According to the most coherent version, the Compte de la Chataigneraye told the then king, François I, that the Compte Guy Charbord de Jarnac lived so lavishly because he was supported by his mother-in-law, with whom he was having an affair.
[…]
The king went and told Jarnac what he’d said. Jarnac said Chataigneraye was lying. Chataigneraye said not only was it true, but also that Jarnac himself had often bragged about it.
Jarnac appealed to François for a field and a chance to settle the matter in combat. François agreed, then changed his mind. Then he died and was succeeded by Henri II – the same Henry who was later killed in the tournament accident. (Some authorities claim it was actually Henri who spread the tattle about Jarnac, and Chataigneraye was only fighting as his proxy.)
Shouldering his royal duties, Henri agreed to the fight and appointed it for July 10, 1547, at St. Germain-en-Laye, with the king and his whole court and assorted admirals and marshals and other dignitaries attending. (Some say Jarnac wasn’t the one who appealed for a field but on the contrary made endless delays and prevarications, calling for outlandish and expensive weapons, with different breeds of horses involved, and generally dragging his feet.)
On the appointed day, Jarnac had been ill with a fever and was still feeling shaky, but determined. Chataigneraye, a war hero and considered the finest swordsman in France, was the odds-on favorite. Cocky and confident, he’d given detailed orders for an elaborate victory banquet before he came to the field. After the usual ceremonies, they fell on each other.
Chataigneraye started out with the advantage, but Jarnac swooped down and sliced through the hamstring of his left leg – both men were wearing only half-armor, down to the knees. Chataigneraye staggered and couldn’t return the blow. Then Jarnac whirled around and cut the hamstring of the other leg, and Chataigneraye crashed to the ground bleeding copiously. (This tactic found its way into the language, and un coup de Jarnac still means a low blow and a dirty trick. It was legal, but not very sporting.)
Jarnac ran up to him and said he’d spare his life “if he would restore him his honor, and acknowledge his offense to God and the King.” Chataigneraye refused to answer. Jarnac knelt in front of the king and said now that his honor was restored, he would make the king a present of the fallen man’s life, that he be pardoned and the whole thing forgotten without dishonor on either side.
The king made no answer. Chataigneraye was a special favorite of his, but he sat mute.
Jarnac went back and asked the fallen man again to confess to his lie, but Chataigneraye raised himself up on one knee and took a swipe at him with his sword. Jarnac said that if he did that again, he’d have to kill him; Chataigneraye, shamed by defeat, said to go ahead and kill him.
Again Jarnac asked the king to accept the wounded man’s life. Again the king said nothing at all. Again Jarnac went back to Chataigneraye, calling him “old friend and companion,” and begged him to be reasonable. Mulishly he turned his head away. Jarnac took away his sword and dagger and laid them at the king’s feet, and for a third time begged him to interpose for the man’s life.
Other’s, apparently shocked, joined in, and finally the king relented and sent some surgeons out to patch up the bleeding warrior, but “he would not suffer his wounds to be dressed, being wearied of life because of his disgrace, and so died in a little time.” Jarnac refused the triumphal ceremonies he’d earned, saying that he’d only wanted to restore his honor.
Source:
Holland, Barbara. “I. The Formative Years.” Gentlemen’s Blood: A History of Dueling From Swords at Dawn to Pistols at Dusk. Bloomsbury, 2004. 16-8. Print.
Further Reading:
If you enjoy this type of content, please consider donating to my Patreon!
No comments, yet...