“I once thought to take holy orders.”
“You?” I asked in a tone verging on disbelief.
“Aye,” he said. “Is that so strange?”
“So strange that I hardly credit it,” answered I. “But assuredly it was in your youth—before you were knighted and became the most peerless chevalier in all of France.”
“Nay,” said Charny. “It was not so long ago. I was in the prime of manhood and had fame and fortune already on my side.”
“Why did you wish to join the cloister then?” I asked. “Was it fear?” I shuddered, for I could conceive of no other reason why a man would put aside this world, but fear of death, fear of doom, and fear of damnation.
“Nay,” said Charny. “It was not fear, but love.”
I begged him to tell me the tale, and wrapping his cloak tightly around himself, he began the story of earlier days.
“I was en route to the Holy Land, at Smyrna not far from Byzantium. I wore the Crusaders’ uniform in those days. I see your surprise at that. Aye, the days of the glorious Crusades may be past, but some Frenchmen still have a passion to protect the holy places of the East. Duke Humbert of Viennois had raised a small force for that very purpose, and asked me to accompany him. I was curious—is that not reason enough?—and so I went with him as far as Smyrna.
“The Christians in Smyrna had just seized the city and stripped the minarets from the mosques. But the Turks were in no mood to be turned out. They came in force to regain the place. Outside its walls our little company met them, ready to strike a blow for Christendom against the ranks of the infidel. Duke Humbert is a good man, but his piety substituted poorly for a knowledge of Turkish tactics. Our little army was pushed back to Smyrna in trampled disarray. The walls were indefensible and the city could not be held. Before it fell we took ship for home, having broken the Turkish power not one whit. But though we gained no ground for Christendom, my time in the East was well spent. It was there in Smyrna that I came face to face with Christ.”
“Face to face with Christ?” I echoed, confused how such a thing could be possible. And yet, I had heard that King Richard saw St. George in the Holy Land. “Was it a vision?” I asked.
“Nay,” said Charny. “I saw him with these waking eyes. There was an old priest in Smyrna who had come from Jerusalem. It was he who showed me the Christ, giving me a gift I could never repay. I saw the weary brow, the wounded hands, the pierced feet. My soul went out to Him in love; I wanted nothing more than to renounce my arms and spend a life of holy contemplation of Him who was crucified so that I might live. On our return to France, I determined to take holy orders and so draw near the One who had revealed Himself so powerfully to me.”
“But what happened then?” I cried out. “You are no monk today. Did this fire of divine love die within you?”
“Patience,” said Charny, “and I will tell you all. It was on the return voyage that my mind was changed, but not through inconstancy as you may be imagining. The seas tossed roughly around the Aegean, and three times we were in peril of sinking. The Turks have pirate craft within those waters, and more than once they boarded us with hostile intent. The shores themselves boast no friendly harbors; one has as much to fear from the knife of an Italian brigante as the scimitar of the Saracen infidel.
“In the midst of these perils, death was possible, or even probable. I confessed my sins in terror and prayed for deliverance to the Almighty. It was then that a thought came to me: no man has so great a need for a clear conscience as the man-at arms. The religious folk may pray, and fast, and faithfully perform their vows, but for them the spur to holy living lies only in the rules of their order. It is the knight and the soldier who has sorest need to be right with God, for it is the knight and the soldier who is in sorest peril of death. The fear of death is the most powerful motivator toward divine love, and it is the fear of death that the cloister itself lacks. The cloister is full of complacent men, who say ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow, and Christ will be here.’ They shuffle their sins under the rushes of the floor and do not feel the urgent need to wipe clean the house of the soul. But the more a man engages in arms, the more he will feel the foulness of his sin and the urgency to be purified of it. ‘Today,’ is the word on his lips, for who knows whether his enemy’s sword will send him that very hour before the great and awful Judge.”
“But,” I objected, “It is the fear of that Judge that I would avoid. I seek a way to rid myself of the terror of damnation! I wake at night and feel my face in flames, while my body shivers uncontrollably in a vat of ice. I toss about from side to side. And whatever side I turn to, I feel the prickings and the stingings of a thousand little imps intent on tormenting me for my sins. In the day my sufferings increase the more, for I lay up more sins to put me in terror when I go to sleep again. And always is the dreadful torment of uncertainty—not to know what greater terror awaits me beyond the grave! This is the anguish I suffer, good knight. And would you have me remain in this wretched state?” I halted my ramblings and looked at him appealingly.
“Come, Sir Potenhale, let me understand you: it is because of your sins that you are in fear of judgment? And it is to keep from sinning that you would join the cloister?”
“Aye,” said I, for he had put into words my very feelings.
“My counsel is this: it is far easier to keep from sinning if you do not join the cloister. Your soul will be safer in the constant peril of the battlefield than in the peaceful stagnation of a monastery. Remain a knight and keep your fear of judgment, for it is this fear that will keep your hands from doing evil, keep Christ ever present within your thoughts, and keep you on the path of salvation. Those who fear damnation will seldom stumble into it.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Fear of judgment was the thing I had been fleeing from, running like a panic-stricken doe from the hunter in the forest; Charny bade me cease fleeing, turn, and embrace the thing that pursued me. And to what purpose?
“Sir Geoffroi,” I said solemnly, “I grant you that this fear of damnation might be beneficial to a holy man, but how will it aid an inveterate sinner? If a man fears damnation and continues in his sin nonetheless, what benefit is that fear to his soul. It makes him more culpable, does it not? He knew the truth and trampled upon it.”
Charny’s brow furrowed. “I have observed you for many weeks, Sir Potenhale, and I cannot believe that you are so inveterate a sinner as you would make yourself out to be. What sins are these that you continue to commit—despite the violent terror which urges you to do otherwise? Perhaps your conscience is too tender in this matter. Are you certain that they are sins?”
I told him many things: of the looted houses in La Hougue, of the untrained farmhands cut down at Caen, of the starving fugitives who perished outside Calais. “But Sir Potenhale,” said my prisoner. “You must not take the sufferings of the whole world upon yourself. All these things came about through the evils of war, and not through your own evil. These are calamities that befall us because of the use of the sword, and yet the use of the sword is not sin. When the disciple brought two swords before Our Lord, did He not approve of them by saying, ‘It is enough!’? There are times when it is right and proper for a knight to strike with violence.”
“What are those times?” I asked.
“A knight may fight to defend the inheritance of weak maidens and orphans.”
“Truly, it is a good deed. But I have not done that.”
“A knight may make war on the enemies of the Christian religion.”
“A praiseworthy action! But I have not done that.”
“A knight may defend the lives and property of his fellow countrymen when they are attacked.”
“Well said! But it is the lives and property of others that I have always endangered.”
Charny hesitated. “A knight may also use the sword to defend his own rights or the rights of his liege.”
I looked him full in the eyes. “That I have done,” said I, “and right heartily too
. I have fought in all things for Edward and Edward’s rights—though perhaps you French will not own my liege to have just claim.”
“I will say nothing on that head,” said Charny with a smile. “It is enough that you are reconciled to the justice of his claim. If the master’s rights are disputable, that is upon his own soul. His men shall bear no blame for that wrong.”
“Then there is no sin in what I have done?” I asked.
Charny clapped me upon the shoulder. “Nay, lad, I cannot answer that. I am no confessor to grant absolution or assign penance. I only say to you that there is not necessarily sin in what you have done. You have doubtless sinned as a knight, but you have not sinned by being a knight. The sins that you have committed are sins that you might just as well commit in a cloister. Pride, greed, envy, wrath, lust, gluttony, sloth—these are not peculiar to the knightly orders. But it is the knight who will put off these sins more rapidly since he must put on his armor and face imminent death.”
I did not answer. Charny saw my turmoil, and instead of pressing me further, he left me to mull over the new thoughts he had created. I did not retire to bed. I spent the entire night in the cold January air on the numb stones of the wall. The battlement of Windsor Castle became the Garden of Gethsemane for me, and alone I prayed that this dreadful cup might pass from me. Little by little, I began to see that if your husband’s words were true, it was a far, far harder thing to remain a knight than become a monk—each day to hold your mortality in the palm of your hand and each evening to consecrate your soul like the host of the holy mass. But though it was harder, could it also be holier?
As these thoughts besieged my mind, beating upon my resolution again and again with the force of a mangonel, a conversation from my boyhood arose from the halls of memory. I was twelve years old, nervous, foreboding. My grandfather, the old steward held a reassuring hand upon my neck. Before me stood a black-haired Chandos with a silver Virgin on his blue tunic.
“Can you fight?” he had said.
“A little,” replied I.
“Can you read?” he had said.
“A little,” replied I.
“Can you pray?”
“Aye,” said I. “I can pray right well.”
“That is good,” said he. “Perhaps you have the makings of a knight.”
And remembering this, I began to pray with a fervor that had never filled my prayer before. I wrestled all that wintry night, till my brow was wet with drops of sweat—or blood. At length, the morning watch came round by torchlight before the pale sun had dared to wake the world. “Ah, Sir Potenhale!” said the captain of the guard, recognizing the hollow-eyed face beneath the hood of my mantle. “Come down from this place, I pray you. The prince is searching for you high and low; he fears that you are gone away without a word of farewell.”
“Nay, I am not gone,” said I. “Bid the prince be easy on that score. I shall attend his highness anon, but first I must find my quarters and pen a letter to the good abbot of Canterbury.”
“Are you not bound for Canterbury this very day?” asked the captain, for word of my proposed abdication had travelled quickly around the walls of Windsor.
“Nay,” said I feigning a look of surprise. “The road to Canterbury is for pilgrims and gadabouts. A letter to the abbot will serve just as well as a journey. I must remain here at the prince’s service.”
The captain looked at me puzzled for an instant, but his quick mind soon apprehended the new state of affairs. “That is well,” he said kindly, “for the prince has need of knights such as you. Word has come that the Castilians have turned pirate. We must all keep our harness bright if His Majesty intends to raise sail against Spain.”
*****
Castile was the strongest of the Spanish kingdoms. She had long been courted by our sovereign. As a close neighbor of France, and especially of English Gascony, Castile’s goodwill was something to be coveted. England could not afford to have an enemy on either flank of her foothold in France.
The surest way to ensure friendship with Castile was through matrimonial connection. Before Edward had ever set sail for France, he had broached a betrothal between his daughter Joan and Don Pedro, the Spanish crown prince. With customary Castilian cunning, King Alfonso hesitated, unsure whether his advantage lay in an alliance with France or England. Yet after Edward’s successful siege of Calais, the scales tipped heavily in our favor. Alfonso sent word that his son awaited the arrival of Princess Joan, his promised bride.
Edward, a model of Plantagenet extravagance, spared no expense in equipping his daughter for her bridal voyage. He prepared a fleet of four ships to carry the treasures of her trousseau. One hundred and thirty ells of imported silk composed her wedding gown. Her riding suit was of crimson velvet, and even her corsets were embroidered with thread of gold. Her ship bore a portable chapel so that she might enjoy the masses of her own priest on the long journey from England to Castile.
The fleet proceeded from Portsmouth across the western portion of the Channel; but instead of continuing south through the Basque Sea, the travelers resolved to break their journey in Bordeaux. It was a fateful mistake to land in Gascony. The plague, which at that time had not yet cast its net over England, had already saturated the country of France. By the time the horrified princess fled the horror-filled city, the pestilence had already touched her. She perished outside of Bordeaux, a virgin bride gone to meet the greater Bridegroom.
King Edward expressed great dismay over the wreck of his political plans, but his pain over the death of his daughter was equally potent. I overheard Chandos condoling him when first the news was heard. “Pity and sorrow well become you, Majesty, but pity England, and not the princess Joan. These Spaniards are a cruel race. They put wives aside and take another, or refuse to put them aside, and take a mistress. King Alfonso has ten children by his paramour, and how long will it be before he divorces his second wife? The envoys say that Pedro is even as his father—nay, that he is crueler and less cautious. Far better for Joan to be sent ahead to Heaven to reign among the choirs of the virgins.”
“Amen,” answered the king piously, “and may she gladly intercede for our offenses before the throne of God Himself.”
But though the princess Joan’s eternal happiness was secured, England’s foreign alliance was not. The king’s chagrin at the failed compact with Castile was augmented by his inability to make alliances elsewhere. If Queen Philippa’s fertility were the only factor, then England might have princes enough to wed with half the crown heads of Europe. But unfortunately, all such matrimonial negotiations had either proved barren or had perished in the womb before they came to birth.
At the age of eighteen, the prince had nearly gained a Portuguese wife. This had been another of King Edward’s schemes to gain the goodwill of Castile. The royal houses of Portugal and Castile were so entwined that marriage with one nearly assured alliance with the other.
The plan to ally with Portugal began shortly after the prince’s frustrated betrothal to Brabant’s daughter. While the Castilian king was cautious, conniving, and wary of his own interest, the king of Portugal’s chief quality was haste. He immediately consented to wed his daughter Leonor to the Prince of Wales. The English envoys, however, were not empowered to conclude the terms of the alliance on their own. Edward must ratify the agreement. Hazardous weather delayed the diplomats’ travel back to England. When Edward finally received the favorable news, he set his seal to the proposed terms—but it was already too late. By the time the envoys returned again to Portugal, the hasty Portuguese king had grown impatient. Leonor was wed already, to one of the neighboring Spanish kings, the king of Aragon. This failed alliance with Portugal did nothing to advance our relations with her sister country of Castile. The prince, my master, was left a bachelor a little longer, and the kingdom of Castile wandered free as a loosed falcon, ignoring all of Edward’s efforts to seize her by the jesses.
Of late, Castile had grown increasingly hostile toward her
English neighbors in Gascony. Many English merchant ships harbored in the Gascon harbor of Bordeaux. When they sailed out with their cargoes into the Basque Sea, Castilian pirates buzzed around them like bees in a flower garden. Don Carlos de la Cerda was the worst of the predators. An admiral in the Spanish fleet, he knew the art of warfare well. No ships were as bold as his upon the high seas. In the summer of 1350, a large Castilian fleet led by Don Carlos overwhelmed the Gascon wine fleet entering the Channel. They looted the cargoes with murderous rapacity and tossed the crews over the side just as sailors will do with beer that has soured. Then they continued on to Flanders, their holds stuffed with the stolen wine of Bordeaux. The Count of Flanders, who had always been a foe to England, gave them harbor there.
Edward took this latest act of piracy with ill grace. No longer hampered by delusions of a future alliance with Castile, he acted with astonishing alacrity. He assembled both the English nobles and the English navy at Winchelsea with orders to man the fleet for war. The prince and I went thither immediately and invited Charny to accompany us—for you must understand that a noble prisoner in our land is treated with as much courtesy as a guest. Besides, the prince was unwilling for Charny to miss a military action that might redound to the glory of English prowess.
It was a grand company at Winchelsea: Henry, the Duke of Lancaster, the Earls of Arundel, Northampton, and Warwick, Sir Thomas Holland, Sir James Audley, and Sir John Chandos. Mortimer was there, but Montague was absent, for he had recently recovered from his passion for Lady Joan and had wed the sister of Mortimer. But even without Montague, there was a score of other noble names, among them Sir Walter Manny. That worthy knight had finally quitted his post in Calais for more pleasant pastimes in England. He crossed the channel just in time to join our armada.
I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince Page 19