The Vow on the Heron

POITIERS

ONE of the effects of the Black Death was to make it impossible for hostilities to continue between France and England and Edward’s dream of taking the French crown had to be postponed for a while.

Philip of France, now an old man, had remarried and his bride was Blanche of Navarre, a girl of nineteen, but a few months after the wedding Philip died and his son Jean became King.

Jean wanted to put an end to Edward’s claims which he considered absurd and when an opportunity occurred which would allow someone else to help fight his battles he seized on it.

Jean realized that England’s advantage was in her superior sea power which had grown considerably after the battle of Helvoetsluys and he believed that if he could cripple that power, ultimate victory over the English would be in sight.

Alfonso of Castile, father to that Pedro the Cruel who would have been Joanna’s husband had she not died of the plague, had himself been a victim of the terrible scourge so Pedro was now King of Castile. However Pedro had had an elder brother who had died but had left a son and this son, Charles de la Cerda, maintained that he had a prior claim to the throne of Castile. Charles appealed to Jean of France for help to gain his rights and Jean implied that if he would take action against the English and show himself to be indeed the friend of France, then Jean might consider helping him to gain the crown of Castile.

Charles therefore began gathering together his ships with the object of invading England. Edward was immediately alert to the danger. So many of his sailors had died; work in the shipyards had almost stopped, and the country desperately needed peace to become prosperous again.

He fervently hoped that the Spanish fleet would not be large, for if it were he would not be able to match it. True he had beaten the French at Helvoetsluys with far fewer ships than the enemy had had. He could doubtless do it again; but he was not bent on war. How typical of Jean of France to get others to fight his battles for him!

There was nothing to be done but set out for the coast and muster as many vessels as he could. Consequently he, with the Queen and his family, set out for Canterbury.

The Black Prince, excited as he always was at the prospect of a battle, rode with his young brother, ten-year-old John of Gaunt. The Prince was very fond of this brother and when young John asked if he might be with him during the battle the Prince rashly promised that he should. The Queen, her daughters and her ladies, were to stay in Canterbury and pray for victory.

Philippa was uneasy. She hated the thought of battle and as usual suffered greatly when her family was so engaged. She would pray fervently for victory, of course, and she well knew that as the Queen of England she must expect her husband and her elder son to go to war; but she was horrified when she heard that the Black Prince was taking little John with him. She protested. ‘He is only a child,’ she cried. ‘No, Edward, I will not have it. John must remain here in Canterbury with me.’

The Black Prince laughed aloud. ‘Why, my lady, the boy has to learn how to go into battle some day.’

‘Some day,’ said Philippa, ‘but not now when he is so young.’

Young John looked stormy. He turned to his brother and; cried: ‘But you promised. Edward you promised me ...’

Edward ruffled his brother’s hair and said: ‘Don’t fret, boy. You are coming with me. Our lady mother will see that it is necessary. You would not have him a weakling, my lady?’

‘He is ten years old ...’

John drew himself up to his full height and frowned at her. The Black Prince laughed.

‘I will tell you what we will do. We will ask our father. He will tell us whether or not you are old enough to come.’ He bent towards his brother. ‘I’ll promise you he will say you are to go. He was fighting battles himself at an early age. Besides I shall be with you. You’ll not stray from my side. Swear to it.’

‘I swear,’ said John.

The King gave the verdict that the boy was old enough and Philippa knew herself beaten.

Her task would be to remain behind, to pray for them, to fret for them and she would not know peace until they came back to her.

From Sandwich the King set sail in his best loved ship, Cog Thomas. The Black Prince sailed in another ship and with him was young John of Gaunt.

They cruised along the coast looking for the Spanish fleet.

The weather was warm and misty for it was August and as there was no sign of the enemy the King sat on deck listening to his minstrels playing to him. Men were stationed at every look-out in case the Spanish should attempt to creep up on them unawares.

The prospect of battle now, as always, stimulated the King and, dressed in a black coat and black beaver hat which set off his fairness ideally, he looked young and handsome.

Suddenly from the castle on the mast there was a shout of: ‘I spy Spaniards!’

The King was on his feet.

‘Sound the trumpets,’ he cried. ‘Call every man to his duty. The hour is come.’

Hastily armour was donned and by this time the Spaniards were very close. Exhilarated because he was fighting against great odds, Edward led his fleet into the attack. They rammed the Spanish and when close enough boarded their ships.

Edward was going to beat these Spaniards; he was going to drive them off the sea. He knew it. His son knew it too. They were of a kind.

The Spaniards were heaving lumps of iron on the English ships in an endeavour to sink them—and sometimes succeeding. But Edward was always to the fore shouting encouragement, teaching his men how to fight, reminding them that he was invincible.

Cog Thomas went down, but only after Edward had capured the ship which was attacking him, boarded it and taken command of it. The same thing had happened to the Black Prince who had made sure that his young brother was safe beside him.

It was a great day—a great battle. Edward was exultant. To win a battle was always exciting but when it was done against desperate odds then it was the most exhilarating adventure in the world.

Fourteen Spanish ships had been sunk while very few English had suffered the same fate and what was left of the Spanish fleet limped back to the French coast while Edward sailed triumphantly to that of England.

It was a moment of great joy for Philippa when they had all returned to her residence.

‘Praise be to God!’ she cried.

‘It was a great victory,’ Edward told her.

‘See,’ mocked the Black Prince, ‘I have brought your little John safely home to you.’

John ran to her and began telling her how the wicked Spaniards had sunk their ship and even Cog Thomas. ‘But we sank more of theirs,’ he cried excitedly.

‘And I can tell you, Madam,’ said the Black Prince, ‘your son acquitted himself well.’

Philippa could only rejoice that they had come safely back to her.

The battle was called Lespagnols sur Mer and because of the great victory Edward began to be called the King of the Seas.

He was pleased with the way things had gone. It was a great defeat for the French and they would realize it.

He said there should be feasting to celebrate it and Philippa agreed with him. She could not help wondering though what would have happened if the fight had gone against them; and the stories of how the King’s ship and that of the Black Prince had been sunk almost under them made her shiver with apprehension.

None could have been more aware than Edward of the need for peace. With a depleted population and the terrible loss which the pestilence had inflicted on his country, he must have time to build up its strength. This could not be done in a few years; but it did seem as though God repented of his vengeance—for it was generally agreed that the plague had been visited on them through Divine wrath--because in the years following children were born at a great rate and many women had twins and there were far more cases of triplets than had been noticed ever before.

The people wanted peace; so, fervently, did Edward. He admitted this to his Parliament and it was agreed to send the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Duke of Lancaster to France to negotiate.

Jean of France also realized the need for peace, but he had made up his mind that he was going to quash the English claim to the French crown once and for all. So he prevaricated and declared that the matter must be laid before the Pope. During this time Edward was obliged to maintain an army for he could not be sure whether or not the French would decide to strike; and so the months passed.

Philippa had become pregnant once more and on a cold January day gave birth to a son at Woodstock. She called him Thomas and there were lavish celebrations in spite of the need to equip an army.

The rejoicing was short lived for spies came from France to tell Edward that the French King was swearing to drive the English out of France and that he was mustering a large army for this purpose.

Edward lost no time in planning his campaign. The Black Prince was to take his own army to Bordeaux and attack from there; he, Edward, accompanied by his sons, Lionel and John, would set out for Calais.

Once again Philippa must watch her loved ones go into danger. Beyond anything she wanted peace and she often wondered what her life would have been like if Robert d’Artois had not goaded Edward into claiming the French crown. That that claim should have come through the Dowager Queen Isabella whose coming to England had changed the country’s history, fitted neatly into the pattern of events. Had a different bride been chosen for Edward II the whole face of English history might have been different. But how could one say ‘If’ in this way? Was not that how life was made up?

All the same, as a woman, a wife and a mother she knew in her heart that whatever conquests were made in France they would not be worth the anguish and the suffering which would be the price paid for them.

No sooner had Edward reached Calais than the Scots decided to strike on the Border, clearly believing that with Edward and the Black Prince out of the country they had a good chance of victory.

Messengers were sent at full speed to Edward to tell him that the Scots had laid siege to Berwick.

His fury was great.

‘I swear by God,’ he said, ‘that I shall sleep in no town more than one night before I have reached the border between England and perfidious Scotland.’

He sent word to his son.

‘I leave you to conduct this campaign in France. I know that I can rely on you to succeed.’

True to his word he rested nowhere longer than was necessary.

In a short time he had relieved Berwick.

The King of France chuckled with delight when he heard that Edward had been forced to go to Scotland. He talked of his good allies the Scots for it was not the first time they had been of use to him, and any who were enemies of England were friends of his.

‘This time,’ he declared, ‘I shall crush them once and for all time.’

For the King of England Jean had always had a mingled awe, admiration and hatred. His father had spoken of him with the utmost respect. He had once said that if Edward the Third had been like his father this mad matter of the English claim to the succession would have been settled long ago and England beaten to her knees, a province of France. But fate had given England this other Edward. He was like his grandfather. There was a certain mystique about such leaders. Men followed them and gave of their best without reward, having nothing in their minds but to serve. Such men were invincible unless faced with others of their kind. Jean hoped that he was such a one; but in his secret heart he had his doubts.

So it was good news that the Scottish action had taken Edward back to England and it was only his son they had to face. It was true that the Black Prince was earning a reputation to match that of his father. It had been attached to him after Crécy, though he might so easily have been killed or taken prisoner there. What a triumph that would have been. But fate had been kind to him and he had lived to win a great victory and the English had beaten the French, and what made it so much more galling was the fact that they had done so with fewer men. It must not happen again.

Jean was always eager to know what Edward was doing. When Edward had instituted the Order of the Garter he had imitated him by forming a brotherhood called Our Lady of the Noble Star. To this he admitted five hundred knights who must take the oath never to yield to the enemy more than four acres of ground and to die in battle rather than retreat.

He believed that now was his great chance. The Black Prince was marching through the country, ravaging it as he went and finding it an easy conquest. He took up his position outside Poitiers and there awaited the arrival of the English army. There the decisive battle should take place.

Jean was certain of success. He had to face the Prince—not the legend which was Edward the Third. He had forty thousand men—a far greater number than the English could possibly put into the field. Almost the whole of the nobility of France was with him and there were twenty-six dukes and counts. His four sons marched with him; his youngest Philip was only twelve years old and he had commanded the boy not to stray from his side, for this boy was his favourite among all his children and he loved him dearly.

There was some consternation in the English camp when it was realized what a great disparity there was in the numbers of the opposing armies. Even the Prince felt an inward qualm. Not that he would show it. As he said to his close friend and constant companion, Sir John Chandos, who was now at his side : ‘Battles are often decided before they begin. The last thing that must handicap our men is fear of greater numbers.’

‘And you, my lord?’

‘The difference is great,’ said the Prince. ‘But I must show my father that I am worthy to be his son.’

‘You have done that again and again.’

‘And shall continue to do so. I shall talk to the men before battle. I shall tell them that it is the English way to win a battle when the opposing numbers exceed their own. If they had thought of defeat they cannot do so now. Regard the might of the French. It means certain victory for us. Remember Crécy, Helvoetsluys, Les Espagnols sur Mer. It is an English tradition. Face great odds ... and win.’

Chandos nodded.

‘It is good to remind them of that.’

But at the same time Sir John had seen the doubts in the Prince’s eyes.

If a truce was offered ...’ began Sir John.

If I could make it with honour, well, my friend, I should consider it. Should I not be a fool to ignore it?’

That was enough for Sir John. The Prince was uneasy about the size of the French army.

In his tent the King of France talked to young Philip. ‘What say you my boy, shall we take the Black Prince prisoner or shall we slay him on the field?’

‘Let us take him prisoner,’ cried the boy. ‘We shall have more sport that way.’

‘You are a bright fellow,’ said the King placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘It would be a real feather in our caps if we took that one to Paris with us, eh?’

‘May I ride beside you when you do, my lord?’

‘You shall be there, I promise you.’

The boy looked at his father with shining eyes; he believed him to be the greatest man that ever lived. There was no doubt in young Philip’s mind that they would ride back to Paris with the Black Prince.

They went together into the royal tent, a glorious affair of vermilion samite as became the King of France. In the tent a table had been set up and over this had been hung the Oriflamme of France.

They feasted sumptuously while they discussed the action which should be taken.

It was different in the English camp. There was no feasting there. It was impossible to forage for food for the French surrounded them. And what were ten thousand men against forty? The Prince could not forget that the superiority in numbers meant that the French King could split his army into four and each one would be the size of the entire English force.

‘When the battle is won we shall feast,’ said the Prince. But first that which with every passing hour seemed to be more and more like a miracle must come to pass.

Meanwhile in the town of Poitiers the Cardinal Talleiran de Perigord called together certain of his clergy and declared that he was going to do everything he could to stop the battle. The town might well be laid waste if it took place and the surrounding country would be devastated. God had recently shown his displeasure by inflicting the pestilence upon them. Now God was beginning to smile on them but if this war continued the fair land of France would be laid waste and that was something it could not afford having already faced one enemy in the dreadful scourge.

There was great support for this and as a result the Cardinal came riding to the French King.

Jean received him with mixed feelings. He wanted desperately to beat the English but even equipped as he was he had his doubts of achieving this. He feared those English archers who had devasted the French army at Crécy, and, although at first he thrust aside the Cardinal’s suggestions, at length he agreed to wait and see what terms could be arranged.

The Cardinal then went to the Black Prince and talked to him.

The Prince listened and while he did so he was thinking quickly. He was outnumbered. Any student of military matters would say that the victory for the French was inevitable. As a great general he knew that if he could avert this battle with honour he must do so.

‘Sire,’ pleaded the Cardinal, ‘have pity on those fine men who this day will die on this field if the battle should go forth. You know that the King of France has a great army which outnumbers yours four to one.’

‘I know it well, good and gentle Father,’ said the Prince. ‘But our quarrel is just. My father, King Edward, is the lawful King of France and should possess this land. Yet I would not have it said that good youth was slain through my pride. I cannot though settle this matter without the King, my father. But I will give my men respite and if my honour and that of my army be saved I am ready to listen to any reasonable terms.’

‘You say well, fair son,’ replied the Cardinal. ‘I shall do my best to bring about peace.’

The Cardinal went back to the French camp and as a result a day’s truce was declared while negotiations took place.

A delegation of English headed by the Prince, and the Earls of Warwick and Suffolk went into the French King’s camp. Jean and Edward regarded each other steadily. Jean had seen the determination in the Prince’s eyes which made him uneasy. Here was another of those leaders. Why had God not sent another Edward the Second? If that had been the case this war could be finished now and for ever.

What would the Prince offer for his side of the bargain? asked the Cardinal.

The Prince said that he would dismiss all his prisoners free of ransom, give up the towns and castles he had taken during the campaign and agree to peace for seven years.

Jean pondered this. It seemed reasonable enough. He looked around at those of his nobles who were attending the council. He saw disgust in many of their faces. Here we are, they were telling him, with four times the men that the English have. Victory is in our hands. This is not the time to parley with them. This is the time to go in and annihilate them.

‘I demand the surrender of the Prince into my hands with a hundred of his leading knights,’ said the King.

The Prince laughed aloud. So Jean had no intention of making a truce. Edward would have thought him a fool if he had, with an army four times the size of his enemy’s.

‘Your countrymen think highly of you, my lord Prince,’ said the King. ‘Methinks it would not be long before they raised your ransom.’

‘What sort of knight do you think I am!’ cried the Prince hotly. ‘I will rather die sword in hand than be guilty of deeds so opposed to mine honour and the glory of England. Englishmen shall never pay ransom of mine.’

The Earl of Warwick unable to suppress his indignation cried out. ‘You French have no intention of making a truce. Why should you? You have four times more men than we have. We care not for that. Here is the field and the place. Let each do his best and may God defend the right.’

The Prince smiled with approval. The conference was over and the battle of Poitiers would soon be fought.

At sunrise on that fateful day the nineteenth of September 1356 the Prince was astir. He must be prepared for a dawn attack. He was going to need every bit of his military skill on this day. Oddly enough he felt exhilarated by the fact that his army was so small. He had talked to his men during the night, visiting them after dark, inspiring them, telling them that so it had been at Crécy and as one Englishman was worth five French they had the great chance of victory. Every one of them would give of his best. If he would do that then they could not fail to win.

‘By God,’ he cried to Chandos, ‘we are going to win this field. I feel it. I want messengers ready to go to my father when the day is won. There must be rejoicing in England, Chandos, for I intend to make this not only a victory over the French but a decisive one.’

‘God be with you, Edward.’

‘And you will be beside me, my good friend.’

‘Until the death.’

‘Do not talk of death, John. Better say throughout life and when you and I are greybeards we shall talk of this day and laugh together because at one time we felt a qualm of uncertainty. Now to work. Our archers will win the day as they did at Crécy. There is no army on earth that can withstand good English bowmen. Our men know their posts. They will be protected behind hedges, along narrow lanes and among the vineyards and these will be lined with our good archers. Let us to work.’

Activity began.

How fiercely the battle raged and how often it seemed inevitable that the overpowering forces must decide the day.

There was one who never faltered, who was always there in the forefront of the battle, recognizable by his black armour. The legend! The Black Prince who could not be beaten. Always beside him was his good friend Sir John Chandos and where the Prince was there must be hope.

The archers, as at Crécy, played a decisive part, and nowhere in the world were there archers to compare with the English; but all through the morning the battle swayed and there came a time when the archers had no more arrows. Even then they would not give in; they picked up stones and threw them at the enemy. It appeared then to many Englishmen that the battle was lost but not for one moment would the Black Prince concede this.

One knight, seeing the shining armour of the French column advancing upon them, cried out: ‘We poor devils of English are done for. This is the end.’

The Prince shouted loudly so that all could hear: ‘You lie most damnably. It is blasphemy to say that I can be conquered alive.’

When he appeared men’s spirits rose. He was the Black Prince. He was invincible. It was impossible to believe that he could be anything but the victor.

Shouting orders from the small hillock in which he had stationed himself, his black armour like a talisman to them all, he was their inspiration. He was invincible—then so were they, his men. There was not a man who would have dared turn and seek shelter for himself. There was not one who would not have preferred to die rather than live with the eternal shame of not fighting beside the Black Prince that day.

That they were weary, that they were spent, was clear. That the French had suffered heavy losses was true too. But there were so many of them. How long, they were asking themselves, could they hold out?

The King of France was sorely tried. He was in the thick of the battle, for he was as determined as the Black Prince to win this day. It seemed incredible that the battle should hall endured so long. It should have been won long ago. Four to one, he kept thinking. And even then ... it is so long.

Young Philip was beside hint, remembering his injunctions. ‘You must not leave my side,’ the King had said. Philip did not want to. He was not afraid. He knew that men were falling about him; he knew that the day was not going as his father had planned. He was aware that had the King known that there would be such disorder he would have sent his son to a place of safety.

Philip did not want to be in a safe place. He wanted to be beside his father. This was a terrible baptism of war but he was with his father and his father must win.

The King was on foot now. His men were surrounding him, rallying to his side. But the English were crowding in on him. Young Philip stared in horror as he saw one of the knights collapse to the ground covered in blood.

They were coming to his father. One by one those who had rallied to him were falling.

‘Look to the right, Father,’ he cried. ‘Father, to the left. To the right. To the left ...’

They were all round him now.

Philip heard the shout of ‘Surrender.’

Surrender! His father! It was unthinkable.

He opened his mouth to tell them that they were speaking to the King of France. But he hesitated. That would not he wise. They were his father’s enemies.

Philip saw the golden lilies fall to the ground. He saw the blood on them and that seemed to him symbolic. His fears were all for his father—that great man who in his eyes was godlike. He had never seen his father before except at the centre of some ceremony treated with respect; no one—not even his children—ever forgot that he was the King of France.

The crowd parted and a man was pressing forward. He recognized the King and realized what a prize this would be to take to the Black Prince.

‘Stand aside,’ he commanded those soldiers who were mauling the King’s armour. Then to the King: ‘Sire, surrender yourself.’

‘Surrender!’ cried the King. ‘To whom should I surrender myself? Where is the Prince of Wales? I would speak with him.’

‘Sire, if you will surrender yourself to me I will take you to him.’

‘Who are you, pray? You are a Frenchman.’

‘I am Denis de Morbeque, a knight of Artois. But I serve the King of England because I have lost my possessions in France.’

This conversation had conveyed to those watching that the prisoner was the King of France and all wanted to claim the honour of having taken him. One of them seized Philip who struggled madly and crying out: ‘Let me go, you rogues. How dare you lay hands on the royal son of France.’

‘He is a bold little fellow, this one,’ said the soldiers.

‘Harm him not,’ ordered Denis de Morbeque. ‘Come, Sire, I will conduct you to the Prince of Wales.’

The crowd surrounded the captives and the Black Prince on seeing the commotion and fearing that it might mean mutiny sent two of his knights to find out what was afoot. When the knights heard that the captive was the King of France they forced the crowd back and came to the Black Prince with the prisoners.

The Prince could scarcely believe his good fortune. It was indeed the King of France. Then the day was won. Poitiers was a name that would be mentioned with Crécy. A great victory was his.

He almost loved the King of France in that moment. He took off his helmet and going to meet Jean bowed low to him.

‘Sweet lord,’ he said, ‘this is God’s doing and I have played but small part in it. We must render thanks to Him beseeching Him earnestly that he will grant us glory and pardon us this victory.’

Then he gave orders that wines should be brought to refresh his honoured guest and he himself undid the lacings of the French King’s armour.

‘Fair cousin,’ said Jean quietly, ‘have done. Let us look the truth in the face. This is the most bitter day of my life. I am your prisoner.’

‘Nay, cousin,’ answered the Prince, ‘you are my honoured guest.’

Edward had returned from Scotland and was in Westminster. He knew nothing of what was happening in France and his first realization came when messengers arrived at the palace.

It was a moment he knew he would never forget as long as he lived for when he realized whence the messengers came his heart was filled with apprehension. One could never be sure whether such messengers brought good or had news. He had been uneasy for he had heard that the French were amassing and he knew how heavily their armies would outnumber those of his son.

These messengers though had not the appearance of men of doom.

No, they were smiling broadly.

‘My lord,’ said one, as though rehearsing a speech, ‘the Prince of Wales has sent a gift to you. He trusts it will give you pleasure.’

‘A gift! My son! He is well then?’

‘Well and in high spirits, my lord.’

‘A victory,’ thought the King. ‘It must be a victory.’

Two messengers were bowing before him. Between them they carried something which they handed to Edward.

He stared at it. It was a coroneted helmet such as could only belong to a King.

The French King’s helmet. It could mean only one thing.

‘Tis so, my lord,’ cried the messengers. ‘The King of France is the prisoner of the Black Prince. The victory of Poitiers was complete. The war must be over now.’

Edward felt his emotions ready to overwhelm him. ‘My son! My son,’ was all he said.

Then he recovered himself. ‘You could not have brought me better news. You shall be rewarded for this. This is a great day for England. She will have reason to bless the Black Prince.’

He went immediately to Philippa and laid the coroneted helmet in her hands.

‘Your son’s work, my lady,’ he said. ‘Our noble son. There is not a prouder man in England this day.’

‘The French King’s helmet!’ cried Philippa. ‘Then the fighting is over.’

‘A great victory. He won his spurs at Crécy, and praise God at Poitiers he has crowned himself with glory. England has reason to rejoice this day.’

‘This will mean peace,’ said Philippa. ‘Our boys will come home. I trust this is an end to this war.’

Edward was smiling triumphantly, but Philippa thought: There will never be an end to war. Not while there are crowns to gain and hold.

But it was good news. She must not spoil the pleasure of it by thinking melancholy thoughts.

‘The whole country must rejoice,’ cried the King. ‘There shall be feasting and bonfires. And you and I, my dear Queen, must prepare ourselves to receive the conquering hero with his royal prisoner.’

The Black Prince had no intention of hurrying home. He wanted to savour his victory. He must entertain his prisoner royally so that it should not be said that English hospitality fell short of French.

This gave him an opportunity of indulging his love of extravagance which he had inherited from his father. His armies needed relaxation too. They had fought valiantly at Poitiers and deserved some rewards. All through that winter he had remained in Bordeaux and it was April before he decided to travel across country to take ship to Sandwich.

England was waiting for the conquerors and on the way to Canterbury where they spent the night, people came out of their houses to cheer the Prince. From Canterbury to Rochester and Rochester to Dartford the triumphant cavalcade made its way—and then to London.

The King could not restrain his impatience and arranged to be hunting in the forest close to the route.

The Prince was not surprised when riding out of the woods came the royal party headed by the King.

With great ceremony the Kings met each other.

‘Welcome to England, my lord of France,’ cried Edward.

Jean received the greeting with dignity and Edward told him that he was his most honoured guest and if he would care to join the hunt he was at liberty to do so.

The King of France declined and the King and his party rode with the procession to London.

It was a great occasion for the capital. It was not often that a captive monarch was brought to their town. It was all very well to treat him like a guest, but everyone knew that the King of France was the prisoner of the King of England.

The houses had been hung with banners and tapestry; the fountains ran with wine, and there was free beer in barrels for any who preferred it. In one street a golden cage had been fixed and in this was a beautiful girl who threw silver and gold filigree flowers over the Prince and the King as they rode by.

‘Long live the Black Prince!’ was the constant cry. ‘God bless the victor of Poitiers.’

The King glowed with pleasure and pride and rejoiced that he had not been at Poitiers to steal any of the glory which belonged to his son. He was proud and happy to have given his people such a man.

What a King he will make, he thought. England is sure of prosperity under him. Thank God for him.

It was typical of the Black Prince that he had chosen for himself a somewhat insignificant black palfrey. He liked to remind people that he was the Black Prince and the blackness of his armour contrasted with the shining glory of his deeds. Now the King of France came on a magnificent showy white horse while his captor rode in some humility. Such contrasts appealed to him and in truth they called attention to his greatness.

They came to Westminster Hall where Philippa waited to greet them. All the royal children who were in England were with her, and a great banquet had been prepared to welcome the King of France, but Philippa wanted most to see her eldest son.

At last he stood before her. Her boy, her first-born, the best loved of all her children.

‘My lady,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

‘God’s blessing on you,’ she replied.

She greeted the King of France warmly. She was sorry for him. It must be a very sad time for him, made even more so by the wild rejoicing he had seen in the streets. England’s triumph could only be his failure. But this must be an end to the senseless war.

At the banquet the King insisted that Jean should sit on his right hand; and beside the King of France was his son Philip, whose looks were sullen because he knew that what he had believed impossible had happened.

Edward himself seemed a little insensitive to the feelings of his captive and seemed to expect him to join in the revelry which was asking too much.

Lavish dishes were served and there were those which it was believed would please the King of France.

Jean ate little and Edward at last said reproachfully : ‘Come, my lord, cast off your melancholy. You are our guests. Sing with us and be merry.’

Jean looked steadily into Edward’s face and replied tersely: ‘How shall we sing the Lord’s songs in a strange land?’

Philippa smiled at the King sadly and said: ‘It is a difficult time for you, my lord. I doubt not that it will come to an end ere long.’

At this moment the cupbearer came with wine and served Edward.

At that moment young Philip who had been looking on sprang to his feet and delivered a sharp blow across the cupbearer’s face.

There was an astonished silence at the table. Then the boy cried out: ‘How dare you serve any before the King of France?’

All eyes were now on Edward. What would his reaction be. The boy, his face flushed, his eyes flashing, stared back at Edward. Everyone was expecting that such an insult to the King’s cupbearer might provoke the notorious Plantagenet temper, but it was not so.

Edward laughed and said: ‘You are indeed Philip le Hardi.’ Philip the Bold! The boy was from that day called by this name and it stayed so throughout his life.

The King of France could see that Edward was determined to treat him with the utmost courtesy. He was given the Savoy Palace for his residence; he might hunt and hawk when he pleased.

In fact he could lead a life of luxury. The only condition being that he remained the prisoner of the King of England.