The King Without a Kingdom (34 page)

Ah! If the king had deigned to hear me in Breteuil, in Chartres … Now what could I answer, what did I have in my hand? I said to the prince that I couldn’t bring him any offer from the King of France as the latter, strong as he was, couldn’t think of peace before claiming the expected victory; but that I brought him the commandment of the pope, who wished him to cease bloodying the western kingdoms, and who begged the kings imperiously, I insisted, to agree to come to the aid of our brothers of Constantinople. And I asked him under what conditions England …

He was still watching the sun climb in the sky, and broke off the audience saying: ‘It is up to the king, my father, and not I, to decide on peace. I have no order from him authorizing me to negotiate on his behalf.’ Then he hoped I would forgive him if he travelled on ahead of me. All he had in mind was to distance the pursuing army. ‘Let me bless you, monseigneur,’ I said to him. ‘And I will stay close by, should it befall you to have need of me.’

You will say, my nephew, that I was taking away a most meagre catch in my nets, leaving Montbazon in the wake of the English army. But I wasn’t nearly as unhappy as you might think. The situation being what it was, I had snagged the fish and left it line enough. It all depended on the eddies of the river. I just had to stay close to the water’s edge.

The prince headed south, towards Châtellerault. On those days, the most astonishing cortèges moved along the roads of Touraine and Poitou. First of all, the army of the Prince of Wales, compact, rapid, six thousand men, always orderly, but a little out of breath all the same, and no longer dawdling or burning barns. It was rather the earth that seemed to be burning their mounts’ hooves. A day’s march later, the formidable army of King John sets off in pursuit, having regrouped, as he wanted, all the banners, almost, twenty-five thousand men, but holding together less well as he was pushing them too hard, wearing them out, and stragglers were soon falling behind.

And then, between English and French, following the former, preceding the latter, my little cortège putting a speck of purple and gold in the countryside. A cardinal between two armies, that is not oft to be seen! All the banners hurrying to war, and I, with my little escort, insisting on peace. My nephew of Durazzo stamps his feet impatiently; I sense that he is, as it were, ashamed to be escorting someone whose only prowess would be in preventing the combat. And my other knights, Hérédia, La Rue, all think the same. Durazzo tells me: ‘Just let King John thrash the English, and be done with it. Besides, what do you hope to prevent?’

Deep down I am rather of their opinion, but I will not give up. I can see that if King John catches up with Prince Edward, and he will catch up with him, he can only crush him. If it is not in Poitou, it will be in Angoumois.

Everything, all appearances, announced John as victorious. But these days, the stars are bad, very bad, I know it. And I wonder how he will endure their disastrous aspect in a situation where he has such a strong advantage. I tell myself that he will fight a victorious battle, but that he will be killed. Or that a malady will overcome him on the way …

Also progressing along the same route are the cavalcades of the latecomers, the Counts of Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon, the good fellows, always joyful and taking their time, but little by little making up distance on the main body of the French army. ‘Good people, have you seen the king?’

‘The king? He left La Haye this morning. And the Englishman? He slept there the night before.’

John II, as he follows his English cousin, is informed most exactly of his enemy’s path. The latter, feeling John hot on his heels, reaches Châtellerault, and there, to lighten his cavalcade and free up the bridge, he orders his personal convoy to cross the River Vienne by night, with all the carts bearing his furniture, his ceremonial saddlery, as well as all his spoils, the silks, the silverware, the ivories, the church treasures he looted during his
chevauchée
. And off towards Poitiers. At first light, he, his men-at-arms and his archers take the same route for a short way; then, even more cautious, he sends his people on shortcuts. He has made his calculations: bypass Poitiers via the east, where the king will be obliged to let his massive army rest; be it only for a few hours, still it will increase his lead.

What at that moment he doesn’t know is that the king has not taken the road to Châtellerault. With all of his chivalry led at hunting pace, he has headed off, even earlier than sunrise, towards Chauvigny, in an attempt to outflank his enemy and cut off his escape routes. He leads from the front, straight in his saddle, chin forward, without heeding anything at all, just as he’d ridden to the Banquet of Rouen. Another stretch of more than twelve leagues in one go.

Still following on behind, the three Seigneurs of Burgundy, Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon. ‘The king?’

‘To Chauvigny.’

‘Go then to Chauvigny!’ They are happy; they have almost caught up with the army; they will arrive in time for the kill.

They reach Chauvigny at nightfall; the huge castle looks down on the town at a bend in the River Vienne. There is an enormous gathering of troops, an unparalleled jam of carts and armour leading to the castle. Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon enjoy their creature comforts. They are not going to throw themselves into such a crush. What was the point of hurrying? Better have a good dinner, while our pages groom the mounts. Cervellières removed, greaves unlaced, they stretch and rub their backs and calves, and then sit down to eat at an inn not far from the river. Their equerries, knowing them to like their food, found them fish, as it is Friday. Next, they fall sleep – all this was told to me afterwards in detail – and they awake the next morning, late, in an empty, silent town. ‘Good people … the king?’ They’re pointed in the direction of Poitiers. ‘The shortest way?’

‘Via La Chaboterie.’

So now Châtillon, Joigny and Auxerre, dragging their lances behind them, set out at a good pace over the heathland pathways. Fine morning; the sun cuts through the branches, without beating down too hard. Three leagues are covered without difficulty. We will be in Poitiers in less than half an hour. And suddenly, at the intersection of two trails, they come face to face with sixty English scouts. They are more than three hundred. It is a godsend. Close our ventails, lower our lances. The English scouts – who are, I might add, people from Hainaut commanded by Messires of Ghistelles and Auberchicourt – turn around and break into a gallop. ‘Ah! The cowards, ah! The cowards! Go in pursuit, in pursuit!’

The pursuit doesn’t last long as, once the first copse is cleared, Joigny, Auxerre and Châtillon fall upon the main body of the English column, which closes in around them. Swords and lances clash for a moment. They fight well those Burgundians! But their enemy’s number swamps them. ‘Run to the king, run to the king, if you can!’ Auxerre and Joigny shout to their equerries, before being forced to dismount and surrender.

King John is already in the outskirts of Poitiers when those few of the Count of Joigny’s men who had been able to escape after a furious chase reach the king, out of breath, to tell him the tale. He congratulates them well. He is overjoyed. To have lost three great barons and their banners? No, of course not; but the price was not high for such good news. The Prince of Wales, whom he believed to be still ahead of him, is in fact behind. He has succeeded; he has cut him off. About turn for La Chaboterie. Take me there, my good men! In for the kill, the kill! He had just lived his finest day, King John.

And me, my nephew? Ah! I had followed the road from Châtellerault. I was to arrive in Poitiers, and stay at the bishop’s palace, where I was, in the course of the evening, informed of everything.

D
ON’T BE SURPRISED
in Metz, Archambaud, to see the dauphin pay homage to his uncle the emperor. Oh yes, for the Dauphiny, which falls in the imperial sphere of influence. No, no, I actively encouraged him to do so; it is even one of the pretexts for the journey! That doesn’t belittle France in the slightest, quite the opposite; it establishes rights over the kingdom of Arles, should one decide to restore it, since the Viennois used to be a part of it. And also it sets a good example for the English, to show them that king or son of a king, without humbling himself, can consent to pay homage to another sovereign, when parts of their states fall within the ancient suzerainty of the other.

It is the first time in a long while that the emperor seems resolved to favour France a little. Because up until now, and even though his sister Madame Bonne was King John’s first wife, he has rather favoured the English more. Hasn’t he appointed King Edward, who proved himself most deft with him, imperial vicar? The great victories of England and the humbling of France must have led him to reflect. An English empire alongside the empire would not be at all in his interests. That is always the way with the German princes; they do whatever they can to weaken France, and then they realize that this has brought them nothing, on the contrary.

I advise you, when we are before the emperor, and if we should come to talk of Crécy, do not dwell on the battle too much. In any case, don’t pronounce its name before the others. As, quite unlike his father John the Blind, the emperor, who wasn’t yet emperor, didn’t cut such a fine figure there. He fled, quite simply, let us not beat about the bush. But don’t speak too much about Poitiers either, a subject everybody must still be mindful of, and don’t think it necessary to extol the unfortunate bravery of the French knights, out of consideration for the dauphin, as neither did he distinguish himself by immoderate valour. It is one of the reasons why he has found it hard to establish his authority. Ah no! This will be no gathering of heroes. After all, he has his excuses, the dauphin; and if he is no man of war, it is not he who failed to seize the opportunity offered to his father …

I shall resume the tale of Poitiers, that no one can tell you more completely than I, you will soon understand why. We had got to Saturday evening, when the two armies know that they are right next to each other, almost touching, and the Prince of Wales understands that he cannot move any further.

Sunday, early in the morning, the king celebrates Mass outdoors, surrounded by fields. A Mass of war. He who is officiating wears mitre and chasuble over his coat of mail; it is Regnault Chauveau, the Count-Bishop of Châlons, one of those prelates more suited to military order than the religious orders. I see you smile, my nephew … yes, you say to yourself that I belong to the same kind; but I have learned to command myself, since God marked out my path for me.

For Chauveau, this kneeling army, in the dew-soaked meadows before the town of Nouaillé, must offer the vision of celestial legions. The bells of the Abbey of Maupertuis ring out in their big church tower. And the English, up on the hill, behind copses that hide them from view, hear the formidable
Gloria
that the knights of France sing out.

The king receives Communion surrounded by his four sons and his brother of Orléans, all in full battle attire. The marshals, understandably perplexed, watch the young princes, to whom they’ve had to give commands even though they had no experience of war at all. Yes, the princes are sources of worry for them. Haven’t all of them been brought along, down to the children, young Philip, the king’s preferred son, and his cousin Charles of Alençon? Fourteen, thirteen years old; what embarrassments are these dwarf-like suits of armour! Young Philip remains close to his father, who insists on watching over him personally; and the archpriest has been entrusted with the protection of young Alençon.

The constable has split the army into three large battalions. The first, thirty-two banners, is to fight under the command of the Duke of Orléans. The second, under the dauphin, Duke of Normandy, seconded by his brothers, Louis of Anjou and Jean de Berry. But in truth the command falls to Jean de Landas, Thibaut de Vodenay and the Sire of Saint-Venant, three men of war whose job is to stay close to the heir to the throne and keep him under control. The king would head up the third battalion.

He is hauled up into his saddle, onto his great white charger. He casts his eye over his army and marvels to see it so large and so beautiful. As far as the eye can see, helmets, lances side by side, in deep rows! Powerful horses, their heads nodding up and down and making their bits clink! From saddles hang the swords, the maces, the double-bladed axes. Banderoles and pennons float in glowing colours from the lances. Everywhere bright hues, painted on the shields and the targes, embroidered on the knights’ surcoats and their mounts’ caparisons! All of this in the rising clouds of dust gleaming, shimmering, shining forth under the morning sun.

Then the king steps forward and cries out: ‘My good sires, when you were amongst your own people in Paris, Chartres, Rouen or Orléans, you threatened the English and wished to confront them, bascinets
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upon your heads; now here you are, the time has come; I will show them to you. And I pray you will show them your talents and avenge the troubles and vexations they have caused us, because without fail we will beat them!’ And then after the enormous ‘May God take part! We will see Him!’ which answers him, he waits. He is waiting, before giving the order to attack, for the return of Eustache de Ribemont, the Bailiff of Lille and Douai, whom he sent with a small detachment to reconnoitre exactly the English position.