On Saturday 4 August 1347 King Edward III entered Calais in triumph and gave orders that the entire city be evacuated. The miserable citizens were permitted to take nothing with them: houses and estates, furniture and possessions, all were left behind for the use of the English colonists whom the King brought in to take their places. The descendants of those colonists were to remain there for over two centuries until, on 7 January 1558, Calais was recaptured at last.
For nine years after the fall of Calais, the war was largely forgotten. The Black Death struck France in January 1348, and England the following July; within ten years it had killed an estimated one-third of the population living between India and Iceland. Of those who survived, the majority had other, more pressing anxieties. There were a few minor skirmishes in Gascony and Brittany, and towards the end of 1355 Edward even landed with another army at Calais; but he seems to have thought better of the operation, since he and his men were back in
1. There is no reason to doubt the story of the burghers of Calais; nor is there any excuse for Londoners to forget it, since a bronze cast of Rodin's famous group was acquired for the nation in 1915 by the National Art Collections Fund and now stands in Westminster Palace Gardens.
England little more than a month later. Meanwhile successive popes did their best to bring about a lasting peace; if they failed, it was because neither of the protagonists really wanted it. Edward would be satisfied with nothing less than the throne of France; Philip's son John II, who had succeeded his father in 1350, was an incorrigible and impetuous romantic whose dreams of chivalric derring-do were to betray him again and again. For the time being, both monarchs had other business on their minds; when the moment came, however, both would show themselves only too keen to continue the struggle.
In the same year as Edward's abortive Calais expedition the Black Prince, now twenty-five and his father's lieutenant in Gascony, took an army to south-west France, failing to capture Narbonne and Carcassonne but causing appalling devastation and destruction in the surrounding countryside. In 1356 he was more ambitious still, launching raids up and down the Loire to the point where King John determined to teach him a lesson, summoning all the noblemen and knights of the realm to assemble at Chartres in the first week of September with their retinues. The response was almost universal; by the time the army was ready it included the King's four sons, none of them yet out of their teens; the Constable of France, Gauthier de Brienne; two marshals; twenty-six dukes and counts; 334 bannerets; and lesser lords and knights without number, all bringing their own troops. Holinshed refers to three 'battles' (battalions) of 16,000 men each, making a total of 48,000, though he is almost certainly exaggerating. Whatever the precise figure, it was by any account a very considerable force that crossed the Loire at various points and then pressed south with all speed in pursuit of the English, catching up with them on the morning of Sunday 18 September, some seven miles south-east of Poitiers, in the valley of the little river Miosson.1
The French were in confident mood. For one thing, they comfortably outnumbered the English, who were probably no more than ten or twelve thousand at most; they also had reason to believe that the invaders were seriously short of food. For the rest of that day the two sides reconnoitred each other's positions and prepared for battle, while the
1. The site of the battle of Poitiers is occupied today by the farm known as La Cardinerie, formerly Maupertuis, a mile or so to the north of the former Benedictine Abbey of Nouaille.
Cardinal Talleyrand de Perigord, who had been sent by the Pope to attempt to negotiate a peace, shuttled fruitlessly backwards and forwards between the two sides. The Black Prince, who would certainly have avoided the battle if he could, offered to restore all his prisoners without ransom and to return all the castles that he had occupied; but John would accept nothing less than his own personal surrender, with a hundred of his knights - a demand that the Prince not unnaturally refused outright. Consequently, soon after sunrise on the following day, the battle began.
It seems extraordinary that since their defeat at Crecy the French had taken no steps to raise and train enough regiments of longbowmen to pay back the English in their own coin, particularly since John was fully conscious of the danger presented by the English archers. His plan seems to have been first to send a small force of some three hundred mounted knights to charge into their midst and scatter them, before following with the main body of his army - on foot, because the marshy ground and the numerous hedges and ditches were impossible for cavalry to negotiate. The tactic proved disastrous. The knights — who represented the flower of his army and who included the Constable of France and both marshals - succumbed to the usual deluge of arrows, and after this initial massacre the battle was as good as won. The French fought valiantly, but were overwhelmed; and when the fighting was over John himself was among the prisoners. The Prince treated him with elaborate courtesy. Froissart tells of how, the evening after the battle, he gave a supper in his honour, to which he also invited the other noble captives, including thirteen counts, an archbishop and sixty-six barons. 'He himself served in all humility both at the King's table and at the others. . . insisting that he was not worthy to sit himself at the table of so mighty a prince and so brave a soldier.' Seven months later he escorted John personally to London.
The capture of John II, leaving France as it did in the hands of a nineteen-year-old Dauphin, might well have signalled the end of the war; King Edward, however, saw it differently. To him it seemed the perfect opportunity for the final decisive thrust that would win him the French crown. For the next four years he fought hard and often brilliantly; but contrary to his expectations he made no real headway, and early in 1360 he consented to peace negotiations. On 8 May, in the little village of Bretigny near Chartres, the Black Prince and the
Dauphin agreed to the terms of a treaty, subject to confirmation by their respective fathers. The French would recognize Edward's claim to Gascony and Poitou, together with various counties and towns in northern France, including Calais. They would also surrender the city of La Rochelle, of vital importance to England as the centre of the salt trade. John's ransom was fixed at three million gold crowns: he was to be released on payment of the first instalment of one-fifth of the total. No less than forty noble hostages would be given as security for the remainder, which would be paid in six more annual instalments. The King of England, for his part, would agree to renounce his claim to the throne of France and to all other regions of the country.
When the two Kings met at Calais in October, however, Edward insisted that he would make his renunciations only after the transfer to him of all the lands ceded at Bretigny, with a proviso that this should be complete by I November 1361. It was a deeply disingenuous stipulation, and both sides knew it. Such transfers were long and complicated; they could not possibly be completed in a single year. The fact of the matter was that Edward was determined to leave his options open. He willingly agreed to easier terms for the payment of the ransom but, as things turned out, it would have been better had the money not been paid at all. In the summer of 1363 one of the hostages, John's second son, the Duke of Anjou, broke his parole and fled. His father, horrified, declared his intention of returning immediately to London. His advisers did everything they could to dissuade him, but he remained firm. 'If good faith and honour are to be banished from the rest of the world,' he is quoted as saying, 'they should still be found in the hearts and words of princes.' He left Paris the week after Christmas, crossed the Channel in midwinter, and arrived in January 1364. Four months later he was dead, 'of an unknown illness'. Edward ordered him a magnificent funeral service at St Paul's before returning the body to France, where it was buried at Saint-Denis.
Let us return now to our play. The first scene of Act IV of Edward III introduces Lord Mountford, in conversation with the Earl of Salisbury. Mountford is, more properly, that Jean IV de Montfort who in 1341 claimed the dukedom of Brittany - which had been assigned to the nephew of Phili
p VI - and did homage for it to Edward III. Unfortunately he was captured in the same year and ended his life as a prisoner in the Louvre; but in the play he has been restored to the dukedom, and his presence therefore suggests that this short scene is set in Brittany. The incident which follows, on the other hand, in which Salisbury persuades one of his French prisoners to obtain for him a letter of safe conduct so that he may join the King at Calais, is inspired by a similar story in Froissart involving not Salisbury but another of Edward's knights, Sir Walter Manny, who had been at the siege of Aiguillon, ridden across France and, as we have seen, had arrived at Calais in time for its submission. Thus, to include it in his play, the dramatist has changed both the location of the incident and its subject. He has also given the prisoner - unidentified in Froissart - the invented name of Villiers.
Scene ii brings us to the walls of besieged Calais, immediately after King Philip's departure. It seems a little odd that Edward in his opening speech should order the siege to begin, since in fact it had already been in progress for almost a year — as is immediately indicated by the appearance of six poor men - representatives, presumably, of Froissart's 1,700 - who, having explained the reasons for their distress, are given money by Edward. There follows a brief interruption by Lord Percy, who enters with two pieces of good news: the first that King David of Scotland has been captured; the second that Queen Philippa, though heavily pregnant, is on her way. Edward then announces - personally, rather than through Sir Walter Manny - his conditions for sparing the people of Calais, giving them two days in which to comply.
Since the story of the six burghers can clearly not be completed without the presence of Philippa, we might have expected some minor telescoping of time to allow for her immediate arrival in the following scene; scene iii, however, comes as a considerable surprise, involving as it does by far the greatest chronological liberty taken in the entire play. It divides naturally into two parts: the first, which must follow shortly after scene i with Salisbury and Mountford, continues the story of Salisbury's letter of safe conduct, with Villiers requesting it from Charles of Normandy.1 Charles at first objects; their conversation develops into a moral discussion about conflicting oaths and the laws of chivalry and has little bearing on what follows: at last, however, the Duke sees the force of Villiers's argument and Salisbury gets his letter.
1. At this point the Duke of Normandy was in fact the future John II. See pp. 18-19 and 23—4.
Then, in line 57, although Charles remains on stage, we suddenly leap forward a whole decade to the field of Poitiers. King John (and by now he really is King John, his father Philip VI having died six years earlier) tells Charles (who is now transmuted into John's eldest son, born in 1350 and Duke of Normandy since his father's accession) that the Black Prince is surrounded and outnumbered. The first of these statements is unhistorical - the Prince's troops were never in such difficulties - the second is true, though John's estimate of the French strength as 'threescore thousand at the least' is obviously an exaggeration.1 Charles replies by telling his father of a threefold prophecy, the first part of which, 'When feather'd fowl shall make thine army tremble', is reported in both Froissart and Holinshed - in connection, however, not with Poitiers but with Crecy, ten yean before.
There follows an extremely unhistorical account of the battle itself. It begins with a conversation between the Prince and his friend Lord Audley, who had fought beside him at Crecy, confirming King John's view of the situation:
At Cressy field our clouds of warlike smoke Chok'd up those French mouths and dissever'd them: But now their multitudes of millions hide, Masking as 'twere, the beauteous-burning sun; Leaving no hope to us but sullen dark And eyeless terror of all-ending night.
Audley describes the disposition of the enemy, much as the Mariner did before the battle of Sluys,2 and the Prince replies with words of encouragement vaguely reminiscent - though they are a good deal less polished - of the St Crispin's Day speech in Henry V. Next three French heralds arrive to taunt the Prince — an incident that recalls the scene of the tennis balls in the same play. He dismisses them with contempt, after which he and Audley prepare themselves for imminent death.
Then, suddenly, the sky darkens and a strange silence falls, shortly to be broken by a flight of ravens croaking over the French army. The prophecy is fulfilled and panic ensues, as more and more Frenchmen
See p. 37.
See p. 24.
take to their heels. At this point Lord Salisbury is brought before the French King, having tried unsuccessfully to make his way through the enemy ranks.1 John orders his execution, but Salisbury shows his letter of safe conduct, signed by Charles of Normandy, who is fortunately present. An argument ensues between Charles and his father on the same lines as that between Villiers and Charles in IV.iii; the King finally capitulates and allows his prisoner to proceed on his way to Calais, but not before he has delivered a parting shot:
Some two leagues hence there is a lofty hill. . .
And thence behold the wretched Prince of Wales,
Hoop'd with a band of iron round about.
After which sight to Calice [Calais] spur amain,
And say, the prince was smother'd and not slain:
And tell the king, this is not all his ill,
For I will greet him ere he thinks I will.
Meanwhile, thanks to the ravens, the tide of battle has turned and the entire French army is in flight. King John himself is taken prisoner and brought before the Black Prince; but the Prince appears far more concerned with his friend Audley, who has been seriously - though, as we later learn, not fatally - wounded.
With Act V, scene i - the last scene in the play - we are back in Calais for the conclusion of the story of the burghers. 'The two days' respite is not yet expir'd', and they duly present themselves before King Edward 'in their shirts, bare foot, with halters about their necks'. He at first condemns them, but Queen Philippa intercedes and he yields to her entreaty. Next comes a brief interlude with a certain John Copland, who has been fortunate enough to capture King David of -Scotland at Neville's Cross a short time before. Despite Philippa's commission from her husband to govern in his name during his absence, Copland has refused to deliver his prisoner to anyone but the King himself and has accordingly brought him to Calais. The Queen is
i. Salisbury's letter was issued nine or ten years before, and Calais had already been nearly a decade in English hands. Several obvious questions arise: did he take all that time to ride through France? Is Poitiers really on the way between Brittany and Calais? But to ask such questions is to miss the point. For the purposes of the play, the siege of Calais and the Battle of Poitiers were virtually contemporaneous.
understandably irritated, but Edward is pleased by Copland's flattering explanation of his motives and rewards him with a knighthood.
The scene continues with the arrival of Lord Salisbury, who brings tragic news:
Here stood a battle of ten thousand hone:
There twice as many pikes, in quadrant-wise .. .
And in the midst, like to a slender point
Within the compass of the horizon . . .
Or as a bear fast chain'd unto a stake, -
Stood famous Edward [the Black Prince], still expecting when
Those dogs of France would fasten on his flesh . . .
The Battles join: and, when we could no more
Discern the difference 'twixt the friend and foe . . .
Away we turn'd our wat'ry eyes, with sighs
As black as powder fuming into smoke.
Consternation follows; but a moment later, while the distraught Queen is mourning her son and the furious King is swearing vengeance, a herald enters to announce the arrival of the Prince in splendid health, accompanied by Audley—now apparently recovered—and his prisoners, King John of France and his son Philip. Edward is quick to taunt the captive King:
So, John of France, I see you keep your word.
You promis'd to be soon
er with ourself
Than we did think for, and 'tis so indeed:
The Prince then delivers a fine patriotic speech, leaving, however, the play's last words to his father:
A day or two within this haven-town,
God willing, then for England we'll be shipp'd,
Where, in a happy hour, I trust, we shall
Arrive, three kings, two princes, and a queen.
Once again, Shakespeare - if Shakespeare it is - has taken his usual liberties with historic truth. Edward and Philippa were not in France after Poitiers, though they were as we know present at Calais. King David of Scotland was never taken to Calais, but remained in London and Odiham in Hampshire between his capture in 1346 and his eventual ransom in 1357. But in the context of the play such details are insignificant enough. Perhaps because of its suspected multiple authorship, Edward III probably contains more inaccuracies than the other plays in the canon. The fact remains - and cannot be too often repeated or too strongly emphasized - that to a dramatist, accuracy is at most of secondary importance. The main events of Edward's life are all there; and the average playgoer, whether of the sixteenth or the twenty-first century, having no previous knowledge of the period, will have come away with a mental picture which, for all its bold lines and high colour, will not be so very far wrong.
The story of the last sad years of Edward's reign can be briefly told. In 1362 he made over Gascony and Poitou to his eldest son, to be held of himself as sovereign. At Bordeaux the Black Prince established a luxurious and sophisticated court where, wrote the Chandos Herald,1 'since God was born, never was open house kept so handsomely and honourably.' He fed 'more than fourscore knights and full four times as many squires' at his table, and maintained a vast retinue of his own: pages, valets, cooks, stewards, butlers, grooms, huntsmen and falconers, insisting that he himself be served only by a knight wearing golden spurs. His lovely wife Joan was arrayed as no Queen of England had ever been, in furs, velvets and brocades, all ablaze with jewels. At his court 'there abode all nobleness, all joy and jollity, largesse, gentleness and honour, and all his subjects and all his men loved him right dearly.'
Shakespeare's Kings Page 6