‘Yes. We were there to give what aid we could. Not that it was much use in this rain. The bowstrings got damp, and then the arrows would not travel as we needed. There was a risk of falling short and skewering our own men,’ he said.
‘If only I had some gonnes set up nearer. I could have blasted a hole through their walls, had I a large enough toy!’
Berenger smiled. Ever since he had known him, Archibald had been convinced that his devices would be able to batter a city to gravel in a day. Yet when he had been given his chance at Calais, his shots had bounced from the city, chipping fragments, but leaving the main city walls whole. To take a city an army needed tunnellers and bold men who could clamber scaling ladders more than gonnes. But he didn’t say so.
‘They did their best,’ he said instead.
‘A ridiculous way to waste men! A storming party of one and a half thousand men running forward, only to be confused by a line of ditches, by thick mud caused by the rain over so many days, and finally, by the fierce defence of the townspeople. Most of them, so I’ve been told, were women and children. They picked up rocks and beat the brains out of our fellows,’ Archibald said.
Berenger smiled thinly. ‘Small children? Lifting rocks large enough to break a man’s head? I doubt that. The truth is, there were only a few weak places where we could attack, and the French had the sense to concentrate their men-at-arms at those spots. War is not a precise art, but nor is it terribly difficult. They fought well. That is all.’
‘And now we will be forced to hurry away.’
‘Why? What have you heard?’
‘Nothing. But the French cannot be far away, and we have a depleted army since our foolish assault today. It would have been better to go around the town and straight over the bridge.’
‘If we could, yes. But if you leave a town behind you, you leave an attacking force that will cut you off, if you are not careful. We could not leave Tours standing.’
‘Well, we shall now.’
Berenger shook his head. ‘No, we’ll take the place tomorrow.’
Sunday 11 September
Berenger’s faith in the Prince’s ability to capture the town was misplaced, as he was soon to learn.
All that Saturday the English had struggled to continue the fight. Men stumbled and fell and staggered onwards under a withering barrage of rocks, arrows, bolts and even stakes and posts. Berenger and his men kept up what support they could, while the rain poured down and the mud grew viscous, thick and stodgy, and the stench of blood and intestines and shit rose to their nostrils. Berenger stood and stared down, barely able to see a single individual with his dreadful eyesight, but instead seeing the battle, from his distance, as if it were not a phalanx of men, but a great beast that consumed them, gorging itself on their bodies, while they fought and struggled and killed and died, trying to keep the beast at bay. But they could not: it was stronger than them.
‘Why?’ Robin asked as the day passed from morning to afternoon. ‘What’s the point of more slaughter?’
‘That town is in the way,’ Berenger explained. ‘Archibald told me that the Duke is over there somewhere. We have to cross the river to get to him. And we’re safe enough here on this side of the river for now. The French army is to the north, and they won’t be able to cross over the river any more easily than we could.’
‘If you’re sure,’ Robin said, unconvinced.
His lack of faith was shown to be justified shortly afterwards when the command came to pull off the attacking force, strike camp and march south.
The French army had crossed at Blois and now the full might of the French was heading towards them.
The rest of Sunday was one long slog southwards.
Berenger’s pony was weary and fractious, and Berenger’s mood was not improved as the beast tried to bite him and kick other people. He managed to force the little brute to his will in the end, and then the vintaine was pushed ahead once more to scout the land before the English and warn of any enemy forces that appeared.
They came to one river and crossed that without too much mishap, although a cart with stores on it was washed away when the horse drawing it fell on a slippery rock, breaking its leg. A butcher’s axe put paid to that. Then the army continued marching in a thin, chill rain that penetrated all clothing, all flesh, through to a man’s very soul. Berenger felt as though the rain was filling his body, until he reached a stage when he thought his belly would begin to swell and gurgle with the extra liquid. It was uncomfortable to be so cold, and all the men could feel their softened flesh chafing against leather straps, rough linen and saddles. Few that night would be without sores and blisters, he knew.
Some miles further on, they reached another river. Berenger and his men crossed warily, but there was no danger with this little course. It was shallow and broad here at their ford, and the men passed over and on to higher ground with a sense of relief as, at last, the clouds parted and the sun broke through. In only a few minutes the men had steam rising from their bodies where the sun struck them, and Berenger could feel the heat like a warming salve smothered all over his back.
Even the men felt the sudden uplift in their spirits. Berenger could hear their voices rising, and there was an occasional foul remark about another man’s ancestry and sexual inclinations that caused much ribald humour. He was tempted at first to remind them that they were in enemy territory, and try to curtail their laughter, but even as he opened his mouth to remonstrate with them, he saw Clip and Dogbreath’s eyes moving over the treeline ahead. He saw Saul issue a disgusting comment about Dogbreath while he stared fixedly at a building in the distance, and Berenger kept his counsel. There was no need to tell this vintaine anything. Their long march had moulded them into an effective team, and they knew the dangers as well as he.
It was only a short way to the next town. This was, so Berenger heard from a peasant they caught, the town of Montbazon, a smaller community than Tours, but still significant enough. There, since darkness would fall before long, Berenger decided they would halt. He sent Pierre and Felix back to the main army to guide them, and then he had Clip and Dogbreath ride on with Robin to check the land about while the rest of the vintaine waited. When the Prince arrived, they took the town.
Monday 12 September
Sir John de Sully waited in the hall for the Prince.
For once the sun had risen in a clear sky, and the whole land was full of the odour of fresh loam and good soil. It reminded him of his manor at Iddesleigh in Devon. For a moment he felt himself transported to a morning some years before, walking with his wife, Isabel, in the pastures before the hill near his manor, breathing in the clean, pure air, holding her slim body close, staring out at the black hills of Dartmoor in the distance.
No. That was long ago, and very far away. Today he had a sterner task.
There was a call from outside this chamber in the castle. Sir John walked to a window and leaned in so that he could gaze out through the narrow slit. Outside he could see the river and the crossing. The army had taken the town the previous evening, and at last the men had been able to sleep in the dry, under shelter that was more substantial. All looked better rested.
But now he could see the cavalcade they were all expecting. He withdrew from the embrasure and gestured to one of the heralds. The man nodded and went to the Prince.
There came from outside the noise of the horses, the clattering of hoofs on cobbles, the rattle of cartwheels, the commands of a body of men, and then the orders and sound of many booted feet.
Before long, the Prince joined the men in the hall, walking to a seat and standing by it. When the doors opened, the newcomers were faced with a row of knights and noblemen on either side with, in the very middle, the slim, tall figure of the Prince.
Sir John eyed the two Cardinals with distaste. He had heard of the fat man who walked in with a sneer of distaste curling his lips. This was Niccolo Capocci, a man who was supposed to come from princely Roman blood. From all Sir
John had heard, he was a determined man, who was never backward in giving his own thoughts and voicing his opinions of other men. He was not an easy man to like, and seemed a curious choice for a negotiation that the Pope must have known would be difficult.
If Capocci was a strange choice, the second was a slap to the English cheek. Sir John knew this man, as did all the noblemen in England: Élie Talleyrand de Périgord. A haughty, arrogant fellow who had been made a bishop at only twenty, he thought himself superior to all men except, possibly, the Pope himself. Only thirteen years ago the English Parliament had complained to the Pope about the number of foreign religious prelates who were arriving on England’s shores and taking English livings. This Talleyrand was the man they used as a prime example of the abuses. He had an army of clerks and servants whose sole duty, from the point of view of the English, was to ensure that his already fabulous wealth was protected and increased at every opportunity. He was detested in England.
Sending him to negotiate with the Prince looked like a deliberate insult. With negotiators such as these, Sir John felt sure that the likelihood of a peaceful outcome was remote indeed.
The Cardinal de Périgord, Talleyrand, entered the hall with the haughty demeanour of a man who was ready to impose his will on a pack of truculent and delinquent hounds. His manner was that of a man sorely tested by the fractious behaviour of his charges, although he was determined not to lose his temper. He must always demonstrate his love, and while he must be stern, he must also be forgiving.
Behind him came his entourage of clerks, servants and magnates. They stood nearer the door as the Cardinals made their way along the hall, along the corridor of English noblemen. The clerks stood with their heads downcast as if in prayer, hands clasped over their bellies, while the fighting men stood warily, hands on their swords.
To Sir John, Talleyrand looked more like a politician from the highest echelons of the Church bent on bringing a rebellious upstart to book, and it put his back up immediately. From the way that Bartholomew Burghersh made to move forward, only to have a restraining hand placed on his arm by Sir James Audley, he was not alone.
Not a word was spoken, but the Cardinal must have noticed the heightened tension. The fact that he had been reported to the Pope as being ‘the greatest enemy’ of King Edward in the papal curia would have come to his attention. Not that there was any indication of distrust or unfriendliness in the smile with which the Prince greeted him.
After the preliminary welcomes and smiles all around, then prayers for the success of the mission of the Church to prevent bloodshed between the rulers of two such important nations, the Prince drew the Cardinals to a bench, at which wine and meats had been set out. He took his place at the head, and while panters and bottlers moved about the table, the guests washing their hands in the lavers’ bowls and drying them on the towels, the Prince kept up a witty and respectful chatter, speaking of matters within the curia, discussing affairs in Portugal and Galicia with a charm and sophistication that few rulers in Christendom could match.
Sir John had to smile. These Cardinals would have already met with King John of France, a man known to be a bully, obstinate and sulky when thwarted, who admittedly was a fine figure of a man with the build of a knight and courage to match, but without the intellect and wisdom that a ruler like King Edward possessed. Sir John thought the Prince was in every way his superior. The Prince had the benefit of strong advisers whom he trusted. From all Sir John had heard, King John trusted all too few people. He was always suspicious, never trusting except with a small number of adherents whose own abilities were all too questionable.
The Prince was asking for the reason for the Cardinals’ arrival. ‘I am always glad to welcome my friends from the Church, but you must be aware that we are close to a battle. I may not tarry long, however much pleasure I take in the company of two such eminent Cardinals.’
‘Holy Mother Church is shaken to the core by the idea that there could be another battle here in France,’ Talleyrand began.
‘In France?’ the Prince said mildly.
‘This is France!’
‘This is a part of the English territory. We consider France to be a part of our territory.’
‘We understand your demands,’ Capocci said, ‘but you must understand that we wish to negotiate and bring this war to an end. You are depopulating a vast tract of land. What will happen to the noblemen when they wish to see their fields ploughed and planted? Who will see to the cattle and the sheep? You are harming the men of your own rank.’
‘Perhaps they will come to realise who is their rightful King all the sooner, then,’ the Prince said smoothly.
‘You have signed and agreed treaties to prevent further death and destruction,’ Talleyrand said, holding up a finger to indicate to Capocci that he should maintain his silence for a little. ‘We would have you hold to—’
‘Which?’ the Prince interrupted.
‘The treaties are agreed on both sides in order to ensure that peace can be maintained.’
‘But which treaties do you mean?’
‘Any treaty freely entered into should act as a—’
‘You forget that the Treaty of Guines was gladly entered into by my father, the King of England, but it was torn up and ignored by John, who likes to call himself King of France.’
‘It was an unhappy affair, but you must keep to your agreement.’
‘What?’ There was an edge of sharp hostility in the Prince’s voice, Sir John noticed. ‘You say that we, the English, must adhere to all the conditions of a treaty agreed by both sides and ratified by the Holy Father, but when the French throw it away, we must ignore their actions and still hold to the basic agreements? I tell you plainly, Cardinal, I do not think my father would agree to that.’
‘A new truce will give us time to negotiate a fresh treaty, and that is vital. The Holy Father wishes it. He demands it. A truce based on the same lines as the last.’
‘On the same lines as the treaty which the French ignored?’
‘It was good enough for you last time,’ Capocci said. He reached for a tidbit of meat, sucking his fingers loudly.
The Prince threw him a look, and quickly fitted a smile to blanket the open contempt in his eyes. ‘The French swore to return Aquitaine in full sovereignty. In addition the Limousin and Poitou were to be ceded, and all other lands south of Normandy, while England would retain Calais. In return my father promised to renounce his legitimate claim to the crown of France. We gave you peace then, and England ceased waging war on land and at sea, but France did not uphold the treaty. It was used solely as a breathing space to rearm and plan more destruction.’
‘It gave you more land than you could ever have hoped to win in battle,’ Talleyrand said with a voice as sharp as a dagger’s point.
‘No. It gave us land without having to go to the extreme of fresh battles and slaughtering still more Frenchmen.’
‘Give us peace and we can give you the same assurances as at Guines.’
The Prince laughed. ‘Cardinal, your humour is profound! We can win the same assurances as those which were ignored or tossed aside with as much consideration as a gnawed bone, you say? And that is intended to reassure us that this time the man calling himself King of France will honour his agreements?’
‘You question the honour and integrity of a King?’ Capocci said.
‘Be careful how you speak to me, Cardinal,’ the Prince said. ‘I am a Prince and the son of a King. I know my father deals with all fairly and honourably. But I also know that Aquitaine remains disputed, that Poitou is not in my father’s Peace, and the Limousin appears to remain under French control.’
‘You must negotiate with us. We will have a peace agreed!’ Capocci said.
‘I am here at the command of my father,’ the Prince said, and leaned back in his seat. ‘I have my instructions.’
That was when Sir John first understood that the Prince was playing with them. He had no desire for peace.
He wanted his battle.
The atmosphere in the room was tense as the Prince stared unblinking at the Cardinal. Then he relaxed and leaned back. ‘So, Cardinal Talleyrand: what is it you want to propose?’
‘A truce. I require you to remove your soldiers from all lands ruled by King John and withdraw to Guyenne. As soon as you are there, we shall ensure that negotiations continue at speed to bring about a lasting peace.’
‘And we shall gain how?’
‘You will lose no more men. Look at your army! Bedraggled, weary, many of them without soles to their boots! Come, it is time to stop this foolishness!’
‘So there is no advantage to us. Once again you would have England abase herself, give up all that we have won, and give our adversaries time to rearm and prepare themselves to attack us. No. I will not do that.’
The Cardinals exchanged a look. Talleyrand shook his head sadly. ‘But consider, Prince, how this must affect others. Think of the poor nobles and barons who live here and—’
‘And depend on the poor peasants for their support. Yes, you said.’
‘You would see them impoverished?’ Talleyrand said, looking about him at the barons and knights in the chamber with them.
‘We would have them join us in the King’s Peace.’
‘Think of the lives that must be lost! Think of the honourable, good, kind men of France, the knights, squires and men-at-arms who will die. Think of your own men, for the army gathered by King John is mighty, far more mighty than yours.’
‘We are glad to hear it, good Father in God. A victory against an equally matched foe is hardly worth the effort,’ the Prince said.
‘Sire, you make a jest of the matter?’ Talleyrand’s voice had a hint of steel in it. ‘Take pity on the men about us here, for you may well join them. Are you so convinced that you are in the right with this whole sorry affair? If you pull back even now from the brink of war, God and the Holy Trinity would look favourably upon you. The rewards in Heaven could be great.’
Blood of the Innocents Page 37