The Three Edwards (60 page)

“Sirs,” he cried, “there stands the Captal, as gallant a knight as can be found today on all the earth. Set we then a-horseback thirty of ours, the most skillful and the boldest. They shall give heed to nothing but to make straight to the Captal, so they may carry him off amongst them and lead him some whither in safety and hold him till the end of the battle. If he can be taken, the day is ours!”

The plan succeeded. Thirty armed men suddenly broke through the ranks about the Captal. His mighty battle-ax could not prevail against
such odds and he was carried off a prisoner. The mighty Du Guesclin proceeded then to shatter his leaderless forces.

This proved to be a great blow to the pride of the gallant Captal. There was not an Englishman with him and he had hoped to demonstrate the greatness of the Gascons.

He was ransomed and had his revenge at the battle of Navarrete, where Du Guesclin was captured and placed in his custody. Years later he was taken by the French and because he refused to break his oath of allegiance to the English prince he was held in a French prison until he died.

Jean de Grailly was chivalrous in every respect and so deserves to be classed with the two English knights who stand at the head of the paladins of that period, neither of whom had taken any part in the peacetime marauding of the Free Companies, Sir John Chandos and Sir Walter Manny.

One of the few intimate glimpses that history affords of Sir John Chandos was early in his career. A Spanish fleet had been ravaging the English coast. They were an arrogant lot, the Spaniards, fully convinced they could sweep the seas of any English fleet which might venture out against them. Nevertheless, the ships of the royal navy had come out, with King Edward himself and many of his leading people on the cog
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. Having disposed of the French navy at Sluys, the English were not too apprehensive; and yet there was some doubt, for a tradition of invincibility surrounded the Iberian fleet and at close range their ships seemed monstrous and most amazingly equipped. There was tension, a tendency to stiff lips and clenched fists, among the group about the king.

Beside the king stood Sir John Chandos, a tall lath of a man with an extraordinary face; completely clean-shaven, with a hawklike quality and an eye puckered in blindness from a battle wound (not covered with a patch, for there was no hint of vanity in Sir John); an air about him of austerity and a hint of deep spirituality. A band of minstrels had been brought aboard, perhaps to raise the spirits of the crew, and they were pounding out a light tune which Chandos himself had brought back from Germany.

An idea occurred to the king. It would please him much, he said, if Chandos would sing the song with the minstrels. The knight nodded and climbed to the poop deck (or whatever equivalent they had at the time), where he lined up with the musicians. Like a great cavalry leader of a
much later date, the Confederate general Jeb Stuart, Chandos was quite an accomplished minstrel himself, with a high, clear voice. He threw himself into the song with complete nonchalance, as though there was not a Spanish sail on the skyline. He could be heard all over the ship and on some of the other vessels of war, for fleets were disposed to sail in close formation. The musicians set themselves to their work, feet began to tap to the tune all over the cog
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, and, when the knight had finished, any tendency to tension had vanished.

The brave tars settled to their work with complete confidence and gave the Spaniards a thorough drubbing.

Sir John Chandos was a true knight. He would have been chivalrous if the code had never been invented. It was born in him; but it went much deeper with him because it not only committed him to extremes of bravery but filled his soul with compassion for people in all ranks of life and gave him the inner courage to stand by his beliefs.

Some of his career has already been covered through the preceding narrative, particularly the historic moment when he and the Black Prince mounted their horses and led the drive to victory down the vine-clad slopes of Poictiers. He was probably the closest friend the prince possessed and he was consulted on most matters. Sometimes the heir to the throne listened to the candid advice of Chandos, but on two occasions he did not; and both times it soon became apparent that the austere knight was right.

When the peace of Bretigny had been signed, King Edward rewarded Chandos with the St. Sauvier estates in Normandy and the latter settled down there, believing the wars to be over. He had also been appointed, however, as lieutenant and regent of King Edward in France. This soon involved him in more fighting and, incidentally, led to the greatest achievement of his life.

The succession in Brittany was still unsettled. Charles of Blois, who was not a soldier by choice, had an ambitious and arrogant wife. The latter would not agree to any compromise which did not bring Brittany undivided to her and her heirs. “Either you shall be duchess or I will die in the cause,” declared her husband. So he brought a French force to the castle of Auray which was being besieged by the Montfort adherents under the command of Sir John Chandos. The Blois forces included a remarkable knight, Sir Bertrand du Guesclin, who was destined to become constable of France and the best-remembered figure in French medieval history. A great day, then, in the annals of warfare, England’s true knight and France’s future constable, facing each other for the first time at this little and not too important castle!

Sir John, who had become accustomed to the bad generalship of the French, was astonished to discover at once that this young Du Guesclin
knew what war was about. The French lines were vigorously directed, but in the end Chandos prevailed. Charles of Blois, absurdly conspicuous in a white ermine cloak, was killed and his men fell into a panic. Bertrand du Guesclin, armed with a huge iron hammer, continued the fight almost singlehanded until Chandos, finding his way through the melee, cried to him: “Messire Bertrand, the day is against you. Yield to me.”

Later Du Guesclin was asked to set the amount of his own ransom. To the astonishment of everyone, he named the enormous sum of one hundred thousand crowns. It was not pride which caused him to agree on this figure. “I know a hundred knights in my native land who would mortgage their last acre rather than Du Guesclin should languish in captivity or
be rated below his value
.” This may have been true, but it is said that Queen Philippa, when informed of what had happened, cut the figure in half; and he was brought out of captivity for fifty thousand crowns. Another lady had figured in the story of the battle of Auray, Du Guesclin’s beautiful but fay wife, Typhaine, who tried to prevent the clash because her tablets of the stars said it would be a bad day for him. Chandos had no wife to play any part in this, his greatest military achievement. He remained single all his life because he had no time for matrimony and perhaps also because of an admiration for the fair sex so general that he could not find one to exclude all others from his mind.

It was three years after the victory at Auray that the Black Prince involved himself in the dynastic struggles in Castile. Pedro the Cruel, a beast in human guise, had so alienated his subjects that they rose in rebellion, as already told, under Henry of Trastamara. Thrown off the throne, Pedro appealed to the Black Prince. Edward was not in the best of health and his life might have been prolonged had he remained peacefully at Bordeaux, the home he loved above all others. But it was not hard to convince him that it was his duty to support a rightful king against his rebellious subjects. This was the first occasion when the fervent arguments of Chandos were disregarded. He had good company in opposition, for the one-time Fair Maid of Kent, now the Princess of Wales, was also against any interference; even though Pedro, to win her over, presented her with a table of gold so large that it had to be carried on the shoulders of four men.

Chandos was Edward’s man, however, so he went along in command of one division of the army which the Black Prince led across the Pyrenees and he had his part in the defeat of the army of Henry of Trastamara at the battle of Navarrete.

The second occasion for disagreement between them arose soon after. Chandos realized how unpopular the hearth tax would be and begged the prince to change his mind. Sick and disappointed, the latter would
not relinquish his plan and asserted his intention so sharply that Chandos left the palace at Bordeaux and returned to his estates in Normandy.

Chandos had been right. The nobility of Aquitaine took such umbrage over the tax that they carried the case to the King of France. War broke out again, and the Black Prince thought immediately of his faithful friend. Appointed seneschal of Poitou, Chandos encased his aching limbs in armor once more and came back into service. He was badly outnumbered in a skirmish at the bridge of Lussac. Tripping on the hem of a long white traveling cloak he was wearing, not expecting to meet the French, he fell on the planking of the bridge and one of the French soldiers stabbed him through the eye. The true knight passed away the next morning. He was the first to die of that remarkable galaxy of Englishmen.

If the prince had listened to his wise and honest lieutenant, they would both have been allowed a longer span of life.

The young Hainauter known as Sir Wantelot de Mauny but later as Sir Walter de Manny was of the class of chivalrous knights who excited Don Quixote to his frenzies of admiration. He abided most rigorously by all the rules of the code. Before a campaign he would wear a red patch over one eye and not remove it until he had performed a suitably brave deed. He was always ready to take the most desperate chances. A lost cause drew him like iron filings to a magnet. A resourceful leader as well as a rash participant, he could be described best, perhaps, as a combination of Launcelot and Galahad.

He came to England as a squire in the train of Queen Philippa in 1326 and was knighted soon thereafter, having served with distinction in the current Scottish campaign. As soon as the wars with France began he was completely in his element, as has already been made clear. In 1338 he went to Flanders after taking the Oath of the Heron, swearing to capture a town or castle. This vow he fulfilled in quick order. Taking only forty lances with him, he rode through Brabant and Hainaut and right on into French territory. Coming to a strong castle called Thun l’Evêque, he captured it with a surprise attack. It was one of those bold and strategically useless feats in which the good knights of the day delighted. Tearing off his red patch, the well-pleased Sir Walter rode back to the English lines.

He was with King Edward at the great naval victory at Sluys and was among the first to follow the grappling irons over the side and board the chained French ships.

The bold Sir Walter is seen at his best in his entry into the wars in Brittany. It will be recalled that there were two contestants for the title of duke and that England was backing Jean de Montfort while France espoused the cause of Charles of Blois. Jean de Montfort was taken prisoner, but his wife, who came of the ruling family in Flanders and was known in Brittany as Jannedik Flamm, was courageous enough to assume his place. She threw herself into Hennebonne and withstood a siege by a large French force. She hung on grimly but was compelled finally to promise the garrison she would give in if the help promised from England did not arrive in three days. The third day was nearly over, and the besieging force had come up to the gates in expectation of a surrender. The courageous Jannedik had gone up to the highest turret of the castle and was keeping a still hopeful eye on the waters of the Channel. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, uttering cries of joy. The harbor below had filled with ships carrying English pennons.

Sir Walter Manny was in charge of the English troops. He came ashore without a red patch but with a burning desire to accomplish something spectacular. The happy countess had a splendid meal ready for him and his officers, but they had barely taken their places at the table when a loud noise was heard. A large rock had come sailing over the top of the wall and had landed in the town. A mangonel clearly was at work in the enemy lines.

Manny’s face lighted up. “I think, madame,” he said, “that we must take some action about this at once.”

Leaving the meat to grow cold on the table, he collected a few of his knights and some archers, all volunteers, and made a sudden sally from the nearest gate. The French troops operating the siege machine were scattered easily and the huge mangonel was destroyed, as well as several smaller ones which were not in use. Before the party could get back behind the town walls, a large force of French knights came clattering up, breathing fire.

“My vows compel me,” cried Manny, “to unhorse at least one of these good fellows before I return to the hospitality of our kind lady.”

Laying his lance in rest, he rode headlong into the ranks of the oncoming French. It is possible that Don Quixote had this episode in mind when he charged, lance down, at the windmill; but the outcome was more useful for the records of chivalry. The tip of Manny’s lance caught one French knight squarely on the shield and sent him down under the hoofs of the galloping horses. Swinging about, he realized that some of his own men had followed his example and that a brisk encounter was under way. The English were badly outnumbered, but the sheer audacity of their attack so startled the French that they turned about and rode away even faster than they had approached.

This incident is perhaps more typical of Sir Walter Manny than anything else that happened in all the years of the French wars. There was, of course, his determination to reach Edward’s army in time for the battle of Crécy, which led him to ride through the heart of hostile France and to fall into the hands of the French king. His most successful display of leadership was evident in 1345 when he shared the command of an army with the Earl of Derby and captured nearly sixty castles and towns on the outer edges of Gascony in rapid succession.