I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince Read online

  The evening wore on. Ever and anon I would glance at Sir Geoffroi and see him in spirited converse. Margery’s golden eyes shone with interest. She smiled at him, and laughed happily, and leaned her shoulders toward him with intimate closeness. I almost thought to be jealous of your husband and wondered if I had misplaced my trust in him to speak so freely of my lady. Charny was a man as I was, and even the wisest or most monkish of men are susceptible to female charms.

  The banquet tables were emptied—still he paid his court. Holland and Lady Joan retired—still he lingered there. The prince, by now, had sought my company and bade me away with him to continue the evening’s merriment. The victory of the previous day worked on him the same way that it did with his father. His spirits were high and he longed to revel in the martial triumph. “Brocas has arrived,” said he, “and waits for us at my quarters. And if Mortimer comes as well, we shall have some sport indeed.”

  “And Charny?” I asked anxiously, unwilling to leave him at the banquet hall alone with Mistress Margery.

  “Leave him be,” said the prince. “He is no great addition to our revels. He will find his own way back.”

  I followed the prince out the doors and willed myself not to turn around as we passed the table of Margery Bradeshaw.

  *****

  Charny did not come when it grew dark and he did not come when the moon rose. At last, when the boisterous merrymaking had begun to die down and the prince ceased calling for another cask to be opened, I retired to my bed. I was awakened in the small hours of the night by a quiet knock on the panel outside. It was Charny, clad still in his green tunic.

  “I did not think to find you asleep,” said he.

  “I did not think to find you returned so late,” said I.

  “Methinks your case is difficult,” said Charny succinctly. I saw that he had completed his mission and was anxious to reveal the outcome to me. I invited him to sit and he began to tell me what he had learned.

  “It took me some time,” said Charny, “to gain the lady’s confidence.”

  “Was she shrewish with you?” I demanded.

  “She was spirited,” said Charny with a wry smile, and I gathered that Margery had broken her wit upon him more than once or twice. “I began by praising your valor. I told her you were my captor and described your doughtiness at Calais.”

  “And what said she?”

  “She made your courage of no account, and vituperated you strongly as a dissembler and a spy.”

  “Ah,” I said with a groan.

  “Following this, I praised your wisdom.”

  “Then what said she?”

  “She said you had but shallow wit and your words were shallower still.”

  “Prithee, good sir,” said I, my face flaming, “you may spare me her exact words.”

  “Why then, so it continued,” said Charny, “and no sooner would I paint you kindly than she would call you cruel, and no sooner would I draw you gallant than she would name you false.”

  “It is as you say—my case is difficult.”

  “Nay,” said Charny sagely, “I have not yet come to the difficulty of the matter. Her scorn is but a screen for a lovesick heart. My first wife was even thus, and she would sooner launch volleys of wit upon me than say she loved me; I daresay that when she delivered the first, it was her way of expressing the last.”

  “You think she loves me?” I demanded.

  “I would swear to it,” said Charny.

  “Then wherein lies the difficulty?” asked I. “Did you tell her I have fortune? Did you assure her I have the prince’s favor?”

  “When the Earl of Kent and his lady retired, I had opportunity to speak more seriously with the young woman. She has served the lady Joan since childhood. Her mother was a distant cousin to the lady’s family. It is in her close relationship with the Countess of Kent that the difficulty lies.”

  “Does the lady Joan mislike me?” I asked anxiously.

  “Nay, nay,” said Charny good-humoredly, doubtless becoming wearied of my constant interruptions. “She likes you well enough. It is her own husband that the lady Joan mislikes.”

  “Aye, she would have taken the veil rather than marry him,” said I, remembering the prince and Montague’s frantic appeal to the pope to dissolve the marriage between Joan and Sir Thomas.

  “Time has done little to weather her dislike,” said Charny. “She has born a child to him, but that has not made her love the father. She has become accustomed to, but not accepting of his crassness, and the maid feels her lady’s distress even more keenly than the mistress.”

  “Then let her leave that house,” cried I, “and become mistress of her own. I am of age. I am of means. I will wed her and take her out from under that roof.”

  Charny shook his head. “She does not wish it. She is—so she thinks—the sole prop of her mistress in her time of sorrow. She will not leave the lady Joan for any man. And that, Sir Potenhale, is why your case is a difficult one. My second wife was even the same. My sweet little Jeanne would not hear my protestations till her sister was settled safely in the grave.”

  I interrupted him with a groan. “Why did you not try to persuade her?”

  Charny smiled sympathetically. “How many hours have I been gone, Sir Potenhale? You may pledge me a full cup that I have tried persuasion till my mouth was dry as sand. Enough, enough. We must let the Almighty have His will. He has frustrated your guilt and kept you a knight. He may yet frustrate her duty and make her a good man’s wife.”

  And with that, my prisoner gripped my shoulder affectionately as a father might do to his son and wished me a dreamless sleep.

  TRUE KNIGHTS AND TRAITORS

  AUGUST, 1350 – 1354

  12

  The truce between our two countries that had been concluded at the fall of Calais was renewed several times, even after the death of the French king. John, the son of Philip of Valois, had inherited an uneasy country. The devastation of the plague was but a few years past, and shortage of labor had brought famine throughout the land. It was no wonder that John wished to maintain the truce and avoid open warfare with Edward.

  In England, the situation was only slightly less dire. The shortage of serfs on manorial estates made the work of each laboring man more valuable to his liege lord. Farm workers, seeing their importance, began to negotiate with stewards, demanding more benefits to work their master’s estate. Some lords—without men enough to work their lands—lured serfs from other masters with offers of higher wages.

  To solve this problem, Edward enacted the Statute of Laborers in 1351. It forbade peasants to leave their native manors and enjoined masters to keep their wages at pre-plague prices. This edict, however, was largely ignored, and landholders continued to accommodate the demands of the laboring men so that the famine which beset France could be averted.

  Though England and France were not ready to resume the hostilities, neither one was quick to make the concessions that could lead to a permanent peace. The pope, as was his way, urged a resolution of the quarrel and offered to mediate; both monarchs sent envoys to Avignon for a conference. Edward proposed a fair exchange—England would give up its right to the crown of France if France returned to England the full sovereignty of Guienne. That province, as you doubtless remember, had first come to England with the marriage of Queen Eleanor to Henry Plantagenet. At that time, the borders of English Guienne encompassed a full quarter of the territory of France. Since then, the extentof English Guienne had been much abridged, until little remained under English control save the territory of Gascony.

  John of Valois found this offer unsatisfactory. The English claim to the crown, he contended, was a thing built of smoke and air, while the French possessions in Guienne were as tangible as earth and water. He would make no concessions of territory, and so conference continued on at a deadlock.

  Edward, seeing that John was not to be moved by diplomacy, turned his energies to intrigue. He dispatched Henry, the Duke of L
ancaster to discover dissension within the French court, or if finding none, to plant the seeds of it himself. If a man seeks a Ganelon, he will not have far to look; rogues like those are bred in every country. Lancaster was quick to see the troubled countenance of the king’s son-in-law, Charles of Navarre, and inquired discreetly as to the cause of his troubles.

  Navarre, as you must know, is a small country about the size of Gascony. It is wedged tightly between Gascony and Castile, but its ties are more French than Spanish. In the days of Philip the Fair, Navarre had been without a king and therefore under the sway of the French scepter. But when the Fair Philip’s sons died without male issue, Navarre declared itself independent. Having no royal line of their own, the Navarrese selected one of Philip’s granddaughters to be their ruler, and when she breathed her last, the throne descended to her son Charles, that Charles of Navarre in whom Lancaster was so keenly interested.

  Charles of Navarre, by right of his mother, was in nearly the same position as good King Edward of England. If inheritance through a female was acceptable, he was closer to the French throne than Philip of Valois. Unlike Edward, however, Charles of Navarre allowed the Valois seizure of power without any initial protest. Indeed, he was still in the womb when his parents acceded to the Valois claim. His infant bands in the following year made himmore likely to cry for mother’s milk than for misappropriated monarchy.

  Charles was a year or two younger than the prince; when he came of age in the year 1350, he found himself master of not only Navarre, but also a generous part of Normandy. The Contenin, where we had landed four years earlier, had been bestowed on Charles’ mother by the house of Valois as a thank offering for the repudiation of her rights to the crown. King John had succeeded his father Philip at about the time that Charles had assumed the Navarrese crown. He was at first anxious to keep friends with the young man. He united him to the house of Valois by giving him his eight-year-old daughter as wife and made him his lieutenant in southern France.

  In a year’s time, however, the novelty of Navarre’s young king wore off and the French king became less assiduous in his attentions. King John omitted to pay the installations of the dowry that were due to Charles on account of his marriage. King John refused to bestow the County of Angouleme on Charles even though it had belonged to his mother in previous days. And King John forbore to advance Charles any further, turning his attention to a new favorite, Don Carlos de la Cerda.

  Don Carlos, as you may remember, was the Castilian admiral whom we had defeated off the coast of Winchelsea just a year previous. In his youth, Don Carlos had spent much time at the French court, and in the Castilian dalliance with France, Don Carlos often played the role of ambassador. King John enjoyed the Spaniard’s company and decided to reward him by making him a peer of the French realm. In a move of either extreme thoughtlessness or extreme provocation, King John bestowed upon Don Carlos the title of Constable of France and gave him the counties of Champagne, Brie, and Angouleme.

  Charles of Navarre was outraged. Not only had Don Carlos received the highest title in the realm of France, but he had also taken possession of Angouleme, the county that belonged to Charles by right of his mother. This piqued not only Charles but also his retainers and immediate relatives. Don Carlos irritated them like a stone in the shoe, Don Carlos embarrassed them like a wooden collar about the neck, and Don Carlos angered them like a slap across the face.

  It was Christmas of 1352 when the literal slap across the face occurred. King John was celebrating Christmas in Paris with his court. Charles de Navarre was not present, no doubt enduring a self-imposed banishment on account of his grievances. His brother Philip of Navarre was there, however, and also the new Constable of France—Don Carlos de la Cerda. As the Christmas feast was celebrated, the sixteen-year-old Philip of Navarre began to boast of his family’s accomplishments and to belittle the Castilian admiral with every insolence and incivility that he could muster. Don Carlos, ten years older than this Navarrese pup but still young enough to feel the heat of blood, could stand no more of his impudence. Rising wrathfully, he gave the boy the lie in front of the assembled court. Philip drew his dagger. Don Carlos drew his. In a moment they would have been upon each other, but the king intervened and there was thunder in his brow.

  “Enough, enough! I will have you be friends!” cried King John.

  Philip of Navarre spat upon the floor. “Nay, you shall have us as friends when this one is dead.” He turned on his heel to leave the court.

  “You behave like un enfant!” said Don Carlos scornfully.

  “Do I?” said Philip, casting a backward glance before he reached the door. “Un enfant is more dangerous than you know. Let the Constable be on his guard against des enfants de Navarre.”

  It was no idle warning. On the feast of epiphany just twelve days later, Don Carlos was passing the night in a small inn at l’Aigle in Normandy. Charles of Navarre had spies everywhere. Cognizant of the Constable’s presence, he entered the town the same night, bringing with him his brother Philip and a band of Norman nobles and knights. Charles’ men waited till daybreak before they approached the inn. Then, forcing their way into the Constable’s bedroom, they drew their daggers and gave him eighty wounds, most of them mortal.

  Charles of Navarre, who had remained behind while his brother and his barons completed the butchery, busily drafted a letter to the Parliament of King John. “We beg leave to tell you that we have put Don Carlos of Spain to death. If the king is troubled by this, we are very sorry. Yet we feel that he ought to be greatly pleased by the matter when he thinks it over.”

  King John spent much time thinking over the murder, but his musings did not result in the pleasure that Navarre anticipated. For four days he kept to his room and would say nothing, and then on the fifth day he swore a mighty oath that he would never wear a light heart again until he was revenged upon his son-in-law. He prepared to attack the territory of Charles of Navarre.

  It was with this Charles then, now surnamed Charles the Wicked, that Henry of Lancaster was resolved to intrigue. Even before the murder, Lancaster had apprized Charles of England’s willingness to enter into a compact with him. Now, Charles sent word to Lancaster and offered him his unreserved support. Beyond this, the Navarrese knave wrote a letter to Edward himself, urging him to put the English forces in Brittany at his disposal. Allied with Navarre’s Norman nobles, they could do such hurt to King John as from which he would not speedily recover. Edward, eager to renew the struggle with France, readily agreed with these proposals. He placed his troops at readiness and waited for the word from Navarre.

  King John, however, was not eager to tangle with both Charles and Edward at once. Hearing word of the compact between the two, he humbled himself before his son-in-law. He promised the murderers of de la Cerda full pardon, he bestowed on Charles all the baronies that he wished, and he swore that he would never do him harm for the sake of the Constable’s death.

  Charles, having held the threat of England over King John’s head like a cudgel, promptly dropped the cudgel when it was no longer needed. Now that his goal was accomplished, he cancelled the pending plans of attack. Frustrated, Lancaster reminded him of their agreement. Where were the Norman nobles?

  Charles, instead of renouncing the accord altogether, gave Lancaster some hope that it was only delayed. Who knows how long the peace with King John would last? Lancaster grudgingly agreed to be patient. Those who treat with a traitor will often be tricked themselves.

  *****

  While Edward and Lancaster continued their attempts to manufacture war with France, the prince kept me as busy as I would have been on a campaign. Christmas came quickly on the heels of the Spanish defeat at Winchelsea, and after that I bid farewell to Sir Geoffroi de Charny. His ransom had been set at twenty thousand crowns, the very price which he had sought to pay Aimery for the betrayal of Calais. The prince thought it unlikely that such a sum would ever be raised for the return of one knight. As you well know, the
French country was in disarray, the plague had been replaced by famine, and Charles of Navarre had begun his machinations against the monarchy. That the sum of twenty thousand crowns was raised—most of it by King John himself—is a testimony of the high value which Charny’s countrymen set upon him.

  You must understand that I did not receive the whole of the ransom. No, soon after our return from Calais to England, the prince my master had redeemed Charny from me. He generously gave me a few thousand crowns as recompense for my service, and so it was that I became a man of means long before Charny’s ransom had actually arrived.

  The prince, though his devotion to Charny nowhere neared the level to which mine had risen, had become fond of your husband in his own way. The night before Charny’s return to France, the prince threw a marvelous banquet replete with peacocks, pastries, and the best of Bordeaux wine. Charny, as usual, wore his simple green tunic, and I saw that little had changed for him since his arrival in England.

  “Highness,” said Charny, after thanking him for his kind attentions over the past year. “Some time ago you challenged me to use ink and vellum and set down in words what it means to be a knight.”

  “And have you done so?” said the prince, recalling the conversation that they had had aboard ship at Winchelsea.

  “It is not finished,” said Charny, “but it is begun, and God be willing, I shall finish it at last when I have reached my own land.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers from the breast of his tunic and handed it to the prince to peruse.

  “What subjects do you treat of here?” asked the prince leafing gently through the unbound papers.

  “Why, I begin with the different deeds which a man-at-arms may do, commencing with the least honorable and proceeding on to the most honorable, then I defend knighthood as a worthy occupation in the service of God.”