CHAPTER XVII
HOW WE FORDED THE SOMME
Deep and somewhat depressing was the anxiety felt throughout the English army as the night of Wednesday closed over Oisemont; and brief, if any, was the sleep enjoyed by most of the brave islanders whose situation was so critical. Edward, who, both as king and Englishman, was almost overwhelmed with a sense of responsibility as he thought of the duty he owed to the brave men who had placed themselves in jeopardy to assert his rights, scarcely closed his eyes, but waited with impatience the break of day to make the attempt on which seemed to hang the fate of his army and his own reputation as a war-chief.
Rising at midnight, and intent on putting his fortune to the test, the king ordered his trumpets to sound; and, ere the first streak of day glimmered in the sky, he set out from Oisemont at the head of the van, and under the guidance of Gobin Agace, reached the ford of Blanche-taque just as the sun rose. But at that time the tide was so full that the idea of attempting a passage was not to be entertained; and the light of day revealed on the opposite bank a strong force, which had been posted there under one of the lords of Normandy, named Godemar du Fay, with positive orders not, on any account, to allow the English to ford the river.
In fact, Philip of Valois, on arriving at Amiens, had despatched Godemar du Fay, with a thousand horsemen, six thousand footmen, and a body of Genoese, to render the passage of the Somme absolutely impossible; and Godemar had, on his march towards Blanche-taque, been joined by a multitude of peasants and the townsmen of Abbeville, and found himself at the head of twelve thousand men, who occupied a strong position, and presented an imposing front. Edward, however, was not in the least degree daunted. On seeing how matters were he merely indicated his intention of waiting for that part of his army which had not yet come up, and then attempting the passage at all hazards – the feat on which everything now appeared to depend.
Accordingly, when the various divisions of the English reached the Somme, and the tide had in some measure fallen, the king intimated to his marshals that the hour had come for putting all to the test; and shouting, "Let all who love me follow me," he spurred his charger and dashed into the stream. The Prince of Wales and his knights followed; and the French horsemen, at the same time, left the opposite bank, and met them hand to hand.
A fierce combat now began in the water, and many gallant deeds were performed on both sides. But the French – albeit they fought well – exerted themselves in vain. The king and the prince, heading their knights, bore down all opposition; and, almost ere they had obtained a footing on the bank, the superior prowess of the English was so evident, that the French almost immediately gave way and began to disperse. Moreover, Godemar himself, after remaining for a moment aghast at what was passing before him, concluded – and not without reason – that all was lost; and, while the English were still struggling through the ford, he completely lost hope of holding his ground, gave way to panic, turned his horse's head, and headed the flight.
Having solemnly rendered thanks to God for conducting himself and his army so far in safety, Edward summoned Gobin Agace, gave him and his companions leave to depart, and, in recognition of the service he had rendered, presented him with a hundred nobles and a good horse.
The Somme being thus passed, the king, with a lighter heart, pursued his march, intending to take up his quarters at the town of Noyelle. Learning, however, that it belonged to the Countess of Aumerle, sister of his old friend, Robert of Artois, he sent to assure her that she should not be disturbed, and pursued his way till he came, on Friday, to a village in Ponthieu. Understanding that Philip of Valois was still pursuing with the intention of giving battle, Edward, no longer wishing to avoid an encounter, resolved to encamp, and await what fortune God should send.
"Let us post ourselves here," he said to his people, "for we will not go farther till we have seen our enemies. I have reason to wait for them on this spot, as I am now on the lawful inheritance of my grandmother, and I am resolved to defend it against my adversary, Philip of Valois."
Orders for encamping on the plain near the village having been issued, Edward, remembering the infinitely superior number of the army which followed the banner of his foe, and determined to take every precaution to ensure a victory, in the event of a battle, commanded his marshals to select the most advantageous ground, and to inclose a large park, which had a wood in the rear, within which to place all the baggage-waggons and horses. No time was lost in executing the king's orders; and the English, with a degree of hope unfelt for days, then set about furbishing and repairing their armour, so as to be prepared for the conflict which was not likely to be for many hours delayed.
Meanwhile, Edward, no longer avoiding but courting an encounter, sent his scouts towards Abbeville to learn whether or not there was any sign that Philip of Valois was about to take the field; and the scouts, on returning, said there was no appearance of any movement on the enemy's part. The king then dismissed his men to their quarters with orders to be ready betimes next morning; and, after giving a supper to the earls and barons who accompanied him, he retired to his oratory, and, falling on his knees before the altar, prayed to God that, in the event of combating his adversary on the morrow, he might come off with honour.
By midnight all was quiet, for thorough discipline prevailed throughout the camp, and men stretched themselves to rest; and refreshed their energies with slumber; and I, Arthur Winram, as I spread the skin of a wild beast on the grass hard by the prince's pavilion, and threw myself on the ground, and closed my eyes to dream of marvellous adventures in love and war, said to myself —
"Now let me sleep while there is yet time. Mayhap, ere the sun of to-morrow sets, I may sleep the sleep that knows no breaking."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE EVE OF BATTLE
It is well known that Robert, King of Sicily, was a great astrologer and full of deep science, and that he had often cast the nativities of Edward of England and Philip of Valois; and that, having found by his astrology and the influence of the stars that, if they met in hostile encounter, Philip would assuredly be defeated, the Sicilian king had frankly intimated to his royal kinsman the result of his investigations, and strongly advised him to beware of hazarding a battle.
For years this prediction had exercised much influence on Philip's mind; but on this occasion, the Valois, finding himself at the head of an army so much superior in number to that of his gifted adversary, was ready to throw all hesitation to the winds, and eager for nothing so much as an early opportunity of coming to close conflict. Much, therefore, was he disappointed on hearing that the English had given him the slip and passed the Somme.
"Now," demanded Philip, turning to his marshals, "what is to be done?"
"Sire," replied they, "the tide is now in at Blanche-taque, and you can only cross the river by the bridge of Abbeville."
"Well, then, let us turn toward Abbeville," said Philip, and his marshals gave orders to that effect.
On reaching Abbeville, Philip took up his quarters in the monastery dedicated to St. Peter. He was still hopeful of overtaking and crushing his foe, though perhaps not quite so secure of victory, in the event of a battle taking place, as he had been twelve hours earlier. At all events, he deemed it prudent to await such additions to his army as were likely to arrive; and from Thursday to the evening of Friday he remained impatiently at the monastery awaiting the coming of his friends and intelligence of his foes.
Wearily passed the hours, and more and more impatient grew Philip. At length, however, as that August day was drawing to a close, the French marshals rode into Abbeville with tidings that the King of England had encamped on a plain in Ponthieu, and that the English army appeared bent on remaining to try conclusions. Perhaps Philip now began to entertain some doubts as to the result, and to call to memory the prediction of the King of Sicily, which, in his rage and desire for vengeance, he had, for a time, forgotten. But, in any case, it was clear that he had gone too far to recede; and, come what might, he resolved to push forward and fight for the crown which he wore.
So Philip of Valois entertained the princes and great lords of his army at supper; and, next morning, after hearing mass, he set out in pursuit of the invaders who had wrought him so much mischief and caused him so much trouble. As he left Abbeville the rain fell in torrents, and the march was long and fatiguing. But, still undaunted, Philip pushed forward, and, about noon, came in sight of the English, who were seated on the ground on a large plain, not far from a village which boasted of a windmill. Hitherto obscure, this village was, from that day, to be widely known to fame as the place where the great Plantagenet, after being so keenly hunted, turned to bay.
It was Cressy.
CHAPTER XIX
THE BATTLE OF CRESSY
It was Saturday, the 26th of August, 1346, when Philip of Valois marched from Abbeville to Cressy; and, on the morning of that day, the King of England and the Prince of Wales, rising early, heard mass and took the sacrament. At the same time most of the English confessed their sins and received absolution, that they might go to battle with lighter consciences and heavier hands; and these religious ceremonies having been performed, Edward commanded his men to arm themselves, and, with the aid of his constable and the two marshals, arrayed the army in three divisions.
At the head of the first division Edward placed the Prince of Wales, who was supported by the Earls of Warwick and Oxford. The second was under the Lord de Roos and the Earls of Northampton and Arundel. The third, which the king intended as a reserve, he retained under his own command.
Having thus arrayed his forces, Edward, armed in mail, save his head which was uncovered, mounted a palfrey, and riding from rank to rank, with a white wand in his hand, encouraged the soldiers by his presence, and intreated them to do their duty valiantly. He then ordered that they should refresh themselves with what provisions they had, and retired to his own division; while the men seated themselves on the grass and ate and drank at their ease. Everything being ready for action, they placed their helmets and weapons beside them, and awaited the coming of their foes, who, still deeming themselves secure of an easy victory, were pushing forward furiously.
It was not, however, till afternoon – not, in fact, till three o'clock – that Philip of Valois, who had left Abbeville in the midst of a heavy fall of rain, came up – at the head of that seemingly countless host, which had gathered from so many countries to his aid – with the handful of invaders he had vowed to crush as a potter's vessel. As the French approached, the sun, which had been obscured all the morning, broke through the clouds, and added to the effect of their chivalrous display. Nor could anything have been more impressive. Banners and pennons flew; armour glistened; bridles rang; and from the armed multitude – panting for blood and carnage – rose loudly shouts of "Kill! kill! kill!"
It happened, on that memorable day, that the Count of Alençon led the van of the French army, and that in front of his cavalry he had placed the Genoese, whose cross-bows were deemed likely to do terrible execution. But, fatigued with a hasty and long march, the Genoese were not in the best condition for the work they were designed to do, and the delay which took place in consequence caused considerable confusion. Philip, as was his wont when in any way annoyed, lost his temper, and, as usual when he did so, his wrath instantly got the better of his discretion.
"In the name of God and St. Denis," he roared, "order the Genoese forward and begin the battle!"
Nothing could have exceeded the imprudence of attacking formidable foes with an army in such disorder as that of France then was. But Philip's blood was boiling at the sight of his enemies seated calmly on the grass, and he was incapable of calculating chances. Accordingly orders to attack were given; and the Genoese, supported by a large body of men-at-arms, splendidly arrayed, approached with a loud shout which was intended to make the English tremble. But the Genoese were much mistaken. No notice whatever was taken of the noise. The Genoese then raised a second shout. It, however, had quite as little effect as the first. The Genoese then raised a third shout. But not one iota more attention was paid to it than had been paid to the first and second. The Genoese then presented their cross-bows and began to shoot, and instantly – suddenly, as if by magic – the English were in motion and on their feet. Every archer was stringing his bow; every footman was brandishing his pike; every horseman was mounting his steed. All the thirty thousand stood calmly contemptuous of odds, and sternly resolute to conquer or die.
No time was now lost by the English in trying conclusions. Making a step or two forward, at a signal from their leaders, the archers in the division commanded by the prince, which was drawn up in the form and manner of a portcullis or harrow, with the men-at-arms in the rear, bent their bows, and sent a shower of arrows with such force in the face of the foe, that the Genoese flung down their cross-bows, and attempted to retreat. Again Philip lost his temper, and, with his temper, everything like prudence.
"Kill these scoundrels," shouted he; "for, by St. Denis, they only serve to stop our road to victory."
"Yes," cried the Count of Alençon, "let us ride over the bodies of the Genoese." And, without hesitation, the men-at-arms charged the cross-bowmen, and cut down the unfortunate mercenaries right and left.
Meanwhile the King of England, leaving the post of honour to the Prince of Wales, and without putting on his helmet, took his station by the windmill which I have already mentioned, and kept his eye on every part of the field. Marking the confusion among the French, he sent a messenger with orders to his son to charge upon them where their disarray was greatest; and gallantly was the duty performed. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the heroism with which the heir of England – bestriding his grey barb, inspiring those around him to despise odds, and defy the press of numbers – fought to win his spurs that day. It was an exciting spectacle to see one so young enacting such a part on such an occasion; and, inspirited by his example, the English advanced with increasing enthusiasm, and rushed on with a determination before which their enemies fell or were fain to give way.
But the great lords of France did not relish the idea of being beaten by a warrior in his teens; and, as the conflict went on, the prince was exposed to serious danger. By a simultaneous movement, the Count of Alençon advanced from one side and the Count of Flanders from the other, and, coasting, as it were, the archers, bore down with irresistible force on the prince, at the head of their riders; while Philip of Valois, guided by their banners, hounded forward a body of French and Germans, who, breaking through the archers, engaged in hand-to-hand encounter with the prince's men-at-arms. Fortunately, Lord de Roos and the Earl of Northampton lost no time in bringing the second division to the rescue. But the peril was still so extreme, that the Earl of Warwick, apprehending the worst, sent Sir Thomas Norwich to the king, who was still posted by the windmill.
"Sire," said the knight, "the Earl of Warwick, and others about your son, are attacked by the French, and are sorely handled; wherefore they intreat that you will come to their assistance with your battalion; for, if the French increase, as they are like, your son and they will have much to do."
"Is my son dead, or wounded, or felled to the earth?" asked Edward.
"No, sire, but he is hardly matched; wherefore he hath need of your aid."
"Well," said the king, "return to him, and to them that sent you hither, and let them know not to send for me, nor expect me to come this day, let what will happen, so long as my son is alive. And say that I command them to let my son win his spurs; for, if God be pleased, I wish all the glory and honour of the day to be given to the boy and to those who are about him."
Meanwhile, young Edward was bearing himself bravely; and when Sir Thomas Norwich returned and repeated the king's answer, the prince and his comrades were greatly encouraged with the confidence the king reposed in them, and exerted themselves so strenuously, that, as the day wore away, the battle – lately so fiercely contested – began to wear a most unfavourable aspect for the French. The Counts of Alençon and Flanders, indeed, fought bravely. But their efforts were in vain. Down they both went, never to rise again; down went the Count of Blois and the Duke of Lorraine; down went the Count of St. Pol and the Count of Auxerre; and away fled Charles, Emperor of Germany, leaving his old blind father to his fate.
But John of Bohemia – old and blind as he might be – was not the man to fly; and, as he learned from his knights how the battle was going, and how a boy, whose name he had never heard, was, at the head of a handful of men, vanquishing the chivalry of Christendom, his indignation became high and his excitement great.
"Where," he asked suddenly, "is my son?"
"My lord," answered one of his knights, "we know not; but we believe he is fighting."
"Well, gentlemen," said the king, "you are all my people, and my friends, and brothers-in-arms this day: therefore, as I am blind, I request you to lead me so far into the battle that I may strike one stroke with my sword."
"My lord," was the reply, "we will directly conduct you forward."
And the knights, that they might not lose the blind king in the crowd, interlaced their bridles with his, and, placing him in front, led him to the charge. But John of Bohemia was not more fortunate than his friends. Good use, indeed, he made of his sword. His charge, however, was as vain as the efforts of the Counts of Alençon and Flanders had been. After penetrating into the English ranks, the Bohemian warriors fell in a body; and the blind king and his knights were found next day among the slain, with their horses fastened to each other by the bridles.
It was now about vespers; and the battle, having raged for hours, was wearing itself out. Hitherto Philip of Valois had enacted the part of a brave warrior, and done stern work with sword and lance. But, as evening sped on, it became evident that all was lost; and John of Hainault saw that there was no hope of safety save in flight.
"Sire," said he, riding up to Philip, "retreat while it is yet time, and do not further expose yourself. If you have lost this battle, another time you may conquer." And, taking the rein of the vanquished man's bridle, he led him forcibly from the scene of action, just as the shades of evening were beginning to settle over the ground where his adherents lay dead and dying.
By this time, indeed, the struggle was becoming faint, and ere long it was at an end; and King Edward descended from the windmill from which he had watched a mighty and magnificent army go down before his scanty ranks. Placing himself at the head of his division, he advanced towards the Prince of Wales, took the young hero in his arms, and kissed him.
"Sweet son," said he, "God give you good perseverance. You have most loyally acquitted yourself this day, and you are worthy to be a sovereign."
"My lord," replied the prince, bowing low, "the honour of the victory belongs to you alone."
The King of England and the Prince of Wales, having strictly forbidden all noise and rioting, retired to give thanks to God for the happy issue of the day; and darkness, descending over the ground, now slippery with gore, concealed the carnage; and so well was order kept in the English camp that the stillness of the night was unbroken, save by the wounded who were dying, and the riflers who were prying, and the ravens that were flying over the field where the princely hunters had learned to their cost how terrible was the lion of England when he turned to bay.