Chapter 30: The Duke of Brabant

John II, Duke of Brabant, sat alone in his tent, his face dark with smoldering resentment. He was well aware that his men had been secretly selling grain to Tournai, but what could he do? King Edward III had not paid their commissions in a very long time.

He himself had not only loaned Edward ten thousand pounds in gold coins but had also staked his own precious reputation among the nobility to guarantee loans for the King from the German lords, amounting to another thirty thousand pounds. This massive fortune had vanished into a bottomless pit, with not a single sign of return. He had been lured by Edward's grand promises of territory and rich spoils, yet now, having invested so much, he could not even afford to pay his own men. If his subordinates sold a little grain to put food on the table, well, upon reflection, it was understandable. They had families to support, and in these difficult times, no one had it easy.

If Edward despised his men for selling grain, he should have found a way to repay his debts rather than allowing that wretch van Artevelde to torment his piper and falsely accuse him of orchestrating it. Heaven knew, as a Duke of noble standing, he would never stoop to such base behavior. His reputation had been gravely tarnished by these baseless accusations. What angered and saddened him even more was that his knight, Friedrich, had been treacherously stabbed to death by that vile man, van Artevelde. The very thought made his heart ache like a knife wound.

He stood up abruptly, eyes wide and blazing with fury, and swept the items off his table onto the ground. They clattered and crashed, echoing his inner roar. Red-faced, with veins bulging in his neck, he bellowed, "Scoundrels! That was my Friedrich! He was a knight of great justice and formidable strength, my favorite knight. Most importantly, he was brutally murdered while defending his liege—me! And here I am, John, Duke of Brabant, unable to avenge him! It is a disgrace, a total disgrace!"

In his agitation, he drew his sword like a furious lion and hacked violently at the table, blow after blow, until it lay in splinters and wood chips flew through the air.

He was like an out-of-control, emotional child. One moment he was sobbing, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto the ground as if his heart were breaking; the next, he was grinding his teeth, muttering, "I am a knight-sovereign; I must keep my word. I will finish this war for Edward, and then, I will have vengeance for my knight, Friedrich."

In truth, John was like a gambler who had staked everything and had no path of retreat. He had pinned all his hopes on Edward, expecting this war to turn his fortunes around.

Suddenly, a commotion arose outside the tent. "What is the meaning of this, Friedrich?" he called out reflexively. The moment the name left his lips, he remembered that Friedrich had been killed by van Artevelde the day before. Grief washed over him, and his eyes dimmed.

Then, one of his knights rushed in, his face glowing with irrepressible joy. "My Lord," he reported loudly, "King Edward's royal cavalry has arrived! They have brought many 'money wagons'—they say they are here to pay our commissions!"

John’s eyes widened in disbelief, followed by a surge of joy, like a desperate gambler hitting the jackpot. "What? Edward has money? Well, he has a shred of conscience after all. Take me to see them!" He paced out of the tent, hurriedly adjusting his attire.

When he reached the camp and saw the imposing English cavalry, perhaps blinded by the greed of a gambler finally receiving his payout, he ignored all signs of danger or irregularity. He strode directly toward the wagons, his eyes glittering with excitement. "How much has King Edward sent? Why are there so many wagons?"

Charles, Count of Alençon, stepped out from the crowd and looked at him with a grin. "John, Duke of Brabant, it has been a long time."

John froze, his mouth agape in utter shock. "Charles, Count of Alençon? What are you doing here? Have you surrendered to Edward?"

Charles threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing with mockery. "John, you really are amusing. Do you think that is even possible?"

John suddenly realized the gravity of his situation, his face draining of color. He turned to order his men to seize Charles, shouting, "This is my camp! Charles, your ransom will surely be a heavy one!" He tried to mask his panic with a show of force.

Charles remained unperturbed, his smile calm and confident. "It is your camp, indeed, but look around you—it is filled with my men!"

John glanced around in terror, only to find the area swarming with French heavy cavalry, fully armed and staring at him with cold, grim expressions. His face turned deathly pale, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. As two French soldiers stepped forward to bind him, Charles waved them off. "No need to bind the Duke of Brabant; he will cooperate."

He turned to John: "Let us go, John. Order your men to clear the way and lead us into Tournai." He added softly, "John, your ransom will be very expensive, won't it?"

John looked resigned. He sighed deeply, a flicker of frustration in his eyes, but he saw no other way. "Charles, you win. I am a knight-lord who honors the rules; I am your prisoner now. You may claim my ransom, but pray, grant me the treatment befitting my station."

Charles’s lips curled into a knowing smile. "Very well, John. You know what to do. Lead my men into Tournai. I shall not make things difficult for you."

And so, the French cavalry, led by the English King’s ally, the Duke of Brabant, gradually approached Tournai, arriving straight at the Porte de Valenciennes.