On the morning of that day when the embattled hosts of England and Scotland stood facing each other at the Red Hills, the prior and monks of Durham, occupying a hillock hard by, elevated the corporax cloth of St. Cuthbert in sight of both armies, and, kneeling around, prayed earnestly to their patron saint.
On the spot then occupied by the prior and monks a graceful monument of stone now commemorates a famous battle and a signal victory. It was, in fact, erected by Ralph, Lord Neville, to commemorate the conflict in which I was in part an eye-witness, in part an actor, and wherein were wrought high feats of arms, which I am about to describe, for the encouragement of all valiant hearts, and to show them honourable examples.
About three hours after sunrise the silence which reigned for a brief period was broken by a flourish of trumpets, followed by the shouting of warriors and the clangour of mail. Impatient to prove himself worthy of bearing the name and wearing the crown of Bruce, the young King of Scots ordered his trumpets to sound a charge, and, ere the sound died away, the High Steward, at the head of his battalion, composed wholly of cavalry, and armed with axes and broadswords, advanced upon that part of the English army arrayed under the banner of Lord Percy.
At the same moment the archers in front of LordPercy's men-at-arms took several steps forward, and a shower of arrows darkened the air. But the effect was not what was expected. Galled by the shafts, and exasperated almost to madness, the High Steward and his cavalry charged forward with shouts of wrath and scorn, drove the archers back upon the men-at-arms, and, plying axe and broadsword with ferocious vigour, succeeded in throwing the whole battalion into such confusion that Lord Percy in vain said, "My merry men, fight on!" and, ere the battle had lasted an hour, victory seemed so decidedly to incline to the Scots, that I, as a looker-on, felt a degree of alarm I should in vain attempt to express in words.
"The saints defend us!" exclaimed D'Eyncourt, who held the queen's rein.
"All will be lost," cried Lord Ogle. "O for one hour of my lord the king!"
"No," said the queen, calm in the great peril, "the field is yet ours. Boy page," turning towards me, "ride fast to the Lord Baliol; tell him to throw his cavalry on the Scottish van, break their ranks, and disperse them; but no pursuit. Away! quick! or he will have to fight, not for victory, but for life."
I bent my head low; I gave my horse the spur, and, without wasting a moment, communicated Philippa's command.
"The queen is right," said Baliol thoughtfully. "Gentlemen," said he to his followers, "let us charge the High Steward, drive back the enemy, but no pursuit. Strike for King Edward and England! On, on! A Baliol! a Baliol!"
And the tall horsemen of the North spurred against the Scots.
The effect was instantaneous. The rush was not to be resisted. Abandoning the advantage he had gained, the High Steward exercised all his skill to make good his retreat, and Baliol, without following, allowed him to go off unmolested. In fact, Baliol's brilliant charge had turned the fortune of the field; and as Lord Moubray and Sir Thomas Rokeby attacked Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray, Baliol turned his eyes towards the placewhere the Lords Neville and Hastings were contending, with inferior numbers, against the centre of the Scottisharmy, led by the king, and composed of the flower of Scottish chivalry, and the French auxiliaries whom Philip of Valois had sent over the sea with malicious intent.
So far, the warriors forming the king's division had borne their part bravely in the battle. But now their plight was perilous in the extreme; for the withdrawal of the High Steward had left them fearfully exposed, and Baliol, with his hereditary and personal antipathy to the house of Bruce revived by the excitement and carnage of the day, wheeling round, charged the main body of the Scots on the flank with such force that French auxiliaries and Scottish chivalry gave way, and the battalion, shaken to its centre, reeled, divided, and broke into confused fragments; while high above the din sounded the war-cries of Neville and Hastings, and over the field rang shouts of "St. George and victory! Strike for King Edward!"
By this time the position of David Bruce was desperate; for the rear of his army, under Lord Douglas and the Earl of Moray, fiercely attacked by Moubray and Rokeby, and confined by hedges and fences, was precluded from escape, and utterly routed. At the time, therefore, that the King of Scots found himself worsted by Baliol, and looked around for aid, the High Steward had disappeared from the field; Douglas was a prisoner; and Moray a corpse.
The royal Scot was perplexed in the extreme. But let me do the unhappy king justice. No craven fear was in the heart of the son of Bruce as, in the hour of despair, he gathered around him the remnants of his host, and made a last struggle with his victorious adversaries. Forming his remaining troops into a circle, he faced his foes with a courage worthy of his birth, and, disdaining the thought of surrender, fought no longer for victory, no longer even for life, but for a death that would admit his name to a place in the roll of heroes.
But the aspirations of the King of Scots after a warrior's grave were not to be gratified. His doom was not to die that day. He was not to escape the fate he had defied.
It was about the hour of noon; and I, having done what in me lay to render complete the triumph of that day, was riding over the field, strewn with corpses and slippery with gore, when, on reaching Merrington, my attention was attracted to a spot where around a warrior on horseback, fighting desperately against a multitude, a conflict still raged. It was the King of Scots making his last futile efforts to avoid captivity.
Already he had been wounded in two places; his sword had been beaten from his hand, when an arrow brought him to the ground. As he regained his feet, Copeland, who was on the watch, sprang from his charger.
"Yield, sir king—rescue or no rescue," said the Northumbrian.
"Never," answered the royal Scot; "I will rather die than surrender."
"Nay," urged Copeland, "you have done all that a brave man could."
"Varlet!" exclaimed the king, turning fiercely upon Copeland, "it is not for such as you to judge what a king ought to do in the hour of despair."
And, as he spoke, he raised his gauntleted hand, and struck the Northumbrian in the mouth with such force that two of a set of teeth which were none of the most fragile were broken by the blow.
"Now, by St. John of Beverley!" cried Copeland, "were you the foremost king in Christendom, I should not longer brook delay to indulge your humour."
And throwing himself upon the royal Scot, the Northumbrian grasped his vanquished foe with a hand of iron.
"Now yield," said he sternly.
"I do yield, since with me it may not better be," answered the king; "but I swear to you, by my father's soul, that I would rather die by your hand."
"Tush, sir king," said Copeland compassionately; "you will think otherwise on the morrow. Life has its sweets."
"Not with hope and liberty gone," said the royal prisoner. "But conduct me to your queen."
"Sire," said Copeland, "you are my prisoner as much as if I were prince or peer, and I will conduct you whereI think proper, and to no other place, save at the command of King Edward, my lord."
Copeland now summoned his men, and, having mounted the Scottish king on one horse, was about to spring on another when I accosted him.
"Whither," asked I, "are you carrying your captive?"
"Boy," answered Copeland significantly, "I believe that is a secret your tongue will be all the less likely to tell if not committed to your ears. Adieu!"
"But what will the queen say?"
"I know not; but this I do know, that I will answer for his safe keeping to my lord, King Edward, and to no other person, man or woman."
Great, as may be supposed, was the anxiety, and great was the consternation, which pervaded the town of Durham, and extended along the banks of the winding Wear, on that day when the battle of "Neville's Cross" was fought at the Red Hills.
From the hour at which Philippa mounted her white palfrey, and rode towards the Park of Auckland, monks, and merchants, and women were equally agitated. The monks who had not accompanied the prior to kneel around the corporax cloth of St. Cuthbert ascended the highest towers of the cathedral, and, with eyes strained towards the embattled hosts, sang hymns, and prayed earnestly that the patrimony of their patron saint might be saved; merchants crowded the house-tops, or paraded the streets, and excitedly lamented the danger to which their families, and booths, and wares were exposed; and women wrung their hands, and bewailed their prospective fate if the town was sacked, and they themselves delivered over to the mercy of foes who, at other places, had proved that they knew nothing of mercy—perhaps not even the name.
It was an awful crisis, as every one felt; and not eventhe oldest inhabitant could remember such a display of anxiety and dread in a town which was supposed to be guarded by a patron saint of marvellous potency.
At length the danger passed; and when it became known that the conflict, maintained for hours with fury, had terminated in the rout of the invading host, the joy and thankfulness were not less conspicuous than the dismay and consternation had been. Shouts of triumph were on every tongue; and everybody was eager to express gratitude to Heaven for deliverance from those evils that fall to the lot of the vanquished. Nor was any time lost in giving formal expression to the sentiments which filled all hearts. When I, after the memorable scene in which John Copeland enacted so prominent a part, rode into the town, I found that the Lords Neville and Percy and the other war-chiefs—with the exception of Ralph, Lord Hastings, slain on the field—had attended the queen and the prelates to the cathedral, and were, in that sacred edifice, rendering thanks to God and St. Cuthbert for the great victory that had been vouchsafed to their arms.
The religious ceremony having been performed with an earnestness which the circumstances were eminently calculated to inspire, Philippa and the Lords of the North returned in procession to the castle. While there endeavouring to estimate the extent of their victory, and while ascertaining the number and rank of the prisoners, many and grave were the inquiries made by the queen and her captains as to the fate of the King of Scots.
Now it happened that I was the only person capable of affording information on this very important subject; and, albeit not without apprehensions that the consequences of carrying off such a captive with so little ceremony might prove somewhat awkward to Copeland, I felt and deemed it a duty to speak the truth plainly. Having, therefore, intimated that I could throw light on the point as to which so much curiosity was manifested, I was conducted to the hall in which the council was held, and, approaching the queen, bent my knee, not, as I flattered myself, without some of the grace which I had often marked and admired in the castle of Windsor.
"Rise, page," said Philippa gravely, "and, whatever you have to say, say briefly."
"Madam," began I simply, "what I saw with my own eyes that only I wish to relate."
"Proceed."
"Having followed the chase as far as the rising ground which, I since learn, goes by the name of Merrington, I there came upon a party who were preventing the King of Scots from making his escape; and there I myself saw the said king surrender to John Copeland, whom I know to be an esquire of Northumberland, and I believe a stout and valiant man in war."
"His name is not unknown to me," said the queen. "But wherefore conducts he not the captive to our presence?"
"Gracious lady," replied I, much confused, "it irks me to say aught ungrateful to your ears; but since it would ill become me to conceal the truth, I am under the necessity of adding that I saw John Copeland not only take the King of Scots prisoner, but ride off with him from Merrington."
"And whither?"
"Madam, I know not," replied I, driven to desperation; "and albeit it would ill beseem me to answer for another, nevertheless, I cannot but deem that this squire means naught disloyal; for, on putting the question, he only answered that he would keep his captive safe, and account for him to our lord the king."
Not before could I have believed Philippa capable of so much wrath as she displayed on hearing this. Never, in truth, had the eye of living man seen the excellent queen in such a rage. All the fire of her ancestors seemed to burn within her at that moment; and, though she did not stamp her foot, or clench her hand, or express her indignation in loud exclamations, her bent brow and flashing eye sufficiently attested the ire which Copeland's conduct had kindled in a bosom seldom agitated with angry emotions. Recovering, in some degree, her serenity, but with her countenance still flushed with offended pride, she turned towards the lords, and, looking round the circle—which did not fail to sympathise with what sheregarded as an insult to her dignity as the Queen of England, and the heroine of the day—she seemed to appeal to them for aid to vindicate her privileges.
"Madam," said Lord Percy, in reply to her look, "have patience for a brief space, and this matter shall be set to rights."
"Yes," added Lord Neville, "Copeland is rude and headstrong; but he is a right loyal squire, who, in his day, hath done England good service, and cannot but mean well."
"May it so prove, my lords," said the queen recovering her equanimity; "I will exercise what patience I can. Meantime, be it yours to take measures for ascertaining whither he has carried the King of Scots; and I will, with my own hand, write a letter commanding him to bring the King of Scots to me at York, and telling him that he will disobey me at his peril—for he has not done what is agreeable to me in carrying off his prisoner without leave, and that he will have to explain his conduct fully ere he can hope for my pardon."
"Madam," replied Lord Percy, "what you command shall be done without loss of time; and I much mistake my merry men if, used as they are to track foes, they put your grace's patience to a long test."
"And," added Lord Neville earnestly, "I entreat your grace to suspend judgment as to Copeland's conduct, for well I know him to be leal and true, and could even take upon myself to be his warranty for explaining everything to your satisfaction."
With this the conference came to a close; and the lords moved off to celebrate their victory, and make preparations for disbanding the army that had saved England in the day of need. At a later hour I was summoned to the queen's presence, and went, not without a feeling of alarm that I might, in some measure, be involved in Copeland's disgrace. I soon found, however, that my alarm was groundless, and that I was not to be punished for the rash imprudence of another.
"Page," said Philippa as I entered, "I have sent for you to say that I hold you have done good service in informing me of the outrage of which this Northern squirehas been guilty; and I doubt not but that my lord the king will so account it. Nay, answer not, but listen. At daybreak, Sir John Neville, son of the lord of that name, sets forth to journey to Calais, to carry thither news of the victory which has this day been sent us by God and St. George. It is but right that my lord the king should have all information as to the manner in which a royal prisoner was taken and lawlessly carried off. Be ready, therefore, to join Sir John Neville's train and accompany him when he takes the road."
With the best grace I could, I expressed my deep sense of the honour which the queen was pleased to confer upon me; and next morning, about cock-crow, I was riding out of Durham with Neville and his men, and, in their company, taking the way south to embark at Dover for the stronghold before the walls of which lay, in hostile array, the gallant prince whom I had the distinction of serving and the brave warriors at whose side I had fought at Cressy.
It was true that, in thus leaving England, I was deprived of the opportunity of visiting my grandsire's homestead, and this somewhat damped the joy which I felt at the prospect of figuring once more in the prince's train. But I was young, and too sanguine to dwell long on a subject which was rather suggestive of melancholy reflections.
"What matters it," soliloquised I, as I rode along, "whether I appear there now or hereafter? Mayhap the delay is favourable; and when the time does come, I may have won some more significant symbol of renown in arms than aught that decks a page's livery to gladden the heart of my stout grandsire, and to cheer, if but for a moment, the heart of my sad, sad mother."
Little, as I thus mused, did I foresee the awfully painful circumstances under which I was destined next to approach the homely grange, and set foot in the humble hall whose roof had sheltered my childhood.
I must now ask the reader to waft himself in imagination from Durham to Calais—to suppose that Sir John Neville and Arthur Winram have taken shipping at Dover, and landed near the camp of the besiegers—and that, while the knight has, without the loss of a moment, proceeded to the tent of the king, the page has repaired to that of the prince, to account for his prolonged absence from duty, and to tell of the wondrous things which, in the interval, he has seen and done.
At the door of the pavilion, over which floated the young hero's standard, I encountered Sir Thomas Norwich, who eyed me with a start of surprise.
"What, page!" exclaimed he; "where, in the name of all the saints, have you been?"
"It is a long story."
"Ah! I see. You have been indulging in some more such mysterious adventures as you had at Caen."
"Yes, sir knight," replied I, shaking my head wisely, "such adventures, and so many, that I would fain, with your permission, see my lord the prince to recount them for his diversion."
"A murrain upon you, boy!" exclaimed Sir Thomas, frowning. "Deem you that my lord has so little to think of, that he can find time to listen to your talk about trifles?"
"Lead me to my lord's presence," said I, in a conclusive tone, "and I will stake my head on my intelligence proving of moment enough to secure me an audience."
The air of mystery which I assumed was not lost on the good knight; in fact, I believe his curiosity was highly excited. In any case, without more ado, he drew aside the curtain of the pavilion, and I speedily found myself in the presence of the heir of England.
At that time the Prince of Wales, who was buoyant with all the enthusiasm of youth, and dreaming constantlyof the feats of arms performed in other days by paladins and heroes of romance, and not without an ardent ambition to emulate their achievements, was somewhat weary of the inaction of a siege which, being slowly and cautiously conducted, furnished no opportunity of performing the daring deeds in which his soul delighted. Naturally, therefore, anything that gave novelty to the scene was acceptable. As I entered, he was listening to Sir William Pakington, his secretary, who, for his amusement, read aloud from the book called "Tristrem"; and the glance of surprise which his countenance wore as he turned towards me was accompanied with an expression which seemed to intimate that I was welcome.
"Wonder upon wonders!" exclaimed he; "can this be my page Winram—Arthur Winram?"
"The same, my lord, and at your highness's command."
"Methought you had fallen in the battle," said the prince, smiling; "or beshrew me if, at one time, I did not fancy that, like your famous namesake, King Arthur, you had been carried away to Elfland by the faëry queen."
"No, my lord; Elfland may, for aught I know, be a pleasant abode for such as have the fortune to get there; but I have not been beyond the haunts of living men."
I then rapidly related the adventures of which I had been the hero from the time at which the young Count of Flanders had been rescued from my grasp by Philip of Valois, while flying from Cressy, to the hour when the King of Scots had been taken prisoner by John Copeland, while flying from Neville's Cross. The prince listened with attention, now and then putting a question to make me explain events more fully; and when my narrative came to an end, he rose, and for a few moments paced the floor of the pavilion in a reflecting mood.
"By good St. George!" exclaimed he, stopping suddenly, "this news of the defeat of the Scots comes in good time to scare the blood out of Philip's body, and to encourage my lord the king to take this place by storm before the winter sets in. It seems," continuedhe, "that when this Scottish invasion was bruited about, his holiness the Pope remarked that 'the Scots were the only antidote to the English.' I marvel what he will say now. Two such victories against such odds, and in so many months!" he added, "surely neither history nor song tells of a nation so highly favoured in hours of peril."
"Not that I wot of, my lord," replied I, whose information on the subject was not by any means so extensive as to entitle me to speak with anything like authority.
"Nevertheless," said the prince earnestly, "would to God that you had taken young Louis of Flanders prisoner! There is no prince or lord in Christendom whom my lord the king more eagerly desires to bring over to the English interest; and the exploit would have made your fortune."
"My lord, I did my best," answered I calmly; "and, so long as we fought single-handed, I did not despair. But when so many adversaries appeared, I deemed that I was wise in saving my own life at the expense of a little rough handling to a man of his rank."
The prince laughed gaily, and was about to speak, when, at that moment, the curtain was drawn, and Lord De Ov entered. As he did so, we exchanged glances of mutual defiance; and my hand insensibly stole to the handle of my dagger.
"My lord, pardon my interrupting your conversation," said he, bowing to the prince; "and you, Master Winram, if that be your name," continued he, scowling on me, "you are commanded to repair to the king's tent, and report yourself to the page in waiting; and mayhap," continued he maliciously, as we issued from the pavilion, "you will be able to explain how it came to pass, when strict orders were issued before Cressy that no man should leave the ranks in pursuit, that you alone disobeyed the order."
"My lord," replied I haughtily, "I am prepared to explain all that to the king or the Prince of Wales, if I am questioned; but to you, or such as you, I cannot hold myself in any way responsible."
"Varlet!" cried he, boiling with rage, "but that youare on your way to the king, I should chastise your insolence on the spot."
"Be patient, my lord," replied I, repressing my rising wrath with a stern effort, "and the day will come when you will have no such excuse. Ay—mark me!—the day will surely come."
As I spoke, we parted; and while he stood gazing on me with a face in which antipathy, to the strongest degree, was expressed in the bitterest manner, I pursued my way with an air of calm defiance.
It was not merely to the king and the Prince of Wales, and the nobles and knights of England, that the news of Queen Philippa's victory was a subject of high interest. Every squire, page, and groom, heard the glad tidings with delight; and as rumour carried through the English camp intelligence so flattering to the pride of Englishmen, there arose one long shout of joy and rejoicing. For my own part, I had to tell the story hundreds of times, and, for twenty-four hours at least, found myself a person of no slight consequence.
I know not what the Calesians thought of the excitement among the besiegers; but the cheers that everywhere rose loud and high might have intimated to them that the English had received news that boded little good to the beleaguered town. Nevertheless, they held out resolutely; and, in spite of the prince's prediction, King Edward evinced no inclination whatever to storm the place.
"No," said the king in a conclusive tone; "I now feel more secure than ever of my prize. It is true that Philip of Valois may come to relieve the place; and, truth to tell, I desire not mine adversary's presence. But, if come he does, it shall be at his peril."
However, Philip of Valois made no sign of moving to the rescue of his friends. In fact, it seemed that the ill-fated prince had played his last card when he urged theKing of Scots to invade England; and the disastrous issue of the enterprise had ruined his projects.
In such circumstances, it appeared that, if distress did not force the Calesians to surrender their stronghold, the English army might remain all the winter before the walls without any change in the aspect of affairs. Such being the case, the pledge I had given not to draw my sword for a year and a day became less irksome; and I was gradually reconciling my mind to the condition on which I had recovered my liberty, when, towards the coast in the neighbourhood of Calais, the wind blew a ship on board of which was no less important a personage than John Copeland, the captor of David Bruce.
And here I must pause to relate how the Northumbrian squire, after possessing himself of the King of Scots, at the cost of two of his front teeth, at Merrington, and mounted him on horseback, fared with his royal captive; and how his sagacity enabled him, without losing hold of his prisoner, to evade the consequences of having aroused Queen Philippa's wrath to the highest pitch.
No sooner had Sir John Neville reached the camp before Calais, and presented Philippa's epistle to her royal husband, than, as I have already intimated, I was interrupted in my colloquy with the prince, and by Lord De Ov hastily and not very courteously summoned to the royal presence, and closely interrogated as to the circumstances under which the King of the Scots was taken prisoner and carried northward. I told my story without concealment or exaggeration, and was gratified to perceive that King Edward, albeit blaming Copeland for having been rash, gave him credit for having acted with honourable intentions.
But, unhappily, the aspect of the affair did not improve with time. In fact, Copeland seemed bent on ruining himself by carrying his enterprise too far.
It appeared, on inquiry, that, after capturing David Bruce, Copeland hurried him away towards the castle of Ogle, on the river Blythe, and, after reaching that fortress, placed him under a guard so strong as to preclude the probability of escape or rescue. So far the matter was not so awkward. But when a knight, despatched by thequeen, presented a letter, in which he was commanded to give up his captive, he answered in defiant terms.
"The King of Scots," said he to the knight, "is my prisoner, and I will neither give him up to man nor woman, except to my own lord, the King of England. But," added he, "you may depend on my taking proper care of him, and I will be answerable for guarding him well."
Naturally such a message exasperated Philippa beyond measure; and, in high wrath, she wrote to King Edward, complaining that Copeland had acted so outrageously, and set her commands so utterly at defiance, that she could not brook his insolence.
The king was somewhat perplexed. Sympathising, in a slight degree, with the queen's indignation, but reluctant to act severely towards Copeland, he perhaps felt some hesitation as to what he should do. It was necessary, however, to decide without delay; and the king deemed it most prudent to send orders to Copeland to repair forthwith to Calais. The squire hastened to obey; and, having left David Bruce vigilantly guarded in his castle of Ogle, ere long presented himself at Calais, and, having desired to be conducted to the king, soon found himself face to face with the husband of the royal lady whose resentment he had provoked.
It was a memorable moment when Copeland and the king met, and for an instant the squire's brave heart must have beat quick as he looked on his sovereign's countenance; but Edward's manner was sufficiently gracious to assure him that he had lost but little favour, and that he was not likely to meet with strong reproof.
"Ah, welcome!" exclaimed the king; "welcome, my brave squire, who, by his valour, has captured my adversary, the King of Scots!"
At this point, Copeland, perceiving how the interview would probably terminate, fell on his knees.
"My lord," said he gravely, "if God, in His great kindness, has given me the King of Scots as a prisoner—having permitted me to conquer him in arms—no one ought to be jealous of it, for God can, when He pleases, send His grace to a poor squire as well as to a great lord."
"Go on, John," said the king in a tone of encouragement; "I listen."
"Well, my lord," continued the squire more boldly, "do not take it amiss if I did not surrender the King of Scots to the orders of my lady the queen; for I hold my lands of you, and my oath is to you, not to her, except it be through choice."
"Rise, John," said the king, after musing for a moment, "and assure yourself that the loyal service you have done us, and our esteem for your valour, are so great as to serve for an excuse, were any needed; and shame fall upon those who bear you an ill-will. However, you will now return home, and take your prisoner, the King of the Scots, and convey him to my wife."
"Right willingly, my lord," replied Copeland, who saw that everything would end as he wished.
"And, by way of remuneration," added the king, coming to the point, "I assign lands, as near your house as you can choose them, to the value of five hundred pounds sterling a-year, for you and your heirs, and I nominate you a squire of my body and household."
"My lord, how can I express my thanks for your favours?" cried the squire in ecstasies.
"As for that," said Edward, "seeing that you are a brave warrior, I ask you to furnish twenty men-at-arms; and, on that condition, I grant you a pension of a hundred pounds yearly, to be paid out of the customs of Berwick."
It was on the third day after his arrival at the camp before Calais, and when he was about to embark to return to England, that Copeland sought me out to say "Farewell."
"Well, sir squire," said I, laughing, "it seems that, after great hazard, you have managed everything to your heart's content."
"Assuredly," replied he. "I ever predicted that such would be the issue; and now nothing remains to be done in the business but to return home, assemble my friends and neighbours, and convey the captive king to York,with some such excuse to my lady the queen as will soothe her woman's pride."
"So far," observed I, "you certainly have had luck on your side."
"Ay, boy," said he, smiling grimly, "you now see I understand better than you how to get fame and fortune."
"God's truth!" exclaimed I, "after what has passed I should be a dolt to dispute it. But all men have their peculiar gifts; and I opine that it is only a man born and bred in the north who could have planned such an achievement, and carried it out so shrewdly."
"Well spoken, my brave youth," said Copeland; "and I believe you likewise have gifts that might make a man of you, if you went the right way about it; but trust me that all your fine dreams of chivalry and ambition to perform fine feats of arms will not easily get you five hundred a-year in land, and a pension of a hundred a-year out of the customs of Berwick."
"Perhaps, not; but my dreams, as you call them, may result in something better—in my name being recorded by chroniclers, and celebrated by minstrels."
The Northumbrian squire laughed loud at what he deemed my fantastic notions, and laid his hand on my arm.
"Hark ye, boy," said he, looking in my face. "I know something of mankind, and I venture to predict of you, that—young and foolish as you are—you will live and learn how to climb the tree, so as ever, when you fall, to fall as a cat does—that is, on your feet; so that I have faith in your future."
"Many thanks for your compliment," said I, half scornfully.
"But listen," continued Copeland kindly. "When this siege is over, and you tire of idling at Windsor or Eltham, and sigh for strife and real warfare, come north to my castle on the Blythe; and, if you meet not with dainty chivalry, you will meet with a hearty welcome, and enemies who will give you work to do, when we mount our steeds, and ride forth together to couch our spears against the Scot."
"Many thanks for your courtesy," replied I, as he shook my hand ere parting; "and, if I avail myself of your offer, I trust you will not fail to put me in the way of making my fortune by capturing a king."
About three days before the Feast of All Saints there was much commotion in the camp before Calais. Everything wore a gayer aspect than on ordinary occasions, and an unwonted degree of excitement lighted up the grim faces of the English soldiery. In fact, there had just taken place an important arrival in the person of Queen Philippa; and, even had she come alone, the heroine of Neville's Cross would have been received with enthusiasm. But she was not unaccompanied when she came to Calais; for with her came a great number of ladies, who gladly left England and their homes to see their fathers, husbands, brothers, and kinsmen who were engaged in the siege.
It appears that, so far as the King of Scots was concerned, everything had ultimately been settled to Philippa's satisfaction. On reaching England, Copeland, as he had intended, assembled his friends and neighbours, conducted David Bruce to York, and there, in the king's name, presented his royal captive to the queen with such handsome excuses, that she expressed herself quite satisfied. Nor, after having settled that matter, did Philippa linger in the North. Having provided for the defence of York, Durham, and other towns in the province beyond the Humber, she immediately set out for London, carrying the royal Scot in her train.
Arrived in the capital of England, the King of Scots was, with much ceremony, conducted to the Tower. Twenty thousand soldiers escorted the prisoner; the companies of the city, in their appropriate dresses, took part in the procession; and David Bruce—riding a tall blackhorse, that he might be seen of all men—slowly passed through London, and disappeared from the crowd within the gate of the great metropolitan fortress.
Measures having been taken to render the prison absolutely secure, and to preclude everything like a possibility of escape, Philippa left London for Dover; and, embarking with a favourable wind, she soon reached Calais. On the arrival of the queen, King Edward held a grand court and ordered magnificent entertainments for the ladies who had come with his royal spouse.
Naturally, the court and the entertainments caused much talk, raised much curiosity, and excited much interest in the camp. But they were not the only subjects of conversation which Philippa's arrival furnished. From England with the queen came her eldest daughter, Isabel, then a girl of fifteen, and fair to look upon; and everybody whispered that she was destined as the bride of the Count of Flanders. At all events, it was known that the Flemings were most anxious that their young count should espouse the English princess; and it was believed that the King and Queen of England were, for many reasons, as eager as the Flemings that the match should take place.
At that time I may mention that the Count of Flanders was still at the court of Philip of Valois, brooding over the death of his father, and dreaming of vengeance. The Flemings, however, were not daunted by this circumstance, which certainly did not favour this project. To the French court they sent such messages as they believed would lure their prince home.
"If," said they, "you will return to Flanders, and follow our advice, we will make a great man of you."
The young count listened, reflected, yielded, and returned to the dominions over which his father had exercised sovereign sway.
At first everything went smoothly enough. The chief towns of Flanders made much of their count, and laid such rich presents at his feet that his eyes were dazzled, and so far all was well. But on one point they were determined—namely, that they—and not he—should select his bride, and that the bride should be noneother than the English princess who was now, with her mother, in the camp before Calais.
Unfortunately, as it happened, the Count of Flanders had two strong objections to the matrimonial union which his subjects were so anxious to bring about. In the first place, he wished to marry a daughter of the Duke of Brabant; and, in the second place, he was utterly averse to marry Isabel of England.
"I will never," said he, almost in tears—"I will never marry a daughter of the man whom I hold responsible for my father's death."
"But," said the Flemings, "this English alliance will best enable us to resist the oppressions of the French, and our connexion with England is much more profitable than could be a connexion with any other country."
Nevertheless, the Count of Flanders remained obdurate; and the Flemings, equally stubborn in their way, not only adhered to their purpose, but gave their hereditary ruler to understand that he was neither more nor less than a prisoner—nay, more, they intimated that he was likely so to continue until he listened to reason, and consented to be guided by them.
"You will never," said they, "have your liberty, unless you take our advice; and if your father had taken our advice he might have been one of the greatest princes of Christendom, instead of being—what he became—a vassal of France."
Naturally, the count found his position extremely perplexing, and his captivity wearisome, and, under the influence of continual importunities on the part of the Flemings, his resolution began to give way.
"Well," said he, one day, "I begin to think you are in the right, and that the advantages to be gained from an alliance with England are very great."
Gratified to hear the count express himself in such language, the Flemings relaxed his bonds, gave him a little more liberty, and allowed him to recreate himself with field sports, especially that of hawking, which was his favourite pastime. But he felt that he was still a prisoner. Whenever he rode out to fly his hawk, he found himself vigilantly guarded; and, ere long, torelieve himself from a predicament which daily became more awkward, he consented to do all that the Flemings required of him, and, with the best grace he could assume, intimated his willingness to espouse the English princess, whose name he disliked, and whose face he had never seen.
And now, for a time, matters went on as favourably as the Flemings could have desired, and ambassadors were sent to Calais to inform the King and Queen of England that the count was ready to espouse the princess. Edward and Philippa were delighted beyond measure with the intelligence, and did not conceal their satisfaction.
"What good sort of people the Flemings are!" exclaimed they gratefully.
Meanwhile, the Earl of Northampton and the Earl of Arundel, having been sent into Flanders, made all arrangements in the most skilful manner. In vain the Duke of Brabant threw obstacles in the way, invoked the interference of Philip of Valois, and did everything in his power to put a stop to thesenegociations. The Flemings were neither to be coaxed nor coerced from following their project; and at length it was agreed that a conference should take place between the King and Queen of England and the Count of Flanders, attended by the chief men of the country. Bergues St. Vinox was fixed upon as the place of meeting, and thither from Calais went the king and queen with a brilliant train and in great state, to take their prospective son-in-law by the hand.
On reaching the place appointed for their conference, the King and Queen of England found the Count of Flanders, who, with the leading men of the chief towns, had come with great pomp to bring the business to a conclusion. Courteous salutations having passed, King Edward took the count aside, and spoke to the boy of the death of his father at Cressy.
"As God shall help me," said the king solemnly, "I never heard, on the day of the battle, that the Count of Flanders was among my foes, nor on the morrow that he had been there."
With this assurance the young count appeared satisfied, and the subject of the marriage was, without delay, introduced.No dispute arose; and, certain articles having been agreed on and sworn to, the Count of Flanders was formally betrothed to Isabel of England, and engaged to espouse her at an early date. The day, indeed, was put off till King Edward should have more leisure. But the king and the count separated apparently in high good-humour with each other, and no doubt was entertained that, at an early period, the marriage would be celebrated with a pomp and splendour becoming the rank of the parties.
It was while the king and queen were absent at this conference, that I, lounging listlessly about the camp, met Sir Thomas Norwich, with whom I had recently become as friendly and familiar as our different ages and ranks would admit of our being. Many a time the good knight had spoken jocularly of my encounter with the Count of Flanders, and now he resumed the subject, which, at the moment, was by no means the most agreeable in the world.
"Boy Winram," said he, "you have been so far lucky in your career; but I fear me you will fall into the background, now that this count is coming to wed the king's daughter."
"By my hallidame!" replied I, "such is the thought that haunts me. But change of fortune seems to be the lot of human beings all over the world; and Fortune, who so frequently turns her wheel against princes and men of high rank, also condescends at times to play her tricks with those of lower degree. So I submit. But of one thing, sir knight, connected with this affair, I feel fully assured."
"What?"
"That Louis of Flanders has a French heart, and that he will never take the hand of an English bride with hearty good-will."
"Dangerous words, which you had better not repeat," said Sir Thomas, looking cautiously round.
"Mayhap they are dangerous words," replied I; "but look to the end, and you may see them come true."
Autumn deepened into winter, and winter was succeeded by spring; and spring ripened and mellowed into summer, with its long, bright, merry days: and every month rumour brought to the camp of the English before Calais tidings that Philip of Valois was coming with a mighty army to relieve the beleaguered town. But month followed month, and season succeeded to season, and still Philip failed to make his appearance; and the warriors of England, growing somewhat vain-glorious, exclaimed with sneers that "hawks come not where eagles hold eyrie;" and the Calesians, on the verge of famine, well-nigh gave way to despair, when suddenly, on a summer day, news reached the camp that the foe, so long looked for, was at last coming, with princes, dukes, and counts, and an overwhelming force at his back, to save Calais and avenge Cressy.
It was a little before Whitsuntide, when Philip of Valois, having summoned all the knights and squires of France to assemble at Amiens, repaired to that city with his sons, the Dukes of Normandy and Orleans, held a grand council of war, and, after much deliberation, resolved to march to the relief of Calais. But, with some vague idea of the difficulties to be encountered—for all his ideas of war were vague—he sent ambassadors to Flanders, and asked for part of his army a free passage through the Flemish territory, his object being to send troops by way of Gravelines, that they might reach Calais on that side, fight with the English and reinforce the garrison. But the Flemings, not to be tempted from their fidelity to the King of England, decidedly refused to comply with the request; and Philip, baffled as to this part of his project, determined to push forward his enterprise by advancing towards Boulogne.
At Arras, however, he took up his quarters for a short time to gather in the forces which were hastening to his standard; and from Arras he advanced slowly to Hesdin,his army and baggage extending over three miles of country. Resting at Hesdin for a day, he moved forward to Blangy, and, having again halted at that place to mature his plans, he threw off hesitation, passed through the country of Faukenberg, and leading his men straight to Sangate, posted them on the hills, between Calais and Wissant.
It will readily be imagined that, at this time, the excitement in the camp of the English was high. Impressive, moreover, was the spectacle which the army of Philip presented to those who rode out to watch their movements. Night had fallen when the French took up their ground, and I can bear witness that it was a beautiful sight to see their banners waving and their arms glistening in the moonlight.
"A most noble army, my lord," remarked Sir Thomas Norwich to the Prince of Wales, with whom and a body of riders he had come to view the approach of the foe.
"A most noble army on my faith!" replied the prince, with admiration. "But," added he, after a pause, "it can avail Calais naught. The position of my lord the king is too strong to be attacked with advantage by mortal man, and Philip of Valois must either retire without striking a blow, or prove himself mad by rushing on destruction, and leading his followers like sheep to the slaughter."
Nor, in speaking in a tone so confident, was the prince guilty of aught like presumption. Nothing, in truth, which skill, and prudence, and labour could do to render the English army absolutely secure, had been left undone by the English king. At the commencement of the siege there were two roads by which the French might have approached Calais. One of these was by the downs along the sea-shore, and the other by the bridge of Nieullet, which afforded a passage over the marshes and ditches further up the country. But neither one nor the other had been neglected. Along the shore Edward posted his fleet, with archers, and artillery, and bombards, the noise of which frightened the enemy; and at the bridge of Nieullet he posted his cousin, the Earlof Derby, with such a force of archers and men-at-arms as were likely to keep it against all comers.
Not wholly informed as to the position of the English or perhaps, when at a distance, contemptuous of their power, Philip of Valois, while encamped at Sangate, sent his marshals to examine the country, and ascertain the most favourable passage towards the foes whom he came to crush; but they returned, with dismay in their faces, to inform him that no attempt could be made without the certainty of an infinite loss of men.
"But," cried Philip, after hearing them, "why not cross the marshes between Sangate and the sea?"
"Because, sire," answered the marshals firmly, "the marshes are known to be impassable, and the idea is not seriously to be entertained."
"Well," exclaimed Philip angrily, "by St. Denis! it seems that I cannot get to my adversary the King of England, but that is no reason why he should not come to me."
And, after pondering for a day and a night, he commanded four of his lords, one of whom was Eustace de Ribeaumont, to go to King Edward and challenge him to leave his camp, and fight on the hill of Sangate.
According to their instructions, the four lords mounted their steeds, passed the bridge of Nieullet, and, on reaching the English camp, found the king surrounded by his barons and knights. Dismounting, they approached, with many reverences, and stood before the king.
"Gentlemen," said Edward, smiling, "ye are welcome. Pray tell me what is your errand, for I would fain know at once."
"Sire," said Eustace de Ribeaumont, speaking for all, "the King of France informs you, through us, that he is come to the hill of Sangate in order to give you battle, but he cannot find any means of approaching you."
Edward looked round on his barons and knights, and, as he did so, he smiled complacently.
"Therefore," continued Ribeaumont, "the King of France wishes you to assemble your council, and he will send some of his, that they may confer together, and fix on some spot where a general combat may take place."
"Gentlemen," said Edward dryly, "I have already taken counsel with my barons and knights, and my answer to the demand of Philip of Valois is brief. I perfectly understand the request made, through you, by my adversary, who wrongfully keeps possession of my inheritance, which, be it known to you, weighs much upon me. You will, therefore, tell him from me, if you please, that I have been on this spot near a twelvemonth. Of this, I am assured, he was well informed; and, had he chosen, he might have come here sooner. But, God's truth! he has allowed me to remain so long that I have expended large sums of money, and have done so much that I must be master of Calais in a very short time. I am not, therefore, inclined in the smallest degree to comply with his caprices, or to gratify his convenience, or to abandon what I have gained, or what I have been so anxious to conquer. If neither he nor his army can pass by the downs nor by the bridge, he must seek out some other road. I am not bound to find him a way."
The French lords bowed low on receiving King Edward's answer, and, having mounted their horses, were courteously escorted to the bridge of Nieullet, and sent on to their own camp. On reaching Sangate they related to Philip of Valois the result of their mission, and gave such an account of the formidable preparations made to oppose them, that the bold countenance of the Valois fell.
"By heavens!" exclaimed he, gesticulating violently, "this passes all patience; but, one day, I will make mine adversaries dearly rue all they are doing."
Having uttered his threat, which the unhappy man was not destined to execute, Philip acknowledged the impossibility of any successful attempt to raise the siege of Calais, and forced himself to the determination of abandoning the enterprise which had created so much stir throughout France. Breaking up his camp, he marched, much crestfallen, from Sangate, and away in the direction of Amiens, there to disband his army. But the English were not inclined to let him off so easily. Attacking the rear of the retreating force, they wrought the French much mischief, and brought offprisoners, horses, and waggons full of wine and other provisions.
Meanwhile, the Calesians were in the last stages of distress, and when they saw Philip depart, leaving them to their fate, they uttered a long wail, expressive of horror and grief. It was, indeed, abundantly evident that all hope of succour had vanished, and, at the instance of the despairing inhabitants, John de Vienne, governor of the town, mounted the walls, and, displaying a flag, made a signal that he demanded a parley.
"Now," said King Edward joyfully, "the fruit is at length ripe, and the wind is about to do its work."
And he ordered Sir Walter Manny to hold a parley with the French governor.
It was the morning of the 3rd of August, 1347; and there was woe and lamentation within the walls of Calais. After having held out sternly for well-nigh a year, the town, left to its fate by Philip of Valois, already exposed to some of the horrors of famine, and now almost at the mercy of the King of England, was on the point of surrendering to the besiegers, and under such circumstances as made the necessity appear all the more cruel.
In fact, the parley which John de Vienne, the governor, had demanded, and which he had held in the usual form with Sir Walter Manny, had not resulted as anticipated by the Calesians; for King Edward insisted on an unconditional surrender, and, at first, would listen to no other terms. In vain Sir Walter Manny and the nobles of England pleaded for the unfortunate town. The only condition to which Edward would consent was one which added to the melancholy of the occasion, and melted the sternest hearts.
"Gentlemen," said Edward in a conclusive tone, "I am not so obstinate as to hold my opinion against you all."
Every eye sparkled with satisfaction, as the idea that the king was about to yield to their wishes, occurred to all.
"Sir Walter," continued Edward dryly, "you will therefore inform the Governor of Calais that the only grace that he may expect from me is, that six of the principal citizens march out of the town with bare heads and feet, with ropes round their necks, and the keys of the town and castle in their hands. These six citizens shall be at my absolute disposal; the remainder of the inhabitants pardoned."
When the decision at which the royal conqueror had arrived was made known to John de Vienne, he ordered the bell to be rung; and, having assembled all the men and women of Calais in the town hall, he informed them of the answer which he had received, and that he could not obtain any more favourable conditions. Mournful was the scene which ensued. Immediately the assembly raised the cry of despair; and the distress was so great that even the fortitude of John de Vienne gave way, and he wept bitterly. After a short pause, however, Eustace St. Pierre, one of the richest men in Calais, and one of the most virtuous, rose slowly, and with serene dignity addressed the populace.
"Gentlemen, both high and low," said Eustace gravely, "it would be a very great pity to suffer so many people to die through famine, if any means could be found to prevent it; and it would be highly meritorious in the eyes of our Saviour if such misery could be averted."
A low murmur of approbation ran through the assembly, and all present kept their eyes fixed on the countenance of the speaker.
"And such being the case," continued Eustace, "and such faith have I in finding grace before God, if I die to save my townsmen, that I venture to name myself as one of the six."
As may be supposed, a mighty effect was produced by this speech; and, as Eustace concluded, the populace were almost inclined to worship him. Many, indeed, cast themselves at his feet with tears and groans, and sought to kiss the hem of his garment. Nor was this example loston those who, like himself, had hitherto held their head highest in the now imperilled community. With little delay, and as little reluctance, five of the principal citizens rose, as Eustace had done, and volunteered, like him, to give themselves up for their fellow-townsmen, and if necessary, seal the sacrifice with their blood.
No time was now lost in bringing matters to a conclusion. Mounting a hackney, John de Vienne conducted the six citizens to the gate, and, having passed through, led them, barefoot and bare-headed, with halters round their necks, and the keys of Calais in their hands, to the barrier, and delivered them to Sir Walter Manny, who was there waiting.
"Sir knight," said John de Vienne, "I, as Governor of Calais, deliver to you with the consent of the inhabitants, these six citizens; and I swear to you that they were, and are to this day, the most wealthy in Calais. I beg of you, gentle sir, that you would have the goodness to beseech your king that they may not be put to death."
"On my faith," replied Sir Walter, much affected, "I cannot answer for what the king will do with them; but you may depend on this, that I will do all in my power to save them."
And now the barriers were opened, and Sir Walter Manny, leading the six citizens to the royal pavilion, presented them to the victor king.
Immediately on coming into Edward's presence, the six citizens fell on their knees, and, with uplifted hands, implored mercy.
"Most gallant king," cried they, in accents that moved every heart, "see before you men of Calais, who have been capital merchants, and who bring you the keys of the castle and the town."
All the lords and knights of England who surrounded their king on the occasion wept at the sight. At first, however, it seemed that the citizens were doomed. In fact, Edward greatly disliked the Calesians, not only for the blood and treasure they had cost him during the siege, but for the many injuries which, in other days, their cruisers had done the English at sea; and, far from sympathising with the pity expressed, he eyed them with angryglances, and ordered them to be straightway led to execution. But loud murmurs arose from the barons who stood around; and one noble, bolder than the others, protested frankly. It was the young Lord Merley.
"My lord," said he, "reflect before doing in this matter what can never be undone, nor, as I believe, justified. Remember, my lord, what was said by your grandsire of illustrious memory, when advised to show mercy to men infinitely more criminal than these citizens. 'Why,' said he, 'talk to me of showing mercy? When did I ever refuse mercy to mortal man who asked it? I would not refuse mercy even to a dog!'"
Edward, however, shook his head, and appeared inexorable. But Sir Walter Manny, trusting to his influence, ventured on a last appeal.
"Gentle sir," said Sir Walter, "let me beseech you to restrain your anger. You have the reputation of great and true nobility of soul. Do not tarnish your reputation by such an act as this, nor allow any man to speak of you as having so tarnished it. All the world would say that you have acted cruelly if you put to death six men who have surrendered themselves to your mercy to save their fellow-citizens."
"Be it so," replied the king, with a significant wink, "and meantime let the headsman be sent for."
At that moment the fate of the citizens appeared to be sealed; and they must have given up all hope. But they had still another chance of escape. Almost as the king spoke, Queen Philippa approached, and, falling upon her knees, implored her husband to show mercy to the unhappy men.
"Ah, gentle sir," said the queen, with tears in her eyes, "since I, in spite of great dangers, have crossed the seas to meet you, I have never asked you one favour. Now I do most humbly ask, as a gift, for the sake of the Son of the Blessed Mary, and for your love of me, that you will be merciful to these six men."
For some time the king regarded his spouse without speaking, and as if struggling with himself. At length he broke silence, and, as he spoke, all present listened to his words, as if the life of each depended upon the answer.
"Lady," said he, "I wish that, at this moment, you had been anywhere else than here. But you have intreated in such a manner that I cannot refuse you. I therefore give these citizens to you to do as you like with them."
As the king concluded, all the nobles and knights breathed more freely; and the queen, having conducted the citizens to her apartments, caused their halters to be taken off, and clothes to be given to them, and ordered that they should be served with dinner; and then, having presented each with six nobles, she commanded that they should be safely and honourably escorted out of the camp.
Meanwhile Edward, now secure of his prize, turned to Sir Walter Manny and the two marshals, and handed them the keys which had been brought by the six citizens.
"Gentlemen," said he, "here are the keys of the town and castle of Calais. Go and take possession."
"And what of the governor and inhabitants?" asked they.
"As to them I will explain my views," replied the king. "You will first put into prison the governor and the knights whom you find there; and then all the other inhabitants you will send out of the town, and all soldiers who were serving for pay. I am resolved to repeople the town, and to people it with English, and none but English."
Forthwith, and right willingly, Sir Walter Manny and the marshals proceeded to execute the king's commands. With a hundred men they entered Calais, and took formal possession. John de Vienne and his knights having been taken into custody, arms of every sort were brought to the market-place, and piled up in a heap; and the inhabitants of all ages and sexes were ordered to leave the town, with the exception of an old priest and two other old men, who were well acquainted with the place and its customs and likely to be useful in pointing out the different properties.
At the same time, directions were given for preparing the castle to receive the King and Queen of England;this done, Edward and Philippa mounted their steeds, and entered the gates in triumph. All were gay and exultant; trumpets and tabours sounded loudly; and the standard of England waved from tower and turret.