I Serve (37 page)

The English ranks mustered all the spirit they could to cheer the prince’s words. As if on cue, the French lines before us began to advance. On the plateau across from us, the Oriflamme moved forward. The great orange flag dipped in the fitful breeze. Its fiery tails half-concealed the crest of its bearer, and I did not learn till later that your husband was leading the way with the standard.

The French advanced in far better order than they had at Crecy. King John sent a company of pikemen to take the left side of the hill where the manor house stood. The French footsoldiers trudged manfully through the marsh and made their way up the incline over fence and hedge. Our men sent up a great shout as they approached. “St. George and Guienne!” they cried, and Salisbury led out his knights to engage the French there. Pikes fell to the ground as the overpowered French sought to yield or flee. Salisbury’s knights pressed the fliers back to the march and began to mount their own attack on the opposing plateau.

On the right side of our defenses, a wave of French cavalry led by Sir Jean Clermont attempted to cut through our lines; however, the archers stationed at the bend of the river applied their skill to such good effect that the attack was stemmed. The French stallions screamed in anguish and their riders collapsed amid flailing hooves. I saw the standard of Sir Clermont fall and was glad in my heart for Sir Chandos.

When the French king saw that the two wings of his army had failed to cut through the English defenses, he advanced the center of his forces
en masse
. Strangely enough, they had all dismounted; this, we later learned, was due to the advice of a Scottish knight who was close to King John. Yet even without the added bulk of horses, the French forces were imposing enough.

The prince’s company, which held the center of our line, had become overly enthusiastic from the small victories on either flank. Some of our men had wandered off like distracted children, eager to join Salisbury’s cavalry or Warwick’s archers in the bloodletting. Behind me I saw gaps in our line. In front of me I saw the glittering spears of the French host, rolling forward like a tidal wave. My eyes opened wide in terror, and the bloody reek of battle poured into the back of my nostrils.

The prince himself must have felt the same overmastering fear, for as King John’s men crossed the marsh and began their ascent, he dismounted and fell to his knees on the battlefield before the eyes of all. Then he, who had never knelt to any man save his father the king, cried out: “Almighty Christ, I believe that You are king of all kings. I believe that You are truly God and truly man. I believe that You willingly endured death on the Cross to rescue us from hell. By Your most holy name, protect me and my men from harm, for You know that our cause is just.”

With these words said, he rose to his feet, and a squire helped him regain his saddle. Chandos and Audley, as was their wont, rode close beside the prince and me. “Highness!” said Audley as the French knights began to close the distance between our forces, “I have made a vow that I will be the first of your company to break lances with the French. Give me leave to go.” It occurred to me that Sir James Audley was desirous to redeem his earlier failure in scouting out the French king’s movements.

“
Do as you wish,” said the prince, and thereupon, Audley set out a lance’s length in front of his troop hurling himself on the enemy like a thunderbolt. Our own horses did not linger far behind. I entered the battle at the prince’s side, and after this it was all confusion.

*****

Audley disappeared after the initial collision; I feared he had fallen. Chandos rose high in his saddle to deliver a mighty buffet with the sword. The prince smote about like a madman. He hacked a path with steel through the enemy lines leaving devastation in his wake.

Above the left side of the French line, the Oriflamme danced high, attracting Englishmen eager for the prize of bringing it down. “Those stars will fall today!” bellowed a great voice. I saw Thomas Holland, the earl of Kent, pursuing the orange banner with a score of the minions in his train. A cluster of French knights ranged themselves around the standard, but Holland trampled them like a bull, tearing out innards and hacking off limbs. “Holy Mary!” said I, “it is Sir Geoffroi!” Only then did I realize that the Oriflamme waved proudly in the hands of your husband.

I pulled my charger away from the prince’s flank and galloped toward the orange banner. French foot soldiers impeded my progress. One grabbed my stirrup trying to pull me from the horse, but I gave him such a blow with the hilt of my sword that he spat out his own teeth. I neared Sir Holland right as he cleared the field of Charny’s protectors. Holland’s own men had been pulled away in the tide of battle, and he faced Charny alone—or as alone as two men could be in the melee of battle. Sir Geoffroi had planted the butt of the standard in the soft ground and stood beside it sword in hand.

Holland, no longer seated on his mount, lunged at the Frenchman, clipping the corner of his pauldron. Charny swung his own blade and made the earl fall back a step. I reined in my horse several paces behind Holland’s large frame, unsure how to proceed. The exigencies of honor insisted that I aid my countryman against our common foe. The dictates of friendship demanded that I intervene on Sir Geoffroi’s behalf. Yet paradoxically, it was neither of these two concerns that prompted my confusion.

As I stared at the dull finish of Sir Thomas’s backplate, an insidious thought crept through the chinks in my visor and lodged in the crannies of my mind. There he stood— the bitter water in my cup, the fly in my ointment, the bar to my happiness. His whole attention was engaged by Sir Geoffroi, for your husband was a redoubtable match for any swordsman. “Here is the one,” said my thought, “who is the wreck of so many lives. Would it not be just and proper for me to remove him from the way?”

“
Nay,” said a second voice within my head, smooth, clear, and silvery like the voice of your husband. “A knight may defend the widow and the fatherless, a knight may defend the rights of his liege, but it is sin to take vengeance in this way. If you were to die with such blood on your hands, then might you truly fear the judgment you have striven so hard to evade.”

“
But did not you yourself take vengeance!” the insidious thought argued back. “You hunted down Aimery of Pavia, pulled him from his bed, and slew him for his betrayal at Calais.”

“
That was an act of war, not treachery,” said the voice calmly. “He was not my comrade-in-arms.”

“
And neither is Holland mine!” said my thought, repudiating the obvious reminder that Holland’s shield—with the outline of England on it—carried.

I couched my lance, dropping the point on a level with Sir Thomas’s back. The prince had spared him in the lists at Westminster; I would not be so forbearing. I kicked my heels into the side of my horse. The faithful beast jumped forward with alacrity. I aimed for the weakest place on the backside of the armor, where his helmet nearly joined with his backplate. My lance was two seconds away from threading through Holland’s neck like a meat spit through a hare.

Holland was oblivious to my approach, but his adversary’s eyes flickered sharply as I lowered my lance. Charny saw me and knew me, doubtless from the silver chevron on my shield. His own helmet had been torn off in the struggle; his uncovered head nobly crowned the green surcoat he wore. He looked me in the eye, as directly as if I had no basinet upon my brow. In that instant, my innermost intentions were revealed to him; I felt the same shame of nakedness and guilt that first overtook Adam in the garden.

Then, in one deft, deliberate motion, Sir Geoffroi lowered his sword arm and left open his guard. Holland lunged to the left to finish him with a stroke, leaping out of my path with as much rapidity as if he had been cognizant of my intentions. My lance swung wide of its mark, and my horse thundered by him into the thick of the French lines.

The next few moments enveloped me in a struggle for survival. French swords flailed fiercely about me, and I fought hard to keep from being unhorsed. When I gained breathing space enough to turn my head, I saw that the orange standard had fallen, as had its bearer. Charny’s green surcoat lay trampled upon the ground, housing the poor clay of the noblest knight in Christendom.

I fought on. The battle, it seemed, had begun to lose its intensity. A few French knights cast anxious glances over their shoulder hoping to flee if enough of their fellows were like-minded. By dint of vigorous strokes, I gained the prince’s side again.

Chandos, who had shadowed the prince throughout the battle, spurred his horse forward till he was level with the prince’s mount. He saw the signs of imminent rout in the faces of the French. “Ride forward, sire!” he cried. “The victory is yours. Today you hold God’s favor in the palm of your hand. Let us make for your adversary, the king of France—that’s where the real business lies.”

“
Is he retreating?” I shouted.

“
Nay,” said Chandos. “He is too brave to run away. By God and St. George, he will be ours!”

The prince’s eyes kindled. “Come on, Potenhale. No hanging back now!” He called to his banner-bearer with imperious enthusiasm, “Advance, banner, in the name of God and St. George!” The golden lion of the Plantagenets moved ahead with majestic ferocity. The French lilies lay just beyond us, and beneath them the pretended king of France.

King John, as Chandos had remarked, was a brave man. When he had ordered all his knights to dismount for the advance, he had done the same. Wielding a double-bladed axe, he planted himself firmly in the thick of the battle. However strongly the English gale might blow, he refused to be uprooted.

This resolution, however, was not held with such fervor in the hearts of the French troops. An epidemic of fright swept through the French ranks. Whole companies of King John’s men took to their heels. The cries of “
Montjoy!
”
and “
St. Denis!
”
faded from the field of battle. Before the prince’s company had even reached King John, the standard with the French lilies fell to the ground. St. George had won the day for England.

SEPTEMBER, 1356 – DECEMBER, 1360

15

The English men-at-arms pursued the fleeing French down the hill, through the marsh, and up to the gates of Poitiers. Those gates the city of Poitiers had wisely resolved to bar against fugitives from the battle. As so often happens in a rout, more French died in flight than had perished during the actual engagement. Up to the very walls the French were butchered, or made prisoner by Englishmen greedy for ransom.

All the field was littered with broken armor, basinets, swords, knives, lances, shields, flung away in desperate flight. Dead horses, dead men, and dying men lay tangled up with pennants, trumpets, arrows, and saddles. Welshman wandered about with their long knives, picking up valuables and giving the quietus to soldiers too poor to be ransomed.

The prince pursued the fleeing French as wholeheartedly as any man, with Chandos and me in his train. At length, as the shadows began to lengthen, we fell under the grip of exhaustion. The prince cried a halt. Chandos remarked that the men, in pursuit of the foe, had scattered very widely about the countryside. Even though there was no danger of the French re-forming, it would be good to rally the men to the prince’s standard.

Ordering the trumpets to be sounded, the prince took off his helmet. Blood covered his face in grimy streaks. “Great God!” said Warwick, leading in some of the men from his battalion. “Salisbury and I competed to spill the most enemy blood, but you have outdone us all, prince.”

I helped the prince disarm, and ordered refreshment to be brought immediately. The servants who had stayed with the baggage during the battle rushed to erect a small pavilion. The prince sat down wearily and drank a little wine. One by one, the English lords returned from the pursuit, their companies swelled with booty and prisoners.

King John had not been taken by the prince’s own hand. Sir Denis de Morbecque, a French expatriate who had fought on our side, had received his surrender, and it was that knight who now brought him before us. John was of slender build. A large, Gallic nose protruded beneath his thick mane of thatch-colored hair. He was eleven years the prince’s senior, and had reigned as king for the past six years.

John’s conduct in the battle had been courageous and honorable, but we English had little other reason to praise him. He had begun his reign by autocratically executing his constable; then he had bestowed that high office upon a Spanish pirate, Don Carlos de la Cerda. He had mismanaged affairs with his son-in-law Navarre, alternately showing pitiful weakness and highhanded tyranny. Yet although the Valois king’s reputation was as checkered as a troubadour’s tunic, the prince received him with as much regard as if he had been his own father. “Welcome, dear sir,” said the prince courteously. He offered John a stoop of wine and, rising himself, volunteered to act the squire and help the prisoner disarm.

The French king waved him off. “Nay, cousin,” he said in a sad tone, acknowledging their common ancestry from the house of Capet. “Do not trouble yourself, for I do not deserve such esteem. In sooth, you have won more honor today than any prince before you!”

“
My lord,” answered the prince frankly. “God has done this and not us; we must thank Him and pray that He will grant us His glory and pardon this bloody victory which our hands have wrought.” With that, the prince sent orders throughout the congregating host that prayers of thanksgiving should be said by all men-at-arms, giving glory, laud, and honor to the Holy Trinity for the doings of this day.