I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince Page 2

  I hefted the shield over my arm and pocketed the scroll in the breast of my jerkin. As other squires looked on brimming over with youthful jealousy, I bore my lord’s shield to the crest of the hill. And thus it came to pass that I stood no more than ten paces away when the king unsheathed his sword to knight his firstborn.

  Edward, our king, was in the height of his powers in the year of the invasion. Both the salty breeze on the prospect and the prospect of imminent conquest had combined to augment his handsome virility. He was thirty-four years old, tall, fierce, and majestic.

  Kneeling on the ground before him was a younger copy of himself. The lithe, long-limbed Prince of Wales had none of the Flemish softness that characterized his mother Philippa. He was made of the same stern stuff as his father and his Plantagenet ancestors, rods of iron that could smash their enemies into pieces like shards of pottery. Men of this race do not kneel to others and so it was a remarkable sight to see his royal highness with head bowed and knee bended before his king and father. It has been fourteen years since the day of the prince’s knighting, and since then I have only seen him kneel to one other.

  In days of peace the ceremony would have lasted far longer. The prince had spent years in preparation for knighthood, and it seemed a pity that it should pass in an instant, like a puff of smoke, like a ripple in water, or even like a violent sneeze. First, there should have been the ceremonial bath. The warm, scented water would purify his body while two older knights instructed him in the purity of heart a knight must possess. Then, there should have been the vigil. Throughout the darkness of the night, he would prostrate himself before the light of the chapel’s altar in humble prayer. And on the morrow, in the great hall of Westminster, he would walk fearlessly through a staring crowd of gentlefolk to receive a stately tap with the flat of a sword.

  To be knighted on the fields of France was another matter. It was all over in a moment. The words were said, the tap was given. Two grizzled knights, my master Chandos and his boon companion Audley, advanced to buckle the ceremonial golden spurs onto the prince’s heels. And then arose the newest knight in Christendom, Edward of Woodstock, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, and Prince of Wales.

  “You are a knight now,” I heard the king say to his son, “And as such, you may confer the same honor on those whom you will.”

  “Aye, highness,” said Sir Walter Manny, whose counsel was respected by king and commoner alike. “And besides conferring this honor upon your nobles, you must also set about creating a household of your own warriors. A royal must have none about him but belted knights; no half-fledged squire should wait attendance upon you.”

  The prince nodded in compliance, and Chandos advanced toward him. “I have a list of half a dozen young lords who would be grateful for such preferment.”

  I removed the scroll from the breast of my tunic. This was my moment to come before the royal notice! The prince extended a gloved hand, and at a word from my master, I deposited the scroll inside his open fist. He gave me a simple gramercy and I resumed my place behind my master, an insignificant caterpillar in this grand assembly of butterflies.

  “They are worthies all,” the prince commented dryly, his eyes overglancing the list presented, “of good parentage and suitable age. Let them advance in turn.” At a word from Chandos, the stage was set to admit another initiate into the inner circle of chivalry.

  William Montague, the young Earl of Salisbury, was the first to receive knighthood from his royal highness. A slim youth of fair complexion, he was two years the prince’s senior. His father, the old Earl of Salisbury, had served the king well both in France and at home. The previous earl had been a formidable captain in the war against the Scots. For his valiant service, Edward had given him the Isle of Man as a reward. The old earl did not enjoy his new domain for long. When he returned to England, he jousted poorly in a tournament at Windsor and fell in the lists. He never recovered from his wounds. The Isle of Man, as well as the rest of Salisbury’s estates, passed into the hands of his young son, William Montague. That was two years before the present campaign. Now, in a quiet way, the new earl was rapidly earning the respect that his father had accrued with a lifetime of arms. It was rumored that the king had a brilliant marriage in store for him.

  The second to receive knighthood was Roger Mortimer. This youth, much of an age with Salisbury, was grandson to the infamous Mortimer who seduced the mother of our king. On account of his progenitor’s perfidy, Mortimer’s lands and titles had been stripped from his house when he was still in the cradle. His own father had died just a year after his grandfather met the noose. Fortunately for the kingdom, young Roger’s character was cast in a more honorable mold than that of his forbearers. Now, at the age of eighteen, he was beginning to restore the honor that his grandfather had tarnished, and he would eventually reclaim the title Earl of March with his valorous exploits in France.

  The prince was not thrifty with his accolades, and several more youths entered the halls of knighthood that day. Like Salisbury and Mortimer, most of them were already lords in their own right. They had their own households to attend to, their own vassals to manage, and their own companies to collect.

  “Highness,” interjected Sir Walter Manny once again. “May I be so bold as to nominate some squires worthy of an accolade from your hand? They are of good but lowly parentage. You have left most of your own household in Cornwall, and it would be fitting for our newly knighted prince to elevate some new knights to serve as his attendants.”

  Overhearing these words, I stifled my overwhelming desire to fall on my face like the prophet Isaiah and cry out “Here am I!” I was a squire, and my parentage was lowly enough. My father was a plain man-at-arms who had never felt the accolade. My mother was a waiting lady, of poor but honest means. To become a knight of the prince’s household was a boon I could hardly hope to receive, but even so I dared to hope it—until Chandos frowned and shook his head at Manny.

  “Nay, Sir Walter,” said my master. “Let be, let be!”

  “Aye,” said Audley, agreeing with Chandos as was his wont. “No more knightings!” Audley’s voice was as harsh as a crow; his black humor made him easily distinguishable in any crowd. He was a short, stocky man with close cropped hair. The grey which had started to tinge my master’s black hair had already liberally sprinkled Audley’s sandy head. Both Chandos and Audley were of the older generation. They had fought the Scots under the second Edward; they would fight the French under the third Edward.

  “Wait until the men have matched their mettle against the French,” said Chandos. “Then’s the time to be noticing worthy squires, for then’s the time they’ll prove their worth.”

  “You hear these two old bloodhounds?” said the prince to Walter Manny. “There is no gainsaying their wisdom. I’ll rest my sword a little, and when I use it again for a knighting, there shall be blood upon the blade.”

  Sir Walter Manny shrugged but made no protest. It was in his nature to think of the lower ranks, for it was out of those lower ranks that he himself had once climbed. Sir Walter had come over from Hainault with Queen Philippa nineteen years earlier when first she wed our king. In those days Manny was no more than a humble meat carver. His was the hand to bring the venison and veal to the royal table, to separate the pheasant thigh from the pheasant breast, and to keep the royal trenchers fully laden. But though his birth promised no advancement, his competence and fidelity augured great things. The young king Edward soon paid heed to his wife’s careful carver; he noted him, knighted him, and nurtured his advancement. Sir Walter proved himself an able soldier in the wars against Scotland. Sir Walter proved himself an able sea captain in the skirmish off the coast of Sluys. And Sir Walter would soon prove himself an able field commander in the invasion of France itself. But the invasion, as yet, was hardly underway; the knighting was finished, the fighting had yet to begin.

  “Come,” continued the prince to the men surrounding him. “We’ve tarried long enough upon th
is hill. With my father’s permission, we’ll adjourn these ceremonies and repair to camp. I’ve a mind to eat my first supper in this land of our Norman fathers. Mortimer, Salisbury, have you stomach?”

  “Aye, highness,” said the young Earl of Salisbury with a ready smile.

  The prince fell into step with these two companions, and the rest of the company slowly wended its way down the hill. The newly made knights stepped gladly into the prince’s pavilion, while I trudged heavily to Chandos’s quarters, bearing a shield that was not my own.

  *****

  The seashore camp rose with the summer moon and set just as quickly. On the following morning, we rolled up every ell of canvas and sought out more comfortable quarters. The nearest town was Saint-Vaast-La-Hougue, easily visible from the prospect where the prince had been knighted. Here was our first glimpse of the French!

  We advanced upon the city in martial array. The inhabitants had spotted the high masts of our beached ships. Our coming was expected. The governor of La Hougue had hastily collected a small force of men, but they scattered like dried grass before the blast of our mighty army. We took possession of the town with scarcely a drop of bloodshed; indeed, most of the town folk had deserted the place at the first sign of our landing. That night we lay in more comfortable beds than we’d had on ship or in the field.

  Both the governor and the few remaining French were anxious and assiduous to please; I found to my pleasant surprise that I could swagger about the streets like a grand milord ordering whatever I wished and taking whatever I desired. The men-at-arms were wild with excitement at this capture of a French citadel. By nightfall they had ransacked every house, opened every coffer, and extorted from every citizen.

  The looting fever did not leave me untouched. I joined a company of English soldiers pushing their way into an inn. A frightened Frenchwoman begged us not to hurt her children. I saw two tousled urchins hiding behind the wood counter. “Open your strongbox!” shouted one of the soldiers. She fumbled with the keys at her waistband and, trembling, deposited them in his hands. The soldier shared out the coins to all in our troop with quickly snatched, uneven handfuls. I placed them eagerly inside my purse, a leather bag that was nearly always empty.

  It was my first taste of plunder, and it was sweet as honeyed cakes. I wanted to go up and down all the streets, enter all the houses, threaten all the villagers, open all the cabinets. But Chandos kept me busy running errands throughout our stay in La Hougue. I had messages to carry to detachments of soldiers, reports to bring to His Majesty’s headquarters, and victuals to procure for my master. One handful of silver coins was my only memento of La Hougue.

  When we left the town on the following day, one company of the army stayed behind. At first, I thought that Edward meant to garrison the place and keep a foothold on the Norman coast for transport or retreat. But I had scarcely gone half a furlong before I saw—and smelled—the reason for the company’s delay. They had orders to destroy the place; La Hougue caught fire like a row of hayricks, the first casualty of France’s folly in resisting our most puissant monarch.

  As we began our southeasterly march, raiding parties fanned out over the countryside cutting a wide swath of destruction. After the smoke of La Hougue was behind us, the king had given orders that no town was to be burnt, no churches sacked, and no women or children harmed on pain of life and limb. The king’s officers, however, turned a blind eye to the enforcement of these decrees. I never saw one of our English arraigned and convicted for crimes against the peasants. It was popularly understood that any resistance on the part of the French abrogated the king’s concern for their life and property. And as every village was sure to have a few resisters, every village was in danger of sword and torch. More than once the noontime sky glowed as red as sunset.

  I rode out with Chandos every morning, and he, as often as not, rode escort to his highness. Our band was nearly always the first to break camp and assume the vanguard. The prince was but a new knight, but he had been playing the soldier since he could first hold a sword. He commanded his company with ease and confidence, commandeering cattle, loading wagons with provender, and spreading fire as freely as seed corn.

  We continued our southeastern course through Normandy and then turned eastward sharply before entering the county of Anjou. As the prince and his company were riding out that day, we reined up sharply upon a small outcropping. All around us waved fields of yellow broom. “Look!” said Audley loudly. “It is your highness’s flower.” The prince smiled wryly. He reached for one of the taller shrubs, carefully maintaining his seat on his black charger. His fingers seized the yellow broom; he snapped off a single blossom and tucked it jauntily into the top of his basinet.

  I looked questioningly at Chandos.

  “It is the planta genista,” said he, “the yellow broom. The house of Plantagenet derives its name from these yellow flowers. Here Geoffrey of Anjou fixed the sprig of broom into his hat—just before fixing his interest with Maud, the Conqueror’s granddaughter. And now the heir of Anjou has come to claim his rightful inheritance at last!”

  We marched a fortnight at easy stages preoccupied with pillage till the easterly road took us at last to Caen. I had seen London while in Chandos’s service, but even so, I was unprepared for the splendor of the city that stood upon our path. London may have been larger, but Caen was of a surety more magnificent. The river Orne divided the city in two parts, like a chain of braided silver across the waist of some magnificent monarch. On the westerly side stood the citadel, two ancient abbeys, and a few small suburbs; on the easterly side lay the heart of the city, replete with handsome houses and glittering gold.

  The citadel, we knew, was impregnable. Built by the Conqueror before he conquered England, Caen’s castle was one of the strongest in France. Our great-grandfathers had seen the inside of these walls and had good reason to prize their prowess. Four generations ago, the English had held Caen; but like the rest of Normandy, Caen had been ceded away in the reign of John Lackland. The strength of the castle was now a weapon in the hands of our enemy.

  To speak of the citadel’s strength, however, was to say little of the city’s. Caen itself was unwalled, with no natural defenses save the river and a bothersome but passable marsh. Separated from the main city by the Orne, the castle could give little aid to the citizens that sat in its shadow. The Orne proved a faithless friend to the French in another way; as our army approached the vicinity of Caen, our ships—which had been trailing our progress through any accessible waterway—anchored just off the outskirts of the city, waiting like birds of prey to engorge themselves with looted valuables.

  I was in the van with the prince when Caen was sighted. We could have halted and waited for the rest of the army to draw up—indeed that was what Chandos advised—but instead, the prince quickened our pace, and we entered the west side of Caen at a headlong gallop. The sight of Caen had excited his blood, and the prince was hot for battle.

  I was eager for the coming encounter but also anxious. Here was our first real battle. We had met the French before now, but all of those minor skirmishes had been like practice in the tilting yard. Who knew what lay behind this perimeter of houses? We would ride down upon them, rein up, and what then? The melee would be joined and I would kill or be killed in turn. I had crossed swords with half a dozen men in the course of our raids, but the enemy was always outnumbered, and the kill had never been left to me. The furious pounding of my horse’s hooves was echoed by the frantic pounding of the heart in my chest. The wind blew full in my face, and my mouth was dry with apprehension.

  But contrary to expectation, the western half of Caen was as empty as a drunkard’s purse. The inhabitants had either cloistered themselves behind the high walls of their castle or crossed the bridge to the main part of the town. Our company scoured the streets but found no sign of soldiery. We regrouped out of range of the castle’s archery for new orders.

  “Highness,” said Chandos, anxious to avoid pres
sing forward to the bridge without support from the main army. “We’d best secure this side of the river.”

  “Aye,” said Audley.

  “There’s the two abbeys,” said the prince, looking up at the spires that adorned the skyline. “We shall set up a headquarters there and wait for my father the king to advance.”

  “Well chosen, highness,” said Chandos and at a word from the prince, we entered the Abbaye-aux-Hommes, while Audley and another contingent secured the sister building, the Abbaye-aux-Dames.

  The streets outside had been silent enough, but their silence was the outside kind that allows a man’s shouts to slice cleanly through the air. The silence inside the abbey was different. It swallowed up your voice with stone and drowned your words in their own echo. The abbot had not fled to the citadel with the rest of the town folk. He met us as we entered and asked the peace of the Lord upon us.

  “Amen,” said the prince, and he crossed himself. “And may the Lord’s peace return upon this house. Is there lodging here for Englishmen?”

  “Aye,” said the abbot simply. “There is lodging here for all who call upon His name whether master, man, or beast. The brethren will minister to your needs.” He clapped suddenly, and there appeared two men in the Benedictine habit. “Give them whatever they require,” he told his followers, and with a courteous inclination of the head he was gone.