But as yet no such disaster was dreamt of even by the least sanguine; and, in spite of the lesson they had been taught, the cry of the French, as before Cressy, was "Kill—kill—kill." There was little apprehension of defeat in the streets and squares of Poictiers; almost as little, perhaps, in the ranks of that mighty army which was slowly encamping in the dusk of evening under the banner of France on the plains outside the excited city. The old lion had turned to bay at Cressy, and torn his hunters to pieces. And the young lion should pay dearly for his father's victory.
But within the walls of Poictiers there was, at least, one person, who, albeit regarding the situation of the English as desperate, believed that a battle ought to, and might be prevented. Some time before the Prince of Wales took Romorantin, the Pope sent Cardinal Perigord into France to endeavour to make peace between John of Valois and the enemies whom his vindictive violence had raised up, especially the King of Navarre, who was still detained in prison at Paris. But the mission came to nothing. After several interviews, the cardinal, finding that all his pacific counsels were rejected, returned to Tours, and was there when he learned that John and the Prince of Wales were both advancing towards Poictiers, and that a meeting seemed inevitable. On hearing this, the cardinal, true to his character of peacemaker, hastened to Poictiers; and now, as the two armies took up their quarters for the night, with every prospect of a battle on the morrow, he resolved, ere they could come to blows, to make a great effort, by offering his mediation, to prevent the effusion of Christian blood.
And while the cardinal meditated the night closed over the city and over the plain.
[CHAPTER LVII]
SUNDAY MORNING
After discovering that John of Valois was between him and Gascony, and halting at Mapertuis, the Prince of Wales, with a determination to make the best of circumstances, took up a strong position, and posted his men in a vineyard, which could only be approached by a lane bounded by hedges, and so narrow that scarcely four horsemen, even if unopposed, could make their way along it abreast. To this lane the prince directed his particular attention, fortifying the hedges on either side, and lining them with archers, who were placed under the orders of Liulph of Windsor, and whose bearded arrows were likely to do terrible execution on such of the enemy as were venturesome enough to be the earliest assailants. At the same time he barricaded his camp with the bombards and waggons, posted his men-at-arms with great skill among vines and thorns, just where the narrow lane terminated in the vineyard, and having drawn up in front of them a body of archers, who were formed in the shape of a portcullis, or harrow, he caused many mounds and ditches to be made round the place, in order to protect them from assailants; and, thus intrenched, he awaited the coming of the foe with a calmness worthy at once of the heir of the Plantagenets, and, in spite of his youth, beyond all comparison the foremost war-chief in Christendom—his own great father not excepted.
Such as I have described it was the position of the English when Sunday morning dawned—that day when, according to French calculations, the English were either to yield to mercy or to rush upon their destruction. As yet, however, there was a chance of accommodation. At all events, the peace-maker was at hand.
But meanwhile John of Valois was arraying his men. No sooner, indeed, did the sun rise than he was in motion, with the determination of bringing the matter to a decisive issue. In fact, believing that the English were absolutely at his mercy, the royal warrior was all impatience to crown his enterprise with a great victory. Rising early, he caused a solemn mass to be sung in his pavilion; and having, with his four sons, taken the sacrament, he summoned his nobles and knights, and held a council of war. After much deliberation, it was resolved that each lord should display his banner in the name of God and St. Denis, and that the whole army should advance.
And now the marshals caused trumpets to be sounded, and all the men-at-arms mounted their horses, and made for that part of the plain where the standard of France fluttered in the breeze; and never, assuredly, even in this age, so remarkable for chivalrous displays, had there been seen so grand a display as was made by the flower of the French nobles on that occasion, as, arrayed in brilliant armour, and mounted on magnificent steeds, with banners and pennons flying, they set their men in battle order. By the advice of the Constable of France and the marshals, the French army was divided into three brigades. Of these, the first was commanded by the two marshals; the second by the Duke of Normandy, John's eldest son, with whom was the Constable of France; the third by John in person. And on that day, when the princes and the nobles of France looked so gay and brilliant, grander and more magnificent than all—although nineteen others were armed like himself, in order to distract the attention of the English archers—was John of Valois. Arrayed in splendid armour, glittering with gold, and bestriding a white steed—the symbol of sovereignty—the royal chief was the observed of all observers as he rode along the ranks, accompanied by Geoffrey de Chargny, to whom, as the bravest and most prudent knight of his country, had been entrusted the duty of bearing the royal standard of France.
At this moment, when fully anticipating an immediate and easy victory over the few thousand Englishmen, who had scarcely wherewithal to make a meal, John was suddenly seized with a desire to know what his enemies were doing, and, with the object of gratifying his curiosity, summoned Sir Eustace de Ribeaumont and two other knights.