I Serve (25 page)

“
Aye,” said Charny, with a little bit of regret in his tone. “It is a large sum. I shall not see the like of it again in a hurry.”

“
A pity,” said the prince with a smile that could not help being triumphant. “For if Potenhale has his wits about him, he will not ransom you for less than that price. And where is that to be come by? From your
r
oi
Philippe
? No, my good sir, I think you shall be with us for some while.”

The king, in his ordering of events, had not forgotten to give orders for a magnificent feast to follow the hard fought hours of the night. And so it was, that while the town folk were rising from their beds to pursue their daily labors, the king and all his men were sitting down to eat with their nocturnal work accomplished. The king himself sat at the head of the feast, bareheaded except for a chaplet of pearls. At the table on either side of him sat the most prominent of the French prisoners, knights of worth who had been captured in the failed enterprise.

With ironic hospitality, the king commanded the prince and all our English knights to serve food to the French captives before sitting down at our own table. “They thought to make servants of us tonight,” said the king. “Let them not be disappointed.” I smiled grimly as I carved the roast venison for our prisoners. Some looked ashamed as I placed a portion of meat upon their trencher, others declined the meat with ill grace, but Sir Geoffroi de Charny looked me boldly in the eye and gave me gramercy for the food.

When they had finished eating, the king stepped down from his chair and greeted his honored guests one by one. He commended them for their bravery, albeit misguided, and saluted their conduct in arms. When he came to Charny, however, his kindly look vanished. His tone changed color like an autumn leaf, and he would not give the French captain his hand. “I have little reason to like you, Sir Geoffroi,” the king said coolly. “Last night you tried to steal from me what has cost me so much money and labor to gain. You thought to get it for twenty thousand crowns—cheaper than I did. But by God’s help, you have been disappointed.”

Charny said nothing; there was nothing to be said. Edward continued on down the table of French knights to where Sir Eustace de Ribemont sat. Sir Eustace was close in rank to Charny, and though his reputation was not as brilliant, his name was at least known to the king. He was one of the four knights that had surrounded Edward on the causeway, just prior to the timely arrival of the prince and his party.

“
Ah, Sir Eustace,” said the king in a voice markedly different than that which he had spoken to Charny. “You are the most valiant knight I ever saw. I never yet found anybody, who, man to man, gave me so much to do as you did today. I adjudge to you, above all the knights of my court, the prize of valor.” With exaggerated courtesy, His Majesty removed the chaplet of pearls from his head and placed it on the brow of Sir Eustace. “I beg you to wear this for a year, Sir Knight, in whatever place you may go. And tell all ladies and damsels that I gave this coronet to you as a reward for your prowess. I release you from prison and ransom. You may leave tomorrow and go where you wish.” The king finished with a meaningful look at Charny. “But not so the rest of you. You must bide in our hospitality across the sea until such time as your natural lord makes free to ransom you.”

*****

The prince spoke true when he said that your husband would not be ransomed immediately. Indeed, it was well over a year before Charny returned to his homeland. In France, as well as in England, the ravages of the plague had lessened the number of laborers and raised the price of grain. Every nobleman’s estate was hampered, and a ransom of twenty thousand crowns was too costly to be come by without the help of the royal coffers. But any appeal to the French king must wait till the season of mourning had passed. The year 1350 saw the death of French Philip, and as the kingdom tottered unsteadily into the hands of his son John, Charny was all but forgotten in his gilded prison across the Channel.

After our return to England, I made a pilgrimage to Canterbury. The plague had begun to abate in London and the surrounding areas, but though the plague had abated, my anxieties had not. The triple witness of my father, the flagellant, and Bradwardine sat heavily on my heart. I had resolved to enter the cloister after the rescue of Calais. I would keep my resolution. When I reached Canterbury, the abbot consented to receive me as a novice. He instructed me to make my farewells and dispose of my possessions as best I might and so I returned to Windsor where the royal household was lodged.

It was the prince who first told Charny of my plans. “I pity your reputation, Sir Geoffroi,” he said. “In a month’s time it will fly abroad that your captor in England is no more than a tonsured monk. What think you of this? Sir Potenhale means to leave my service and take vows at Canterbury cloister!”

“
Is this true?” asked Charny, a look of surprise showing clearly in his open countenance.

“
Aye,” said I, expecting some words of remonstrance. My noble prisoner, however, kept his thoughts to himself, and unlike others who had sounded the current of my intention, he had no hint of ridicule in his eyes. The seeming folly of my plans was not lost on me. I had just captured one of the premier knights of France. Fame and fortune awaited me with open arms. Now—only now—was I worthy of Margery Bradeshaw. And now—only now—must I take the step that would push her from me altogether. But if it were folly to thrust aside this worldly glory, it were a worse folly to ignore the promptings of my soul. I could not continue to wear the heavy mantle of knighthood while it sunk me deeper and deeper into the miry abyss of the damned.

Charny refused to remonstrate with me, but as it came about, he was as concerned for my distress as is any abbot for the morals of his brethren. Later that evening, after the prince had retired, he sought out my company. I had gone up to the battlement to ponder my path. In former days I had shunned solitude, but of late I had acquired a penchant for it—what wonder when my thoughts were too ridiculous to be discussed, too foreign to be explained, and too incomprehensible to be understood. In the midst of my musings, Charny found me. He did not speak, but sat beside me as silent as the stone surrounding us. When he did open his mouth, it was not a question, but a simple statement about his past.

“
I once thought to take holy orders.”

“
You?” I asked in a tone verging on disbelief.

“
Aye,” he said. “Is that so strange?”

“
So strange that I hardly credit it,” answered I. “But assuredly it was in your youth—before you were knighted and became the most peerless chevalier in all of France.”

“
Nay,” said Charny. “It was not so long ago. I was in the prime of manhood and had fame and fortune already on my side.”

“
Why did you wish to join the cloister then?” I asked. “Was it fear?” I shuddered, for I could conceive of no other reason why a man would put aside this world, but fear of death, fear of doom, and fear of damnation.

“
Nay,” said Charny. “It was not fear, but love.”

I begged him to tell me the tale, and wrapping his cloak tightly around himself, he began the story of earlier days.

“
I was
en route
to the Holy Land, at Smyrna not far from Byzantium. I wore the Crusaders’ uniform in those days. I see your surprise at that. Aye, the days of the glorious Crusades may be past, but some Frenchmen still have a passion to protect the holy places of the East. Duke Humbert of Viennois had raised a small force for that very purpose, and asked me to accompany him. I was curious—is that not reason enough?—and so I went with him as far as Smyrna.

“
The Christians in Smyrna had just seized the city and stripped the minarets from the mosques. But the Turks were in no mood to be turned out. They came in force to regain the place. Outside its walls our little company met them, ready to strike a blow for Christendom against the ranks of the infidel. Duke Humbert is a good man, but his piety substituted poorly for a knowledge of Turkish tactics. Our little army was pushed back to Smyrna in trampled disarray. The walls were indefensible and the city could not be held. Before it fell we took ship for home, having broken the Turkish power not one whit. But though we gained no ground for Christendom, my time in the East was well spent. It was there in Smyrna that I came face to face with Christ.”

“
Face to face with Christ?” I echoed, confused how such a thing could be possible. And yet, I had heard that King Richard saw St. George in the Holy Land. “Was it a vision?” I asked.

“
Nay,” said Charny. “I saw him with these waking eyes. There was an old priest in Smyrna who had come from Jerusalem. It was he who showed me the Christ, giving me a gift I could never repay. I saw the weary brow, the wounded hands, the pierced feet. My soul went out to Him in love; I wanted nothing more than to renounce my arms and spend a life of holy contemplation of Him who was crucified so that I might live. On our return to France, I determined to take holy orders and so draw near the One who had revealed Himself so powerfully to me.”

“
But what happened then?” I cried out. “You are no monk today. Did this fire of divine love die within you?”

“
Patience,” said Charny, “and I will tell you all. It was on the return voyage that my mind was changed, but not through inconstancy as you may be imagining. The seas tossed roughly around the Aegean, and three times we were in peril of sinking. The Turks have pirate craft within those waters, and more than once they boarded us with hostile intent. The shores themselves boast no friendly harbors; one has as much to fear from the knife of an Italian
brigante
as the scimitar of the Saracen infidel.

“
In the midst of these perils, death was possible, or even probable. I confessed my sins in terror and prayed for deliverance to the Almighty. It was then that a thought came to me: no man has so great a need for a clear conscience as the man-at arms. The religious folk may pray, and fast, and faithfully perform their vows, but for them the spur to holy living lies only in the rules of their order. It is the knight and the soldier who has sorest need to be right with God, for it is the knight and the soldier who is in sorest peril of death. The fear of death is the most powerful motivator toward divine love, and it is the fear of death that the cloister itself lacks. The cloister is full of complacent men, who say ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow, and Christ will be here.’ They shuffle their sins under the rushes of the floor and do not feel the urgent need to wipe clean the house of the soul. But the more a man engages in arms, the more he will feel the foulness of his sin and the urgency to be purified of it. ‘Today,’ is the word on his lips, for who knows whether his enemy’s sword will send him that very hour before the great and awful Judge.”

“
But,” I objected, “It is the fear of that Judge that I would avoid. I seek a way to rid myself of the terror of damnation! I wake at night and feel my face in flames, while my body shivers uncontrollably in a vat of ice. I toss about from side to side. And whatever side I turn to, I feel the prickings and the stingings of a thousand little imps intent on tormenting me for my sins. In the day my sufferings increase the more, for I lay up more sins to put me in terror when I go to sleep again. And always is the dreadful torment of uncertainty—not to know what greater terror awaits me beyond the grave! This is the anguish I suffer, good knight. And would you have me remain in this wretched state?” I halted my ramblings and looked at him appealingly.

“
Come, Sir Potenhale, let me understand you: it is because of your sins that you are in fear of judgment? And it is to keep from sinning that you would join the cloister?”

“
Aye,” said I, for he had put into words my very feelings.

“
My counsel is this: it is far easier to keep from sinning if you do
not
join the cloister. Your soul will be safer in the constant peril of the battlefield than in the peaceful stagnation of a monastery. Remain a knight and keep your fear of judgment, for it is this fear that will keep your hands from doing evil, keep Christ ever present within your thoughts, and keep you on the path of salvation. Those who fear damnation will seldom stumble into it.”

I shifted uncomfortably. Fear of judgment was the thing I had been fleeing from, running like a panic-stricken doe from the hunter in the forest; Charny bade me cease fleeing, turn, and embrace the thing that pursued me. And to what purpose?

“
Sir Geoffroi,” I said solemnly, “I grant you that this fear of damnation might be beneficial to a holy man, but how will it aid an inveterate sinner? If a man fears damnation and continues in his sin nonetheless, what benefit is that fear to his soul. It makes him more culpable, does it not? He knew the truth and trampled upon it.”

Charny’s brow furrowed. “I have observed you for many weeks, Sir Potenhale, and I cannot believe that you are so inveterate a sinner as you would make yourself out to be. What sins are these that you continue to commit—despite the violent terror which urges you to do otherwise? Perhaps your conscience is too tender in this matter. Are you certain that they are sins?”

I told him many things: of the looted houses in La Hougue, of the untrained farmhands cut down at Caen, of the starving fugitives who perished outside Calais. “But Sir Potenhale,” said my prisoner. “You must not take the sufferings of the whole world upon yourself. All these things came about through the evils of war, and not through your own evil. These are calamities that befall us because of the use of the sword, and yet the use of the sword is not sin. When the disciple brought two swords before Our Lord, did He not approve of them by saying, ‘It is enough!’? There are times when it is right and proper for a knight to strike with violence.”