by Jean Plaidy
‘Sire,’ pleaded the Cardinal, ‘have pity on those fine men who this day will die on this field if the battle should go forth. You know that the King of France has a great army which outnumbers yours four to one.’
‘I know it well, good and gentle Father,’ said the Prince. ‘But our quarrel is just. My father, King Edward, is the lawful King of France and should possess this land. Yet I would not have it said that good youth was slain through my pride. I cannot though settle this matter without the King, my father. But I will give my men respite and if my honour and that of my army be saved I am ready to listen to any reasonable terms.’
‘You say well, fair son,’ replied the Cardinal. ‘I shall do my best to bring about peace.’
The Cardinal went back to the French camp and as a result a day’s truce was declared while negotiations took place.
A delegation of English headed by the Prince, and the Earls of Warwick and Suffolk went into the French King’s camp. Jean and Edward regarded each other steadily. Jean had seen the determination in the Prince’s eyes which made him uneasy. Here was another of those leaders. Why had God not sent another Edward the Second? If that had been the case this war could be finished now and for ever.
What would the Prince offer for his side of the bargain? asked the Cardinal.
The Prince said that he would dismiss all his prisoners free of ransom, give up the towns and castles he had taken during the campaign and agree to peace for seven years.
Jean pondered this. It seemed reasonable enough. He looked around at those of his nobles who were attending the council. He saw disgust in many of their faces. Here we are, they were telling him, with four times the men that the English have. Victory is in our hands. This is not the time to parley with them. This is the time to go in and annihilate them.
‘I demand the surrender of the Prince into my hands with a hundred of his leading knights,’ said the King.
The Prince laughed aloud. So Jean had no intention of making a truce. Edward would have thought him a fool if he had, with an army four times the size of his enemy’s.
‘Your countrymen think highly of you, my lord Prince,’ said the King. ‘Methinks it would not be long before they raised your ransom.’
‘What sort of knight do you think I am!’ cried the Prince hotly. ‘I will rather die sword in hand than be guilty of deeds so opposed to mine honour and the glory of England. Englishmen shall never pay ransom of mine.’
The Earl of Warwick unable to suppress his indignation cried out. ‘You French have no intention of making a truce. Why should you? You have four times more men than we have. We care not for that. Here is the field and the place. Let each do his best and may God defend the right.’
The Prince smiled with approval. The conference was over and the battle of Poitiers would soon be fought.
At sunrise on that fateful day the nineteenth of September 1356 the Prince was astir. He must be prepared for a dawn attack. He was going to need every bit of his military skill on this day. Oddly enough he felt exhilarated by the fact that his army was so small. He had talked to his men during the night, visiting them after dark, inspiring them, telling them that so it had been at Crécy and as one Englishman was worth five French they had the great chance of victory. Every one of them would give of his best. If he would do that then they could not fail to win.
‘By God,’ he cried to Chandos, ‘we are going to win this field. I feel it. I want messengers ready to go to my father when the day is won. There must be rejoicing in England, Chandos, for I intend to make this not only a victory over the French but a decisive one.’
‘God be with you, Edward.’
‘And you will be beside me, my good friend.’
‘Until the death.’
‘Do not talk of death, John. Better say throughout life and when you and I are greybeards we shall talk of this day and laugh together because at one time we felt a qualm of uncertainty. Now to work. Our archers will win the day as they did at Crécy. There is no army on earth that can withstand good English bowmen. Our men know their posts. They will be protected behind hedges, along narrow lanes and among the vineyards and these will be lined with our good archers. Let us to work.’
Activity began.
* * *
How fiercely the battle raged and how often it seemed inevitable that the overpowering forces must decide the day.
There was one who never faltered, who was always there in the forefront of the battle, recognizable by his black armour. The legend! The Black Prince who could not be beaten. Always beside him was his good friend Sir John Chandos and where the Prince was there must be hope.
The archers, as at Crécy, played a decisive part, and nowhere in the world were there archers to compare with the English; but all through the morning the battle swayed and there came a time when the archers had no more arrows. Even then they would not give in; they picked up stones and threw them at the enemy. It appeared then to many Englishmen that the battle was lost but not for one moment would the Black Prince concede this.
One knight, seeing the shining armour of the French column advancing upon them, cried out: ‘We poor devils of English are done for. This is the end.’
The Prince shouted loudly so that all could hear: ‘You lie most damnably. It is blasphemy to say that I can be conquered alive.’
When he appeared men’s spirits rose. He was the Black Prince. He was invincible. It was impossible to believe that he could be anything but the victor.
Shouting orders from the small hillock in which he had stationed himself, his black armour like a talisman to them all, he was their inspiration. He was invincible—then so were they, his men. There was not a man who would have dared turn and seek shelter for himself. There was not one who would not have preferred to die rather than live with the eternal shame of not fighting beside the Black Prince that day.
That they were weary, that they were spent, was clear. That the French had suffered heavy losses was true too. But there were so many of them. How long, they were asking themselves, could they hold out?
* * *
The King of France was sorely tried. He was in the thick of the battle, for he was as determined as the Black Prince to win this day. It seemed incredible that the battle should hall endured so long. It should have been won long ago. Four to one, he kept thinking. And even then ... it is so long.
Young Philip was beside hint, remembering his injunctions. ‘You must not leave my side,’ the King had said. Philip did not want to. He was not afraid. He knew that men were falling about him; he knew that the day was not going as his father had planned. He was aware that had the King known that there would be such disorder he would have sent his son to a place of safety.
Philip did not want to be in a safe place. He wanted to be beside his father. This was a terrible baptism of war but he was with his father and his father must win.
The King was on foot now. His men were surrounding him, rallying to his side. But the English were crowding in on him. Young Philip stared in horror as he saw one of the knights collapse to the ground covered in blood.
They were coming to his father. One by one those who had rallied to him were falling.
‘Look to the right, Father,’ he cried. ‘Father, to the left. To the right. To the left ...’
They were all round him now.
Philip heard the shout of ‘Surrender.’
Surrender! His father! It was unthinkable.
He opened his mouth to tell them that they were speaking to the King of France. But he hesitated. That would not he wise. They were his father’s enemies.
Philip saw the golden lilies fall to the ground. He saw the blood on them and that seemed to him symbolic. His fears were all for his father—that great man who in his eyes was godlike. He had never seen his father before except at the centre of some ceremony treated with respect; no one—not even his children—ever forgot that he was the King of France.
The crowd parted and a man was pressing
forward. He recognized the King and realized what a prize this would be to take to the Black Prince.
‘Stand aside,’ he commanded those soldiers who were mauling the King’s armour. Then to the King: ‘Sire, surrender yourself.’
‘Surrender!’ cried the King. ‘To whom should I surrender myself? Where is the Prince of Wales? I would speak with him.’
‘Sire, if you will surrender yourself to me I will take you to him.’
‘Who are you, pray? You are a Frenchman.’
‘I am Denis de Morbeque, a knight of Artois. But I serve the King of England because I have lost my possessions in France.’
This conversation had conveyed to those watching that the prisoner was the King of France and all wanted to claim the honour of having taken him. One of them seized Philip who struggled madly and crying out: ‘Let me go, you rogues. How dare you lay hands on the royal son of France.’
‘He is a bold little fellow, this one,’ said the soldiers.
‘Harm him not,’ ordered Denis de Morbeque. ‘Come, Sire, I will conduct you to the Prince of Wales.’
The crowd surrounded the captives and the Black Prince on seeing the commotion and fearing that it might mean mutiny sent two of his knights to find out what was afoot. When the knights heard that the captive was the King of France they forced the crowd back and came to the Black Prince with the prisoners.
The Prince could scarcely believe his good fortune. It was indeed the King of France. Then the day was won. Poitiers was a name that would be mentioned with Crécy. A great victory was his.
He almost loved the King of France in that moment. He took off his helmet and going to meet Jean bowed low to him.
‘Sweet lord,’ he said, ‘this is God’s doing and I have played but small part in it. We must render thanks to Him beseeching Him earnestly that he will grant us glory and pardon us this victory.’
Then he gave orders that wines should be brought to refresh his honoured guest and he himself undid the lacings of the French King’s armour.
‘Fair cousin,’ said Jean quietly, ‘have done. Let us look the truth in the face. This is the most bitter day of my life. I am your prisoner.’
‘Nay, cousin,’ answered the Prince, ‘you are my honoured guest.’
* * *
Edward had returned from Scotland and was in Westminster. He knew nothing of what was happening in France and his first realization came when messengers arrived at the palace.
It was a moment he knew he would never forget as long as he lived for when he realized whence the messengers came his heart was filled with apprehension. One could never be sure whether such messengers brought good or had news. He had been uneasy for he had heard that the French were amassing and he knew how heavily their armies would outnumber those of his son.
These messengers though had not the appearance of men of doom.
No, they were smiling broadly.
‘My lord,’ said one, as though rehearsing a speech, ‘the Prince of Wales has sent a gift to you. He trusts it will give you pleasure.’
‘A gift! My son! He is well then?’
‘Well and in high spirits, my lord.’
‘A victory,’ thought the King. ‘It must be a victory.’
Two messengers were bowing before him. Between them they carried something which they handed to Edward.
He stared at it. It was a coroneted helmet such as could only belong to a King.
The French King’s helmet. It could mean only one thing.
‘Tis so, my lord,’ cried the messengers. ‘The King of France is the prisoner of the Black Prince. The victory of Poitiers was complete. The war must be over now.’
Edward felt his emotions ready to overwhelm him. ‘My son! My son,’ was all he said.
Then he recovered himself. ‘You could not have brought me better news. You shall be rewarded for this. This is a great day for England. She will have reason to bless the Black Prince.’
He went immediately to Philippa and laid the coroneted helmet in her hands.
‘Your son’s work, my lady,’ he said. ‘Our noble son. There is not a prouder man in England this day.’
‘The French King’s helmet!’ cried Philippa. ‘Then the fighting is over.’
‘A great victory. He won his spurs at Crécy, and praise God at Poitiers he has crowned himself with glory. England has reason to rejoice this day.’
‘This will mean peace,’ said Philippa. ‘Our boys will come home. I trust this is an end to this war.’
Edward was smiling triumphantly, but Philippa thought: There will never be an end to war. Not while there are crowns to gain and hold.
But it was good news. She must not spoil the pleasure of it by thinking melancholy thoughts.
‘The whole country must rejoice,’ cried the King. ‘There shall be feasting and bonfires. And you and I, my dear Queen, must prepare ourselves to receive the conquering hero with his royal prisoner.’
* * *
The Black Prince had no intention of hurrying home. He wanted to savour his victory. He must entertain his prisoner royally so that it should not be said that English hospitality fell short of French.
This gave him an opportunity of indulging his love of extravagance which he had inherited from his father. His armies needed relaxation too. They had fought valiantly at Poitiers and deserved some rewards. All through that winter he had remained in Bordeaux and it was April before he decided to travel across country to take ship to Sandwich.
England was waiting for the conquerors and on the way to Canterbury where they spent the night, people came out of their houses to cheer the Prince. From Canterbury to Rochester and Rochester to Dartford the triumphant cavalcade made its way—and then to London.
The King could not restrain his impatience and arranged to be hunting in the forest close to the route.
The Prince was not surprised when riding out of the woods came the royal party headed by the King.
With great ceremony the Kings met each other.
‘Welcome to England, my lord of France,’ cried Edward.
Jean received the greeting with dignity and Edward told him that he was his most honoured guest and if he would care to join the hunt he was at liberty to do so.
The King of France declined and the King and his party rode with the procession to London.
It was a great occasion for the capital. It was not often that a captive monarch was brought to their town. It was all very well to treat him like a guest, but everyone knew that the King of France was the prisoner of the King of England.
The houses had been hung with banners and tapestry; the fountains ran with wine, and there was free beer in barrels for any who preferred it. In one street a golden cage had been fixed and in this was a beautiful girl who threw silver and gold filigree flowers over the Prince and the King as they rode by.
‘Long live the Black Prince!’ was the constant cry. ‘God bless the victor of Poitiers.’
The King glowed with pleasure and pride and rejoiced that he had not been at Poitiers to steal any of the glory which belonged to his son. He was proud and happy to have given his people such a man.
What a King he will make, he thought. England is sure of prosperity under him. Thank God for him.
It was typical of the Black Prince that he had chosen for himself a somewhat insignificant black palfrey. He liked to remind people that he was the Black Prince and the blackness of his armour contrasted with the shining glory of his deeds. Now the King of France came on a magnificent showy white horse while his captor rode in some humility. Such contrasts appealed to him and in truth they called attention to his greatness.
They came to Westminster Hall where Philippa waited to greet them. All the royal children who were in England were with her, and a great banquet had been prepared to welcome the King of France, but Philippa wanted most to see her eldest son.
At last he stood before her. Her boy, her first-born, the best loved of all her children.
�
��My lady,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it.
‘God’s blessing on you,’ she replied.
She greeted the King of France warmly. She was sorry for him. It must be a very sad time for him, made even more so by the wild rejoicing he had seen in the streets. England’s triumph could only be his failure. But this must be an end to the senseless war.
At the banquet the King insisted that Jean should sit on his right hand; and beside the King of France was his son Philip, whose looks were sullen because he knew that what he had believed impossible had happened.
Edward himself seemed a little insensitive to the feelings of his captive and seemed to expect him to join in the revelry which was asking too much.
Lavish dishes were served and there were those which it was believed would please the King of France.
Jean ate little and Edward at last said reproachfully : ‘Come, my lord, cast off your melancholy. You are our guests. Sing with us and be merry.’
Jean looked steadily into Edward’s face and replied tersely: ‘How shall we sing the Lord’s songs in a strange land?’
Philippa smiled at the King sadly and said: ‘It is a difficult time for you, my lord. I doubt not that it will come to an end ere long.’
At this moment the cupbearer came with wine and served Edward.
At that moment young Philip who had been looking on sprang to his feet and delivered a sharp blow across the cupbearer’s face.
There was an astonished silence at the table. Then the boy cried out: ‘How dare you serve any before the King of France?’
All eyes were now on Edward. What would his reaction be. The boy, his face flushed, his eyes flashing, stared back at Edward. Everyone was expecting that such an insult to the King’s cupbearer might provoke the notorious Plantagenet temper, but it was not so.
Edward laughed and said: ‘You are indeed Philip le Hardi.’ Philip the Bold! The boy was from that day called by this name and it stayed so throughout his life.
The King of France could see that Edward was determined to treat him with the utmost courtesy. He was given the Savoy Palace for his residence; he might hunt and hawk when he pleased.
