CHAPTER XV
1
THE Black Prince caught the fancy of the English people almost from the day of his birth. He became a national hero, and nothing he did, not even the extreme savagery he displayed on several occasions nor the financial disorder of his official as well as his private life, disturbed or diminished the admiration the public had conceived for him. When he came home to die at the age of forty-six, with the dreams of conquest shattered and the star of England in the descent, he was still the idol of the commonality.
Little is known about him. It is almost impossible to see and understand the man back of that imposing façade. He was brave to a fault. He had certain fixed ideals which nothing could shake or change. He was courteous to those about him and generous to his friends, but there seems to have been little actual warmth in either his courtesy or generosity. Money meant nothing to him and he was always deep in debt. To gratify his generous impulses (“a war-horse called Bayard Bishop to William Montacute,” “a hobby called Dun Crump to a German knight”), he had to permit his stewards to extract every penny they could from his tenants. The peasants on his lands in Cheshire broke out in revolt in 1353 because of the burdens laid upon them. His managers in the stannaries continued to get out tin in large quantities without any record being kept or any payments being made. It was said that in the face of an almost universal admiration his tenants had nothing but detestation for him.
As a boy he was handsome, strong, and manly. The kind of gossip circulated about the rowdy household of the young Edward II, which got into the chronicles of the day, was never told or believed about this prince, who was so obviously destined for great things. To the people he seemed like a wonderful and flawless painting in oil glimpsed high up in a cathedral gloom. The story of his bravery at Crécy swept over England. The whole nation went mad with joy when he defeated John of France at Poictiers with a handful of men, even though his opponent knew as little of warfare as, say, that fanatical lover of chivalry, Don Quixote himself.
There are few anecdotes told about him, none which help to a real understanding of the man himself. Had he a sense of humor? He smiled gravely and courteously, but did he ever laugh out loud? Did he enjoy the wine which flowed so freely after the evening meal? Did trivial emotions ever ruffle that stern and handsome countenance? Did his luminous eyes, as blue as the skies of Gascony but as fixed as those of an eagle, ever soften at the sight of a beautiful woman?
Although he did not marry until he was thirty years of age, it was known that he had two illegitimate sons, Sir John Sounder and Sir Roger Clarendon, and that a hint of a third was conveyed in a household record in 1349 about “a horse called Lyard Hobyn to his own little son Edward.”
Less is known of a daughter of the Black Prince. Historians have ignored her existence, But there are records which prove her to have been married to one Waleran de Luxemburg, Count of Ligny and St. Pol. In a written challenge issued by the count to King Henry IV he identifies himself as having had as his bride the sister of the “high and powerful Prince Richard, King of England.” The countess’s Christian name, her personality, whether or not she inherited the blond Plantagenet beauty, the royal grace and temper, are lost to the pages of history.
The possession of illegitimate children was not regarded as a sign of weakness or of dissolute living. It was merely a proof that a small streak of frailty existed after all in that perfect statue of a man.
He was as extravagant and lavish as his father, but his largess was dispensed with a more regal hand. Because he never seemed to step down from his pedestal, he maintained a higher degree of dignity than his splendid father. Even his closest and most devoted friends, including John Chandos, always had to look up. It may have been that he felt the eyes of posterity on him; or it may have been that he lacked the small common weaknesses. Whatever faults he had were great ones; but it is clear that he did not recognize them as faults.
As he was handsome in his person and kingly in air and carriage, and most particularly as he always seemed to be riding high in the clouds like a mythological god, he grew rapidly into a legend, a symbol of everything right and fine. He attached men to him with a fanatical devotion but perhaps not with the warm ties of affection which can exist between close friends.
His father, the king, was said to have a preference for his son John above the other royal princes, even the brilliant first-born. John of Gaunt was a fine knight in his way, tall, handsome, and deeply ambitious, but he was of baser metal. The people of England were more observant and acute in their judgment of the pair. They worshiped the Black Prince to the day of his death, but at the first opportunity they burned to the ground John’s magnificent palace on the Thames, the Savoy.
2
Almost from the day of his birth at Woodstock there had been talk of a suitable marriage for the heir to the throne. At first it was felt that only a French princess would serve, and some preliminary steps were taken to arrange for his union with a daughter of Philip of Valois. Then the inevitability of war between the two nations became apparent and that plan was dropped. There was talk later of marrying him to Margaret, daughter of the Duke of Brabant, or to a daughter of the Count of Flanders. After that the possibility of a match with a princess of the Portuguese royal family was explored, even though the advantages were remote. Some obstacle always developed. Perhaps the well-known tendency of the king to be overdemanding and something less than open and aboveboard in his methods had this effect. Certainly the prince himself was never co-operative. This may have been due to his complete absorption in matters military. He loved horses and dogs, and the fine blade of a sword seemed brighter than a lady’s eyes. Or it may have been due to an early preference he had felt for a cousin, Joan of Kent.
Joan, who has been mentioned before, was the youngest daughter of Edmund, the half brother of Edward II, who had stood all those grim hours beside the block waiting for Mortimer to find someone base enough to wield the ax. When Mortimer’s turn came to die and Queen Isabella was bundled off to Castle Rising, the girl had been taken in hand by Queen Philippa and raised at court. The prince had not been much at court before that, having a preference for hunting and military exercises which he could indulge in his household at Berkhampstead. As he grew up, however, he became increasingly aware of this fair second cousin, who was two years older than he was and who fluttered about the court in the most beautiful robes of shimmering silk, with bodices embroidered in ermine and the costliest of furs. She was not only very winsome but very gay, and he found her loquacity and easy laughter quite entrancing; although, being silent as well as strong, he did not often share in her gaiety. He began to see less of the hunting fields at Berkhampstead and more of his large stone house on Fish Street in London, which gave him opportunities of appearing at court. It was clear to him, of course, that he could never marry Joan. Even if his parents could be persuaded to such a course, which was highly unlikely, the leaders in Parliament would have frowned on it.
This is one explanation of the undefined and rather vague relationship which existed between them. There is another, which has found more general acceptance: that Edward had no more than a cousinly affection for the golden-haired hoyden but that Joan’s eye had been on him from the start and that she was very unhappy because she knew she would never be allowed to marry him, even if she could break down his seeming indifference to her. Whichever is the true one, the time came when Joan had to think seriously of marriage. There was still no evidence of a willingness on the part of the king and queen to permit a match with the heir to the throne. Two contestants had come forward for her hand, the young Earl of Salisbury (the son of the king’s fair Katherine) and Sir John Holland, the steward of the royal household. Both were so madly in love with “the little Jeanette,” as Prince Edward called her, that their struggle for her favor had to be carried finally to Avignon. Holland had gained the upper hand by getting a contract of marriage, but he was summoned to France on the outburst of war before the ceremony could be performed. The Earl of Salisbury took advantage of his absence to enter into a marriage contract with her, and when Holland came back there was a pretty problem to solve. It was referred to Pope Clement VI, who finally gave judgment for Holland. With many regretful glances over her shoulder in the direction of the unattainable Edward, the Fair Maid of Kent allowed the masterful Holland to carry her off.
That was in 1349. In 1360 Holland died in Normandy, leaving his widow with three children, a son and two daughters. Joan was beautiful enough to be called still the Fair Maid, although she was no longer as slender as she had been and the gold of her hair might have shown some of the tarnish of time had her maids been less zealous in the care of it. She was, after all, only thirty-two years of age and of much physical vitality.
As a widow she was, of course, a great catch. Her only brother had died and she had become Countess of Kent and Lady Wake of Liddell in her own right. She had wide possessions and a handsome pension from the crown for her lifetime.
And now the story of the romance has arrived at a point where all the chronicles agree. There were many suitors for the hand of this most desirable widow, and some of them came to the Black Prince to beg his kind offices in their behalf. That determined bachelor (he was now thirty years of age and it was generally believed he would never marry) listened to all of them with due attention but had little to say.
He was in England at the time and maintaining a rather lively household in his stone habitation on Fish Street. But he was far from content with what life was doing for him. It was clear to him that he had reached the peak of his military reputation in winning the battle of Poictiers. For years he had been acclaimed as the perfect exponent of chivalry, the peerless paladin of the civilized world. What more could life offer him now? He was feeling the sense of futility which comes to all men who have achieved in their youth what they had hoped to win in a long full life. And now, as a further reason for discontent, there was this clamorous bidding for the hand of the fair widow, the lively Jeanette he had always admired. He began to show little interest in anything, to sit at the head of his board with an air of preoccupation, failing to share in the laughter of his companions, leaving the wine untouched in his jeweled flagon.
Finally a suitor came asking for his help who could not be put off with a courteous word and an indifferent shrug. It was Sir Bernard de Brocas, a member of a Gascon family which for generations had suffered many hardships in the service of the English. He had been with Edward at Poictiers and was one of the first to cry “St. George for Guienne!” and go charging behind the prince through the vineyards. Frowning unhappily, the prince listened to the fervent protestations of his friend. He could do no less than inform the Lady Joan of this offer.
So the Black Prince carried to the Fair Maid of Kent the word that the young, brave, and handsome Sir Bernard de Brocas was in love with her and would be most unhappy if she could not be persuaded to smile on his suit. History does not tell where the meeting took place between them, but it is safe enough to assume that it was either Westminster or Windsor. Knowing that the question of her future would soon be settled, the Countess of Kent (who was as shrewd as she was fair) would be at court to get her own way.
It has already been said that she had retained most of her beauty. The slight tendency to matronliness in her figure would have no other effect on the prince than to enhance her attractiveness in his eyes. She looked intently at the heir to the throne, the man she had always wanted, while he explained his errand.
“Fair Cousin,” she said, “I shall never marry again.”
The prince protested that she was too young and too lovely to retreat from life. “Why do you refuse to marry any of my friends?” he asked. “You may have your choice of them.”
Joan began to weep, being, as one chronicle says, a lady of great subtility and wisdom. “I desire none of them,” she declared.
The prince began to find it hard at this point to retain the air of judicial calm which he showed at all times. He said in tense tones, “There is no lady under heaven that I hold so dear as you!”
As she continued to weep, but not copiously enough to make her very lovely eyes red, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Do you not know,” he forced himself to explain, “that the one I have spoken of to you is a chivalrous knight? That he is the most honorable of men?”
The fair Joan knew that at last the chance to win him over to her had come. She whispered, with her head held down: “Ah, sir, before God, do not talk to me thus. For I have already given myself to the most chivalrous knight under heaven. Because of my love for him, I will never marry again as long as I live.” After a moment she added, “It is impossible that I should have him to my husband, and so my love for him parts me from all men.”
The prince demanded with sudden fierceness the name of the man she loved. His fair and clever cousin would do no more than shake her head and profess her inability to answer.
Edward protested then that he would make it his concern to find who the favored man was and that he would consider him a mortal enemy.
The time had come to reveal the truth. The Lady Joan said, still screening her eyes with her hands: “My dear and indomitable lord, it is you! It is for love of you that I will never have any other knight by my side.”
Edward was quite amazed at this admission and fell at once into a fervent protestation of his love.
“My lady,” he declared, “I vow to God that as long as you live never will I have another woman save you to my wife!”
And so it came about that after all the years which had passed the faithful prince won his fair lady. The prince became a devoted husband, and yet it is hard to escape the impression that if it had been left entirely to him he might have been willing to go on living in solitary state as before; that, in fact, he had been the victim of a woman’s tears glistening on lowered lashes, by the sweet curve of her cheek reviving memories of her girlish charms, by the enticement of a very fine figure bent before him in womanly supplication.
Be that as it may, the happy couple proceeded then to lay their plans most carefully. They knew that the king and queen would be strongly and even bitterly opposed. Queen Philippa had loved the Fair Maid when as a small girl she had fluttered about the court like a butterfly, but as the years passed she had come to assess the Lady Joan at her proper worth. The prince and his bride-to-be on that account made all their preparations quietly for the ceremony before allowing a word of their plans to get out. When the prince finally announced his purpose, he made it clear to his royal father and mother that he would allow nothing to stand in the way of his happiness. Discomfited and sorely disappointed, they nevertheless knew their son well enough to be sure he meant what he said. Reluctantly they gave in and the marriage was celebrated with great pomp and circumstance at Westminster. All the royal family were present, and all the nobility of England, to see the national hero lead his lady love to the altar.
It was clear to all concerned, however, that there was a rift in the once happy family. King Edward was wise enough to realize the possible consequences and he planned to make his son the lord of Guienne and Gascony and to vest him with all power of government in the French provinces. It was settled that the Black Prince was to have a yearly grant of sixty thousand crowns from the money still being paid on the ransom of the French king. This should have been enough for even as lavish a spender as the heir to the throne, but of course it failed to meet his needs, and he was in debt almost from the first days of his rule.
The prince agreed eagerly to his father’s plan, for he loved the south and was always happiest at Bordeaux. He and his bride left England in February 1363 and did not return until many strange and tragic things had come to pass.
3
The ruler in Spain at this time was Pedro V, who had been given the nickname of “The Cruel” and most richly deserved it. It will be recalled that little Princess Joanna of England was on her way to marry this unnatural creature when she died in Gascony of the Black Death; and in view of the record he had since established, it may be accepted that the unfortunate child had escaped a much worse fate. Pedro had married Blanche of Bourbon and had thrown her into prison (and later had seen to it that she died), but he had remained faithful to a mistress, Maria de Padilla, and had given it out that they were married. Two daughters, Constance and Isabella, had been born of this union, and their father had demanded that they be accepted as legitimate.
This bloodthirsty despot kept about him a Moslem guard whose leaders he confided in, and he had felt safe in committing a long series of judicial murders which kept his subjects trembling.
A revolutionary party had formed in the country under the leadership of a bastard brother of the king, Henry of Trastamara. Charles V of France had conceived a way of ridding his country of the Free Companies by seeing that they were offered inducements to join the Spanish revolutionaries. Several thousand of them had accepted this bribe, including many of the best English captains. Pedro was a weak leader and he found himself powerless against an opposition bolstered by such capable fighting men. He abandoned his throne, after executing two innocent churchmen, the Archbishop of Santiago and his dean, and came whining to the Black Prince for help.
There was no good reason for Edward to listen to this savage despot. His reputation as a great knight and leader was assured. His court was recognized as the most brilliant in Europe. He was happily married and had one son who bore his name. He enjoyed his life at Bordeaux, in a palace which was broad and spacious and opened out graciously to admit the warm sun and the sea breezes.
Pedro whispered slyly in the ear of the prince that he had left treasure behind him in Castile, so cleverly and securely hidden that no one would ever lay hands on any of it. This he was prepared to divide among the men who would restore him to his throne. Further, he intended to divide his dominions and would give the crown of Galicia to the little Edward, the prince’s very much loved son. These were tempting bribes, but the Black Prince was little concerned with such material considerations. What weighed with him was that a lawful king, the son of a king, anointed with the holy oil, had been ejected by an uprising of his subjects. His deeply rooted feudal sense rebelled at such a thing. What security would there be for other kings if this outrage were permitted to go unrectified?
After convincing himself that it was his duty to support the cause of the predatory Pedro, the prince summoned his council and laid the case before them. He was surprised, and secretly much annoyed, that they did not agree with him. It was Sir John Chandos, the true knight, whose loyalty was so deep that he could give no advice save what he believed himself to be right, who acted as spokesman for the council. Sir John spoke of the cruelty of the deposed king, the sacrilegious acts of which he had been guilty, of the sufferings of the people under him. Why should they undertake war on behalf of such a man?
“Chandos, Chandos!” cried the prince, his handsome face suffused with emotion. “I’ve seen the time when you would have given me the other advice. Whether the cause was right or wrong.”
Chandos shook his head. “No, liege lord,” he declared. “Not when the cause was wrong.”
After several more meetings, with the schism between the prince and his council becoming wider all the time, Edward decided to act. He issued a proclamation, reading in part:
My lords, I take it for granted and believe that you give me the best advice you are able. I must, however, inform you that I am perfectly acquainted with the life and conduct of Don Pedro, and well know that he has committed faults without number, for which at present he suffers; but I will tell you the reasons which at this moment urge and embolden me to give him assistance. I do not think it either decent or proper that a bastard should possess a kingdom as an inheritance, nor drive out of his realm his own brother, heir to the throne by lawful marriage; and no king or king’s son ought ever to suffer it, as being of the greatest prejudice to royalty. Add to this, that my father and this Don Pedro have for a long time been allies, much connected together, by which we are bound to aid and assist him.
An embassy was sent to England to get the opinion of King Edward and his royal council. The verdict was quickly returned in favor of the prince. Word was conveyed to him, moreover, that his brother, John of Gaunt, who had been made the Duke of Lancaster, would be sent with a force from England to assist in the military operations. A potent argument in favor of intervention had been a prophecy of Merlin, that “the leopards and their company should spread themselves to Spain.” That great fraud had left many senseless prophecies behind him and they seemed to crop up always at the very worst moments, to bolster false causes, to raise unwarranted hopes, to justify the worst of decisions. None had been more harmful than this particular absurdity was to prove.
Quite apart from the acknowledged principle that an outside nation had no right to interfere in the internal troubles of another country, there were good reasons why the prince should have turned a deaf ear to the blandishments of the false Pedro. The French provinces under English rule were seedling with discontent. Edward was not a good administrator and he was following his old method of leaving things in the hands of stewards and deputies. A lack of method had developed which was resented by the people, who had a strong predilection to system and order. It was even more damning that looseness and lack of honesty in the law courts made justice hard to obtain. The revenues were falling off. The prince himself was deeply involved in debt and not at all particular in the ways he employed to meet his obligations; or to evade them, as the case might be. Even the ruling classes of Bordeaux and the wine-growing localities, who favored the English connection because of the easy market it provided for their wine, were growing restive and concerned.
The prince should have realized that his fences needed mending in all parts of the land which had come to England by the Treaty of Bretigny. To absent himself at such a time was to invite trouble. He did not seem to care. His adventurous spirit had taken fire again. Across the Pyrenees lay chances for more glory. Was he to be bound instead to the boredom of law courts and the monotony of administrative detail? Such were for the starling and the sparrow; the eagle must spread his wings and soar. Even a sick eagle; for Edward was not well at all.
The pass of Roncesvalles across the Pyrenees had always been a difficult one, as the great Roland had learned. The English forces marched through boldly but with strict attention to the possibilities of attack. Roncesvalles was in the domain of Navarre and, although Charles the Bad had been paid handsomely for the right of passage, no one put any stock in his promises. As it turned out, however, they got through without seeing a single plume above the rocky crags or hearing a cry of defiance.
Three days before the march began, Edward had been presented with a second son, who had been named Richard. He departed, therefore, in high spirits. This mood did not desert him when his army debouched on the other side of the gloomy mountain heights, which had greeted them with sullen rains and blasts of wind sweeping through the declivities. Even when he found that the forces of Henry of Trastamara under French command consisted of sixty thousand men while his own, after the reinforcements under John of Gaunt had been added, were about half that number, his feeling of confidence did not leave him. He marched through the rains to the flat country around Vittoria and came face to face with the enemy forces near Navarrete.
The story of Navarrete did not differ much from the now familiar pattern. The Black Prince rode through the lines and prayed aloud: “God of Truth, Father of our Lord, who hast made and fashioned me, condescend through Thy benign grace that the success of the battle today may be for me and mine. Advance banners in the name of heaven and St. George!”
When the division which the prince commanded himself struck the forces led by Sancho the Stammerer, a brother of Henry, the Spaniards turned in terror and fled so precipitously that Edward suspected a ruse and did not pursue. There was no serious opposition offered except by the Free Companies under Bertrand du Guesclin. The latter fought like a demon, with Pedro shouting furiously from the safety of the English lines that none were to be spared. When his shrill cries of “Kill! Kill!” attracted the attention of the great Frenchman, Du Guesclin plunged out from his own array and attacked Pedro with such concentrated power and fury that the deposed king fell in a faint. Before he could be revived, the prince had persuaded Du Guesclin to surrender and had placed him in the custody of the Captal de Buch, thereby turning the tables between those two gallant paladins, as will be explained later.
The conduct of Pedro the Cruel, exhilarated by the victory his English allies had won for him, was so disturbing that all the Saxon leaders under the prince found it hard to contain themselves. The next morning Pedro came to the tent of his benefactor and offered to pay him the full weight of Du Guesclin in silver if the brave Frenchman were turned over to him. When this was refused, he begged to have his half brother delivered into his hands as well as all Spanish prisoners of high rank, his avowed purpose being to cut off their heads. The prince refused brusquely and demanded of Pedro a promise that he would pardon all his opponents. The leniency of the English robbed the revengeful monarch of much of the pleasure he had anticipated from his restoration.
The English army remained on the bleak plains for several months, waiting for the payment promised by Pedro to cover the expenses of the campaign. No word came from him. Not a single coin was received. As for the fabulous secret treasure, its hiding place was never revealed; probably it had no actual existence. The offer of a crown to Edward’s son was withdrawn. When the prince sent three knights to demand satisfaction, they brought back nothing but a letter; a furtive and muddled communication which gave no satisfaction.
The English losses in the battle had been small, four knights and a few hundred soldiers. But after the unhealthy camp conditions and the rigors of the return march, only one fifth of them were alive when they reached France.
As the Black Prince led his hungry and disappointed troops back over the dangerous defile of Roncesvalles, he had much time for reflection. It is doubtful, however, if the treachery of the Spanish king had caused him to change his mind. He had certain fixed beliefs and ideals, and these he held to in spite of everything. It was as clear to him as ever that kings should never be deposed, no matter how villainously they had behaved. Pedro was almost a homicidal maniac. He was treacherous and as much to be feared as a poisonous snake under a rock. But he was the legitimate king and it had been to Edward a sacred duty to go to his assistance. What would his thoughts have been had he known the fate reserved for the little three-day-old son he had left with his wife in Bordeaux?
The aftermath of the situation created by Edward in thus adhering to his unshakable belief in monarchy can best be told by a brief mention of certain unusual occurrences. The Princess of Wales, out of admiration for the bravery of Du Guesclin, contributed ten thousand florins to his ransom. John Chandos, that fine old warrior, offered to loan him the same amount. In spite of his youth and comparatively humble antecedents, the King of France appointed Du Guesclin constable of France. The two younger brothers of the Black Prince, John of Gaunt and Edmund of Cambridge, married the two daughters of Pedro a few years later. John of Gaunt strove for eleven years to make himself King of Castile because his spouse, Constance, was the eldest child of Pedro.
Hurrying back to Spain, Du Guesclin joined forces again with Henry of Trastamara and surrounded the restored ruler in the castle of Montiel. Pedro, trying to escape under cover of darkness, was detected and in a scuffle with his brother was stabbed to the heart. So Henry the illegitimate became king after all.
Prince Edward had made no effort to assist the ungrateful Pedro a second time. He had been a sick man when he started on his march through the mountains to Navarrete. On the return he found it hard to retain his seat in the saddle. His face was as gray as the wind-swept plains along the Ebro, and he moved with the greatest difficulty. The nature of the disease which had fastened upon him was never diagnosed accurately, but no one needed more than a glance to realize that the days of the prince who had been the idol of England all his life were numbered.
4
The prince was guilty of two great errors during his term as suzerain of Aquitaine and Gascony. The first was getting himself involved in the Castilian adventure. This left him in such financial straits that his second great mistake followed quickly. He imposed afouage, a hearth tax, on the people. The taxes were already so high that there was bitter discontent, and this new exaction caused the resentment of the people to boil over. It happened when all France was in a turmoil and a renewal of the war with England seemed certain.
No one alone can be blamed for the troubles which followed the peace of Bretigny. It was impossible to cut a great country in two and turn one large part of it over to a foreign power with any expectation of making it permanent. The English were blamed for the horrors of Free Company depredations, particularly after Edward ordered them out of Aquitaine, thus driving them over into the Loire country. The terms of the treaty, moreover, had not been fulfilled by either side. When the captive King John returned to his throne and found his people unwilling to five up to their part of the agreement, he went back voluntarily to England and took up again the role of royal prisoner. Some regarded this act as a shining example of chivalry at its best. Others, more realistic about it, considered that he had crowned a career notable for its folly with a final and supremely idiotic gesture. Some believe that he knew the end was near and by arranging to die in England he made it unnecessary for France to continue paying his ransom. Perhaps it is only fair to assume that this was back of his action. When John died in the luxury of the Savoy Palace in 1364, his oldest son succeeded him as Charles V and, for a change, the country found it had a practical and vigorous king. The new ruler brought to the throne one fixed resolve, to break the treaty and drive the English out of France.
To break the treaty was not hard, for neither country had lived up to the most important clauses. To make the agreement binding, both sides had to give up certain fortresses and to exchange official letters. Some of the fortresses had not been given up and the letters had not been exchanged. The French seemingly could not bring themselves to give away the western and southern provinces and Edward found himself unable to forswear formally and finally his right to the throne of France. When things became tense later, he maintained that he had not abandoned his rights.
Charles V took the first overt step by sending an embassy of two members to wait on the prince at Bordeaux. When they appeared at the Abbey of St. Andrew, where the prince held court, there was astonishment and indignation over the French king’s choice of representatives, a mere knight and a lawyer. The lawyer, who acted as spokesman, insisted on reading aloud the communication he carried, which was a command to Edward to appear before the French king and answer for his oppression of the people of Aquitaine. “Let there be no delay in obeying this summons,” Charles had written, “but set out as speedily as possible after hearing this order read.”
The indignation of the prince was so great that at first he could not utter a word. Finally he said in ominously low tones, “We shall willingly attend on the appointed day at Paris, since the King of France sends for us; but it will be with our helmet on our head and accompanied by sixty thousand men.”
When the two ambassadors had withdrawn (they were later arrested for having left without obtaining passports), the prince had at first nothing to say. The scene had drawn heavily on his small store of strength. Finally he remarked to those about him, “By my faith, the French must think me dead already.”
It was clear to his people that his days for action were numbered. The prince managed to retain his hold on life for six years after the malady first settled upon him, but there was never any doubt of the ultimate result. Some medical men held it to be a fever, others declared it a serious attack of dysentery. It was almost certainly one of the slow degenerative diseases, perhaps of a cancerous nature, about which the doctors of the day knew absolutely nothing.
After this step the French king moved swiftly to prepare the way for war. Offers were made to the Free Companies to join the service of France at high pay, and some accepted. The Low Countries were won away from their English alliance. Scotland and Aragon were notified to be ready to act. To mask his intentions, however, he sent an embassy to London to discuss the situation and to present the English king with fifty pipes of wine. On one day three things happened: the French plenipotentiaries departed from Dover, Edward returned the fifty pipes of wine, and a scullion of the French king arrived with a formal declaration of war. The French king seemed to take a bitter satisfaction in thus belittling his opponents.
The Black Prince now found that he had need of all the help he could get. His first move was to summon back Sir John Chandos, who had left when his advice against the hearth tax had been unceremoniously brushed aside. Appointed seneschal of Poitou, Chandos found it impossible to accomplish much. Another force under the Earl of Pembroke, who was an aristocrat to the tips of his steel gloves, being married to a daughter of the king, and who probably knew little about war (he succeeded in losing the whole English navy in an engagement with the Spanish), refused to co-operate with Chandos because he was only a knight bachelor. Chandos, with a tiny force, was killed at the bridge of Lussac. A third English force under Sir Simon Burley was defeated at Lusignan. The war was going so wrong and the condition of the Black Prince was so obviously bad that King Edward sent out John of Gaunt to take control. When the brothers met at Cognac, where the Black Prince arrived in a litter and in a sinking condition, the transfer was effected without any hard feeling.
But when the Bishop of Limoges handed that city over to the French, the sick warrior roused himself to a final act of retaliation; and in doing so left a blot on his reputation that nothing could erase. Still in his litter, he led an army against Limoges, breathing defiance. After a siege of a month, a mine was sprung under the French walls which opened a great breach in the masonry. The prince was borne through the breach, crying out orders for the city to be sacked.
The order was carried out. Even Froissart was startled out of his partiality in reporting what followed. The innocent people of the city were brutally murdered in the streets while the prince, his wasted face convulsed with rage, refused to allow mercy. The heritage of Tortulf and Fulk, his Angevin ancestors who were noted for their savagery, had him in its grip. Still, he responded to the teachings of chivalry when he saw three French knights defending themselves with great courage in the streets. He cried out that they were to be spared, and later he pardoned the bishop who had been responsible for the whole thing. But, according to Froissart, three thousand common people were slain in cold blood.
Soon thereafter the prince returned to England to die, leaving his brother to carry on the almost hopeless task of holding back the French. John of Gaunt, a rather indifferent leader at best, was not able to accomplish much.