The King Without a Kingdom (35 page)

And the whole army waits, in a great silence. A difficult moment when one is poised to charge and the order takes its time coming. Because it is then that each one says to himself: ‘Perhaps it will be my turn today, perhaps I am seeing the earth for the last time.’ And under his steel chin piece each man has a lump in his throat; everyone commends himself to God even more earnestly than during Mass. The game of war suddenly becomes solemn and dreadful.

Messire Geoffroy de Charny bore the oriflamme of France; the king had given him the honour of carrying it and he looked transformed by it, so I was told.

The Duke of Athens seemed the most calm amongst them. He knew from experience that most of his work as constable he had completed beforehand. Once the battle commenced he would no longer be able to make out anything beyond two hundred paces nor would he make himself heard at more than fifty; equerries would be dispatched to him from the different parts of the battlefield, who would get to him, or not; and, to those who did find their way to him, he would shout an order that might, or might not, be executed. The fact that he was there, that one could send dispatches to him, that he made a gesture, shouted an approval; doing this he reassured the others. And perhaps a decision would have to be taken at a difficult moment. But in this great confusion of crashes and clamour, it would no longer really be he who commanded, but the will of God. And given the number of French, it seemed that God had already reached His verdict.

King John began to get angry when Eustache of Ribemont hadn’t come back. Might he have been captured, like Auxerre and Joigny yesterday? Good sense would favour sending out a second reconnaissance. But King John cannot bear to be kept waiting. He is seized with that irascible impatience that rises up inside him every time an event doesn’t immediately obey his will, and which renders him incapable of judging matters soundly. He is on the verge of giving the order to attack. Never mind, we will soon find out, when Messire of Ribemont and his patrol return at last.

‘So, Eustache, what news?’

‘Excellent, sire; you will have, God willing, great victory over your enemies.’

‘How many are they?’

‘Sire, we have seen and considered them. According to our estimation, the English could be two thousand men-at-arms, four thousand archers and fifteen hundred ribald fellows.’

The king, on his white charger, has a triumphant smile. He looks at the twenty-five thousand men, or almost, drawn up around him. ‘And how is their position?’

‘Ah! Sire, they occupy a strong place. We can rest assured that they have no more than one battalion, and a small one at that, compared to ours, but it is well ordered.’

And to describe how the English are installed, up on the hill, on either side of a steep pathway, bordered by thick hedges and bushes behind which they have lined up their archers. To attack them, there is no other way but by this path, where horses can pass only four abreast. On all other sides there are only vines and pinewoods where riding is not an option. The English men-at-arms, their mounts kept out of the way, are all on foot, behind the archers who screen them like a portcullis. And those archers will not be easy to defeat.

‘And how, Messire Eustache, do you advise us to proceed there?’

The whole army had its eyes turned towards the secret consultation which brought together around the king the constable, the marshals and the principal banner leaders. And the Count of Douglas as well, who hadn’t left the king’s side since Breteuil. There are guests, sometimes, that cost you dearly. William of Douglas says: ‘It is always on foot that we Scots have beaten the English.’ And Ribemont went one better, speaking of the Flemish militia. And here we are, at the hour of doing battle, starting to hold forth on the art of warfare. Ribemont has a proposal to make, for the strategy of attack. And William of Douglas approves. And the king invites all to listen to them, as Ribemont is the only one to have staked out the terrain, and because Douglas is the guest who has such good knowledge of the English.

Suddenly an order is cried out, passed on, repeated. ‘Dismount!’ What? After this great moment of tension and anxiety, during which each one prepared himself, deep down inside, to face death, we are not going to fight? There is almost a sort of wavering of disappointment. But of course you will fight, but on foot. Only three hundred armoured soldiers will remain on horseback, who will go, led by the two marshals, to break through the lines of the English archers. And the men-at-arms will immediately step into the breach and engage in hand-to-hand combat with the men of the Prince of Wales. The horses will be kept close by, for the chase.

Audrehem and Clermont are already scouring the banners’ front in order to choose the three hundred strongest, boldest, most heavily armed knights, who will mount the charge.

The marshals don’t look at all happy, as they haven’t even been invited to give their opinions. Clermont had attempted to make himself heard and asked that they think it over for a moment. The king rebuffed him. ‘Messire Eustache saw, and Messire of Douglas knows. What else could your speech bring us?’ What had been chatter between a scout and a guest has become the king’s plan. ‘Now you have only to appoint Ribemont marshal, and Douglas constable,’ mutters Audrehem.

For all those not taking part in the charge, dismount, dismount. ‘Remove your spurs, and cut your lances back to a length of five feet!’

Signs of ill humour and discontent within the ranks. We hadn’t come here for that, and why then dismiss the rank and file from Chartres, if we now have to do their job? And cutting down the lances broke the knights’ hearts. Beautiful shafts of ash, chosen carefully to be held, wedged against the targe, perfectly horizontal, at the same time ride off like a shot! Now they were going to be walking, weighed down with iron, carrying sticks. ‘Let us not forget that at Crécy …’ said those who in spite of everything wanted to prove the king right. ‘Crécy, always Crécy,’ replied the others.

These men who, half an hour earlier, were exalted in their souls with honour, were now grumbling like peasants with a broken axle on their cart. But the king himself, to set an example, had sent away his white charger and stood about on the grass, his heels spurless, tossing his mace from one hand to the other.

It is into the midst of this army busied chopping off their lances with saddle axes that, coming from Poitiers, I hurtled at a gallop, under the cover of the Holy See’s banner, escorted only by my knights and my finest scholars, Guillermis, Cunhac, Elie of Aimery, Hélie of Raymond, those with whom we are travelling. They are not about to forget! Didn’t they tell you?

I get down from my horse, throwing my reins to La Rue; I put my hat back on my head, because it had been swept down behind my back by the ride; Brunet smoothes down my robe and I approach the king with gloved hands joined together. I tell him straight away, with as much assurance as reverence: ‘Sire, I pray and beseech you, in the name of the faith, to defer combat a moment. I am come to address you upon the order and the will of our Holy Father. Would you grant me audience?’

He was very surprised by the arrival at such a moment of this intruder from the Church, but what could he do, King John, other than reply, in the same ceremonial tone: ‘With pleasure, Monseigneur Cardinal. What would you care to tell me?’

I remained a moment my eyes raised to heaven as if I were praying for inspiration. And I was indeed praying; but I was also waiting for the Duke of Athens, the marshals, the Duke of Bourbon, Bishop Chauveau in whom I thought I had found an ally, Jean de Landas, Saint-Venant, Tancarville and several others, including the archpriest, to come closer. As now it was no longer a matter of words exchanged in private or conversations at dinner, like in Breteuil or Chartres. I wanted to be heard, not only by the king, but also by the most important men in France, that they may be witnesses of my efforts.

‘Most gracious sire,’ I continued, ‘you have here the flower of your kingdom’s chivalry, in their multitude, against but a handful, compared to you, of the English. They cannot hold out against your strength; and it would be more honourable for you that they put themselves at your mercy without battle, rather than chancing all of this chivalry, and watching good Christians perish on both sides. I am telling you this on the order of our Most Holy Father the pope, who has sent me as his apostolic nuncio, with all his authority, to help bring peace, according to God’s commandment which seeks it between all Christian peoples. And I also ask you to allow, in the name of the Lord, that I ride to the Prince of Wales, to explain to him the danger you hold him in, and to talk reason to him.’

If he had been able to bite me, King John, I believe he would have done so. But a cardinal on the battlefield doesn’t fail to impress. And the Duke of Athens nodded his head, as did the Marshal of Clermont, and Monseigneur of Bourbon. I added: ‘Most gracious sire, it is Sunday, the day of the Lord, and you have just heard Mass. Would you care to postpone the work of death on the day dedicated to the Lord? At least acquiesce that I go and talk to the prince.’

King John looked at his seigneurs all around him and understood that he, the most Christian king, could not but defer to my request. If some grievous accident were to occur, he would be held responsible and God’s punishment would therein be seen manifested.

‘So be it, monseigneur,’ he says to me. ‘It pleases us to agree to your wish. But return without delay.’

I had then a flush of pride, may the Good Lord forgive me. I knew I embodied the supremacy of the man of the Church, prince of God, over the three worldly realms. Had I been Count of Périgord instead of your father, never would I have been invested with such power. And I thought I was accomplishing the task of my life.

Still escorted by my lances, still signalled by the papal banner, I headed up the hill, by the path that Ribemont had scouted, in the direction of the small wood where the Prince of Wales’ base camp was.

‘Prince, my fine son,’ yes, this time, when I was before him, I no longer accorded him his monseigneur, to make him better feel his weakness … ‘If you had correctly estimated the power of the King of France as I have just done, you would allow me to attempt a convention between you, and bring you to agreement, if I may.’ And I enumerated the army of France that I had been able to contemplate before the town of Nouaillé. ‘Look where you are, and how many you are, do you really believe that you will be able to hold out long?’

No indeed, he would not be able to hold out for long, and he knew it well. His only advantage was the terrain; his entrenchment was the very best one could find. But his men had already begun to suffer from thirst, as there was no water on that hill; they would have needed to be able to go and draw it from the stream, the Miosson, down below; and the French held it. He had scarcely enough supplies to last one day. He had lost his handsome white smile beneath his Saxon moustache, the ravaging prince! If he hadn’t been who he was, amidst his knights, Chandos, Grailly, Warwick, Suffolk, who were watching him closely, he would have admitted what they were all thinking, that their situation allowed for hope no longer. Unless a miracle took place, and the miracle, perhaps it was I who was bringing it to him. Nevertheless, for grandeur’s sake, he argued a little: ‘I told you in Montbazon, Monseigneur of Périgord, I am unable to negotiate without the order of my father the king.’

‘Noble prince, above the order of kings, there is the order of God. Neither your father King Edward on his throne of London, nor God on the throne of Heaven would forgive you the loss of so many good lives, of the brave men put into your protection, if you can act otherwise. Will you accept to discuss the conditions by which you could, without loss of honour, spare yourself a most cruel and uncertain battle?’

Black armour and red robe face to face. The three-feathered helmet questioned my red hat and seemed to be counting the silk tassels. Eventually the helmet made a sign of assent.

Hurtling down Eustache’s path, where I made out the English archers in close ranks behind the stockades of stakes they had planted, there I was back before King John. I arrived in the middle of a discussion, and I understood, by certain looks that greeted me, that not everyone had had good words to say about me. The archpriest rocked backwards and forwards, raw-boned, mocking, under his Montauban hat.

‘Sire,’ I said, ‘I have indeed seen the English. You have no need to be too hasty in fighting them, and you will lose nothing by resting a little, because, positioned where they are, they cannot flee or escape you. I think in truth that you could have them without meeting the slightest opposition. Consequently I ask you to grant them respite until tomorrow, at sunrise.’

Without meeting the slightest opposition … I saw several of them, like the Count John of Artois, Douglas, Tancarville himself, flinch at the word respite and shake their heads. Opposition was what they wanted and they wanted to meet it. I insisted: ‘Sire, grant your enemy nothing if you like, but grant God His day.’

The constable and the Marshal of Clermont were inclined to favour this suspension of hostilities. ‘Let us wait and see, sire, what the Englishman has to offer and what we can demand in return; we have nothing to lose.’ On the other hand, Audrehem, oh! Simply because Clermont was of one opinion, he was of another, said, loud enough for me to hear: ‘So are we here for battle or to listen to a sermon?’ Eustache of Ribemont, because his combat strategy had been adopted by the king, and as he was keen to see it implemented, urged an immediate engagement.

And Chauveau, the Count-Bishop of Châlons who wore a helmet in the shape of a mitre, painted purple, suddenly gets restless, almost losing his temper.

‘Is it the duty of the Church, Messire Cardinal, to let plunderers and traitors walk free unpunished?’ There, I get a little angry. ‘Is it the duty of a servant of the Church, Messire Bishop, to refuse God a truce? Please learn, if you don’t know it, that I have the power to strip any ecclesiastic of his office and benefices who should impede my efforts for peace. Providence punishes the presumptuous, messire. So leave the king the honour of showing his greatness, should he so wish. Sire, you hold everything in your hands; God decides through you.’