I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  I couched my lance, dropping the point on a level with Sir Thomas’s back. The prince had spared him in the lists at Westminster; I would not be so forbearing. I kicked my heels into the side of my horse. The faithful beast jumped forward with alacrity. I aimed for the weakest place on the backside of the armor, where his helmet nearly joined with his backplate. My lance was two seconds away from threading through Holland’s neck like a meat spit through a hare.

  Holland was oblivious to my approach, but his adversary’s eyes flickered sharply as I lowered my lance. Charny saw me and knew me, doubtless from the silver chevron on my shield. His own helmet had been torn off in the struggle; his uncovered head nobly crowned the green surcoat he wore. He looked me in the eye, as directly as if I had no basinet upon my brow. In that instant, my innermost intentions were revealed to him; I felt the same shame of nakedness and guilt that first overtook Adam in the garden.

  Then, in one deft, deliberate motion, Sir Geoffroi lowered his sword arm and left open his guard. Holland lunged to the left to finish him with a stroke, leaping out of my path with as much rapidity as if he had been cognizant of my intentions. My lance swung wide of its mark, and my horse thundered by him into the thick of the French lines.

  The next few moments enveloped me in a struggle for survival. French swords flailed fiercely about me, and I fought hard to keep from being unhorsed. When I gained breathing space enough to turn my head, I saw that the orange standard had fallen, as had its bearer. Charny’s green surcoat lay trampled upon the ground, housing the poor clay of the noblest knight in Christendom.

  I fought on. The battle, it seemed, had begun to lose its intensity. A few French knights cast anxious glances over their shoulder hoping to flee if enough of their fellows were like-minded. By dint of vigorous strokes, I gained the prince’s side again.

  Chandos, who had shadowed the prince throughout the battle, spurred his horse forward till he was level with the prince’s mount. He saw the signs of imminent rout in the faces of the French. “Ride forward, sire!” he cried. “The victory is yours. Today you hold God’s favor in the palm of your hand. Let us make for your adversary, the king of France—that’s where the real business lies.”

  “Is he retreating?” I shouted.

  “Nay,” said Chandos. “He is too brave to run away. By God and St. George, he will be ours!”

  The prince’s eyes kindled. “Come on, Potenhale. No hanging back now!” He called to his banner-bearer with imperious enthusiasm, “Advance, banner, in the name of God and St. George!” The golden lion of the Plantagenets moved ahead with majestic ferocity. The French lilies lay just beyond us, and beneath them the pretended king of France.

  King John, as Chandos had remarked, was a brave man. When he had ordered all his knights to dismount for the advance, he had done the same. Wielding a double-bladed axe, he planted himself firmly in the thick of the battle. However strongly the English gale might blow, he refused to be uprooted.

  This resolution, however, was not held with such fervor in the hearts of the French troops. An epidemic of fright swept through the French ranks. Whole companies of King John’s men took to their heels. The cries of “Montjoy!” and “St. Denis!” faded from the field of battle. Before the prince’s company had even reached King John, the standard with the French lilies fell to the ground. St. George had won the day for England.

  PEACE AT LAST

  SEPTEMBER, 1356 – DECEMBER, 1360

  15

  The English men-at-arms pursued the fleeing French down the hill, through the marsh, and up to the gates of Poitiers. Those gates the city of Poitiers had wisely resolved to bar against fugitives from the battle. As so often happens in a rout, more French died in flight than had perished during the actual engagement. Up to the very walls the French were butchered, or made prisoner by Englishmen greedy for ransom.

  All the field was littered with broken armor, basinets, swords, knives, lances, shields, flung away in desperate flight. Dead horses, dead men, and dying men lay tangled up with pennants, trumpets, arrows, and saddles. Welshman wandered about with their long knives, picking up valuables and giving the quietus to soldiers too poor to be ransomed.

  The prince pursued the fleeing French as wholeheartedly as any man, with Chandos and me in his train. At length, as the shadows began to lengthen, we fell under the grip of exhaustion. The prince cried a halt. Chandos remarked that the men, in pursuit of the foe, had scattered very widely about the countryside. Even though there was no danger of the French re-forming, it would be good to rally the men to the prince’s standard.

  Ordering the trumpets to be sounded, the prince took off his helmet. Blood covered his face in grimy streaks. “Great God!” said Warwick, leading in some of the men from his battalion. “Salisbury and I competed to spill the most enemy blood, but you have outdone us all, prince.”

  I helped the prince disarm, and ordered refreshment to be brought immediately. The servants who had stayed with the baggage during the battle rushed to erect a small pavilion. The prince sat down wearily and drank a little wine. One by one, the English lords returned from the pursuit, their companies swelled with booty and prisoners.

  King John had not been taken by the prince’s own hand. Sir Denis de Morbecque, a French expatriate who had fought on our side, had received his surrender, and it was that knight who now brought him before us. John was of slender build. A large, Gallic nose protruded beneath his thick mane of thatch-colored hair. He was eleven years the prince’s senior, and had reigned as king for the past six years.

  John’s conduct in the battle had been courageous and honorable, but we English had little other reason to praise him. He had begun his reign by autocratically executing his constable; then he had bestowed that high office upon a Spanish pirate, Don Carlos de la Cerda. He had mismanaged affairs with his son-in-law Navarre, alternately showing pitiful weakness and highhanded tyranny. Yet although the Valois king’s reputation was as checkered as a troubadour’s tunic, the prince received him with as much regard as if he had been his own father. “Welcome, dear sir,” said the prince courteously. He offered John a stoop of wine and, rising himself, volunteered to act the squire and help the prisoner disarm.

  The French king waved him off. “Nay, cousin,” he said in a sad tone, acknowledging their common ancestry from the house of Capet. “Do not trouble yourself, for I do not deserve such esteem. In sooth, you have won more honor today than any prince before you!”

  “My lord,” answered the prince frankly. “God has done this and not us; we must thank Him and pray that He will grant us His glory and pardon this bloody victory which our hands have wrought.” With that, the prince sent orders throughout the congregating host that prayers of thanksgiving should be said by all men-at-arms, giving glory, laud, and honor to the Holy Trinity for the doings of this day.

  Poitiers, now certain of the victor, threw open its gates and invited the Prince of Wales to take possession of her; the prince, however, determined to lodge in the field. “How many of my countrymen lie fallen here?” he asked. “I will sleep here beside them until the earth is turned over their faces.”

  Chandos, ever faithful as the eyes and ears of his master, received the solemn duty of reckoning up the dead. I begged leave to follow his squires. We combed the field making note of the slain nobility on both sides. Darkness fell before the count could be completed, but the length of Sir Chandos’s tally for the enemy indicated that the finest flower of French chivalry had died that day. The spirits of six thousand Frenchmen had fled, a tenth of which were belted knights.

  Sir Jean Clermont was among them, his blue surcoat with the Virgin Mary pierced through by half a dozen arrows. Sir Geoffroi Charny was another title in the list. The orange ensign had been stripped from the pole beside him and carried off by an eager plunderer. I found one corner of it in the folded fingers of his cold hand. I took it, dear lady, as a memento of your husband.

  Besides the dead, there were nearly as many prisoners
to account for. Coming back from the pursuit and clustering round the prince’s banner, the English found that their prisoners were at least as numerous as they. Some of the French knights paid their ransom then and there. Others gave their parole that they would surrender themselves at Bordeaux by Christmas, or else deliver the payment there.

  The nobles, whose ransom was set at a higher figure, would linger a little longer in our care. There were thirteen counts, five viscounts, twenty-one bannerets, and a score of other prominent knights. Besides these, we had King John and his youngest son Philip. The prince invited them all to a feast that night, procuring provisions from Poitiers to supplement our scanty supplies.

  I sat at table with our Gallic guests. Salisbury was there, Chandos, Warwick, and Holland, but Audley had not come in with the others. “Where is Sir James?” I asked Chandos in lowered tones.

  “I do not know,” replied the knight, lines of worry forming on his brow. “I have sent more men to comb the field for him, but alas! I fear the worst.”

  The prince seated King John in the place of honor at the banquet, but for his own part refused to sit. He carried out the dishes like the veriest servingman, and carved up portions to place on the trenchers of his guests. When the French king protested that it were unseemly for the conqueror to wait tables on the conquered, the prince only shook his head with a smile. “Do not make such a poor meal!” he urged, commenting on the French king’s abstemiousness. “God has not heard your prayers today, but rest assured that my royal father will show you every mark of honor and friendship. You have good cause to be cheerful, for today you have won the highest renown of a warrior, excelling even the best of your knights.”

  The prince presented King John with a palm and a crown, proclaiming him the bravest paladin on the field that day. I looked to my right and to my left and saw approbation in the face of the French. Their worried faces relaxed, and I heard one count murmur that our Prince of Wales was the most magnanimous victor he had ever encountered.

  As the feast continued, a squire entered precipitately and whispered something in Sir Chandos’s ear. “Highness,” said he, rising and brushing the crumbs from his lap. “My man brings word that Sir James Audley has been found. Grant me permission to go to him, for he is yet alive.”

  “You have my leave,” said the prince. “And I must beg leave of this company to depart as well. Forgive my brief absence, gentlemen, for Sir Audley is a man that I would not lose for all the world.”

  Slipping from my place, I joined the prince and Chandos outside of Audley’s tent. The men had carried him there on the face of a broad shield; Audley’s four squires shuffled their feet, uncertain whether he should be moved again. “Come, you!” said the prince briskly. “Strip off this armor and lay him in a soft bed.” The squires scurried to obey.

  Sir James’s eyes were closed like the shutters of a prison; his breathing was faint but steady. Once inside the tent, the prince took Audley’s cold hand in his and pressed his lips to the old knight’s face. Gradually, the wounded man recovered his senses enough to recognize the prince. “How went the battle, highness?” he asked in labored tones.

  “The day is ours,” said the prince proudly. “Your charge led the way to victory.”

  Audley’s blood-spattered face split into a broad grin. “The pope may be French,” he said weakly, “but Jesus Christ is English to the hilt!”

  Chandos and I laughed with relief. This sardonic comment was proof that Sir James would live to see another campaign. The prince hurriedly described the rout and delighted Audley to no end when he told him that we had King John in custody.

  “I would not credit it,” said Audley, “if any man but your highness had told me that piece of news.”

  “Believe it and thank the Virgin!” said Chandos fervently. “John’s capture will do England more good than the keys toa hundred castles.”

  “Aye,” said the prince. “He is the hostage that will give us everything we desire. His ransom will be Guienne, and his price the treasury of France. My father will hold again the lands that the Conqueror held and all the lands that Lackland lost.”

  *****

  The next morning, after making the necessary funeral arrangements for our fallen comrades, the prince set out for Bordeaux. There was no need to stop on the way in search of plunder; the riches we had ransacked from the French camp were enough to fill every man’s saddlebags and all the wagons besides. The prince had gathered a quantity of jewels, King John’s costly crown, and his insignia from the Order of the Star. Out of his own spoil, the prince bestowed upon Sir James Audley the yearly pension of five hundred marks. It was a fit reward for his bravery. Audley, who had never cosseted his underlings, showed surprising magnanimity by bestowing the prince’s gift on his four squires. The prince applauded him for his generosity, for liberality was a quality that the prince admired in others as well as in himself.

  The news of our triumph went ahead into Gascony. When we reached Bordeaux, the city welcomed us most nobly. The clergy came out to meet us in procession, carrying crosses and chanting prayers. Ladies, girls, and maids lined the streets and windows, showering late summer flowers on the heads of the heroes.

  The Captal de Buch held a feast as extravagant as his panegyrics to the prince. One hundred courses loaded down the tables in leisurely succession. A roasted peacock, with its feathers replaced and its beak gilded, looked live enough to strut across the table. Pork meatballs coated in green batter fooled many into thinking them apples. Skewers threaded through dried figs, dates, prunes and almonds—though belied by their smell—looked for all the world like savory boar entrails. Meat, fish, fruit, vegetables, creams, and puddings replaced our memories of empty bellies outside the town of Poitiers. There was wine enough to wash it all down—and good wine to boot, for the wine of Bordeaux is renowned throughout Europe.

  It was late September when we reached Bordeaux. The prince resolved to winter there with his prisoners. He sent word of the battle to his father, asking for speedy conveyance home in the spring. King Edward rejoiced exceedingly at the news of his son’s conquest. The capture of King John added a sweet plum to the pudding. As Sir James Audley had ironically remarked, the triumph proved to all that though the pope was French, Jesus Christ was English through and through! Divine favor had delivered France into the hands of our people.

  When the winter storms subsided, His Majesty sent a flotilla of ships and barges to bring the victors—and their prisoners—home to England. As the prince and I left the Captal de Buch’s residence to board the boat, I caught a glimpse of red-gold hair coming down one of the gangplanks in the harbor. I stared dumbfounded at the sight of Margery Bradeshaw. In her arms she bore a little girl child with hair the color of smooth honey and bright, violet eyes. At first, my heart misgave me that the child might be Margery’s; a closer look convinced me that Margery only played nurse, for the child was an exact copy of her mother Joan.

  “What is this?” I demanded of my companions. “Is the lady Joan come to Bordeaux?”

  “Aye,” said Sir Brocas knowingly. “The king has appointed the Earl of Kent to be captain general over his affairs in Gascony. Holland’s family has crossed the channel to be with him.”

  I looked at the prince for confirmation; he nodded dispassionately then turned his attention to the harbormaster. I wondered whether his indifference was real or feigned and schooled my features to adopt the same iron-hearted cast.

  “Here come my lads!” bellowed a loud voice from behind me. Holland had arrived to the wharf to greet the arrivals. Two small urchins whizzed past my legs like excited puppies and wrapped their arms around the great red doublet that Holland wore. Their nurse Margery followed more sedately with little Joan. Holland patted the baby’s head clumsily, and I recollected that—since he had been with us in Bordeaux since last summer—he was seeing his newest offspring for the first time.

  “A blissful reunion,” remarked Brocas sardonically, and then turned aside to join
the prince.

  “Amen to that!” said Holland loudly. “Though it seems my lady wife is not as keen to greet me as her brats are.”

  Margery’s pale cheeks glowed red to hear her mistress’s feelings discussed so frankly in full hearing of the wharf. “There were several parcels to be arranged with the shipmaster, sir,” she said meekly. “Lady Joan bade me come ahead with the children.”

  I winced to hear her submit so tamely. Was this the same woman who had berated me for losing the prince’s letter? Was this the same woman who had bidden her mistress defy Holland and marry Salisbury? Was this the same woman who had given me her red glove at a long-ago tournament? I forgot my feigned indifference and searched her face eagerly for some sign of recognition. There was none. She neither met my eye nor avoided it.

  “Sir Potenhale and I have been comrades-in-arms,” said Holland, noticing my gaze fixed on Margery. His one eye rolled about mischievously. “You were beside me—yes?—when I killed Charny and felled the Oriflamme?”

  I gritted my teeth and grunted. Yes, I had been behind him, beside him, or somewhere in that vicinity.

  “It was a strange encounter,” Holland mused. “For a great part of it, I was sure that Sir Geoffroi would get the better of me. He met stroke after stroke with ease and delivered them back again with interest. But after I began to worry a little, he suddenly ceased his blows and stood to attention. His face was unhelmed; I saw his piercing eyes stare beyond me like a man who sees a vision. In that instant, he let down his guard, and—praise the saints!—I skewered him through his armhole.”

  “I am sorry for that,” said Margery softly. I remembered the time that she had conversed a whole evening with Sir Geoffroi.

  “He was your friend, was he not?” Holland asked me.