Edward meanwhile marched on, encountering here and there French resistance but nothing serious. He knew what was happening and very shortly he would have to stand and fight the great army which Philip was bringing to meet him.
Edward chose his spot with great foresight. He set his men to occupy the right bank of the river Maye. To his right was the river and the village of Crécy; he had ordered that wagons be piled up on the left flank where the army might be vulnerable and these provided a measure of protection. From the front he commanded the Vallée-aux-Clercs.
Thus he had built himself in to a very desirable position.
Edward knew that he needed it. He was going to face an army vastly superior to his own in numbers. He had landed with twenty thousand but during the march to Crécy with its attendant skirmishes several men had lost their lives; others had been incapacitated by sickness. He had taken several towns but it was inevitable that some men should lose their lives during these operations. He had had to send some home because their attacks of dysentery had made them a burden to the army.
So he lacked the fine army he had set out with, but in his optimism he assured himself that he was left with the best. The survivors of the rigours of the last weeks must be the strong and the brave.
Philip however came with his army in full force. It was estimated that he had some fifty thousand men which was thirty thousand more than Edward had set out with for naturally he had had to leave men at home for the defence of England whereas Philip could draw from the whole of his domain.
It would be a hard battle but Edward was not the man to be oppressed by the thought of numbers.
‘Our men have had the experience of warfare in the last weeks,’ he told the Prince. ‘They will be prepared for battle. And know this: one Englishman is worth three Frenchmen so that will make us roughly equal in numbers.’
The Prince was longing to go into battle, to prove himself, to show his father that although he was but sixteen he could fight as well as any man.
The morning of Saturday the twenty-sixth of August dawned and there was still no sign of the French army, though scouts had brought the news that Philip and his men were in the vicinity.
The King and the Prince heard mass as did most of the army; and they set themselves to wait. The Prince wore black armour which distinguished him from all others. The King was a little uneasy for it would soon be discovered who he was and he feared for him, inexperienced of battle as he was.
‘I wish to be recognized,’ said the Prince. ‘I care not who comes to me, I will give a good account of myself. I should despise myself if I feared to be known.’
The King was torn between his fears for his son and in his pleasure in his bravery. He would not have wished for a coward. Better a dead son than an unworthy one.
It was Robert the Bruce who had gone into battle with a golden circlet on his head that all might know he was the king. Edward Longshanks had been recognized by his unusual height and had never sought to disguise it. And so the Prince would follow these examples and show himself as the Black Prince of Wales.
It was midday when the French discovered they were almost fact to face with the English.
The hour of battle was close.
Some of the French thought it should be postponed for a day as their men had ridden hard all the morning and would be weary but this suggestion was thrust aside by the King’s brother and the battle began.
Through the afternoon the conflict raged, swaying this way and that and if it had not been for the skill of the English archers, there would have been victory for the French. The sun was hot but suddenly the sky was overcast and a terrible storm broke. The sky was then black; forked lightning shot moss the sky and the rain teemed down. The position of the English which Edward had so carefully planned was a help to them. It was different with the French. They took the brunt of the storm and, when suddenly a number of crows rose up and cawing loudly circled over the French army, there was alarm in their ranks.
Everyone was amazed at the sight—the sudden darkness, the downpour, the lightning, the deafening thunder and then the crows.
Edward cried: ‘This prophesies disaster for our enemies. Victory will be ours. Heaven is telling us this.’
Quite suddenly the storm was over and the blazing sun was seen again. It shone in the face of the French and was behind the English which was an added advantage.
Young Edward, conspicuous in his black armour was in the thick of the fight. He was surrounded by the enemy and there was not a man among them who was not longing for the honour of taking the son of the King of England dead or alive.
Sir John Chandos had questioned the wisdom of wearing such a distinguishing armour, but for once the Prince would not listen to his friend. Salisbury had won honour by landing the first batch of men; he was going to win greater honour in the battle of Crécy.
Suddenly he was down. His horse lay wounded, he almost beneath it.
‘It’s the Black Prince!’ he heard the shout, and he knew his enemies were all about him. He would fight to the end. He would never let them take him alive. It seemed now that all his dreams of glory were to end on the field of Crécy.
Someone was standing over him straddled over his fallen body wielding an axe. He was shouting, ‘Edward and St George. Edward Fils du Roy.’
Before he had fallen, but seeing him surrounded, Sir John Beauchamp had galloped to the King.
‘My lord, my lord,’ he cried, ‘the Prince is sorely pressed.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked Edward quietly.
‘Nay, nay. But he needs help ... without delay he needs help.’
‘Is he badly wounded then that he needs help?’
‘He is not wounded, my lord. But knowing he is the Prince they are pressing him hard.’
‘Sir Thomas,’ replied the King, ‘as long as my son lives he will fight. I say this to you: Let the boy win his spurs. I would have the honour of this day be his.’
Sir Thomas rode off. One did not question the King’s orders, but as Edward watched his departing figure a terrible fear touched him.
What if he could have saved the boy? What if Edward were killed or taken prisoner? How could he face Philippa? She would say: Our boy was in danger and you did not send help to him.
I wanted him to prove himself. I wanted him not to be ashamed after this day, not to have to say I should have failed if my father had not sent to help me.
‘Oh God of battles,’ he prayed, ‘let the boy earn his spurs this day.’
It was John Chandos who led the charge. He galloped forward scattering those who would have taken the Prince.
‘John ...’ cried Edward.
‘Up on this horse, my lord,’ said John. ‘We must pursue the enemy.’
How good it was to be mounted again. To have come close to death and to have felt no fear.
He rode beside John. The warmth of the sun enveloped him; the grass wet and glistening after the recent rain smelt fresh.
‘I’ll never forget this day, John,’ he said.
‘I doubt any of us will ever forget the field of Crécy, my lord,’ was the answer.
The French were defeated but would not concede victory. Again and again they threw themselves into the fight. Even the King of France was wounded and it was only the urgent pleading of his faithful friends which decided him finally to depart. He had lost a battle, they said, but a battle was not a war. He must retire, give the English this victory and live to fight again.