After discovering that John of Valois was between him and Gascony, and halting at Mapertuis, the Prince of Wales, with a determination to make the best of circumstances, took up a strong position, and posted his men in a vineyard, which could only be approached by a lane bounded by hedges, and so narrow that scarcely four horsemen, even if unopposed, could make their way along it abreast. To this lane the prince directed his particular attention, fortifying the hedges on either side, and lining them with archers, who were placed under the orders of Liulph of Windsor, and whose bearded arrows were likely to do terrible execution on such of the enemy as were venturesome enough to be the earliest assailants. At the same time he barricaded his camp with the bombards and waggons, posted his men-at-arms with great skill among vines and thorns, just where the narrow lane terminated in the vineyard, and having drawn up in front of them a body of archers, who were formed in the shape of a portcullis, or harrow, he caused many mounds and ditches to be made round the place, in order to protect them from assailants; and, thus intrenched, he awaited the coming of the foe with a calmness worthy at once of the heir ofthe Plantagenets, and, in spite of his youth, beyond all comparison the foremost war-chief in Christendom—his own great father not excepted.
Such as I have described it was the position of the English when Sunday morning dawned—that day when, according to French calculations, the English were either to yield to mercy or to rush upon their destruction. As yet, however, there was a chance of accommodation. At all events, the peace-maker was at hand.
But meanwhile John of Valois was arraying his men. No sooner, indeed, did the sun rise than he was in motion, with the determination of bringing the matter to a decisive issue. In fact, believing that the English were absolutely at his mercy, the royal warrior was all impatience to crown his enterprise with a great victory. Rising early, he caused a solemn mass to be sung in his pavilion; and having, with his four sons, taken the sacrament, he summoned his nobles and knights, and held a council of war. After much deliberation, it was resolved that each lord should display his banner in the name of God and St. Denis, and that the whole army should advance.
And now the marshals caused trumpets to be sounded, and all the men-at-arms mounted their horses, and made for that part of the plain where the standard of France fluttered in the breeze; and never, assuredly, even in this age, so remarkable for chivalrous displays, had there been seen so grand a display as was made by the flower of the French nobles on that occasion, as, arrayed in brilliant armour, and mounted on magnificent steeds, with banners and pennons flying, they set their men in battle order. By the advice of the Constable of France and the marshals, the French army was divided into three brigades. Of these, the first was commanded by the two marshals; the second by the Duke of Normandy, John's eldest son, with whom was the Constable of France; the third by John in person. And on that day, when the princes and the nobles of France looked so gay and brilliant, grander and more magnificent than all—although nineteen others were armed like himself, in order to distract the attention of the English archers—was John of Valois. Arrayed insplendid armour, glittering with gold, and bestriding a white steed—the symbol of sovereignty—the royal chief was the observed of all observers as he rode along the ranks, accompanied by Geoffrey de Chargny, to whom, as the bravest and most prudent knight of his country, had been entrusted the duty of bearing the royal standard of France.
At this moment, when fully anticipating an immediate and easy victory over the few thousand Englishmen, who had scarcely wherewithal to make a meal, John was suddenly seized with a desire to know what his enemies were doing, and, with the object of gratifying his curiosity, summoned Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont and two other knights.
"Sir Eustace," said he, "ride forward as near these English as you can, and examine their countenance, taking notice of their numbers, and observing which will be the most advantageous way for us to combat them, whether on horseback or on foot."
Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont and his comrades bowed their heads and departed; and there was a pause till they returned.
"Well," asked John of Valois eagerly, "what news bring you?"
"Sire," said Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont, speaking for the others, "we have accurately examined the numbers and appearance of the English, and they may amount, according to our estimate, to about two thousand men-at-arms, four thousand archers, and fifteen hundred footmen. We do not imagine that they can make more than one battalion. Nevertheless," added Sir Eustace gravely, "they are formidable; for they occupy a very strong position; and they are posted with such judgment that they will not be easily attacked."
"And in what manner would you advise me to attack them?" asked John.
"On foot, sire," replied Sir Eustace. "Except three hundred of the boldest and most expert men of your army, who must be well armed and excellently mounted, in order, if possible, to break the body of archers; and, when the archers are broken, then your battalions mustadvance quickly on foot, attack the English men-at-arms hand to hand, and combat them valiantly. This is the best advice that I can give you."
"Thus shall it be, then," said John; and, riding with his marshals from battalion to battalion, he selected, in conformity with their opinions, three hundred knights and squires of the greatest repute in his army, each well armed, and mounted on the best of horses; and, at the same time, formed the battalion of Germans, who, under the Counts of Saltzburg and Nassau, were to remain on horseback and assist the marshals. These arrangements made, and the rest of the men-at-arms having dismounted, John, agreeably to the custom of the age, spurred his white charger to the head of his army, and, raising his hand for silence, harangued his adherents.
"Men of Paris, Chartres, Rouen, and Orleans," said John, with his head uncovered and his eyes glancing fire, "you have been in the habit of threatening loudly what you would do to the English if you could find them, and you have expressed a strong wish to meet them in arms. Now, at length, your wish shall be gratified. I am about to lead you towards them, and let me see how bravely you will revenge yourselves for all the mischief and damage they have done you. Be assured we will not part without fighting."
"Sire," shouted the French, "with God's aid we will most cheerfully meet them, and avenge all the injuries they have done us."
"And now," said John, "let every man who is on foot take off his spurs; and let those who are armed with lances shorten them to the length of five feet, so as to be more manageable; and then let us upon our foes in the name of God and St. Denis!"
Promptly the commands of John of Valois were obeyed. Every man took off his spurs; every man shortened his lance; and the French were on the point of marching towards the vineyard in which the Prince of Wales was posted, when suddenly, with a splendid train, up to the spot galloped the Cardinal Perigord, who, making a low reverence, intreated John, with uplifted hands and for the love of God, to pause for a moment and hearken.
"Most dear sire," said the cardinal earnestly, "you have here with you all the flower of knighthood of your kingdom against a mere handful of people, as the English are, compared to your army. You may have them on other terms than a battle; and it will be more honourable and profitable to you to gain them by pacific means than to risk such a fine army and such noble persons as you have with you. In all humility, therefore, I beseech you, by the love of God, that you will permit me to go to the Prince of Wales, and remonstrate with him on the dangerous situation in which he has placed himself."
"By St. Denis!" replied the king, "it is very agreeable to me; but make haste back."
"Sire," said the cardinal, "you have no occasion to be so impatient to fight the English. They cannot escape you. I therefore intreat you to grant them a truce from this time till to-morrow's sunrise."
"No," said John, shaking his head.
"No, no!" shouted hundreds of French warriors, with violent gesticulations.
But the cardinal spoke so eloquently, and appealed so strongly to the generosity of the French to spare enemies who were so obviously at their mercy, that at length John of Valois and his council consented to grant a truce for the day; and, while the cardinal rode off hastily to confer with the prince, John ordered his pavilion of red silk to be pitched, and, dismounting from his white charger, dismissed his army to their quarters, and entered the pavilion to confer with his marshals and to await the result of the cardinal's mediation.
On foot, in the midst of his army, in the thickest part of the vineyard, where he had posted his men, as I have already stated, stood the Prince of Wales, calm and serene in the midst of danger. Never, perhaps, in the whole course of his eventful life, was the young heromore calm and serene than when it was announced to him that the Cardinal of Perigord was dismounting and about to come into his presence. And when, without delay, the cardinal approached, he was evidently greatly impressed; and, making a low reverence, which the prince returned with much affability, he indicated his errand, and forthwith entered upon the business of mediation.
"Fair son," said the cardinal, "if you have well considered the great army of the King of France you will permit me to make up matters between you, if I possibly can."
"Sir," replied the prince, "my own honour and that of my army saved, I am ready to listen to any reasonable terms."
"Fair son," said the cardinal, who seemed to rejoice at the prince's words, "you speak well, and if I can I will bring about a treaty; for it would be a great pity that so many worthy persons as are here should meet in battle when the quarrel might be peacefully settled."
Finding that the Prince of Wales was well inclined to listen to proposals of peace, and to give them a rational consideration, the cardinal returned to John of Valois; and all Sunday he rode from one army to the other, and exerted his art and eloquence to effect a reconciliation. Many proposals were discussed. Much to his disappointment, however, he made no progress. Indeed, John's demands were such that the prince could not have consented to them without sacrificing his own pride and the dignity of his country; and as the day wore away it became evident that thenegociationwould arrive at no satisfactory conclusion.
"I can listen to no other terms," said John, violently, "than that four of the chief persons of the English army should be given up to my will, and that the Prince of Wales and all his army should surrender themselves unconditionally."
"Sir," said the prince to the cardinal, when this proposal was repeated to him, "you know full well that it is impossible for me to agree to such terms. But I offer to surrender all the towns I have taken in France during myexpedition, to give up without ransom all my prisoners, and to swear not to bear arms against France for the space of seven years."
"No," exclaimed John, after holding conference with his council; "this offer is not satisfactory. But if the Prince of Wales and a hundred of his knights will surrender themselves as my prisoners, I promise to allow the English to pass on without a battle."
"No," replied the prince with much disdain; "I can do nothing to the prejudice of my honour, for which I am accountable to my father and to my country; and as for surrendering myself a prisoner, in that case I should have to be ransomed; and I swear, by good St. George, that none but liars shall ever have it in their power to tell that England had to pay a ransom for me."
It now appeared that the cardinal was not destined to accomplish the work which he so earnestly desired. But so completely was his heart set on peace that he once more returned to the French army, still hoping by his exhortations to pacify the leaders of the embattled hosts. His reception, however, was this time the reverse of complimentary.
"Return to Poictiers," cried John of Valois and his council, "and attempt not to bring us any more of your treaties or pacifications, or it may fare the worse with you."
"Fair son," said the cardinal, coming to the Prince of Wales to inform him of the result of hisnegociations, "I have done all that a man could do to bring about peace. But I cannot pacify the King of France. There must be a battle: so exert yourself as much as possible."
"Such are my intentions, and such the intentions of my army," replied the prince, "and may God defend the right!"
The cardinal now took leave, and rode away towards Poictiers. In his train, however, there were some knights and men-at-arms who were much more inclined to the French than to the English. Aware that a battle was imminent, they selected as their leader the Castellan of Amposta, who was then attached to the cardinal, and, between the camps and the city, stole quietly away to join the French.
On hearing of this the Prince of Wales was highly enraged. Not unnaturally blaming the cardinal, who had so strongly expressed his neutrality, the prince, in his anger, concluded that he had been deceived, and did not fail to express himself strongly on the subject.
"By my faith," said he angrily, "it seems that, notwithstanding his fine words, this priest has been exercising all his cunning to deceive me. But let him beware; for, by my father's soul, ere the sun sets to-morrow I may send him such a token as will convince him that I am not one to be fooled with impunity."
"My lord," said those in whose presence this threat was uttered, "restrain your wrath; for we cannot tell whether or no the cardinal was aware of the desertion of his company till he arrived at Poictiers."
While the Cardinal of Perigord was riding from one camp to another, vainly endeavouring to make peace, the knights on neither side were wholly idle. Many, both from the French and English ranks, availed themselves of the truce which had been agreed to, and rode forth, skirting their enemy's army, and examining the dispositions.
Sir John Chandos was one of the English knights who mounted and left the army of the Prince of Wales to inspect the host of John of Valois; and it was my fortune to accompany that famous warrior. Now it chanced that, while Sir John Chandos rode near one of the wings of the French army, John, Lord of Clermont, one of the French marshals, was out on horseback viewing the English; and both of them had the same device on their surcoats—namely, a blue Madonna worked in embroidery, surrounded by sunbeams. Meeting as they were returning to their quarters, both stood still, and each gazed on the other in some surprise. For a time there was silence; but at length the Lord of Clermont recovered sufficientlyfrom his surprise to speak, and to speak much more boldly and loudly than I thought consistent with chivalrous dignity, under the circumstances.
"Chandos!" shouted the French marshal, dismounting, and looking fierce and menacing, "how long is it since you have taken upon you to wear my arms?"
"In truth," replied Sir John, also dismounting, not without contempt in his tone, "I might as lief ask that of you; for it is as much mine as yours."
"I deny that," cried Clermont angrily; "and were it not for the truce between us, I would soon show you that you have no right to wear it."
"Ha!" exclaimed Chandos, making a great effort to keep his temper, "you will find me to-morrow on the field, ready prepared to defend, and to prove by force of arms, that it is as much mine as yours."
"By our Lady!" said Clermont, preparing to mount, "such are the boastings of you English, who can invent nothing new, but take for your own whatever you see handsome belonging to others."
"On my faith!" exclaimed Chandos, whose temper was giving way, "these are biting taunts; but I answer such language, not with words, but blows!" and, as he spoke, both parties moved on to their respective camps.
Now I had listened to the whole colloquy with something like amazement, that two men so eminent should indulge in such high words on such a subject. I, who was supposed to have no arms, daily saw the arms which I believed myself entitled to bear carried by another; and I, who had no name, save that which I had won while wrestling for the ram on the green at Windsor, daily heard the name which I felt certain was mine by right applied to a person whom I had every reason to dislike and distrust. It was impossible, under such circumstances, to sympathise very strongly with Sir John Chandos in the indignation he felt at another man questioning his right to bear a blue Madonna; but I appreciated his great qualities, and, feeling sincerely shocked at the Lord of Clermont's manner, I had no hesitation in expressing myself strongly.
"Beshrew me," exclaimed I with indignation, "if Icould imagine aught more insolent than that French knight's challenge."
"In truth," replied Sir John, "it recalls to my mind a story I have heard of Garci Perez de Vargas, one of the stoutest knights who aided Ferdinand of Castile in the conquest of Seville. But you also may have heard it?"
"Never," said I.
"Well," continued Sir John, "it appears that Garci Perez had a dispute with another knight, who, bearing the same arms as Garci, thought fit to assert that he had no right to wear them. A sally being made by the Moors, the complainant, with others, made his escape; but Garci stood firm to his post, and did not return to the camp till the Moors were driven back into the city. When he did return, he came to the place where his rival was, and, holding up his shield, all bruised and battered, pointed to the spot where the bearing was effaced, saying, 'Sir, it must now be confessed that you show more respect than I do for this coat of arms; for you keep yours bright and unsullied, while mine is sadly discoloured.' The knight," added Sir John, "was so sorely ashamed, that henceforth Garci Perez bore his achievements without gainsaying or dispute."
"On my faith!" exclaimed I admiringly, "this Garci Perez had a most noble way of taking his revenge." And, thus conversing, we made our way, just as the sun was setting, back to the English camp, where the prince, no longer hoping to avoid a battle, was maturing the plans he had previously formed for fighting to the best advantage.
It was while we reached Mapertuis that the Cardinal of Perigord, having utterly failed with his pacific counsels, was riding towards Poictiers, and that the Castellan of Amposta and the knights and men-at-arms were stealing away to join the French army.
The night of Sunday passed without any incident worthy of record; and cold and clear dawned the morning of Monday, the 19th of September, 1356—a day likely to be long remembered by one nation with pride, by the other with mortification.
From the moment that the Cardinal of Perigord took his departure, without being able to bring John of Valois to any reasonable terms, the Prince of Wales perceived that an engagement was inevitable, and lost no time in regrets for what could not be remedied. Nor was it the prince's interest to encourage further delay; for, as regarded provisions, the hostile armies were very differently situated. The French, who had plenty, were living at their ease; the English, who had hardly any, and who had not the means of procuring either food or forage, were in danger of perishing from want, or of being starved into submission. Nothing but a battle and a victory could relieve the English from their perplexities; and to fight a battle and obtain a victory the prince bent all his energy and all his intelligence.
I have stated that, on halting at Mapertuis, the Prince of Wales posted himself in a vineyard that could only be entered by a narrow lane; and that, having fortified the weak places with his bombards and baggage-waggons, and lined the hedges of the narrow lane with archers to harass the approaching foe, he skilfully posted his men-at-arms in the vineyard among vines and thorns, and in front of them placed a body of archers, drawn up in the form of a portcullis, or harrow, and dug ditches and threw up mounds to defend the archers against the attack of cavalry. On Monday morning the prince did not see reason to make any alterations in his order of battle; but he ordered some knights of skill and valour to remain on horseback, and with six hundred archers on horseback post themselves on a little hill to the right, and, by passingover the summit, to get round that wing of the French which, under the Duke of Normandy, was posted at the base of the hill. Having seen that his order was obeyed, the prince returned to the middle of the vineyard, and there remained on foot with the knights and men-at-arms, all of them being completely armed, with their horses near, to be mounted in case of need.
And now, having given his standard to be borne in the battle by Sir Walter Woodland, the Prince of Wales, attended by James, Lord Audley, and Sir John Chandos, with his black armour braced on, save the helmet, which was carried by Simon Burley, his favourite squire, stood forth, and, raising his hand to command attention—agreeably to the custom observed on the previous day by John of Valois—addressed himself to those who shared the dangers of his situation.
"Sirs," said the prince, elevating his voice to make his words heard as far as possible, "it seems evident to me, after all that has passed within the last twenty-four hours, that this man, who calls himself King of France, and usurps my father's rights and dignity, holds me and my army in great contempt. Nor, considering how small a body we are compared to our enemies, should I marvel at their confidence if I did not remember how a host of men were overthrown by a handful on that day when Philip of Valois came to give battle to my lord and father on the plains of Cressy. Wherefore, sirs, what though we be a small body of men compared to our foes? Do not let us be cast down on that account; for the battle is not always to the strong, nor does victory always follow numbers; but where the Almighty pleases to bestow it, there does it fall. If, through good fortune, the day be ours, we shall gain the greatest honour and glory in this world; and if the contrary should happen, and we fall, I have a father and brothers, and you also have friends and kinsmen, by whom our fall will surely be avenged. For my part, I have already said, and I now repeat, that I will not fall into the hands of our enemies alive, and that England shall never have to pay a ransom for me. Therefore, sirs, I entreat all of you to do your devoirs bravely, like freemen and Englishmen; and, come whatmay, you shall see me this day prove myself a good and hardy knight, so help me God and good St. George!"
Almost as the prince concluded, and reverentially kissed the cross on his sword, the trumpets of the French marshals sounded, and the army of John of Valois, which had been for some time forming in the plain of Beauvoir, began to advance; and, ere the loud cheer caused by the prince's spirited harangue died away, the marshals, at the head of their men-at-arms, were spurring forward, with the object of penetrating through the narrow lane into the vineyard.
At that moment Lord Audley turned to the prince.
"Sir," said he, "I have ever most loyally served my lord your father and yourself, and shall, so long as I have life, continue to do so. But I must now acquaint you that formerly I made a vow, if ever I should be in battle with your father or any of his sons, that I would be foremost in the attack, and either prove myself the best combatant on his side or die in the attempt. I therefore beg most earnestly, as a reward for any services I may have rendered, that you will grant me permission honourably to quit you, that I may post myself in such wise as to accomplish my vow."
"Sir James," replied the prince, graciously holding out his hand, "I readily grant your request; and may God ordain that this day you shine in valour above all other knights!"
And Lord Audley, setting off and riding forward with only four squires, whom he had retained to guard his person, placed himself in front of the English to fight with the battalion of the marshals; and Sir Eustace d'Ambreticourt pushed forward to a similar position, hoping also to be the first to engage. But Sir John Chandos remained at the right hand of the prince to aid and advise him, and intimated his determination never during the day, on any account, to leave his post.
And then began the battle of Poictiers.
It was now nine o'clock on the morning of Monday; and with trumpets sounding, and armour glancing in the sun, and banners waving in the wind, the French cavalry headed by the marshals came on, laying their lances in rest, and shouting their battle-cries. Their object was to break the archers who were drawn up in the form of a harrow in front of the men-at-arms; and, being unaware that the hedges were lined with bowmen, they advanced intrepidly into the lane, and prepared to charge. But as they little knew the peril they were incurring, so it speedily appeared that they were quite unprepared to meet any that might unexpectedly occur. No sooner were they fairly in the lane than Liulph of Windsor gave the signal, and forthwith from either hedge started hundreds of archers, with green jackets and white bows, as if they had emerged from the bowels of the earth, and straightway from the white bows barbed arrows flew like showers of hail. The movement was almost magical in its effect. In an instant the marshals were in consternation; and in another instant this consternation was turned into terror. Riders and horses were equally confounded, amazed, and startled. The men lost their presence of mind, and gazed round in horror; and their steeds, galled with the pain of their wounds, plunged, snorted, refused to advance, and wheeled round, carrying their riders to and fro.
In vain several knights and squires, with strong wills and strong arms, attempted to force their way forward to the point where the prince was stationed. All their efforts were vain. The confusion was too thorough; and while the French were still in panic and dismay, into the midst of them rode Lord Audley and Sir Eustace d'Ambreticourt, with their squires, smiting to the ground all who opposed them; and forward on foot rushed the English men-at-arms, doing terrible execution, and capturing andslaying knights and squires at their pleasure. Resistance was useless under the circumstances. Men and horses sank to rise no more. Nor did the French marshals fare better than their comrades. While shrieks of dismay and pain rent the air, and intimated to the great army of France the fate that had befallen their van, the Lord d'Andreghen, after being roughly handled, was taken prisoner; and the Lord Clermont, after bravely fighting under his banner as long as he was able, was ultimately struck down and killed on the spot.
"Now, thanks to God and St. George," exclaimed the prince, joyfully, "the day promises to be ours; and ours it shall be, if courage can make up for want of numbers. But let us not delay in pursuing the advantage we have gained. Mount and ride," said he, turning round, "and lose not a moment in ordering the men-at-arms and archers on the hill to attack the second battalion of the enemy. Haste, haste! ride as if for your life."
Without a word I, Arthur Winram, sprang on my steed, and spurring through thorns and vines, and over hedge and dyke, carried the prince's order to the knights; and almost ere I had time to return the movement was executed. Descending the hill and making a circuit, the men-at-arms and mounted archers suddenly showed themselves on the flank and rear of that division of the French commanded by the Duke of Normandy, and the effect was such as can hardly be described. Aware that their first battalion was routed, the French knights and men-at-arms hastened to mount their horses, and panic seized the whole division. With vivid recollections of Cressy passing through their minds, the nobles around the Duke of Normandy detached eight hundred lances to escort the heir of France and his brother from the field; and their departure was taken as the signal for a general flight.
"All is lost, and it is time for every man to look to his own safety," was the cry; and leaving John of Valois and the third battalion to their fate, knights, and squires, and men-at-arms fled hurriedly and in disorder.
"By my faith," exclaimed I gaily as I watched the flight, "that is a pleasant sight to see. Our English archers never fail their country in the hour of need."
"Nevertheless," observed Sir John Chandos, who was tiring of inaction, "to me it seems not meet that the archers should have all the peril and all the honour of the day."
"In truth," said the prince, musingly, "these archers have been of infinite service; for had they not shot so thickly and so well that our enemies knew not on which side to turn, our position would have been forced. But now methinks it is full time to mount our horses and charge upon our enemies, to complete the work so well begun."
"Sir," said Sir John Chandos, "you speak truly: it is time to mount and make for your adversary, who calls himself King of France; for where he is, there will be the main stress of the business. I know well that he has too much valour to fly, and, if it please God and St. George, he must remain with us as our prisoner."
"Meanwhile," said the prince, "he must be well fought with; wherefore let us mount with all speed, and advance to the encounter."
And now the word of command was passed from rank to rank, and the English men-at-arms who had hitherto remained inactive, hastened to mount their horses. Everything being in readiness, the Prince of Wales, in his black armour, sprang into the saddle, and, attended by his knights and squires, and by Sir John Chandos and Sir Walter Woodland, his standard-bearer, spurred his coal-black steed to the head of the men-at-arms, and receiving his helmet from Simon Burley, placed it on his head, and prepared to charge for victory and honour.
"Now, sir," said Sir John Chandos, addressing the prince, "already the day is almost ours, and God will put victory in your hands; and you have before said that you will prove yourself a hardy knight."
"Yes, John," replied the prince, smiling; "so let us get forward, and I promise that my friends will see moreof my back than mine enemies, for I ever like to be among the foremost." And then turning to Sir Walter Woodland, he added, "Banner, advance in the name of God and St. George."
As the prince spoke the standard-bearer obeyed; and, with trumpets sounding, the young warrior led his men from the vineyard, and dashed into the plain to encounter the foes who, an hour earlier, had regarded him as if he had already been a captive or a corpse.
Issuing from the narrow lane, and charging across the moor to where the French were formed in large bodies, the prince and his riders assailed the division under the Duke of Athens, Constable of France; and, the constable and his knights standing firm, a sharp encounter took place.
"St. George for Guienne!" shouted the English.
"Montjoye, St. Denis!" replied the French.
But the conflict was soon over. The constable, after fighting bravely, fell, and most of his knights were slain around him.
Pursuing their career, the prince and his riders next came in contact with the German cavalry, under the Counts of Saltzburg, Nassau, and Neydo, and the Germans fared as ill as the French had done. The three counts were slain, and the Germans, seeing their leaders fall, took to flight.
Not stopping to make prisoners, the prince, with Chandos by his side, charged on—his friends rallying to his standard, and his enemies flying from his war-cry. What remained of the second division of the French was speedily dispersed; and the Duke of Orleans, who was in command of a body of reserve, fled from the field without an effort to stay the progress of the conqueror.
But, as Chandos had predicted, John of Valois did not fly. Even in the midst of panic and flight, he maintained, as a knight and a soldier, the character which he enjoyed throughout Christendom. Mounted on his white steed, arrayed in royal armour, and accompanied by Philip, his youngest son, John, at the head of his division, faced the English and Gascons under the Earl of Warwick, and fought dauntlessly and well. But his courageand prowess could not turn the fortune of the field. Around him his men fell in heaps; and when he, after receiving two wounds in the face, was beaten to the ground, the survivors lost hope, and began to escape towards Poictiers.
But still John of Valois was in no mood either to fly or to yield. Rising from the ground, and with his son still by his side, he rallied his broken ranks, and, with his battle-axe in his hand, advanced on foot to renew the conflict, not without the hope of Fortune declaring herself on his side.
By this time the battle had lasted about three hours, and it was nearly noon; and the Prince of Wales, seeing that his enemies were flying in all directions, had halted after one of his charges, and, with a few men-at-arms around him, was calculating the results of the engagement, when suddenly, on foot, with the fury of a lion, and battle-axe in hand, John made his last desperate effort to retrieve the day; and, as the prince turned to renew the conflict, his eye was lighted up with that joy which warriors feel in the prospect of a stern encounter with foemen worthy of their steel. But few around the prince shared his enthusiasm. In fact, it was a most critical moment, and one thrust with a spear, one blow with a battle-axe, might have changed the fate of the day. Fortunately, however, the Earl of Warwick, returning from the pursuit, charged the French in the flank, and they, giving way, fled, in utter confusion and despair, towards Poictiers, the pursuit continuing to the gates of the city.
And now the field was won, and the French were flying and the English pursuing on all hands, when the Prince of Wales suddenly perceived the body of Lord Robert de Duras lying near a bush; and as Lord Robert de Duras was nephew of the Cardinal of Perigord, and as the prince believed that the cardinal had played him false on the previous day, his ire kindled at the sight.
"Place this body on a shield," said he, addressing two squires, "and see it carried to Poictiers, and present it to the Cardinal of Perigord, and say I salute him by that token."
"My lord," remonstrated Sir John Chandos, "do notthink of such things at this moment, when you have to look after others of such importance. Besides, the cardinal may, perhaps, convince you that he is not to blame."
"In truth," said the prince, "I lose all patience when I think of having been so trifled with. But be that as it may, John, it seems that the field is all our own, for I do not see any banners or pennons of the French, nor are there any bodies considerable enough to rally and molest us."
"However," continued Sir John Chandos, "it will be proper for you to halt here and plant your banner on this bush, that it may serve to rally your forces, which seem much scattered. And you may rest yourself a little, as you are much heated."
Accordingly the banner of the Prince of Wales was placed on the bush, and a small pavilion of red silk was pitched hard by, and the prince, taking off his helmet, entered; and the minstrels began to play, and the trumpets and clarions to sound; and the prince ordered liquor to be brought to him and the knights who were present; and they every moment increased in number, for each stopped there with his prisoners in returning from the pursuit; and at length came Lord Cobham and the Earl of Warwick.
"My lords," asked the prince, as they entered the pavilion, "do you know what has become of the King of France?"
"No, sir, not with certainty," replied they. "But we believe he must either be killed or made prisoner, since he never quitted his battalion."
The prince looked grave at this answer; for, naturally enough, he was anxious to hear of the captivity rather than the death of John of Valois, and his countenance expressed the feelings by which he was animated.
"My lords," said he, "I beg you to mount your horses and ride over the field, and bring me such intelligence of him as you can obtain."
"Sir," replied they, "we will most willingly do so;" and, leaving the pavilion, they mounted and went off to ascertain the fate of the vanquished Valois.
I have related how, when the French marshals advanced towards the vineyard at Mapertuis, with the object of forcing the position occupied by the Prince of Wales, Sir Eustace d'Ambreticourt, and James, Lord Audley, being both eager to signalise their prowess in front of the battle, spurred forth to encounter the approaching foe; and I will now relate the adventures which befell them in the field.
It was the ambition of Ambreticourt to be the first to engage the enemy that day; and, while Lord Audley was pushing forward against the marshals, the Hainaulter fixed his shield, laid his lance in rest, and, spurring his steed, galloped towards the battalion of German cavalry. As he did so, Louis von Coucibras, a German knight, observing his approach, dashed out from the ranks of the Count of Nassau, and met him in mid career. The shock was so violent that both of them were unhorsed and rolled to the ground; but Ambreticourt, so far, had the best of the encounter. In fact, the German, who was severely wounded in the shoulder, could not rise; and Sir Eustace, springing nimbly to his feet, hastened towards his prostrate antagonist. But here his fortune for awhile deserted him; for at that moment five German horsemen rode forward, struck the Hainaulter to the ground, seized him as their prisoner, and carried him to the Count of Nassau. Much less attention, however, was paid to Ambreticourt than he considered was his due. Indeed, the Germans very coolly took some pieces of harness, tied him to one of their cars, and left him in that unworthy plight while the conflict was raging before his eyes.
For hours Sir Eustace d'Ambreticourt remained fastened, like a dog, to the car. But at length he was released when the Prince of Wales, from defending his position, became the assailant, and, mounting his black steed, made that splendid charge which bore down all opposition, and scattered the German cavalry as the hawk does pigeons. Ambreticourt was recognised by his own men, rescued,and remounted. Nor did the brave knight fail to make up for lost time. Many were the gallant deeds he performed; many were the prisoners he took; and, when the battle was over, no one could boast more truly of having done his duty.
But it was to Lord Audley that the prize of valour fell; for meanwhile he was by no means idle. Attended by his four squires, he commenced operations by charging the battalion of the marshals as they advanced into the narrow lane, and, sword in hand, wrought wonders. After fighting for a considerable time with Lord d'Andreghen, whom he handled with more roughness than the French marshal had been accustomed to experience, he precipitated himself into the very thickest of the conflict—not hesitating to encounter any odds. Soon his face and body were severely wounded; but he still continued to advance, and fought on till he was covered with blood; and it was not till the close of the battle that he yielded to fatigue and loss of strength, and sheathed his sword. By that time, indeed, he was easily managed; and his four squires, leading him out of the crowd, conducted him to the side of a hedge, and, lifting him from his horse, placed him gently under a tree that he might recover his breath. Having done this, they took off his armour, examined his wounds, dressed them, and, sewing up the most dangerous, procured a litter to convey him to his tent.
Now, in the hour of victory, the Prince of Wales did not forget Lord Audley, and the vow which that morning he had fared forth to perform. When he was seated in the pavilion of red silk, and had despatched Lord Cobham and the Earl of Warwick to ascertain the fate of John of Valois, he turned to the knights and squires who were around him.
"Does any one know what has become of the Lord James Audley?" asked the prince with much interest.
"Yes, my lord," replied I; "I have seen him. He is very badly wounded, and lying in a litter hard by."
"By my troth," said the prince, "I grieve to hear he is so sore wounded. But hasten to him, I beg you, and see if he is able to be carried hither; otherwise I will, without delay, go and visit him."
I hastened from the pavilion, and found the wounded warrior.
"My lord," said I, "the prince is most desirous of seeing you."
"A thousand thanks to the prince for condescending to remember so poor a knight as myself," replied Lord Audley; and having summoned eight of his servants, he ordered them to carry him in his litter into the prince's presence.
As the litter was borne into the pavilion the Prince of Wales rose, and tears stood in his blue eyes as he bent over the wounded man and embraced him.
"My Lord James," said he with emotion, "I am bound to honour you very much, for this day, by your valour, you have acquired glory and renown above us all, and you have proved yourself the most puissant and the bravest of knights."
"Sir," replied Lord Audley, "you have a right to say whatever you please, and I wish it were as you have said. But if I have this day been forward to serve you, it has been to accomplish a vow, and it ought not to be so much thought of."
"My Lord James," said the prince, "I and all the rest of us deem that you have shown yourself the bravest knight on our side in this battle; and I, to mark my appreciation of your valour, and to furnish you with the means of pursuing your career of renown, retain you henceforth, for ever, as my knight, with five hundred marks of yearly revenue, which I will secure to you upon my estates in England."
"Sir," replied Lord Audley, his voice faltering as he spoke, "may God make me deserving of the good fortune you bestow on me!"
By this time Lord Audley found that the interview was becoming more than his remaining strength would enable him to bear; and, after taking leave of the prince, he was carried by his servants from the pavilion. Scarcely had he disappeared when a hurried whisper ran round; and the Prince of Wales, rising with a dignity which no prince in Christendom, not even his own great father, could have rivalled or imitated, turned his face towards the entrance;and, as he did so, before him stood a warrior, with his crest broken and his armour bruised and stained, leading a boy by the hand.
It was John of Valois, with his youngest son, Philip of Burgundy.
And the prince, making a low obeisance, said—
"All hail the boldest and most determined champion among the chivalry of France!"
It was noon, and the battle was virtually over; and, albeit the English were already as secure of victory as if every enemy had lain dead on the field, on one spot, hard by a little hillock, a fierce struggle was still maintained. It is true that, after rescuing the Prince of Wales from sudden peril, the Earl of Warwick had driven the French before him with such force that, as I have said, most of them never paused in their flight till they reached the gates of Poictiers. Nevertheless, John of Valois fought on, indulging in vague hopes and forming desperate resolutions. But fate was decidedly against him; and his nobles and knights, bravely as they contended, could do nothing to make their position less desperate than it already was. In attempting to break through the crowd and join their sovereign, the Counts of Tankerville, Ponthieu, and Eu were made prisoners. By the hand of Lord Cobham perished the Count of Dammartin; down, as his sword again descended, fell Geoffrey de Chargny, who had fought gallantly all day, with the standard of France in his hand; and, through the gaps which were thus made in the French army, rushed the English and Gascons in such numbers that they intermingled with their foes, and outnumbered them in the proportion of five to one. It was utterly impossible for John, bold and strong as he was, to hold out longer under such circumstances, and his danger was great. However, the eagerness to take him prisoner was excessive among those who knew him; and, while he waspulled about from one to another without the least respect for his royal pretensions, some of those who were near shouted loudly—
"Surrender yourself, surrender yourself, or you are a dead man!"
Fortunately for John, there was among the English a young knight of St. Omer, who bore the name of Denis de Morbeque, and who had, five years earlier, been banished from France for killing a man in a fray; and fortunately for himself this knight was at hand. Recognising John, and anxious to save him, Sir Denis, exerting all his strength, pushed rapidly through the crowd.
"Sire, sire," said he in good French, "surrender yourself; it is your only chance."
"But to whom shall I surrender myself?" said John, turning round. "Where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales? If I could see him I would speak to him."
"Sire," replied Sir Denis, "the prince is not near; but surrender to me, and I will lead you to his presence."
"Who are you?" asked John with interest.
"Sire," answered the knight, "I am Denis de Morbeque, a knight of Artois; but I serve the King of England, because I have forfeited all I possessed in France, and no longer consider myself as belonging to the kingdom."
"Well, sir knight," said John, giving Sir Denis the glove from his right hand, "I surrender to you. Conduct me to the prince."
But this proved no easy matter, for several cried, "I have taken him," and there was much pushing and thronging about the spot; and both John and his young son Philip, who clung resolutely to his father's side, were unable to free themselves from the numbers who claimed them as prisoners.
In fact, the dispute every moment became louder and fiercer, and ever and anon threatened the most disagreeable consequences; for both English and Gascons were bawling at the top of their voices, and it appeared likely enough that they would ultimately proceed from words to blows.
"He has surrendered to me," shouted one.
"It is I who have got him," cried a second.
"No, no!" exclaimed others; "we have him."
And as each put in his claim, he attempted to make it good in such a fashion that John found his situation the very reverse of pleasant.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said he, as his patience wore out, "I pray you cease this riot, and conduct me and my son in a courteous manner to the Prince of Wales. You shall all be rewarded. I am so great a lord that I can make you all sufficiently rich."
At these words, which every one heard, the crowd was in some degree appeased; but disputes were again breaking out, and John's position was becoming every moment less agreeable, when suddenly Lord Cobham and the Earl of Warwick, who, while riding over the field, had observed the tumult, spurred up to the place.
"What is the matter?" asked they.
"It is the King of France, who has been made prisoner," was the reply; and immediately more than a dozen knights and squires stepped forward, each claiming the royal captive as his own.
"Gentlemen," said Warwick, bending his brow and raising his voice menacingly, "this behaviour is most unseemly; and, in the name of the Prince of Wales, I command you all to keep your distance, and not to approach unless desired to do so."
And, as the crowd fell back, Warwick and Cobham dismounted, and, advancing to the prisoner, conducted him quietly to the red pavilion in which the prince was resting from the fatigues of the day.
When the two earls escorted their captive and his son into the pavilion, the Prince of Wales was conversing with his knights on the events of the day. On becoming aware of John's presence, however, he rose and made a very low obeisance, as has been related, and, ordering wine and spices to be brought, presented them to the captive with his own hand, and endeavoured to minister what comfort he could.
"In my opinion," said he, "you ought to be glad that this battle, albeit it has not ended as you desired, has redounded so much to your fame; for you have, thisday, had an opportunity of acquiring a high renown for prowess, and have in the field far surpassed all the best knights of whom the chivalry of France can boast."
At these words, John, whose violence seemed to have died out of him, smiled as if in sad reproof; but his young son Philip, who inherited this violence in a high degree, glared on his father's conqueror with the savage ferocity of a young tiger.
At the time when John of Valois, fighting on foot, with his battle-axe in his hand, rallied his broken ranks, and made that sudden and unexpected attack on the Prince of Wales which, for a moment, threatened to change the fortune of the field, I, Arthur Winram, was separated from the comrades in arms with whom I had charged, and whirled to where the English and French were confused, intermingled, and dealing blows without being well aware whether they were aimed at friends or foes. At this crisis I found myself engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with Sir John de Saintré; and albeit he was esteemed the most accomplished knight in France, I contrived not only to return blow for blow, but to press him so hard that he was not sorry when we were separated by the crowd. Much to my disappointment, I could not take him prisoner, and, falling into other hands, however, he was well treated; but his wounds and bruises ruined his health, and he never recovered from the effects of the combat.
By that time the Earl of Warwick had come to the relief of the prince, and the French, scattered by the charge, were flying in crowds towards Poictiers; but the citizens of Poictiers shut their gates, and would suffer no one to enter; and a fearful struggle took place on the causeway, where the French were so hard pressed that they surrendered without hesitation.
One party, however, who seemed to have no inclination to yield, were contending desperately with an Englishman of rank, whose violent temper had placed him in greatjeopardy. Indeed, he was not only sore beset, but beaten from his horse, and already with one knee on the ground. Nor could there be any mistake as to who he was. I had no doubts on that point. I knew at once, by his splendid armour, by his lion crest, and by the armorial bearings on his surcoat, that he was Roger, Lord De Ov; and, regarding him at that moment simply as an Englishman in peril of dying under the weapons of the enemies of his country, I shouted, "St. George! St. George!" and spurred in to the rescue. As I not only cleared a space around me by the vehemence of my charge, but sent the assailants, with one exception, flying back, my sword descended on a squire of prodigious strength, with such effect that he measured his length on the ground.
"Yield thee, Sir Squire!" said I, leaping from my steed.
"What is your name, and who are you?" asked he somewhat fiercely.
"My name is Arthur Winram, and I am a squire of England," I answered.
"I surrender to you," said the squire: and, as he rose, I recognised Eustace the Strong, whom I had seen at the Castle of Mount Moreville, and who had performed the feat of carrying the ass, with its panniers full of billets, into the hall, and flinging it on the dogs of the hearth.
"In truth, Eustace," said I, after we exchanged greeting, "it is strange that you should be my prisoner, and still stranger that I should have taken you while rescuing my worst enemy."
Meanwhile Lord De Ov had recovered his feet, and as I turned round, he was regarding me with a scowl of hate.
"Varlet!" said he, "deem not that I hold myself in the least measure grateful to you; for I swear by my father's soul that I would rather have died ten deaths than owed life to your interference."
"My lord," replied I, as I prepared to mount my horse and conduct my prisoner to a place of safety, "you owe no gratitude to me for saving your life, for I can easily understand how miserable the life of such as you are must be, with kindred blood shed by your father on your hands, and on your conscience the crime of having robbedthe widow and disinherited the orphan. Come, my lord, you see I am better informed as to the state of your mind than you supposed."
"Dog!" exclaimed he, as furious with rage, he drew his sword, "draw, and let us fight it out! I can no longer brook the sight of you, or tread the same earth, or breathe the same air."
But I folded my arms on my breast, and gazed at him with a calm scorn before which his eye fell and the point of his sword dropped.
"Nevertheless, Lord Roger De Ov," said I, "such penance you must continue to do for the sins of your father and your own until it is my good pleasure to relieve you. The time is not yet come; but it will some day; and then may God have mercy on your soul, proud lord, for your body will be mine!"
And, leaving him standing as if transfixed to the ground, I sprang upon my steed, and rode away with Eustace the Strong towards the spot where the prince had placed his banner on a bush and caused his squires to pitch his red pavilion.
I have mentioned, in an earlier part of my narrative, that, when John of Valois was on his way from Paris to Poictiers to intercept the Prince of Wales, some Scottish nobles and knights, including Lord Douglas, Sir Archibald Douglas, and Sir William Ramsay, who had assumed the Cross and were under a vow to repair to the Holy Land, so far forgot the oaths they had taken as to come and offer their swords to aid the cause of France; and I have said that they were gladly welcomed by their ancient allies. Moreover, they were treated with high distinction, and, on the day of battle, Lord Douglas and the Scots were assigned an honourable post in that battalion of the French army which John of Valois commanded in person, and in the conflict they fought bravely. But, when defeat stared the French in the face, LordDouglas, who had by no means anticipated such a close to an enterprise in favour of which the odds were so great, and into which he had thrown his energies, became excessively alarmed, and nervously eager to escape.
"By St. Bride!" said he, "I dread so much falling into the hands of the English, that, rather than become their prisoner, I should elect to die at once."
Accordingly, Lord Douglas, when he saw that the engagement must end in the discomfiture of the French, lost no time in attempting to save himself by flight, and, with many of his companions, succeeded in escaping. But some of his friends had no such good fortune. Both Sir Archibald Douglas and Sir William Ramsay were taken prisoners; and the former being in magnificent armour, was naturally supposed by his captors to be some great lord who could pay an immense ransom.
Nothing, indeed, but the extraordinary presence of mind which was displayed by his comrade in captivity could have saved Sir Archibald Douglas from the inconvenience of enduring a long imprisonment, or paying a large ransom.
But in this wise did Ramsay contrive to set his companion in arms at liberty.
It was several hours after the battle had been won and the victory secured, and the English were about to disencumber Archibald Douglas of his sumptuous armour, when Ramsay, stepping suddenly forward, eyed his fellow-prisoner with a look of fierce indignation, and, pretending to be in a violent rage, seized him by the collar.
"You impudent rapscallion!" said he, affecting to treat Douglas as a servant, "how comes it, in the name of the fiend, that you are thus decked out in your master's armour?"
Douglas, perceiving the scheme at a glance, did not answer, but looked the picture of convicted imposture and conscious guilt.
"Come hither, knave, and pull off my boots," continued Ramsay, determined to lose no time in executing the project so well conceived.
Nor did Douglas fail to play his part skilfully. In fact, perceiving that his escape was becoming almost a matter of certainty, he approached as if trembling, and, kneelingdown, pulled off one of the boots; and, while he was busy with the other, Ramsay, seizing that which was on the ground, beat him soundly.
"How is this?" asked the English who were present; "surely the person whom you have just beaten is a lord of high rank?"
"What!" cried Ramsay with the utmost scorn, "do you call him a lord? He is a scullion and a base knave, and I warrant he has rifled his master's corpse. Go, you villain, to the field, search for the body of my cousin, your master, and when you have found it return hither, that I may give him decent burial."
"But his ransom?" said the English.
"Well," answered Ramsay, "I will pay the sum of forty shillings, which is more than he is worth—body, bones, and all."
Not entertaining the slightest suspicion of the trick that was being played at their expense, the English accepted the ransom that was offered, and Ramsay, having once more soundly buffeted his comrade, sent him about his business.
"Get you gone, sirrah!" cried he, pushing him roughly away; and then whispered, "Fly!"
Douglas did not require a second hint.
Now it happened that Eustace the Strong had been quartered in the same place as the Scots; and, knowing well who they were, he was greatly diverted with the scene that was enacted before his eyes; and, when I visited him somewhat later, he talked merrily on the subject.
"What?" asked I; "mean you that the Scot has escaped without paying his ransom?"
"In truth," replied Eustace, "he has escaped, but his ransom has been paid for him, and it amounted to forty shillings; and, certes, Sir Squire, if you would name as moderate a ransom for me, I should not long continue your prisoner; for I have a wife at home who is an Englishwoman, and I would not that she fancied her countrymen had cut me into mincemeat."
"On my faith, Eustace," said I, "I cannot do you the injustice of rating you too low; but I will, at sunrise, name such a ransom as you can easily pay without hurtingyour fortune, and you can have your liberty to-morrow if you promise to pay the amount to me before Christmas, at Bordeaux."
"Thanks for your courtesy," replied Eustace gladly; "and, trust me, I will not fail to requite it."
"And now," said I, "if I could only reclaim the Scottish bird that has flown!"
"Archibald Douglas is too knowing a bird to let you put salt on his tail, under the circumstances," answered Eustace; "as well try to catch a wandering star."