The She-Wolf

by Maurice Druon

  The Earl of Kent shrugged his shoulders. The Bordeaux country would not be affected by the loss of a few barrels, and war or no war, one would still be able to go on drinking claret. An unexpected little breeze was blowing about the top of the Thomasse Tower; it entered the young prince’s open shirt and played agreeably over his skin. How marvellous it felt merely to be alive!

  The Earl of Kent placed his elbows on the warm stone of the battlements and allowed himself to dream. At twenty-three, he was the King’s Lieutenant for the whole duchy, that is to say invested with all the royal powers, justice, war, finance. In his own person he was the King himself. It was he who said: ‘I will it’ and who was obeyed. He could give the order: ‘Hang him!’ Not that he was thinking of giving any such order, but he had the power to do so. And then, above all, he was far from England, far from the Court, far from his half-brother and his whims, angers and suspicions, far from the Despensers, with whom he had of necessity to pretend to be on good terms, though he hated them. Here he was on his own, his own master, and master of all he surveyed. An army was coming to meet him, but he would charge it and defeat it, there could be no doubt of that. An astrologer had told him that he would accomplish his greatest actions and achieve renown between the ages of twenty-four and twenty-six. His childhood dreams were suddenly coming true. A great plain, an army, sovereign power … No, indeed, he had never felt happier to be alive in his life. His head was swimming a little with an intoxication which was entirely due to his own feelings and to the breeze playing over his chest, the vastness of the horizon …

  ‘Your orders, Monseigneur?’ asked Messire Basset, who was becoming impatient.

  The Earl of Kent turned and looked at the little Seneschal with a shade of haughty astonishment.

  ‘My orders?’ he repeated. ‘Have the busines18 sounded, of course, Messire Seneschal, and get your people to horse. We shall go out to meet them and charge.’

  ‘But what with, Monseigneur?’

  ‘Good God, with our troops, Basset!’

  ‘Monseigneur, we have barely two hundred knights here, and there are more than fifteen hundred coming against us according to the figures in our possession. Is that not correct, Messire de Bergerac?’

  Reginald de Pons de Bergerac nodded agreement. The little Seneschal’s neck was redder and more swollen than ever; he was aghast and on the verge of exploding at such imprudence.

  ‘Have we no news of reinforcements?’ asked the Earl of Kent.

  ‘No, Monseigneur, still nothing. The King your brother, if you will forgive my saying so, is letting us down badly.’

  They had been waiting for these long-heralded reinforcements from England for four weeks. And the Constable of Bordeaux, who had troops, made a pretext of their failure to arrive for not moving himself, for he had received an order from King Edward to march when the reinforcements had disembarked. The young Earl of Kent was not so much a sovereign as it might appear.

  Owing to the delay and the consequent lack of men – who could tell if the promised reinforcements had ever been shipped? – they had been unable to prevent Monseigneur of Valois strolling across the countryside, from Agen to Marmande and from Bergerac to Duras, as if in a pleasure park. And now that uncle Valois was in sight, with his long ribbon of steel, there was still nothing that could be done about it.

  ‘Is that also your advice, Montpezat?’ asked the Earl of Kent.

  ‘I fear so, Monseigneur, I very much fear so,’ replied the Lord of Montpezat, chewing his black moustaches.

  For he was obsessed with a longing for revenge. As a reprisal for his disobedience, Valois had ordered his castle to be demolished.

  ‘And you, Bergerac?’ Kent asked again.

  ‘It makes me weep with rage,’ said Pons de Bergerac with that strong, sing-song accent that was common to all the minor lords of the region.

  Edmund of Kent did not bother to ask the Barons of Budos and Fargues de Mauvezin for their opinions; for they could speak neither French nor English, but only Gascon, and Kent could not understand a word they said. In any case, their expressions were sufficient answer.

  ‘Very well then, close the gates, Messire Seneschal, and make dispositions for a siege. And when the reinforcements do arrive, they’ll take the French in the rear, and perhaps that will be better still,’ said the Earl of Kent, trying to console himself.

  He scratched his greyhound’s forehead with the tips of his fingers, and then leaned on the warm stone again to watch the valley. There was an old saying: ‘Who holds La Réole holds Guyenne.’ They would hold out as long as was necessary.

  For an army too easy an advance is almost as exhausting as a retreat. Having met no resistance to bring it to a halt, even if only for a day, to draw breath, the French army had been marching unceasingly for more than three weeks, to be precise for twenty-five days. The great host, with its banners, knights, squires, archers, wagons, forges and cookers, with the merchants and brothel-keepers in its train, extended over a league of the plain. Its horses were wither-galled, and every few minutes one of them cast a shoe. Many of the knights had had to give up wearing their armour which, aided by the heat, had given them sores and boils at the joints. The footmen were wearily dragging their heavy nailed boots. Moreover, the fine black plums of Agen, which looked ripe enough on the trees, had violently purged the thirsty, pilfering soldiers. They were continually leaving the column to lower their breeches by the roadside.

  The Constable Gaucher de Châtillon slept as much as he could on his horse. He had trained himself to do this through nearly fifty years of the profession of arms and eight wars or campaigns.

  ‘I shall sleep a little,’ he would say to his two squires.

  Adjusting their horses’ pace to his, they placed themselves on each side of the Constable, so as to prop him up should he slip sideways; and the old leader, his back well supported by the cantle, snored inside his helm.

  Robert of Artois, though he sweated, grew no thinner; for twenty yards around he diffused the stench of a wild beast. He had made a friend of one of the English in Mortimer’s train, the tall Baron Maltravers, who looked like a horse, and he had even offered him a place in his banner because he was a great gambler and ready to handle the dice-box at every halt.

  Charles of Valois’s ill-humour was not improving. Surrounded by his son Alençon, his nephew Évreux, the two Marshals Mathieu de Trye and Jean des Barres, and his cousin Alfonso of Spain, he spent his time swearing at everything, at the intolerable climate, the stuffiness of the nights and the furnace of the days, at the flies, at the greasy food. The wine they served him was but thin stuff and fit for rustics, though they were in a country famous for its wines, were they not? Where did these people hide their good cakes? The eggs tasted bad and the milk was sour. Monseigneur of Valois sometimes woke up in the morning feeling sick and for several days past he had been suffering from a dull pain in the left shoulder which worried him. And then the footmen marched so slowly. Oh, if one could make war with the chivalry alone! And then, had he been right to take the advice of Tolomei, supported though it was by Robert of Artois, and drag these huge bombards on their wooden carriages all the way from Castelsarrasin, instead of relying on the catapults and perriers to which he was accustomed? For though they might take longer to put in position, they had the great advantage of being transported in pieces.

  ‘I seemed to be condemned to hot suns,’ he said. ‘My first campaign, when I was fifteen years old, was fought in the burning heat of your bare Aragon, of which I was once king for a time, Cousin Alfonso, and against your grandfather.’

  He was talking to Alfonso of Spain, heir to the throne of Aragon, reminding him, perhaps not very tactfully, of the enmity that had divided their respective families. But he could do so with impunity, for Alfonso was very easy-going, and ready to do anything to please; he was prepared to go on the crusade since he had been asked to do so, and in the meantime to train himself for the crusade by fighting the English.

 
‘I shall never forget the capture of Gerona,’ Valois went on. ‘What an oven that was! The Cardinal de Cholet, since he had no crown available for my coronation, crowned me with his hat. I was stifled under that huge red piece of felt. Yes, I was fifteen years old. If my noble father, King Philippe the Bold, had not died of the fever he contracted in those parts on his way home …’

  Talking of his father made him feel gloomy. He was thinking that he had died at forty. His elder brother, Philip the Fair, had died at forty-six, and his half-brother, Louis of Évreux, at forty-three. And he himself had turned fifty-four in March! He had clearly shown that he was the most robust member of the family. But how many more years would Providence permit him?

  ‘And Campania, Romagna and Tuscany, those are hot countries for you,’ he went on. ‘I marched through the whole of Italy, in midsummer, from Naples up to Siena and Florence, to chase out the Ghibellines some – let me see, it was in 1301 – twenty-three years ago. And even here, in Guyenne in the year 1294, it was summer. It always is summer. But when you have to fight in Flanders, it’s always winter and you’re up to your thighs in mud.’

  ‘You know, Charles, it’ll be hotter still on the crusade,’ Robert of Artois said sarcastically. ‘Do you see us invading the Egyptian Sudan? It seems vines are not much cultivated in those parts. We shall have to drink the sand.’

  ‘Oh, the crusade, the crusade …’ Valois replied with weary irritation. ‘How can one even tell whether the crusade will ever take place with all the obstacles people put in my way? It’s all very well to devote one’s life to the service of the kingdom and the Church, but in the end one grows weary of expending all one’s strength for such ungrateful people.’

  The ungrateful people were in the first place Pope John XXII, who was still reluctant to grant the subsidies, almost as if he really wished to discourage the expedition; but above all King Charles IV, who had not only failed to send the commission for the lieutenancy to Charles of Valois, a dereliction which was now becoming offensive, but had also taken advantage of his uncle’s absence to put himself forward as a candidate for the Empire. And the Pope, of course, had given him his official support. And so all Valois’s splendid arrangements with Leopold of Hapsburg had fallen to the ground. King Charles was considered a fool and, in fact, was one; but on occasion he was competent enough to deal a foul blow. Valois had received the news that very day, August 25. It was an unsatisfactory Feast of Saint Louis, to say the least. He was in such a bad temper and so busy chasing the flies from his face, that he had forgotten to look at the landscape. He saw La Réole only when they were before it, within four or five bowshots.

  La Réole stood on a rocky spur above the Garonne, but was dominated by a circle of green hills. Etched against the pale sky, enclosed within her ramparts of fine yellow stone, now turning gold in the setting sun, with her steeples, her castle’s turrets, and the high roof of her Town Hall with its open belfry, and all her crowded roofs of red tiles, she resembled the miniatures of Jerusalem you can find in Books of Hours. A pretty town. Furthermore, owing to the height on which La Réole was set, she was an ideal stronghold. The Earl of Kent had made no error in shutting himself up within her walls. She would be no easy fortress to take.

  The army had come to a halt, awaiting orders. But Monseigneur of Valois issued none. He was sulking. Let the Constable and the Marshals take what decisions seemed good to them. Since he was not the King’s Lieutenant and had no power, he refused to take any responsibility.

  ‘Come, Alfonso, let us go and refresh ourselves,’ he said to his Spanish cousin.

  Waking up, the Constable twisted his head inside his helm and stuck out an ear to hear what the leaders of his banners were saying to him. He sent the Count of Boulogne to reconnoitre. Boulogne returned an hour later, having ridden round the town by the hills. All the gates were shut, and the garrison showed no signs of making a sortie. It was therefore decided to make camp where they were, and the banners selected their areas pretty much as they liked. The vines, their branches trailing between trees and tall vine-props, made agreeably sheltered tunnels. The army was exhausted and fell asleep in the clear twilight as the first stars appeared.

  The young Earl of Kent was unable to resist the temptation and, after a sleepless night, of which he spent the waking hours playing trémerel19 with his equerries, he sent for Seneschal Basset, ordered him to summon his knights to arms and, before dawn, without sound of trumpet, left the town by a sally-port.

  The French, snoring among the vines, wakened only when the galloping Gascon knights were among them. They looked up in astonishment only to lower their heads again as they saw the charging hooves go by. Edmund of Kent and his companions had it all their own way among the sleeping host; they hewed with their swords, struck with their maces and their leaded flails at naked ribs and legs, unprotected by greaves or breastplates. There was a cracking of bones as they drove a path, leaving screams in their wake, through the French camp. Some of the great lords’ tents collapsed. But soon a loud voice was heard above the hubbub shouting: ‘Rally to Châtillon!’ And the Constable’s banner – gules, three pales vair, in chief or, a dragon for crest, and supporting lions – was floating in the rising sun. Old Gaucher had prudently made his own vassal knights camp a little in the rear, and now came to the rescue. Cries of ‘Artois to the fore!’ and ‘Rally to Valois!’ responded from either hand. Only half-equipped, some on horseback and some on foot, the knights hurled themselves on the enemy.

  The camp was too big and too scattered, and the French knights too numerous, to enable the Earl of Kent to pursue his ravages for long. The Gascons soon became aware of a pincer-movement being mounted against them. Kent had only just time to turn aside and retreat at a gallop to the gates of La Réole behind which he could take refuge. Then, having complimented his followers, he took off his armour and went to bed, his honour vindicated.

  The French camp was echoing with the groaning of the wounded; consternation reigned. Among the dead, who numbered about sixty, were Jean des Barres, one of the Marshals, and the Count of Boulogne, who had made the reconnaissance the evening before. It was much deplored that these two lords, both valiant warriors, should have met so sudden and so absurd an end. Slaughtered on awakening!

  But Kent’s prowess inspired respect. Charles of Valois himself who, the evening before, had been asserting that he would make mincemeat of the young man, if he encountered him in the lists, had now changed his opinion and almost took pride in saying: ‘Well, Messeigneurs, after all he’s my nephew, don’t forget that!’

  Forgetting the wounds to his vanity, his physical ills and the heat of the season, he set himself, when sufficiently magnificent funeral honours had been rendered to the Marshal des Barres, to prepare the siege of the town. And in this he displayed singular activity and competence for, though he was excessively vain, he was none the less a very remarkable soldier.

  All the roads leading to La Réole were cut, and the whole region controlled by posts set up in depth. Entrenchments, gabions, and other earthworks were undertaken within a short distance of the walls to give cover to the archers. While, in the most suitable places, the army began constructing emplacements for the bombards. It also started to build platforms for the cross-bowmen. Monseigneur of Valois seemed to be everywhere, inspecting, encouraging and issuing orders. To the rear, the knights had set up their round tents, from the summits of which floated their banners. Charles of Valois’s tent, placed in a position from which it could dominate both the camp and the beleaguered town, was a veritable palace of tapestried hangings. The whole camp was situated in a huge amphitheatre under the flank of the hills.

  On August 30 Valois at last received his commission as the King’s Lieutenant. His mood changed at once, and from then on he seemed to have no doubt that the war was as good as won.

  Two days later, Mathieu de Trye, the surviving Marshal, Pierre de Cugnières and Alfonso of Spain, preceded by sounding busines and the white flag of envoys, advanced
to the foot of the walls of La Réole to summon the Earl of Kent, on the order of the most high and puissant Lord Charles, Count of Valois, Lieutenant of the King of France in Gascony and Aquitaine, to yield and surrender into their hands the duchy in its entirety, in default of loyalty and the rendering of homage due.

  To which Seneschal Basset, who had to stand on tiptoe to look over the battlements, replied, on the order of Edmund, Earl of Kent, Lieutenant of the King of England in Gascony and Aquitaine, that the summons could not be accepted, and that the Earl would not leave the town, nor hand over the duchy, unless he were dislodged by force.

  Now that a state of siege had been declared in accordance with the rules, each side went to its tasks.

  Monseigneur of Valois put to work the thirty miners lent him by the Bishop of Metz. They were to tunnel underground galleries beneath the walls and place in them barrels of powder which would later be exploded. Engineer Hugues, who belonged to the Duke of Lorraine, guaranteed miraculous results from this operation. The walls would burst open like a flower in spring.

  But the besieged, becoming aware of the muffled sounds of tunnelling, put tanks of water on the ramparts. Whenever they saw the surface of the water ripple, they knew the French were digging a sap below. They dug saps from their side too, but at night, for the Lorraine miners worked by day. One morning, the two galleries met and an appalling butchery took place underground by the dim light of lanterns. The survivors emerged covered with sweat, black dust and blood, their eyes as wild with horror as if they had returned from Hell.

  But now the firing platforms were ready and Monseigneur of Valois decided to use the bombards.

  They were huge tubes of thick bronze bound with iron hoops, mounted on wooden wheelless carriages. Ten horses were needed to move each one of these monsters, and twenty men to load, aim and fire it. Each was surrounded with a sort of box-like structure of heavy beams to protect the gunners should the bombard explode.