Folk tales in England in France have given us a distorted view of the Medieval era. We view the Robin Hoods, the Dick Whittingtons, and the William Tells almost as real historical figures, drawn from a simpler time where magic was real, gallant heroes ruled the realm, and damsels in distress were saved from knights in shining armour. Any medieval historian will be all too quick to tell you – that isn’t true. The real Middle Ages were an era of political upheaval, Black Death, and rulers who couldn’t care less whether their people lived or died.
Perhaps it’s because of this brutal reality that we seek our teeth into Arthurian myths, or stories of the Merry Men giving the Sheriff of Nottingham what for, and this weirdly jingoistic idea of Richard the Lionheart (a Frenchman who didn’t speak English and spent only 1/20th of his reign actually in England) as some paragon of English values, saving the Holy Land from the Muslim Caliphates time and time again. It’s easier to live a lie than a harsh truth, and perhaps that’s why we’re so infatuated with Medieval folk tales.
But more often than not, myth is based in truth. Robin Hood evolved from people recording criminals whose identity they didn’t know as a ‘robber-in-a-hood’, shortened to ‘rob-in-hood’. Arthur is likely an amalgamation of Celtic myths and historical figures from the Dark Ages built to develop a national identity of first the Britons, and later the English. And the chivalry that’s a running theme between them all – that too existed, in a sense.
Now to abruptly segway into some Bretonnic politics. In the midst of the Hundred Years War, there emerged a great many proxy wars, as noble families broke out into war, one side sponsored by the English, the other the French. One of these was fought between the Blois family, whose most notable member had been Stephen of Blois, King of England two hundred years earlier; and the Montforts, who were related to Simon de Montfort, the brief de-facto ruler of England a hundred years earlier. These two families both lay claim to Brittany, that autonomous duchy in North West France, perhaps best described as France’s Wales. The Montforts here were clients of Edward III of England, and the Bloises the clients of France’s Phillip VI.
By 1351, the war had become very much a stalemate, as both factions more or less controlled half of Brittany each. Small skirmishes developed, but nothing was actually achieved by them. Enter centre stage- Jean de Beaumanoir (pronounced Bow-man-wah). Beamanoir was a Frenchman, and a captain of the Blois faction, who ruled over a small estate called Josselin. Beaumanoir took a challenge to his opposite number, the Montfort partisan Robert Bemborough, captain of Ploërmel. The challenge was a personal duel, one man against the other, but that plan was forgotten when Bemborough suggested making a bigger affair of it, and having a duel with twenty knights on each side, say, or maybe even thirty?
With no loss of enthusiasm, Beaumanoir eagerly accepted. The terms were agreed- they could each bring twenty nine other men, made up of knights and squires, and a tournament square would be drawn up halfway between their estates. The prize? Lost to history. Chroniclers have argued it was a religious duel, one supporting God, the other preferring to believe in Merlin’s magic. Others have claimed it was a battle for a woman’s honour; or avenging the murder of a close friend. Regardless, the earlier accounts claim the battle was little more than an opportunity for one man to win honour at the cost of the other, and there was no personal animosity between Bemborough and Beaumanoir.
Beaumanoir’s party was entirely made up of Bretons, and Bemborough’s of twenty Englishmen, six German mercenaries and four Bretons. Their armories were filled with swords, spears, axes and daggers, implying this battle was more brutal than most romantic, modern perceptions of a duel. The battle began, and each army took to their own side of the square.
The battle that unfolded was one of legendary chivalry, but that does not override its overwhelmingly vicious details. The fight lasted several hours, and by the end every man on either side was either dead or wounded. After earning one particular injury, Beaumanoir complained to one of his men that he was thirsty. His man reportedly (although almost certainly not truthfully; it is likely an added characteristic by romantic chroniclers) replied to him, “drink thy blood, Beaumanoir; thy thirst shall pass.” As the battle raged, Bemborough was critically injured, and within a short time was dead; although his men did not let this get in the way of a good duel. They rallied around his body, and continued the fight, until one of Beaumanoir’s squires finally drove a charge into their wall of bodies, injuring and killing several. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and the Montfort combatants were imprisoned. However, true to the chivalrous nature of the duel, they were treated well and released at the cost of a small, drastically lowered ransom.
This duel, while gruesome in its details, was so wonderfully chivalrous and noble in its motives and execution that even at the time, it managed to capture the imaginations of both French and English people. The image of two noble knights battling for honour in their commanders’ names gave an air of legitimacy to the War of the Breton Succession, which was an otherwise futile and for many a fatal exercise. It inspired a romantic perception of the Hundred Years War that echoes down even to the modern day, although this episode is fairly forgotten by many modern folk tale writers. It is, it’s fair to say, everything the stories of gallant knights promised us- but most importantly, it’s also actually true.
The History Book 