The King Without a Kingdom (39 page)

The Prince of Wales put on a show of getting up to serve the King of France himself and to pour him wine in abundance.

‘Eat, dear sire, if you please. Have no regrets doing so. Because if God has not consented to your will and if the effort did not turn in your favour, you have won great renown for prowess, and your heroic deeds have surpassed the greatest. Certainly monseigneur my father will honour you as much as is in his power, and will come to such a reasonable agreement with you that you will remain good friends together. In truth, everyone here acknowledges the true worth of your bravery, as in this respect you are victorious over us all.’

That set the tone. King John relaxed. His left eye bruised black and blue, and a gash in his lower forehead, he responded to the polite remarks of his host. King-knight, it mattered to him to show himself this way in defeat. On the other tables, voices were rising. After having clashed so brutally with each other with swords or axes, the seigneurs of both sides, at present, were falling over each other with compliments.

They commemorated out loud the various episodes of the battle. They couldn’t stop singing the praises of the daring of the young Prince Philip, who, sated with food after this hard day, nodded gently on his chair and slid off into sleep.

And it was the time of reckoning. Besides the grands seigneurs, dukes, counts and viscounts of which there were around twenty, they had counted amongst the prisoners more than sixty barons and bannerets; mere knights, equerries and bacheliers could not be accounted for. More than a couple of thousand assuredly; the total would only be known with accuracy the following day.

The dead? Their numbers must have been about the same. The prince ordered that those already gathered together be carried the following dawn to the Monastery of the Frères Mineurs of Poitiers, at the head of which procession the bodies of the Duke of Athens, the Duke of Bourbon, the Count-Bishop of Châlons, to be buried with all the pomp and honour they deserved. What a procession! Never will a monastery have seen so many rich and important men arrive in one single day. What a fortune, in Masses and donations, would rain down on the Frères Mineurs! And as much again on the Frères Prêcheurs.
67

I will tell you straight away that they had to dig up cobblestones in the nave and the cloister of two monasteries to bury beneath, on two floors, Geoffroy of Charny, Rochechouart, Eustache of Ribemont, Dance of Melon, John of Montmorillon, Seguin of Cloux, La Fayette, La Rochedragon, La Rochefoucault, La Roche Pierre de Bras, Oliver of Saint-Georges, Imbert of Saint-Saturnin, and I could go on citing more and more names by the score.

‘Do we know what has become of the archpriest?’ asked the king.

The archpriest was wounded, the prisoner of an English knight. How much was the archpriest worth? Did he have a big castle, a lot of land? his victor enquired shamelessly. No. A small manor house in Vélines. But the fact that the king had named him raised his price.

‘I will pay his ransom,’ said John II who, without yet knowing how much he himself was going to cost France, began once more to play the high and mighty.

Then Prince Edward replied: ‘For your sake, sire my cousin, I will redeem this archpriest myself, and give him back his freedom, if you so wish.’

Voices rose around the tables. The wines and meats, greedily swallowed, went to the heads of these tired men, who had eaten nothing since the morning. Their assembly had something of a court repast after the grand tournaments and of the cattle market all at the same time.

Morbecque and Bertrand of Troy hadn’t stopped arguing over the king’s capture. ‘It was I, I tell you!’

‘No it wasn’t; I was upon him, you pushed me aside!’

‘To whom did he offer up his gauntlet?’

In any case, the ransom, certainly enormous, would not be going to them, but to the King of England. A king’s capture belongs to the king. What they were fighting about was to know who would receive the pension that King Edward would not fail to grant. It makes one wonder if they wouldn’t have benefited more, at least financially if not honourably, in taking a rich baron whom they could have shared. Because prizes were being shared out, if two or three of them were on the same prisoner. Or exchanges. ‘Give me Sire de la Tour; I know him, he is a relative of my good wife. I will give you Mauvinet whom I captured. You stand to gain; he is Seneschal of Touraine.’

And suddenly King John banged on the table with the flat of his hand.

‘My sires, my good lords, I intend that everything between you and those who have captured us should take place according to honour and nobility. God wanted that we be defeated, but you can see the respect that has been proven to us. We must uphold chivalry. May no one take it into their head to flee or to forfeit their word, as I will hold them in contempt.’

One would have thought that he was in command, this crushed man, and he was using all of his loftiness to invite his barons to be most scrupulous once in captivity.

The Prince of Wales, who was pouring him the wine of Saint-Émilion, thanked him. King John found him most pleasant, this young man. How attentive he was, what beautiful manners he had. King John would have liked that his sons resemble him! He couldn’t resist, helped on by the drink and fatigue, asking him: ‘Did you ever meet Monsieur of Spain?’

‘No, dear sire; I only confronted him at sea.’ The prince was courteous; he could have said: ‘I defeated him …’

‘He was a good friend. You remind me of him, his appearance and bearing.’ And suddenly, with spitefulness in his voice: ‘Don’t ask me to release my son-in-law Navarre; that, against my life, I will never do.’

King John II, for a moment, had shown greatness, really, a very brief moment, in the instant that followed his capture. He had shown the greatness of extreme misfortune. And now he was returning to his true nature: behaviour corresponding to his exaggerated self-image, poor judgement, futile concerns, shameful passions, absurd impulses and lingering hatreds.

In a certain way, captivity would not be to his disliking, a golden captivity because a royal captivity. This falsely triumphant character had achieved his true fate, which was to be defeated. No more, at least for a while, would he have the worries of government, the struggle against all adversity in his kingdom, the grief of giving orders that are never followed. At present, he is at peace; he can call as his witness these heavens that have been adverse, wrap himself in his misfortune and pretend to bear with nobility the pain of a destiny that suits him so well. May others take on the burden of leading a restive people! We will see if they can manage to do any better.

‘Where are you taking me, my cousin?’ he asked.

‘To Bordeaux, dear sire, where I will give you a fine house, supplies, and feasts to delight you, until you can come to an agreement with the king, my father.’

‘Can there be delight for a captured king?’ answered John II already mindful of his character.

Ah! Why hadn’t he accepted, at the beginning of that day in Poitiers, the terms that I brought him? Has such a king ever been seen before in a position where he can win everything in the morning, without drawing his sword, who can establish his law once more over a quarter of his kingdom, simply by appending his signature and affixing his seal on the treaty that his hounded enemy offers him, and who refuses, and on that very evening finds himself prisoner.

A yes instead of a no. The irreparable act. Like that of the Count of Harcourt, going back up the stairs in Rouen instead of walking out of the castle. John of Harcourt lost his head because of it; here, it is the whole of France which may face agony.

The most surprising thing, and the most unfair, is that this absurd king, persistent only in ruining his luck, and who was unloved before Poitiers, has soon become, because he is defeated, because he is captive, an object of admiration, pity and love for his people, for a part of his people. John the Brave, John the Good.

And it all started at the prince’s supper. Although they had this king to blame for everything, he who had led them to misfortune, the prisoner barons and knights exalted his courage, his magnanimity, what else? The defeated were giving themselves a clear conscience and a fine appearance. When they came home, their families having bled themselves dry, and having bled their peasants dry to pay their ransoms, they will say, you can be certain of it, with arrogance: ‘You were not, like me, with our King John.’ Ah! They will tell the tale of that day in Poitiers!

At Chauvigny, the dauphin, who was having a sad meal in the company of his brothers and waited on by only a few servants, was informed that his father was alive, but captive. ‘It is up to you to govern, at present, monseigneur,’ Saint-Venant tells him.

In the past, to my knowledge, there have been no eighteen-year-old princes who have had to take over the helm in such a sorry situation. A father taken prisoner, nobility diminished by defeat, two enemy armies camped out in the country, as Lancaster is still there above the Loire, several provinces laid to waste, no finances, grasping, divided and hated advisors, a brother-in-law in a fortress but whose most active partisans are raising their heads more than ever, a simmering capital that a handful of ambitious bourgeois is inciting to riot. Add to this that the young man is of sickly disposition, and that his conduct in battle did nothing to improve his reputation.

At Chauvigny, still that same evening, as he had decided to return to Paris by the shortest route, Saint-Venant asked him: ‘Which title, monseigneur, should give to your person those who will speak in your name?’ and the dauphin answered: ‘The one I have, Saint-Venant, the one designated me by God: lieutenant general of the kingdom.’ Which were wise words indeed.

That was three months ago. Nothing is completely lost, but neither does anything show any sign of improvement, quite the contrary. France is coming undone. And in less than a week we are to find ourselves in Metz, where I really don’t see, I must confess, what great good could come out of it, except for the emperor, nor what great work could be accomplished there, between a lieutenant of the kingdom, but who is not the king, and a pontifical legate, who is not the pope.

Do you know what I have just been told? The season is so fine, and the days so warm in Metz, where they are expecting more than three thousand princes, prelates and seigneurs, that the emperor, if this mild spell continues, has decided that he will give the Christmas feast outdoors, in a walled garden.

To dine outside at Christmas, in Lorraine, one more thing that had never before been seen!

1
. The Holy See was in Avignon from 1309 to 1378, moved there by Clement V, a French pope who wanted to stay in France and who built a papal palace in Provence. Gregory XI left Avignon and returned the Holy See to Rome, the Vatican, where it remains today.

2
. Fratricelles, Fraticelles or Fraticelli were members of the mendicant orders of Franciscan monks; Gyrovagues were also a type of wandering monk.

3
. Coutiliers were knife-bearing foot soldiers or armed guards; army valets or batmen were initially referred to as goujats, the term now meaning boor or churl.

4
. The Golden Seal of the Holy Roman Empire, a spherical, symbolic object, also known as the Golden Bull; both terms usually refer to the imperial ordinances, edicts or laws of the Empire.

5
. My lord of Spain; the title of monsieur usually designated the king’s oldest living brother.

6
. Louis X, called the Quarreller, the Headstrong or the Stubborn (Hutin in French).

7
. ‘
De jure
or
de facto
’ means well grounded in law or in fact (legitimately or effectively).

8
. The galero is the ecclesiastical scarlet hat worn by cardinals.

9
. The County or Country of Dauphiny, formerly known as the Viennois.

10
. Janissaries were soldiers of the Ottoman army.

11
. Demoiselle, a maiden or young noblewoman.

12
. Chatellanies or castellanies were the smallest division of land in medieval times.

13
. The écu was a large gold coin similar to the franc d’or, whereas sols, deniers, pounds and gros were all silver coinage.

14
. The Spinning Sow, from the French La Truie qui File, a not unusual name for an inn at the time.

15
. Machine here refers to the contraptions – catapults or trebuchets for example – used in siege warfare.

16
. Quarteniers commanded each quartier or neighbourhood, while cinquanteniers and dizainiers ran subdivisions of those quartiers.

17
. The Langue d’Oil or the northern provinces which spoke the Oil dialect, and the Langue d’Oc, or the southern provinces, specifically the Occitan region, which spoke the Oc dialect.

18
. La chambre des comptes.

19
. Canons Regular were priests living under Augustinian rule, i.e. in society rather than in a monastery.