The Messenger of the Black Prince

by Thomas A. H. Mawhinney

I was glad to have my horse back again. The feel of him under me was like home. I rode along towards the west—that is towards the encampment of the army of the Black Prince—with more joy in my heart than had been my share for many a day.

It was by merest chance, I learned, that the Prince was in the neighborhood at all. His army lay a good two days’ journey off. He had sent scouts out to scour the country round about to warn him if the highways were safe for him to march to the south to his headquarters for the winter at Bordeaux. He had even gone out on an expedition himself. He had come upon a troop of the King’s horsemen and in pursuing them had ridden far out of his way, had outdistanced his followers and was lost for a night in the woods. He was on his way back when he came upon us, riding hard, for he had suspicions that there were more foes in the neighborhood than he had imagined.

But when I unfolded to him the tale of what I had gone through—of the activities in the valley of the Loire, the preparations for war that were going on on every hand, the vast number of soldiers (there were sixteen thousand, twice the number of his entire force) that were moving with the greatest secrecy towards the west, when he heard this, I say, he gritted his teeth and cried out, “They want to cut us off on our way south. They think they can crush the power of England in France. They are tricksters and knaves, men like De Marsac and his crew. But we have English brawn back of us, men who will take their lives in their hands for the joy of battle and of conflict. We’ll beat them yet.” He clenched his fists and repeated it. “We’ll beat them yet.”

And in the end it proved that he was right. I could spend another hour in your company and relate to you all that followed. But I feel that my manner of telling it would be incomplete. Besides the scribes of our times—men who knew how to wield the quill with greater skill than I—have written a history of it for all who will to read.

We came to the army of the Prince on the morning of the third day where it was lying north of the city of Poitiers. At once the movement started towards the south. The wisest plan would be to avoid a battle if we could. But we were scarcely under arms and it was while we were passing the city to the east that we saw the pennons of the King and after a while his horsemen and his knights. The army that I had seen piecemeal traveling down the valley of the Loire was joined in one. There was no escape from it now for they were bent on destruction and slaughter.

We faced them. The Prince was a master in the art of war. He chose his ground with all the care he could for he had to offset the greater number of his foes with matchless skill. The battle raged from early morn to the setting of the sun. The archers shot their arrows as thick as hail so that the air seemed filled with flakes of snow with the darting of the white feathers. Knights, who had won fame and name in every part of Europe, hewed and hacked with their battle-axes and their maces. Bright swords flashed like polished silver. The lancers charged. Men were toppled from their horses and rose again to fight it out upon the ground. It was like a sea tossed into storm. And when night fell the enemy withdrew fewer in number than they began, humiliated in defeat, with a blow delivered at them from which they for years to come were not able to recover.

The flower of their warriors threw their lives away in their arrogance and pride. The valley of the Loire was opened up in case we chose to take it. If we had had an army big enough the whole of France might have been annexed to the English crown, for when the prisoners were brought in it was to the amazement of us all that among them was the greatest enemy we had—the King of France himself!

You may be a bit curious to learn what part I took in the fight. I was but a lad, of course, and hardly of the strength to cope with knights who were seasoned and toughened by years of life in camp and on the field of battle. But even at that I did what might be considered my share. The Abbot furnished me with what accoutrement was needful. I rode beside him in the fray. The mace he gave me was of a weight that I could wield and the sword I used did its work as well as it might have done in older hands than mine.

At the first go I was overfull of haste. I had singled out a foe and was hard at it when the swaying of the fight carried him from me down the field. On another occasion I found myself between two knights who were vying with each other to see who could strike me down the first. I warded off their fury with what skill I had until one of them was stricken from behind by a hand that was as sudden as it was sure. The other I struck a fortunate blow for I stunned him so hard that he rode off the field to nurse his wound.

Late in the afternoon I was knocked from my horse, but had wit enough left to scramble again into the saddle. I was tossed here and there with driving force as the battle swayed this way or that. My helmet was dented in from the swing of a mace. My right arm near the shoulder was numbed from over action and from a sword beat that had landed on it.