I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince Read online

  “John Potenhale, do you want to enter my service?” asked the lord of the estate.

  “Aye,” said I, but it came out harsh and forced for my mouth was as dry as sand from Araby.

  “Can you fight?” he asked.

  “A little,” said I remembering the wooden fence posts and my father’s instruction.

  “Can you read?”

  “A little,” said I for my mother had taught me my letters.

  “Can you pray?”

  I looked up in surprise and stared him full in the eye. “Aye, I can pray right well.”

  “That is good,” said Sir John, “for however well you wield the sword or however well you trim your pen, it is the favor of heaven that will prevail. Perhaps you have the makings of a knight in you.” He turned to my grandfather. “Very well, Thomas. I will take him as a page. If he proves apt, he may go further.”

  “Gramercy for your kindness,” said my grandfather in utter astonishment at the success of his mission.

  Sir John bade me remove to the manor immediately and gave me into the charge of his lady wife. I had left little behind at my parents’ croft save a tunic, a dagger, and a pair of shoes. My grandfather brought my small bundle to the house and bid me adieu. When I would have thanked him for the place he had got me, he shook his head. “Nay, no thanks to me. It is your father who deserves the thanks, for I would not have importuned Sir John if your father had not importuned me so frequently. ‘Ask, ask!’ he says, and ‘No, no,’ say I, till at last my resistance wears through like a padlock beset by a file. If I had my will, you would be steward after me, for I have no sons of my own to take my place. But your father’s will is stronger than my own; and he has the right of it to send you where he pleases, for the duty of a son is to serve the will of his father.”

  With these words, my grandfather left me. I would see him again a few short times, but his days in Herefordshire were numbered and death came on swiftly the following winter. My own days in Herefordshire were shorter than his; Sir John Chandos was not one to linger in the countryside when the king’s court had entered the city. I traveled to London with his household when he went thither to wait on Edward.

  The cautions my grandfather had delivered concerning my dullness and ineptitude proved but little true. I learned quickly and eagerly the duties pertaining to a page. Sir John’s lady took a liking to me; she was a stately woman with no children of her own. She took me in hand and remedied the churlish manners of my upbringing. She was one of the most learned ladies I have ever known. In two years’ time, she taught me to read in my own tongue, the tongue of the French, and the tongue of the Church.

  You may know that in our country, the English tongue is used by the common folk, French is the speech of castle and court, and Latin is the language of the monks and scholars. A knight must know all three languages: Latin, for how else would he confer with God’s servants? French, for how else would he speak with other knights? English, for how else would he command his serfs and the lower men-at-arms? And besides all this, the king threatens every year to change the language of Parliament to the English tongue, for he likes it not that the governance of England must be discussed and debated in the tongue of our enemy.

  With my tongue trained in courtesy and cant, I was ready to exercise the rest of my body in arms. Sir John allowed me to join the ranks of his squires. The practice yards were my new schoolroom, and I learned the sword, the axe, the mace, the halberd, and the lance. At times, Sir John sparred with me himself, but for the most part my matches were with fellow squires under the supervision of a grizzled, old master-at-arms. I came into my strength early and was broader by a span than the rest of the squires my age. By the time that Edward assembled his invasion force, I had become squire of the body to Sir John Chandos. Someday, I hoped to receive the accolade, but I had never dared hope that it would come from the hand of the prince.

  THE IMPREGNABLE FORTRESS

  SEPTEMBER – DECEMBER, 1346

  4

  The Sunday following Crecy’s battle we spent in reckoning up the dead. The day after that we spent in burying them. The count of the dead was prodigiously in our favor; for every twenty Frenchmen, there was only one English corpse. The king congratulated the prince on the victory and commended him on the choice of his new crest. “A fitting motto,” said the king, “for you have served me well this day.”

  The prince accepted the praise calmly, but I saw that he was remarkably free from elation. I questioned him about this later when we retired to our tents. “Highness,” said I diffidently, still overawed by my new position of familiarity with the prince, “How comes it that you are not more glad of this victory?”

  He trained his dark eyes on me. “I am as glad as any Englishman,” he replied.

  “But why not gladder,” asked I, “since you had the command of such a victorious enterprise?”

  “The command?” he asked arching an eyebrow in disbelief. “Who picked our battle ground?” said he. “Who composed our divisions? Who devised our formation and defenses? Who sent and withheld reinforcements when the battle was finally joined?”

  “The king,” said I slowly. I realized now how little the prince had to do with the direction of the battle.

  “And therefore I am as glad as any Englishman,” said the prince simply. He snuffed out the candles and retired to his bed, less happy in commanding a victory that would astonish Europe than I in my newfound belt and spurs.

  In my service to my new master, I still had frequent opportunity for conversation with my old master; Sir Chandos was never far from the prince’s person. “God be praised, boy,” said Chandos kindly. “You’ve earned the accolade younger than I.” His graying beard wagged as he reminisced about the winning of his spurs.

  “It was not such a glorious time for England in those days,” said the grizzled knight. The Scots had beaten us at Bannockburn and declared their independence. And while Isabella and Mortimer were conniving to take the throne, they swept over our border and laid waste to the North. The Bruce and his highland robbers took full advantage of our weakness. Our king was imprisoned—or dead—no one knew which. Young Edward had been given the crown, but it was Mortimer who gave all the commands. The English captains did not trust him, and we could not hold the line against the Scots. The Bruce forced England to fall to her knees and come to most humiliating terms. Mortimer handed young Edward the pen, and he signed away his rights to the crown of Scotland. That was at Northampton. And it was in such a time, at that ignominious treaty, that I received the accolade.”

  “But you, boy,” continued Chandos, “you’ve come into your knighthood when England blooms her brightest. Children yet unborn shall talk about the feats done at Crecy’s battle by the Prince of Wales and his doughty band. And to be knighted by the prince himself—methinks you were born under a lucky star.”

  “The prince himself takes no credit for the victory,” said I, and I recounted to Chandos how the prince disparaged his own role in the battle.

  Chandos nodded knowingly and little lines of laughter appeared around his mouth. “That is like a Plantagenet,” said he, “Both to desire the sole command of the enterprise and to dismiss any undeserved adulation. They will not abide flattery, even though the truth be unfavorable to them. There is a story about the first Edward that illustrates the character of that family.

  “They say that a Florentine farmer once conceived the plan of visiting King Edward, for he had heard that the King of England was the greatest, most magnificent monarch in all the world. He sold all that he had for the journey. He traveled far, and he traveled long, till he came at last to the shores of England and found Edward sitting in his court and playing a game of chess. The weary Florentine fell on his knees before the king and poured out these words: ‘Blessings on the hour and moment that led me here, so I could see the most noble, prudent, and valorous king in Christianity! I count myself more fortunate than any of my peers now that I am here where I can see the flower o
f kings. If I were to die now, I could face it without much sorrow, because I am standing before that most illustrious crown which attracts all men, as a magnet attracts iron, to view its dignity.’

  “The king, hearing this panegyric, leaped up from his chair and took hold of the farmer from Florence. Without a word, he threw him to the floor and showered him with so many kicks and punches that the poor man was black and blue. Then the king returned to his chess game. The wretched farmer, meanwhile, began to think that his entire journey had been wasted. ‘O miserable day!’ he groaned aloud. ‘Curses on the ill-conceived plan that brought me to this place. I thought to see a noble king, but instead I see an ungrateful, unappreciative one, a king filled with vices instead of virtues, a man who returns bad for good. When I lauded and honored him, he beat me so harshly that I do not know whether I will ever have the strength to till my fields again.’

  “The king heard these denunciations and rose from his chair. The farmer trembled violently, for if the king had beaten him for speaking well of him, how much more would he harm him for speaking evil? But the king, instead of laying a hand upon the Florentine, called instead for one of his nobles and ordered him to bring a robe of costly fabric. ‘Go,’ said the king. ‘Lay this rich garment on the shoulders of that man in return for his true words, for I have given him a rich beating in return for his false ones.’

  “The Florentine farmer, still trembling, received the robe, and when he returned home he showed it proudly to all—a reminder that the Plantagenets value truth over obsequious truckling.”

  “I will bear this tale in mind,” I said appreciatively, for I desired to keep the goodwill of the prince and advance in his regard if I could.

  *****

  The spades had no sooner turned earth over the corpses at Crecy than Edward gave orders for the army to march. Our way was already set. We had humbled the hamlets of La Hougue and sacked the city of Caen, but these had been taken merely because they were in our path; Edward had held no special enmity towards them. There was another city, however, which Edward loathed and longed to lay low. Toward that city we now turned our face. We traveled northwest by easy stages, burning and plundering as we proceeded, till we came at last to our destination—Calais.

  Calais is a city seated on the threshold of the sea. The salty waters of the channel lap at her gates, and the sea birds nestle in her crenelated ramparts. She is close to England; on a clear-skied day a clear-eyed man might glimpse the cliffs of Dover from atop her walls. She is also close to Flanders. If we could occupy this outpost, we would have easy access to our Flemish allies.

  But although Calais’s strategic location played a part in the king’s decision to take her, another motive weighed heavier in his thoughts. Calais was a poison-tipped thorn. She jutted out from the coast like a cunning nettle, and our vessels could never sail close to her waters without being scratched. Untold numbers of English ships had lost their cargoes to the rapacious pirates that holed up in this den. Edward hated Calais, and his hatred was stocked with so powerful a fuel that it kept alight for the many months it took to achieve the city.

  If you have been to Calais, you know that it is a heavily fortified town. On the north side of the city is the sea; the three remaining sides discourage attack with two water-filled moats. From the tremendous height of Calais’s walls—double-ringed and as impregnable as the virtue of Diana—the haughty inhabitants stare down at you. They say that Julius Caesar built these walls; if so, then they are well worthy of his illustrious memory, for it was not till a year after we came and saw them that we were finally able to conquer them.

  Upon our arrival at Calais, Edward summoned a council of war. The nobles discussed various methods of taking the town and then dismissed them each in turn. The height of the walls precluded any attempt to scale them, and indeed, his majesty was loath to waste men on such an unpromising enterprise. We had the means of erecting siege engines, but some doubted whether the marshy ground surrounding Calais was firm enough to support them. This maleficent marsh also forestalled any hope of tunneling underneath the walls. Only one course of action lay open to us; we must starve the city into submission.

  Deliberately and methodically, Edward encompassed the landward side of Calais with troops and a palisade. On the harbor side of the city, he created a rampart of English ships, a “wooden wall” like that of Themistocles. There would be no going in or out. Calais was shut up on all sides like a fox which has gone to ground.

  We had lain there no longer than a month when word arose that Philip of Valois had regrouped his humiliated army and planned to descend upon us and raise the siege. He had brought sixty thousand men to face us at Crecy. Men said he had doubled that number to raise the siege of Calais.

  As rumors ran rampant and estimates of the approaching army grew higher and higher, our own numbers dwindled. The yearlong contract that bound many of the men-at-arms had run its course. More must be pressed into service. His Majesty sent to England commanding a levy of a thousand men. The prince himself demanded that a company of two hundred be sent from his Welsh estates. New companies of men swelled our ranks, and the camp outside Calais grew larger. “English Calais,” the men were beginning to call it, for indeed our tents presented the appearance of a small town. Life in our camp was much like living in a provincial town, for though a few soldiers were employed in foraging or patrolling, the rest had nothing to do but eat, sleep, drink, play at dice, and wait.

  Though the English soldiers outside Calais sat idle, the English soldiers back home were busy enough, especially those in the north. “The Scots are rattling their spears again,” said the prince to me one day, after having spent several hours in conference with the king. “They’ve swept over the border into Northumbria, looting and pillaging.”

  “I thought your father had secured peace with King David before we left,” said I.

  “Aye,” replied the prince, “but Philip’s convinced him to break the treaty. France has but to snap her fingers and Scotland will dance. No one ever accused the Bruces of being too trustworthy. Their word is as light as a feather when they can feather their own nests.”

  “Will we give up the siege and return home?” I asked, unsure whether this new development would curtail our stay at Calais.

  “Indeed, I daresay Philip hopes as much,” said the prince. “But I think we will disappoint him if we can. An absent Edward does not mean a helpless England. My father has commanders in Northumbria who will meet the Scots foot to foot, and—God being our helper—we will have the Bruce begging for terms by Michaelmas.”

  The prince’s trust in the Northumbrian commanders proved to be well founded. The Scots received a sound drubbing and retired in disgrace over the border while Edward quaffed wine in his tents outside Calais. The diversion had failed. If Philip wanted Edward to budge from France, he must come in person to drive him away.

  November came and went, and still the fabled French force did not materialize at Calais. Other visitors besides our new recruits crossed the channel to enlarge our camp. Queen Philippa, weary of her husband’s absence, joined us, bringing with her a court of ladies-in-waiting. With the advent of these ladies, the lavish pavilions which housed the king and his nobles became more lavish still. The tent town became even more town-like, as knights and ladies paid visits and entertained each other with fetes and parties.

  For the French inside the walls, however, fare had become frugal. Philip’s failure to succor the town gave the governor there cause for grave concern. News trickled out to us that the citizens had begun to ration their supplies.

  One morning, late in the year, the prince and I were riding in tandem along the palisade. He was seeking his father, to report the success of the foraging party that had just returned. I sighted the king half a furlong ahead holding parlance with Sir Walter Manny. The blue and red of Edward’s jupon flamed brightly in the gray morning. Manny, attired in the more subdued raiment of gold and sable, still stood out sharply in the brown la
ndscape. I thanked the Lord that the French archers were little wiser than scullery maids, for if English archers had held those walls, they would have fired straightway upon such promising targets.

  As we drew near to the king, the prince suddenly reined in his horse. His eyes fixed on the distant city like an eagle’s eye upon a rabbit. “Potenhale,” he said suddenly. “If my eyes do not deceive me, yon gate is opening at last.” We stared through the mist—for it was a wet morning—at the surrounded city. As he had said, the gate was opening, and a herd of cloaked figures stepped slowly outside. They were not soldiers, for there was nothing martial in their bearing. From the size of them, I could see that many must be children.

  “What means it?” asked I in astonishment. “Do they surrender?”

  “Nay,” said Sir Walter Manny, for he had heard my question. He fingered his long mustache with an ungloved hand. “See, the gates are closing behind them.” We stood silent for a minute and watched the unsteady procession wending toward us like a crowd of lepers.

  “Ha!” said the king, and he clapped his hands savagely. “Here come their weak, their women, and their worthless ones. Their governor has turned them out.”

  “Aye, sire,” said Manny with a grin. “What further sign do we need? They’ve run short of food at last.”

  The bedraggled band came nearer. The figures in the mist began to take on clear forms. Many of them were women. Some held wrapped bundles in their arms, and from the faint wails that penetrated the mist, I surmised that they were holding their infants. Here and there, old men leaned upon sticks, with crooked arms too withered to hold a sword. They were too weak to defend a wall and so the walls refused to defend them.

  What would become of them? The faces of the young girls took on a white pallor as they approached our lines, and they pulled their cloaks around themselves tightly.