When, therefore, the Genoese were ordered to attack, they did little execution, and under a fire of clothyard shafts so heavy that “it seemed as if it snowed,” they fell back in panic and disorder. Whether Edward’s artillery had any real effect is doubtful, but the noise of the new weapon, probably firing stone shot, may have tended to add to the débâcle, even if the actual loss it caused was small. The Genoese were between two fires. In front were still the English line, cool on the defensive, as they have always been; behind was Alençon’s cavalry, who cared but little—in that chivalric age—for mere men on foot. “Kill me those scoundrels,” said Philip, “for they block up our road without any reason. “Truly,” also answered D’Alençon, “a man is well at ease to be charged with these kind of rascals who are faint, and fail us now when most at need;” so through the flying men rode the French knights, whilst over the disordered crowd still fell the heavy rain of English arrows. To add to the confusion, too, the Irish and Welsh infantry, though they were of little value apparently otherwise, joined in the mêlée, to slay with their long knives the dismounted knights, whether wounded or not, “nor was any quarter given that day by the victors.”
But when the French cavalry had cleared a way to the English line, they were a mere crowd, and the Black Prince advanced his line to counter attack. But there was no lack of bravery in his antagonists. They fought brilliantly and well, and so far succeeded as to place the prince’s command in some danger. And while the French knights assailed the flanks of the English right wing, a sharp attack was made by some German and Savoyard cavalry which broke through the bowmen, and even engaged the men-at-arms in rear. To his aid, therefore, pressed Arundel’s left wing, and soon the French second line also fell back routed, leaving its chief behind dead. It was too late to retrieve the disaster, and it is somewhat pitiful to read how at that moment the poor old blind King of Bohemia turned to those around him to say, “Sirs, ye are my men, my friends and companions, I require you to lead me so far forward that I may strike one stroke with my sword.” Verily there were men in those days, and two knights did not fear to humour him; so, tying their reins to his, they led him into the thick of the fight, where, seeking death, the king “struck a stroke with his sword, yea, and more than four, and fought valiantly, and so did all his company; but they adventured so far forward that they were all slain, and the next day were found in the place about the king, with their horses tied to each other.” His was a valiant death, and though his son, the King of the Romans, had fled, with him fell the flower of the French army, the King of Majorca, the Duke of Lorraine, the Count of Flanders, the Count of Blois, eight other counts, two archbishops, 1200 knights, and 30,000 men. The loss on the English side is not recorded, but was probably small, and the battle was won chiefly by the fire of infantry,—in this case, arrow-fire,—as modern battles are mainly decided by the bullet.
Among the spoil of eighty banners was captured the banner of the King of Bohemia, charged with three ostrich feathers, and the motto “Ich Dien,” though the statement that the Black Prince thereupon adopted them for his crest and motto is probably mythical, as many such stories are.
Philip seems to have been stunned by the disaster, and long refused to leave the field. When late that night he reached the castle of La Broyes, he had with him, of all his armed host, but Sir John Heynault and five barons. On the other hand, Edward had the joy of embracing his victorious son, with the words, “Persevere in your honourable career. You are indeed my son, for valiantly have you acquitted yourself this day, and shown yourself worthy of empire.”
When the sound of conflict ceased, even Edward did not then know the magnitude of the victory he had gained. And the night passed without festivity, while the king himself “made frequent thanksgiving to the Lord.”
The battle of Crecy is a marked stage in the history of our own army, for it shows clearly the value of the English infantry of the past, the importance of infantry fire, and the dawn of the employment of artillery. But by other nations and in other parts of the world, too, had the value of resolute infantry been recognised, except in France. The age of chivalry—so called—had increased, and fostered the use of body armour. Its very dead weight literally and metaphorically prevented the growth of tactics. There was no real organisation in the crusading hosts; they were but gatherings of armed men such as William led at Hastings, and battles were but a series of incidents of rivalry between leading or ambitious chiefs. The age of chivalry was an age of vanity, both of deeds and of iron clothes. Magnificent was the armour of the knight; magnificent, too, his inordinate desire to be noticed! These were not the days of personal interviews, daily papers, or self-advertisement; but Sir Galahad, going from tournament to tournament to show he was a stronger man, or with a Christian desire to hurt somebody, did his best in that line none the less! The Irishman who drags his coat along the ground at a fair—another sort of tournament—in the hope that somebody will tread on the tail of it, differs little from the challenger at Ashby de la Zouche. There was the same human nature at the bottom of both—each was spoiling for a fight! Still the spirit of the time sensibly increased the military spirit. To individual prowess was open the tournament where doughty deeds, or what were considered such, met with immediate reward and encouragement. No better school for mediæval war ever existed than that in which men learned to fight under the personal criticism of women. Vanity, pride, love were all brought to play in these contests, and poetry spread far and wide through the songs of the troubadour the deeds of the valiant, the defeats of the weaker—
“Throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds of peace high triumph hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend
To win her grace whom all commend.”
War was for long the only career open to men who did not care to don the cowl of the monk. It, therefore, in the Middle Ages, was essentially the one pursuit of the gentle born. It tended in a brutal time to lessen some of the evils of war, which “is a barbarism which civilisation only intensifies.” “Væ victis” was softened by the feeling that the conquered opponent could be held to ransom and treated gently. The very training of the knights combined the religious, the romantic and combatant elements. The right of conferring it from time to time varied. Before 1102 abbots of the Church had the power to bestow the golden spurs. Hereward the Wake received his knighthood from the Abbot of Crowland. But later on, only bishops, princes, or knights themselves were permitted to bestow the honour, and, with them all, great care was exercised that the recipient should be worthy thereof. Considering the value of money in those days, the costs were heavy, the robes alone amounting to £33. The golden collar of SS. or Esses, part of the knightly decoration, must have been costly. Its origin is very doubtful. Whether from “Souveraine,” from “Sanctus Simo Simplicius” (an eminent Roman lawyer) or in compliment to the Countess of Salisbury, has not yet been determined.
The knightly duty was laid down with exactness, though probably few carried out all the wholesome rules in their entirety. “They must learn from the beginning to labour, run, carry weights, and bear the sun and dust; to use sparing and rustic food, sometimes to live in the open air and sometimes in tents; then to practise the use of arms.” The “true merit of a knight is correctly stated by the Troubadour Arnaud de Marveil.” It is “to fight well, to conduct a troop well, to do his exercise well, to be well armed, to ride his horse well, to present himself with a good grace at courts, and to render himself agreeable there. Seldom are these qualities in the same person. To unite martial habits and vigour with the courteous elegancies of polished life, could not be often accomplished in a half-civilised age.”
His oath declared his duty to be “To defend the Church, to attack the perfidious, to venerate the priesthood, to repel the injuries of the poor, to keep the country quiet, and to shed his blood, and if necessary to lose his life, for his brethren.” But if his duties were grave, his privileges were great. Knights were freed from all “gelds” and taxes and from all other services and burthens by Henry I., in order “that being so alleviated, they may instruct themselves in the use of horses and arms, and be apt and ready for my service and the defence of my kingdom.” Salisbury also mentions that knighthood “rejoices in many immunities and more eminent privileges, and has not to provide horses, carriages, and other sordid burthens.” Yet another advantage, of doubtful value perhaps, was that of being rated at a high value when taken prisoner in war. His ransom, always higher than a less titled personage, sometimes amounted to ten thousand crowns, but if of higher value than that, the captor was obliged to surrender him to the king. Those who were knighted for valour on the field of battle were empowered to use the square instead of the swallow-tailed pennon, as knights banneret, and had the privilege of a war-cry. From this came the mottoes of the modern “coats of arms.”