I have no doubt I entered the castle of La Broyes with a merrier heart than any of the party whose prisoner I happened to be. I was not likely to forget, and I did not forget, that I had formed one of the dauntless army which had just won a marvellous victory; and, albeit I was a captive, I felt—especially after having supped—more than half-inclined to believe my own mishap a trifle when I thought of the effect that would be produced in the cities and hamlets, and castles and granges of England, when through the land ran tidings that England's king had, without even putting on his helmet, put his continental enemies under his feet.
I was still musing on this subject—so grateful to English pride—and was on the point of stretching myself to rest on the floor of the chamber to which I had been conducted, when John of Hainault condescended to come and hold some conversation with me. I had not, of course, any idea of the Hainaulter's motive, and more than suspected that his object was to gain intelligence that might be turned to account. However, I deemed that I was guilty of no indiscretion in convincing him that I was not wholly without importance in the court of that country to which, twenty years earlier, he had escorted Queen Isabel the Fair when she came to dethrone her ill-starred husband, and to which, somewhat later, he had conducted his niece as the bride of King Edward, then on the point of throwing off the influence of his mother and Roger de Mortimer, and entering upon that career of victory which enabled him to take the highest place among the sovereigns of the age.
I flattered myself that I had reason to be satisfied with the impression I produced, and, indeed, soon found the advantage I had gained by asserting my dignity as page to the Prince of Wales. In fact, John of Hainault's countenance began gradually to relax, and he expressedhimself on the event of the day with a frankness hardly to have been anticipated under the circumstances.
"Well, sir page," said he, laughing somewhat carelessly as he prepared to go, "it rejoices me to perceive that you treat your mishap with the indifference which a brave warrior—be he stripling or grey-beard—should treat temporary captivity. And God wots you have your consolation; for, certes, the King of England has won a great victory, and the Prince of Wales has proved himself a wondrous war-chief, considering his years."
"My lord," replied I with enthusiasm, "may the king ever so prevail over his enemies, and may the prince ever prove himself the worthy son of such a father!"
"The King of France," said John of Hainault, looking keenly at me as he spoke, "is inclined to blame Sir Godemar du Fay for his defeat."
"In truth," remarked I, smiling, "it baffles me to discover in what way the unfortunate knight could have prevented it."
"Nevertheless," continued he, "there are some about the king who are loudly calling Sir Godemar a traitor; and the king, enraged at the idea of having been betrayed, threatens to hang him."
I trembled for the safety of Gobin Agace, who had served us so well in the hour of need, but I did not deem myself bound to speak.
"Thinkest thou that Sir Godemar could have played the traitor?" asked he.
"My lord," I answered, "I am a humble page, and unable to judge of such high matters of war and state."
"For my part," continued he slowly, "I entertain no doubt of Sir Godemar's good faith; and I see not how he could have resisted the English army."
"Verily," said I grimly, "it seems to me the reverse of surprising, that Sir Godemar failed to do with a handful of men-at-arms and a rabble of townsmen, what Philip, Count of Valois, failed to do with the flower of the French nobility and half the princes of Europe at his back."
"My friend," said John of Hainault drily, "I advise you to be more respectful when you allude to the chief ofthe House of Valois, and to speak of him as King of France; otherwise, assuredly they will have little scruple in hanging you on the nearest tree."
"Well, my lord," replied I carelessly, "I am in their hands, and, doubtless, they can do with me as they please. But, in that case, my lord the Prince of Wales may make inconvenient inquiries after the fate of his page; and King Edward has this day shown that he knows how to avenge lawless executions."
"Mort Dieu!" exclaimed the Hainaulter in alarm; "I warn you, for your own sake, not to allow your tongue to outrun your discretion, or you will never more see the green fields and oaken forests of your native land."
And wishing me "Good night," he took his departure, certainly not much wiser than he had come.
I now stretched myself to rest, and slept the sound sleep of youth. Next morning I rose refreshed, and with a feeling that I had little to complain of, save that Fortune had been somewhat unkind in making me a captive in the hour of victory. But I was not without my consolation, and I was rather inclined to show contempt towards my gaolers as men belonging to an inferior nation. But I had prudence enough to keep this feeling in check, and so to insinuate myself into their good graces as to learn something as to the movements of Philip of Valois and John of Hainault.
It appeared, in fact, that Philip and the martial Hainaulter had only made a brief halt at La Broyes. Indeed, Philip neither considered it safe nor politic to remain long in the place. At midnight, after taking some refreshment, he again mounted, and, under the direction of guides familiar with the country, set out for Amiens. By daybreak he reached that place, and, having halted for a while to rest from his fatigue, he pursued his way to Paris, vowing to hang Sir Godemar du Fay, and vainly hoping, perhaps, to discover some way of redeeming himself and his fortunes from the disgrace and disaster of a terrible defeat.
I bore my imprisonment patiently, but could not do otherwise than blame John of Hainault for having, in some degree, forfeited his promise, and left me withouthope of release. I was reflecting somewhat bitterly on the circumstance one day, when the governor of La Broyes appeared, and informed me that, on the morrow, I was to be removed from the fortress.
"And wherefore?" asked I.
"I know not," answered the governor, with a significant shake of the head.
I felt some alarm, but refrained from exhibiting any feeling. However, I made an effort to obtain information on another, and not an unimportant, point.
"Mayhap," said I gravely, "you will not deem me impertinent, as affairs stand, in asking to what place I am to be removed?"
"To Bernicles," was his reply.
My heart rather sank, for the name suggested to my imagination that terrible instrument of torture used by the Saracens. In fact, the only bernicles of which I had heard is an engine made of pieces of wood pierced with holes, into which the legs of captives are thrust. They are put at such a distance from each other as to cause intense pain; and, the holes being at various distances, the legs of the victim are forced to a greater or less extension according to the pain intended to be inflicted. No wonder I started, and felt some sensation of horror, as I turned to the governor, and said gravely—
"I mislike the name. However, when one of your monarchs—indeed, that King of France since canonised and known as St. Louis—was a prisoner of the Saracens, and threatened by them with the bernicles, he said, 'I am your captive, and it is in your power to do with me as you please.' So say I."
The governor left me; and I, having taken my evening meal, lay down to sleep, and dreamed that I was on the point of being put in the bernicles by Philip of Valois and the young Lord De Ov, and that I was rescued from their hands by the ladies of Poix, whose champion I had constituted myself when their father's castle was taken by the army of invaders.
"Well," murmured I as I awoke, and convinced myself with some difficulty that it was a dream, "no saying what all this may end in. Assuredly my prospects are notinviting. Nevertheless, let me not droop or despair. I have heard men say that fortune, in love and war, often turns out more favourable than could have been expected. So let me hope for the best, and trust in God and St. George."
I have related, in a previous chapter, and in its proper place, that when, on that memorable Saturday on which Cressy was fought, the English found themselves masters of the field, they, in obedience to the king's command, refrained from noise and riotous merriment, and frequently gave thanks to God for the happy issue of the day, and for the wondrous victory which had crowned their efforts.
After vespers the French seemed to have vanished from the ground. At least, they gave no audible sign of being near the camp of their conquerors. No more hooting or shouting was heard, nor any more crying out for particular lords or their banners. Nevertheless, the English made a point of erring on the safe side, and were on their guard against a nocturnal surprise. As the night of Saturday was very obscure, they lighted huge torches, and kindled large fires; and when the morning of Sunday, the 27th of August dawned, and the atmosphere was so densely wrapped in fog that men had some difficulty in recognising their comrades in arms, even at the distance of a few yards, their sense of insecurity increased, and, with the sense of insecurity, the vigilance necessary to avert all danger.
And what did King Edward under the circumstances?
He called his marshals to his presence, and pointed out the danger of the French being allowed to collect and form themselves into a large body; and he ordered his marshals, at the head of a detachment, to make an excursion, and prevent any surprise that might be meditated by the enemy.
The expedition was not without its results. In fact, the marshals encountered a large body of fighting men,headed by the Archbishop of Rouen and the Grand Prior of France, who had been informed that Philip of Valois was not to fight before Sunday, and still remained in ignorance that he had fought and been discomfited. A conflict immediately took place; and the Archbishop and the Grand Prior having fallen to rise no more, their followers either shared their fate or saved themselves by flight.
Flushed with victory, the marshals returned to the English camp, and, meeting King Edward as he was coming from mass, told him of their adventure, and reported how matters stood. On learning that there was now no danger of the French collecting, the king gave orders for examining into the numbers and condition of the dead.
By this time the fog was vanishing; and ere long the full extent of the carnage became known. And fearful it was to think that, of the mighty army which, twenty-four hours earlier, was marching to Cressy from Abbeville to exterminate the invaders with shouts of "Kill! kill! kill!" more than thirty thousand were corpses. Of these, eleven were princes, and twelve hundred knights.
Our king was not a man to war with the dead. He ordered the bodies of the principal knights to be carried to the abbey of Montenay, and, at the same time, proclaimed in the neighbourhood that he should grant a truce for three days, in order that the French might bury their dead; and, having halted all Sunday on the field of battle, he next morning marched with his army in the direction of Calais, which he was resolved, if possible, to make his own ere he crossed the narrow seas to his native land. No opposition was now offered to his progress. Having marched through the forest of Hardelou and the country of the Boulonois, Edward and his son reached Wissant-on-the-sea; and, having rested with his army during the night of Wednesday at that large town, which some believe to be the Portus Iccius at which Cæsar embarked for the conquest of Britain, they next day appeared before the walls of Calais, with a stern determination, on the part of the king, not to retire tillhe had placed the standard of England on its highest tower.
Now it happened that Calais was a town of marvellous strength, and that it had the advantage of being strongly garrisoned. John de Vienne, a knight of Burgundy, was governor, and with him were a number of knights and squires, who vowed to fight to the death rather than allow the place to fall into the hands of the English. But the brave governor was not quite sure of their provisions holding out in the event of a long siege, and, therefore, decided on sending all the poor inhabitants out of the town, in order to diminish the consumption.
It was a Wednesday morning; and greatly surprised was the King of England when he was informed that men, women, and children were issuing in swarms from the gates. Mounting his steed, Edward hastened to the spot, and found that upwards of seventeen hundred human beings were outside the walls, and attempting to pass through his lines.
"Why have you left the town?" asked he, in a voice wherein curiosity was mingled with compassion.
"Because we have nothing to eat," was the reply that rose from a thousand tongues.
"Well," said the king, much moved, "I will allow you to pass through in safety; but first I will order you all a hearty dinner, and, ere you depart, I will give to each of you two sterlings as alms."
"Sire," said the poor Calesians, touched with gratitude, "may God and Our Lady bless thee and thine!"
And the king was as good as his word; and the Calesians went forth to seek new homes, scarcely knowing whither they went.
Such was the scene with which the siege opened.
It appeared evident to King Edward that Calais could not be taken by storm, and he deliberately prepared for a long siege. Between the city and the river, and the bridge, the king caused houses to be built of wood, thatched with straw or broom, and laid out in streets. To this temporary town everything was brought likely to be required for the subsistence of an army. From Flanders and England arrived cloth, and bread, and merchandizein great variety; and every Wednesday and Saturday there was held a market, at which those who had money could buy whatever they desired.
Meanwhile many gallant deeds were done, and many feats of arms were wrought. Few days, indeed, passed without witnessing conflicts between the warriors of England and the warriors of France. Frequently skirmishes took place near the gates and the ditches, between the garrison and the besiegers; and so vigilant were the French who guarded the fortresses around Calais, that at no time could the English venture abroad without the certainty of falling in with parties of the enemy. But, of course, they did constantly venture abroad in search of adventure, and seldom did so without skirmishes, which never ended without some being killed and wounded.
Autumn passed away in this manner. But still King Edward acted with caution and foresight. In vain the impatient and imprudent urged him to take Calais by assault. He perfectly comprehended his position, and expressed his determination to bide his time.
"I know," said he, "that it would be life and labour lost, and that I must stay here till I starve the town into a surrender. Besides, Philip of Valois may come at any time to raise the siege; and I must spare my men, that they may be ready to do battle valiantly in case of need."
But slow was the process of reducing the Calesians to extremity. Gradually, indeed, it became apparent that provisions were stealthily conveyed into Calais; and, after this conviction, speedily followed the discovery that two mariners, Marant and Mestriel by name, and both residents at Abbeville, acted as guides to the men who were adventurous enough to relieve the garrison. On being made aware of this, the king vowed to put an end to the system, which threatened indefinite delay to his conquest, and took immediate steps with that object.
And this is what King Edward did. He caused a large castle to be constructed of strong timbers, and placed between Calais and the sea; he carefully fortified it with engines of war, including the bombards, now coming into use; he garrisoned it with forty men-at-arms and two hundred archers, whose duty it was, night andday, to guard the harbour and the port so closely that nothing could come in or go out without being sunk or taken; and, having in this way cut off all communication between the beleaguered city and the sea, he calmly awaited the course of events.
"The fruit," said he, "is not yet ripe; but it will be soon; and, with Calais in our possession, Englishmen will be able to boast—nor in vain—that they carry at their belts the keys of France and Flanders."
I awaited with something like resignation the hour of my removal from La Broyes to Bernicles; but day after day passed, and I still occupied the chamber in which I had been left when Philip of Valois and John of Hainault took their departure. At length I was visited a second time by the governor of the fortress, and, on looking up, perceived that his air and aspect were much more friendly than on the former occasion.
"Young gentleman," began he, advancing, "it grieves me that I have treated you with a neglect of which I should not have been guilty had I known that I was so deeply your debtor."
"Sir," said I, much surprised, "I am not aware at this moment in what way I have been of service to you."
"Ah," replied the governor, "though you knew it not, the ladies of Poix are my near kinswomen; and I would fain show what kindness is in my power to one who, at great hazard to himself, saved them from the violence of a brutal soldiery."
"Sir," said I, bowing low, "I pray you to accept my thanks for your courteous compliment; nathless, I have yet to learn that the soldiers of England are more brutal than other soldiers would be under the like circumstances. For the rest, I did no more than a youth apprenticed to chivalry is bound to do on such occasions."
"Well," continued the governor, "we will not dispute on either point. My business with you is simple. I believe that, of all evils in this life, an Englishman regards captivity with most horror. Is it not so?"
"Doubtless," replied I, reflecting, "to men of a nation whose passion has ever been freedom, the idea of being confined to a narrow space, and within four walls, is the reverse of grateful."
"And you would do something for liberty?" suggested he.
"Certes," replied I quickly; "anything in reason and honour."
"In neither respect should I ask you to offend your conscience," said the governor frankly. "Now listen."
"I am all attention."
"I hold letters of great moment, written by the Lady Joan, Countess of Hainault, to her daughter, Philippa, Queen of England. On them may depend fifty thousand lives, and it is of the last moment that they should be speedily and safely conveyed to her hands. Are you willing to do an errand which, if it result as I would fain hope, will be the means of putting an end to a sanguinary war, and bringing about an honourable peace?"
"Assuredly," answered I, "I see no reason why I should refuse to be the bearer of letters from the Countess of Hainault to my lady the queen."
"In that case," said the governor, "there is no reason why, in twenty-four hours, you should not be on the sea, and tilting over the waves towards England. The condition which I make in setting you at liberty is so slight that I hardly deem it can interfere with your doing our errand. And, mark me, I make the condition light because I fear not to trust you, for where there is so much chivalry there must be much truth."
"Name the condition," said I.
"It is simply this—that you give your promise not to bear arms against the King of France for a year and a day."
I hesitated.
"What, youth!" exclaimed the governor, "do you hesitate?"
"Yes, by St. George! I do; for I know not whether I can, with honour, make such a promise."
"Tush, youth," said the governor, "you are over-scrupulous. Think of William Montacute, the great Earl of Salisbury, and one of your king's foremost barons. He was long a prisoner in the Châtelet, in Paris; and you may have heard of Salisbury's captivity. While he lay in the Châtelet, his countess, whom Englishmen called Katherine the Fair, had the misfortune to bewitch the King of England by her beauty, but with no will of her own."
"The countess," said I, "was chaste as the snow on the top of Cheviot."
"But, however that may have been," continued the governor—"and I question it not—it was at length agreed that Salisbury should be exchanged for the Earl of Moray, on condition of taking an oath never again to serve against France; and such an oath he took."
"Well," said I, after a pause, "my lord of Salisbury was a puissant earl, and I am a nameless page; and, though naught should, or ought to, tempt me to do what my conscience disapproved, merely because it had been done by a great lord; yet, seeing not how it can be inconsistent with my honour to accept your terms, such as they are, and to do your errand, such as you describe it, I cannot but deem that, in accepting your terms and promising to do your errand, I am acting rightly."
"Credit me, you are acting rightly," said the governor.
Next morning I was mounted soon after sunrise, and, with the Countess of Hainault's epistles to Queen Philippa in my custody, I was, under the protection of an escort of horse, riding towards the seaside to embark in a ship that lay at anchor, and ready to sail for the English coast.
It was the evening of Saturday, the 10th of October, 1346, when the sun was just setting, as I, having crossed the Channel, and travelled from Dover to London, and escaped all perils by sea and land, again found myself safe and sound in that part of the capital of England known as Gracechurch.
I alighted, not without the air of a stripling of consequence, at the sign of the Falcon, and, as I did so, and parted from my horse, I could not but remember how brief was the period that had elapsed since first I set foot in that hostelry, and yet how much in the interval I had seen and experienced. I was certainly a little more advanced in years, and looked, perhaps, less boyish, because taller and stronger, than when I accompanied my grandsire to see London lighted up on Midsummer Eve, and to try my skill at the quintain on the day of St. John the Baptist. But half of the dreams in which I then was in the habit of indulging had been realised. I had seen countless knights, with their plumes, and swords, and prancing steeds, and I had witnessed much of the pomp and pageantry, and something, also, of the horrors, of war. Moreover, I had played a part which flattered my vanity. I had figured in court and camp—had passed through perilous adventures—had stood, sword in hand, as the champion of noble demoiselles—had footed the walls of besieged towns, and had participated in a great victory, the tidings of which set bells ringing and bonfires blazing all over England.
What wonder if, in such circumstances, my young heart swelled with pride, and if I already saw myself, in imagination, with the crest, and plume, and golden spurs of knighthood, leading bands of fighting men to battle, and rushing on to victory in the name of God and St. George?
Musing thus—for I had my full share of ambition as well as vanity—I, with a firm step, entered the hostelry of the Falcon; and, having seated myself at a table, andsummoned the drawer to furnish a stoup of wine, I looked around on the company with the air of superiority which is soon learned among men taking part in military enterprises that are crowned with success.
Many of the ordinary frequenters of the Falcon were there, indulging, as of old, in gossip about the events of the day, and discussing the news with a degree of excitement which convinced me that there was something of great importance in the wind. My attention, however, was attracted to three persons who sat in silence apart from the group of citizens, and separate from each other. One was evidently a yeoman of Kent; the second was a young priest, with a restless eye and a wild manner; and the third, whose dress indicated that he ranked as a squire, was a tall, strong man of forty or thereabouts, with fair hair and a grey eye, whose glance told plainly as words could have done that he was deficient neither in satire nor sagacity. He called for a quart of ale just as I entered, and proceeded to discuss the liquor with evident relish.
I was on the point of putting a question to this worthy gentleman as to the latest news from Calais, and had just prepared myself to open the conversation by drinking deep of the wine which the drawer had brought me, when Thomelin of Winchester entered. I smiled in recognition, and mine host, observing me, stared as if he had seen a ghost.
"What!—eh!—Arthur, my lad!" exclaimed he, recovering himself, "can this possibly be you, and in the body?"
"None other than myself, good Thomelin," answered I laughingly, "and flesh, and blood, and bone to boot; you may take my word for it. But now tell me, for I long to learn, how fares my grandsire, and how fares my mother?"
"By St. Thomas!" replied he gravely, "not so well as they are wont to do, for they have heard that you had fallen in the wars, and are sadly grieved to think of it."
"And yet," said I half-laughing, "here you see me with a whole skin, and hardly a scar to bear witness to the perils I have passed."
"And you have come home, young man," interrupted the squire, speaking with a burr which sufficiently indicated his Northumbrian birth, and possibly his Danish origin—"you have come home at a time when so many are flocking to Calais to join the king and fight for his honour?"
"Even so, worthy squire," replied I, not without a spice of temper in my voice. "It is the fortune of war, and, certes, it is with no good will of mine own that I am in London and not before Calais. As ill-luck would have it, I was taken prisoner on the evening of the day of Cressy, and I only regained my liberty on condition of forthwith returning to England, and not again drawing my sword against Philip of Valois for a year and a day. What could I do?"
"Nothing but make the best of a bad bargain," answered the Northumbrian. "But assuredly you have reached England at a good time for a stripling who is afraid of his sword rusting in the scabbard; for seldom has England had greater need of stout hearts and strong hands than now."
"What mean you?" asked I, my curiosity as to the news of the day reviving.
"What!" exclaimed Thomelin, excitedly grasping my arm, "have you not heard that David Bruce, whom the Scots call king, has come over the Border with all his men of war and wild Galwegians, and that he is ravaging the West Marches with fire and sword?"
"Not a word of it," replied I, much amazed.
"It's not the less true, however, as I'm likely to know to my cost," observed the Northumbrian gravely.
"May the saints, and especially St. George and St. Edward, defend us!" exclaimed I, after a moment's pause; "and that this invasion of the Scots should happen when the king and so many of his nobles are beyond the seas, might provoke every English saint in the calendar. But let us hope for the best, seeing that the Lords Neville and Percy are at home in command of the Northern counties; and fame belies them if they are not the men to give the Scots a warm reception."
"I doubt it not, Arthur, my lad!—I doubt it not!"cried Thomelin with enthusiasm. "Shame be upon the Neville and the Percy if they did less than their very best at such a time, and in King Edward's absence, especially since Queen Philippa has left for York, to show them her countenance and aid them with her counsel. And, if they do not, methinks it will be the duty of every Englishman, no matter how humble a body he may be, to gird on his father's sword, and go northward to fight for his king's honour and his country's safety."
"Mine host," interrupted the young priest, breaking silence for the first time, "thou speakest of what thou knowest naught, and canst not comprehend. Why should the poor and the oppressed gird on their swords to defend a land where kings and nobles do as they list, and where men who are not kings or nobles are compelled to draw the water and hew the wood for others, and used worse than beasts of burden?"
"Beshrew me," said Thomelin, half in jest, half in earnest, "if it does not seem to me dangerous for a man to speak of kings and nobles in such a strain, even when he has a frock and cowl to protect him."
"Besides," urged I quietly, "I believe it is said in Holy Writ—I have heard, at least, that it is—'Curse not the king, no, not in thy thought; and curse not the rich in thy bed-chamber; for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.'"
"What sayest thou to it, good friend?" asked Thomelin of the Kentish yeoman.
"For my part," answered the yeoman, speaking with great caution, "nothing have I to say against the king, who, doubtless, is a good king, and one likely to add much to the country's pride; and, for riches, let me say bluntly that I am not so poor as to deem the possession of riches a crime. But answer me this, Master Thomelin, how are men to live, if the king's purveyors continue, as now, to oppress and plunder at their pleasure? Answer me that."
"Well, yeoman, I'm sure I know not," replied Thomelin prudently. "But this I do know, that my kinsman, Adam of Greenmead, declared that when Edward I.reigned, and Eleanor of Castile was queen, the country people were not harassed by royal purveyors."
"No," cried the yeoman triumphantly, "not in my grandfather's time. That is what I tell my neighbours. But now a man trembles when a horn is heard, lest it should be that of the king's harbinger. One of them comes, and he cries he must have oats, and he must have hay, and he must have litter for the king's horses; and scarcely is he gone when a second comes, and he must have hens, and geese, and a variety of things; and a third comes at the heels of the second, and he must have bread and meat, and what not."
"My good friends," said the priest, springing to his feet, and speaking in a loud voice, and with eccentric gestures, "all this is vain talk. I tell ye that you must lay the axe to the root of the tree; for things cannot go on well in England, or ever will, until everything shall be in common, and the lords no more masters than ourselves. How ill they have used us, ye know; but for what reason they hold us in bondage they cannot tell. Are we not all descended from the same parents, namely, from Adam and Eve? And what can they show, or what reasons can they give, why they should be more masters than we? I tell you that things never will be well in England till there shall be neither vassal nor lord, and all distinctions levelled."
"Body o' me, father!" exclaimed Thomelin, interrupting, "curb your tongue, I pray thee, or you'll get me and my house into trouble. We will take the rest for granted. I know," added he mockingly, and then half chanted, half repeated, the rhyme which has since agitated the country to its centre, and shaken the throne to its foundation—
"'When Adam delved, and Eve span,Who was then the gentleman?'"
"'When Adam delved, and Eve span,Who was then the gentleman?'"
"On my faith," said the Northumbrian, with a grim smile, "I cannot but be strongly of opinion that, as affairs now are, it is mighty well for England that we have learned to do something more to the purpose than delve and spin. Now that the Scots are on this side of theBorder, I trow it will require something more than spades and spindles to drive them back again; and of this I am well assured, that they would never go for a few fine words about Adam and Eve."
"Well answered," exclaimed Thomelin admiringly, and the company having generally expressed their concurrence in Thomelin's opinion, the Northumbrian gave a slight indication of the satisfaction he felt with himself by calling for another quart of ale, and drinking it off, perhaps to his own health.
"Who is that mad demagogue?" I asked of Thomelin in a whisper.
"Oh," replied mine host, "it's only the crazy priest who is called Jack Ball. Nobody values his words more than they do a sough of wind."
"And who," asked I, "is the stalwart Northman?"
"John Copeland, an esquire of Northumberland and, I believe, a doughty man-at-arms as ever faced a foe. He has been at Westminster on affairs of state connected with the irruption of the Scots; and he turns his face homeward to-morrow to take part in the war."
The name of Copeland was not new to me. In fact, I had often heard it mentioned with honour: for the Northern esquire had figured in a prominent manner, ten years earlier, in the operations before the castle of Dunbar, when Cospatrick's stronghold was being besieged by the Earl of Salisbury, and defended by Black Agnes, Earl Patrick's famous countess; and he had, on a memorable occasion, by his instinctive sagacity, saved Salisbury from being taken prisoner. Remembering these things I looked at him with curiosity and interest; moreover, having learned that the queen had set out for York, and perceiving the necessity of following with the letters intrusted to my care, I felt that I could hardly do better than beg the Northumbrian to permit me to bear him company on the road.
"And so," said I, opening the business forthwith, "it seems the queen has set out for York?"
"Assuredly," answered Copeland, "Queen Philippa, like a courageous dame and a good wife as she is, has gone northward to the war, to make sure that, in theabsence of her lord the king, neither his honour nor his interest suffers."
"Ay, ay," echoed Thomelin—"a courageous dame and a good wife, in thought, word, and deed."
"Craving your pardon," said I, again addressing myself boldly to the great Northern warrior, "I am a stranger to you, and, perhaps on account of my youth, my name, unlike your own, is unknown to fame. But I am in the service of my lord the Prince of Wales, and have fought for the King of England; and I am charged with a message to the queen which I am in duty bound to deliver without delay. May I crave permission to ride northward under your protection?"
"Surely, surely, youth," answered Copeland cheerily. "Blithe will I be of your company. You can beguile the way, which is long, with stories of what you have seen and done in the wars of France, and, maybe, strike a good blow in case of any enemies turning up as an obstacle in our path."
"Well," said I, with a smile, "it would ill become one whose name is unknown to boast in the presence of a warrior so distinguished as yourself; but this much, at least, I will say in my own praise, that I fought, without flinching, at the gates of Caen, and on the field of Cressy, not to mention the ford of Blanch-taque; and I have yet to learn that I have lost courage since that day when Englishmen won a battle that will be recorded by chroniclers, and performed exploits that will be celebrated by minstrels."
"Enough," said Copeland, smiling at my youthful enthusiasm. "We will take the road northward on the morrow, and, where we are going, you'll find foes enough on whom to exercise your valour, and foes, too, who are worthy of a brave man's steel, be he knight, or squire, or page; for credit me, who have long known them, and who love them not, that—be the Scots good or bad in other respects—they fight bravely and well."
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed I, "that is something I have learned by meeting you. Methought that, at Halidon, they fled from our king and his men as deer before the hunters."
"So they did," replied the squire; "but it's not their wont; and, let me tell you, they fight not the worse from being away from their own country, and having some plunder to fight for. They are little inconvenienced by long marches. In fact, when they make irruptions into England, they march from twenty to four-and-twenty leagues, without halting, as well by night as by day."
"By St. George!" exclaimed I in amazement, "surely the archers and spearmen must lag behind and tail off as they go?"
"Ah," replied the Northumbrian, shaking his head wisely, "they are all mounted—the knights and esquires on large bay horses, the common people on little galloways; and they bring no carriages with them on account of the mountains they have to pass."
"Wonder upon wonders! But, then, how do they carry their provisions?"
"Oh, what provisions want they?—not bread and wine, I trow. Such are their habits of sobriety, in time of war, that they will live for a long time on flesh half sodden, without bread, and drink the river water without wine. Nor have they any occasion for pots or pans; for they dress the flesh of cattle in the skins, after they have taken them off; and, being certain of finding plenty of provisions in the country invaded, they bring none with them."
"Proceed."
"Well, every man carries a broad plate of metal under the flap of his saddle, and a little bag of oatmeal behind his saddle, and when they have eaten too much sodden flesh they put the plate over a fire, mix their oatmeal with water, and make a cake like a biscuit, which they eat to warm their stomachs; and such is their way of living while the war lasts."
"Well, sir squire," said I, "I am beholden to you for the information you have given me. I am a very young warrior, albeit I have seen sieges and a foughten field, and am curious about such matters. And beshrew me if it will not mortify me much if fortune does not favour me with an opportunity of crossing swords with some of these Scots, whose customs sound so barbarous; for I shouldlike to prove what mettle there is in men who live on sodden flesh, and oatmeal, and river water."
"Fear not, youth," replied the squire, with a smile of encouragement; "when you mount, and take the north road in my company, you will be in a fair way of having your wish."
Before describing my adventures in the North of England, I must pause in my narrative to explain how the Scots, in time of truce, happened to make that sudden inroad into England which alarmed the country, startled the court, excited the capital, and caused Queen Philippa to remove from Windsor to York.
It was when the first Edward was king, and when Philip the Fair reigned in France, that the chiefs of the house of Capet, as sovereigns of France, began to encourage that deadly hate of the Scots towards England which speedily proved productive of so much mischief to both countries; and Philip of Valois, on assuming the French crown, did not fail to imitate the example which, in this respect, his predecessors had set. From the time of the battle of Halidon Hill to the year when King Edward—exasperated, as he well might be—embarked for Flanders, promises of aid, and supplies of arms and warlike stores, kept the Scots in insurrection, and encouraged them in their stubborn resistance.
But such a policy could not be long pursued with impunity; and Philip ought early to have discovered that, in his case, it was not to be pursued with impunity. In any case, the loss of his navy at Sluys, and the loss of his army at Cressy, would have taught an ordinary man that the dishonest policy which he was practising was sure to bring still greater disasters in its train. But he was incapable of profiting by experience.
At the time when the princes and the chivalry of France were trodden down at Cressy, the crown of Scotland wasworn by David Bruce, son of the conqueror of Bannockburn; and at that time he was about the age of twenty-three, and eager to signalise himself by some such exploits as had made his father celebrated throughout Christendom. But, with such a king as Edward III. on the English throne, this was by no means an easy matter, either in England or Ireland; and perhaps the royal Scot might long have talked, without attempting, had he not been tempted by the representations of his continental ally to undertake the expedition which, in the autumn of 1346, caused so much alarm throughout England.
It appears that when King Edward marched his victorious army to Calais, and sat down before that city with a determination to take it ere leaving, Philip of Valois perceived the impossibility of contending single-handed with such an adversary. In his desperate circumstances, the vanquished Frenchman was not likely to forget the existence of the King of Scots; and, having prevailed on David Bruce to invade England, as the likeliest means of drawing off part, at least, of the English forces from the siege of Calais, and sent men to aid and money to encourage the Scots in their enterprise, he awaited the result with confidence.
No time was lost by the young King of Scots in carrying the project into execution. A Parliament having been hastily held at Perth, and the Scottish magnates having sanctioned a war, their king drew together a numerous army, and, about the opening of October, entered England by the West Marches. A mighty host it was, all things considered, that marched under his standard. Three thousand men-at-arms, knights, and esquires; thirty thousand men on geldings and galloways; and a large body of Genoese and French auxiliaries; such was the army at the head of which David Bruce and his earls and barons came over the Border, to avenge the defeat of Cressy, and to save the city of Calais.
Much was the mischief which the Scots wrought, and great was the terror which they spread around. It seemed that the days of Randolph and Douglas had returned, and that the Scots were again, year after year, to wreak their savage fury on the Northern counties. Men benttheir brows and clenched their hands, and women wept and children wailed, as they fled from their homes to the woods and mountains, to avoid invaders, many of whom knew little of mercy, not, perhaps, even the name.
Commencing operations at the castle of Liddel, the Scots took that stronghold, put the garrison to the sword, and beheaded Walter Selby, the governor, in their king's presence, without so much as suffering him to be confessed. This done, they pursued their way through Cumberland and the southern parts of Northumberland, ravaging and burning; and, still spreading desolation as they went, they advanced towards the city of Durham. So far their march had been unopposed, and they had had it all their own way. At this stage, however, an army not to be daunted by superior numbers frowned defiance and demanded revenge. Not only Lord Neville and Lord Percy, but Baliol, Moubray, D'Eyncourt, and De Roos were there to bar the way; and at the head of the force they had mustered was the queen herself—the wife and mother of heroes—whose presence inspired every man there with the resolution to fight with the courage and energy of two.
In fact, Philippa no sooner heard that the Scots were preparing to invade England than she hastened to York, and summoned all the peers and prelates who were in the country to meet in the capital of the North. With their counsel and aid she did wonders, and soon found herself at the head of an army numbering scarce more than a third of the invaders, it is true, but composed of men making up in discipline and valour what they lacked in numbers, and eager to rival the achievement by which their countrymen, fighting on the Continent, had acquired so much fame.
At the head of this formidable force the queen marched to Durham; and, while the English lay in Auckland Park, she, in the city of the same name, awaited the coming of the Scots, who, flushed with a success to which, in recent years, they had been little accustomed, regaled their imaginations with the anticipation of a triumphant issue to their adventurous enterprise.
It cannot be said that the patience of the English was put to any severe test. The reverse was the case; for the march of the invaders had been rapid; and on Friday, the 16th of October, the Scottish vanguard came near the town, and skirmished with some parties of English who were abroad.
The Scots fell back, however, on the main army, and, in retiring, burned some hamlets. The smoke and the flames exasperated the English, and the soldiers demanded to be led to battle. But on this point their chiefs were, fortunately, discreet enough not to gratify their wish. Neville and Percy were leaders of sapience, and Baliol, who had been once King of Scots, well knew, from experience, how to deal with men of the nation he had ruled.
"No," answered they in reply to the shouts of the soldiers. "Nothing must be done rashly, especially in the absence of our lord the king; for such is the crisis we are approaching, that we hazard, not only our own lives, but his realm."
As the day passed on, however, messengers from David Bruce came to say that, "if the English were willing to come forth, he would wait for them and give them battle."
"Tell those who sent you," was the reply, "that we accept the offer, and that we will not keep our enemies long waiting."
On receiving this message, the King of Scots, who had previously encamped in the park of Beaurepaire, drew out his army on Durham Moor, and, setting his men in order for battle, formed them into three battalions. He himself commanded the centre host; on his right were Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray; on his left was the High Steward of Scotland—all warriors whose fathers had followed the fortunes, and participated in the triumphs, of his hero-sire.
Having thus arrayed his men, the King of Scots retired to Beaurepaire, and awaited the coming of Saturday to encounter his foes.
In vain Lord Douglas recommended him to retire to the woods, and retreat without an engagement.
"No!" exclaimed the king with disdain. "We are the sons of the men who conquered at Bannockburn, and by St. Andrew! we are bound to prove that we have inherited the valour which they so often displayed on the crests of foemen."
And so, within a few miles of the armed foes, who had sprung from hamlet, and grange, and castle to repel his invasion, the young king lay down to rest, all eagerness for the hour when he was to try his fortune at the game of carnage.
Nor was there much danger of his patience being severely tried; for the crisis of his fate had arrived.
It was the evening of Friday, the 16th of October, 1346, when, in the company of Copeland, the Northumbrian esquire, I reached Durham, and first beheld the city associated with the memory of St. Cuthbert.
And fine and picturesque, I did confess, was the appearance which the place presented at the close of that October day, when threatened by the Scottish foe. The eye of my comrade gleamed with provincial pride as he marked the impression produced on me by the sight; and he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph—
"A fair city."
"Passing fair," I replied; and, not unwilling to display the little knowledge I possessed, I added, "and it seems to me to be, like Rome, built on seven hills."
"God's truth," said Copeland, "I know not on how many hills Rome may be built; but I have heard men say that whoso hath seen the situation of Durham has seen the map of Zion, and may save himself the trouble of a journey to Jerusalem."
About seventeen miles to the south of Newcastle, and sixty-seven miles to the north-west of York, in the centre of the shire of Durham, the river Wear, in one of its windings, makes a curve in the shape of a horse-shoe,and incloses a lofty peninsula, or promontory. On this promontory, which is formed of seven hills, surrounded by hills still higher than themselves, stands the city of Durham, with its castle, its abbey, its churches and buildings, mirrored in the clear waters of the river, whose steep banks are clothed with hanging woods.
At a distance of some miles to the south of Durham is the castle of Auckland, the seat of the bishop, with a park abounding in deer and wild cattle; while three miles to the north-west is Beaurepaire, another fair park, in which stands the house to which the prior is wont, on occasions, to retreat for quiet and contemplation. At this crisis both of these parks were camps, and their silence and privacy were broken by the noise of arms and the tramp of warriors; for the English army lay at Auckland, awaiting orders to march, and the King of Scots lay at Beaurepaire, awaiting the coming of the enemy, and treating with great disdain, as I have written, the proposal made by some of his nobles to make for the woods, and retreat without risking an engagement.
Such was the position of the two armies when having entered Durham, I proceeded to the castle, and craved an audience of the Queen of England. At first it appeared doubtful whether it would be granted; but a hint as to my being charged with letters of importance from France opened the doors, and I was conducted to the presence of the royal lady on whose energy and presence of mind the fate of England, at that moment, in a great measure depended.
At the time when Philippa of Hainault was first brought to England and wedded to King Edward, at York, she was a girl of seventeen, with a brilliant complexion, and a tall, graceful figure, whom minstrels praised in verse for her "roseate hue and beauty bright." Eighteen years, however, had passed over her head, during which she had become the mother of ten children, and she retained little of that youthful beauty which minstrels had celebrated.
But what Philippa had lost in juvenile brilliance she had gained in matronly dignity; and at thirty-five, what with her still comely features, her serene aspect, and her stately, though kindly manners, she looked every inch a queen, ofwhom Englishmen might have said, as they did of her predecessor, Eleanor of Castile, that "to our nation she was a loving mother, the column and pillar of the whole realm."
And never, perhaps, had the Queen of England appeared to greater advantage than when, at this crisis, and in the hour of dismay, she, in the absence of her hero-husband and hero-son, defied all dangers, and ran all risks, to do her duty to the country over which her husband reigned, and the kingdom to which her son was heir.
As I knelt and presented the epistle with which I had been intrusted by the Governor of La Broyes, she looked at me with something like surprise, and, taking the letter from my hand, said gently—
"Rise, sir page; how is this? I thought you were lost."
"Yes, madam," replied I, in some confusion; "but you see I am found again."
"And how came you by this?"
"There, madam, hangs a long tale, with which, mayhap, it were better not to weary your highness at present."
"I will hear it," said the queen.
And taking this expression of her wish as a command, I, with the utmost brevity, related my adventures, and the circumstances under which I had undertaken the duty of messenger. Having listened attentively, and questioned me as to what I remembered about the battle of Cressy, and the bearing of her son on that great day, the queen expressed her approval of my conduct, and immediately gave a proof of her confidence in my fidelity and discretion.
"My lord the king," said she, "will naturally be all anxiety to hear the result of the battle which is about to be fought; and I must needs, without a moment of unnecessary delay, despatch a messenger to him with the tidings, whether of weal or woe."
"Madam," said I, "do not fear—or, rather, I should say, do not doubt—under the eyes of so gracious a lady, that the English soldiery will do their duty, and the beams of victory will rest on St. George's cross."
A frown and a smile passed over the queen's face as showers and sunshine succeed each other on an April day. My audacity caused the frown; my enthusiasm caused the smile. But she quickly gained her serenity.
"You are too young to have any title to express opinions so boldly," she said; "and yet I deny not that much must be overlooked in the case of those who have fought by my son's side. However, hold yourself in readiness to proceed to Calais at a moment's notice."
"Madam," urged I earnestly, and like a condemned man begging for mercy, "I would fain hope that the prospect of so high an honour as carrying a message to my lord the king may not be inconsistent with my drawing my sword against the Scots, and striking a blow for his honour and the safety of the kingdom."
"Better not," replied the queen. "It may be cruel to gainsay you. But you are too young to die, sir page, and will live, please God, to win distinction some other day."
I bowed low, but my countenance indicated my disappointment.
"But," continued she, "the Lords D'Eyncourt and Ogle, with a body of cavalry selected for the duty, are to attend me as a guard during the battle. I accord to you the honour of being one of the party; and it is an honour which I trust that you, as a disciple of chivalry, in the service of the Prince of Wales, will not fail highly to value. You are dismissed."
As she spoke, the queen began to read the epistle of the Countess of Hainault, over which she had already glanced; and, having bent my knee, I retired, not without a feeling of disappointment. Indeed, I must frankly confess that, however high the distinction of attending the Queen of England on such an occasion, I should have relinquished it without a sigh; for so completely had Copeland's stories of adventures and contests with Scottish warriors taken possession of my imagination, that I would gladly, at that moment, have resigned all ambition, and all hopes of rising in life, under the patronage of royal personages, for the privilege of riding to battle with the brave Northumbrian, and charging, sword in hand, by hisside into the ranks of foemen, wherever the excitement was highest and the conflict keenest.
I sought Copeland, and, having hastily communicated the result of my audience, expressed the regret I felt at being deprived of the gratification of drawing my sword in his company.
"I grieve to hear it," observed the Northumbrian; "for, between ourselves, I have formed a scheme for acquiring fame and fortune at a grasp."
"By St. George!" exclaimed I. "Tell me, I implore you, how that is to be accomplished. It may serve me on another occasion."
"Breathe not a word on the subject to living mortal," said he. "Hark—in thine ear—I know this King of Scots by head mark. In the battle I will track him as the russet bloodhound does a marauder; and ere to-morrow's sun sets, he shall yield himself my prisoner, rescue or no rescue."
"A most noble enterprise, on my faith," exclaimed I admiringly, "and one, I ween, that will bring both honour and profit, if brought to a successful termination. But you must hold me excused if I remind you that he is not likely to yield, even to you, on easy terms. I have heard something of this King David at the English court, and I gather that, albeit he lacks the mind and subtlety which made his father great, he lacks not the courage or the prowess in war which has so long been associated with the name of Bruce."
Bright and clear dawned the morning of the 17th of October, 1346—the Saturday after the Feast of St. Michael—and on that morning great was the commotion, great the excitement, in the city of Durham. At an early hour, Queen Philippa was astir; and mounting her white palfrey betimes, she rode, escorted by knights, and nobles, and prelates, to where the English were encamped in Auckland Park.
Nor was it without an instinctive prescience that the beams of victory would fall on the red cross of St. George ere the sun went down behind the western hills; for the example of King Edward and his youthful heir had inspired the nation with a warlike ardour which defied odds, and every Englishman from Cornwall to the Tweed regarded himself as belonging to a superior and conquering race. Twenty years earlier, the terror inspired by the Scots was such that a hundred Englishmen looked with dread on half-a-dozen of the men whom the first Edward had driven before him at Falkirk. But since the days of Halidon a marvellous change had occurred, and every man who fought for the martial Plantagenet by whom that change had been wrought went to battle with a conviction that victory sat upon his helm.
On reaching the camp in Auckland Park, the queen gave orders for the army being drawn out in three divisions, each of which had its proportion of archers and men-at-arms. Of these, the first was commanded by Lord Percy, the second by Lord Neville and Lord Hastings, the third by Lord Moubray and Sir Thomas Rokeby, Sheriff of Yorkshire. A body of cavalry—chiefly composed of tall Northern men, with Danish blood in their veins, and the Danish burr on their lips—was kept in reserve, to give aid to those who might need it most, and intrusted to the leading of Lord De Roos, and Edward, Lord Baliol, whose experience in the Scottish wars eminently qualified him for the post.
These arrangements having been made, and the army being ready to march against the invaders, Queen Philippa rode along the lines and addressed herself to the soldiers. She reminded them that the honour of their king and the safety of their country were at stake; and she implored them, in their sovereign's absence, to do their duty, to fight manfully for his crown, and avenge the injuries which their countrymen had suffered at the hands of their barbarous foes.
"O queen," shouted the soldiers in reply, "we will acquit ourselves loyally in the absence of our lord; and never shall it be said that we fought the less valiantly because he was not present to behold our deeds."
"Then," replied the queen, "I leave you to encounter your enemies and the king's, and I recommend you to the protection of God and good St. George."
Escorted by the Lords D'Eyncourt and Ogle, Queen Philippa retired to a short distance to witness the engagement, and the English, with banners flying, moved forward in the direction of Merrington, and, halting on the rising ground, could plainly descry the movements of the Scots on the hills to the west.
Here the chiefs paused to consider their position, and hesitated whether they should advance on the Scots or await the attack of their foes on the ground they occupied; but, as the marshals and standard-bearers continued to move slowly forward, the army insensibly followed, and in this way, without arriving at any decision, they reached Ferryhill.
At this point an unexpected incident brought matters to a crisis. Lord Douglas, at the head of a body of cavalry, had that morning scoured the country as far as Ferryhill, and was returning to the Scottish camp, when he suddenly found himself in presence of the English host, arrayed for battle. His situation was most perilous. But his courage did not desert him, and shouting "A Douglas! a Douglas!" he couched his spear, broke through the English ranks, and, closely pursued in the direction of Sunderland Bridge, spurred towards the camp of the Scots. In the chase, five hundred of his horsemen fell, never more to rise; but Douglas, holding on his course, reached the tent of his king in safety, and thither carried intelligence that the English were coming, and would soon be at hand.
Meanwhile, having re-formed their ranks, the English pursued their way to the high ground above the Wear; and then, leaving Durham on the right, they marched in order of battle to the Red Hills—irregular acclivities, rising steeply from the river.
"Here," said the lords in command, "we will abide the coming of our foes and such an issue as Fortune shall send us, so help us God and St. George!"
In the interval, the King of Scots, roused by Lord Douglas, issued orders for marching against the enemy,and, leaving his camp, advanced to the Red Hills to give battle. As he had arrayed his force, the battalion of the High Steward of Scotland faced Lord Percy; that led by the king in person faced Lord Neville and Lord Hastings; and that under Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray faced Lord Moubray and Sir Thomas Rokeby.
It was an awful moment when the embattled hosts stood face to face, and, in profound silence, gazed for a time on each other, ere coming hand to hand, and meeting in the shock of war.