The King Without a Kingdom

by Maurice Druon

  Also progressing along the same route are the cavalcades of the latecomers, the Counts of Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon, the good fellows, always joyful and taking their time, but little by little making up distance on the main body of the French army. ‘Good people, have you seen the king?’

  ‘The king? He left La Haye this morning. And the Englishman? He slept there the night before.’

  John II, as he follows his English cousin, is informed most exactly of his enemy’s path. The latter, feeling John hot on his heels, reaches Châtellerault, and there, to lighten his cavalcade and free up the bridge, he orders his personal convoy to cross the River Vienne by night, with all the carts bearing his furniture, his ceremonial saddlery, as well as all his spoils, the silks, the silverware, the ivories, the church treasures he looted during his chevauchée. And off towards Poitiers. At first light, he, his men-at-arms and his archers take the same route for a short way; then, even more cautious, he sends his people on shortcuts. He has made his calculations: bypass Poitiers via the east, where the king will be obliged to let his massive army rest; be it only for a few hours, still it will increase his lead.

  What at that moment he doesn’t know is that the king has not taken the road to Châtellerault. With all of his chivalry led at hunting pace, he has headed off, even earlier than sunrise, towards Chauvigny, in an attempt to outflank his enemy and cut off his escape routes. He leads from the front, straight in his saddle, chin forward, without heeding anything at all, just as he’d ridden to the Banquet of Rouen. Another stretch of more than twelve leagues in one go.

  Still following on behind, the three Seigneurs of Burgundy, Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon. ‘The king?’

  ‘To Chauvigny.’

  ‘Go then to Chauvigny!’ They are happy; they have almost caught up with the army; they will arrive in time for the kill.

  They reach Chauvigny at nightfall; the huge castle looks down on the town at a bend in the River Vienne. There is an enormous gathering of troops, an unparalleled jam of carts and armour leading to the castle. Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon enjoy their creature comforts. They are not going to throw themselves into such a crush. What was the point of hurrying? Better have a good dinner, while our pages groom the mounts. Cervellières removed, greaves unlaced, they stretch and rub their backs and calves, and then sit down to eat at an inn not far from the river. Their equerries, knowing them to like their food, found them fish, as it is Friday. Next, they fall sleep – all this was told to me afterwards in detail – and they awake the next morning, late, in an empty, silent town. ‘Good people … the king?’ They’re pointed in the direction of Poitiers. ‘The shortest way?’

  ‘Via La Chaboterie.’

  So now Châtillon, Joigny and Auxerre, dragging their lances behind them, set out at a good pace over the heathland pathways. Fine morning; the sun cuts through the branches, without beating down too hard. Three leagues are covered without difficulty. We will be in Poitiers in less than half an hour. And suddenly, at the intersection of two trails, they come face to face with sixty English scouts. They are more than three hundred. It is a godsend. Close our ventails, lower our lances. The English scouts – who are, I might add, people from Hainaut commanded by Messires of Ghistelles and Auberchicourt – turn around and break into a gallop. ‘Ah! The cowards, ah! The cowards! Go in pursuit, in pursuit!’

  The pursuit doesn’t last long as, once the first copse is cleared, Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon fall upon the main body of the English column, which closes in around them. Swords and lances clash for a moment. They fight well those Burgundians! But their enemy’s number swamps them. ‘Run to the king, run to the king, if you can!’ Auxerre and Joigny shout to their equerries, before being forced to dismount and surrender.

  King John is already in the outskirts of Poitiers when those few of the Count of Joigny’s men who had been able to escape after a furious chase reach the king, out of breath, to tell him the tale. He congratulates them well. He is overjoyed. To have lost three great barons and their banners? No, of course not; but the price was not high for such good news. The Prince of Wales, whom he believed to be still ahead of him, is in fact behind. He has succeeded; he has cut him off. About turn for La Chaboterie. Take me there, my good men! In for the kill, the kill! He had just lived his finest day, King John.

  And me, my nephew? Ah! I had followed the road from Châtellerault. I was to arrive in Poitiers, and stay at the bishop’s palace, where I was, in the course of the evening, informed of everything.

  6

  The Cardinal’s Approach

  DON’T BE SURPRISED in Metz, Archambaud, to see the dauphin pay homage to his uncle the emperor. Oh yes, for the Dauphiny, which falls in the imperial sphere of influence. No, no, I actively encouraged him to do so; it is even one of the pretexts for the journey! That doesn’t belittle France in the slightest, quite the opposite; it establishes rights over the kingdom of Arles, should one decide to restore it, since the Viennois used to be a part of it. And also it sets a good example for the English, to show them that king or son of a king, without humbling himself, can consent to pay homage to another sovereign, when parts of their states fall within the ancient suzerainty of the other.

  It is the first time in a long while that the emperor seems resolved to favour France a little. Because up until now, and even though his sister Madame Bonne was King John’s first wife, he has rather favoured the English more. Hasn’t he appointed King Edward, who proved himself most deft with him, imperial vicar? The great victories of England and the humbling of France must have led him to reflect. An English empire alongside the empire would not be at all in his interests. That is always the way with the German princes; they do whatever they can to weaken France, and then they realize that this has brought them nothing, on the contrary.

  I advise you, when we are before the emperor, and if we should come to talk of Crécy, do not dwell on the battle too much. In any case, don’t pronounce its name before the others. As, quite unlike his father John the Blind, the emperor, who wasn’t yet emperor, didn’t cut such a fine figure there. He fled, quite simply, let us not beat about the bush. But don’t speak too much about Poitiers either, a subject everybody must still be mindful of, and don’t think it necessary to extol the unfortunate bravery of the French knights, out of consideration for the dauphin, as neither did he distinguish himself by immoderate valour. It is one of the reasons why he has found it hard to establish his authority. Ah no! This will be no gathering of heroes. After all, he has his excuses, the dauphin; and if he is no man of war, it is not he who failed to seize the opportunity offered to his father …

  I shall resume the tale of Poitiers, that no one can tell you more completely than I, you will soon understand why. We had got to Saturday evening, when the two armies know that they are right next to each other, almost touching, and the Prince of Wales understands that he cannot move any further.

  Sunday, early in the morning, the king celebrates Mass outdoors, surrounded by fields. A Mass of war. He who is officiating wears mitre and chasuble over his coat of mail; it is Regnault Chauveau, the Count-Bishop of Châlons, one of those prelates more suited to military order than the religious orders. I see you smile, my nephew … yes, you say to yourself that I belong to the same kind; but I have learned to command myself, since God marked out my path for me.

  For Chauveau, this kneeling army, in the dew-soaked meadows before the town of Nouaillé, must offer the vision of celestial legions. The bells of the Abbey of Maupertuis ring out in their big church tower. And the English, up on the hill, behind copses that hide them from view, hear the formidable Gloria that the knights of France sing out.

  The king receives Communion surrounded by his four sons and his brother of Orléans, all in full battle attire. The marshals, understandably perplexed, watch the young princes, to whom they’ve had to give commands even though they had no experience of war at all. Yes, the princes are sources of worry for them. Haven’t all of them been brough
t along, down to the children, young Philip, the king’s preferred son, and his cousin Charles of Alençon? Fourteen, thirteen years old; what embarrassments are these dwarf-like suits of armour! Young Philip remains close to his father, who insists on watching over him personally; and the archpriest has been entrusted with the protection of young Alençon.

  The constable has split the army into three large battalions. The first, thirty-two banners, is to fight under the command of the Duke of Orléans. The second, under the dauphin, Duke of Normandy, seconded by his brothers, Louis of Anjou and Jean de Berry. But in truth the command falls to Jean de Landas, Thibaut de Vodenay and the Sire of Saint-Venant, three men of war whose job is to stay close to the heir to the throne and keep him under control. The king would head up the third battalion.

  He is hauled up into his saddle, onto his great white charger. He casts his eye over his army and marvels to see it so large and so beautiful. As far as the eye can see, helmets, lances side by side, in deep rows! Powerful horses, their heads nodding up and down and making their bits clink! From saddles hang the swords, the maces, the double-bladed axes. Banderoles and pennons float in glowing colours from the lances. Everywhere bright hues, painted on the shields and the targes, embroidered on the knights’ surcoats and their mounts’ caparisons! All of this in the rising clouds of dust gleaming, shimmering, shining forth under the morning sun.

  Then the king steps forward and cries out: ‘My good sires, when you were amongst your own people in Paris, Chartres, Rouen or Orléans, you threatened the English and wished to confront them, bascinets58 upon your heads; now here you are, the time has come; I will show them to you. And I pray you will show them your talents and avenge the troubles and vexations they have caused us, because without fail we will beat them!’ And then after the enormous ‘May God take part! We will see Him!’ which answers him, he waits. He is waiting, before giving the order to attack, for the return of Eustache de Ribemont, the Bailiff of Lille and Douai, whom he sent with a small detachment to reconnoitre exactly the English position.

  And the whole army waits, in a great silence. A difficult moment when one is poised to charge and the order takes its time coming. Because it is then that each one says to himself: ‘Perhaps it will be my turn today, perhaps I am seeing the earth for the last time.’ And under his steel chin piece each man has a lump in his throat; everyone commends himself to God even more earnestly than during Mass. The game of war suddenly becomes solemn and dreadful.

  Messire Geoffroy de Charny bore the oriflamme of France; the king had given him the honour of carrying it and he looked transformed by it, so I was told.

  The Duke of Athens seemed the most calm amongst them. He knew from experience that most of his work as constable he had completed beforehand. Once the battle commenced he would no longer be able to make out anything beyond two hundred paces nor would he make himself heard at more than fifty; equerries would be dispatched to him from the different parts of the battlefield, who would get to him, or not; and, to those who did find their way to him, he would shout an order that might, or might not, be executed. The fact that he was there, that one could send dispatches to him, that he made a gesture, shouted an approval; doing this he reassured the others. And perhaps a decision would have to be taken at a difficult moment. But in this great confusion of crashes and clamour, it would no longer really be he who commanded, but the will of God. And given the number of French, it seemed that God had already reached His verdict.

  King John began to get angry when Eustache of Ribemont hadn’t come back. Might he have been captured, like Auxerre and Joigny yesterday? Good sense would favour sending out a second reconnaissance. But King John cannot bear to be kept waiting. He is seized with that irascible impatience that rises up inside him every time an event doesn’t immediately obey his will, and which renders him incapable of judging matters soundly. He is on the verge of giving the order to attack. Never mind, we will soon find out, when Messire of Ribemont and his patrol return at last.

  ‘So, Eustache, what news?’

  ‘Excellent, sire; you will have, God willing, great victory over your enemies.’

  ‘How many are they?’

  ‘Sire, we have seen and considered them. According to our estimation, the English could be two thousand men-at-arms, four thousand archers and fifteen hundred ribald fellows.’

  The king, on his white charger, has a triumphant smile. He looks at the twenty-five thousand men, or almost, drawn up around him. ‘And how is their position?’

  ‘Ah! Sire, they occupy a strong place. We can rest assured that they have no more than one battalion, and a small one at that, compared to ours, but it is well ordered.’

  And to describe how the English are installed, up on the hill, on either side of a steep pathway, bordered by thick hedges and bushes behind which they have lined up their archers. To attack them, there is no other way but by this path, where horses can pass only four abreast. On all other sides there are only vines and pinewoods where riding is not an option. The English men-at-arms, their mounts kept out of the way, are all on foot, behind the archers who screen them like a portcullis. And those archers will not be easy to defeat.

  ‘And how, Messire Eustache, do you advise us to proceed there?’

  The whole army had its eyes turned towards the secret consultation which brought together around the king the constable, the marshals and the principal banner leaders. And the Count of Douglas as well, who hadn’t left the king’s side since Breteuil. There are guests, sometimes, that cost you dearly. William of Douglas says: ‘It is always on foot that we Scots have beaten the English.’ And Ribemont went one better, speaking of the Flemish militia. And here we are, at the hour of doing battle, starting to hold forth on the art of warfare. Ribemont has a proposal to make, for the strategy of attack. And William of Douglas approves. And the king invites all to listen to them, as Ribemont is the only one to have staked out the terrain, and because Douglas is the guest who has such good knowledge of the English.

  Suddenly an order is cried out, passed on, repeated. ‘Dismount!’ What? After this great moment of tension and anxiety, during which each one prepared himself, deep down inside, to face death, we are not going to fight? There is almost a sort of wavering of disappointment. But of course you will fight, but on foot. Only three hundred armoured soldiers will remain on horseback, who will go, led by the two marshals, to break through the lines of the English archers. And the men-at-arms will immediately step into the breach and engage in hand-to-hand combat with the men of the Prince of Wales. The horses will be kept close by, for the chase.

  Audrehem and Clermont are already scouring the banners’ front in order to choose the three hundred strongest, boldest, most heavily armed knights, who will mount the charge.

  The marshals don’t look at all happy, as they haven’t even been invited to give their opinions. Clermont had attempted to make himself heard and asked that they think it over for a moment. The king rebuffed him. ‘Messire Eustache saw, and Messire of Douglas knows. What else could your speech bring us?’ What had been chatter between a scout and a guest has become the king’s plan. ‘Now you have only to appoint Ribemont marshal, and Douglas constable,’ mutters Audrehem.

  For all those not taking part in the charge, dismount, dismount. ‘Remove your spurs, and cut your lances back to a length of five feet!’

  Signs of ill humour and discontent within the ranks. We hadn’t come here for that, and why then dismiss the rank and file from Chartres, if we now have to do their job? And cutting down the lances broke the knights’ hearts. Beautiful shafts of ash, chosen carefully to be held, wedged against the targe, perfectly horizontal, at the same time ride off like a shot! Now they were going to be walking, weighed down with iron, carrying sticks. ‘Let us not forget that at Crécy …’ said those who in spite of everything wanted to prove the king right. ‘Crécy, always Crécy,’ replied the others.

  These men who, half an hour earlier, were exalted in their sou
ls with honour, were now grumbling like peasants with a broken axle on their cart. But the king himself, to set an example, had sent away his white charger and stood about on the grass, his heels spurless, tossing his mace from one hand to the other.

  It is into the midst of this army busied chopping off their lances with saddle axes that, coming from Poitiers, I hurtled at a gallop, under the cover of the Holy See’s banner, escorted only by my knights and my finest scholars, Guillermis, Cunhac, Elie of Aimery, Hélie of Raymond, those with whom we are travelling. They are not about to forget! Didn’t they tell you?

  I get down from my horse, throwing my reins to La Rue; I put my hat back on my head, because it had been swept down behind my back by the ride; Brunet smoothes down my robe and I approach the king with gloved hands joined together. I tell him straight away, with as much assurance as reverence: ‘Sire, I pray and beseech you, in the name of the faith, to defer combat a moment. I am come to address you upon the order and the will of our Holy Father. Would you grant me audience?’

  He was very surprised by the arrival at such a moment of this intruder from the Church, but what could he do, King John, other than reply, in the same ceremonial tone: ‘With pleasure, Monseigneur Cardinal. What would you care to tell me?’

  I remained a moment my eyes raised to heaven as if I were praying for inspiration. And I was indeed praying; but I was also waiting for the Duke of Athens, the marshals, the Duke of Bourbon, Bishop Chauveau in whom I thought I had found an ally, Jean de Landas, Saint-Venant, Tancarville and several others, including the archpriest, to come closer. As now it was no longer a matter of words exchanged in private or conversations at dinner, like in Breteuil or Chartres. I wanted to be heard, not only by the king, but also by the most important men in France, that they may be witnesses of my efforts.