The Lily and the Lion

by Maurice Druon

  Suddenly, from outside the doors, came the sound of glee-singing and the prim, sharp notes of lute and viol. The doors were thrown open and two little maids, of no more than fourteen years of age, crowned with leaves and wearing long white dresses, came in and scattered irises, daisies and eglantines from a basket. As they did so, they sang: ‘I am going to the woods as my love has taught me …’ Two minstrels followed, playing the accompaniment. Behind them came Robert of Artois, taller by half than his little choir, holding aloft a roasted heron on a great silver platter.

  The whole Court smiled, and then burst out laughing at this farcical entrance. Robert of Artois was playing the part of a page. What a charming and delightful way of making one’s excuses for being late!

  The pages ceased serving and, carving-knife or ewer in hand, joined the procession to take part in the joke.

  Suddenly the giant’s voice was heard, drowning glee, lute and viol.

  ‘Make way, you wretched lily-livers! This is for your King!’

  Everyone was still laughing. ‘You wretched lily-livers’ seemed merely an amusing jest. Robert came to a halt in front of Edward III, and, beginning to go down on one knee, presented him with the platter.

  ‘Sire,’ he cried, ‘I have here a heron taken by my falcon. The heron is the most cowardly bird in the world, for it flees before all others. I think the people of England should adopt it, and I should like to see it in the arms of England instead of the leopards. And it is to you, King Edward, that I offer it, for it belongs of right to the most cowardly and craven prince in the world who, disinherited of his Kingdom of France, lacks the courage to conquer that which is his.’

  Everyone was silent. For some it was a silence of anxiety, for others of indignation. There was no more laughter. The insult was plain. Salisbury, Suffolk, Guillaume de Mauny and Jean of Hainaut half rose from their seats, waiting for a sign from the King to hurl themselves on the Count of Artois. Robert seemed sober enough. Had he gone mad? What other explanation could there be? Nothing like this had ever been heard before in any Court in the world, particularly from an exiled foreigner.

  The young King blushed. He looked Robert straight in the eyes. Was he going to have him thrown out of the hall, and out of the kingdom?

  Edward always waited a few seconds before speaking; he knew that every word a king said mattered, even if it was only ‘goodnight’ to an equerry. To silence a man by force does not remove the outrage he has committed. Edward was wise and loyal. He realized that to deprive, in a moment of anger, a relative you have made welcome and who has served you of the gifts you have made him is no way to prove your courage; nor could you do so by throwing a lonely man who has accused you of weakness into prison.

  You proved your courage by showing that the accusation was false. He rose to his feet.

  ‘Since you call me a coward in the presence of the ladies and of my barons, I had best tell you my intentions; and to assure you, my cousin, that you have judged me ill, and that it is not cowardice that restrains me. I give you my oath that before the year is out I shall have crossed the sea to defy the King of France, and to join battle with him, even if he comes against me with ten to one. I am grateful to you for this heron you have taken for me, and I accept it with much thanks.’

  The diners still sat silent; but their emotions had undergone a profound change. Their chests heaved as if they felt the need for more air. Someone dropped a spoon and its clatter seemed curiously loud in the silence. There was a gleam of triumph in Robert’s eyes. He bowed and said: ‘Sire, my young and valiant cousin, I expected no other answer from you. Your noble heart has spoken. It gives me great joy for the sake of your glory; and for myself, Sire Edward, I am filled with hope that I may see my wife and children again. By God above, I give you my oath that I shall precede you everywhere in battle, and I pray that I may be accorded a long enough life to serve you as you deserve and avenge myself on my enemies according to their deserts.’

  Then, addressing the whole company, he said: ‘My noble lords, are you not all eager to take an oath as your beloved Lord the King has done?’

  Still carrying the roasted heron, in whose wings and tail the cook had replaced some of the feathers, Robert went to Salisbury.

  ‘Noble Montacute, I call upon you first!’

  ‘Count Robert, it shall be as you wish,’ said Salisbury, who a few seconds before had been ready to hurl himself on him.

  Rising to his feet, he said: ‘Since our Lord the King has named his enemy, I shall select mine. As Marshal of England, I take my oath never to rest till I have defeated in battle the Marshal of Philippe, the false King of France.’

  The whole table applauded enthusiastically.

  ‘I, too, want to make an oath,’ cried the Earl of Derby’s daughter, clapping her hands. ‘Why should the ladies not have the right to make an oath?’

  ‘But they have, my dear lady,’ replied Robert, ‘and it will be much to everyone’s advantage, for it will make the men more loyal to their word. Go on, my girls,’ he added, turning to the two garlanded children, ‘sing in honour of the lady who wants to make an oath.’

  The minstrels and the girls began singing again: ‘I am going to the woods as my love has taught me …’ And then, in front of the silver platter on which the heron was cooling in its gravy, the Earl of Derby’s daughter said in a high voice: ‘I vow and promise to God in Paradise, that I shall take no husband, whether he be prince, earl or baron, before the oath noble Lord Salisbury has taken is accomplished. And when he returns, if he escapes alive, I shall give him my body, and with a grateful heart.’

  The oath caused considerable surprise and Salisbury blushed.

  The Countess of Salisbury’s beautiful black tresses did not even quiver; there was merely an ironic curl to her lips and her mauve-shadowed eyes sought King Edward’s, as if she wished to say to him: ‘After that, we really need not worry overmuch.’

  Robert halted in front of each diner in turn, while the viol played and the girls sang a little to give the knight time to prepare his oath and select his enemy. The Earl of Derby, the father of the young woman who had made so daring a vow, promised to defy the Count of Flanders; the new Earl of Suffolk selected the King of Bohemia. Young Gautier de Mauny, in his excitement at having recently been dubbed knight, much impressed the assembly by promising to reduce to ashes all the cities in the neighbourhood of Hainaut belonging to Philippe of Valois, even if he was to see the light with only one eye till his vow was accomplished.

  ‘Be it so,’ said the Countess of Salisbury, who was sitting next to him; and she covered his right eye with two fingers. ‘And when you have fulfilled your oath, then my love will be his who loves me most; that is my oath.’

  As she said this, she looked at the King. But the ingenuous Gautier, who thought the promise made for his benefit, kept his eye shut when she had removed her fingers, and then took a red handkerchief from his pocket and fastened it round his forehead over his eyes.

  The moment of true grandeur had passed. Laughter was already breaking into this competition in brave words. The heron had now reached Messire Jean of Hainaut, who had hoped that the provocation would turn out otherwise for its author. He disliked being given lessons in matters of honour, and his chubby face reflected his annoyance.

  ‘When we are sitting round drinking wine,’ he said to Robert, ‘it costs us little to make oaths and acquire the approbation of the ladies. We are all Olivers, Rolands and Lancelots then. But when we are campaigning, charging on our war horses, our shields slung and our lances in rest, and we feel a great, icy cold as the enemy approaches, how many boasters would prefer then to be in the safety of a cellar! The King of Bohemia, the Count of Flanders, and Bertrand, the Marshal, are as good knights as we, Cousin Robert, as you well know; for exiled though we both may be from the Court of France, though for different reasons, we have known them; and their ransoms are not in our pockets yet! For my part, I vow simply that if King Edward decides to pass through Hain
aut, I shall always be at his side to sustain his cause. And this will be the third war in which I shall have served him.’

  Robert then went to Queen Philippa. He went down on one knee. Stout Philippa turned her freckled face to Edward.

  ‘I can take no oath,’ she said, ‘without the permission of my lord.’

  She was tactfully giving the ladies of her Court a lesson.

  ‘Vow anything you wish, my dear, vow bravely; I agree to it in advance, and may God help you!’ said the King.

  ‘In that case, my dear Sire, if I may vow as I please,’ said Philippa, ‘since I am big with child and can even feel it stirring, I vow that it shall not be born unless you take me across the sea to accomplish your oath …’ There was a quaver in her voice as on her wedding day … ‘For should it so happen,’ she added, ‘that you leave me here and go overseas with others, then I shall kill myself with a big steel knife and lose both my life and the fruit of my womb!’

  She said it without emphasis, but in a clear voice all could hear. Everyone took care not to look at the Countess of Salisbury. The King lowered his long lashes, took the Queen’s hand, raised it to his lips and then, to break the embarrassed silence, said: ‘My dear, you give us all a lesson in duty. No one shall take an oath after you.’

  Then, turning to Robert, he said: ‘My cousin of Artois, take your place beside Madam the Queen.’

  A page carved the heron, whose flesh was tough from having been cooked too soon, and cold from having had to wait so long. Nevertheless, everyone ate a mouthful. For Robert it had an exquisite savour: the war had really begun that day.

  6.

  The Walls of Vannes

  THE VOWS TAKEN AT Windsor were kept.

  On July 16th of that same year, 1338, Edward III set sail from Yarmouth with a fleet of four hundred vessels. He landed at Antwerp the next day. Queen Philippa accompanied him. Many of the knights, emulating Gautier de Mauny, had covered one eye with a patch of red cloth.

  The time for fighting had not yet arrived and negotiations were in train. On September 5th Edward met the Emperor of Germany at Coblenz.

  For the occasion, Louis of Bavaria appeared in a strange costume, which was half emperor’s and half pope’s; he wore a pontiff’s dalmatic over a king’s tunic, and a crown with fleurons scintillated about a tiara. In one hand he held a sceptre, in the other an orb surmounted by a cross. It was thus that he asserted his sovereignty over the whole of Christendom.

  Seated on this throne, he pronounced Philippe VI to be an imposter, recognized Edward as King of France and handed him the golden staff which made him the Imperial Vicar. This was another idea of Robert of Artois, who remembered how Charles of Valois, before engaging in his personal campaigns, had always taken care to have himself appointed Pontifical Vicar. Louis of Bavaria swore to defend Edward’s rights for seven years, and all the German princes in the Emperor’s train confirmed the oath.

  In the meantime, Jakob Van Artevelde was rousing to rebellion the population of the County of Flanders, from which Louis of Nevers had fled for good and all. Edward III moved from city to city, holding great assemblies at which he had himself recognized as King of France. He promised to attach Douai, Lille, and even Artois, to Flanders, so as to make one nation of all these territories with common interests. It was not difficult to guess who was responsible for the inclusion of Artois, nor who would benefit from it under England’s auspices.

  At the same time, Edward decided to increase the commercial privileges of the various cities and, instead of demanding subsidies from them, he made them grants. He sealed his promises with a seal on which the arms of England and France were jointly engraved.

  Queen Philippa was brought to bed of her second son, Lionel, in Antwerp.

  Pope Benedict XII, in Avignon, was vainly doing all he could to preserve peace. He had forbidden the crusade in order to prevent a war between England and France. Nevertheless it now looked all too certain.

  There had already been skirmishes on some scale between the English advance-guards and the French garrisons in Vermandois and Thiérache. Philippe VI replied by sending troops into Guyenne, and others to Scotland to foment rebellion in the name of young David Bruce.

  Edward III was going to and fro between Flanders and London, pawning his crown jewels with the Italian banks so as to be able to maintain his troops and meet the demands of his new vassals.

  Philippe VI, having raised his army, took the oriflamme at Saint-Denis, and advanced just beyond Saint-Quentin. Then, when only a day’s march from the English, he turned his army about and took the oriflamme back to the altar at Saint-Denis. What could be the reason for this extraordinary turning-tail by the famous jousting King? Everyone wondered. Did Philippe think the weather too wet to engage battle? Or had the sinister predictions of his Uncle Robert the Astrologer suddenly influenced his decisions? He declared that he had determined on a different strategy. As he lay anxiously awake one night, he had conceived another plan. He was going to conquer the Kingdom of England. It would not be the first time the French had set foot in that country. Had not a Duke of Normandy conquered England three centuries ago? Very well! He, Philippe, would land on that very same coast at Hastings; and another Duke of Normandy, his son, would be at his side. Both Kings were hoping to conquer the other’s kingdom.

  But any expedition of the sort had first to have command of the sea. Since Edward had the greater part of his army on the Continent, Philippe determined to cut his lines of communication and prevent his supplying his troops or reinforcing them. He proposed to destroy the English fleet.

  On June 22nd, 1340, off L’Eclus, two hundred ships sailed into the wide estuary between Flanders and Zeeland. The French ensign floated from their mainmasts and they rejoiced in the most charming names: La Pèlerine, La Nef-Dieu, La Miquolette, L’Amoureuse, La Faraude, La Sainte-Marie-Porte-Joye. The ships were manned by twenty thousand sailors and soldiers, to which had been added a whole corps of crossbowmen; but there were scarcely a hundred and fifty gentlemen along them. The French chivalry had no liking for the sea.

  Captain Barbavera, who was in command of the fifty Genoese galleys leased by the King of France, said to Admiral Béhuchet: ‘Monseigneur, the King of England and his fleet are coming down on us. Make out to sea with your ships, for if you stay here enclosed between these great dykes, the English, who have the wind, the tide and the sun with them, will hem you in and you will be unable to manoeuvre.’

  His advice should have been taken, for he had thirty years’ experience of naval warfare; and, what was more, only the year before he had burnt and sacked Southampton for the French. But Admiral Béhuchet, a former Master of the Royal Rivers and Forests, replied proudly: ‘Shame on whoever retreats from here!’

  He ordered his ships to form up in three lines of battle. In the first were the sailors of the Seine, in the second those from Picardy and Dieppe, and in the third those from Caen and the Cotentin. He then ordered the ships to be made fast to each other by cables, and he disposed his men as if they were in castles.

  King Edward, who had left London two days before, commanded a fleet of about the same size. He had no more fighting men than the French; but in his ships were two thousand gentlemen, among whom was Robert of Artois despite his great dislike of the sea.

  Among the English fleet there was also a ship, protected by eight hundred soldiers, for Queen Philippa’s ladies.

  By the time evening fell, France had bidden farewell to the command of the sea.

  So great was the light from the burning French ships that the coming of night was scarcely noticed.

  The fishermen from Normandy and Picardy and the sailors from the Seine had been shot to pieces by the English archers and by the Flemish, who had come to the rescue in their flat-bottomed boats from higher up the estuary, and took the floating castles in the rear. The air was filled with the cracking of masts, the clank of arms and the cries of the wounded. The battle was fought out with swords and axes amid heaps of wreck
age. The survivors of the massacre, diving into the sea among the corpses, could scarcely tell whether they were swimming in water or in blood. There were hundreds of dismembered hands floating on the sea.

  Admiral Béhuchet’s body was hanging from the yard-arm of Edward’s ship. Barbavera had long ago stood out to sea with his Genoese galleys.

  The English, though they had had losses, were triumphant. Their greatest disaster was the loss of the ship full of ladies which had sunk amid heartrending cries. Dresses floated like dead birds in the great charnel-house of the sea.

  Young King Edward had been wounded in the thigh and his blood was trickling down over his white leather boot; but from now on the war was to take place on French soil.39

  Edward III at once sent Philippe VI new letters of defiance. ‘In order to avoid grave destruction to town and countryside, and great mortality among Christians, which every prince should do his best to avoid,’ the English King challenged his cousin of France to meet him in single combat, since the quarrel over the inheritance of France was their personal affair. And if Philippe of Valois refused to accept this ‘challenge between their bodies’, he offered to meet him in the lists with only a hundred knights a side. In fact, it was to be a tournament, but with pointed lances and sharp swords, with no stewards to supervise the mêlée, and for which the prize would be no ornamental brooch or hawk but the crown of Saint Louis itself.

  But the jousting King replied that he could not accept his cousin’s proposal, since it had been addressed to Philippe of Valois and not to the King of France, of whom Edward was the treasonably rebelling vassal.

  The Pope once again negotiated a truce. The Papal legates worked hard and took the credit for a precarious peace which the two princes had, in fact, accepted only to give themselves a breathing space.