The Vow on the Heron

CRÈCY

PRINCE Edward was now almost a man. At fifteen he was tall, mature for his age, and was eager to show his father that he was a man.

Edward delighted in him. Dearly as he loved his daughters he must admit that everyone looked to his sons and at the head of them was Edward. He could be proud of them all: Lionel a big sturdy fellow; John—who was always called John of Gaunt even in England and was always ready to attract attention and give a good account of himself; and Edmund who was a baby yet, but growing up like the others. Yes, he was a lucky man to have such sons.

Events of course did not stand still. Edward believed that the best place to start the attack on France must come from the North. The nearer he was to England, the easier was it to get the necessary supplies. He had no intention of falling into that trap which had proved to be the disaster of many a commander. Victory in the hands and nothing to hold it, success quickly turning to wretched failure. No, Edward wanted an open way to transport behind him. Therefore it would be the North and he looked to the Flemings for help.

There was uneasy news from Jacob van Arteveldt.

The Flemings were restive. Prosperity was waning and they were now grumbling among themselves and accusing Jacob of not keeping his promises.

An idea had occurred to Edward. Why should not Flanders be made a Duchy and Prince Edward become its Duke? The more he thought of it, the more the idea appealed to him. With Flanders in his hands through his son as its Duke, he would be in a good position to attack France. He could imagine Philip’s rage and chagrin when he heard of such a fait accompli.

But first it had to be brought about. Jacob van Arteveldt was in agreement with Edward when the matter was broached with him and he assured Edward that he could win the support of the main towns whose consent would be necessary. He had brought the people of Flanders to his side with his eloquence and honesty and he could do so again for he sincerely believed that union with England was the best hope for Flanders.

Delighted Edward summoned his son and explained to him what he hoped for. Young Edward, eager to fight beside his father, was excited at the prospect. Indeed he was chafing against the delay in getting to France and wresting the crown from Philip and placing it where he believed it belonged, on his father’s head, and he knew that in time that should mean on his, too.

‘We must prepare to leave at once for Flanders,’ said the King, ‘but without too much noise. It should not be known what is in our minds until the Flemings send to us to welcome us into Flanders. We want no trouble from our enemies. I trust van Arteveldt with all my heart and he will let us know as soon as his countrymen are ready to receive us. My plan is to take very few men with us. We will ride quietly to Sandwich and there take ship. The Swallow will be waiting for us. But remember, my son, quiet is the word. I have told your mother and a few others, no more. Now prepare.’

Philippa had listened to the project with a certain apprehension. It meant that the peaceful months were at an end. Heartily as she wished that Edward would abandon his project for the conquest of France she said nothing; but a little sadly said good-bye to her husband and son, and on the last day of June the two Edwards set out on the journey for Sandwich.

The following day they embarked on the Swallow.

Jacob van Arteveldt, however, was finding it was not as easy as he had thought. When he had first arisen the citizens of the main Flanders towns—Bruges, Ghent and Ypres—had welcomed him as their saviour. He was one of them; he was a good honest workman, a man of ideals and the courage to present them; an honest man; a leader of stature. Perhaps he had been a little too hopeful. Perhaps he had set his dreams of prosperity too high. The fact remains that a great deal of what he had promised had not come to pass.

He talked to the people in market squares. They were dissatisfied with their Count who worked against them with the French but, they wanted to know, why should they exchange him for a foreigner, an English boy of whom they knew nothing? No, they would keep what they had. Who could say which might be the lesser of two evils?

Meanwhile Edward and his son remained on board the Swallow in Slays awaiting the call from van Arteveldt. It was long in coming but Edward was certain of Jacob’s influence with the people and he believed it would come in time. He had forgotten that it was a long time since he had been in Flanders and reputations such as that of Jacob van Arteveldt, acquired so hastily can evaporate with equal speed.

Jacob’s success in Ghent had aroused a great deal of envy among his fellow citizens. Who is this man who sets himself up to be our leader? they were asking. He is only one of us. What has he that we haven’t?

He was an excellent business man. He had acquired a small fortune. But who was he to dictate what Flanders should do?

Then the whispers came. He was working with the English. He wanted to depose the Count and set up the son of the King of England in his place. He wanted to choose their rulers. He was a traitor, wasn’t he?

When Jacob returned to Ghent they were waiting for him. He sensed their hostility immediately. He saw murderous looks directed in his direction so he made haste to his house and once there barricaded himself in.

It seemed that no sooner had he done this than the mob was at his door. He heard them shouting for him to come out and he knew that if they were determined they would, in time, break down his doors. It was an ugly mob.

It was his eloquence which had won them in the first place so he would try it again. He went to the topmost window of his house and looked down on the crowd.

Some of them carried clubs and others had picked up whatever article they could find to act as a weapon. He realized that they hated him now as fiercely as they had once loved him. Such was the emotion of the mob.

He opened a window and called to them to let him speak. ‘My friends and countrymen,’ he cried, ‘will you listen to me ...’

But they could not hear him to great was the noise they made

‘Come down and face us, Jacob,’ they chanted. ‘We will show you what we will do with you.’

‘Have you not prospered of late?’ he shouted. ‘Have I not made it easier for you to sell your goods? Did I not arrange ...’

But he could see it was useless. They had not come to listen. They had come to destroy him.

Several of them were climbing up the side of the house. ‘I can bring you prosperity,’ he cried.

But they could not hear. They did not want prosperity at this moment. They only wanted to satisfy their lust for revenge on one of their own kind who had risen far above them, who had set out to be a leader and who made contracts with kings.

A hand reached out and grabbed his arm. He was half way out of the window. Other hands seized him and pulled him down to the ground.

They were trampling on him; they were kicking him. They were raining blows on him.

It has all been in vain, he thought.

And so he died.

Eagerly awaiting a message from Jacob van Arteveldt, making his preparations for his and his son’s entry into Ghent, Edward received the messenger.

He could not believe what he heard.

Van Arteveldt dead! Murdered by the people of Ghent. But he was a man who had done so much for Flanders. Murdered. It was impossible.

‘‘Tis so, my lord,’ replied the messenger and told the King how the people of Ghent had turned against Jacob because he wanted to set a foreign Prince over them and how they had clubbed him to death.

Edward was subdued.

‘He was a good man,’ he said. ‘He was a man who served his country well and would have gone on doing so. An honest man, rare in these days.’

He saw it was the end of a dream.

He rewarded the messenger and dismissing him, summoned his son.

‘You see, Edward, how in this life that which we thought to be within our grasp will often elude us. We should never count on anything until we hold it in our hands.’

‘Should we not go and avenge the death of this good friend, Father?’ asked the Prince.

The King shook his head.

‘Jacob is dead. Nothing can bring him back. We are engaged on a war to win the crown of France. We cannot involve ourselves in minor wars which would divert us from our purpose. I had hoped to attack with the Flemings beside me. Now we will forget that and start from another point.’

‘What shall we do now?’

‘My son, we shall return to England. There we shall prepare ourselves for a mighty campaign against the French.’

There should be no more delay.

He would depend on none but himself. The next months should be spent in preparation and this time next year he would be in France with the finest army he could muster.

Thank God for the truce! Preparation time. It should be well spent.

Philippa was delighted to see them back. She mourned the death of Jacob van Arteveldt, a man whom she had greatly admired; she wondered about his son Philip who had been her godson. ‘Poor fatherless boy,’ she said. ‘And Jacob was such a good man. Why cannot people understand that such as he did not seek honours for themselves but only the good of their country?’

She was glad though that she had her husband and son back if it was to be only a short respite. She had not wanted young Edward to take the title of Duke in Flanders. Men like her husband could never see how dearly such honours were bought and that the world would be happier without them.

Now throughout England workshops were busy. Bows and arrows were being made in their thousands. The blacksmiths shops throughout the country rang with activity; they were making horse-trappings for the horses which would go to war. Carpenters and tentmakers were working full speed, and this brought prosperity to the country.

Every man knew what they were working for. It was for the excursion into France. It was to set the crown of France on the head of Edward Plantagenet for, every Englishman believed, that was where it rightly belonged. Was not their King’s mother a daughter of a King of France and had not her brothers died ... every one of them? The French said that no woman could inherit the crown of France. That was their Salic law. Well why shouldn’t a woman’s son inherit? In any case this was what they wanted to believe and they were going to believe it.

Their Edward was the true King of France not Philip of Valois. And they were going to fight to give him what was his by right.

By the following summer there was an army of twenty thousand men ready to follow the King to France. And each day they practised with their bows. They were determined to be the finest archers England had ever known. Lance, sword and battle-axe. They would know how to use them against the French when the great day came.

Philippa hid her grief at parting. She was once more pregnant or she would have gone with the King to France.

She smiled tenderly on her husband who was now so eager to be gone. He was certain of victory; it was characteristic of him that he should be. Again it seemed to her that he had never really grown up, a trait which often served him well. His unfailing optimism had carried him through many a difficult situation. Edward always believed in victory and he had the gift of making others believe in it too; and when his dreams failed to come true he never brooded on their failure; he began the next campaign. Thus cheated of the dukedom of Flanders he turned his efforts to the crown of France.

Fondly he embraced Philippa. ‘I leave you, my love,’ he said, ‘regent of this realm. The Earl of Kent will stand beside you. And Lionel shall be Guardian of the Realm.’

Lionel who was summoned to the King’s presence listened gravely to his father’s injunctions. It sounded wonderful to be Guardian of the Realm. He did not quite understand what it meant but it was something to boast of to his brothers and sisters and it gave him a chance to score over Isabella who always thought she was the most important person in the family because she was their father’s favourite.

When he asked his mother what he would have to do she reassured him by telling him only what she told him to. He might have to sit at meetings and when he did so remember that he must keep quiet and try to listen, or seem as if he were listening.

That did not seem insuperable and was a great comfort to the eight-year-old boy.

So they said good-bye to the King and Prince Edward, and the Regency had begun.

Shortly afterwards the Queen went to Windsor for her lying in and very soon gave birth to her daughter Margaret.

Prince Edward stood on deck with his friends William de Montacute, who had become the Earl of Salisbury on the death of his father, and Sir John Chandos. He admired John Chandos more than anyone he knew and he was proud of his friendship with him. John being older than he was had taught him a great deal and he seemed to the Prince the perfect knight. He was brave yet gentle; he hated oppressing the weak and showed no fear of the strong. Edward delighted in his company. He felt differently towards William de Montacute who was two years older than he was and inclined to stress the superior wisdom of seniority. Moreover there had been a certain rivalry between them over the fascinating Joan of Kent who, at the joust of the Round Table, had played one against the others, with Thomas Holland in spite of his being of lesser rank seeming to be the favoured one. But perhaps that was just Joan’s perversity.

Both William de Montacute and Edward had yet to attain knighthood and this was their immediate ambition. The Prince was envious of William for he was to command the landing of the first batch of the invaders—a task which Edward had thought his father might have given to him.

William was preening himself, determined to make a success of it and listening to the advice given by John Chandos.

Edward shrugged his shoulders. Well, if he were going to be the perfect knight like John, he must not show envy but wish all success to William which, somewhat grudgingly under the eye of John, he did.

And then to land and the beginning of operations.

There was some opposition by the natives but they were unarmed and William, a noble sight charging among them brandishing his sword, had little difficulty in putting them to flight and the operation assigned to him was carried through smoothly.

Edward was to land with his father and stood beside him awaiting the moment.

The King was carried shoulder high to the shore and as he sprang to his feet he miscalculated in some way and fell sprawling.

There was a shocked silence. Men about to go into battle were always looking for omens and for the King to fall as he set foot on land seemed like a deadly one.

Edward burst into loud laughter.

He stood up and held out his earth-stained hands.

‘Behold, my friends,’ he cried. ‘The very land of France cannot wait to embrace me as its rightful master.’ He looked at those solemn faces and he went on: ‘When my great ancestor came from Normandy to England, he fell on landing just as I have done. He told his men what I have just told your and lo and behold did it not come to pass that he conquered that land? Now it is changed. I come to conquer France as he once came to conquer England.’

Yes, they remembered the story of the Conqueror. It had been passed down through the ages.

It was a sign from Heaven. Edward was going to conquer France.

It was important, Edward believed, to imbue his son with that aura which men such as himself and his grandfather possessed. It was a pity Edward was not a few years older. Sixteen was so young. He was not even a knight yet. That could be remedied and it would be a good dramatic gesture to knight him here and now in the first hour on French soil. Then these men would know that if their King fell in battle there was another whom they could follow, ready to step into his shoes.

He summoned the Prince to him and there on a knoll made him bend his knee. He touched his shoulder with his unsheathed sword, fastened the belt about his hips and the golden spurs at his heels. Your Prince, he was telling the watchers, is no longer a boy.

He knighted one or two others on that spot and among them was William de Montacute, the young Earl of Salisbury. Edward felt a rush of emotion as he applied the naked sword to the shoulder.

He wished that the boy’s mother could see this ceremony. She would know then that he thought of her often and that he was determined to honour and do all he could to advance her family.

The march across the north of France had begun and there was little opposition in the first weeks. Barfleur, Valonges. Carentan and St Lo quickly fell to Edward. At the last place a thousand tuns of wine were discovered and these so refreshed the English army that they were unable to move for some time.

‘But,’ Edward explained to his son, ‘one must consider the needs of the men. This night they will be thanking God that they came to France and pitying those who stayed behind. Let it be so, they will not always harbour such sentiments, for war, my son, is not all seeking a woman in the village and getting tipsy on discovered wine.’

After St Lo they came to Caen which he took with ease and from Caen he marched to Lisieux.

By this time Philip, realizing what had happened, was gathering together a large force; he intended to put one double that of the English into the field if he could and in one mighty battle smash the fighting power of England. He would show Edward that it was one matter to take a defenceless town and another to score a victory over a well trained army.

Edward meanwhile marched on, encountering here and there French resistance but nothing serious. He knew what was happening and very shortly he would have to stand and fight the great army which Philip was bringing to meet him.

Edward chose his spot with great foresight. He set his men to occupy the right bank of the river Maye. To his right was the river and the village of Crécy; he had ordered that wagons be piled up on the left flank where the army might be vulnerable and these provided a measure of protection. From the front he commanded the Vallée-aux-Clercs.

Thus he had built himself in to a very desirable position.

Edward knew that he needed it. He was going to face an army vastly superior to his own in numbers. He had landed with twenty thousand but during the march to Crécy with its attendant skirmishes several men had lost their lives; others had been incapacitated by sickness. He had taken several towns but it was inevitable that some men should lose their lives during these operations. He had had to send some home because their attacks of dysentery had made them a burden to the army.

So he lacked the fine army he had set out with, but in his optimism he assured himself that he was left with the best. The survivors of the rigours of the last weeks must be the strong and the brave.

Philip however came with his army in full force. It was estimated that he had some fifty thousand men which was thirty thousand more than Edward had set out with for naturally he had had to leave men at home for the defence of England whereas Philip could draw from the whole of his domain.

It would be a hard battle but Edward was not the man to be oppressed by the thought of numbers.

‘Our men have had the experience of warfare in the last weeks,’ he told the Prince. ‘They will be prepared for battle. And know this: one Englishman is worth three Frenchmen so that will make us roughly equal in numbers.’

The Prince was longing to go into battle, to prove himself, to show his father that although he was but sixteen he could fight as well as any man.

The morning of Saturday the twenty-sixth of August dawned and there was still no sign of the French army, though scouts had brought the news that Philip and his men were in the vicinity.

The King and the Prince heard mass as did most of the army; and they set themselves to wait. The Prince wore black armour which distinguished him from all others. The King was a little uneasy for it would soon be discovered who he was and he feared for him, inexperienced of battle as he was.

‘I wish to be recognized,’ said the Prince. ‘I care not who comes to me, I will give a good account of myself. I should despise myself if I feared to be known.’

The King was torn between his fears for his son and in his pleasure in his bravery. He would not have wished for a coward. Better a dead son than an unworthy one.

It was Robert the Bruce who had gone into battle with a golden circlet on his head that all might know he was the king. Edward Longshanks had been recognized by his unusual height and had never sought to disguise it. And so the Prince would follow these examples and show himself as the Black Prince of Wales.

It was midday when the French discovered they were almost fact to face with the English.

The hour of battle was close.

Some of the French thought it should be postponed for a day as their men had ridden hard all the morning and would be weary but this suggestion was thrust aside by the King’s brother and the battle began.

Through the afternoon the conflict raged, swaying this way and that and if it had not been for the skill of the English archers, there would have been victory for the French. The sun was hot but suddenly the sky was overcast and a terrible storm broke. The sky was then black; forked lightning shot moss the sky and the rain teemed down. The position of the English which Edward had so carefully planned was a help to them. It was different with the French. They took the brunt of the storm and, when suddenly a number of crows rose up and cawing loudly circled over the French army, there was alarm in their ranks.

Everyone was amazed at the sight—the sudden darkness, the downpour, the lightning, the deafening thunder and then the crows.

Edward cried: ‘This prophesies disaster for our enemies. Victory will be ours. Heaven is telling us this.’

Quite suddenly the storm was over and the blazing sun was seen again. It shone in the face of the French and was behind the English which was an added advantage.

Young Edward, conspicuous in his black armour was in the thick of the fight. He was surrounded by the enemy and there was not a man among them who was not longing for the honour of taking the son of the King of England dead or alive.

Sir John Chandos had questioned the wisdom of wearing such a distinguishing armour, but for once the Prince would not listen to his friend. Salisbury had won honour by landing the first batch of men; he was going to win greater honour in the battle of Crécy.

Suddenly he was down. His horse lay wounded, he almost beneath it.

‘It’s the Black Prince!’ he heard the shout, and he knew his enemies were all about him. He would fight to the end. He would never let them take him alive. It seemed now that all his dreams of glory were to end on the field of Crécy.

Someone was standing over him straddled over his fallen body wielding an axe. He was shouting, ‘Edward and St George. Edward Fils du Roy.’

Before he had fallen, but seeing him surrounded, Sir John Beauchamp had galloped to the King.

‘My lord, my lord,’ he cried, ‘the Prince is sorely pressed.’

‘Is he dead?’ asked Edward quietly.

‘Nay, nay. But he needs help ... without delay he needs help.’

‘Is he badly wounded then that he needs help?’

‘He is not wounded, my lord. But knowing he is the Prince they are pressing him hard.’

‘Sir Thomas,’ replied the King, ‘as long as my son lives he will fight. I say this to you: Let the boy win his spurs. I would have the honour of this day be his.’

Sir Thomas rode off. One did not question the King’s orders, but as Edward watched his departing figure a terrible fear touched him.

What if he could have saved the boy? What if Edward were killed or taken prisoner? How could he face Philippa? She would say: Our boy was in danger and you did not send help to him.

I wanted him to prove himself. I wanted him not to be ashamed after this day, not to have to say I should have failed if my father had not sent to help me.

‘Oh God of battles,’ he prayed, ‘let the boy earn his spurs this day.’

It was John Chandos who led the charge. He galloped forward scattering those who would have taken the Prince.

‘John ...’ cried Edward.

‘Up on this horse, my lord,’ said John. ‘We must pursue the enemy.’

How good it was to be mounted again. To have come close to death and to have felt no fear.

He rode beside John. The warmth of the sun enveloped him; the grass wet and glistening after the recent rain smelt fresh.

‘I’ll never forget this day, John,’ he said.

‘I doubt any of us will ever forget the field of Crécy, my lord,’ was the answer.

The French were defeated but would not concede victory. Again and again they threw themselves into the fight. Even the King of France was wounded and it was only the urgent pleading of his faithful friends which decided him finally to depart. He had lost a battle, they said, but a battle was not a war. He must retire, give the English this victory and live to fight again.

Sound advice which Philip followed.

And so, against overwhelming odds, the victory was Edward’s.

He was exultant. ‘As long as men shall live,’ he declared, they will speak of Crécy.’

Then he turned to Edward standing beside him in his black armour and he embraced him. ‘You are truly my son,’ he said in a ringing voice. ‘This day you have borne yourself right royally. You are worthy to be a King and a King of England.’

The Prince murmured that he owed his life to many and all men here today had contributed to the victory of Crécy.

And they cheered him for his bravery and his modesty and they said that when people talked of Crécy they would link with that great victory the name of the Black Prince.