FILMING DIARY DAY #6

The burghers of Calais, and a good hanging gone wrong

This is the sixth instalment of my letters from France, where I’m spending a week and a bit filming a documentary about the real history behind my novel Essex Dogs. The film will be released next month. Please consider pre-ordering a signed copy of the book! Pre-orders really help authors.

International delivery here. UK delivery with a 50% discount on rrp here.

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It’s probably not Calais’ fault that it’s such a drab town. Blown to pieces in the wars of the twentieth century, it’s now a giant ferry hub without much to recommend it except for a small beach and wonderful Rodin statue outside its town hall.

We came to film the Rodin statue. It doesn’t disappoint. The subject is the six burghers of Calais, who came to see Edward III at the end the epic 11-month siege of 1346-7, which drew to an end the Crécy campaign, and placed Calais into English hands for more than two centuries.

The story of the burghers is so famous that it feels it apocryphal, even though it’s not. In early August 1347 the inhabitants of Calais realised that they had no hope of rescue by Philip VI, who had been psychologically destroyed by Edward’s campaigning and was, in boxing parlance, totally gun-shy.

Six of the wealthy leaders of the citizenry came out with the keys to the city in their hands and nooses around their necks, symbolising their submission and their willingness to die if the lives of the remaining inhabitants would be spared.

Edward was in the mood to hang them. His wife, Queen Philippa, persuaded him not to. And so they were sent on their way, though the town was effectively emptied and settlers brought over to turn Calais into one node of the lucrative staple of ports that controlled trade into and out of England.

The siege of Calais is the subject of the second book in my Essex Dogs trilogy, or will be when I get on and write it. So I was happy to be here and see Rodin’s burghers in real life. The humanity! It’s quite something. If you’re ever passing, give it a whirl.

Meantime, here’s a little extract from Essex Dogs, in which Edward is pulling his ‘hang them/spare them’ routine with the inhabitants of a town called Valognes. I hope you like it.

The king’s drummer now started up once more. A lone, slow, steady beat. Alongside the king, a herald rode up. In a clear, loud voice he addressed the crowd of troops. 

‘My lords and fellows of England,’ he announced. ‘King Edward of England, third of that name, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Lord of Ireland and King of the French, here present to destroy the impertinent claim of the usurper Philippe to hold that title, has carefully considered the case of the rebels of this city of Valognes, who have feloniously held the town in defiance of his grace’s right and in breach of the peace.’ 

‘At least this c—- speaks English,’ the Scot said. Pismire nodded at him, relieved that someone else seemed to share his concern at last. 

‘Maybe one day you’ll learn to do the same,’ said Millstone, staring hard at the Scot. Loveday glared at both of them, and they fell quiet. 

The herald continued. ‘The sentence for rebellion is death,’ he said. ‘The king has ordered a gallows built here in his city, and each of these traitors will die there before nightfall.’

At this a great cheer erupted among the troops. Romford looked grey and sick. 

The drum kept beating. 

‘However,’ cried the herald. ‘However, our king is a great and merciful lord. And at the request of his most beloved friend and ally, Sir Godefroi d’Harcourt, born of this region, he has agreed that if the rebels show contrition here and now, they will not suffer the penalty, but will be set free to warn others of the king’s wrath.’ 

Boos and catcalls rippled around the troops. A few of the bolder men called out insults. 

‘Hang the French scum!’ 

‘Let’s see their tongues burst!’ 

But the prisoners, latching on to what was expected of them, now fell to the ground, groveling face first in the dirt. They rolled and bleated, and occasionally rose to their knees to tug at the nooses around their necks, or clasp out their hands in supplication. 

The jeers in the crowd went on; the captives grovelled even more pathetically – all except the woman. She simply sat on her heels, staring at the sunset. 

The drum kept beating. 

Loveday began to feel very uncomfortable indeed. Romford was looking back and forth between him and Millstone. Neither of them could meet his gaze. 

The catcalls from the crowd rose in a crescendo. And then the drumbeat stopped. The shouting died down. And the king swung his leg over his horse, and in one fluid action dismounted. 

The herald scuttled to him and bowed. The king leaned into his ear and said something quiet. The herald bowed again. The king climbed back on to his horse.‘King Edward has accepted the humble petition of these wretched rebels,’ cried the herald. ‘And he has ordained that they will live.’ 

Groans and boos rang out. 

‘They shall live,’ repeated the herald. ‘And they shall be given their liberty to tell all the other men and women of this country of their new king’s great charity. 

‘Long live the king! God save England!’