His highness paused a little space then answered slowly. “In truth, Your Majesty, I do not know the better course. Master Bradwardine has spoken well and worthily, but the concerns of your nobles are also weighty. I must beg leave to refuse judgment, for I do not know the course you ought to take.”
“Well enough,” said the king quietly, but he seemed a little disappointed at his offspring’s reticence in this matter. “You have not been long in the field, and perhaps it is best to defer your judgment.”
The king then gave his opinion of the matter. Little to my surprise, the king was of the same mind as his men. Turning to Sir Walter Manny and Henry of Lancaster, he said, “Go back to Geoffroi de Charny and bear this answer: The fingers of England are around the throat of Calais, and we will not let go to swat at gnats. If Philip would raise the siege, let him use all his strength. We are prepared to stand against him in the field. That is the only trial by combat which we will endure, and may God defend the right when our two armies meet.”
As the emissaries departed, the council also dispersed; the king and all the nobles left the pavilion. But the prince caught Bradwardine’s eye, and the two lingered behind to have speech once the folds of the tent fell shut.
Bradwardine was a short man, advanced in years, well-fleshed, and wearing the tonsure and habit of a clergyman. Despite his rotund appearance, his fingers were curiously long and slender with the calluses of a frequent writer. He smiled at his highness, the benevolent smile of a familiar confessor who had heard the prince’s sins since childhood and never failed to grant him absolution.
“Your reasons were well founded,” remarked the prince. “Had you carried the day, this day might have given us Calais.”
“Aye, highness,” said Bradwardine, “but His Majesty knows best the risks he is willing to undergo. He takes the safer course in this, and perhaps that is wise.”
“Wise indeed,” said the prince, and he stood silent a while musing.
“What would your highness have done in such a case?” asked Bradwardine, echoing the question that the king had put to the prince earlier.
“I do not know,” answered the prince again, then he frowned as if the question—or his inability to answer it—distressed him in some way. “Come, Bradwardine, you are an astute judge of character. What would I have done in such a case?”
“Nay, highness,” laughed Bradwardine. “I know you less well than you think, and less well than when we landed at La Hougue a year past. The battlefield changes a boy into a man and changes one man into another. The Prince of Wales at seventeen is a different creature than the Prince of Wales at sixteen; if you cannot sound the dictates of your own heart, then no man can read it for you.”
“Perhaps I know a man who can,” rejoined the prince. “Potenhale! You presume to know what I would or would not do. You said that I would have let the refugees pass through our lines. Tell me, what would I have done in this case? Would I choose the safer course or would I send my champions into the field?”
I hesitated, unsure if I should brook the prince’s displeasure by another disagreement with his father’s policy. “Methinks the safer course is surer, but also not as full of glory. What would King Arthur have done in such a case? What would Charlemagne have done? They would not withhold their champions in the face of an honorable challenge. Perhaps it is to the advantage of our safety to decline the offer, but is it not also to the advantage of our honor to accept it?”
The prince smiled. “Predictable Potenhale—you and Charny are cut from the same bolt of cloth. I know what you would have done. But what of myself? What of myself? Can any man tell me?” He sighed, a little sadly it seemed.
“You shall find your way soon enough,” said Bradwardine comfortingly, “or if you do not find it, it shall be thrust upon you. The world is changing, methinks, and these are not the days that Arthur and Charlemagne knew. When a yeoman’s arrow can fell an armored knight, when Peter’s successor can pontificate from a French see, then all hierarchy is unbound and all order is overturned. And in such a time, prince, you are called to serve. What wonder then if the way should be hard?”
“Sweet Bradwardine,” said the prince affectionately. “The way may be hard for me, but you always find the truth of a matter.”
“Ah, truth!” said Bradwardine, and his eyes shone bright and sharp like two cut gems. “Have you heard of my latest writings, highness?”
“Nay, I have not heard,” replied the prince in amusement at Bradwardine’s excitement.
“Then, if you will indulge an old man’s humor I will tell you and this young sir of my latest insoluble.”
“Insoluble?” repeated the prince. “Is anything unsolvable for a man with your keen logic?”
“Aye,” said Bradwardine with a smile. “For here’s a proposition that defies logic.”
The old clergyman turned to me. “Sir Potenhale, how if I were to say to you that this statement is false.”
“What statement?” asked I, a little puzzled.
“The statement itself,” said Bradwardine. “This statement is false.”
“Why, then I would bow to your superior intellect and agree with you.”
“You would agree that what I say is true?” asked Bradwardine.
“Aye,” said I, “for you are a truthful man.”
“So, you are saying that if this statement is false then it is true?”
“Why, no!” said I. “I said that I agree with you. So if you say that the statement is false, then it must be a false statement.”
“But if it is a false statement to say that this statement is false, then the statement must be true,” said Bradwardine.
“And,” interjected the prince, “If the statement is true, then it is of necessity false.”
“But you are going in circles!” I cried as my head began to spin like a wooden top.
“Aye,” said Bradwardine, and he gave a deep throated chuckle. “And no matter how many circles you go through, the statement is unsolvable. I have several more like that one, but they’re all of the same kind. My latest writings are concerning the nature of such statements.”
“But what is the purpose of such a thing?” I asked, still bewildered.
“It has no purpose in and of itself,” replied the prince with a laugh. “It is merely a grinding stone for Bradwardine to whet his mind on so that his intellect may stay sharp enough to deal with substantial matters—like the merits of listening to French ambassadors. But come, Potenhale, we must not stand merrily about. The alarum has a logic which cannot be denied, and it may sound any minute when Manny and Lancaster return from the French parley.”
*****
Philip’s response was less martial than we English anticipated. Just as Chandos had surmised in council, his fear of raising the siege was greater than his fear of losing Calais. When Charny, Bourbon, and Athènes returned with Edward’s refusal to lift the siege or send out champions, Philip lacked the manpower to man the field. Since we would not treat with him, he resigned himself to retreat. His soldiers, who had established camp on the hill opposite us, put away their tents as quickly as they had pitched them and disappeared into the west.
The citizens of Calais had been filled with elation at the approach of their king’s pennants. Now they plummeted to the nadir of despair at his departure. Their store of hope was as empty as their larders. They lifted the white flag and entreated a parley. Sir Walter Manny crossed the limbo between our lines to speak with their governor. The king, meanwhile, stood at the edge of the palisade waiting to hear the news from the town. The chief men of the army stood roundabout, and on the king’s right hand stood the prince with me in attendance.
“Majesty,” said Manny when he had returned from the ramparts. “I have spoken with Jean de Vienne, the governor of the place. The famine in the city has become unbearable. Both the citizens and the soldiery are ready to surrender to you. They stipulate only this condition—that you allow them to leave the city unharmed.”<
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“Unharmed?” repeated the king, and he laughed incredulously. “I have sworn to the contrary, Sir Walter, and there is not the slightest hope or prospect of my changing my mind.”
“My lord,” said Sir Walter, and he advanced closer to the king to reason with him in lowered tones. “These men have been set by their natural lord to defend this place. If you punish them with death for their obedience, what example will you set? Whenever the French take a city or fortress of ours, they will butcher us likewise, and our men will go less cheerfully to their posts with the fear of what may come. Consider, Majesty. Consider!”
Warwick, Lancaster, Chandos, and Audley added their remonstrances to Manny’s, and the king proved at this time that he was not altogether deaf to counsel. “My lords,” he said at last, “My anger burns in me against this people, but I do not want to be alone against you all. Sir Walter, go back to Calais and tell its commander that this is the limit of my clemency: six of the chief citizens of the place are to come out, with their heads and their feet bare, with halters around their necks, and with the keys of the town in their hands. With these six I shall do as I please; the rest I will spare.”
Manny returned to Jean de Vienne with these terms. It was a hard word for him to hear, but the French governor accepted; he had no choice.
I wondered at first how they would choose the six citizens. I supposed they would use a lottery, for surely no man would offer himself to certain death for the assuagement of the English king’s wrath. But in my surmises, I underestimated the selflessness of Calais’s citizens. We learned later that when their governor announced the doleful news to the town, the town folk stood a while in grieved silence. But then, one after another, six of the wealthiest men of the place stepped forward as sacrificial lambs. And with the prayers of the people upon the heads, they put ropes around their necks and delivered themselves into the hand of the English.
The king, by this time, had retired to his tent. Sir Walter Manny led the burghers through our lines to Edward’s quarters. It was a strange procession. The six men had stripped to their shirt sleeves and removed their caps and shoes. They wore their hempen halters as proudly as a chancellor wears his golden chain. Their hands gripped the iron keys devoutly like a bishop carrying a chrism. Our English soldiers stared in wonder at Manny’s captives; many fell in line behind the procession to see what would become of the wretched men. By the time Manny reached the courtyard in front of the king’s tent, a great crowd had assembled to hear the judgment of Edward.
At first, the king said nothing, but only glared fiercely at the burghers. His spirit was too vexed within him, for he hated the people of this city as a shepherd hates the wolf, as a sailor hates the shoals, or as a farmer hates the locust. The six men fell down on their knees before him and clasped their hands in supplication. “Most noble lord,” said one of them, “we surrender to you the keys of the town and the castle, to do with them as you will. We put ourselves entirely in your hands so that we may save the remaining inhabitants of Calais, for they have already undergone great suffering. We pray you by your generous heart—have mercy on us also!”
These pitiful words had great effect on the English beholding the scene. I looked about me and saw that Manny’s cheek was wet with tears. Audley too, that harsh cynic, had eyes that were far from dry. The king, however, remained untouched. He continued to glare at them savagely, his heart so bursting with anger that he could not speak.
At length, he opened his mouth to pronounce this doom. “Strike off their heads immediately!”
The burghers moaned a little, but it was the noble lords of England who made the greatest outcry. “Noble sire,” begged Manny, “curb your anger. You have a reputation for royal clemency. Do not perform an act which might tarnish it and allow you to be spoken of dishonorably.” Mortimer murmured his assent to Manny’s words, and Salisbury fell to his knees in supplication beside the burghers.
But the king, if it were possible, became angrier than ever at these attempts to thwart his will. He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. “That is enough, Sir Walter,” he barked. “My mind is made up. Let the executioner be sent for. The people of Calais have killed so many of my men that it is right for these to die in their turn.”
A sigh went up to the crowd, and I looked to where the prince stood, hoping that he would raise his voice to intervene. But the pity that flowed from Manny was well hidden inside the prince. His arms crossed stoically across his chest and his eye was unclouded with tears. But even as the prince stood silent, the crowd on the other side of the square parted. A lady clad in brightest green came forward with slow steps, and when she had drawn near before the king, she fell to her knees.
“Ah, my dear lord!” said she, and I saw at once that it was Queen Philippa. Sir Walter Manny, her former meat carver, had no doubt apprized her of the desperate situation. Her light brown hair was bound back in gold nets, and the full fabric of her bright gown draped heavily over her rounded belly. “Sweet sir,” she said winsomely, and pregnant as she was, she lay in the dust before His Majesty. “Ever since I crossed the sea at great danger to myself, I have never asked a single favor from you. But now in all humility, for the sake of the Son of the Blessed Mary and for the sake of the love you bear me, I ask that you will be merciful to these six men.”
The king groaned aloud, and I saw that a battle was being fought within his soul. His fondness for his queen was common knowledge, but so also was the implacability of his vengeance. His breast swelled in torment, with a heart as divided as the blue and red surcoat that he wore. “My sweet lady,” he said as his mind came to a merciful truce. He stepped forward and raised Philippa to her feet. Her head barely came to his shoulder and her two hands fit easily into one of his. “Upon my soul,” said Edward, “I most heartily wish that you were anywhere but here. But you have entreated me in such a manner that I cannot refuse you. So, although I do this against my will, I do it nevertheless.” Reaching down, the king grasped the hand of one of Calais’s citizens and placed the man’s fingers in Philippa’s palm. “Here, take them. They are yours to do with as you please.”
Philippa thanked her husband joyfully. Her plump arms encircled her lord’s neck while the crowd of Englishmen gave a huzzah for their bonny Flemish queen. Sir Walter Manny dried his eyes and brought the six Frenchmen to the queen’s tent where she fed them, clothed them, and sent them away in safety.
But though the lives of Calais’ citizens had been spared, no other clemency was granted them. The king, whose vengeful plans had been foiled so forcibly, spent the rest of his energy in forcibly expelling the inhabitants of Calais from their homes. I led a small company of men throughout one quarter of the town to perform the eviction. Many of the citizens were glad enough to leave the desolate city, but the unwilling folk we turned out with kicks and curses. The French soldiers were happy to lay down their arms—especially since many of them were not French at all, but Italian mercenaries like the Genoese at Crecy.
“How is the English pay?” demanded one fellow, as I took his sword and bade him make his way to the gate. He was a tall man who seemed to have some prominence among the mercenary group. He was lean from hunger, and his sharp, shiny face eyed our ranks inquisitively.
“The pay is well enough,” said I. “But there are enough English to fight for England, and our king does not put his trust in foreign hire.”
“Ah, well,” said the Lombard, “If the English will not have us, we’ll find the French again.” And as he turned about to join his companions, I saw that his ears had no lobes, but were joined curiously to his face like the handle of a drinking cup. “A più tardi!” he said, but I doubted that I would see him again.
SICK AT HEART
SEPTEMBER – OCTOBER, 1347
6
We did not know it at the time, but the capture of Calais marked the end of our campaign in France. Though Philip’s army was not doughty enough to dislodge us, there were forces more powerful than he
to send us scurrying homeward. An evil wind had blown in from the east and brought with it the pestilence. Araby and Italy had felt it first. At the same time as we entered Calais, the plague entered the kingdom of France. There were stories of cities in southern France that had sickened and died overnight, with half their people laid to rest from this evil pestilence. In Paris the schools closed their doors, and scholars from all over Europe fled home to their own countries.
But, pardon me, Madame—I jump ahead of myself. I will tell you of the plague and the distresses it caused all in good time. First, however, I must return to Edward’s army and tell you of the celebration that followed the surrender.
We had camped outside of Calais for nearly a year; no wonder then that the streets were rife with revelry when at last we possessed them. The king ordered that masses of thanksgiving be said in all the churches. The prince himself spent a whole night in vigil giving thanks to the Holy Trinity for the victory.
The soldiers received their thanks as well as the Almighty. To the common men-at-arms Edward dispersed a bounty of golden coin; for the knights and nobles he held a grand fete. He sent raiding parties throughout the countryside; they commandeered the meat, bread, cheese, and wine that French Calais had been lacking for so many months. The same city that had starved for so many months under the rule of King Philip would now see eating, drinking, dance, and song under the rule of King Edward.
The prince had been in a particularly pleasant mood the week following the cessation of the siege. He seemed determined to enjoy the sights of the city from the inside, for he would leave his quarters for half a day at a time, and when I looked for him he was nowhere to be found. I ascribed it at first to his excitement at entering Calais, but Sir Brocas found another cause for his good humor. “His highness is a free man again,” he remarked as we waited for the prince outside his quarters. He had bid us meet him there when the bells rang None and here it was nearly Vespers.
I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince Page 9
