The capture of John II, leaving France as it did in the hands of a nineteen-year-old Dauphin, might well have signalled the end of the war; King Edward, however, saw it differently. To him it seemed the perfect opportunity for the final decisive thrust that would win him the French crown. For the next four yea
rs he fought hard and often brill
ia
ntly
; but contrary to his expectations he made no real headway, and early in
1360
he consented to peace negotiations. On
8
May, in the little village of Bretigny near Chartres, the Black Prince and the
Dauphin agreed to the terms of a treaty, subject to confirmation by their respective fathers. The French would recognize Edward's claim to Gascony and Poitou, together with various counties and towns in northern France, including Calais. They would also surrender the city of La Rochelle, of vital importance to England as the centre of the salt trade. John's ransom was fixed at three million gold crowns: he was to be released on payment of the first instalment of one-fifth of the total. No less than forty noble hostages would be given as security for the remainder, which would be paid in six more annual instalments. The King of England, for his part, would agree to renounce his claim to the throne of France and to all other regions of the country.
When the two Kings met at Calais in October, however, Edward insisted that he would make his renunciations only after the transfer to him of all the lands ceded at Bretigny, with a proviso that this should be complete by
i
November
1361.
It was a deeply disingenuous stipulation, and both sides knew it. Such transfers were long and complicated; they could not possibly be completed in a single year. The fact of the matter was that Edward was determined to leave his options open. He willingly agreed to easier terms for the payment of the ransom but, as things turned out, it would have been better had the money not been paid at all. In the summer of
1363
one of the hostages, John's second son, the Duke of Anjou, broke his parole and fled. His father, horrified, declared his intention of returning immediately to London. His advisers did everything they could to dissuade him, but he remained firm. 'If good faith and honour are to be banished from the rest of the world,' he is quoted as saying, 'they should still be found in the hearts and words of princes.' He left Paris the week after Christmas, crossed the Channel in midwinter, and arrived in January
1364.
Four months later he was dead, 'of an unknown illness'. Edward ordered him a magnificent funeral service at St Paul's before returning the body to France, where it was buried at Saint-Denis.
Let us return now to our play. The first scene of Act IV
of
Edward III
introduces Lord Mountford, in conversation with the Earl of Salisbury. Mountford is, more properly, that Jean IV de Montfort who in
1341
claimed the dukedom of Brittany - which had been assigned to the nephew of Philip VI - and did homage for it to Edward III. Unfortunately he was captured in the same year and ended his life as a prisoner in the Louvre; but in the play he has been restored to the dukedom, and his presence therefore suggests that this short scene is set in Brittany. The incident which follows, on the other hand, in which Salisbury persuades one of his French prisoners to obtain for him a letter of safe conduct so that he may join the King at Calais, is inspired by a similar story in Froissart involving not Salisbury but another of Edward's knights, Sir Walter Manny, who had
been at the siege of
Aiguillon, ridden across France and, as we have seen, had arrived at Calais in time for its submission. Thus, to include it in his play, the dramatist has changed both the location of the incident and its subject. He has also given the prisoner - unidentified in Froissart - the invented name of Villiers.
Scene ii brings us to the walls of besieged Calais, immediately after King Philip's departure. It seems a little odd that Edward in his opening speech should order the siege to begin, since in fact it had already been in progress for almost a year — as is immediately indicated by the appearance of six poor men - representatives, presumably, of Froissart's
1,700
- who, having explained the reasons for their distress, are given money by Edward. There follows a brief interruption by Lord Percy, who enters with two pieces of good news: the first that King David of
Scotland
has been captured; the second that Queen Philippa, though heavily pregnant, is on her way. Edward then announces - personally, rather than through Sir Walter Manny - his conditions for sparing the people of Calais, giving them two days in which to comply.
Since the story of the six burghers can clearly not be completed without the presence of Philippa, we might have expected some minor telescoping of time to allow for her immediate arrival in the following scene; scene iii, however, comes as a considerable surprise, involving as it does by far the greatest chronological liberty taken in the entire play. It divides naturally into two parts: the first, which must follow shortly after scene i with Salisbury and Mountford, continues the story of Salisbury's letter of safe conduct, with Villiers requesting it from Charles of Normandy.
1
Charles at first objects; their conversation develops into a moral discussion about conflicting oaths and the laws of chivalry and has little bearing on what follows: at last, however, the Duke sees the force of Villiers's argument and Salisbury gets his letter.
1. At this point the Duke of Normandy was in fact the future John II. See pp. 18-19 and 23—4
.
Then, in line
57,
although Charles remains on stage, we suddenly leap forward a whole decade to the field of Poitiers. King John (and by now he really is King John, his father Philip VI having died six years earlier) tells Charles (who is now transmuted into John's eldest son, born in
1350
and Duke of Normandy since his father's accession) that the Black Prince is surrounded and outnumbered. The first of these statements is unhistorical - the Prince's troops were never in such difficulties - the second is true, though John's estimate of the French strength as 'threescore thousand at the least' is obviously an exaggeration.
1
Charles replies by telling his father of a threefold prophecy, the first part of which, 'When feather'd fowl shall make thine army tremble', is reported in both Froissart and Holinshed - in connection, however, not with Poitiers but with Crecy, ten yean before.
There follows an extremely unhistorical account of the battle itself. It begins with a conversation between the Prince and his friend Lord Audley, who had fought beside him at Crecy, confirming King John's view of the situation:
At
Cressy field our clouds of warlike smoke Chok'd up those French mouths and dissever'd them: But now their multitudes of millions hide, Masking as 'twere, the beauteous-burning sun; Leaving no hope to us but sullen dark And eyeless terror of all-ending night.
Audley describes the disposition of the enemy, much as the Mariner did before the battle of Sluys,
2
and the Prince replies with words of encouragement vaguely reminiscent - though they are a good deal less polished - of the St Crispin's Day speech in
Henry V.
Next three French heralds arrive to taunt the Prince — an incident that recalls the scene of the tennis balls in the same play. He dismisses them with contempt, after which he and Audley prepare themselves for imminent death.
Then, suddenly, the sky darkens and a strange silence falls, shortly to be broken by a flight of ravens croaking over the French army. The prophecy is fulfilled and panic ensues, as more and more Frenchmen
take to their heels. At this point Lord Salisbury is brought before the French King, having tried unsuccessfully to make his way through the enemy ranks.
1
John orders his execution, but Salisbury shows his letter of safe conduct, signed by Charles of Normandy, who is fortunately present. An argument ensues between Charles and his father on the same lines as that between Villiers and Charles in IV.iii; the King finally capitulates and allows his prisoner to proceed on his way to Calais, but not before he has delivered a parting shot:
Some two leagues hence there is a lofty hill. . .
And thence behold the wretched Prince of Wales,
Hoop'd with a band of iron round about.
After which sight to Calice [Calais] spur amain,
And say, the prince was smother'd and not slain:
And tell the king, this is not all his ill,
For I will greet him ere he thinks I will.
Meanwhile, thanks to the ravens, the tide of battle has turned and the entire French army is in flight. King John himself is taken prisoner and brought before the Black Prince; but the Prince appears far more concerned with his friend Audley, who has been seriously - though, as we later learn, not fatally - wounded.
With Act V, scene i - the last scene in the play - we are back in Calais for the conclusion of the story of the burghers. 'The two days' respite is not yet expir'd', and they duly present themselves before King Edward 'in their shirts, bare foot, with halters about their necks'. He at first condemns them, but Queen Philippa intercedes and he yields to her entreaty. Next comes a brief interlude with a certain John Copland, who has been fortunate enough to capture King David of -
Scotland
at Neville's Cross a short time before. Despite Philippa's commission from her husband to govern in his name during his absence, Copland has refused to deliver his prisoner to anyone but the King himself and has accordingly brought him to Calais. The Queen is
i. Salisbury's letter was issued nine or ten years before, and Calais had already been nearly a decade in English hands. Several obvious questions arise: did he take all that time to ride through France? Is Poitiers really on the way between Brittany and Calais? But to ask such questions is to miss the point. For the purposes of the play, the siege of Calais and the
Battle
of Poitiers were virtually contemporaneous
.
understandably irritated, but Edward is pleased by Copland's flattering explanation of his motives and rewards him with a knighthood.
The scene continues with the arrival of Lord Salisbury, who brings tragic news:
Here stood a battle of ten thousand hone:
There twice as many pikes, in quadrant-wise
..
.
And in the midst, like to a slender point
Within the compass of the horizon . . .
Or as a bear fast chain'd unto a stake, -
Stood famous Edward [the Black Prince], still expecting when
Those dogs of France would fasten on his flesh . . .
The
Battle
s join: and, when we could no more
Discern the difference 'twixt the friend and foe . . .
Away we turn'd our wat'ry eyes, with sighs
As black as powder fuming into smoke.
Consternation follows; but a moment later, while the distraught Queen is mourning her son and the furious King is swearing vengeance, a herald enters to announce the arrival of the Prince in splendid health, accompanied by Audley—now apparently recovered—and his prisoners, King John of France and his son Philip. Edward is quick to taunt the captive King:
So, John of France, I see you keep your word.
You promis'd to be sooner with ourself
Than we did think for, and 'tis so indeed:
The Prince then delivers a fine patriotic speech, leaving, however, the play's last words to his father:
A day or two within this haven-town,
God willing, then for England we'll be shipp'd,
Where, in a happy hour, I trust, we shall
Arrive, three kings, two princes, and a queen.
Once again, Shakespeare - if Shakespeare it is - has taken his usual liberties with historic truth. Edward and Philippa were not in France after Poitiers, though they were as we know present at Calais. King David of
Scotland
was never taken to Calais, but remained in London and Odiham in Hampshire between his capture in
1346
and his eventual ransom in
1357.
But in the context of the play such details are insignificant enough. Perhaps because of its suspected multiple authorship,
Edward III
probably contains more inaccuracies than the other plays in the canon. The fact remains - and cannot be too often repeated or too strongly emphasized - that to a dramatist, accuracy is at most of secondary importance. The main events of Edward's life are all there; and the average playgoer, whether of the sixteenth or the twenty-first century, having no previous knowledge of the period, will have come away with a mental picture which, for all its bold lines and high colour, will not be so very far wrong.