keening arose from the motley crowd and they held up their hands in supplication.
“ Their governor has refused to readmit them,” I heard Manny report to the king. “Shall I give the order for the palisade to be opened?”
“ God forbid that I should prove kinder than their natural lord,” replied Edward stonily. “There shall be no passage through our lines. They shall re-enter Calais or sink to shades in its shadow. Calais has tried my patience for too long—let her surrender when she will, there will be no quarter given to man, woman, or child. They shall all perish like these brutes.”
As nightfall approached and the town folk saw that their governor would not relent, they turned about again and pressed toward our line. But the king’s word held firm, and warning shots from the archers repelled them like stones thrown at a stray dog. There was no choice for them but to keep their distance. Hungry, homeless, and hopeless, they lay themselves down to sleep in the limbo between the lines of battle.
It was a wretched week that followed. Already weakened by the scanty rations in Calais, the trapped refugees now rooted in the mud like pigs, searching for any trace of vegetation that could be crammed into an empty maw. Their famished frames moved haltingly, and their eyes gaped dully like the sinkholes of the surrounding marsh. Most of the company lay down in a huddle till the weakness of hunger shut their eyes forever. But ever and anon a few frantic members of the company, those who refused to acquiesce to their inevitable fate, ventured toward the city or the palisade. From the city there was only silence, but from the palisade there was always a sharp-tipped volley of arrows, no longer just a warning, but actual measures of defense to keep the forlorn French from rushing upon our lines.
The sight of this cadaverous company corralled by our lines sickened me to my stomach. I had seen death at Caen and death at Crecy, but this was something worse than death. One twilight, while the prince and I paced the lines, I heard the bloodcurdling, guttural groan of a refugee who had chosen the pain of the arrow over the pain of the belly. Nauseated by the sound, I turned to His Highness in appeal. “Think you that His Majesty will finally relent and allow them to pass?”
“ Nay,” replied the prince. “The only feast they’ll ever attend is a feast for the ravens.”
“ But why, in God’s name?” I demanded.
“ He is teaching these burghers a lesson, and the French remain stupid to all but the harshest of schoolmasters.”
“ But there is no honor in this!” said I. “ You would not do such a thing.”
“ You think I would not?” asked the prince, and he cocked his head to the side a little, as if pondering the idea. “Perhaps you are right; perhaps I would not have given this order. But then, I have not spent a hundred thousand guineas to achieve this place. A man’s conception of what is honorable may shift a little when his purse is in danger of depletion.”
“ Then you admit it,” I cried out, “that to starve this wretched band is something short of chivalrous!”
“ Have a care, Potenhale,” said the prince. He drew into himself suddenly and the frostiness of his tone reminded me of my place. “My father is considered an honorable man by all, and peer to the greatest monarchs of Christendom; it is not for an obscure knight barely belted to question the judgment of a Plantagenet. Have a care, Potenhale.”
*****
It was not until the summer that Philip finally came, with a mighty force to relieve the suffering citizens of Calais. By this time, the French burghers had tightened their belts to the last notch. We had apprehended one courier from the town who (in a letter to Philip) lamented that the town folk had eaten every cat, dog, and horse within the walls; if succor did not arrive soon, they would be forced to partake of human flesh or else give up the city.
Some of
“ Their governor has refused to readmit them,” I heard Manny report to the king. “Shall I give the order for the palisade to be opened?”
“ God forbid that I should prove kinder than their natural lord,” replied Edward stonily. “There shall be no passage through our lines. They shall re-enter Calais or sink to shades in its shadow. Calais has tried my patience for too long—let her surrender when she will, there will be no quarter given to man, woman, or child. They shall all perish like these brutes.”
As nightfall approached and the town folk saw that their governor would not relent, they turned about again and pressed toward our line. But the king’s word held firm, and warning shots from the archers repelled them like stones thrown at a stray dog. There was no choice for them but to keep their distance. Hungry, homeless, and hopeless, they lay themselves down to sleep in the limbo between the lines of battle.
It was a wretched week that followed. Already weakened by the scanty rations in Calais, the trapped refugees now rooted in the mud like pigs, searching for any trace of vegetation that could be crammed into an empty maw. Their famished frames moved haltingly, and their eyes gaped dully like the sinkholes of the surrounding marsh. Most of the company lay down in a huddle till the weakness of hunger shut their eyes forever. But ever and anon a few frantic members of the company, those who refused to acquiesce to their inevitable fate, ventured toward the city or the palisade. From the city there was only silence, but from the palisade there was always a sharp-tipped volley of arrows, no longer just a warning, but actual measures of defense to keep the forlorn French from rushing upon our lines.
The sight of this cadaverous company corralled by our lines sickened me to my stomach. I had seen death at Caen and death at Crecy, but this was something worse than death. One twilight, while the prince and I paced the lines, I heard the bloodcurdling, guttural groan of a refugee who had chosen the pain of the arrow over the pain of the belly. Nauseated by the sound, I turned to His Highness in appeal. “Think you that His Majesty will finally relent and allow them to pass?”
“ Nay,” replied the prince. “The only feast they’ll ever attend is a feast for the ravens.”
“ But why, in God’s name?” I demanded.
“ He is teaching these burghers a lesson, and the French remain stupid to all but the harshest of schoolmasters.”
“ But there is no honor in this!” said I. “ You would not do such a thing.”
“ You think I would not?” asked the prince, and he cocked his head to the side a little, as if pondering the idea. “Perhaps you are right; perhaps I would not have given this order. But then, I have not spent a hundred thousand guineas to achieve this place. A man’s conception of what is honorable may shift a little when his purse is in danger of depletion.”
“ Then you admit it,” I cried out, “that to starve this wretched band is something short of chivalrous!”
“ Have a care, Potenhale,” said the prince. He drew into himself suddenly and the frostiness of his tone reminded me of my place. “My father is considered an honorable man by all, and peer to the greatest monarchs of Christendom; it is not for an obscure knight barely belted to question the judgment of a Plantagenet. Have a care, Potenhale.”
*****
It was not until the summer that Philip finally came, with a mighty force to relieve the suffering citizens of Calais. By this time, the French burghers had tightened their belts to the last notch. We had apprehended one courier from the town who (in a letter to Philip) lamented that the town folk had eaten every cat, dog, and horse within the walls; if succor did not arrive soon, they would be forced to partake of human flesh or else give up the city.
Some of
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