Cressy and Poictiers

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 and slaying 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."

CHAPTER LXII

THE PRINCE IN THE BATTLE

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 more of 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 courage and 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 not think 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.

CHAPTER LXIII

ADVENTURES IN THE FIELD

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!"

CHAPTER LXIV

A ROYAL CAPTIVE

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 was pulled 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, this day, 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.

CHAPTER LXV

HOW I RESCUED MY WORST ENEMY

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.