I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  King John, though he was doubtless loath to enter into negotiations when he held us like a flea between his thumb and forefinger, could not refuse the remonstrances of the papal see. He promised to respect the sanctity of the holy Sunday by refraining from any warlike disturbances. He also pledged to treat with the Prince of Wales, although it was unlikely that the parley would produce much fruit.

  As a result of Cardinal Talleyrand’s mediation, commanders from each army descended into the valley below to resolve the dispute sans bloodshed. On the English side came Warwick, Chandos, and Audley. On the French side appeared Sir Jean Clermont, the Comte de Tancarville, and my old friend—Sir Geoffroi de Charny.

  The prince had deputized his commanders with extraordinary powers of concession; these were owing to the extraordinary circumstances in which he was placed. Our provision wagons were as bare as a widow’s cupboard; we were hedged in behind and before; our army was outnumbered with disheartening odds. “Tell King John,” said the prince, “that I will give up all towns and castles that I have captured during this campaign, I will set free all prisoners without requiring ransom, and I will refrain from taking arms against him for seven years. All this I will do if he will allow our army to pass unmolested to Bordeaux.”

  Warwick, as chief spokesman of the English emissaries, presented the prince’s offer in the most winsome language. It mattered not. Sir Jean Clermont, the mouthpiece of the French, was deaf to the earl’s eloquence. He had his own proposal from the French king, and Warwick brought it back for the prince’s consideration.

  “King John is willing to allow our army to retreat unmolested, but only upon these terms: your highness, and a hundred of your knights, must surrender unconditionally to him. He will do with you and the hundred as he wishes, but the rest he will send away free.”

  The prince furrowed his brow in silence.

  I jumped to my feet. “No! A thousand times no! What man of honor could live with such shame?”

  “So say I!” echoed Brocas.

  “Gentlemen, I am of your mind,” said the prince. “I have but one death to die, and I had rather put it to the hazard than live in such disgrace. Take back our answer, good sirs, and bid the French prepare their souls for battle.”

  It was well nigh an hour before the commanders came back again. When they did, Chandos’ face flamed red as a peony, and his usual good nature was as ruffled as a windswept pond.

  “How received they our reply?” asked the prince curiously.

  Warwick shrugged and allowed Sir James to tell the tale. “The cardinal wept,” croaked Audley, “till his cassock was stained with tears. The French knights sneered—all except Sir Geoffroi de Charny. He said your highness had answered as a prince and a gentleman must, and commended you for it. And he proposed a second way of averting the battle. He asked that we should field a century of our knights against a century of the French. They would fight a melee, but with sharp points. If our men win, we depart for Gascony as free men. If the French conquer, we yield ourselves as King John’s prisoners…. It was a promising offer, highness. I was minded to clap hands with him and accept it before your ears had heard it.”

  “Why, that is the same offer he made us at the siege of Calais!” said I in amazement.

  “Aye,” said the prince with a smile. “And my father’s commanders scoffed at it there. They thought it a trick to take away our advantage. But here he offers it again when our spirits are drooping, and when it is decidedly to our advantage to accept. A noble heart and a noble gesture! You did not accept this, Sir James? Wherefore? I could find it in my heart to hazard our safety on the swords of a hundred knights.”

  “Tell on!” said Warwick quickly, urging Audley to finish relating the conference before the prince formed a plan on a false impression.

  “As you say, highness,” said Audley, “the proposal was decidedly to our advantage, and the other French knights recognized that immediately. Sir Geoffroi had imparted the offer apart from their counsel, and they castigated him roundly for it. The Comte de Tancarville withdrew the proposal as soon as it was uttered, and Sir Jean Clermont impugned his fellow ambassador as un grand fou.”

  “And that ended the negotiations?” asked the prince.

  Audley hesitated and glanced sideways at Chandos. “The formal negotiations came to an end, though there were more words exchanged between Sir Clermont and Sir Chandos.”

  Sir Chandos flushed. “Nothing of import, your highness.”

  “Come, come,” said the prince. “I must know what has come to pass to discompose you, the most placid of all my generals.”

  “If you must know,” said Sir Chandos stiffly, “I called out Sir Clermont for his abusive language toward his own countryman and fellow-at-arms. I have always found Sir Geoffroi most true of heart and fair of speech, both when he was sojourning in our country and when he has met me in the field. I rated Sir Clermont poorly for his offense toward Sir Geoffroi, so he heaped the same obloquy on me as he had on his companion.”

  Sir Chandos would say no more. Later, Warwick and Audley explained the matter more fully. It seems that the arms of Sir Jean Clermont were similar in color and style to the arms of Sir John Chandos. They both bore the face of the blessed Virgin on a field of cerulean blue. When Chandos rebuked Clermont for his discourtesy toward Sir Geoffroi, the French knight roughly abused Sir Chandos for wearing a livery so similar to his own. “Since when have you taken to wearing my emblem?” Sir Clermont had demanded.

  “It is just as much mine as yours,” Sir Chandos had said, for he had adopted the coat-of-arms out of particular reverence for the Virgin.

  “I deny that,” said Sir Clermont sharply, “and if there were not a truce between us, I would show you here and now that you have no right to wear it.”

  “Indeed, sirrah?” Chandos had said coldly. “Well, there will be no truce tomorrow. You will find me more than ready then to prove by force of arms that this emblem belongs to me as much as it does to you.”

  The Comte de Tancarville and Sir Geoffroi de Charny had tried to pull their comrade away, but Clermont could not resist a parting shot at Sir Chandos. “That’s just the sort of pompous boast you English make!” he had cried. “You can never think of anything good yourselves, but anytime you see something good in France, you try to steal it!”

  The prince laughed a little at this story. “I hope my dear Chandos will make his boast good tomorrow. It would do my heart good to see this fellow Clermont fall. But look!—here comes our benevolent cardinal! And behold, his tears continue to flow.”

  Cardinal Talleyrand of Périgord was approaching our encampment once again. Hearing the failed outcome of the peace conference in the valley, he had besought the French king to extend the truce beyond a day so that further parleys might be held. The French had angrily told him to go back to Poitiers or it would be the worse for him. “My son,” the old prelate said, placing a hand on our leader’s shoulder, “do your best, for I fear you will have to fight. The king of France has not the slightest desire to make an agreement with you.”

  “Nor I with him, if truth be told,” the prince answered cheerily. “But be not downcast, father. The God of battles will defend the right. Get you to Poitiers, for I would not have you caught here in the thick of the thunder that will roll through this valley tomorrow.”

  *****

  Though the cardinal’s interference gave our army time to set up defenses, it also allowed the French time to gather reinforcements. We learned later that King John, scrambling to position himself south of us, had left behind a large portion of his infantry and ridden forward with his best mounted knights–you will recall that Audley had sighted over ten thousand of these stragglers at La Haye. The Sunday delay allowed many of the slower Frenchmen to regroup with their sovereign and so the army that faced us the next morning held a larger number of lances than it had the previous day.

  Upon arriving outside of Poitiers, the prince had positioned us on the hill opposite to Ki
ng John’s plateau. Between our two armies stretched a deep, marshy valley through which a river ran. Our hill was entirely surrounded by fences and ditches, its slopes covered with bushes, pastureland, vineyards, and sown crops. The prince resolved to stand against the French on the heights, forcing them to come up to us as King Edward had done at Crecy. He sent all the wagons and carts of the baggage train to one side of the hill to protect our flank. This was Salisbury’s division. The other flank he bestowed on Warwick, where the bend of the river brushed past the old Roman road; and there he stationed the archers. Many of these were the same men who had performed such faithful service ten years ago. “We must pray that they have not lost their skill,” said Warwick grimly.

  The sun had already risen—and passed behind the clouds—when we heard the French trumpets summoning their lords to battle. The prince rode a length or two ahead of us to survey the enemy’s battle line, a stern, solitary figure against the gray backdrop of sky. There was the French cavalry stretched out across the horizon, straining at their jesses like hawks at the sight of a hare.

  “Holy Mother of God!” said Brocas, overwhelmed by the sheer number of their pennants. “It will be a slaughter. This is death, my friend.” I nodded in agreement and crossed myself convulsively.

  “Silence!” said the prince in a voice as hard and black as the coat of mail he wore. His horse wheeled sharply about. “It is blasphemy to say such things while I am still alive.”

  “Then I must do penance for my impiety,” said Brocas. He held his helmet underneath his arm; his curls lifted a little in the light wind. “And right soon, too, for unless I say my paternosters straightway, I shall not live to mumble them.”

  “Nay, my friend,” said the prince. His nostrils flared with anticipation. “Cast aside these morbid thoughts. Fasten your helm, draw your sword, and ride beside me. I swear to you, by the name of the Holy Trinity, that if—nay, when—we come through this battle victorious I shall grant you any boon you may desire.”

  Brocas pulled the basinet over his brow. “I shall hold you to that promise,” he said, and the visor closed over his face.

  “Fellow Englishmen!” said the prince in a loud voice, for the time had come to speak to the assembled army. “In days gone by you have proved your worth. Under the lead of my father and of my ancestors, the kings of England, you have shown all Christendom that for Englishmen: no task is unconquerable, no land too rough to cross, no castle impregnable, no enemy too formidable, no hostile ranks too great in size. Your fathers tamed Frenchmen and Saracen. They subdued the stiff-necked Scots and Irishmen.

  “Today I exhort you to tread in the footsteps of your fathers. Occasion, time, and danger can make even the timid brave. Honor, love of country, and the rich spoils of France—more than any words of mine—will put courage in your hearts. Follow your banners! Keep your bodies and your wits intent upon the orders of your officers. Then shall life and victory walk hand in hand.

  “But if envious Fate—God forbid!—should drive us upon the last road of all flesh, these gentlemen”—here the prince gestured to Chandos, Audley, and the other peers surrounding him—“and I will drink this same cup with you. There is danger in fighting the French nobility, but a danger wrapped in glory. There is danger of defeat, but it is a danger free from shame and makes a man’s soul tingle. We prosecute a righteous cause! Whether we live or die, we are servants of God. He that shall persevere unto death shall inherit eternal life; and whoever shall suffer for righteousness’ sake, theirs is the kingdom of heaven!”

  The English ranks mustered all the spirit they could to cheer the prince’s words. As if on cue, the French lines before us began to advance. On the plateau across from us, the Oriflamme moved forward. The great orange flag dipped in the fitful breeze. Its fiery tails half-concealed the crest of its bearer, and I did not learn till later that your husband was leading the way with the standard.

  The French advanced in far better order than they had at Crecy. King John sent a company of pikemen to take the left side of the hill where the manor house stood. The French footsoldiers trudged manfully through the marsh and made their way up the incline over fence and hedge. Our men sent up a great shout as they approached. “St. George and Guienne!” they cried, and Salisbury led out his knights to engage the French there. Pikes fell to the ground as the overpowered French sought to yield or flee. Salisbury’s knights pressed the fliers back to the march and began to mount their own attack on the opposing plateau.

  On the right side of our defenses, a wave of French cavalry led by Sir Jean Clermont attempted to cut through our lines; however, the archers stationed at the bend of the river applied their skill to such good effect that the attack was stemmed. The French stallions screamed in anguish and their riders collapsed amid flailing hooves. I saw the standard of Sir Clermont fall and was glad in my heart for Sir Chandos.

  When the French king saw that the two wings of his army had failed to cut through the English defenses, he advanced the center of his forces en masse. Strangely enough, they had all dismounted; this, we later learned, was due to the advice of a Scottish knight who was close to King John. Yet even without the added bulk of horses, the French forces were imposing enough.

  The prince’s company, which held the center of our line, had become overly enthusiastic from the small victories on either flank. Some of our men had wandered off like distracted children, eager to join Salisbury’s cavalry or Warwick’s archers in the bloodletting. Behind me I saw gaps in our line. In front of me I saw the glittering spears of the French host, rolling forward like a tidal wave. My eyes opened wide in terror, and the bloody reek of battle poured into the back of my nostrils.

  The prince himself must have felt the same overmastering fear, for as King John’s men crossed the marsh and began their ascent, he dismounted and fell to his knees on the battlefield before the eyes of all. Then he, who had never knelt to any man save his father the king, cried out: “Almighty Christ, I believe that You are king of all kings. I believe that You are truly God and truly man. I believe that You willingly endured death on the Cross to rescue us from hell. By Your most holy name, protect me and my men from harm, for You know that our cause is just.”

  With these words said, he rose to his feet, and a squire helped him regain his saddle. Chandos and Audley, as was their wont, rode close beside the prince and me. “Highness!” said Audley as the French knights began to close the distance between our forces, “I have made a vow that I will be the first of your company to break lances with the French. Give me leave to go.” It occurred to me that Sir James Audley was desirous to redeem his earlier failure in scouting out the French king’s movements.

  “Do as you wish,” said the prince, and thereupon, Audley set out a lance’s length in front of his troop hurling himself on the enemy like a thunderbolt. Our own horses did not linger far behind. I entered the battle at the prince’s side, and after this it was all confusion.

  *****

  Audley disappeared after the initial collision; I feared he had fallen. Chandos rose high in his saddle to deliver a mighty buffet with the sword. The prince smote about like a madman. He hacked a path with steel through the enemy lines leaving devastation in his wake.

  Above the left side of the French line, the Oriflamme danced high, attracting Englishmen eager for the prize of bringing it down. “Those stars will fall today!” bellowed a great voice. I saw Thomas Holland, the earl of Kent, pursuing the orange banner with a score of the minions in his train. A cluster of French knights ranged themselves around the standard, but Holland trampled them like a bull, tearing out innards and hacking off limbs. “Holy Mary!” said I, “it is Sir Geoffroi!” Only then did I realize that the Oriflamme waved proudly in the hands of your husband.

  I pulled my charger away from the prince’s flank and galloped toward the orange banner. French foot soldiers impeded my progress. One grabbed my stirrup trying to pull me from the horse, but I gave him such a blow with the hilt of my sword that he
spat out his own teeth. I neared Sir Holland right as he cleared the field of Charny’s protectors. Holland’s own men had been pulled away in the tide of battle, and he faced Charny alone—or as alone as two men could be in the melee of battle. Sir Geoffroi had planted the butt of the standard in the soft ground and stood beside it sword in hand.

  Holland, no longer seated on his mount, lunged at the Frenchman, clipping the corner of his pauldron. Charny swung his own blade and made the earl fall back a step. I reined in my horse several paces behind Holland’s large frame, unsure how to proceed. The exigencies of honor insisted that I aid my countryman against our common foe. The dictates of friendship demanded that I intervene on Sir Geoffroi’s behalf. Yet paradoxically, it was neither of these two concerns that prompted my confusion.

  As I stared at the dull finish of Sir Thomas’s backplate, an insidious thought crept through the chinks in my visor and lodged in the crannies of my mind. There he stood— the bitter water in my cup, the fly in my ointment, the bar to my happiness. His whole attention was engaged by Sir Geoffroi, for your husband was a redoubtable match for any swordsman. “Here is the one,” said my thought, “who is the wreck of so many lives. Would it not be just and proper for me to remove him from the way?”

  “Nay,” said a second voice within my head, smooth, clear, and silvery like the voice of your husband. “A knight may defend the widow and the fatherless, a knight may defend the rights of his liege, but it is sin to take vengeance in this way. If you were to die with such blood on your hands, then might you truly fear the judgment you have striven so hard to evade.”

  “But did not you yourself take vengeance!” the insidious thought argued back. “You hunted down Aimery of Pavia, pulled him from his bed, and slew him for his betrayal at Calais.”

  “That was an act of war, not treachery,” said the voice calmly. “He was not my comrade-in-arms.”

  “And neither is Holland mine!” said my thought, repudiating the obvious reminder that Holland’s shield—with the outline of England on it—carried.