Chapter 32: Edward’s Choice
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“Whether facing an enemy charge on the battlefield or searching for a breakthrough in the midst of adversity, Sir Ressalier has performed exceptionally well.
“His swordsmanship is superb, his horsemanship unparalleled, and more importantly, he possesses a steadfast and courageous heart. He is an indispensable strength of France.”
Gaston’s eyes revealed a flicker of admiration. He stepped forward and clasped Ressalier’s hand.
“Sir Ressalier, it is a pleasure to meet you. Though I have never witnessed your heroic deeds myself, I can sense your excellence from Charles’s account.”
Charles then gestured toward Carlo.
“And this young man, Carlo, has yet to establish a record of military achievements as illustrious as Ressalier’s, but his intelligence and potential are not to be underestimated. During our operation to relieve Tournai, many of the strategies he proposed laid the foundation for our success.
“He is quick-witted and skilled at observing the situation. At critical moments, he can always offer unique insights. I believe that, given time, he will become an outstanding knight and fight for our kingdom and our honor.”
Gaston turned his gaze toward Carlo. The young man’s face was still somewhat youthful, yet Charles had said that the success of this operation had depended entirely upon him. Gaston praised him sincerely.
“Carlo, young warrior, I can see in you the hope of France’s future. May you become an extraordinary knight.”
At that moment, a messenger rushed in, his face filled with panic. He was gasping for breath as he shouted:
“My lords, this is terrible! The English have begun their assault on the city!”
A short while earlier, King Edward had been sitting in a chair inside his tent, his brows tightly furrowed. From time to time, his gaze fell upon his injured leg.
The wound had already healed and scabbed over, but the pain of the injury still seemed to throb faintly, much like the torment in his heart.
The recent days had been nothing short of a descent into hell for Edward.
Wave after wave of creditors had arrived like ghosts, pressing him almost to the brink of despair.
To raise funds, he had already mortgaged nearly everything that could be mortgaged.
Yet those greedy moneylenders were like bloodsucking leeches. No matter how desperately he pleaded or promised them interest as high as twenty percent a month, they refused to lend him even a single gold coin more.
During this period, the leaders of the allied army had been arguing incessantly in their respective tents. Under that tense and oppressive atmosphere, their forces were gradually edging toward collapse.
With battle imminent, the soldiers of the allied army had begun to worry about their pay. It had not yet arrived—so why should they risk their lives in battle?
Those who first began discussing the possibility of mutiny were not the lofty princes and nobles, but the ordinary soldiers serving beneath them.
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In the Duke of Brabant’s army, the troops recruited from Brussels, Leuven, and Antwerp were the first to rise up.
The soldiers gathered together, their faces full of anger and helplessness.
They complained in low voices, their words carrying suppressed fury:
“Whether we have permission or not, we are leaving the army.”
The situation in the army of Hainaut was much the same.
Several influential figures held similar views. They whispered among themselves in private, their eyes revealing confusion about the future and dissatisfaction with the present.
Only a few days after the French army arrived at Bouvines, Edward’s allies had already begun tentative discussions with the allies of Philip VI.
Edward knew all of this perfectly well, but he did not have enough money to resolve the problem. He could only helplessly allow matters to continue deteriorating.
That fellow Van Artevelde had also become a tremendous source of trouble lately.
It was certainly wrong for the Duke of Brabant’s subordinates to sell provisions, but Edward understood that even if the duke himself had done it, what could be gained?
Was he supposed to hold the duke accountable? Who did Van Artevelde think he was?
And Van Artevelde had even ambushed the duke’s favorite knight during a meeting in the camp and killed the man who had devoted his loyalty to the duke. That had undoubtedly made an already dire situation even worse.
Had the duke not invested so much in this war and become so deeply bound to Edward’s cause, anyone else would probably have walked away at once. The fact that the duke had not attacked Van Artevelde was already an act of restraint.
“What of Baron Morel? Call him here!”
Edward’s voice was anxious, carrying a trace of both anger and expectation.
His guard hurried in, looking flustered, and replied:
“Baron Morel has not yet returned.”
Edward’s expression darkened at once. He clenched his teeth, and his brows drew even tighter.
“When he returns, have him come to me immediately!”
After the guard withdrew, Edward sat in his chair and rubbed his temples in agitation.
Then he suddenly remembered that Henry of Lancaster had captured a Franciscan friar who had left Tournai and attempted to reach the French camp. The friar had been serving as a messenger for Tournai.
The messenger had told them that the garrison had been reduced to two hundred men, while the city’s supplies would last less than two days.
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But on Edward’s side, the English king himself had less than a week remaining.
He knew full well that without financial support, the vast majority of his forces would not fight for him—and would soon disintegrate.
Just as Edward sank into deep anxiety and pondered how to respond, his guard hurried in once more.
Edward asked urgently:
“Has Baron Morel returned? Or has England sent more money?”
The guard bowed.
“Your Majesty, Joan of Valois has arrived. She is the abbess of the Fontenelle Abbey, the aunt of Philip VI, and the widow of the Count of Hainaut.”
Edward froze for a moment, filled with uncertainty. Joan was the mother of his queen, Philippa. Why had she come at a time like this? Was she here as an envoy for France?
“Invite her in. No—I’ll go myself.”
With that, Edward strode out.
When he saw Joan, Edward forced a faint smile onto his face and did his best to make his voice sound cordial.
“Countess Joan, it has been a long time. How have you been?”
Joan replied with a smile:
“I am well enough, my dear son-in-law, King Edward. But do you intend to receive me out here?”
Edward quickly stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.
“Of course not, Countess. Please come into the tent, where we can speak at greater length.”
As he spoke, he led Joan toward the tent.
Once inside, Edward instructed his attendants to serve delicate pastries and fragrant wine. Then, with a hint of caution, he asked:
“Countess, you must have come for something important to visit me at such a time.”
Joan took a small sip of tea, slowly set down her cup, and looked at Edward.
“I have heard that you have encountered some difficulties. As Philippa’s mother, I am naturally concerned about your situation. I would like to know—what do you intend to do next?”
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