"We shall meet again!" the Prince had said as he rode off from Kenilworth upon that bright summer's morning.
The time was drawing near when that promise was about to be fulfilled—when Edward, the King's son, was to come to Kenilworth once more, not as captive, but as conqueror.
All England was up in arms, watching with a sense of breathless expectancy the result of the collision, when the armies of Prince and Earl should stand face to face and meet in mortal conflict.
De Montfort was still the idol of the people, and many a notable fortress and city was in his hands, declaring for him and his cause. But the anomaly of a captive King ruling through and by the will of a conquering subject was becoming intolerable to knights and nobles. It was a state of affairs which could last only so long as King and Prince remained captives. The moment young Edward was free, ready to head a party that was already gathering enthusiastically about him, De Montfort knew that a great and grave peril threatened him and his cause. They had the King in their hands, and the King was induced to disclaim and denounce his son as "a son of rebellion;" nevertheless all the world knew that, were Henry himself free, he would not lose a moment in joining young Edward, and in crushing by every means in his power the strong opposition of his Barons.
And now the Barons' party was split and rent. Gloucester and all his following had gone over to the Prince. He was master of all the line of the Severn, and his own county of Chester had unanimously declared for him.
London and the Cinque Ports were all in the Earl's interest, and the Welsh had joined with him against their English foe. The struggle was plainly to take place out here in the west, where the Prince seemed to be gathering power and the Earl losing it, unless indeed the wild Welsh kerns could be regarded as a set off against the desertion of English knights and nobles.
The heart of the Prince beat high with anticipation of coming triumph. He was at Worcester, and his position was not without elements of peril; for Leicester was at Hereford, and was looking for reinforcements from his son Simon, whom he had summoned from the south to meet him. It was rumoured that Simon was returning by way of Kenilworth, and it was the purpose of the Earl to hem in the army of the Prince between his own lines and the advancing forces of his son. If he could achieve this purpose, all might yet be saved; but Simon had already delayed too long, and even now no certain tidings of his whereabouts had reached the Earl's camp.
The household of Kenilworth was broken up. Almost immediately after the escape of the Prince, De Montfort had sent his son Amalric to fetch his mother and sister away to some safer place, nearer to the coast, where they would be farther removed from the scene of conflict, and ready to leave the country should the day go against them. The Countess with her daughter was now at Dover, eagerly seeking to gather and send reinforcements to her lord in the west.
Some of these things were known to Edward as he lay in his quarters at Worcester; and yet his soul was in no wise dismayed, for he was surrounded by brave hearts and willing hands, and had a premonition within him that the tide of fortune had turned, and that the days of his adversity were drawing to a close.
He was walking to and fro in meditation in the precincts of the Cathedral, where he had heard mass earlier in the day, when the sound of rapid approaching steps caused him to turn, and he saw Hugh le Barbier hastening towards him.
"Comest thou with tidings?" asked the Prince eagerly.
"I have been told that a woman has arrived at the city, desiring speech with the Prince," answered Hugh. "She will not answer questions, nor unveil her face, but says that she comes from Kenilworth, and that she brings tidings for the ears of the Prince. Since she would not say more whatever was asked of her, I came forth to find you. Will it please you to grant her an audience? If she comes indeed from Kenilworth, she may bring news worth hearing, for men say that young Simon de Montfort is collecting reinforcements there."
"I will see her at once," answered the Prince. "Go, have her brought to my quarters, and come thou thither thyself. It may well be that she brings tidings. I will hear what she has to say."
Hugh hastened away, the Prince returned to his lodgings, and before long there was brought before him a veiled figure that seemed strangely familiar, albeit for the moment he could not recollect where or in what circumstances he had seen it before.
"Who art thou?" he asked courteously; "and whence dost thou come? and what is thy message?"
"I come from the forests surrounding the Castle of Kenilworth," answered the veiled woman in a low voice. "I have come with news for thee, O Prince. I have sworn to be avenged upon the house of De Montfort for the death of my brother. I come now to sell one scion of that bloody house into thine hands!"
As she spoke the woman threw back her veil, and Hugh gave a great start of surprise. For standing before him, wan and wild, haggard and dishevelled, was the once beautiful Lotta Balzani, the woman who had once madly loved himself—or feigned to do so—the twin sister of his own wife!
For Hugh was married now. He had wedded Linda shortly after the battle of Lewes, with the full consent of his parents. His wife was not far away, for Hugh's home lay not any great distance from this town, and he had but lately parted from her to join the standard of the Prince. With a great astonishment in his eyes he gazed at the changed face of Lotta. There was in her look something of wildness akin to madness, and when her eyes met his she gave no sign of recognition. It seemed as though the present had completely blotted out the past.
The Prince was eyeing her intently, almost sternly.
"Art thou the veiled woman who whispered strange words to me at Kenilworth on New-Year's Eve, and brought to me a word in writing from my mother?"
"The same," answered Lotta, in her still, low-toned fashion.
"The sister of him who did strive to do to death mine uncle, the Earl of Leicester, in his own house? Was it, in sooth, thine hand which placed the fatal chalice in his?"
"It was!" answered Lotta, flinging back her head in a superb gesture of scorn; "and would that he had drained it on the spot! I knew not then what it contained, though I would have given it to him even had I known; for why should I pity or spare? none has ever showed pity upon me! But when he did to death my brother—when I saw that lifeless form swinging from the battlements of the Castle in the dim light of dawn—then, then I lifted my hand to heaven, and vowed vengeance upon Earl Simon and his house! I have bided my time—I have waited and watched—and now the hour for vengeance is at hand. I will sell him into the hand of his foes, even as Jael sold Sisera. Would that I could with these very hands drive a nail into his temples, that he should no more lift up that proud head!"
There was something so wild and strange in the manner of the woman that the Prince recoiled a little, and glanced at Hugh with questioning eyes.
"I know her well," he replied in a whisper to the Prince. "She is that strange creature of whom we have told you, the twin sister of my wife—the one of whom we heard that she had been dabbling in black magic and forbidden arts, and that she had disappeared from her home, no one knew whither."
Edward, who had the proverbial memory of royalty, bent his head. He remembered the strange story told him of the twin sisters, and the adventures which had befallen Hugh during his courtship of the one. Little likeness now existed between the gentle Linda and this gaunt, haggard sister; but the Prince's eyes rested with interest upon the once beautiful face, and he spoke more gently as he put the next question,—
"But the Earl of Leicester is at Hereford; what canst thou do against him?"
"Simon the elder may be there, but Simon the younger is at Kenilworth—feasting, drinking, idling his time away; whilst his men lie not within the strong walls of the Castle, but in the village—unprotected, careless, secure! They spend their days in drinking confusion to the Prince and his army, and laugh to scorn all thought of fear. Instead of pressing on to join his father, the foolish youth delights himself in his present pleasant quarters, and sends forth wine and all good stores from the Castle, to refresh and strengthen the men after their march, as he says, but rather that they may enjoy themselves and sing songs to his honour and glory. He is so puffed up that none may speak a word of warning to him. Fall then upon him. Cut his army in pieces. There will be none to resist, none to give battle. All are sunk in the security of the fool; the Lord will give them a prey into thine hand."
Edward's face lighted up with a strange expression. If this news were indeed true, it was a great thing for him to know. He had been aware of his own peril should father and son effect a junction, and he had marched thus far to seek to avert it. If he could fall upon young Simon's army in this state of demoralization, and effectually rout it or cut it to pieces, why then he could give battle fearlessly to the Earl, with at least equal chances of success.
But if this should be a trap?
He looked earnestly into the woman's face. The eyes were wild, but there was no shiftiness in them. Rather it seemed as though a fire of fury burned within her—as though she were inspired with a prophetic fire. Suddenly she raised her arms and called aloud in tragic tones,—
"Fall upon them! fall upon them! do unto them as they have done! The Lord has given them an easy prey into thine hand. Let not one of them escape thee! Slay them without mercy, even as Elijah slew the prophets of Baal at the brook Kishon. Let the river which washes the walls of Kenilworth be dyed red by the blood of those that serve the bloodthirsty Earl, who slew my brother!"
The Prince turned to Hugh and said in a low voice,—
"Methinks she speaks truth. These may be the words of madness, but not of falsehood. I will forthwith summon the men, and to-night we will make a rapid march and seek to surprise this sluggard captain. But what shall we do for this poor creature? She is not fit to be left to wander in the woods as she speaks of doing. She should be cared for somewhere, and brought if possible to her right mind."
"I will take care of her," answered Hugh quickly; "I will take her home to my wife, her sister. If any one can do her good, it will be my gentle Linda. Methinks that the old fire of malice and jealousy is burnt out. She seems not to know my face or voice. Let me have the charge of her, and I will join your highness's forces at Kenilworth as soon as may be."
"Yes, that will be best," answered the Prince. "Take her to thy home and thy wife, and leave her not till thou dost see all well betwixt them. Then follow me if thou canst; for methinks the tide of battle is about to turn, and that soon I may have the power as well as the will to reward those faithful and loyal servants who have followed me in the days of adversity."
Hugh approached Lotta, who with trembling hands was drawing the veil over her face once again, and he noted that she seemed to sway like a broken reed.
"Lotta," he said, in a very gentle tone, "come with me, my sister. I will take thee to Linda."
A little shiver ran through her frame, and suddenly she spoke in wild, eager tones,—
"Linda! Linda! Linda! O sister, sister, have pity, have mercy upon me!" and then she burst into wild weeping, and sank senseless to the ground at his feet.
A litter was quickly prepared, Lotta was placed in it, and before nightfall Hugh had arrived with his charge at the door of his own home.
Already the stir of arrival had aroused the inmates, and Linda came running forth from the parlour, uttering a cry of joy as she flung herself upon her husband's neck. Then Hugh, holding her close to him, whispered in her ear the strange story he had to tell, and Linda approached the litter with a face full of awe, affection, and eagerness.
"Lotta!" she said softly, "dear, dear Lotta! Thou hast come back to me—at last!"
With a strange strangled cry Lotta sprang forward, clasped her sister wildly in her arms, and then once more fell senseless to the ground.
Late that night, as Hugh sat over the fire after having told all his tale to his parents, who had then gone to bed, the door opened, and Linda stole in, a strange expression upon her pale face. She made straight for the shelter of her husband's arms, and lay there, the tears coursing quietly down her face.
"How is it with Lotta, sweetheart?" he asked.
"Hugh," answered Linda, "I think she will die; but she has no desire to live. I think she has bitterly repented of the past; and if she can but lay aside her thoughts of hatred, and learn to forgive even her enemies, methinks death would perhaps be the happiest thing for her. Oh, she has had a strange and terrible life! Heaven grant that she has not lost her soul, seeking after unhallowed things! But that was Tito's fault. Surely God will not visit it upon her!"
Then Linda told to her husband the tale that she had heard in fragments from her sister's fevered lips.
After the failure of the second attempt upon Hugh's life and liberty, when Lotta had been forced to the conclusion that she would never win him against his will, and when Tito and Boger, who had been the authors of both plots, had been forced to fly, the unhappy girl had turned her attention to the study of those black arts of magic and mystery which had so fascinated Tito, and of which he possessed a certain amount of knowledge, gleaned from books in his possession. Lotta now studied these, with the result that a morbid and unhealthy curiosity arose within her, and she believed herself gifted by some occult powers which she might develop, did she but know how.
Thus it was that when, after a considerable interval, Roger and Tito ventured once more to return to England, and Tito desired to obtain possession of his books and other things, he found that Lotta was eager and willing to join them; and in their travels she proved a valuable ally, her gifts of thought-reading and her mesmeric powers, which rapidly developed with practice, making her a useful medium.
They travelled both in England and in France, and after a time she married Roger de Horn, who appeared to have transferred to her the fierce affection he had once shown for Linda. It did not appear, however, that her heart was greatly drawn towards her husband. It was more of Tito that she talked, and his untimely and tragic death was plainly graven upon her heart in characters of fire.
Of the poisoning plot itself Lotta had small knowledge. She could not say at whose instigation it had been planned, though she knew that a large sum had been paid to her husband and brother for the death of the Earl, which they had sworn to compass. Part of the reward was paid beforehand, but the bulk was to be given if the matter were brought to a successful issue. When all was lost, Lotta had rushed out to seek to rouse Roger to some desperate attempt at the rescue of the hapless Tito. But not only did Roger refuse to move hand or foot; he also forcibly withheld her from seeking to save him or to die with him, as she desired. Since then there had been burning within the sister's heart a fierce flame of hatred against the Earl who had condemned her brother, and against the man who refused to try to aid his comrade in the hour of extremity.
She had refused to leave the neighbourhood of Kenilworth, and Roger had seemed afraid to leave her there alone. They had led a strange life in caves and fastnesses of the forest, living upon such game as they could snare and shoot, and upon the wild berries and herbs of the woods. They had money, and occasionally bought from the peasants, but feared to show themselves openly; for it was said that there was a price set upon the heads of the accomplices of the wizard, and they were afraid of being recognized.
Now, however, in the confusion and excitement of Lord Simon's arrival with his disorderly host, and their ill-advised stay at and about the Castle of Kenilworth, Lotta felt that her day of vengeance had come. Without a word to her husband—who was drinking with the soldiers, secure now from recognition in so great a company—she had started forth to find the army of the Prince, and having delivered her foe into the hands of the enemy, it seemed as though all wish for life had expired within her. To be avenged for the fate of Tito had been her one desire; if that were accomplished, she seemed to have nothing else for which to live. But she had turned with all the affection of childhood towards her sister, and Linda's tears flowed as she spoke of this. Lotta appeared to have no real recollection of the episodes of her life in which Hugh had a part. When Linda had spoken of them, she had assented with something of perplexity in her face, but without seeming to recollect fully what it was all about. She appeared to know that her sister was married, and showed no emotion at the sound of her husband's name. To hold Linda's hand, to feel her near, to feel her kisses on her cheek, appeared all she wanted. She was so tired, she kept saying, she wanted to rest—to rest. And presently when she sank to sleep, Linda had gone to find her husband to tell him all.
"I must forth to join the Prince to-morrow," he said; "but I am right glad to leave Lotta so well cared for. Perchance she will live to be our sister and friend yet; and I will seek news of that evil man her husband, and we will hope that he may yet come to repent of his sins. Keep her safe, and let her rest. Whether she live or die, we shall always be glad that we have seen her again, and that she has returned to her better self."
Hugh rode forth at break of day, after a few hours of rest, and in due course found himself drawing near to Kenilworth. The sun was sinking by that time, and he was aware of a great tumult and excitement as he approached. All the country folks were in a state of the greatest agitation and alarm, and from them Hugh first learned the nature of the engagement in which he had not partaken, but which had occurred early that very morning.
It had been as Lotta had described. In fancied security, in the heart of his own county, where all were loyal to the cause, the younger Simon had neglected all precautions, had left his soldiers outside the Castle walls, and had not even posted sentries to watch the roads.
At dawn upon that fatal first of August, the sleeping soldiers had been awakened by the clash and crash of arms, and by loud, fierce cries.
"Come forth, traitors; come out of your holes, ye dogs! Ye shall all be slain. Ye have betrayed your King. His vengeance be upon you!"
Then had followed a scene of indescribable confusion. The wretched men, thus awakened from sleep, their enemies actually upon them, sprang from their beds, and rushed half naked to their death. Some fought gallantly for their lives, and fighting fell. Some fled across the moat, and found a temporary asylum in the Castle with Lord Simon himself, who, paralyzed by terror, could do nothing but hide behind his strong walls, with a few of his own immediate knights and gentlemen about him, whilst his army melted like snow before this vigorous attack, and the waters of the moat were dyed red with the blood of the slain.
This was the tale that Hugh heard from the terrified peasants as he rode onwards, and indeed soon enough he saw for himself abundant signs of carnage. But the slaughter, if sudden, had been brief; for the Prince had given quarter to all who asked, and had been content to permit the escape of great numbers of raw youths, who, having been hastily levied during Simon's march, were ready to disperse in the extremity of terror, and could be trusted, once they reached the safe shelter of their own homes, not to tempt their fate by taking up arms again.
As for the plunder, that was something to boast of. Simon had made requisition all along the route from the friendly towns, and his mother had collected and furnished him with ample supplies. The horses taken were so numerous that the very pages and foot-boys of Edward's army could ride the steeds of knights, and the weary chargers which had brought the victors all those miles from Worcester could take their ease in the wake of the army, whilst the Prince, with fresh horses, rode forward as fast as he would.
For he had no desire to tarry here, nor to attempt to storm the fortress itself, with its small garrison and Lord Simon at the head. The Prince's great aim and object now was to meet the Earl in person on the battlefield, and to try conclusions with him once and for all, before he had had time to recover from the heavy blow struck him to-day, of which he could not yet be aware.
Hugh found him giving personal orders for a rapid march on Gloucester, with prisoners and booty, from which place he would next march against De Montfort's army, and overthrow it in open battle. The light of victory was already in Edward's eyes, and his cheerful confidence seemed to have communicated itself to all his host.
A touch upon his arm made Hugh look suddenly round, and he found himself face to face with his quondam comrade Gilbert Barbeck. Gilbert was not a man of war, but had fallen in with the Prince's army as he was taking a journey upon business. He had seen the battle and its result, and now spoke a word in Hugh's ear.
"Come," he said; "I have somewhat to show thee."
And when Hugh followed him wonderingly, he added,—
"Dost remember how we fruitlessly pursued Roger de Horn into the forest long ago, and how he once and again escaped the fate he deserved? Well, he has not escaped it to-day. He has been eating and drinking and sleeping with the soldiers of young De Montfort since they came here. And now he lies in the trench with the slain, and will trouble the earth no more. He has met the fate his deeds deserve, albeit not as we once desired."
Hugh started at the sound of these words, and followed Gilbert quickly to the spot where the soldiers of Edward were burying the slain. If indeed this thing were so, he ought to know it for a certainty.
"See there," said Gilbert, pointing downwards; "methinks there is no mistaking that face!"
Hugh looked, and a slight shiver took hold upon him.
"True enough," he answered briefly, as he turned away; "that is the dead face of him who was Roger de Horn."
So Lotta was a widow!
The mellow light of an August evening was falling upon the cloistered walls of the Abbey of Evesham, and in deep thought a martial figure was pacing the smooth sward of the quadrangle formed by the various buildings.
The face of the Earl of Leicester was lined by care; but the light in the eyes was not quenched, and the old eagle look was even more marked than before, now that the features were more sharp and chiselled.
One of the monks approached the Earl, and waited till he should pause in his walk. Then he delivered his message.
"A party of riders has just arrived, asking for the Earl of Leicester, and one of them calls himself your son."
De Montfort started, and looked round him eagerly.
"My son? Then bid him come to me at once;" and as the monk retired, the Earl repeated slowly, "My son, my son—which son? Henry and Guy are with me. It can scarce be Simon. He will come with banners flying and the sound of martial triumph. Sure it must be Amalric, with news from my dear ones in the south. He comes in good time, I trust and hope, to witness another gallant victory."
At that moment there was a little stir, and a few figures appeared in the archway which divided the grassy quadrangle from the outer world. Over the Earls face there flashed a look of welcome and pleasure.
"Amalric it is," he cried; "come in a good hour, and with good tidings, I trust and hope," and he tenderly embraced his son as he spoke.
Amalric knew nothing of the misfortune which had overtaken his brother. His heart was full of hope, and he eagerly made answer,—
"The hearts of the people are very warm in our cause. I have met with kindness and good-will wherever I have been. I have left my mother at Dover, where all men are her very loyal and true servants; whilst at Oxford all hearts are with us, and I have even brought thence a few comrades, eager to serve 'neath our banner once again."
And with a wave of his hand he indicated some half-dozen youths, clustered together in the gateway, amid whom were numbered Leofric Wyvill and Jack Dugdale.
The Earl looked at them with a softening of his glance, and came and spoke them kindly words.
"I trust we shall again achieve a victory," he said. "If I can but join forces with my son, methinks all will be well. Yet he hath tarried overlong, and delay at such times is fraught with danger. The issue of the struggle is yet undetermined, and let none join with us who will not stand beside us in the moment of disaster. Faint-hearted soldiers never yet won battle."
But Amalric's little band were not faint-hearted, and none of them moved at this word, save to toss their caps in the air, and cry,—
"God save the Earl of Leicester, the saviour of the kingdom! Confusion to his enemies! Success to the noble Earl!"
De Montfort gave them thanks for their good-will, and after charging his friendly hosts to look to their bodily wants, he linked his arm within that of his son, and began discoursing with him of many things.
Amalric had good news to give of his mother and sister, and of the loyalty to the cause displayed by the governors of the Cinque Ports, who had refused to give up their fortresses at the demand of the King's son. Simon had been to Dover, and obtained supplies lately; Amalric was astonished that he had not already joined his father, and the Earl's face looked careworn and grave.
"My heart misgives me about Simon," he said. "He was always rash and headstrong. I summoned him a long while since to meet me, and join forces; and had he obeyed without question, we might perchance this day be standing victors once again. But instead of coming to me, he has been marching through the country gathering reinforcements. These may serve us well, I do not doubt; yet sooner would I have had his help with a smaller band at an earlier date, than have waited all this while, with our enemies gathering strength daily. The Prince is nigh at hand, and he is no mean soldier, for all his rashness at the battle of Lewes. That blunder he is not likely to repeat, and I myself have trained him in the art of war on the Gascon plains. I trow he will not forget my lesson a second time!"
"And the King—where is he?" asked Amalric.
The Earl pointed to the chapel of the monastery.
"He is with us. He professes to call his son a rebel. Yet in his heart I know that he longs to see that rebellion crowned with success. Edward will place him once more on the throne, if he succeed; and he will again surround himself with foreign flatterers and sycophants. For ere that day dawn, the hearts of those who have beat high with love for their country's best weal will lie cold and still in death."
"Nay, father, say not so!" cried Amalric, with sudden pain in his voice, for it was not like the Earl thus to speak of impending disaster; his was rather a nature that looked forward to triumph and success.
"God grant it may not be so!" he answered; "but my heart is heavy within me this evening. I have a premonition that ere the sun set once more some great event will have befallen this land, but whether for weal or woe who can say?"
When Amalric that night joined Leofric in their quarters—a clean, bare cell, which they were to share together—he related to him all that his father had said.
"Dost think, good comrade, that a man, upon the eve of some great crisis in his life, can foresee what lies before him?"
Leofric shook his head doubtfully.
"Nay, I know not how that may be. Yet didst not thou thyself, Amalric, in bidding farewell to sweet Mistress Alys, speak as though thou didst portend misfortune to thy cause?"
"I trow I did," answered the youth, thoughtfully. "I know not how or why, but there came upon me the feeling that I was looking my last upon that sweet face, and I could have wept aloud had not my manhood cried shame upon such weakness. Yet methinks she saw somewhat of the trouble in my face, for ere we parted she did give me the ring from her hand, and never before had she given me token of her own to wear—nothing beyond that silken banner, which, if I fall to-morrow, Leofric, must be my shroud. Let it not fall into the hands of the foe. I would go down to my grave wrapped in its martial folds."
Leofric made no response, his heart was too full for words; and long after Amalric was sleeping quietly he lay broad awake, turning many things over in his mind, and wondering if this presage of evil, felt by both father and son, was a foreboding of some misfortune soon to fall upon them.
Leofric had had no intention a short time back of meddling more in wars. He was now a Master in Oxford, with a career before him there, and the profession of arms had no real charm for him. Yet when Amalric had suddenly appeared there, to take leave of Alys and of his old friends and comrades, and had told all he knew of the position of parties, and of the peril which threatened the cause dear to many through the action of the escaped Prince, Leofric's heart had burned within him, and it had seemed impossible to him to let his friend and once master ride forth perhaps to his death without his esquire at his side.
So Leofric had resolved once more to leave Oxford, once more to face the perils and uncertainties of war. There were others who were of like mind with him, and Amalric had gathered together a compact little body-guard, who had accompanied him upon the slightly circuitous route he had decided to take, and were with him now at Evesham Abbey, where he had joined his father.
Next morning, with the first dawn of the day, the little community was astir. Mass was said in the chapel, and the King and Earl, and all the more devout of the leaders and men, attended with pious devotion. Then they repaired to the refectory to breakfast, but had not been long seated before Nicholas, the Earl's barber and personal attendant, came running hastily in.
"Good news, my lord and gentlemen!" he cried, "good news, indeed! The banners of Lord Simon are approaching us from the direction of Kenilworth. He will be with us ere another hour has passed."
The Earl sprang to his feet in great excitement.
"Art sure they are the De Montfort banners, and not those of the Prince?" he asked; and Nicholas, who combined a knowledge of heraldry with other miscellaneous accomplishments usual in one of his craft, declared that he was absolutely certain of this, and described the banners he had seen, and their blazonry.
"These are without doubt the banners of my son," said the Earl; "I will myself mount the Abbey tower, and mark the order in which they advance."
The King calmly remained seated at table, and the Prior and many of the others remained with him; but the Earl and his son, and two or three others amongst whom was Leofric, ascended the tower, and gazed long and earnestly at the advancing host, which could plainly now be seen coming toward them.
The banners of De Montfort floated in the front ranks; but even as the Earl looked with sparkling eyes upon them, a sudden change was made. These banners were halted and sent to the rear, whilst the leopards of young Edward were now brought forward and placed in the van.
The Earl understood in a moment what had happened, and his face took a strange grey pallor.
"Simon has been overcome," he said; "his banners have been wrested from him. It is our foes, our victorious foes, who are marching to meet us—not our friends."
A moment of dead silence ensued, and then Amalric said with an air of cheerful confidence,—
"Let them come. We are here to meet them. We will show them battle without fear."
At this moment he felt his arm touched, and glancing round saw that Leofric was standing beside them with a white, troubled face. He did not speak, but only pointed in two directions different from that in which they had all been gazing. The Earl and his son looked too, and from Amalric's lips there broke a startled exclamation.
The Prince was advancing upon them from one point, but he was not the only assailant. Upon two other sides there now appeared the banners of Gloucester and Mortimer, hemming in the devoted little army of De Montfort upon flank and rear. The only unmenaced side was where the Avon with its flowing waters cut him off from all hope of retreat.
Truly the Prince had learned his lesson. This simultaneous advance showed a masterly generalship that was wholly unlike the headstrong recklessness which had characterized his actions only the previous year.
"By the arm of St. James," cried the Earl, "they come on right skilfully; they approach in admirable order. They have learned this style from me, not from themselves." Then turning towards his sons, who stood looking on in amaze, he said: "Let us commend our souls unto God; as for our bodies, they are our enemies'."
"Nay, father, do not despair!" cried Amalric passionately.
"I will not," answered the Earl sadly; "yet I fear me that the pride and rashness of my sons has been mine undoing. Our friends have been turned to foes by their haughtiness, and when peril threatened they have proved disobedient and unready."
Henry hung his head. He knew how often his father had had good cause to chide him for these very faults; and now throwing himself almost on his knees before his sire, he cried,—
"Father, if the fault be ours, let us bear the brunt of the battle. Do thou fly whilst there be yet time, to be the prop and stay of the country another day. We will do our best to die like brave soldiers, and thou wilt avenge our fall when thou shalt return once more victorious."
Amalric would have joined his brother's plea, but the Earl spoke with almost stern decision.
"Far be it from me, my sons, to turn my back in the hour of peril. I have grown old in wars, and my life hastens to an end. There is that in my blood which will not let me flee before danger, for never, methinks, did our forefathers so fly. But you, my sons, do you retire, lest you perish in the flower of your youth—you who are to succeed me (God grant it) and prolong our race, illustrious in the glories of war."
But not one of the young men would consent to move. They would conquer or die, fighting at their father's side beneath the banner of De Montfort.
No time was to be lost in mustering the men and putting them in battle array. The situation was a desperate one. They were hemmed in on all sides. There was but one hope, and that a forlorn one—the chance of cutting their way through Edward's ranks before those of Gloucester and Mortimer could close up.
It was but little that Leofric saw of that desperate and fatal fight at Evesham. Soon after the impact of the deadly struggle, when foe met foe in unexampled fury, Amalric received a deadly wound, and falling upon his horse's neck, would have slipped to the ground and been trampled underfoot, had not Leofric and Jack, with the energy and determination of despair, got him between them, and by fighting every inch of the way with a resolute valour which overcame all obstacles, bore him at last into the precincts of the Priory, where they were safe. Nor did Leofric omit to carry with him the precious banner, which he knew his comrade was certain to ask for if his eyes ever unclosed in this world again.
The good monks tended the dying youth with care and skill, but knew from the first that the case was hopeless. Leofric knelt beside him, striving to win one glance of recognition or one farewell word; and Jack hurried to and fro between them and the tower, bringing news of the battle, which was grimly fought, but which had been from almost the first moment a hopeless struggle.
"The traitorous Welsh are flying! They will be our undoing!" he cried. "They are fleeing away like smoke before the wind, causing confusion and dismay in our ranks!"
Amalric's eyes suddenly opened, as though something in the urgency of Jack's tones had penetrated to his senses.
"The battle—how goes it?" he faintly asked.
"I fear me badly—for us," answered Leofric gently.
"My father?" questioned Amalric, with wistful eyes.
Leofric looked at Jack, who answered quickly,—
"I saw him fighting as though the strength of ten were in him. I trow had we but fifty such as he, not all the Princes and nobles in the land would turn the tide of fight against us!"
Amalric's eyes opened more widely, and fixed themselves upon Jack's face.
"Go, and bring me back word of him, good comrade," he said. "Ye should not have borne me hence. I would I might have fallen fighting by my noble fathers side."
"It was his will that thou shouldst be taken out of the press," answered Leofric gently, and for a while the wounded man said no more; but presently he roused himself to ask, "Is there any hope for my life?"
Perhaps what he saw in Leofric's face was answer enough, for he said, as though he had received a reply,—
"Methought not. I feel my life ebbing away. I would seek the help and counsel of one of our good monks. But first, I have a charge to thee, my trusty friend and comrade. Thou hast the banner safe; thou wilt see that it is my shroud when they lay me in the dust. But take now this ring from my finger; I have somewhat to say to thee anent it."
Leofric obeyed, and gently took Alys's ring from the pulseless hand of his friend.
"Let me kiss it once," he said; "and then keep it for her, and give it back to her, telling her how I fell, and that I loved her to the last. But, Leofric, she hath never loved me, save with the love which a sister bears a brother, or as friend bears to friend. I have sought the other love, but I have found it not. Sweet she was, and gentle and tender, and her father approved my suit. But in my heart of hearts I knew that her love was never mine. Tell her I am well content now that it should be so. I die the easier for knowing that her heart will not be widowed. I doubt not that one day she will make another happy with that love which I trusted once myself to win."
This was not all spoken at once, but bit by bit as the dying man could gather strength. Leofric listened with a beating heart, holding the ring to the lips of his companion.
"Yet she gave you this token," he said.
"Yes, but only in that sort of pity and love with which a maid will always regard the departure, perhaps to his death, of one who has truly loved her. Methinks perhaps her heart, too, told her that we should meet no more. Sweet Alys, farewell, farewell. Now methinks I have done with life. It is after all but a battlefield to fit us for the haven of peace beyond. Pray God be with my father in his hour of extremity, and give to us a meeting on the other side!"
Leofric bent his head and spoke a low-toned Amen; then one of the monks approached to administer the last rites of the Church, and hear the faint confession breathed by those white lips.
How went the battle? Leofric was rent in twain by the desire to fling himself into that fight and die for the cause he had embraced, and by reluctance to leave his comrade whilst the spark of life still lingered.
Suddenly Jack came rushing back, his breastplate covered with blood, his sword reeking, his whole aspect distraught. He had no horse under him, and he staggered slightly as he pressed onwards; but when Leofric sprang to his side, he said,—
"I am not wounded—would that I were—I am but choked with dust and reek. Undo my vizor and give me air. Leofric, the battle is ended. The great Earl is dead!"
"Dead!" cried Leofric, startled in spite of himself, and the look upon Jack's face as it was exposed to view corroborated his words.
"I could not get near him, though I fought like a fury. Methinks my right arm has slain a score of men this day. I cared not how soon they hewed me down, and yet I escaped. But I was near; I heard and saw, and I heard what they said of him. They brought him news that Lord Henry had fallen, whereat he grasped his sword in both hands and cried, 'By the arm of St. James, then is it time that I died also!' With that he laid about him right and left with such fury that men fell like thistles around him. But others pressed on from behind, and all called aloud upon him to surrender—to surrender—" and Jack drew his breath hard in rage and scorn.
"But he did not?"
"Didst think he would? Nay, his was no coward blood that would surrender to caitiff churls. I, even I, heard that clarion voice ring out once more amid the din of battle. 'Never will I surrender to dogs and perjurers!' it cried. 'To God alone will I yield. To Him I give up my spirit.' And even so saying he fell, pierced by a hundred wounds;" and there Jack suddenly broke off, with a look upon his face of concentrated fury which for the moment Leofric did not understand.
"And Lord Henry is dead, thou dost say? What of Lord Guy?"
"Wounded and made prisoner. Some say he too will die; but the Prince has given orders that he is to have every care. The Prince is a noble victor; but for those dogs that he allies himself with—"
Jack set his teeth as though he could say no more.
"What have they done?" asked Leofric breathlessly.
"Wellnigh hacked his body in pieces," cried Jack, with quivering lips. "Roger Mortimer claims one hand to send to his wife as a trophy. Another they vow shall be sent to the Countess of Leicester at Dover—his own wife, Leofric, his own loving wife! I trow if the Prior had not come forth from the gates, with his monks after him, and carried away the headless trunk, that it would have been truly hacked to pieces by the savages who surrounded it. They are even now carrying it devoutly into the chapel, to lay it beneath the altar. But the head, the hands, the feet—they cannot prevail to save those. Our great and noble Earl—to think that it should come to this with him!"
Jack turned away to hide the tears which bodily exhaustion and mental distress forced from his eyes. Leofric, with a shocked face, returned to the side of Amalric, where the monk still retained a place, although the rites were all concluded.
Amalric's eyes flashed open once more.
"My father?" he asked.
"Thou wilt see him soon; he has gone before thee," answered Leofric gently; and Amalric understood at once. He closed his eyes with a faint smile. To him the strife of arms, the clash of wills, the storm and stress of life, meant nothing. He was drifting out upon an ocean where such things had neither part nor lot. Perhaps in that hour it soothed his spirit to know that his father had passed thither before him. The things of time had no concern for one who was launching forth upon the tide of eternity.
"Is he dead too?" asked Jack, with a break in his voice.
"It is better sometimes to die than to live," answered Leofric softly in his ear. Then both knelt down by the side of their comrade, and the monk commended the departing soul into the hands of God. When they arose, Amalric lay still with a smile upon his lips, and the monk, folding the hands upon the mailed breast, said reverently, "Requiescat in pace."
Jack's sobs could not be controlled; Leofric's tears were on his cheek, but he commanded himself, and whispered a word in the ear first of the monk and then of his companion.
Together they lifted the inanimate form and reverently carried it to the chapel, where before the altar, beneath a velvet pall, lay the mutilated body of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.
They laid Amalric down beside his father, and Leofric spread over him the silken banner which had been worked by the fingers of Alys and Linda.
It mattered not in the eyes of the monks that De Montfort and his sons lay under the ban of papal excommunication. England had never altogether submitted to the tyranny of the Pope, and at a moment like this nothing was remembered by those pious men save that the Earl had fought a good fight, had been their friend and the friend of the people, and had died a hero's death upon the field of battle.
For long was it reported that marvellous miracles were performed by the remains of the slaughtered warrior, and he was regarded by a large portion of the nation as both saint and martyr. Many were the songs composed to his memory, most of them being in Norman-French, of which this may be cited as a specimen, showing how greatly the hearts of the people were wrapped up in him:—