It is not unnatural that, when relating what the king said, and what his marshals did, and how his army moved, I should be in some danger of losing sight of my own figure, and even forgetting, in some degree, my own existence. However, I would not, by any means, have the reader conclude that, because silent as to my achievements, I, Arthur Winram, was wholly idle during the march of the English from La Hogue to Caen, or an idle spectator of the events that rendered that expedition memorable.
In fact, young, new to life, ardent and eager to appear a man, I entered with enthusiasm into the spirit of theenterprise. Far be it from me to sing my own praises; but, being in constant activity, I met with exploits of which I venture to say no warrior of my age could with justice boast. At Caen I was among the first who entered the gates, and barely escaped atoning for my audacity by being stoned to death in the narrow streets; and afterwards gained some experience, and a significant warning to be on my guard, during a mysterious adventure, which involved me in such danger that I well-nigh gave myself up for lost.
I have already mentioned that, after the king had consented to spare the place, Godfrey de Harcourt rode through the streets with his banner displayed, and commanded that no Englishman should, on pain of death, injure an inhabitant, male or female, and that the proclamation led to the army mingling with the citizens. I was rather too young to profit much by the hospitality or the wealth of the men and women of Caen; but I was not insensible to the wild kind of freedom in which the invaders indulged, and did not fail, like my neighbours, to assume the air of a conqueror, and to roam about the city as if I had been lord of all I beheld.
It happened that, on the second day of the king's residence in Caen, I was examining, not without interest, the monastery of St. Stephen, in which repose the ashes of William the Norman, when I felt my shoulder slightly touched, and, turning quickly round, found beside me a man with a beetle brow, who, in answer to my question as to his business with me, intimated that he could not speak my language, but placed a missive in my hand.
Drawing back to guard against surprise—for his appearance was the reverse of prepossessing—I read the document with breathless amazement.
"If the English page, calling himself Arthur Winram"—so ran the words—"will, at nightfall, meet the bearer of this on the spot on which he receives it, he will be conducted to the presence of one who will clear away the mystery that hangs over his birth, and reveal the story of his parentage."
I trembled with excitement as these words met my eye, and did not, for an instant, hesitate about venturing onan interview. Having explained to the messenger, in as good French as I was master of, that I should meet him at the time appointed, I hurried back to the prince's quarters, and passed the remainder of the day in vague surmises. I confess that sometimes I suspected a snare; but, considering my position, believing that no one could be interested in harming me, I dismissed my doubts as they rose, and asked, with a smile of contempt, whether, in pursuit of the information for which, from childhood, I had earnestly longed, I, vowed as I was to face all dangers in quest of fame and fortune, would shrink from a hazard which could not be great, and which probably was imaginary.
Such being the view which I took of the adventure to which I was invited, I awaited in a restless mood the hour for going forth to hear the secret by which, I could not doubt, my destiny, in some measure, hung. At length, the sun having set, I prepared to be gone; and arraying myself, without any weapon save a small dagger, which, having sheathed, I placed in my bosom to be ready to my hand in case of need, I walked forth with the feelings natural to a man about to solve a mysterious question that has for years baffled his intelligence, and preyed on his imagination.
Making my way through streets filled with warriors flushed with wine, I bent my steps to the monastery of St. Stephen, and there I found, true to his time and appointment, the man with the beetle brow. Without speaking, he made a sign for me to follow; and I, having by this time cast the last remnant of hesitation to the winds, accepted his guidance, and walked on, under the influence of a curiosity which silenced the last whispers of prudence.
It was still early, but daylight had wholly departed; and, the moon not having yet risen, Caen was gradually enveloped in darkness, as my guide, after leading me through streets with which I was unacquainted, at length halted before the door of a house which had nothing to distinguish it from the ordinary dwellings of citizens in that town and others of the province of which it formed part. Having rung at the gate, we were readily admitted; and I, after being conducted up a stair, found myself inan apartment somewhat brilliantly lighted, and, as I thought, richly furnished. On a table, where stood a lamp that threw its brilliancy all over the room, were a flask and two drinking-cups; and on a couch, hard by, reclined a woman who rose as I entered, and welcomed me with a smile, which, of itself, would have sufficed to banish suspicion of anything like foul play being intended.
At this moment, when long years have intervened, I perfectly remember the impression which the first sight of that woman produced on me.
She was young—not more than twenty—and exquisitely beautiful, with a tall, graceful figure, hair dark as the raven's wing, dark, dark eyes, that seemed to pierce instantly to the heart, and features which, in later years, would have led me to suppose her a native of Italy. At that time, however, I was much too ignorant of countries and races to be capable of making any such distinctions; and as I stood silent, I certainly was not stupified, but I was lost in wonder.
"You know not the language of the country in which we are?" said she, with a voice and manner which completed the fascination.
"It grieves me, lady," I replied, "that I am not so familiar with it as to hold converse freely with the natives; but I know enough to understand and to make myself understood."
"It matters not," she said hastily; "for I know enough of the English tongue to spare you the inconvenience of speaking, or listening to, mine. Your name, or rather the name by which men call you, is Arthur Winram?"
"True," answered I, "I pass by that name; but I have reason to believe that I am entitled to bear one to which the world would pay more respect."
"On that point you shall be enlightened anon," said she, as she motioned me to a seat, and then added, gravely and in a tone of emotion, "but the tale I have to tell is one of bloodshed; and you will require all your courage to hear it to an end. Be pleased, therefore, to steel your heart for the trial."
As she spoke she raised the flask on the table, filled the cups that stood with it, took one herself, and made a signfor me to take the other. I obeyed; I put forth my hand; I took the cup; I raised it to my lips; and, as my blood was feverish with suspense, and my thirst, in consequence, intense, I drank copiously. I had scarcely done so when a marvellous change came over me. My head began to swim; the objects in the room seemed to dance before my face. Gradually my eyes grew dim; the figure of the woman faded from my sight; and I sank back overcome and unconscious.
After remaining three days in Caen, and despatching the Earl of Huntingdon to England in command of that fleet which carried not only the spoil of the Norman towns but a multitude of prisoners, among whom were some sixty knights, including the Count of Tancarville and the Count of Eu, Constable of France, King Edward led forth his army to pursue his career of conquest.
It soon appeared that the great Plantagenet would have to encounter a difficulty which, perhaps, he had little anticipated. At first, indeed, the progress of the English was as easy and as uninterrupted as before their arrival at Caen. Having taken the town of Louviers, and made themselves masters of much of the wealth the place contained, they marched into the county of Evreux; and Edward, with a view of drawing near to Rouen, where he hoped to attract many Norman men-at-arms to his standard, approached the banks of the Seine. But at this stage he found his operations unexpectedly checked. In fact, the French, acting under orders from Philip de Valois, whose alarm and rage knew no bounds, had deliberately and carefully broken down the bridges to prevent Edward crossing to the right bank; and it was not till he reached Poissy, in the Isle of France, not more than seven leagues from Paris, that he could see any way of overcoming the difficulty which his adversary had thrown in his way.
The bridge of Poissy, like the others on the Seine, had been destroyed by the French; but the beams and other parts were left by the river, and the king resolved on itsreconstruction. Accordingly, he took up his residence for a few days in the convent of Poissy; and while his marshals pursued their ravages almost to the gates of Paris, burning St. Germain and St. Cloud by the way, he celebrated the feast of the Virgin Mary, sitting at table in scarlet robes, without sleeves, trimmed with furs and ermines.
The festival of St. Mary over, the marshals having returned, and the bridge having been repaired, Edward again donned his mail, passed the Seine on the 15th of August, and turned his face toward Calais, which it was his object to reach. But after taking the town and castle of Poix the king found himself in a still more awkward dilemma than that from which he had freed himself; for the Somme, a broad and deep river, presented an apparently insuperable obstacle to his progress; and he pushed forward to Airaines, a town four leagues from Amiens, with the melancholy conviction that his own situation and that of his army was critical in the extreme.
Every bridge on the Somme had been broken down, and not a jot of information as to a ford could be obtained for love or money. Before Edward was the river, apparently impassable; behind him a mighty army bent on his destruction; for Philip of Valois had taken the field, and around his banner had gathered half the feudal warriors of Europe. From Bohemia, from Germany, from Luxembourg, from Hainault, from Savoy, and from Lorraine, they had rushed under kings and princes of fame, and were coming on the track of the English like hunters pressing on to the lion's death. It was vain to think of a refuge, for the invaders were in a hostile country, with no place of sufficient strength to afford a chance of security. But the king's heart did not fail him even in that day of trial.
"Here," said he, on reaching Airaines, "we halt for three days; during that time we must find or make a way to pass the Somme; and once on the other side we will, please God and St. George, show our adversaries how, when closely pressed, the lion can turn to bay."
But three days passed, and, in spite of all the efforts of the marshals, matters remained as they had been, savethat the enemy drew rapidly nearer, and the English army seemed doomed; and many muttered, "All is lost."
I must now leave the King of England and his army at Airaines, retrace my steps to Caen, and relate what befell me in that city when I so unexpectedly, and under such mysterious circumstances, sank in unconsciousness.
It is not in my power to say how long I remained insensible of the position in which I was. I awoke, however, with a feeling of sickliness, which was speedily succeeded by one of horror. It was pitch dark; my limbs felt cramped and confined; and when I strove to recover my feeling of freedom, I discovered, to my consternation, that I was bound hand and foot. I almost lost my senses on making this discovery; but, fortunately, drowsiness crept over me, and I again yielded to slumber. It was well that such was the case, as it probably saved me from despair and delirium.
When I again awoke it was broad daylight, and I was better able to judge of my predicament. I immediately perceived that I was reclining on straw in a small chamber, lighted by a window that was high from the floor, and that there was no appearance of any door by which an escape might be attempted. Nor was this all. My hands and feet were firmly bound with cords. I was evidently a prisoner, and perhaps destined for a victim.
My reflections at that moment, as may be supposed, were not of the most agreeable kind; and I thought with a deep sigh, of my grandsire's grange, and, almost with remorse, of my mother's warning. Not unnaturally I cursed the fortune which, after deluding my fancy with promises of a golden future, reduced me suddenly to the condition of a captive, without even leaving me the power of striking a blow for my deliverance.
As I reflected and murmured, I was interrupted by the voices of persons who seemed to converse in a low tone, and presently a concealed door was opened, and the manwith the beetle brow entered the chamber. I closed my eyes, breathed hard, and pretended to be sunk in slumber. But I was all attention, and felt a return of hope.
"He sleeps," said the man, looking towards the door.
"Good," exclaimed his companion; "and the sooner he sleeps the sleep that knows no breaking so much the better."
"My lord," said the man resolutely, "I have told you I will not have his blood on my hands."
"What need?" was the reply; "if he is left here long enough, time and hunger will do their work."
I shuddered at the idea, but without attracting their notice; and as they turned to depart, I partially opened my eyes. My suspicions as to the author of my incarceration were instantly confirmed as I caught a glance of the person who destined me for the most cruel of deaths. But I felt calmly vindictive, and, almost ere the bolts were turned upon me, had resolved to keep my own counsel, and to await with patience the day of vengeance.
Matters having reached this stage, I bent all my ingenuity to discover some possibility of setting myself free, and determined to exercise no particular scruples as to the means. Fortunately, my dagger had been left where I had placed it on the previous evening, and I contrived, by great exertion, to bring the handle near my mouth, with the object of seizing it in my teeth, and drawing it from the sheath. After several trials I succeeded, and commenced to saw the cords with which my hands were bound, but for a long time found my efforts quite futile. I must have passed hours making effort after effort in vain, and was on the point of abandoning the attempt in despair, when I was inspired with renewed energy by a circumstance that attracted my attention as I lay on my back, toiling diligently, but to no purpose.
While occupied, as I have stated, and ever and anon pausing to ponder on the necessity of yielding to fate, my eye caught sight of a spider, which while spinning its web, had suspended itself by a long and slender thread from the roof above my head, and, with great perseverance, endeavoured to swing itself from one rafter to another. I watched its efforts, and became interested in the unconquerabledetermination it displayed. Repeated defeats only led to renewed energy. Six times it had essayed to reach its point, and on each occasion it failed and fell back. Admiring the insect's determination, and drawing a parallel between myself and it, I resolved to regulate my conduct by its ultimate success or failure. As I did so it made a seventh effort, attained its object, and fixed its web; and, encouraged by the augury, I renewed mine with such vigour that I soon succeeded. I almost went mad with joy and excitement as I found my hands free; I lost not a moment in cutting the cords that bound my feet; and I stood upright on the floor, somewhat cramped, indeed, but with my dagger in my grasp, and on my face a stern smile, as I stretched out my limbs, and felt that I had energy enough left to strike a desperate blow for liberty and life.
It was necessary, however, to act with caution, and carefully to examine my position; and I did so. I found that the window, besides being high from the floor, was too well secured with iron to admit of my escaping by it; and, moreover, I strongly suspected that the chamber in which I found myself was at so great a height from the ground, that, even if I could have forced myself through it, I should have been unable to descend, save with something like a certainty of breaking my neck. Accordingly, I at once abandoned that idea, and concluded that, as I could not hope to escape by stratagem, I must lose no time in attempting to do so by force.
But, in order to attempt force with any prospect of accomplishing my object, I felt that it was necessary to await my opportunity; and I recalled to mind the proverb of the Arabs as to patience being the price of all success. In this frame of mind—calm, but perfectly resolute—I took my place by the door, and prepared, as soon as it was opened, to close with my gaoler, to force my way downward, dagger in hand, and take my chance—no matter what odds I might encounter—of making my way to the street, and thence to the prince's quarters.
For hours I had to wait and wearily passed the time. At length, however, when the day was departing, and I knew by the decreasing light that evening had fallen, Isuddenly heard steps. I drew slightly aside, and rejoiced to think that the dusk befriended me. As I drew aside, the bolt turned, the door opened, and the man with the beetle brow entered with something—perhaps food—in his hand. I had no time, however, to observe minutely. As he glanced towards the spot I had occupied, and perceived that I was no longer there, he uttered an exclamation of surprise. But already the prospect of escape had inspired me with extraordinary energy. Almost ere the exclamation had left his tongue, I sprang upon him as the mastiff on the bull, and, with a mighty exertion of strength, I prostrated him on the floor.
Not an instant did I now hesitate. I placed my dagger between my teeth, sprang through the open door, descended the narrow stairs almost at a bound, darted by the woman whom I had seen on the previous evening, and, to make matters short, pushed through a window that was before me, and managed so dexterously to drop to the ground, that, albeit the distance was considerable, I was shaken, indeed, but unhurt.
My escape had been effected with so much more ease than I anticipated, that I could hardly believe in its having really taken place. However, as I gathered myself up, I became convinced; and, after muttering thanks to God and the saints for their protection, I made my way through the dark to the prince's quarters. My first impulse, in spite of the vow I had formed, was to hasten to the prince and tell all. But I had been long enough at court to have learned to think twice before opening my mouth on such a subject; and five minutes' reflection enabled me to perceive that I should never be believed. I, therefore, renewed my resolution not to publish my wrongs till my name was great enough to give weight to my words, and, in the meantime, to watch my enemy closely.
As I reached the prince's quarters, I, somewhat to my dismay, ran against Sir Thomas Norwich, a warrior who had won renown under the Earl of Derby in Gascony. As this knight now held a high post in the prince's service, and occupied a high place in the king's favour, he was looked upon by squires and pages as a personagewhose good opinion was more to be desired than fine gold.
"Boy," said he, "where, in the name of all the saints, have you been?"
Unprepared for the question, I remained silent, and, doubtless, looked very guilty.
"Come," continued he severely; "I fear me that, young as you are, you have been following the multitude to do evil; and let me warn you that it is a game which ever, in the end, brings those who play at it to grief."
"Nay, sir knight," protested I earnestly, "I was tempted into an adventure which——"
"An adventure!" repeated Sir Thomas, shaking his head sternly. "Beware, boy. In the days of my youth I had many an adventure, and credit me, nothing can be more true than that the end of that mirth is sadness."
"Let me explain."
"Nay, nay. Enough of this. The king marches at sunrise; and see that you are in readiness to follow the prince's banner."
It was after my narrow escape, and not in the most celestial mood, that I accompanied the invading army, and took part in the various enterprises till we reached Airaines, and found that the Somme was between us and the province towards which we looked for safety.
It is necessary, having conducted the English army, and myself, to Airaines, to go back for a few weeks to describe the effect which the march of the invaders produced on Philip of Valois, and to explain how he assembled a host so formidable as to daunt even King Edward's brave warriors.
No sooner did Philip learn how the English were ravaging Coutantin than he flew into one of his violent rages, and swore, in his wrath, that they should not escape punishment—that they should pay dearly for the mischief they were doing. Forthwith he summoned notonly his own barons and knights, but John of Hainault, and the fighting men of that country, and despatched messengers to John, the blind King of Bohemia, to Charles of Bohemia, John's son, who had been elected Emperor of Germany, to the Count of Flanders, to the Duke of Lorraine, to the Count of Savoy, and to the Count of Namur, to hasten to his aid with all their forces. Faithful to their ally in his distress and danger, they flocked to the capital of France like eagles to the carnage, and, encamping about St. Denis, awaited the approach of the invaders whom they had gathered to crush.
Meanwhile, Philip of Valois remained at Paris, expecting that King Edward would come thither to offer battle. However, when the marshals of England, marking their course by burning castles, pushed up to the very gates, and rumours ran that the English were about to pass the Seine, Philip began to stir; and, having ordered all the penthouses of Paris to be pulled down, he prepared to join the army which had assembled to fight for the crown which he unworthily wore.
When the Parisians, who, by this time, were in feverish alarm, learned that Philip was on the point of leaving the capital, their terror knew no bounds, and they raised a great outcry. In their distress they sent deputies to intreat him not to abandon them at such a crisis. On being admitted to his presence, the deputies fell on their knees.
"Ah, sire, and noble king," cried they, wringing their hands, "what are you about to do? Are you about to leave your fine city of Paris?"
"My good people," replied Philip, somewhat touched, "be not afraid."
"Sire," urged the deputies, "the English are but two leagues from Paris, and when they know you have quitted us they will advance, and we are unable to resist them. We pray you, therefore, to remain and defend us."
"Fear not," replied Philip; "I tell you the English will not approach nearer than they have done; and as for me, I must go to St. Denis, for I am impatient, above all things, to pursue the English, and to fight with them."Accordingly, Philip of Valois that day left Paris, and, on reaching St. Denis, he found himself at the head of a noble army, with an emperor, a king, and a multitude of princes as his captains, and, what was deemed of immense importance, a numerous body of Genoese cross-bowmen, who, it was hoped, would prove more than a match for those English archers, whose achievements had made them the terror of their country's foes.
Much annoyed and rather startled was Philip to hear that King Edward had actually left Poissy, and crossed the Seine. However, having given orders to break down all the bridges on the Somme, and vigilantly to guard every spot at which it was possible to pass the river, he marched from St. Denis at the head of his army, which gradually swelled as he went to the number of a hundred thousand men, and pushed forward determinedly till he was within three leagues of Amiens. At this stage, Philip learned that Edward was at Airaines, and took up his quarters for the night at Amiens. Next day, however, he resumed the chase, and about noon appeared at Airaines. But, to his disappointment, he found that the English had left the place that morning, and that they had proceeded to Oisemont, a town in Picardy, five leagues from that which he had just quitted.
"Never mind," said Philip, haughtily, "Edward cannot escape us; we will shut him up between Abbeville and the Somme, and either take him prisoner, or force him to fight at such a disadvantage that he must lose."
Flattering himself with anticipations of a great triumph, Philip of Valois, before continuing the hunt after his royal foe, remained at Airaines to wait for his nobles and barons who were expected, while his scouts, who were all over the country in search of intelligence, brought tidings of the foe with whom he was so eager to come up; and he passed the night regaling his fancy with the idea of terminating the war, once and for ever, in his favour, at a blow, or perhaps without striking a blow. Next morning he rose from his couch to act on the information he had obtained.
It was now Thursday, the 24th of August; and Philip of Valois, mounting his steed, ordered his banner to bedisplayed, and led his army forth from Airaines, confidently expecting to find the English king and his followers on the banks of the Somme, and either to take them captive, as a birdcatcher does sparrows, or to scatter them, as a hawk does pigeons. Suddenly, as he rode along in front of his array, one of the scouts met him with a face which indicated that he brought news not likely to be welcome.
"Well," asked Philip, "where are these English? Speak, sirrah!"
"Sire," answered the scout, "the English have passed the Somme."
In a former chapter I mentioned that, among the places taken by the King of England, during his victorious and exciting march through France, was Poix, a town of Picardy, about six leagues from Amiens. The Lord of Poix was absent; and the captain of his castle, not having the means of holding out, surrendered almost without resistance, and allowed the fortress to be entered by the English soldiers at a time when they were flushed with victory and wine.
It happened that, when the castle was taken, there were within its walls two demoiselles, daughters of the Lord of Poix, and very handsome. Great was the danger of these ladies at this moment; for the invaders, as I have said, were then highly excited with their triumphs, and in no humour to pay excessive respect to female virtue. Fortunately for the ladies of Poix, I had been one of the first to foot the walls of the castle and make my way into the interior; and, aware of the danger in which the demoiselles were placed, I posted myself before them, and, vowing to protect them, prepared, sword in hand, to defend their honour with my life. I confess, however, that I felt, to my consternation, that my influence in their behalf was not likely long to prevail under the circumstances.
"A murrain take the madcap page!" cried one man-at-arms, frowning on me fiercely.
"Make way," shouted another, with a hoarse laugh, "and let me advance to console the fair ones in their jeopardy."
"Only over my body," answered I, as my blood boiled with indignation, and I brandished my sword.
"Down with the jackanapes!" exclaimed the first speaker, making a thrust at me with a spear.
I parried the attack, and my stubborn courage was not without its effect. Nevertheless, it was evident that my resistance could not long avail to save the noble demoiselles from insult, and I was just giving way to despair, when Sir John Chandos, a knight of great fame, made his appearance. Not without difficulty, he appeased the soldiers, and, having rescued the young ladies from their dangerous position, conducted them to the king. At his request I accompanied him to the royal presence, and Edward received them with chivalrous courtesy.
"We do not make war on women," said the king; "and I am bound to protect you against all dangers. But, if there is any stronghold to which you wish to be conducted, name the place, and thither you shall be escorted without delay."
"To Corbie," was the reply.
"It shall be as you wish," said Edward; and then turning to Sir Thomas Norwich, he added with a smile, "Sir Thomas, be yours the honour of escorting the noble demoiselles to the castle whither they wish to proceed."
"Sire," replied the knight, "I will, to the best of my ability, fulfil your command."
I was, much to my satisfaction, ordered to accompany Sir Thomas Norwich on this expedition; and, finding myself acting as a protector of noble damsels of grace and beauty, began to consider myself a great hero of romance, and was, on our return, indulging in the luxury of building castles in the air, when we encountered a party of armed peasants. After a short skirmish we overcame, with little difficulty, the rustic militia, and took them in a body as captives to the English camp.
Now this led to important consequences. While running my eye over the prisoners, I remarked one stout fellow, whose countenance struck me as being more intelligent than that of his comrades; and, not without a vague hope of extracting from him such information as might be welcome to the prince, and of service to the king, I singled him out from the party, and entered into conversation.
"What is your name?" asked I.
"Gobin Agace," was his answer.
"You are our prisoner," observed I significantly.
"Yes," said he; "but you may have heard the story of the mouse that gnawed the toils in which the lion was caught, and set the lion free."
"And how does that concern the business now in hand?"
"Much," answered the peasant; "for such a service as the mouse rendered to the lion, I can, I believe, render to your king."
"Ha! by St. George, I perceive!" exclaimed I, much gratified. "Being a native of this country, you have such knowledge of the fords on the Somme as would secure you an ample reward."
"In that respect," said the young peasant, "I could render your king a service that would be worth my weight in gold; and, if you will lead me to his presence, I will convince you that I am not speaking as a braggart might."
It was evening when we reached Oisemont, where King Edward was now quartered, and rode into the town with our captives. We were just in time. Immediately after, the king held a council; and, having ordered the prisoners to be brought before him that they might be questioned, he addressed them courteously.
"Good fellows," said he, "do any of you know a ford on the Somme, below Abbeville, where I and my army could pass without danger? Whoever," added Edward, "will show us such a ford shall have his own liberty, and that of any twenty of his fellow-captives whom he may select."
At this point Gobin Agace, whom I had instructed, stepped forward and bent his head.
"Sire," began he, "I do know such a ford, and I promise, under peril of life, that I will conduct you to a place where you and your whole army may pass the Somme without any risk."
"Go on," said the king, inspired with a new hope by the peasant's words.
"There are certain fordable places," continued Gobin Agace, "where you may pass, twelve men abreast, twice in the day, and not have water above your knees. When the tide is in, the river is full and deep, and no one can cross it; but, when the tide is out, the river is so low that it may be passed on horseback or on foot without danger. You must, therefore, set out early, so as to be at the ford before sunrise."
"And what call you this ford?" asked the king.
"Sire," replied the peasant, "the bottom of the ford is very hard, of white gravel and stones over which all your carriages may safely pass, and thence it is called Blanche-taque."
"Friend," said the king joyfully, "if what you have told me is found to be true, I will give you and all your companions their liberty, and I will besides make you a present of one hundred nobles."
It now seemed that the safety of the King of England and his army depended on the accuracy of Gobin Agace's information as to Blanche-taque; and Edward gave orders that, at daybreak, every man should be ready, at the first sound of the trumpet, to march towards the Somme, and make the grand experiment.
Deep and somewhat depressing was the anxiety felt throughout the English army as the night of Wednesday closed over Oisemont; and brief, if any, was the sleep enjoyed by most of the brave islanders whose situation was so critical. Edward, who, both as king and Englishman, was almost overwhelmed with a sense of responsibilityas he thought of the duty he owed to the brave men who had placed themselves in jeopardy to assert his rights, scarcely closed his eyes, but waited with impatience the break of day to make the attempt on which seemed to hang the fate of his army and his own reputation as a war-chief.
Rising at midnight, and intent on putting his fortune to the test, the king ordered his trumpets to sound; and, ere the first streak of day glimmered in the sky, he set out from Oisemont at the head of the van, and under the guidance of Gobin Agace, reached the ford of Blanche-taque just as the sun rose. But at that time the tide was so full that the idea of attempting a passage was not to be entertained; and the light of day revealed on the opposite bank a strong force, which had been posted there under one of the lords of Normandy, named Godemar du Fay, with positive orders not, on any account, to allow the English to ford the river.
In fact, Philip of Valois, on arriving at Amiens, had despatched Godemar du Fay, with a thousand horsemen, six thousand footmen, and a body of Genoese, to render the passage of the Somme absolutely impossible; and Godemar had, on his march towards Blanche-taque, been joined by a multitude of peasants and the townsmen of Abbeville, and found himself at the head of twelve thousand men, who occupied a strong position, and presented an imposing front. Edward, however, was not in the least degree daunted. On seeing how matters were he merely indicated his intention of waiting for that part of his army which had not yet come up, and then attempting the passage at all hazards—the feat on which everything now appeared to depend.
Accordingly, when the various divisions of the English reached the Somme, and the tide had in some measure fallen, the king intimated to his marshals that the hour had come for putting all to the test; and shouting, "Let all who love me follow me," he spurred his charger and dashed into the stream. The Prince of Wales and his knights followed; and the French horsemen, at the same time, left the opposite bank, and met them hand to hand.
A fierce combat now began in the water, and many gallant deeds were performed on both sides. But the French—albeit they fought well—exerted themselves in vain. The king and the prince, heading their knights, bore down all opposition; and, almost ere they had obtained a footing on the bank, the superior prowess of the English was so evident, that the French almost immediately gave way and began to disperse. Moreover, Godemar himself, after remaining for a moment aghast at what was passing before him, concluded—and not without reason—that all was lost; and, while the English were still struggling through the ford, he completely lost hope of holding his ground, gave way to panic, turned his horse's head, and headed the flight.
Having solemnly rendered thanks to God for conducting himself and his army so far in safety, Edward summoned Gobin Agace, gave him and his companions leave to depart, and, in recognition of the service he had rendered, presented him with a hundred nobles and a good horse.
The Somme being thus passed, the king, with a lighter heart, pursued his march, intending to take up his quarters at the town of Noyelle. Learning, however, that it belonged to the Countess of Aumerle, sister of his old friend, Robert of Artois, he sent to assure her that she should not be disturbed, and pursued his way till he came, on Friday, to a village in Ponthieu. Understanding that Philip of Valois was still pursuing with the intention of giving battle, Edward, no longer wishing to avoid an encounter, resolved to encamp, and await what fortune God should send.
"Let us post ourselves here," he said to his people, "for we will not go farther till we have seen our enemies. I have reason to wait for them on this spot, as I am now on the lawful inheritance of my grandmother, and I am resolved to defend it against my adversary, Philip of Valois."
Orders for encamping on the plain near the village having been issued, Edward, remembering the infinitely superior number of the army which followed the banner of his foe, and determined to take every precaution toensure a victory, in the event of a battle, commanded his marshals to select the most advantageous ground, and to inclose a large park, which had a wood in the rear, within which to place all the baggage-waggons and horses. No time was lost in executing the king's orders; and the English, with a degree of hope unfelt for days, then set about furbishing and repairing their armour, so as to be prepared for the conflict which was not likely to be for many hours delayed.
Meanwhile, Edward, no longer avoiding but courting an encounter, sent his scouts towards Abbeville to learn whether or not there was any sign that Philip of Valois was about to take the field; and the scouts, on returning, said there was no appearance of any movement on the enemy's part. The king then dismissed his men to their quarters with orders to be ready betimes next morning; and, after giving a supper to the earls and barons who accompanied him, he retired to his oratory, and, falling on his knees before the altar, prayed to God that, in the event of combating his adversary on the morrow, he might come off with honour.
By midnight all was quiet, for thorough discipline prevailed throughout the camp, and men stretched themselves to rest; and refreshed their energies with slumber; and I, Arthur Winram, as I spread the skin of a wild beast on the grass hard by the prince's pavilion, and threw myself on the ground, and closed my eyes to dream of marvellous adventures in love and war, said to myself—
"Now let me sleep while there is yet time. Mayhap, ere the sun of to-morrow sets, I may sleep the sleep that knows no breaking."
It is well known that Robert, King of Sicily, was a great astrologer and full of deep science, and that he had often cast the nativities of Edward of England and Philip of Valois; and that, having found by his astrology and the influence of the stars that, if they met in hostile encounter, Philip would assuredly be defeated, the Sicilian king hadfrankly intimated to his royal kinsman the result of his investigations, and strongly advised him to beware of hazarding a battle.
For years this prediction had exercised much influence on Philip's mind; but on this occasion, the Valois, finding himself at the head of an army so much superior in number to that of his gifted adversary, was ready to throw all hesitation to the winds, and eager for nothing so much as an early opportunity of coming to close conflict. Much, therefore, was he disappointed on hearing that the English had given him the slip and passed the Somme.
"Now," demanded Philip, turning to his marshals, "what is to be done?"
"Sire," replied they, "the tide is now in at Blanche-taque, and you can only cross the river by the bridge of Abbeville."
"Well, then, let us turn toward Abbeville," said Philip, and his marshals gave orders to that effect.
On reaching Abbeville, Philip took up his quarters in the monastery dedicated to St. Peter. He was still hopeful of overtaking and crushing his foe, though perhaps not quite so secure of victory, in the event of a battle taking place, as he had been twelve hours earlier. At all events, he deemed it prudent to await such additions to his army as were likely to arrive; and from Thursday to the evening of Friday he remained impatiently at the monastery awaiting the coming of his friends and intelligence of his foes.
Wearily passed the hours, and more and more impatient grew Philip. At length, however, as that August day was drawing to a close, the French marshals rode into Abbeville with tidings that the King of England had encamped on a plain in Ponthieu, and that the English army appeared bent on remaining to try conclusions. Perhaps Philip now began to entertain some doubts as to the result, and to call to memory the prediction of the King of Sicily, which, in his rage and desire for vengeance, he had, for a time, forgotten. But, in any case, it was clear that he had gone too far to recede; and, come what might, he resolved to push forward and fight for the crown which he wore.
So Philip of Valois entertained the princes and greatlords of his army at supper; and, next morning, after hearing mass, he set out in pursuit of the invaders who had wrought him so much mischief and caused him so much trouble. As he left Abbeville the rain fell in torrents, and the march was long and fatiguing. But, still undaunted, Philip pushed forward, and, about noon, came in sight of the English, who were seated on the ground on a large plain, not far from a village which boasted of a windmill. Hitherto obscure, this village was, from that day, to be widely known to fame as the place where the great Plantagenet, after being so keenly hunted, turned to bay.
It was Cressy.
It was Saturday, the 26th of August, 1346, when Philip of Valois marched from Abbeville to Cressy; and, on the morning of that day, the King of England and the Prince of Wales, rising early, heard mass and took the sacrament. At the same time most of the English confessed their sins and received absolution, that they might go to battle with lighter consciences and heavier hands; and these religious ceremonies having been performed, Edward commanded his men to arm themselves, and, with the aid of his constable and the two marshals, arrayed the army in three divisions.
At the head of the first division Edward placed the Prince of Wales, who was supported by the Earls of Warwick and Oxford. The second was under the Lord de Roos and the Earls of Northampton and Arundel. The third, which the king intended as a reserve, he retained under his own command.
Having thus arrayed his forces, Edward, armed in mail, save his head which was uncovered, mounted a palfrey, and riding from rank to rank, with a white wand in his hand, encouraged the soldiers by his presence, and intreated them to do their duty valiantly. He then ordered that they should refresh themselves with what provisions they had, and retired to his own division; while the menseated themselves on the grass and ate and drank at their ease. Everything being ready for action, they placed their helmets and weapons beside them, and awaited the coming of their foes, who, still deeming themselves secure of an easy victory, were pushing forward furiously.
It was not, however, till afternoon—not, in fact, till three o'clock—that Philip of Valois, who had left Abbeville in the midst of a heavy fall of rain, came up—at the head of that seemingly countless host, which had gathered from so many countries to his aid—with the handful of invaders he had vowed to crush as a potter's vessel. As the French approached, the sun, which had been obscured all the morning, broke through the clouds, and added to the effect of their chivalrous display. Nor could anything have been more impressive. Banners and pennons flew; armour glistened; bridles rang; and from the armed multitude—panting for blood and carnage—rose loudly shouts of "Kill! kill! kill!"
It happened, on that memorable day, that the Count of Alençon led the van of the French army, and that in front of his cavalry he had placed the Genoese, whose cross-bows were deemed likely to do terrible execution. But, fatigued with a hasty and long march, the Genoese were not in the best condition for the work they were designed to do, and the delay which took place in consequence caused considerable confusion. Philip, as was his wont when in any way annoyed, lost his temper, and, as usual when he did so, his wrath instantly got the better of his discretion.
"In the name of God and St. Denis," he roared, "order the Genoese forward and begin the battle!"
Nothing could have exceeded the imprudence of attacking formidable foes with an army in such disorder as that of France then was. But Philip's blood was boiling at the sight of his enemies seated calmly on the grass, and he was incapable of calculating chances. Accordingly orders to attack were given; and the Genoese, supported by a large body of men-at-arms, splendidly arrayed, approached with a loud shout which was intended to make the English tremble. But the Genoese were much mistaken. No notice whatever was taken of the noise. The Genoesethen raised a second shout. It, however, had quite as little effect as the first. The Genoese then raised a third shout. But not one iota more attention was paid to it than had been paid to the first and second. The Genoese then presented their cross-bows and began to shoot, and instantly—suddenly, as if by magic—the English were in motion and on their feet. Every archer was stringing his bow; every footman was brandishing his pike; every horseman was mounting his steed. All the thirty thousand stood calmly contemptuous of odds, and sternly resolute to conquer or die.
No time was now lost by the English in trying conclusions. Making a step or two forward, at a signal from their leaders, the archers in the division commanded by the prince, which was drawn up in the form and manner of a portcullis or harrow, with the men-at-arms in the rear, bent their bows, and sent a shower of arrows with such force in the face of the foe, that the Genoese flung down their cross-bows, and attempted to retreat. Again Philip lost his temper, and, with his temper, everything like prudence.
"Kill these scoundrels," shouted he; "for, by St. Denis, they only serve to stop our road to victory."
"Yes," cried the Count of Alençon, "let us ride over the bodies of the Genoese." And, without hesitation, the men-at-arms charged the cross-bowmen, and cut down the unfortunate mercenaries right and left.
Meanwhile the King of England, leaving the post of honour to the Prince of Wales, and without putting on his helmet, took his station by the windmill which I have already mentioned, and kept his eye on every part of the field. Marking the confusion among the French, he sent a messenger with orders to his son to charge upon them where their disarray was greatest; and gallantly was the duty performed. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the heroism with which the heir of England—bestriding his grey barb, inspiring those around him to despise odds, and defy the press of numbers—fought to win his spurs that day. It was an exciting spectacle to see one so young enacting such a part on such an occasion; and, inspirited by his example, the English advanced with increasingenthusiasm, and rushed on with a determination before which their enemies fell or were fain to give way.
But the great lords of France did not relish the idea of being beaten by a warrior in his teens; and, as the conflict went on, the prince was exposed to serious danger. By a simultaneous movement, the Count of Alençon advanced from one side and the Count of Flanders from the other, and, coasting, as it were, the archers, bore down with irresistible force on the prince, at the head of their riders; while Philip of Valois, guided by their banners, hounded forward a body of French and Germans, who, breaking through the archers, engaged in hand-to-hand encounter with the prince's men-at-arms. Fortunately, Lord de Roos and the Earl of Northampton lost no time in bringing the second division to the rescue. But the peril was still so extreme, that the Earl of Warwick, apprehending the worst, sent Sir Thomas Norwich to the king, who was still posted by the windmill.
"Sire," said the knight, "the Earl of Warwick, and others about your son, are attacked by the French, and are sorely handled; wherefore they intreat that you will come to their assistance with your battalion; for, if the French increase, as they are like, your son and they will have much to do."
"Is my son dead, or wounded, or felled to the earth?" asked Edward.
"No, sire, but he is hardly matched; wherefore he hath need of your aid."
"Well," said the king, "return to him, and to them that sent you hither, and let them know not to send for me, nor expect me to come this day, let what will happen, so long as my son is alive. And say that I command them to let my son win his spurs; for, if God be pleased, I wish all the glory and honour of the day to be given to the boy and to those who are about him."
Meanwhile, young Edward was bearing himself bravely; and when Sir Thomas Norwich returned and repeated the king's answer, the prince and his comrades were greatly encouraged with the confidence the king reposed in them, and exerted themselves so strenuously, that, as the daywore away, the battle—lately so fiercely contested—began to wear a most unfavourable aspect for the French. The Counts of Alençon and Flanders, indeed, fought bravely. But their efforts were in vain. Down they both went, never to rise again; down went the Count of Blois and the Duke of Lorraine; down went the Count of St. Pol and the Count of Auxerre; and away fled Charles, Emperor of Germany, leaving his old blind father to his fate.
But John of Bohemia—old and blind as he might be—was not the man to fly; and, as he learned from his knights how the battle was going, and how a boy, whose name he had never heard, was, at the head of a handful of men, vanquishing the chivalry of Christendom, his indignation became high and his excitement great.
"Where," he asked suddenly, "is my son?"
"My lord," answered one of his knights, "we know not; but we believe he is fighting."
"Well, gentlemen," said the king, "you are all my people, and my friends, and brothers-in-arms this day: therefore, as I am blind, I request you to lead me so far into the battle that I may strike one stroke with my sword."
"My lord," was the reply, "we will directly conduct you forward."
And the knights, that they might not lose the blind king in the crowd, interlaced their bridles with his, and, placing him in front, led him to the charge. But John of Bohemia was not more fortunate than his friends. Good use, indeed, he made of his sword. His charge, however, was as vain as the efforts of the Counts of Alençon and Flanders had been. After penetrating into the English ranks, the Bohemian warriors fell in a body; and the blind king and his knights were found next day among the slain, with their horses fastened to each other by the bridles.
It was now about vespers; and the battle, having raged for hours, was wearing itself out. Hitherto Philip of Valois had enacted the part of a brave warrior, and done stern work with sword and lance. But, as evening sped on, it became evident that all was lost; and Johnof Hainault saw that there was no hope of safety save in flight.
"Sire," said he, riding up to Philip, "retreat while it is yet time, and do not further expose yourself. If you have lost this battle, another time you may conquer." And, taking the rein of the vanquished man's bridle, he led him forcibly from the scene of action, just as the shades of evening were beginning to settle over the ground where his adherents lay dead and dying.
By this time, indeed, the struggle was becoming faint, and ere long it was at an end; and King Edward descended from the windmill from which he had watched a mighty and magnificent army go down before his scanty ranks. Placing himself at the head of his division, he advanced towards the Prince of Wales, took the young hero in his arms, and kissed him.
"Sweet son," said he, "God give you good perseverance. You have most loyally acquitted yourself this day, and you are worthy to be a sovereign."
"My lord," replied the prince, bowing low, "the honour of the victory belongs to you alone."
The King of England and the Prince of Wales, having strictly forbidden all noise and rioting, retired to give thanks to God for the happy issue of the day; and darkness, descending over the ground, now slippery with gore, concealed the carnage; and so well was order kept in the English camp that the stillness of the night was unbroken, save by the wounded who were dying, and the riflers who were prying, and the ravens that were flying over the field where the princely hunters had learned to their cost how terrible was the lion of England when he turned to bay.
On that memorable day when, at Cressy, King Edward so gloriously overcame his enemies, and the Prince of Wales so gallantly won his spurs, I, Arthur Winram, was no inactive spectator of the conflict that was raging and the deeds that were being wrought. Nor, so far as I was concerned, did that day come to a close without such adventures as give colour to life and youth, and furnish food for the memory in more advanced life.
When the French host, with banners waving, and clarions sounding, and crowds of peasants shouting, "Kill! kill! kill!" advanced upon Cressy, and when the English, after sitting quietly on the grass, rose undauntedly to meet their foes, I lost no time in mounting my steed and taking my place among the squires and pages who surrounded the Prince of Wales. At that time the clouds that had for hours obscured the face of day had dispersed, and the sun, shining between the two armies, flashed on their armour and weapons. It was a fair sight to behold, and the eye of the prince gleamed with enthusiasm as he gazed on the exciting spectacle.
"Now may we be thankful to God and to good St. George," exclaimed the young hero, "that the sun at length deigns to shine on our array."
"My lord," said Sir Thomas Norwich with a smile, "that, it seems to me, is a blessing which has been equally vouchsafed to our enemies."
"But mark you not the difference, and how much it is in our favour?" said the prince proudly. "The sun," continued he, "is on our backs, and in their faces; and methinks," added he, "that is a circumstance which they can hardly deem to their advantage, and for which it becomes us to be devoutly thankful."
Such was the conversation that took place by the prince's standard after we mounted our horses, and almost as he uttered the last words the battle began in earnest.
I cannot pretend to have any accurate recollection of what took place for hours after the embattled hosts met in the shock of war. It was in reality my first field; my blood was hot; my brain was on fire; and my memory retains nothing beyond a vague idea of the confusion and carnage caused by the clash of steel, the rush of war-steeds, and the flights of arrows that darkened the air and carried destruction into the ranks of the foemen. I believe, however, that the novelty, the excitement, and the very terror of the scene had upon me an intoxicating influence; and I have been told that I fought like one drunk with new wine.
As the hours sped on, however, I became more calm; and, some time after the attempt of the Count of Alençon and the Count of Flanders to turn the fortune of the day had ended in their fall, and the utter discomfiture of their forces, I recovered possession of my senses sufficiently to be aware that it was after the hour of vespers, that I had left the battle, and that I was keenly pursuing a young warrior, evidently of high rank, who, seeing that all hope of victory had departed, was bent on escaping from a field which his friends had irretrievably lost.
Even in my soberer mood I had no inclination to favour his project of escape, and I loudly summoned him to turn and prove that he was not a coward.
"What ho!" cried I, "turn about. You ought to be ashamed of yourself thus to fly from a single adversary."
For a time the young warrior paid no attention to the reproaches which I launched at him. After a time, however, he seemed to think that it was necessary, for his honour, to give proof of his valour; and, halting, he turned his horse's head, put his sword under his arm after the manner of a lance, and charged me with all his might, hoping to transfix me.
But he was disappointed. I saw my danger in an instant, and taking my sword by the handle, and exerting all my skill and dexterity, I contrived not only to elude the thrust of my adversary, but, in passing, to strike his sword to the ground.
But here I lost myself. In fact, I failed to follow up my advantage with sufficient speed, and my antagonist,springing nimbly from his steed, ere I was aware of his purpose, repossessed himself of his weapon, and placed himself on the defensive. My blood by this time was again up; and I had already resolved that, if no accident intervened, he should not depart from me on easy terms. But he, believing, doubtless, that, as I was on the winning side, the danger of delay was almost, if not altogether, on his, looked around with the air of one eager to escape from a conflict likely to result in captivity.
"Frenchman," said I, "it is vain to dream of escape. We part not till we have proved which is the better man."
"Who are you that follow me thus?" asked my adversary, apparently astonished at my persistency.
"I am an Englishman, and page to my lord the Prince of Wales," answered I, "and I mortally hate him whom the French call king; and as there can, therefore, be no peace between thee, as a Frenchman, and myself, I pray thee look to thy defence."
"In truth," replied the youth, "I am not, as you deem me, a Frenchman, but Louis, son of the Count of Flanders, and merely fighting against the English as an ally of the King of France."
"Louis of Flanders!" exclaimed I. "By the Holy Rood, so much the worse for you! Ever has your sire been England's bitter foe; and it behoves every Englishman worthy of his country, as I hold myself to be, to avenge, on your head, the blood of Jacob von Arteveldt, who, by your father's instigation, was barbarously murdered."
"Dog of an islander!" cried the young prince, stung to fury, and brandishing his sword, "I cannot longer brook your insolence. Dismount, and receive the chastisement you have provoked."
As he spoke, I leaped from my steed. Instantly our swords met, and we engaged in hand-to-hand conflict—he attacking with all the energy which rage could inspire, and I defending myself with the determination inspired by the hope of making a captive almost worth his weight in gold.
And thus on foot, and in the dusk of evening, took place a fierce encounter, with no lookers-on save oursteeds, which stood silently by. So equally were we matched, that, for minutes, neither of us had the slightest advantage, and the issue was doubtful in the extreme. Fortunately, however, for me, I was now by far the cooler of the two; and at last, not without great difficulty, I succeeded in disarming him and bringing him to his knee. Immediately I threw myself upon him, and, with visions of the grandeur I was to acquire from taking a prisoner of such rank, I told him, on pain of death, to surrender, rescue or no rescue, and awaited his answer, the nature of which I could hardly doubt.
But, as the proverb has it, there is much between the cup and the lip. Of this I was, on that occasion, destined to learn the whole truth by bitter experience. At the moment I spoke the tramp of cavalry reached my ears; and, almost ere I could turn my head, my prostrate foe uttered a loud cry for aid, and several horsemen rode forward.
"I should know that voice," said the foremost of the party, reining up at the distance of a few yards from the spot where I was bending over the prince I had destined for my prisoner.
"Yes, sire, I am Louis of Flanders," cried my vanquished adversary. "I am Louis of Flanders; and I lie here at the mercy of an English varlet."
The horseman who had already spoken, and who was no other than Philip of Valois, turned towards those who attended him.
"Slay the varlet, and rescue my cousin of Flanders," said he in accents of anger; and two of his companions dismounted and advanced.
It now appeared that I was doomed to instant death; and I well-nigh gave myself up for lost. But neither my instinctive sagacity nor my mother wit deserted me. Quick as thought, my resolution was taken.
"Hold!" shouted I loudly and menacingly. "Beware, and be not rash, but listen."
The two men, whose mission was to kill me, stayed their steps, and the others forming Philip's escort were silent.
"Mark," continued I, seeing that I was attended to, and feeling hope revive, "my knee is on this young lord'sbreast; of my hands, one is on his neck, and in the other is a dagger, the point of which touches his throat."
"It is true," cried the Flemish prince in great alarm, a feeling which I took care should not diminish.
"You may kill me, doubtless," added I slowly and sternly, "but not until I have sacrificed a victim. Advance a step farther, and this young lord dies on the instant."
I looked my enemies in the face, and, as well as I could perceive by the dim light, had no reason utterly to despair. My presence of mind had saved me, for the moment at least. The two men stood still, and, a brief conference having taken place among the party on horseback, a cavalier advanced.
"Sir page," said he, "relax your grasp, and permit the young prince to rise, and you shall not be exposed to injury in life or limb."
"No," exclaimed I sternly. "He rises not till I am assured of life and liberty."
"I assure you that you shall be unharmed," was the reply; "and as for your liberty, we must, as a matter of prudence, keep you with us for the time being; but I promise that, within as short a space of time as consists with policy, you will be restored to freedom."
I hesitated.
"And whose word have I for such conditions being fulfilled?" asked I, after a pause, and not without curiosity.
"You have my word," answered the cavalier; "and I am John of Hainault, whose name is not unknown in England."
I, with difficulty, curbed my tongue, and suppressed the reply that sprang to my lips; for the martial Hainaulter had recently deserted the cause of King Edward for that of Philip of Valois; and everybody had told each other with surprise that he had changed sides from the most mercenary motives. But I felt the full peril of my position, and answered with the respect which might be supposed due from me to the uncle of Queen Philippa, and the man who originally escorted her to England.
"The word of the Lord John of Hainault," I said, "is sufficient, and I rely confidently on his honour."
I now hesitated no longer. Rising, I assisted the Flemish prince to his feet; and, while I surrendered my sword to John of Hainault, with all the grace of which I was master, Louis of Flanders approached the stirrup of Philip of Valois.
"Where is your father, cousin?" asked Philip kindly.
"Alas! sire, he is slain," replied the boy—"slain before my eyes;" and he burst into tears.
"Compose yourself, cousin," said Philip kindly; "it has been the fate of many brave men to die to-day."
"You are right, sire," replied the young count suddenly. "It is no time to mourn; it is more meet to think of vengeance."
"Yes, sire," added John of Hainault; "and, that we may be alive and free to fight another day, let us tarry here no longer. I say, as I have already said, that, if you have lost this battle, another time you may be a conqueror. Let us ride."
"And whither go you?" asked the young Count of Flanders.
"To the castle of La Broyes," answered John of Hainault.
"And what are we to make of this English page?" inquired one of the horsemen.
"Kill him!" cried Philip, bending upon me his eyes fully and fiercely, like a hawk that has long been kept in the dark.
"No, sire," protested John of Hainault calmly; "I have pledged my word for his safety; he must mount and accompany us as a prisoner."
"By St. Denis!" exclaimed Philip. "Why cumber ourselves with such as he is, when a thrust would settle the question at once?"
"My lord," replied John of Hainault gravely, "my word is passed; and that is conclusive in my view as to his life being spared, however worthless it may be."
No more time was wasted. I was ordered to mount my horse. I obeyed readily, making the best of a bad business, and, disarmed and vigilantly guarded, accompaniedthe cavaliers who escorted Philip of Valois from the field in which he had met with a defeat more terrible than any that had befallen the warriors of France since that day when the paladins of Charlemagne were attacked and routed by a half-Spanish, half-Moorish host, at the pass of Roncesvalles.
Mournfully and sadly the vanquished warriors rode on through the fields of Picardy; and so much darker grew the night as they pursued their way, that, at one time, they believed they had lost the path, and feared that they would find themselves at the English camp. Late at night, however, they perceived before them the lights of La Broyes, and, with hearts somewhat lightened, they approached the gate. But, as it happened, the gate was shut for the night, and the vanquished Valois was refused admittance into his own fortress.
"Summon the governor," said Philip, in a commanding tone.
Having been hastily summoned, the governor appeared on the battlements.
"Who is it that calls at such an hour?" demanded the functionary, in a mood by no means serene.
"Open, governor, open!" cried Philip impatiently.
"Who is it?" again demanded the governor, in a querulous tone.
"It is the Fortune of France," answered Philip solemnly.
And the governor, knowing his master's voice, came down; and the gate was speedily opened; and Philip of Valois and his friends, and I, their captive, silently entered La Broyes; and, so far as I was concerned, that melancholy night ride was ended.