I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  The prince himself was seemingly immune to the curse. The lintel of his door was marked (with whose blood, I do not know), and though retainers, men-at-arms, and even his own sister perished in the pestilence, the avenging angel passed over him. The king and queen were likewise spared, and indeed, nearly all of the nobler members who had fought in the French campaign.

  But for any Christian, whether sick or well, the streets of London were no healthy place to be. London had always seemed cramped and dingy—especially after the splendors of Caen and Calais—and the scourge which beset the city only increased the squalor of the place. If a man did not contract the plague, he must contend with the stench that attended it. All about the city the dead were thrown into open pits by relatives too sick or too frightened to carry them farther. If a man could overcome the stench, he must fend off the insanity that had overcome London’s citizens. While some citizens cloistered themselves in their homes to fast and pray, others ran riot in the streets, drinking, laughing, singing, joking, and doing whatever they willed. All laws, human and divine, were flouted. A man was in as much danger from cutthroats and cutpurses as he was from spots and contagion.

  The tournament that we had come to London to participate in was cancelled because of the plague. We tarried a day, and then left the way that we had come. But Berkhamsted was too close to London for comfort, and within a fortnight the prince retired to his estates in Wales.

  This change of venue pleased me well, for Wales was no more than a day’s ride from my parents’ home in Herefordshire. I had not visited Chandos’s estate since my days as his squire, and I longed to display to full advantage the spurs I had won in France. Only then could my parents take proper pride in their son who had become companion-at-arms to a prince. His highness established himself comfortably on his lands and then gave me a week’s leave. I armed myself for the short journey, carefully polishing the insignia upon my shield. I had left a boy; I would return a man, entering the nineteenth year of my life and the third year of my knighthood.

  *****

  It was the same wooden house that I had left behind, though the thatch was as threadbare as a pauper’s jerkin and in sore need of repair. A thin wisp of smoke came from the chimney and I rejoiced to see that the place was inhabited. As I turned down the lane toward the cottage, a wizened old woman stepped out of the trees and came face to face with my mount. The horse started violently; I calmed him and berated the old hag for coming so suddenly into the way.

  “Better sudden than saddened,” she cackled.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She answered in a lilting tone of gaiety, “I must be quicker than the pest, if I’ll stay quicker than the rest.”

  I saw then that her brains were addled and would have pushed past her in the road. But she called out after me, “Have a care, stranger! The devil’s spouse is in that house.”

  “Devil’s spouse?” I asked, befuddled. “What’s she?”

  “A horrid hag you call the plague.”

  I reined in my horse and crossed myself fervently. “Are you sure?” I asked, for I had heard of few cases of the Black Death in the rolling pastures of Herefordshire.

  “As sure as any, sir,” the rhyming witch replied, but when I plied her further with questions, she mumbled incoherently and darted back into the woods.

  I frowned in consternation, unsure how to proceed. If the house had plague, it was folly to enter it. But who knew whether to trust the words of such a crazy beldame? I looked again at the house and saw the smoke curling up from the chimney like the tail of a cat. The plague may have entered the cottage, but someone there still had life enough to add wood to the kitchen fire. I could not leave without venturing further.

  I called out when I came to the clearing in front of the house. A man answered me through the door, with a voice that grated like the chains in a well. “For Christ’s sake, begone!”

  “I seek William and Miriam Potenhale!” I said. “Are they here?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “No,” answered the voice.

  “Are they alive?” I asked.

  “What is it to you?” demanded the voice.

  “They are my kin.”

  I heard a rustling inside and it seemed like the voice was nearer to the door now. “What is your name?” the man asked.

  Sir John Potenhale,” I answered.

  “Ah,” said the voice plaintively, and the cottage door swung open to reveal a gaunt, hollow-eyed man. His right leg ended just below the thigh, and he leaned helplessly on the frame of the door.

  “Father!” I exclaimed gladly, though I recognized him more by his crippled leg than by his altered face.

  “Not a step nearer,” he croaked as he saw that I had begun to dismount. “The plague has been in this house—I’ll not have it take you as well as your mother.”

  “Is she dead then?” I asked, and when he nodded I felt a heavy weight like a millstone begin to bear down on my chest.

  “How did you avoid it?” I asked.

  “I did not. The pestilence grew on me before it touched her body. Yet she would not leave the house and stayed to nurse my sickbed. I had given up all hope except for death to come quickly. I do not know how many days I lay there, insensible with the fever. But when I awoke, the swellings had subsided, and your mother—God rest her soul!—had died in the bed beside me.”

  “God rest her soul,” I said mournfully.

  “Aye, God rest her!” said my father, “For she’s had little enough of rest in this world. She toiled night and day to see to the food and comfort of a worthless cripple, and I with this useless stub of a leg have outlived her at the last. I should have died in her stead.”

  “You could not choose to take her place,” said I.

  “I should have taken her place years ago,” said my father. “I should have taken her place of humility, of service, and of love. But instead I chose to pursue a life of pride and glory—I took up the arms of an earthly lord instead of the cross of a heavenly king. And for my sins—and for the sins of others—she has paid the price. Aye, for this plague is a punishment on our land, a woe on our war-mongering king, a scourge on his stiff-necked nobles, and a curse on the complacent clergy. It is the bane of sinners everywhere both in impious England and the lands round about.”

  “Peace,” I said. “You are raving.”

  “Peace, you say! Peace, you say! But there is no peace. This pestilence is the hand of God and it will not be lifted till the English people humble themselves in the dust before Him.”

  “The plague has addled your wits,” said I. “I will not hear you.”

  “Miserable sinner,” said my father, and his eyes rolled wildly in his gaunt and frenzied face. “Once I took nothing but pride in your advancement. I gloried in your prowess and your preferment at the hands of Sir Chandos. But this too was sin and for this your mother was stricken. I see the same pride in you, and for this you will perish with the rest of them. If only I had taken you at birth and sent you far from me. If only I had given you to some holy hermit or cloistered you away from the world. Then, maybe then, you would have sought the fear of the Lord instead of the honor of men, and your soul at least would have been saved.” He laughed hoarsely, and out came the same devilish cackle of the old woman that had met me on the path.

  “Is everyone in this place mad?” I cried out in terror. I had overcome my fears at the battles of Caen and Crecy, doing my duty with sword and buckler despite the gnawing worries in my throat. This new fear was overmastering. I put spurs to my horse and took to the road as if a pack of snarling wolves were at my heels.

  My poor horse worked hard that day, for I barely gave him time to breathe on the path back to Wales. My father’s hollow laughter was ringing in my ears, and the terror of it nearly blotted out the sorrow I felt for my mother’s death. There was no one to reason me out of the indescribable horror that had overwhelmed me; no one save myself. “So,” I said pensively, “I have no mother, and my
father is a madman. Is that the hardest thing that could befall a man? I still have my honor, I still have my place, and there are worse things that a man could do than serve a prince.” With these words, I calmed myself, and by the time I reached the prince’s stables my nerves had steadied a little.

  I hoped to find the prince’s household a refreshing haven after the nightmare that had confronted me at home; I soon discovered, however, that ill fortune had attended the house in my absence. Brocas and the prince were closeted together when I came in, and his highness’s steward told me that they desired my attendance. I entered the prince’s chambers and bowed. A stiff silence pervaded the air like fog over an impassable fen. Brocas was sitting stolidly, with none of his usual banter or jests. His highness walked to and fro with a harsh stride, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Potenhale,” said the prince sharply without any words of greeting. “Have we still that vase I took at Caen?”

  “Aye,” said I, remembering the scalloped beauty inlaid with gold and blue enamel. “It is here in Wales. You bade me send it to your steward.”

  “Then bid him send it now to my cousin Joan,” said the prince, “and with it a message that I am, as I have always been, her humble servant.” With these words, the prince turned on his heel and strode abruptly out of the room leaving Sir Brocas and I alone.

  “Why, what has happened?” I asked aloud. “And why is the prince sending Lady Joan the vase? It was his favorite treasure, a keepsake of his first campaign.”

  “The pope has ruled at last,” answered Brocas.

  “Yes?” I asked in earnest expectation.

  Brocas shook his head ruefully. “Salisbury’s appeal is denied, the first marriage is upheld. Joan goes to Holland’s home within the week, and with her the vase as a wedding gift.”

  A TRIAL OF VALOR

  SEPTEMBER, 1348 – AUGUST, 1349

  8

  The plague continued to work its will in England, but the prince could not stay forever at his estate in Wales. We rejoined the royal household to celebrate Christmas, and the celebrations, though not as lavish as the season before, were gay enough to dispel the pall that the pestilence had cast upon the court. The prince’s money flowed as freely as water; he bestowed magnificent jeweled brooches on his mother and sisters and rings and clasps on all of his attendants. True, the rent rolls of his estates had suffered in the last year—for many of his tenants had perished in the plague. But the prince’s expenditures never had any proportion to the amount of his income, and he continued to live as luxuriously as the Plantagenets were wont to do.

  In the spring of the following year, the queen gave birth to another child, and for that occasion the king held a great tournament at Windsor. In bygone days, the royal family and their retainers would have lodged comfortably in the castle, but now the place was as full of craftsmen as a guild fair. William of Wykeham, the king’s master architect, had begun his renovations of the castle proper, and handymen, hammers, and hoists filled the air with creaks, bangs, and shouts. The prince elected to lodge in the field, and we spread his pavilion near the plain where the tournament would be waged.

  I had participated in tournaments before—there was one at Lichfield shortly after our return from France—but the Windsor tournament was the grandest I had beheld. The king presided over the tournament, dressed in a bright green robe embroidered with pheasant feathers. He sat on a dais beside Queen Philippa watching the jousts that honored the arrival of their newest progeny. King David of Scotland attended, having patched up a shamefaced peace with England after his treacherous attacks of two years ago. Most of the Garter knights were present. The field also held the Comte d’Eu and other French prisoners from Crecy. Their captive status was no hindrance to a friendly trial of arms; the English knights welcomed the chance to try their prowess against the French who—even in our land—are reckoned the most puissant chevaliers in all of Europe.

  The spoils I had earned in France were long since spent, and without the prince’s aid I would never have been able to enter the lists. His highness, however, outfitted me for the tournament at his own expense and paid the herald fees so that my shield could hang beside his own. My first round of jousts was as successful as I could have wished. I challenged Sir Stephen Cosington, another knight whom the prince had recently attached to his household. We were of similar mettle and experience. On the first two passes we broke our lances upon each other, but on the third pass, I hit him squarely in the center of his helmet. My opponent slid backwards off his crupper and the heralds awarded me the victory. By right of tournament, Sir Cosington’s steed and armor were forfeit to me, but I bestowed them back on him again, for he was a courteous knight and we shared the same master.

  The prince’s first joust was against Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March, but I never saw the outcome of the match. While the prince’s squires were helping him mount, I glimpsed red hair in the stands; my eyes searched frantically till they lighted upon Margery. The company she was in did not surprise me. She was still in faithful attendance on her unfortunate mistress. Margery sat in a small chair behind the Lady Joan.

  The pope’s decision had been unwelcome, but the Lady Joan looked radiant as ever. Her hands rested gently upon her stomach while her violet eyes darted about taking in the spectacle and her golden complexion glowed with life and interest. Perhaps her new husband had not proved so dreadful an ogre as she had feared. The new Earl of Kent—for Thomas Holland had assumed that title by right of his wife—sat beside Joan, his large frame sprawled carelessly over the bench. He had altered not at all. The same smug smile spilled over his face while the scar across his brow bestowed a hint of savagery in his mien.

  I longed to enter the stands and speak with Margery, but my desire faltered a little at the thought of encountering Holland. At our last meeting in Calais, he had bidden me look to my sword when next he saw me at tournament. I had seen him fight at Caen and Crecy, charging like a bull at the hapless Frenchmen and decrying the need for any quarter. I was not anxious to engage him in the joust.

  But desire to hold speech with Margery won over in the end. While the prince broke lances with Mortimer on the field, I climbed the stairs till I came quietly behind Margery’s bench. I touched her on the shoulder. “Sir Potenhale!” she said with a sharp intake of breath, and I fancied that there was a note of excitement in her voice.

  “Aye,” said I, a little sheepishly. “It has been a long time since I have laid eyes on you.”

  “Not long since I saw you,” she replied, “for I watched you break lances with Sir Cosington not half an hour since.”

  “Ah, you have been watching me, lady?” I asked, pleased to know that she had been in the stands for my triumph.

  “No, I was watching Sir Cosington,” she replied, “for methinks that the man needs more watching than you—he is so apt to fall and hurt himself.”

  “Methinks my lance may have had somewhat to do with his fall,” I said smilingly. I took her hand in mine.

  “Why, how now, sir!” she said. “You are very bold.” She drew her hand away, but not as quickly as she might have had my touch been unpleasant.

  “If you will not give me your hand,” said I, “then give me something else that I may wear into the lists.”

  “Why should I?” she said.

  I determined to speak my heart. “Because I would have all men know that I hold Margery Bradeshaw to be the fairest of all women and the queen of love and virtue.”

  “Does not your conscience misgive you to tell so many lies?”

  I winced a little, remembering the words I had spoken in Lady Joan’s garden at Calais when I had denied being Margery’s lover. “The only lie, lady, is to say that I do not love you, for—upon my soul—you have captured the castle of my heart.”

  She stared at me in silence, and I think that her scorn melted a little. “Well, Sir Potenhale, I will grant you a favor. You shall have my glove. But I do not say that I shall grant you my favor, for t
hat you must earn with more than words.” Saying this, she unfastened her glove of crimson and placed it in my hands. “Do not lose it, and may it bring you luck and victory.”

  I thanked her and turned to go, but the movement of my rising caught the eye of the Earl of Kent. “Potenhale!” said Holland, demanding my attention as one would that of a servant or a dog.

  “Sir Thomas,” I said, acknowledging him and bowing stiffly.

  “I see you have been fortunate at the tournament thus far.”

  “Aye,” I replied, contriving to keep the red glove clenched tightly behind my back and out of his view.

  “Then you will have no fear to meet me in the lists,” he said, and his left eye flickered open with its missing pupil. “I think I promised you a merry joust when next we met in England. I arm for the games this afternoon, and I have contrived with the heralds so that my first bout will be against you. Will you be ready?”

  “I will be at your service,” I answered steadily, though inside my heart had begun to pound with unaccustomed ferocity. I would not—I must not!—falter in front of Margery. Holland dismissed me with a wave, and I departed without a backward glance.

  By the time I descended from the stands I saw that the prince had finished his three jousts with Mortimer. “Did you win, highness?” I asked.

  “Aye, I unhorsed him,” he said with a tone of surprise, for he assumed that I had been watching the trial.