I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  The prince modulated his voice patiently, like one explaining a lesson to a child. “There are three estates that men may hold in this world,” said he. “Some are men of the cloth, some are men of the field, and some are men of the sword. The man of the cloth saves all others by preaching God’s word. The man of the field saves all others by providing them with bread. And the man of the sword saves all others by warding them from the foe. Each estate is useful to the others, and each estate is honorable before God.”

  I listened to his monologue with respect but with little confidence. His words were merely a mechanical recitation of arguments I had heard before. The prince was my master in many things, but in the understanding of holy things his birth gave him no advantage. “You say that my estate is honorable before God. Is it truly? I throw handfuls of guineas for a herald’s fee while the poor die hungry in the streets. I redden my sword with the blood of villeins to prevent the stain of cowardice on my scutcheon. I fight in quarrels that are not my own to gain a name for myself among men. Can God look kindly on one such as I?”

  “You are overwrought,” said the prince.

  “Better to be overwrought now then overwrought in the Day of Judgment! But while I am living, there is still hope. Until the plague has got a hold of him, a man may get a hold of heavenly grace and change who he has been for something better.”

  “Will you become a monk, then?” asked the prince in disbelief.

  “Perhaps,” said I, in a tone of misery.

  The prince frowned. “Your father abbot will no doubt object to a certain crimson keepsake you carry about you; I hear tell that monks must mortify the desires of the flesh.”

  “Aye, there’s the rub,” I said, and my hand went instinctively to my bosom where I carried Margery’s favor. I sighed bitterly and hung my head. I had the words of two men to convince me—my father and the flagellant—but the prince and all the world continued to deny that the cause of judgment could be found within ourselves.

  While these tormented thoughts crept through my mind like a crowd of lepers, the greater torment continued to afflict the land. The hand of the Almighty lay heavy upon us, and He proved to be no respecter of persons. Stratford, the archbishop of Canterbury, was struck down, and scarcely before a second could be raised up he also succumbed to the infection. When the monks of Canterbury met to bemoan the fallen and elect a third prelate, they chose Thomas Bradwardine, chaplain to His Majesty. The king was loath to let Bradwardine quit his side—indeed, the monks had proposed him ere now, and His Majesty had blocked the appointment—but he finally acquiesced to this nomination. Bradwardine repaired to Avignon to receive his pallium from the hands of Peter’s successor then returned to London to tend a dwindling flock. Despite fears of returning again to the unhealthy town air, the prince’s household made its way thither to receive the new archbishop’s blessing.

  I, for one, was particularly glad of our journey to London. Bradwardine, of all men, would have the answer that I needed. Bradwardine could make distinctions the breadth of a hair. Bradwardine could split true from false as easily as cracking a walnut. But we had not yet reached the outskirts of the city before we heard the news. The plague had claimed its third archbishop. He was not dead yet, but a few days time would sort that.

  “Miserable Bradwardine,” said the prince, “to see the death of a beggar for the sake of a beggared see. His mind was too fine for this world, and where shall we find another like it?”

  Without any further delay, the prince would have had us all return on the road we had just traveled. But I had come to see Bradwardine, and see him I would before the grave claimed him wholly. I begged the prince’s patience and besought his leave to desert his train for a day.

  “It is madness to go near him,” said the prince.

  “Then I must risk it,” said I, “for I am already half mad with uncertainty. And sick though he is, he may provide me physic.”

  The streets of London were emptier than I had ever seen them, and I felt that the citizens there had succumbed to the same despair that held me in its grip. I cast about a bit, and collared a spare and threadbare journeyman striding intently past the wharf. At first, he hung his head disinclined to speak with me. But when I dropped a groat into his hand, his tongue loosened a little; he pointed out the place where the archbishop was housed.

  “But, sir,” he said, “you’ll not be wanting to go there, for the devil’s been there afore you.”

  “Then I’ll send him about his business,” said I, “for the devil’s no fit company for a cleric.”

  I made for the house where Bradwardine was lodged and let myself in. The servants had all fled at the first sign of the plague, and there was no one to direct me to his room.

  “I am seeking Master Bradwardine,” I shouted. “Is anyone here?” First there was silence; then a faint rasping sound. I looked up to the top of the stairs and saw a corpulent body creeping slowly along the floor, pulling itself across the floorboards like an inchworm across the dirt. It was Bradwardine, devoid of his books, his vestments, and his dignities, as wretched as any simpleton who cannot count on his hands.

  “Water!” said his hoarse voice. “For Christ’s sake, give me water!”

  There was a barrel with a dipper just outside. I filled the dipper and carried it up to him, and at arm’s length poured the water through his cracked lips.

  “God will requite you,” he said, and he gasped a little as he spoke. From here, I could see the little pustules that had formed about his neck, dark and malodorous like rotting plums. A panic seized me, and I wished to be gone before the pestilence should seize me as well. The wretched man spoke again. “I recognize your face, John de Potenhale, kind and young, and a little foolish as it always was. Why have you come here? Do you seek death? It is before you.”

  “I seek knowledge,” said I. “And if you die, it must die with you, for you of all men can most help me.”

  “I am past all help. I am past all knowledge.” He coughed a little, leaving a glaze of blood-tinged sputum on the floor beneath his face. “I go before the true and awful Judge, and what misery will be mine if my works are not approved. I have given my life to enigmas and equations, to futile argument and fruitless disputation. I have fed my philosophies but not the hungry; I have clothed my syllogisms but not the naked.

  “And you,” he continued, and his eyes grew large with terror, “are you not also in fear of the judgment? You are a man of blood, and will you approach the Almighty’s throne unwashed?”

  Without my asking, he had poured out a draught of the knowledge I sought. “What must I do?” I asked, and in my fear of perdition I forgot my fear of the pestilence and gripped his plague-ridden shoulder.

  “What must you do?” he repeated, and his eyes grew wide and wild. “What can you do? The harvest has been gathered in and the grain must be separated from the chaff. Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand. Or repent not, for the kingdom has already passed you by.”

  “Is this the truth?” asked I, but he was raving now and I could not get him to answer me directly. “Is this the truth?” I demanded, and began to shake him in frustration. He closed his eyes and then opened them as if he had recognized me afresh.

  “What is the truth?” I asked, and I may have said it with a sob for my soul was a-prickle with terror.

  “Who can say what truth is?” he answered. “If it is true, it is false. If it is false, it is true. Have you not heard me say it? ‘This statement is a lie!’” As the insoluble rolled off his tongue, his parched mouth opened in a horrible, croaking cry. His eyes rolled back wildly into his head. He twitched suddenly, gave a little moan, and was silent. This may very well have been the end of him, but I did not stay to find out.

  By fast riding, I rejoined the prince and his retinue before they had stopped for the night.

  “How is Bradwardine?” said his highness.

  “Dead, I think,” said I, and I gave a little shudder.

  “Then he
did not resolve your troubles for you?” asked the prince.

  “No,” said I. “By the time I arrived, his own trouble was too great for him.”

  “A pity,” said the prince shortly, and I was glad that he did not ask more of me.

  The third witness had spoken.

  It was the Feast of Saint Andrew in England when news came that Lady Joan of Kent had given birth to a son. The prince sent a handsome parcel of gifts and on the appointed day arrived at Canterbury to stand godfather to the child. The infant Thomas was small and unremarkable. Not so his parents. The lady Joan, if it were possible, had grown in beauty and brilliance since the birth of her child. Holland—never a beauty to behold—had grown in bulk since last I saw him; his corpulence caught the eye as a windmill catches the breeze.

  I glimpsed Margery at the baptism. She sat beside the wet nurse in the stall of the church. As I gazed at her, the same passion that I always experienced welled up in my breast. But in front of the picture of her face, the archbishop’s black pustules, the flagellant’s swinging flail, and my father’s lunatic laughter interposed themselves. When the service was over, she caught my eye and smiled in welcome. I turned and went the other way—stuffing her memory deep down into my bosom beside the crumpled red glove that I carried.

  *****

  For two years the plague had kept our countries at truce and the truce kept us from each others’ throats; but your people had not forgotten the fall of their fortress by the sea. After concluding the siege of Calais, you will remember that the king had expelled its inhabitants and peopled the place with our own. Walter Manny, one of His Majesty’s favorites, had received a grand manor in the town. He took up residence there when the rest of us headed home to pass the pox to our own country. The governorship of the town went to a Genoese captain, one Aimery de Pavia. I knew little of this Aimery, and to my knowledge had never laid eyes on him. Reportedly, he had done His Majesty some small service during the evacuation, and this had secured him the appointment as governor when the army quitted the town. For two years we had held the city in peace, and since neither the plague nor the truce had terminated in France, there was no reason to believe that we would not continue to hold Calais.

  After the baptism of Joan’s little son Thomas, the prince had hurried to join the royal household for the season of Our Lord’s Advent. We met the king in Hereford and had tarried there for some days when winged rumor alighted and built a nest in the eaves of the court. Calais, so the story ran, was in great peril. True, her walls still stood impregnable, her storehouses still overflowed with grain, but the fidelity of her governor had ebbed like the tide. Aimery de Pavia had contracted with the French to sell this pearl of great price.

  Edward received this intelligence with great emotion. The hot anger that had blazed for the six burghers was nothing compared to the inferno that awaited Aimery de Pavia. “Send for the dog!” were Edward’s words. “Let us see if this Lombard will dare lie to our face.”

  The summons sped across the channel, and Aimery arrived with the first of the snow. He was ushered immediately before his impatient interviewer and a concerned council. The fading winter day left little light in the hall, and the furrowed brows all around me were as dark as the sky outside. Lancaster was there, and Audley and Chandos. Mortimer, Brocas, and others filled the periphery. On the king’s right hand sat the prince, and I, as was my wont, stood silent behind my master’s chair.

  Aimery walked in with short, cautious steps for a man of his height. He had a lean face, sharp and shiny like hewn quartz. His eyes glittered dangerously from deep-set sockets, and as I glanced him over, I saw that his earlobes were curiously joined to his jawbone. There was no question but that I had seen him before—my mind misgave me that it was at Calais. Yet why should that surprise me, for he was the governor of that town.

  “How now, governor!” demanded the king. “What tale is this which reaches our ears? Have you not crassly conspired with our cruelest enemy? Have you not deviously devised to deliver up Calais, that child which we brought forth with so much travail? Answer me, governor, for I have heard tales told of you that would make Brutus blush and Cassius livid with loyal feeling.”

  The Genoese governor stepped backward awkwardly, then fell to his knees on the floor of the hall. “Your Majesty,” he began, licking the taste of fear from off his lips, “In time of war, it is not unknown for lies to be circulated by the enemy….”

  “Do you then call Sir Walter Manny a liar?” demanded the king. He pulled out a parchment bearing the seal of that baron and flung it fiercely on the floor. It was not without reason that the king had left such an excellent correspondent in Calais. “By God’s eyes, you shall tell me the truth of this matter, for I will have it out of you one way or another.”

  “Your Majesty,” the Genoese groveled. “I see that all of my actions have been reported to you; I can only pray that my motives received as thorough an exposition. As you have heard, the French commander has made me an offer. In exchange for a sum of gold, I am to open the northwest gate of Calais, admitting by night a force of Frenchmen large enough to slaughter the sleeping garrison and occupy the city. This was the offer from the French.”

  “And what made you for your answer?” said the king.

  “Your Majesty, I am your loyal servant, even as all these,”—he gestured helplessly at the circle of lords, but received scant encouragement. “God forbid that I should profit from perfidy. And yet, a cunning fox may serve his king as well as an honest hound. My first thought was to spurn this offer under my heel, but a revelation came to me, seemingly from heaven. Would it not better suit Your Majesty’s cause to accede to this plan? To lure the French in with fair words, then clap the gates shut and betray them to their own ruin? Your Majesty,”—here, the governor rose to his feet and held out his palms in appeal—“I answered France as would best serve England. I have made an appointment to betray Calais.”

  The room was as silent as a charnel house. The tribunal of nobles waited grimly for their sovereign as he fingered his beard in thought. Beads of sweat began to gather on Aimery’s brow, and though the affair was of little moment to me, I gripped the wooden frame of the chair before me so tightly that my knuckles went white.

  “So,” the king said at last, and the word fell like a millstone into a pond, “it seems that you have done well, governor.”

  His stern features relaxed into a smile and he began to speak with the enthusiasm of a stripling schoolboy. “Is it not a good jest, my lords? We shall have their gold, and they’ll have been gulled in the bargain. Prithee, governor, what price have they set on the city?”

  “Twenty thousand crowns,” said Aimery.

  The king sneered. “So little. God knows I paid ten times that sum to achieve it. And what has proved so costly in the getting shall not be lost for lack of watchfulness. You say that you are preparing an ambuscade for these marauders. Describe to me, governor, your force.”

  “My force is even as you have left it to me, one thousand men disposed about the walls, and….”

  “Not enough, by heaven! We must reinforce you,” said the king.

  “Aye, majesty!” agreed Roger Mortimer. He had caught some of the king’s fervor and was leaning forward with an earnest smile. “An’ it please you, I’ll plant my escutcheon at the head of this reinforcing party.”

  “Your boldness pleases me right well,” said the king, “but there are others who must be waiting to entreat the boon of command.”

  The words were pointed, and I felt a great many eyes turn to the chair in front of me. “How now?” said the king, when his son said nothing. “Do you not covet the glory of this enterprise?”

  “Aye, I covet glory as much as any man,” replied the prince, “but I would know my enemy before I throw down my gage. Who has tendered this treachery to you, governor? Come, I must know the fellow’s name and quality!”

  “Your highness cannot fail to know the man. It is Geoffroi de Charny with whom I have
compacted.”

  “Charny!” said the king, and he laughed mockingly—for madam, you must forgive me, but he did not rate your husband highly.

  “Was it not he,” demanded Mortimer, “who asked us to set aside our vantage during the siege and engage the French in equal numbers, four of their knights against four of ours?”

  “Aye,” boomed Lancaster, “and I could regale your ears with half a dozen tales of Charny’s follies. A knight for damsels and tourneys, but no true soldier. You’ll have little enough to fear from this enemy, if he plays the gallant goat as is his wont.”

  “On the contrary, my dear Lancaster,” said the prince, “I have heard tales as well as you, and I fear that this Charny is as shrewd as he is gallant.”

  “If he is so cunning,” replied Lancaster, “then why was there no evidence of it at Crecy?”

  “He was not at Crecy,” replied the prince. “Though if he were, Philip’s men may not have advanced in such a pell-mell fashion. Shall I tell you where he was? He was fifty leagues to the west at the city of Bethune. Our Flemish allies were there in force with plans to take the city; Charny contrived to hold them off, with only two hundred lances in his command.”

  “Impressive,” said Lancaster grudgingly.

  “Aye, most impressive,” said the prince. “Our governor was not wise to cross crooked blades with such a man. But be that as it may, Calais must still be held at any cost. Give me the command, sire, and I will not disappoint, though ten such Charnys turn all their gilt to guilty stratagems.”

  And so the king bestowed the command of the expedition upon his son, the prince. Yet as he did so, he hesitated a little, and it seemed that he was loath to let the leadership pass from out of his own grasp. It had been over two years since our last engagement with France, and Edward of Windsor was not a tame lion to sit meekly at home when others were in the field. The prince received his commission and orders to sail with the tide. But how much authority the prince would truly have, I will show you later, for this expedition turned out much the same as the field of Crecy. Though the prince might be named commander, his would not be the hand to hold the reins.