The Last Plantagenets (21 page)

This bellicose young man had been married in 1385 and the story of his romance is so unusual that it seems excusable to pause long enough
here to tell about it. Charles was so brimming with confidence that he wanted the best of everything. The wife he would choose must be the most beautiful girl in the world and he paid little attention at first to reports brought him of a Bavarian princess named Isabeau. Finally the girl’s father, most reluctantly, agreed to send his daughter to France
on approval
. If the French king did not want her, she would turn about at once and go home. Had such a thing ever happened before? The feeling in Bavaria, however, was one of complete confidence. The princess was a voluptuous and radiant beauty. Her mother had been an Italian princess and so Isabeau combined the clear and rosy complexion of her father’s people with the lustrous dark hair and dusky, long-lashed eyes of her mother. Could anyone resist her?

Not Charles of France. He needed no more than one glance to make up his mind. They were married at once.

The ports of northern France were not large enough to hold the fleet they assembled on the king’s orders. Not content with scores of cogs and caracks and taricks which were built for war, they collected every other kind of vessel which could be used for naval purposes: balingers, crayers, doggers, lodeships, two-masted fluves, galiots, hockboats, and keels to carry supplies, and the fast liques to serve for communications between the fighting ships and to carry messages ashore.

The ships of war were built stoutly and carried crews of sixty-five men for each hundred tons, as well as archers and men-at-arms. The sails, or “triefs” as they were called in those days, were crimson or yellow. By the time the contractors had collected everything needed in the way of hevedropes, backstays, skalters, uptyes, leechdropes, and ribondes, the ports of France had room for nothing else.

The one great mistake in the calculations of this berserk youth was that he demanded too much of everything. Not content with commandeering ships that could operate under sail, thereby packing the northern ports like poultry crates going to market, he proceeded to assemble large armies, so large that the troops encamping along the French side of the Channel consumed all the food available and drove the inhabitants into such a frame of mind that they did not care about defeating the English as long as the attack was made at once.

“Go to England!” cried the harried and despoiled people. “And may never a soul of you come back!”

The measures taken in England to meet this threat were not thorough enough to reassure the people. Efforts were made at once to have the naval strength of the nation organized but, as usual, there was a great
deal of slackness about it. The main ships of war were considered superior to the French, but Spain was now in alliance with France and the Spaniards had ships of extraordinary height. They stood so high in the water, in fact, that it would be impossible to board them. The Earl of Arundel, whose tardiness in action had cost the country heavy losses in earlier years, was put in command of all naval operations. One of the reasons given for his appointment was that “no one can chastise or rule them unless he be a great man,” referring undoubtedly to the need of severe discipline—not a sufficient reason, certainly, in itself.

As long as the French fleet remained cooped up in the ports, bound together and with chains across the harbor entrances, there was no need for major measures. But fortunately the example of that bold grocer, Sir John Philipot, was still a vivid memory in English minds. A vigorous campaign of attrition was kept up by private owners and by all vessels not being held in idle reserve. A handful of daring buccaneers sailed up the Seine and captured a number of French ships, including a handsome and costly cog on which Olivier de Clisson, the constable of France, intended to cross the Channel. A French fleet attempting to pass Calais was attacked by the garrison and eighteen ships were captured or sunk.

Not discouraged by the loss of his favorite cog, the constable set out from Trequier for Sluys, which had been designated the main point of French concentration, with seventy-two large ships of war. Young Charles arrayed himself in armor every day, intending to launch the great offensive as soon as the junction had been effected. On one of the cogs were parts of a wooden house to be assembled in England so that Clisson “and the lords could be housed in comfort” after the landing. A great man for useless detail, this bold Clisson. His reason in this case was not that they thought so ill of English architecture. They intended to destroy everything made of sticks and stones or bricks and wattles, so that no roof would be left standing in all of the hated realm. But the weather began to take a hand, as it so often did around this unruly stretch of water. When the proud constable and his armada arrived off Margate there was such a blowing of hostile winds that the ships were dispersed. Three of the largest were captured, including the one which contained the parts for that luxurious wooden house.

It must be acknowledged that a state of alarm prevailed in England while the belligerent boy king of France made these gigantic preparations. There were a few timorous souls who took to the woods with the intention of saving their skins by staying there. The trained band captains of London kept a patrol on the city walls, although the danger of invasion was still remote.

In the main, however, the people were stout of heart. “Let them come!” was heard all over the land. “They’ll find us ready for them!”

In the alehouses the boast was still voiced which had grown out of the victories of Crécy and Poictiers: that one Englishman was better than any given number of Frenchmen.

After two years of futile starts and embarrassing stops, of miscalculations and mishaps, the French believed themselves ready. With the oriflamme carried before him, in his shining mail, with a great plume in his helmet and the fleur-de-lis in solid gold on his velvet cloak, young King Charles arrived at Notre Dame for a Solemn Mass. Leaving the cathedral, he saluted his sultry young queen.

“Fairest lady, I go to lead my armies,” he said. “I make this my purpose and my vow that not until I have destroyed England shall I return to Paris.”

He was more explicit to those who took horse with him. Not only were all Englishmen to be put to death but the women and children were to be carried back to slavery in France.

And then something in the way of a miracle happened.

A final assemblage of ships had been ordered, and a great fleet made up of Spanish vessels as well as French set sail from Rochelle for Sluys under the command of Sir Jean de Bucq, a Flemish admiral. Nothing to equal this fleet in strength would be seen again in the Channel until the memorable days when the Spanish Armada would sail in awesome grandeur past the watchers at Plymouth Hoe.

The Earl of Arundel, once so dilatory and lacking in resource, acted with admirable coolness. He waited until an astonished voice from the lookout reported that the whole horizon was suddenly filled with the crimson sails of the enemy. Arundel proceeded to put about in retreat, his purpose being to lure the enemy concentration into pursuit. The French would have none of that. They paid no attention to the English maneuvers, but sailed majestically on to keep their rendezvous.

Because of this aloofness of the enemy, Arundel resorted to another plan of attack. He drew off and waited for the wind to change. When the gods who directed the tides and the weather obliged with a shift in wind which favored the English, Arundel gave the order to attack.

Froissart’s detailed description of the battle says that English galleys, filled with eager and expert archers, led the attack. The French sailed on through the hail of arrows which blackened the sky without damaging
losses. The larger English vessels then went into action. They “rushed at the French like sparrow-hawks pouncing on small birds.” Although some of the French ships had crude cannon which “vomed” (a word preferred at the time to “vomit”) heavy stones at the persistent English, the battle quickly shifted in favor of the islanders. It lasted through three turns of the tide, and in the end the English scored a complete victory, capturing as many as eighty of the enemy ships.

Arundel, turned into a veritable demon of aggression by this taste of the heady wine of success, followed the scattered remnants of the great fleet to Sluys where he hoped to destroy the naval strength assembled there. He not only mounted a heavy attack on the French ships but landed troops on both sides of the river and burned all the towns and villages. After ten days he returned and sailed up the Thames in triumph, bringing with him an estimated 200,000 francs’ worth of property, in addition to 19,000 tuns of fine wine which had been taken from ships captured during the naval engagement. No form of loot could satisfy more fully the lusty citizens who shared in the welcome.

Hungry for victory after so many years of reverses, the people of England greeted the successful earl with great joy. Arundel found himself a national hero.

This defeat so shook young King Charles that he decided to give up his ambition to invade the stubborn island. With convenient forgetfulness of his vows he sullenly rode back to Paris. He did not at once order his ships back into peace-time activities, but the obnoxious armies were withdrawn from the Channel towns. Olivier de Clisson constructed no more houses from which to direct the conquest of England.

The threat of invasion would arise many times again in the centuries to follow but with no more success.

Charles of France and Queen Isabeau, and the daughters born to them, were destined to play further parts in the history of England. All four of the princesses were charming and intelligent as well as attractive, although none of them equaled their mother for beauty. Two of them were to become queens of England.

It becomes necessary at this point to explain that, soon after the defeat of his plans to overrun England, life went sadly awry for Charles of France. He suffered a fit of madness in 1392 while leading an army to attack Brittany. He was riding in the van and suddenly spurred his horse out into the lead, crying aloud that he was surrounded by enemies who sought his life. Reaching a dusty plain, he rode madly back and forth
under a broiling sun until it was seen necessary to take him forcibly in hand. He fought furiously with his guards.

When the queen was brought to see him, he did not recognize her. “Who is this woman?” he cried. “Take her away! Take her away!”

The attack passed, but there were recurrences over a period of several years and finally he became incurably insane.

The voluptuous Isabeau behaved very badly afterward. She had many lovers and figured in bitter feuds and was even believed to have been guilty of planning an assassination. She won for herself an enduring reputation as one of the worst women in French history. But her daughters were lucky enough to inherit none of her worst qualities.

T
HE naval losses suffered by the French did not entirely remove the danger of invasion which had been hanging over the island. But Arundel’s victory gave the English renewed confidence and assured them of time to prepare for any further aggression that the youthful king of France, now considerably chastened, might attempt.

The recalcitrant barons, feeling themselves strengthened by Arundel’s success and the popularity it had won for him, continued to control the administration at Westminster with firm hands. Thomas of Woodstock and Arundel’s brother, the Bishop of Ely, took the Great Seal into their keeping and used it with no regard for the wishes of the unhappy king. Richard’s temper was more combustible than the guns he had been experimenting with in the Tower, but he held it in control, having a power of dissimulation upon which he called at many critical stages during his reign. At first he swallowed his pride and accepted the humiliating conditions forced upon him.

Michael de la Pole had been sentenced to imprisonment “at the king’s pleasure.” Thomas of Woodstock was confident that Richard would never succeed in wriggling free of his firm thumb and believed he could keep Pole in perpetual imprisonment. Richard, quietly, had different ideas.

The ex-chancellor was not kept at the Tower but was sent to Windsor where Sir Simon Burley acted as constable. Burley and Pole were the closest of friends and the former saw to it that his new prisoner had comfortable quarters in the Norman tower which communicated with the king’s house by a short interior passage. It was thus possible for Richard to keep in touch with the man he still considered his most dependable adviser. As soon as the cloud of impending danger from
France was dispersed, the king exercised his option and set Pole at liberty.

When word of this reached London, the barons were furiously angry. The Earl of Arundel invaded the king’s bedroom while Richard was having a bath and stormed at him for what he had done.

“Burley,” he declared, “deserves death of this!”

Always a bad judge of political timing, Richard selected this moment for his excursion into Wales to see his friend de Vere off for Ireland, to which reference has already been made. They were accompanied by Pole, the Archbishop of York, and chief justice Tresilian. All were in agreement that Parliament had acted beyond its rights in forcing such concessions from the young king, and a meeting was arranged with the board of justices at Nottingham to discuss the fundamental issues at stake. Five of the justices gave it as their opinion, first, that the House had infringed on the royal prerogatives; second, that the power of adjournment rested with the king; and, finally, that the Commons had no right to impeach a Crown officer unless acting with the consent of the king. Later the five declared thay had acted under pressure in giving these opinions, but at the time Richard had no doubt that he had won his case.

He returned to London and was warmly welcomed by the citizens. But when he heard that his uncle of Woodstock and the Earl of Warwick had taken up arms and were marching on the city, he appealed in vain to the burghers to arm in his behalf. Even the members of the baronage who had not yet joined the dissentients were lukewarm.