angers. The leaders were ordered to stay in close contact with their neighbours, and to frequently send messengers to the king’s army. Prevent at all costs the chevauchée of the Prince of Wales, en route from Sologne, joining forces with that of the Duke of Lancaster, coming from Brittany. They would be defeated separately. And first off, the Prince of Wales. The army, divided up into four columns to facilitate their movement, was to cross the river by the bridges of Meung, Blois, Amboise and Tours. Avoid engaging, whatever opportunity may present itself, before all the battle corps are assembled on the other side of the Loire. No individual exploits, as tempting as they may seem. The exploit will be to crush the Englishman all together, and to rid the kingdom of France of the fear of destitution and murder it has been subjected to for too many long years, to its shame. Those were the instructions that the constable, Duke of Athens, gave to the banner leaders gathered together before setting off. ‘Go, messires, and may each of you do his duty. The king has his eyes on all of you.’

  The sky was cluttered with big black clouds which burst suddenly, shot through with lightning. Throughout all of those days, Vendômois and Touraine were lashed by rainstorms, brief but heavy, soaking surcoats and the chainmail shirts beneath, saturating the saddlery, weighing down the leathers. One might have thought from the frequency of the lightning that it was attracted by all this parading steel; three men-at-arms, who had sought shelter under a huge tree, were struck down by lightning. But overall, the army braved the bad weather well, often encouraged by the clamour of the people. Because the bourgeois of the small towns and yokels in the country were most worried by the progress of the Prince of Aquitaine, of whom they told the most terrifying things. This long procession of knights in armour rushing through, four abreast, put their minds at rest … as soon as they understood that combat would not take place nearby. ‘Long live our good king! Give his enemies a good hiding! May God protect you, valiant seigneurs!’ Which meant: ‘May God protect us, thanks to you, of whom many will fall dead somewhere, from seeing our homes and our poor herds burnt, our flocks dispersed, our harvests lost, our girls manhandled. May God protect us from the war that you will wage elsewhere.’ And they were not niggardly with their wine, which was fresh and golden. They held it out for the knights who drank, jugs raised, without stopping their mounts.

  All of that I saw, because I had resolved to follow the king and go to Blois, just so, he was rushing off to war; however, I had a mission to make peace. I remained obstinate. I too had my plan. And my palanquin advanced behind the main body of the army, but was followed by detachments that had failed to join the camp of Chartres in time. They kept coming for several days more, such as the Counts of Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon, three proud comrades who looked on the bright side of war and went unhurried, followed by all the lances of their counties. ‘Good people, have you seen the king’s army go by?’

  ‘The army? We saw it pass through the day before yesterday, there were so many of them, so many of them! It took more than a couple of hours. And yet more came through this morning. If you find the Englishman, show no mercy.’

  ‘Most certainly, good people, most certainly, and if we take Prince Edward, we will remember to send you a piece of him.’

  And Prince Edward, what of him during this time, you will ask me. The prince had been delayed before Romorantin. For less time than King John had expected, but long enough to allow him to develop his battle plans. Five days, as the Sires of Boucicaut, Craon and Caumont had defended themselves furiously. During the day of the thirty-first of August alone they were stormed three times, and drove them back. And it was only on the third of September that the stronghold fell. The prince burnt it to the ground, as usual; but the following day, which was a Sunday, he had to let his troops rest. The archers, who had lost many of their own, were tired. It was the first half-serious encounter since the beginning of the campaign. And the prince had learnt from his spies – he always had intelligence well ahead – that the King of France with all of his army was readying to descend upon him; smiling less than he would ordinarily, the prince wondered if he hadn’t been wrong to persist in attacking the fortress, and if he wouldn’t have been better off leaving Boucicaut’s three hundred lances shut up in Romorantin.

  He doesn’t know the exact number of King John’s army; but he knows it to be stronger than his own, and by far, a huge army that will be finding ways to cross four bridges at the same time. If he doesn’t wish to suffer from too much of an overwhelming disparity of numbers, then he must effect his junction with the Duke of Lancaster at all costs. The pleasant chevauchée is over, no longer will they enjoy the sight of villeins taking to the woods and the monastery roofs burning. Messires of Chandos and Grailly, his best captains, are no less worried; indeed, old hands accustomed to the fortunes of war, they encourage him to make haste. He descends the valley of the Cher, passing through Saint-Aignan, Thésée, Montrichard without stopping long enough to pillage them, without even taking a look at the beautiful river and its still waters, nor the islands planted with poplars that the sun shines through, nor the chalky slopes where the next grape harvest ripens in the heat. He heads west, towards relief and reinforcements.

  The seventh of September he reaches Montlouis, to be told that a huge battle corps, commanded by the Count of Poitiers, the king’s third son, and the Marshal of Clermont, is at Tours.

  Then he weighs up his options. He waits four days, up in the hills above Montlouis, for Lancaster to arrive, having crossed the river; in short, a miracle. And if the miracle doesn’t happen, in any case his position is a good one. Four days long he waits for the French, who know where he is, to bring on the battle. Against the Poitiers-Clermont corps, the Prince of Wales thinks he can hold out and even win. He has chosen his battle site on terrain traversed by thick thorn bushes. He keeps his archers busy digging entrenchments. He himself, his marshals and equerries camp out in neighbouring houses.

  Four days long, from daybreak, he scans the horizon out towards Tours. The morning lays down golden mists in the immense valley below; the river, swelled by the recent rains, rolls ochre between its green banks. The archers continue to craft taluses.

  Four nights long, the prince conjectures, observing the sky, what the coming dawn will have in store for him. The nights are most beautiful at that season, and Jupiter shines bright, bigger than all the other stars.

  ‘What are the French going to do?’ wonders the prince. ‘What are they going to do?’

  Now, the French, respecting for once the order they had
been given, don’t attack. The tenth of September, King John is in Blois with his battle corps gathered together. The eleventh, he moves on to the pretty town of Amboise, touching, suffice to say, Montlouis. Farewell reinforcements, farewell Lancaster! The Prince of Wales knows he must withdraw to Aquitaine, as fast as he can, if he wants to avoid getting caught up in the net between Tours and Amboise; he cannot make a stand against two battle corps. The same day, he clears out of the hills above Montlouis and spends the night in Montbazon.

  And there, on the morning of the twelfth, what does he see coming? Two hundred lances preceded by a yellow and white banner, and in the middle of the lances a big, red palanquin from which emerges a cardinal. I have accustomed my sergeants and valets, as you have seen, to go down on one knee when I step out. That always makes an impression upon those I visit. Many immediately choose to kneel as well, and cross themselves. My appearance in the English camp created quite a stir, I can assure you.

  I had left King John the day before in Amboise. I knew that he wouldn’t attack just yet, but that he couldn’t put off the moment much longer. So, it was my turn to enter into discussions. I had gone through Bléré, where I had slept little. Flanked by the armoured knights of my nephew of Durazzo and of Messire of Hérédia, and followed by my robed prelates and clerics, I went to the prince to ask him to speak with me, alone.

  He seemed to be in a hurry, saying that he would be breaking camp within the hour. I assured him that he had a moment before him, and that my words, those of our Holy Father the pope, deserved to be heard. To know, as he did from my certainty, that he wouldn’t be attacked that day clearly gave him some respite; but all the time we were speaking, although he wanted to appear sure of himself, he continued to show haste, which I found to be a good thing.

  He possesses a haughtiness, this prince, and as I do too, there was not to be an easy beginning. But I have the advantage of age.

  Handsome man, fine size. Indeed, indeed, it is true, I haven’t yet described the Prince of Wales to you! Twenty-six years old. It is the age of all the new generation now taking command. The King of Navarre is twenty-five, and so is Phoebus; only the dauphin is younger … Wales has a welcoming smile that no rotten teeth yet detract from. For his lower face, chin and jawline, and complexion, he takes after his mother, Queen Philippa. He has her cheerful manner, also, and will put on weight as she did. For the top half of his face, he leans towards his great-grandfather, Philip the Fair. A smooth forehead, eyes blue, large, set well apart, as cold as iron. He stares at one, in a way that belies the affability of his smile. The two parts of his face, and their different expressions, are separated by a handsome, Saxon-style blond moustache, which sets off his lips and chin. Deep down, his is a dominant nature. He sees the world only from high atop his horse.

  Do you know his titles? Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, Prince of Aquitaine, Duke of Cornwall, Count of Chester, Earl of Biscay. The pope and crowned kings are the only men he looks upon as his superiors. All other creatures, in his eyes, simply have differing degrees of inferiority. He certainly has the gift of command, and disregard for risk. He is hardy; he keeps a clear head in times of danger. He is lavish in victory and showers his friends with gifts.

  He already has a nickname, the Black Prince, from the armour of burnished steel he is so fond of, and which makes him stand out, particularly with the three white feathers in his helmet, amongst the brilliant chainmail shirts and the many-coloured surcoats of the knights surrounding him. His glory began early in life. At Crécy, when he was just sixteen, his father entrusted him with the command of an entire battalion, that of the Welsh archers, backing him up of course with experienced captains who were there to advise him and even to lead him. Now, this battalion was so severely attacked by the French knights there came a point when those who had the charge of seconding him, judging the prince to be in danger, sped word to the king asking him to come to the aid of his son. King Edward III, who had been observing the battle from the hill of a windmill, replied to the messenger: ‘Is my son dead, devastated or so wounded that he cannot help himself? No? So, go back to him, or to those who sent you, and tell them not to come and call for me, whatever adventure may befall him, so long as he remains alive. I order that this child should be allowed to earn his spurs; because I want, if God has arranged it so, that this day be his day and that he should retain the honours.’

  So that is the young man before whom I found myself for the first time.

  I tell him that the King of France …

  ‘Before me, he is not the King of France,’ the prince says.

  ‘Before the Holy Church, he is king, anointed and crowned,’ I reply; you can judge the tone for yourself. I tell him the King of France is coming for him with his army of near thirty thousand men. I overdo it a little, on purpose; and so that he understands me completely, I add: ‘Others may speak to you of sixty thousand. I tell you the truth. Because I do not include the foot soldiers which remained behind.’ I stop short of telling him that they had been sent home; I had the feeling that he already knew.

  But it matters little; sixty or thirty, or even twenty-five thousand, a figure which was closest to the truth: the English prince had only six thousand men with him, all his archers and coutiliers included. I impressed upon him that, from now on, it was no longer a question of valour but of number.

  He tells me that he will at any moment be joined by Lancaster’s army. I reply that I wish it with all my heart, for his safety.

  He sees that playing up his self-confidence would not make him my master, and after a moment of silence he says out of the blue that he knows I treat King John more favourably, now he had given him back his title of king, than I treat his father. ‘I am only favourable to peace between the two kingdoms,’ I respond, ‘and that is what I have come to offer.’

  But then he proceeds, with much grandeur, to lecture me on the events of the previous year: he had travelled across the whole of the Languedoc and led his knights as far as the Latin Sea without any opposition whatsoever from the king; just this season, he had carried out a chevauchée from Guyenne to the Loire; Brittany was as good as under English law; a large part of Normandy, brought by Monseigneur Philip of Navarre, was on the verge of changing fealty; Seigneurs of Angoumois, Poitou, Saintonge and even Limousin had rallied to him, he had the good taste not to mention the Périgord, and while he spoke he was observing through the window the position of the sun in the sky, only to finally come out with: ‘After so many successes for our armies, and the ascendancy we have, de jure et de facto, throughout the kingdom of France, what offers could King John possibly make us in the name of peace?’

  Ah! If the king had deigned to hear me in Breteuil, in Chartres … Now what could I answer, what did I have in my hand? I said to the prince that I couldn’t bring him any offer from the King of France as the latter, strong as he was, couldn’t think of peace before claiming the expected victory; but that I brought him the commandment of the pope, who wished him to cease bloodying the western kingdoms, and who begged the kings imperiously, I insisted, to agree to come to the aid of our brothers of Constantinople. And I asked him under what conditions England …

  He was still watching the sun climb in the sky, and broke off the audience saying: ‘It is up to the king, my father, and not I, to decide on peace. I have no order from him authorizing me to negotiate on his behalf.’ Then he hoped I would forgive him if he travelled on ahead of me. All he had in mind was to distance the pursuing army. ‘Let me bless you, monseigneur,’ I said to him. ‘And I will stay close by, should it befall you to have need of me.’

  You will say, my nephew, that I was taking away a most meagre catch in my nets, leaving Montbazon in the wake of the English army. But I wasn’t nearly as unhappy as you might think. The situation being what it was, I had snagged the fish and left it line enough. It all depended on the eddies of the river. I just had to stay close to the water’s edge.

  The prince headed south, towards Chât
ellerault. On those days, the most astonishing cortèges moved along the roads of Touraine and Poitou. First of all, the army of the Prince of Wales, compact, rapid, six thousand men, always orderly, but a little out of breath all the same, and no longer dawdling or burning barns. It was rather the earth that seemed to be burning their mounts’ hooves. A day’s march later, the formidable army of King John sets off in pursuit, having regrouped, as he wanted, all the banners, almost, twenty-five thousand men, but holding together less well as he was pushing them too hard, wearing them out, and stragglers were soon falling behind.

  And then, between English and French, following the former, preceding the latter, my little cortège putting a speck of purple and gold in the countryside. A cardinal between two armies, that is not oft to be seen! All the banners hurrying to war, and I, with my little escort, insisting on peace. My nephew of Durazzo stamps his feet impatiently; I sense that he is, as it were, ashamed to be escorting someone whose only prowess would be in preventing the combat. And my other knights, Hérédia, La Rue, all think the same. Durazzo tells me: ‘Just let King John thrash the English, and be done with it. Besides, what do you hope to prevent?’

  Deep down I am rather of their opinion, but I will not give up. I can see that if King John catches up with Prince Edward, and he will catch up with him, he can only crush him. If it is not in Poitou, it will be in Angoumois.

  Everything, all appearances, announced John as victorious. But these days, the stars are bad, very bad, I know it. And I wonder how he will endure their disastrous aspect in a situation where he has such a strong advantage. I tell myself that he will fight a victorious battle, but that he will be killed. Or that a malady will overcome him on the way …