His pavilion was quickly put up right there, his gentlemen of body and bedchamber hurrying to bring forward the cart, which had been hidden carefully out of the way, containing everything needed for his repast, chairs, tables, tableware, wines.
He couldn’t decide whether or not to get down from his horse, as if the victory was not truly won.
‘Where is the King of France, has anyone seen him?’ he asked his equerries.
The action had gone to his head. He covered the length and breadth of the hillock, ready for some supreme struggle.
And suddenly he noticed, overturned in the heath, a motionless suit of armour. The knight was dead, abandoned by his equerries, except for an old, wounded servant, who was hiding in a thicket nearby … the knight, his pennon: the arms of France in saltire gules.63 The prince had the dead knight’s bascinet removed. I’m afraid so, Archambaud … it is exactly what you are thinking; it was my nephew, it was Robert of Durazzo.
I am not ashamed of my tears. Admittedly, his own honour had driven him to a deed that the Church’s and my honour should have refused him. But I do understand him. And, he was valiant. Not a day goes by that I don’t pray to God to forgive him.
The prince ordered his equerries: ‘Put this knight on a targe, carry him to Poitiers and present him for me to the Cardinal of Périgord, and tell him that I salute him.’
And yes, that is how I found out that the victory was for the English. To think that in the morning, the prince was ready to negotiate, to return all of his spoils, to suspend fighting for seven years! He very much took me to task the following day, when we saw each other again in Poitiers. Ah! He didn’t mince his words. I had tried to serve the French, I had tricked him about their strength, I had brought to bear all the weight of the Church to make him come to terms. I could only answer him: ‘Fine prince, you exhausted all means to peace, for the love of God. And God’s will made itself known.’ That is what I told him.
But Warwick and Suffolk had arrived on the hillock, and with them Lord Cobham. ‘Do you have news of King John?’ the prince asked them.
‘No, not that we have witnessed, but we believe that he is dead or captured, as he did not leave with his battalions.’
Then the prince said to them: ‘Please, leave and ride to tell me the truth. Find King John.’
The English were scattered over two leagues all around, hunting down men, pursuing and crossing swords. Now that the day was won, every man was tracking down bounty for his own benefit. Why yes! Everything that a captured knight has on him belongs to his captor. And they were beautifully adorned, King John’s barons. Many of them had golden belts. Not to mention the ransoms of course, which would be haggled over and fixed according to the rank of the prisoner. The French are sufficiently vain to let them set the price themselves at which they estimate their worth. One could rely on their misplaced vainglory. Therefore, everyone could try their luck! Those who had had the good fortune to get their hands on John of Artois or the Count of Vendôme, or the Count of Tancarville, were entitled to dream of building themselves a castle. Those who had only seized a minor banneret or a simple bachelier64 could merely change the furniture in their great halls and offer their ladies a few dresses. And then there would be the prince’s gifts, in recognition of the heroic deeds and finest feats.
‘Our men are hunting the defeated up to the gates of Poitiers,’ Jean de Grailly, Captal65 of Buch, came to announce. One of the men from his banner, returning from there with four great prizes, not being able to take any more, told him that great abatis66 of people were forming, because the bourgeois of Poitiers had locked their doors; in front of those doors, on the road, horrible slaughter had taken place, and now the French were giving themselves up from the moment they saw an Englishman. Most ordinary archers had up to five or six prisoners. Never had such a disaster been heard of.
‘Is King John there?’ asked the prince.
‘Certainly not. They would have told me.’
And then, at the bottom of the hillock, Warwick and Cobham appeared once more, going on foot, their horses’ bridles over their arms, and trying to bring peace amongst twenty or so knights forming an escort behind them. In English, French and Gascon, these people were arguing with great gestures, miming the movements of combat. And before them, dragging his feet, went an exhausted man, a little unsteady, who, with his ungloved hand, held a child in armour by his gauntlet. A father and son walking side by side, both bearing on their chests slashed silk lilies.
‘Back; may nobody approach the king, unless requested to do so,’ shouted Warwick to the quarrellers.
And only then did Edward of Wales, Prince of Aquitaine, Duke of Cornwall, know, understand, embrace the immensity of his victory. The king, King John, the leader of the most populous and powerful nation in Europe. The man and the child walked towards him very slowly. Ah! This moment would remain for ever in the memory of men! The prince had the feeling that the whole world was watching him.
He signalled to his gentlemen to help him get down from his horse. His thighs felt stiff, his back too.
He stood on the threshold of his pavilion. The setting sun shot the copse through with golden rays. All of these men would have been surprised to be told that the hour of vespers was already past.
Edward held his hands out to the gift Warwick and Cobham were bringing him, to the gift of Providence. John of France, even stooped by adverse fortune, is taller than him. He responded to his victor’s gesture. And also held his two hands out, one gloved, one bare. They remained a moment like that, not embracing, simply clasping each other’s hands. And then Edward made a gesture that would touch the hearts of all of the knights. He was the son of a king; his prisoner was a crowned king. So, still holding him by the hand, he bowed his head deeply, and made to bend his knee. Honour be to unfortunate valour. All that glorifies the defeated further glorifies our victory. There were lumps in the throats of these hard men.
‘Please take a seat, sire my cousin,’ said Edward, inviting King John to enter his pavilion. Allow me to serve you some wine and spices. And please forgive that, for supper, I make you eat such a simple meal. We will sit down to eat shortly.’
As they were busying themselves putting up a great tent on the hillock, the prince’s gentlemen knew their duty. And the cooks always have some pâtés and meats in their coffers. What was missing, they would go and fetch from the larders of the monks of Maupertuis. The prince also says: ‘Your relatives and barons will be most welcome to join us. I will have them called. And bear that we bandage that wound on your forehead that shows your great courage.’
9
The Prince’s Supper
IT MAKES ONE THINK of the fate of nations to tell you all that, which has just taken place, and which marks a great change, a great turning point for the kingdom, precisely here of all places, precisely here in Verdun. Why? Ah! My nephew, because the kingdom was born here, because what can be called the kingdom of France stems from the treaty signed right here after the Battle of Fontenoy, then Fontanetum, you know very well, we went through it, between the three sons of Louis the Pious. Charles the Bald’s part was poorly defined, moreover without looking at the true nature of the ground. The Alps, the Rhine should have been the natural borders of France, and it is not common sense that Verdun and Metz be lands of the empire. Now, what will become of France tomorrow? How will France be divided up? Perhaps France will be no more in ten or twenty years, certain are seriously wondering. They see a large English piece, and a Navarrese piece running from one sea to the other with all of the Langue d’Oc, and a kingdom of Arles rebuilt in the sphere of influence of the empire, with Burgundy in addition. Everyone dreams of carving up the weakest part.
To tell you my opinion on the matter, I don’t believe it at all, because the Church, as long as I and several others of my ilk will live, will not allow this dismemberment. And the people remember too well and are too used to a great and united France. The French will soon see that they are nothing if n
o longer a kingdom, if they are no longer united in a single state. But there will be difficult rivers to cross. You will perhaps be faced with painful choices. Always choose, Archambaud, with the kingdom in mind, even if it is commanded by a bad king, because the king can die, or be dislodged, or held in captivity, but the kingdom goes on.
The grandeur of France came to light on that evening in Poitiers, in the very consideration that the victor, dazzled by his fortune and scarcely believing it, lavished on the vanquished. A strange table indeed was the one set up after the battle in the middle of a wood in Poitou, between the walls of red drapery. In the places of honour, lit by candles, the King of France, his son Philip, Monseigneur Jacques de Bourbon, who had become duke since his father had been killed during the day, Count John of Artois, the Counts of Tancarville, Étampes, Dammartin, and also the Sires of Joinville and Parthenay, served in silver; and spread out over the other tables, between English and Gascon knights, the most powerful and the richest of the remaining prisoners.
The Prince of Wales put on a show of getting up to serve the King of France himself and to pour him wine in abundance.
‘Eat, dear sire, if you please. Have no regrets doing so. Because if God has not consented to your will and if the effort did not turn in your favour, you have won great renown for prowess, and your heroic deeds have surpassed the greatest. Certainly monseigneur my father will honour you as much as is in his power, and will come to such a reasonable agreement with you that you will remain good friends together. In truth, everyone here acknowledges the true worth of your bravery, as in this respect you are victorious over us all.’
That set the tone. King John relaxed. His left eye bruised black and blue, and a gash in his lower forehead, he responded to the polite remarks of his host. King-knight, it mattered to him to show himself this way in defeat. On the other tables, voices were rising. After having clashed so brutally with each other with swords or axes, the seigneurs of both sides, at present, were falling over each other with compliments.
They commemorated out loud the various episodes of the battle. They couldn’t stop singing the praises of the daring of the young Prince Philip, who, sated with food after this hard day, nodded gently on his chair and slid off into sleep.
And it was the time of reckoning. Besides the grands seigneurs, dukes, counts and viscounts of which there were around twenty, they had counted amongst the prisoners more than sixty barons and bannerets; mere knights, equerries and bacheliers could not be accounted for. More than a couple of thousand assuredly; the total would only be known with accuracy the following day.
The dead? Their numbers must have been about the same. The prince ordered that those already gathered together be carried the following dawn to the Monastery of the Frères Mineurs of Poitiers, at the head of which procession the bodies of the Duke of Athens, the Duke of Bourbon, the Count-Bishop of Châlons, to be buried with all the pomp and honour they deserved. What a procession! Never will a monastery have seen so many rich and important men arrive in one single day. What a fortune, in Masses and donations, would rain down on the Frères Mineurs! And as much again on the Frères Prêcheurs.67
I will tell you straight away that they had to dig up cobblestones in the nave and the cloister of two monasteries to bury beneath, on two floors, Geoffroy of Charny, Rochechouart, Eustache of Ribemont, Dance of Melon, John of Montmorillon, Seguin of Cloux, La Fayette, La Rochedragon, La Rochefoucault, La Roche Pierre de Bras, Oliver of Saint-Georges, Imbert of Saint-Saturnin, and I could go on citing more and more names by the score.
‘Do we know what has become of the archpriest?’ asked the king.
The archpriest was wounded, the prisoner of an English knight. How much was the archpriest worth? Did he have a big castle, a lot of land? his victor enquired shamelessly. No. A small manor house in Vélines. But the fact that the king had named him raised his price.
‘I will pay his ransom,’ said John II who, without yet knowing how much he himself was going to cost France, began once more to play the high and mighty.
Then Prince Edward replied: ‘For your sake, sire my cousin, I will redeem this archpriest myself, and give him back his freedom, if you so wish.’
Voices rose around the tables. The wines and meats, greedily swallowed, went to the heads of these tired men, who had eaten nothing since the morning. Their assembly had something of a court repast after the grand tournaments and of the cattle market all at the same time.
Morbecque and Bertrand of Troy hadn’t stopped arguing over the king’s capture. ‘It was I, I tell you!’
‘No it wasn’t; I was upon him, you pushed me aside!’
‘To whom did he offer up his gauntlet?’
In any case, the ransom, certainly enormous, would not be going to them, but to the King of England. A king’s capture belongs to the king. What they were fighting about was to know who would receive the pension that King Edward would not fail to grant. It makes one wonder if they wouldn’t have benefited more, at least financially if not honourably, in taking a rich baron whom they could have shared. Because prizes were being shared out, if two or three of them were on the same prisoner. Or exchanges. ‘Give me Sire de la Tour; I know him, he is a relative of my good wife. I will give you Mauvinet whom I captured. You stand to gain; he is Seneschal of Touraine.’
And suddenly King John banged on the table with the flat of his hand.
‘My sires, my good lords, I intend that everything between you and those who have captured us should take place according to honour and nobility. God wanted that we be defeated, but you can see the respect that has been proven to us. We must uphold chivalry. May no one take it into their head to flee or to forfeit their word, as I will hold them in contempt.’
One would have thought that he was in command, this crushed man, and he was using all of his loftiness to invite his barons to be most scrupulous once in captivity.
The Prince of Wales, who was pouring him the wine of Saint-Émilion, thanked him. King John found him most pleasant, this young man. How attentive he was, what beautiful manners he had. King John would have liked that his sons resemble him! He couldn’t resist, helped on by the drink and fatigue, asking him: ‘Did you ever meet Monsieur of Spain?’
‘No, dear sire; I only confronted him at sea.’ The prince was courteous; he could have said: ‘I defeated him …’
‘He was a good friend. You remind me of him, his appearance and bearing.’ And suddenly, with spitefulness in his voice: ‘Don’t ask me to release my son-in-law Navarre; that, against my life, I will never do.’
King John II, for a moment, had shown greatness, really, a very brief moment, in the instant that followed his capture. He had shown the greatness of extreme misfortune. And now he was returning to his true nature: behaviour corresponding to his exaggerated self-image, poor judgement, futile concerns, shameful passions, absurd impulses and lingering hatreds.
In a certain way, captivity would not be to his disliking, a golden captivity because a royal captivity. This falsely triumphant character had achieved his true fate, which was to be defeated. No more, at least for a while, would he have the worries of government, the struggle against all adversity in his kingdom, the grief of giving orders that are never followed. At present, he is at peace; he can call as his witness these heavens that have been adverse, wrap himself in his misfortune and pretend to bear with nobility the pain of a destiny that suits him so well. May others take on the burden of leading a restive people! We will see if they can manage to do any better.
‘Where are you taking me, my cousin?’ he asked.
‘To Bordeaux, dear sire, where I will give you a fine house, supplies, and feasts to delight you, until you can come to an agreement with the king, my father.’
‘Can there be delight for a captured king?’ answered John II already mindful of his character.
Ah! Why hadn’t he accepted, at the beginning of that day in Poitiers, the terms that I brought him? Has such a king ever been seen before
in a position where he can win everything in the morning, without drawing his sword, who can establish his law once more over a quarter of his kingdom, simply by appending his signature and affixing his seal on the treaty that his hounded enemy offers him, and who refuses, and on that very evening finds himself prisoner.
A yes instead of a no. The irreparable act. Like that of the Count of Harcourt, going back up the stairs in Rouen instead of walking out of the castle. John of Harcourt lost his head because of it; here, it is the whole of France which may face agony.
The most surprising thing, and the most unfair, is that this absurd king, persistent only in ruining his luck, and who was unloved before Poitiers, has soon become, because he is defeated, because he is captive, an object of admiration, pity and love for his people, for a part of his people. John the Brave, John the Good.
And it all started at the prince’s supper. Although they had this king to blame for everything, he who had led them to misfortune, the prisoner barons and knights exalted his courage, his magnanimity, what else? The defeated were giving themselves a clear conscience and a fine appearance. When they came home, their families having bled themselves dry, and having bled their peasants dry to pay their ransoms, they will say, you can be certain of it, with arrogance: ‘You were not, like me, with our King John.’ Ah! They will tell the tale of that day in Poitiers!
At Chauvigny, the dauphin, who was having a sad meal in the company of his brothers and waited on by only a few servants, was informed that his father was alive, but captive. ‘It is up to you to govern, at present, monseigneur,’ Saint-Venant tells him.
The King Without a Kingdom Page 28
