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.