Cressy and Poictiers

CHAPTER XLIII
THE PLAGUE OF FLORENCE

Not under circumstances the most joyous did King Edward reach England, after having baffled the ambition of Geoffrey de Chargny, and saved Calais from falling into the hands of Philip of Valois. Even while the tidings of his exploit on the morning of New Year's Day rang over England, and ministered to the national pride, Englishmen were in the utmost alarm at the approach of an enemy not so easily dealt with as the continental foe, so often trampled in the dust. Already that terrible pestilence, commonly known as "the plague of Florence," where, perhaps, its ravages were most terrible, had reached the shores no longer in danger from invaders in human form.

Never within the memory of man – never, perhaps, since the waters of the Flood subsided, and the Ark rested on the mountains of Ararat, and Noah and his sons came forth to repeople the earth, has Heaven so severely punished the sins of the nations as at the terrible period of which I write. From East to West an epidemic malady of unprecedented virulence ravaged the world, taking a wider range, and proving infinitely more destructive, than any calamity of the kind recorded in history, and spreading terror and desolation wherever it went.

It was in Asia, and in the year 1346, the year of Cressy, that this pestilence first appeared. But to Asia its ravages were not long confined. Entering Europe, it travelled rapidly westward, and, sweeping off Saracens, Jews, and Christians in its course, visited country after country and city after city. Already exhausted by war and humiliated by defeat, France suffered dreadful horrors. One-third of the inhabitants are said to have perished; and, in Paris alone, fifty thousand human beings fell victims.

Nor was victorious and prosperous England exempt from the visitation which fell so heavily on her vanquished and impoverished foe. Far different was the case. At first the pestilence made its presence felt on the coasts of Dorset and Devon; but on the coast it did not long linger. Finding its way, on the one hand, to Norwich, and, on the other, to Bristol and Gloucester – all three seats of the woollen manufactures, flourishing under Queen Philippa's patronage – it wrought terrible havoc in these hives of industry, and finally, taking possession of London, caused such mortality that the living could scarce bury the dead. In one churchyard – that of the Charter House – several hundred funerals took place daily.

All over Christendom there seemed to hang a curse. In many places the pestilence swept away a fourth of the population; in others a third disappeared during its prevalence; and, in several, not more than one inhabitant out of ten survived its inroads. Even the beasts of the field yielded to its influence. Sheep and cattle perished as well as human beings; and in some places the air was so polluted that it was all but impossible to inhale it without catching the infection. Under such circumstances every bond of attachment seemed to burst asunder. Servants fled from their masters, wives from their husbands, and children from their parents. Nothing could exceed the awe which was inspired by the invisible destroyer.

At length the calamity, after passing through various stages, reached the worst, and gradually a change took place, and men began to look around them, and once more breathe freely. Forthwith a great reaction took place: people said, "Let us eat, drink, and be merry"; and many who but lately, when their danger appeared imminent, had been calling on the rocks to fall on them and cover them, now hastened to break loose from all restraint, set all laws at defiance, rushed into excess without scruple, and fearlessly ate the bread of wickedness and drank the wine of violence.

At the same time, fanaticism, raising her head, sent forth her votaries, and the consequences were fatal and unfortunate in more ways than one.

A fierce persecution of the Jews at once commenced in France and other countries where they were to be found. Accused by the populace of having caused the plague by poisoning the rivers and fountains, the unhappy Hebrews were hunted, burnt, and massacred by thousands. Never has the multitude been animated by so savage a spirit as then urged them on to cruelty and bloodshed. Every Jew appeared to be marked out for destruction; and the spirit of persecution, spreading daily, became so fierce and general that the Jews, having no hope of escape elsewhere, crowded towards Avignon, and sought safety – nor in vain – in the territories of the Church and under the protection of the Pope.

Meanwhile it was prophesied that, for one hundred years, people with iron scourges were to come to destroy the Jews; and now there appeared, in Germany, a sect of enthusiasts, of both sexes, who carried the iron scourges, but who, instead of applying them to the backs of the Jews, applied them to their own. Finding their way from Germany into Flanders, and from Flanders into England, these men and women – known as Flagellants – travelled in companies, and set reason and decency at defiance. Believing, or pretending to believe, that their sufferings were agreeable to the Divinity, they appeared in the squares and public places of cities and towns, naked to the girdle, and, while chanting, in a piteous tone, canticles of the nativity and passion of the Redeemer of Mankind, scourged themselves with their iron hoops, to expiate, as they said, the sins of the world.

In the midst of all this confusion, and persecution, and fanaticism, an event occurred which produced consequences of importance. One August day that pale spectre, which visits the castles of kings as impartially as the cottages of the poor, appeared at Nogent-le-Roi, where Philip of Valois then was. In his palace at that town, which is situated on the Eure, five leagues from Chartres, Philip, at the age of fifty-eight, breathed his last. Immediately his eldest son, John, previously known as Duke of Normandy, was hailed as King of France, and a new scene opened.

CHAPTER XLIV
JOHN, KING OF FRANCE

Memorable as the name of John of Valois will ever be in history, as associated with a terrible defeat, and with the countless woes which that defeat entailed upon the nation he aspired to rule, he yet deserves the praise of the valiant for his personal courage, for his chivalrous character, and for his noble saying, that, "if truth and good faith were banished from all the world, they should yet be found in the breasts of kings."

At the time when Philip of Valois, leaving his kingdom exhausted by war and humiliated by disaster, expired at Nogent-le-Roi, John had reached the age of thirty, and won renown as one of the foremost knights of his day. His education in youth had been carefully conducted; he was thoroughly instructed in all the laws of chivalry; and he was not without experience in war. At Cressy, indeed, his sword had not shone in the battle so fatal to the princes of France and the potentates of Europe. But from his twentieth year he had figured as a leader of armies; and in Hainault, in Brittany, and in Gascony he had been matched against warriors of skill and valour. Nature, however, while endowing him with high qualities, had not only denied him those which make a fearless knight a great war chief, but given him many which prevented him from acting with calmness and judgment. Brave, gallant, dauntless in fight, and with a hand strong to smite, he lacked discretion and the faculty of calculating chances; and he was too proud, rash, vindictive, and impetuous to hearken in hours of danger to the counsel of those who were wiser than himself.

Such being the faults and failings of John of France, even flattery itself could not represent him as a man capable of playing for kingdoms and crowns with England's famous king, or with England's king's gallant son. But it was with no lack of confidence in himself, and with little apprehension as to the future, that, after having laid his father at rest among the old Kings of France near the altar of the church of St. Denis, he repaired to be crowned at Rheims.

It was on a Sunday in September that John, with his queen, Joan of Boulogne, was invested with the symbols of royalty in that cathedral which had witnessed the baptism of Clovis, and anointed with that oil which, according to tradition, was brought down from heaven in the holy ampulla to the good St. Remy of Rheims, when he was about to consecrate the conquering Frank, who, moved by the persuasions of his Christian wife, Clotilda, turned from the worship of Odin, and became "the eldest son of the Church." Nothing could have exceeded the grandeur of the coronation ceremony, nothing the magnificence of the feasts which John gave when he returned to Paris, and took up his residence in the Hôtel de Nesle. Impoverished as was the royal treasury, no expense was spared; and John really seemed to be mocking the claims of his dead father's conqueror by the display and noise which he made in assuming those regal honours of which, had he been a wiser man, he would have said, "I scarcely call these things mine."

Nor, at that time, could the danger be deemed so far distant as to encourage even the most credulous to indulge feelings of security. Doubtless there was a truce between England and France; but it was, to say the least, very brittle, and likely soon to be broken, and its existence did not prevent men from undertaking enterprises calculated to bring about a renewal of the war of which, so far, France had had so much the worse. Among others who had made themselves conspicuous in this way, Geoffrey de Chargny had highly distinguished himself.

It seems that Aymery de Pavie, after his unfortunate secret treaty for the sale of Calais, retired to Fretun, his castle in the neighbourhood, and there, with Eleanor de Gubium as his guest, lived at his ease. Fancying that the French had forgotten him, and deeming himself perfectly safe, he took no more precaution than if he had been in London or at Westminster. He lived long enough to rue his recklessness, but not much longer.

In fact, Geoffrey de Chargny, who, after the failure of his project in Calais, was carried prisoner to England, but subsequently ransomed and restored to his own country, never for a moment forgot the trick which Aymery de Pavie had played, and never for a moment gave up the idea of inflicting a severe punishment. Hearing, on his return to France, that the Lombard was living at ease in the castle of Fretun, Chargny, who had been reinstated in his post at St. Omer, did not let the matter sleep; but, collecting a band of men-at-arms, he left St. Omer one evening, and, reaching Fretun about daybreak, surrounded the place, and, passing the ditch, prepared to enter by force.

"Now," said Chargny to his comrades, "no plunder. Remember the truce. All we want is the perfidious Lombard."

Aymery de Pavie, who had stretched himself to rest with a feeling of absolute security, and with no idea that his perfidy was remembered to his disadvantage, was sound asleep, when he was awoke by one of his servants, who entered the chamber pale with fright.

"My lord," said he, "rise instantly; the castle is surrounded by armed men, who are attempting to enter."

"Enter my castle, and in time of truce!" exclaimed the Lombard, astonished. "By my faith, they shall repent their hardihood!"

Much alarmed, Aymery de Pavie sprang up and hastily armed himself; but it was vain. Ere he was ready even to strike a blow the toils were upon him, and, looking out, he perceived that the courtyard was filled with armed men. Escape was impossible; resistance was vain; he found himself roughly seized; and, after struggling for a moment as a cony struggles in a net, he yielded to fate, and was led forth a captive.

Highly gratified at the prospect of a speedy revenge, De Chargny conducted the Lombard and his fair companion to St. Omer, and resolved at once to strike the decisive blow. Immediately the knights and the people of the country were assembled; and the captive, having been led to the market-place, was put to death with much cruelty, amid the jeers of the crowd.

But no notice was taken of De Chargny's lawless adventure. It was John himself who took the step that roused Edward's wrath, and ultimately brought matters to a crisis. No sooner, indeed, did he feel the crown of St. Louis on his head than he was guilty of an act of despotic violence which, he ought to have seen, would involve a quarrel with an enemy whose active hostility, he might have been aware, it was madness under the circumstances to defy.

I have mentioned that when, in 1346, King Edward landed at La Hogue, and when the English, marching through Normandy, seized the town of Caen, one of the prisoners taken by them was the Count of Eu, Constable of France. Carried to England, the constable was lodged in the Tower of London. But his captivity was not without its consolation. Being a gallant knight and accomplished gentleman, he was always well received at the English court, and treated with much courtesy by the king and queen. Naturally, however, the count could not forget that he was a prisoner; and, expressing much anxiety to return home, he was released on his parole, and allowed to repair to France to raise the money necessary to pay his ransom.

Accordingly, the constable, little dreaming of the consequences, embarked for France, and, reaching the coast, made his way to Paris, and presented himself to the new king, whose father he had faithfully served. Whether or not he was really guilty of any disloyalty towards the House of Valois is difficult to decide. It was rumoured, however, that he confessed something of the kind to Walter de Brienne, Duke of Athens; and one Tuesday, when in the Hôtel de Nesle, he was suddenly arrested by the Provost of Paris, and imprisoned.

The constable was not long kept in suspense. Indeed, John of Calais dealt with the Count of Eu almost as summarily as Geoffrey de Chargny had dealt with Aymery de Pavie. On Thursday, about the hour of matins, he was conducted to the courtyard of the Hôtel de Nesle, and there, in presence of several earls and knights, beheaded as a traitor.

If John exhibited courage in the execution of the constable, he showed little of that prudence which he might have learned from reflecting on the fate of his father. The constable, as he well knew, was the King of England's prisoner, released on parole; and Edward would have belied his reputation if he had allowed his death to pass without demanding satisfaction. It soon appeared that the Plantagenet was in no humour to be set at defiance. When the news reached England, he made no secret of his intention to treat John as he had treated Philip, John's father.

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the king, as his anger rose and his eye flashed, "my adversary's son has put the Count of Eu to death. By good St. George! when this truce expires, I will show him how I can avenge the execution of my prisoners on parole."

CHAPTER XLV
RENEWAL OF THE WAR

It was not only the King of England whose enmity John of Valois, after taking possession of the throne of France, had provoked by indulging his vindictive temper. Hardly had he assumed the symbols of royalty, when, by neglecting to pay his daughter's dowry, he involved himself in a bitter quarrel with his son-in-law, whose friendship it was his interest to cultivate even at some sacrifice of pride.

Now this son-in-law happened to be no less remarkable a personage than the King of Navarre, who was also Count of Evreux, and who was known as Charles the Bad; and he at once proved himself a potent and unscrupulous foe. In fact, when his personal enemy, Charles de la Cerda, was appointed Constable of France, the King of Navarre showed his contempt for the authority of the King of France by seizing the constable at Aigle, and putting him to death; and, when cited before a Bed of Justice to answer for the crime, he gathered around him the Norman nobles, who were his friends and partisans, and set the royal summons at defiance. The quarrel, however, was accommodated, and a reconciliation took place. But between two such men there could not be any lasting amity. The King of Navarre was ever thwarting his father-in-law's government, and John accused his son-in-law of doing many things contrary to the honour of the crown and the welfare of the realm. At length John took his kinsman at advantage, and a step which brought matters to a crisis.

And the occasion was not ill-chosen for his purpose. Charles, the dauphin, having been invested with the duchy of Normandy, repaired to Rouen to take possession; and, in the great hall of the castle, he gave a feast to the King of Navarre, to John, Count of Harcourt, Navarre's favourite, and to other Norman nobles who were Navarre's friends. Suddenly, in the midst of the feast, John, who had ridden from Chartres with his marshal and his armed guards, entered the banqueting hall, and caused the whole party, with the exception of the dauphin, to be arrested and shut up in various chambers. Having then sat down at table, and leisurely dined, he ordered the Count of Harcourt and four other nobles to be carted to a field behind the castle, and executed before his eyes. Next day, after placing their heads on a gibbet in Rouen, he set out for Paris, carrying with him the King of Navarre, whom he imprisoned in the Louvre.

But it speedily appeared that he had acted rashly. Avengers instantly sprang up in the person of Philip of Navarre and Godfrey Harcourt. Philip of Navarre was brother of the incarcerated king, and Count of Longueville; Godfrey Harcourt was uncle of the beheaded count, and the same Norman baron who, in 1346, acted as marshal of the English army, and guided the English to the very gates of Paris. Both of them immediately entered into an alliance with Edward, acknowledged him as King of France, and did homage to him as such; and it became evident that John had drawn on the kingdom, whose destinies he had aspired to sway, a storm the effects of which were likely to be felt as far and wide as that which his sire had caused by the murder of the Breton nobles.

Ere this the truce between England and France was reckoned among the things of the past. It was in June that the truce expired; but it was not till the reapers had done their work, and the harvest was gathered into the barns, that England began to arm for a renewal of the war. Then, however, no time was lost. Three armies were mustered, and destined to attack France from different quarters. The first, under the king, was to land at Calais; the second, under the Prince of Wales, in Gascony; and the third, under the Earl of Derby, in Normandy, to co-operate with Philip of Navarre and Godfrey Harcourt.

In the autumn Edward landed with his force at Calais, having taken with him his two sons, Lionel of Antwerp and John of Gaunt, that they might see something of real war. But in this the young princes were disappointed. The king, indeed, marched twenty-two leagues into the country; and, reaching Hesdin, a strong town in Artois, he destroyed the outworks. But no enemy appeared to give him battle; and, finding that the country was wasted, and that an army could not be subsisted in its march, he was fain to return to Calais, and soon after found it prudent to abandon the idea of operations, and embark for England.

More fortunate than the king's expedition, but, like his, without glory, was that of the Prince of Wales. It was the month of October when the young hero landed in Gascony and raised his banner. Advancing as far as Toulouse, he there crossed the Garonne, and threw his army upon Languedoc. His enterprise was perilous; for the King of France had sent thither the Count of Armagnac with a force much superior in number; but the prince, far from being daunted by the intelligence, pushed on the more boldly, attacked Carcassonne, marched on to Narbonne, and, over-running the country without his foes showing their faces, returned to Bordeaux with much plunder and a host of prisoners.

Hardly had France recovered from the alarm created by the landing of the King and the Prince of Wales when the Earl of Derby debarked his fighting men on the coast of Normandy, and, entering the country of Coutantin, commenced operations in conjunction with Philip of Navarre and Godfrey Harcourt. At first the English earl and the Norman lords carried everything before them, taking towns and castles as they went. But their force did not exceed four thousand men; and when John, raising a large body of men-at-arms and infantry, came to the rescue of his adherents, the Earl of Derby, who was then at Verneuil, found it prudent to depart from that place, and, passing Aigle, made for Tubœuf.

Meanwhile, John, hurrying through Condé, marched straight to Verneuil, and followed the earl to Tubœuf. But there he halted, and, being informed that he could not, with advantage, pursue farther, as there were immense forests, in which the English and their allies could find refuge, he turned back, and, after taking all the towns and castles in Lower Normandy which belonged to the King of Navarre as Count of Evreux, he returned to Paris, congratulating himself on the success of his expedition. But, meantime, John's enemies were preparing for fresh enterprises; and he, ere long, received intelligence which kindled his ire.

"Sire," said a French knight, whose appearance proved the speed with which he had been riding, "I bring you tidings of your enemies."

"Ah!" exclaimed John eagerly. "Where are they?"

"It is of the young Prince of Wales I would speak, sire," continued the knight, who, knowing his master's fiery temper, was not without apprehension as to the effect which his communication might produce.

"Well, the young Prince of Wales," said John – "what of him?"

"Sire," replied the knight, hesitating no longer, "the Prince of Wales has left Bordeaux, and his army is fast advancing towards the fertile country of Berry."

"Berry!" cried John, stamping with rage. "By God and St. Denis! I will make him rue his audacity. I will go against him without a day's delay; and woe to him; for I swear, by all the saints, to give him battle whenever and wherever I can find him."