But, three things resulted: (1) “The Brewer of Ghent” advising it, Edward laid claim to the throne of France as next in succession by his mother’s prior right, and thus began the Hundred Years’ War, of great portent to both countries. (2) Edward and his queen, Phillippa of Hainault, transplanted colonies of Flemish manufacturers to England, and laid the foundation of her wealth and independence. (3) Edward’s necessity proved England’s opportunity, and every appropriation for his wars was the occasion of new demands for parliamentary privilege and popular rights.
This vignette closes with the great naval battle off Sluys (June 24, 1340), so quaintly described by Froissart; in which we have the strange spectacle of iron-clad French knights fighting on shipboard, sturdy English sailors boarding and incontinently pitching them into the sea, where, like Falstaff, they “have a kind of alacrity in sinking,”—the result being a victory so striking that it “made the Channel an English lake for two hundred years,” and a calamity so complete that no one dared to break the news to the French king, and so they set the court fools to berating in his presence “the cowardly English who dared not jump into the sea as your majesty’s soldiers did.” This victory redeemed Edward’s military renown, and began to stir the slow blood of England at last. The idea of annexing France, which had so long regarded England as only a Norman-French colony, began to take a hold on all classes.
The third scene should open with the little wars in Little Britain, the “wars of the two Janes,” wives of the dead dukes of Brittany, England and France aiding respective sides. Jane de Montfort’s heroic defense of Hennebon; her promise to her despairing garrison to surrender within three days should not the English succor arrive; her discovery of the English fleet in the offing at day-break of the third day; and how she came down from the walls after her allies had beaten and driven off the French and “kissed Sir Walter Manny and all his knights like a noble and valiant dame;” and then her subsequent naval victory in the channel, when she stood on the deck of her flag-ship, in complete armor, and vanquished her assailants—all this was just the thing to “fire the hearts” of English chivalry. It only needed in addition the promise of unlimited booty to raise an army of English yeomen—not of Dutch burghers—for the invasion of France (1346). The Norman spoliation is requited with interest after two hundred and eighty years; booty and prisoners are sent home by the ship load; the very hostlers of Edward’s army wear velvets and fine furs every day. Now we come to the wonderful battle of Cressy—more full of romantic incident than any other of modern times, save possibly that of Poictiers, its companion-piece, in the same reign. On the English side 7,000 jaded, retreating men—on the French, 60,000 of the best and freshest recruits. But this handful of men, untitled and unarmored, shall overthrow that host of steel-clad warriors, with genealogies as long as their lances, and an ancient culture of arms as useless as their metal overcoats before the English yeomen, in their buff and green jerkins. Here the peal of the new bombards—“the thunder of God,” the French called it—also told of a new order of war. The world had moved and the French had not discovered it; while the English had, for they moved it! The picture is full of incident. There stands Edward, on the hill by the windmill, refusing to send reinforcements to the beset Black Prince. “Let the boy win his spurs. This shall be his victory.” Over here is the brave, blind, old king of Bohemia, who has heard the battle is going badly, and he insists on being led into the fray where he may strike one blow for France and honor, and is struck down. Ich dien[F] is blazoned on his crest—a motto which an admiring and commiserating foe is to take up and fulfill in proud humility, a young warrior of sixteen years—
Edward, the Black Prince,
Who on the French ground played a tragedy,
Making defeat on the full power of France,
Whiles his most mighty father on a hill
Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp
Forage in blood of French nobility.
The slaughter of thirty thousand French—Edward had them carefully counted—by this handful of English made French prowess forever after despised in the homes and market-places of England.