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.