I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Well then, tell away,” said Potenhale with a grumble. “What is it that I must hear?”

  “Why, it is namely this,” said Lord Brocas. “The king’s captain-general in France has died and gone to heaven—at least that’s what his well-wishers say. I’m inclined to think that he’s gone to a far smokier place.”

  “The king’s captain-general,” repeated Potenhale. “But that is none other than Sir Thomas Holland!”

  “Exactly,” said Brocas smacking his lips like an old woman who has just sucked the marrow from a bone. “Sir Thomas Holland is no more.”

  “How?”

  “Taken on his sickbed—as could happen to any man, even to one of such a robust constitution as Sir Thomas.”

  “And his wife?”

  “She remains in Gascony still with her children but will soon emigrate, no doubt, to the more congenial shores of our own land.”

  “The prince?” asked Sir Potenhale, hardly able to catch his breath.

  “Like a madman,” said Lord Brocas shaking his head. “First, he locks himself in his room; then he takes ship for Calais swearing he will find you and go on to see the lady in Bordeaux. And now, once he’s in Calais, he locks himself in his room again and swears he will leave you here and take ship once more back to England.”

  “So he has not seen her?”

  “Nay! He says he will not go!” Lord Brocas clenched his fist in exasperation. “And yet, how many years has he waited for this hour? If he persists in this folly, I shall take harsh measures with him.”

  “What can you do? You know him as I do. His highness cannot be cajoled.”

  “But he can be coerced.”

  “By you?” Sir Potenhale looked incredulous.

  “Nay, by his honor,” said Lord Brocas. He smiled slyly. “Wait and watch, Sir Potenhale, and you will see my wonders.”

  When the prince heard that Potenhale had come, he made no move to leave his room. The newly arrived knight brought him his supper and sat down to table with him there. They talked in a desultory fashion till the meal was over. Then began Sir Potenhale, “Lord Brocas says….”

  “I’ll not hear him,” said the prince wearily. “It passes all understanding how that man’s tongue can prattle so long.”

  Sir Potenhale was silent for a moment. “So we are for England, then?”

  “Aye, we leave on the morrow,” said the prince in a tone that brooked no discussion.

  But, as events turned out, their voyage on the morrow was destined for a province far south of English shores. Sir Potenhale awoke from his sleep just in time to hear Brocas’s encounter with the prince in the courtyard.

  “Highness,” said Brocas. The prince would have turned away, but Brocas shouted—“Grant me at least an audience for friendship’s sake.”

  “Very well,” said the prince shortly. “For friendship’s sake.”

  “Do you remember that time at Poitiers when I doubted your leadership?”

  “Aye,” said the prince. “You would have fled the field had I not brought you to your senses.”

  “And do you remember that you swore to me that day that if you brought us alive out of that battlefield you would grant me any boon that I should ask.”

  “Aye.”

  “As God is my witness,” said Brocas, “I have never asked you anything from that day till this, and still I have a boon promised me.”

  “You speak truly,” said the prince suspiciously. “What would you ask of me?”

  “Highness,” said Brocas, cocking his head to one side. “I have grown up beside you as a boy and fought beside you as a man. We begin to grow old together, and still there are none to come after us. I have already seen thirty summers come and go, and methinks it is time that I get myself a wife.”

  “You?” asked the prince. “A wife?”

  “Aye,” said Brocas, “I have been thinking to do as much for a long time now, and I have settled at last upon the lady. But she is a great lady, and I know not whether she will accept my offer.”

  “I wish you well of it. How does this matter involve me?”

  Lord Brocas looked him full in the eye. “I would have you broker a marriage between myself and the lady Joan of Kent.”

  Silence fell across the courtyard, awful and mysterious like the silence of a sacred grove. Men have been struck dead for intruding into such a silence such as this, and Sir Potenhale knew better than to enter the courtyard.

  “You know not what you ask,” the prince replied hoarsely.

  “I know very well,” said Brocas. “I ask that you go to Bordeaux and plead my case with the lady there. Your cousinly persuasion will doubtless soothe any qualms the lady might have, and by Eastertide I shall be your cousin by marriage, sweet prince.”

  The prince stared at Brocas. “So,” he said at last, “this is the boon you are asking of me?”

  “Aye,” said Brocas.

  “So be it,” said the prince. “You shall have your boon, my dear friend. Send a messenger to the harbor to tell the shipmaster we have changed directions. We are no longer for Dover, but for Bordeaux.”

  *****

  The journey to Bordeaux was pleasant so far as winter sailing may be. The prince went at once to greet his old friend the Captal de Buch. Sir Potenhale, who had been dispatched to inquire about the widow of the late captain-general, found that she had removed to the abbey at l’Eglise de Sainte Croix. The good monks had taken in both her and her four children until she could make arrangements to return the household to England.

  The prince had made his arrival incognito, but he did not want to approach Joan unannounced. He remained behind at the residence of the Captal de Buch and sent Potenhale ahead to proclaim his presence to his cousin.

  The knight found his way to the abbey with no difficulty. “Is the lady Joan here?” he asked the watchman who sat at the cloister gate.

  The watchman looked Sir Potenhale up and down, disapprovingly it seemed. “Aye, she’s here,” he said, “but she is in mourning and will take no visitors.”

  “I am sure that my message will be of interest to her.”

  “No visitors,” said the watchman, pursing his lips in disgust.

  “Well then, is there a lady named Margery in her company?” the knight asked.

  “Aye,” said he in a surly tone.”

  “And is she in mourning too?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then I adjure you, my good man, tell the second lady that Sir John Potenhale is without and desires speech with her.”

  The watchman grunted and left to do the knight’s bidding, but before he left, he warned him against crossing the threshold in his absence. “An’ you fear God, you’ll not set foot inside this gate!”

  The knight, though sorely tempted, followed these instructions. He waited a goodly amount of time before any answer came, but when it came, it was in the form of the lady herself.

  “Sir Potenhale!” said the lady in a voice of earnest pleasure. “It has been long since I laid eyes upon you.”

  Sir Potenhale smiled at her from outside the gate. “Your watchman would barely let me send word to you, and it seems I must stand outside if I wish to hold any conversation with you.”

  Margery laughed and stepped forward lightly to lift the latch upon the gate. “In sooth, he is a well-meaning soul,” she explained as Sir Potenhale walked forward into the open grounds of the cloister. “No sooner had Sir Thomas been in the grave a week than a dozen suitors began buzzing around my lady like flies to honey—every swain is fain to court the loveliest lady in England. She’s had much ado to send them packing. It is out of consideration for her that the watchman has proved your foe.”

  “He’d have been wiser to fend me off more forcibly,” said Sir Potenhale mysteriously, “for I fear I’m pack and parcel with the rest who have been beating down your door.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” asked Margery, and a blush caught her ears and spread down to her ivory cheeks. “I know you too well,
sir, to think that you come as a suitor yourself.”

  “You know me far less than you think,” replied Sir Potenhale. “But I shall press my suit when it suits me, and at present it does not. My errand now is as the herald of a suitor, or rather the herald of a herald.”

  Margery looked at him in bewilderment. “Explain yourself, sir.”

  “The prince my master has arrived in Bordeaux and would call upon his cousin tomorrow.”

  “The prince!” said Margery eagerly. “Is he the suitor of whom you speak?”

  Sir Potenhale hesitated. “A suitor of sorts,” said he.

  “He will be welcome,” she said, and ran off hurriedly to inform the widowed lady of Kent.

  The prince was no laggard. He arrived on the heels of his messenger’s departure. The gatekeeper, who had been warned of his coming, admitted him with suitable courtesy.

  The south of France is mild even in the winter, and the prince found his cousin sitting outdoors in the garden adjoining the cloister. Lady Joan’s golden hair was obscured by a mourning veil, but the cheerful blue of her dress and the glistening gold of her embroidery belied the magnitude of her bereavement. She rose to meet the prince and curtsied.

  “Welcome, cousin,” said she. “You are kind to visit.” Her face was older—her cheekbones had lost the roundness of youth and her eyes the naivety of earlier years—but, nonetheless, it was beautiful still. The prince stood silent a moment with his eyes upon her.

  She bade him sit and they talked of Christmas, of the treaty, of Calais, and of her children. Neither spoke of the reason behind her veil of mourning, and the prince was glad of that—it is difficult to offer condolences for an event one has so long desired. When all these subjects had been exhausted, they came at last to the reason for his coming.

  “Cousin,” said the prince, “as much as I delight in your conversation, I must bid you attend to mine a little, for I have somewhat to say to you.” The Lady Joan fell silent and looked on him with shining eyes. The prince wavered a little with a trepidation that he had never felt since his first campaign. “The words are not my own,” he said. “I come as an emissary to plead a case for another.”

  “Who dares to make a diplomat out of a prince?” said Joan with lifted eyebrows.

  “A friend may dare all things,” said the prince, “and Lord Brocas is one such friend. He is the suppliant, and I come before you at his behest. If you hold me dear, sweet cousin, you will not deny his asking.”

  “I cannot deny a request that I have not heard,” replied Joan, “but neither can I grant it. Say on, dear cousin. What would the good Brocas have?”

  “He would have you,” said the prince shortly, “to wife.”

  Lady Joan breathed in sharply. “Ah,” said she. “And for this purpose you are come to beg?”

  “Aye.”

  She stood up suddenly and walked a few paces away. Then turning back to him, she smiled disarmingly. “Why, cousin, what folly is this! I must speak plainly, I see. I have made a vow that I shall not marry again, but shall live chaste, even as the good monks here in this cloister. I regret but that Lord Brocas must be disappointed.”

  “You shall not marry again?” asked the prince.

  “Nay,” she laughed. “I have married twice—or very nearly twice—and that is more than enough for one woman. I have four children. My little Thomas is ten years old! What can I want with another husband?”

  “But cousin,” said the prince, reaching out for her hand and pulling her gently back to the stone bench, “Belle Cousine! You must marry.” He smoothed back the veil that covered the sides of her face. “You cannot let those great beauties with which Our Blessed Redeemer has endowed you be all for naught. Upon my soul, if you and I were not of common kin, there is no lady under heaven whom I should hold so dear as you.”

  At this, the lady’s smile disappeared. She fell forward and leaned upon his shoulder as bitter tears ran down her cheek. The prince stroked her face gently and tried to comfort her, but her tears continued to fall like summer rain. He kissed her brow, and still she wept. He kissed her cheek, yet she cried on.

  “Lord Brocas is a good man!” said the prince in anguish. “He will make you happy, my dear one.”

  “Ah, your highness,” said Joan reproachfully. “For God’s sake forbear to speak of such things to me. I have made up my mind not to marry again; for I have given my heart to the most gallant gentleman under the firmament. For love of him, I shall have no husband but God so long as I live. It is impossible that I should marry him, and yet, for love of him, I wish to shun the company of all other men. I am resolved never to marry.”

  The lady cast down her eyes as she said this, but the prince lifted up her chin. He asked her tell him who was this gentlemen to whom she had given her heart. The lady shook her head sadly. When he persisted, she fell to her knees before him. “My dear cousin,” said Joan. “For Christ’s sake and for the Holy Virgin’s, I entreat you to forbear from asking me.”

  “Nay, I shall not forbear,” replied the prince, and his voice shook with some of the thunder that it carried at Poitiers. “I have been your friend, dear lady, but if you do not tell me here and now who is this gallant gentleman that holds your heart, I shall be forever your most deadly enemy. Tell me, Joan. Tell me his name!”

  She wiped a tear from her eye and looked straight into the dark eyes below his threatening brow. “Very dear and redoubtable lord, how can I hide it from you any longer? It is you who are the most gallant gentleman. And it is for love of you that no gentleman shall lie beside me. Since I cannot be your bride, I shall be the bride of Christ.”

  The prince raised her kneeling figure from the ground and held her firmly in his arms. “Lady, I swear to you that as long as I live, no other woman shall be my wife.”

  “But it cannot be!” said Joan. “We are kin!”

  He stopped her mouth with a kiss. “Then I shall build an abbey for the Holy See. William the Conqueror did the same for his Matilda, and in consequence of that the pope said nary a word of condemnation.”

  “But he did not have to deal with a French pope,” objected Joan, perversely parading every protest now that the prince had made his protestation of love to her. “Mayhap an abbey will not appease him?”

  “Then I shall march an army to the gates of Avignon!” replied the prince in good natured exasperation. “I have outwitted conspirators at Calais, I have sunk Spaniards aboard their ships, I have captured kings at Poitiers—and shall I fear the cry of “Consanguinity!” from a caitiff pontiff? Come, cousin, have done with your cavils and say rather that you will have me as your husband.”

  At this the lady demurred no longer, but placing her hands in his, declared herself entirely willing to forget her cousinly scruples and trust in the better judgment of her beau cousin, le chevalier le plus galant dans tout le monde.

  *****

  When the prince returned to his quarters several hours later, the early winter evening had already chased the sun from the horizon. The Captal de Buch had retired to bed, as old men are wont to do, but he found Brocas and Potenhale wide awake and playing at chess before a warm fire.

  “How went my suit?” demanded Brocas with a devilish gleam in his eye.

  The prince shook his head, “Poorly, poorly. It seems the lady likes you not.”

  “Alas and alack!” cried Brocas. “But did you seek to persuade the lady by itemizing my better parts?”

  “I used every means of persuasion, my friend, but the lady swears she loves another.”

  “Another?” asked Brocas in mock despair. “Who is this wretch? Tell me his name that I may throw my gauntlet in his face.”

  The prince shrugged. “What can I say? I am he.”

  Brocas rose slowly from his chair. “I could be angry at you, methinks. I asked you to get me a wife, and you have dealt most feigningly with me.”

  “I also could be angry,” replied the prince. “For against my will, you have thrown me in the way of my cousi
n and forced me to make love to her.”

  Then they both dispelled their pretended displeasure and grinned broadly. “Gramercy, my friend,” said the prince. “You have served me better than you know.”

  “God bless you, my prince,” replied Lord Brocas, and he clapped him on the shoulder with strong emotion.

  Potenhale, still sitting by the fireside, smiled wryly to hear the prince discuss his new plans for the marriage. There was no fear that his father would object. The man who had taken a kingdom had the right to take his own bride. They would live in Guienne, perhaps in that selfsame city of Bordeaux—for the king had promised to make his firstborn the ruler of that province. The prince thanked Brocas again. He would have led him away to the wine cellars when he remembered that he was, after all, still the herald of another suitor. “Potenhale,” said he, for there was one more piece of news to relate.

  The prince’s time in the cloister had not been spent exclusively in Joan’s arms. After the newly-betrothed couple had wasted many words on tender endearments, Joan called the children to come meet their future papa. She also called Margery, anxious to share the happy news with the maidservant who had shared her every sorrow.

  Margery curtsied and felicitated her mistress. Her bright eyes sparkled with genuine joy. Considerately, she stepped back to leave the couple alone, but the prince stopped her and asked her to stay a while. He had pleaded his case with her mistress, and now he had some conversation to hold with her. Margery scanned his face in bewilderment. What could the Prince of Wales have to say to her?

  *****

  “Potenhale,” said the prince. “This was her only word.” And pulling a crimson glove out of the breast of his jerkin, he tossed it to his faithful servant. “God give you joy.”

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Appelbaum, Stanley, trans. and ed. Medieval Tales and Stories. Mineola, NY: Dover

  Publications, Inc., 2000.