the eve of the coronation, the King dubbed Louis of Nevers, Count of Flanders, knight with great pomp and ceremony. It had been decided that the Count of Flanders was to carry Charlemagne’s sword at the coronation and hand it to the King. The Constable, whose traditional privilege it was, had oddly enough consented to surrender it. But it was necessary that the Count of Flanders should be a knight; and Philippe VI could hardly have found a more signal means of showing his gratitude for the Count’s support.
Nevertheless, at the ceremony in the cathedral next day, when Louis of Bourbon, the Great Chamberlain of France, had shod the King with the lily-embroidered boots, and then proceeded to summon the Count of Flanders to present the sword, the Count made no move.
‘Monseigneur, the Count of Flanders!’ called Louis of Bourbon once again.
But Louis of Nevers stood still in his place with his arms crossed.
‘Monseigneur, the Count of Flanders,’ repeated the Duke of Bourbon, ‘if you be present, either in person or by representative, I call on you to come forward to fulfil your duty. You are hereby summoned to appear under pain of forfeiture.’
There was an astonished silence beneath the great vault and there was fear, too, reflected on the faces of the prelates, barons and dignitaries; but the King seemed quite unconcerned and Robert of Artois, his head thrown back, appeared to be deeply engaged in watching the play of sunlight through the windows.
At last the Count of Flanders moved from his place, came to a halt in front of the King, bowed and said: ‘Sire, if Louis of Nevers had been called, I would have come forward sooner.’
‘What do you mean, Monseigneur?’ replied Philippe VI. ‘Are you not Count of Flanders?’
‘Sire, I bear the name but do not enjoy its benefit.’
Philippe VI, looking as kingly as possible, drew himself up, turned his long nose towards the Count, and said calmly with a blank stare: ‘What is this you’re telling me, Cousin?’
‘Sire,’ replied Louis of Nevers, ‘the people of Bruges, Ypres, Poperinghe and Cassel have turned me out of my fief and no longer consider me to be their count and suzerain; indeed, the country is in such a state of rebellion that I can scarcely go to Ghent even in secret.’
Philippe of Valois slapped the arm of the throne with his wide palm in a gesture he had unconsciously adopted from having seen his uncle, Philip the Fair, the incarnation of majesty, make use of it so often.
‘Louis, my dear cousin,’ he said – and his stentorian voice seemed to roll out of the choir and over the congregation – ‘we look on you as Count of Flanders and, by the holy anointing and sacrament we receive today, promise that we shall know neither peace nor rest till you are restored to the possession of your county.’
Louis of Nevers fell on his knees and said: ‘Sire, I thank you.’
The ceremony then proceeded.
Meanwhile Robert of Artois was winking at his neighbours, and they at once realized that the scene had been previously arranged. Philippe VI was keeping the promises Robert had made on his behalf to assure his election. And, indeed, Philippe of Evreux was that very day wearing the crown of King of Navarre.
As soon as the ceremony was over, the King summoned the peers and the great barons, the princes of his family, and the lords who had come from beyond the boundaries of his realm to attend his coronation and, as if the matter could not suffer an hour’s delay, consulted with them as to the timing of an attack on the Flanders rebels. A valiant king was in duty bound to defend the rights of his vassals. A few of the more prudent spirits, in view of the fact that the season was already far advanced and that there was a risk of not being ready till the winter – they still remembered Louis the Hutin’s ‘Muddy Host’ – counselled him to postpone the expedition for a year. But the old Constable Gaucher cried shame on them: ‘For him who has the heart to fight the time is always ripe!’
He was now seventy-eight and eager to command his last campaign; and it was not for shuffling of this sort that he had agreed to surrender Charlemagne’s sword.
‘And the English, who are at the back of the rebellion, will be taught a lesson,’ he muttered.
After all, in the romances of chivalry you could read of the exploits of eighty-year-old heroes still capable of unhorsing an enemy in battle and cleaving his helm to the skull. Were the barons to show less valour than this aged veteran who was so impatient to set off to war with his sixth king?
Philippe of Valois rose to his feet and cried: ‘Whoever loves me well will follow me!’
It was decided to mobilize the army at the end of July and, as if by chance, at Arras. It would give Robert an opportunity to sow a little discord in his Aunt Mahaut’s county.
They moved into Flanders at the beginning of August.
The fifteen thousand citizen soldiers of Furnes, Dixmude, Poperinghe and Cassel were commanded by a burgess named Zannequin. Wishing to show that he knew the proper usages, Zannequin sent the King of France a challenge praying him to fix the day of battle. But Philippe felt nothing but contempt for this clodhopper who assumed the manners of a prince and made answer that since the Flemish had no true leader, they would have to defend themselves as best they could. Then he sent his two marshals, Mathieu de Trye and Robert Bertrand, who was known as ‘the Knight of the Green Lion’, to burn the country round Bruges.
The marshals were highly congratulated when they returned; everyone was delighted to see flames rising from poor people’s houses in the distance. The knights discarded their armour and wearing sumptuous robes visited each other’s tents, dined in pavilions of embroidered silk, and played chess with their friends. The French camp looked just like King Arthur’s in the picture books, and the barons thought of themselves as Lancelot, Hector or Galahad.
And so it happened that the valiant King, who preferred to be forearmed rather than forestalled, was at dinner when the fifteen thousand Flemish attacked his camp, carrying banners on which they had painted a cock and written:
Le jour que ce coq chantera
Le roi trouvé ci entrera.fn1
In a very short time they had ravaged half the camp, cut the ropes supporting the pavilions, upset the chessboards, overset the banqueting tables and killed a good number of lords.
The French infantry fled; in their panic they never stopped to draw breath till they had reached Saint-Omer forty leagues to the rear.
The King had barely time to don a surcoat bearing the arms of France, cover his head with a basinet of white leather and jump on his charger to try and rally his heroes.
Both sides in this battle committed grave errors through vanity. The French knights had despised the commonalty of Flanders; but the Flemish, to show they were as much warriors as the French lords, had equipped themselves with armour to attack on foot.
The Count of Hainaut and his brother, Jean, whose lines stood a little apart, were the first to get to horse and disorganize the Flemish attack by taking the enemy in the rear. Then the French knights, rallied by the King, hurled themselves on the foot-soldiers, who were so heavily overburdened by their arrogant equipment, overset them, trampled them down and massacred them. The Lancelots and Galahads were content to club and slash, leaving it to their men-at-arms to finish off the wounded with daggers. Those
