The Black Prince At Poitiers


Through the centre of France marched the Black Prince, with a small but

valiant army. Into the heart of that fair kingdom had he come, ravaging

the land as he went, leaving misery and destitution at every step, when

suddenly across his line of march there appeared an unlooked-for

obstacle. The plundering marches of the English had roused the French.

In hosts they had gathered round their king, marched in haste to

confr
nt the advancing foe, and on the night of Saturday, September 17,

1356, the English found their line of retreat cut off by what seemed an

innumerable array of knights and men-at-arms, filling the whole country

in their front as far as eye could see, closing with a wall of hostile

steel their only road to safety.



The danger was great. For two years the Black Prince and his army of

foragers had held France at their mercy, plundering to their hearts'

content. The year before, the young prince had led his army up the

Garonne into--as an ancient chronicler tells us--"what was before one of

the fat countries of the world, the people good and simple, who did not

know what war was; indeed, no war had been waged against them till the

prince came. The English and Gascons found the country full and gay,

the rooms adorned with carpets and draperies, the caskets and chests

full of fair jewels. But nothing was safe from these robbers. They, and

especially the Gascons, who are very greedy, carried off everything."

When they reached Bordeaux their horses were "so laden with spoils that

they could hardly move."



Again the prince had led his army of freebooters through France, but he

was not to march out again with the same impunity as before. King John,

who had just come to the throne, hastily gathered an army and marched to

his country's relief. On the night named, the Black Prince, marching

briskly forward with his small force of about eight thousand men, found

himself suddenly in face of an overwhelming array of not less than sixty

thousand of the best fighting blood of France.



The case seemed hopeless. Surrender appeared the only resource of the

English. Just ten years before, at Crecy, Edward III., in like manner

driven to bay, had with a small force of English put to rout an

overwhelming body of French. In that affair the Black Prince, then

little more than a boy, had won the chief honor of the day. But it was

beyond hope that so great a success could again be attained. It seemed

madness to join battle with such a disproportion of numbers. Yet the

prince remembered Crecy, and simply said, on being told how mighty was

the host of the French,--



"Well, in the name of God, let us now study how we shall fight with them

at our advantage."



Small as was the English force, it had all the advantages of position.

In its front were thick and strong hedges. It could be approached only

by a deep and narrow lane that ran between vineyards. In the rear was

higher ground, on which the small body of men-at-arms were stationed.

The bowmen lay behind the hedges and in the vineyards, guarding the lane

of approach. Here they lay that night, awaiting the fateful morrow.



With the morning's light the French army was drawn up in lines of

assault. "Then trumpets blew up through the host," says gossipy old

Froissart, "and every man mounted on horseback and went into the field,

where they saw the king's banner wave with the wind. There might have

been seen great nobles of fair harness and rich armory of banners and

pennons; for there was all the flower of France; there was none durst

abide at home, without he would be shamed forever."



It was Sunday morning, a suitable day for the church to take part in the

affair. Those were times in which the part of the church was apt to be

played with sword and spear, but on this occasion it bore the

olive-branch. At an early hour the cardinal of Perigord appeared on the

scene, eager to make peace between the opposing forces. The pope had

commissioned him to this duty.



"Sir," he said, kneeling before King John, "ye have here all the flower

of your realm against a handful of Englishmen, as regards your company.

And, sir, if ye may have them accorded to you without battle, it shall

be more profitable and honorable than to adventure this noble chivalry.

I beg you let me, in the name of God and humility, ride to the prince

and show him in what danger ye have him in."



"That pleases me well," answered the king. "Go; but return again

shortly."



The cardinal thereupon rode to the English side and accosted the prince,

whom he found on foot among his men. A courteous greeting passed.



"Fair son," said the envoy of peace, "if you and your council know

justly the power of the French king, you will suffer me to treat for

peace between you."



"I would gladly fall to any reasonable way," answered the prince, "if

but my honor and that of my people be saved."



Some further words passed, and the cardinal rode again to the king.



"Sir," he said, "there seems hope of making peace with your foes, nor

need you make haste to fight them, for they cannot flee if they would. I

beg you, therefore, to forbear for this day, and put off the battle till

to-morrow sunrise. That may give time to conclude a truce."



This advice was not pleasing to the king, who saw no wisdom in delay,

but the cardinal in the end persuaded him to consent to a day's respite.

The conference ended, the king's pavilion of red silk was raised, and

word sent through the army that the men might take their ease, except

the advanced forces of the constable and marshal.



All that day the cardinal kept himself busy in earnest efforts to effect

an agreement. Back and forth he rode between the tents of the king and

the prince, seeking to make terms of peace or surrender. Offer after

offer was made and refused. The king's main demand was that four of the

principal Englishmen should be placed in his hands, to deal with as he

would, and all the others yield themselves prisoners. This the prince

refused. He would agree to return all the castles and towns he had

taken, surrender all prisoners, and swear not to bear arms against the

French for seven years; this and no more he would offer.



King John would listen to no such terms. He had the English at his

mercy, as he fully believed, and it was for him, not for them, to make

terms. He would be generous. The prince and a hundred of his knights

alone should yield themselves prisoners. The rest might go free. Surely

this was a most favorable offer, pleaded the cardinal. But so thought

not the Black Prince, who refused it absolutely, and the cardinal

returned in despair to Poitiers.



That day of respite was not wasted by the prince. What he lacked in men

he must make up in work. He kept his men busily employed, deepening the

dikes, strengthening the hedges, making all the preparations that skill

suggested and time permitted.



The sun rose on Monday morning, and with its first beams the tireless

peace-maker was again on horse, with the forlorn hope that the bloody

fray might still be avoided. He found the leaders of the hosts in a

different temper from that of the day before. The time for words had

gone; that for blows had come.



"Return whither ye will," was King John's abrupt answer; "bring hither

no more words of treaty or peace; and if you love yourself depart

shortly."



To the prince rode the good cardinal, overcome with emotion.



"Sir," he pleaded, "do what you can for peace. Otherwise there is no

help from battle, for I can find no spirit of accord in the French

king."



"Nor here," answered the prince, cheerfully. "I and all my people are of

the same intent,--and God help the right!"






The cardinal turned and rode away, sore-hearted with pity. As he went

the prince turned to his men.



"Though," he said, "we be but a small company as compared with the power

of our foes, let not that abash us; for victory lies not in the

multitude of people, but goes where God sends it. If fortune makes the

day ours, we shall be honored by all the world; but if we die, the king,

my father, and your good friends and kinsmen shall revenge us.

Therefore, sirs and comrades, I require you to do your duty this day;

for if God be pleased, and Saint George aid, this day you shall see me

a good knight."



The battle began with a charge of three hundred French knights up the

narrow lane. No sooner had they appeared than the vineyards and hedges

rained arrows upon them, killing and wounding knights and horses; the

animals, wild with pain, flinging and trampling their masters; the

knights, heavy with armor and disabled by wounds, strewing that fatal

lane with their bodies; while still the storm of steel-pointed shafts

dealt death in their midst.



The horsemen fell back in dismay, breaking the thick ranks of footmen

behind them, and spreading confusion wherever they appeared. At this

critical moment a body of English horse, who were posted on a little

hill to the right, rushed furiously upon the French flank. At the same

time the archers poured their arrows upon the crowded and disordered

mass, and the prince, seeing the state of the enemy, led his men-at-arms

vigorously upon their broken ranks.



"St. George for Guienne!" was the cry, as the horsemen spurred upon the

panic-stricken masses of the French.



"Let us push to the French king's station; there lies the heart of the

battle," said Lord Chandos to the prince. "He is too valiant to fly, I

fancy. If we fight well, I trust, by the grace of God and St. George, we

shall have him. You said we should see you this day a good knight."



"You shall not see me turn back," said the prince. "Advance, banner, in

the name of God and St. George!"



On went the banner; on came the array of fighting knights; into the

French host they pressed deeper and deeper, King John their goal. The

field was strewn with dead and dying; panic was spreading in widening

circles through the French army; the repulsed horsemen were in full

flight and thousands of those behind them broke and followed. King John

fought with knightly courage, his son Philip, a boy of sixteen, by his

side, aiding him by his cries of warning. But nothing could withstand

the English onset. Some of his defenders fell, others fled; he would

have fallen himself but for the help of a French knight, in the English

service.



"Sir, yield you," he called to the king, pressing between him and his

assailants.



"To whom shall I yield?" asked the king. "Where is my cousin, the prince

of Wales?"



"He is not here, sir. Yield, and I will bring you to him."



"And who are you?"



"I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois. I serve the English king,

for I am banished from France, and all I had has been forfeited."



"Then I yield me to you," said the king, handing him his right gauntlet.



Meanwhile the rout of the French had become complete. On all sides they

were in flight; on all sides the English were in pursuit. The prince had

fought until he was overcome with fatigue.



"I see no more banners or pennons of the French," said Sir John Chandos,

who had kept beside him the day through. "You are sore chafed. Set your

banner high in this bush, and let us rest."



The prince's pavilion was set up, and drink brought him. As he quaffed

it, he asked if any one had tidings of the French king.



"He is dead or taken," was the answer. "He has not left the field."



Two knights were thereupon sent to look for him, and had not got far

before they saw a troop of men-at-arms wearily approaching. In their

midst was King John, afoot and in peril, for they had taken him from Sir

Denis, and were quarrelling as to who owned him.



"Strive not about my taking," said the king. "Lead me to the prince. I

am rich enough to make you all rich."



The brawling went on, however, until the lords who had been sent to seek

him came near.



"What means all this, good sirs?" they asked. "Why do you quarrel?"



"We have the French king prisoner," was the answer; "and there are more

than ten knights and squires who claim to have taken him and his son."



The envoys at this bade them halt and cease their clamor, on pain of

their heads, and taking the king and his son from their midst they

brought him to the tent of the prince of Wales, where the exalted

captives were received with all courtesy.



The battle, begun at dawn, was ended by noon. In that time was slain

"all the flower of France; and there was taken, with the king and the

Lord Philip his son, seventeen earls, besides barons, knights, and

squires."



The men returning from the pursuit brought in twice as many prisoners as

their own army numbered in all. So great was the host of captives that

many of them were ransomed on the spot, and set free on their word of

honor to return to Bordeaux with their ransom before Christmas.



The prince and his comrades had breakfasted that morning in dread; they

supped that night in triumph. The supper party, as described by

Froissart, is a true picture of the days of chivalry,--in war all

cruelty, in peace all courtesy; ruthless in the field, gentle and

ceremonious at the feast. Thus the picturesque old chronicler limns

it,--



"The prince made the king and his son, the Lord James of Bourbon, the

Lord John d'Artois, the earl of Tancarville, the Lord d'Estampes, the

Earl Dammartyn, the earl of Greville, and the earl of Pertney, to sit

all at one board, and other lords, knights, and squires at other tables;

and always the prince served before the king as humbly as he could, and

would not sit at the king's board, for any desire that the king could

make; but he said he was not sufficient to sit at the table with so

great a prince as the king was; but then he said to the king, 'Sir, for

God's sake, make none evil nor heavy cheer, though God did not this day

consent to follow your will; for, sir, surely the king my father shall

bear you as much honor and amity as he may do, and shall accord with you

so reasonably, and ye shall ever be friends together after; and, sir,

methinks you ought to rejoice, though the journey be not as you would

have had it; for this day ye have won the high renown of prowess, and

have passed this day in valiantness all other of your party. Sir, I say

not this to mock you; for all that be on our party, that saw every man's

deeds, are plainly accorded by true sentence to give you the prize and

chaplet."



So ended that great day at Poitiers. It ended miserably enough for

France, the routed soldiery themselves becoming bandits to ravage her,

and the people being robbed for ransom till the whole realm was given

over to misery and woe.



It ended famously for England, another proud chaplet of victory being

added to the crown of glory of Edward III. and his valiant son, the

great day at Crecy being matched with as great a day at Poitiers.

Agincourt was still to come, the three being the most notable instances

in history of the triumph of a handful of men well led over a great but

feebly-handled host. The age of knighthood and chivalry reached its

culmination on these three memorable days. It ended at Agincourt,

"villanous gunpowder" sounding its requiem on that great field. Cannon,

indeed, had been used by Edward III. in his wars; but not until after

this date did firearms banish the spear and bow from the "tented

field."



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